by Martin Scott
“Nothing could ensure the downfall of the city more quickly than this profane act,” he thunders.
By now the crown have quietened. Drinius softens his tone, and assures everyone that if they all go home now, the riot will be forgotten about. Besides, he says, there isn’t any gold under the statue.
“I too have heard these rumours. I don’t believe a word of them. There is no gold in Twelve Seas. And if there were, it wouldn’t be under this fountain. I was here when the Consul himself laid the first stone in its foundations. I witnessed its construction, as did many of you. It rests on good Turanian earth, not a mythical chest of gold.”
Looking at the fountain, he has a point. It’s a hefty piece of stonework. I don’t really see how a lone sea captain could have buried anything under it. Makri thinks the same.
“At least you weren’t the only one with such a ridiculous notion,” she says.
Drinius brings his speech to an end. The crowd, by now thoroughly abashed, begin to drift off. It’s a job well done by our prefect.
“It’s strange how a man in a toga can still win over the masses,” says Makri.
As we leave the street, soldiers are already starting to cordon it off. A gang of workers make their way in, with picks and shovels.
“What’s going on?” asks Makri.
“Now Drinius has cleared the rabble out of the way, he’s going to have a good look under the fountain himself, of course. You can’t expect the local prefect to miss out on a treasure hunt. I doubt there’s anything there, though. One man in a hurry couldn’t bury anything under that fountain.”
“Any more ideas?”
I admit I haven’t.
“I thought the whale fountain was a breakthrough. I was wrong. I’m just going to have to go into the card game short of funds and hope for the best.”
“You don’t sound very confident,” says Makri.
“I’m not feeling very confident.”
“Why not?”
I shrug.
“Who knows? The war. The malady. My continual lack of success at everything.”
Makri bats me quite a hard blow on the shoulder.
“Is this Thraxas I’m talking to? Fighter, gambler, drinker, and all-round notorious braggart? Get a hold of yourself. I’m expecting you to sit down at that card table and make them weep. So Glixius is rich? So Praetor Capatius owns his own bank? So what? Who’s the best rak player? You or them?”
“Me.”
“Exactly. So just get in there and give them hell. Did I ever tell you about the time I was faced with eight Orcs and two trolls in the arena and my sword broke?”
She has actually, but I don’t interrupt.
“You didn’t catch me complaining,” continues Makri. “I didn’t start wondering if I was any good. I just killed the nearest Orc with my bare hands, took his sword and got on with business as usual. I set a new record for multiple slaughter.”
“They had records?”
“Of course,” says Makri. “I was champion in every category. I’m expecting you to be down like a bad spell on your opponents tonight no matter what the odds.”
We walk on towards the tavern. I am slightly cheered by Makri’s encouragement. Not that she understand the intricacies of playing rak, of course, but even so, she has a point. It’s not like me to become discouraged.
“You’re damn right, Makri. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m going to give them hell. Nothing will get in my way.”
We walk up the steps to my office. My outside door is open. I frown, and hurry inside. Standing there quite calmly is Horm the Dead, one of the most powerful Sorcerers in the world and a deadly enemy of Turai.
“I suppose this could be a problem,” I say, and draw my sword.
Chapter Seventeen
In the past few years my office has hosted some interesting gatherings. Sorcerers, senators, thieves, murderers, Assassins, demagogues, Orcs, Elves and a few you couldn’t really put a name to have all passed through my door. Even royalty. Princess Du-Akai was once a client of mine. However, I’d say that the present gathering matches anything in terms of the diversity of characters involved. We have, in the middle of the floor, Horm the Dead, Orcish Sorcerer and Lord of the Kingdom of Yall. Once seen flying over Turai on a dragon, trying to destroy the city with a malevolent spell, and almost succeeding. He’s caused a lot of trouble for Turai, and the fact that last time he was here he sent Makri some flowers hasn’t endeared him in any way.
On the couch is Hanama, Assassin, cold, ruthless, previously sick but now looking somewhat better. She brought Makri flowers too, an occurrence so strange I don’t really want to think about it.
At the door to the bedroom stands Coranius the Grinder, as grim and short-tempered a Sorcerer as Turai can boast, which is saying something. Behind him is Tirini Snake Smiter, still glamorous, and behind her is Anumaris Thunderbolt, looking young, keen, but possibly glad that the others are between her and Horm.
Samanatius the philosopher is standing next to my desk, grey-haired, some way past middle-aged, but very upright. As if the assembly wasn’t splendid enough, Deputy Consul Cicerius and his assistant Hansius thunder up the steps and in through the door, followed by two armed guards. When the guards see Horm they fling themselves in front of the Deputy Consul to protect him. Horm the Dead greets them all courteously.
“You received my message?”
Cicerius nods, but remains silent. He’s slightly out of breath, due to thundering up the stairs, which he doesn’t really have the constitution for. There’s a long pause.
“I don’t suppose it’s any use telling you to get the hell out of my office?” I say.
“Ah, Thraxas. We do seem to meet often, don’t we?”
“Your doing entirely. You just can’t keep away.”
“Really?” Horm looks thoughtful. “Perhaps you’re right.”
Horm wears a shiny black cloak. He has long dark hair tumbling down quite dramatically over his features, which are remarkably pale for a half-Orc. So pale that they lend credence to the common belief that he actually died and then came back to life in a ritual to increase his powers. Whether that’s true or not, he certainly has a great deal of power. The city has fended him off so far but it says a lot for his strength that he’s once more been able to walk undetected through Turai. He has a rather languid manner, as if bored by everything he encounters, but I know it’s an affectation. Whatever brings him here, it’s not boredom.
“I’ve been observing your investigations. If you don’t mind me saying so, I’m rather disappointed.”
“What?”
“I think you’re losing your touch,” says Horm. “I remember how you frustrated my best efforts in the matter of the Green Jewel. And once before, when you interfered with my transactions with Prince Frisen-Akan. How is the prince these days?”
There’s an angry silence, tinged with embarrassment. No one likes to hear the heir to the throne of Turai mocked by an Orc. Unfortunately, it’s hard to defend him. Although the matter was never made public, our prince did at one time have dealings with Horm, and everyone in this room is probably aware of the humiliating circumstances.
“And yet on this occasion you seem to have failed completely, Investigator. The Ocean Storm has eluded you. After it disappeared from the house of Borinbax you never came close to locating it. And as for the gold you seek, you’re flailing around in the dark. It’s interesting.”
“Why is it interesting?” barks Cicerius. “And why are you here? Answer me before I instruct Coranius to eject you.”
Horm looks slightly surprised.
“Eject me? Before listening to my offer? That would be rather foolish, would it not?”
He bows politely to Coranius. Coranius doesn’t return the greeting. Horm transfers his attention back to me. Makri is standing at my side, waiting to pounce. She wears a spell protection charm, similar to mine. They’re effective, but not necessarily against the sort of magic which Horm can produc
e.
“Why is Thraxas’s lack of progress interesting? For no real reason, perhaps. The Investigator is not a man whose affairs will ever be of great concern to anyone. He possesses no great intelligence or perception. But I have noticed in the past that his dogged persistence does produce results. Though his adversaries are invariably superior to him in terms of intellect, he does tend to catch up with them eventually. I wonder if his failure on this occasion might point to a deeper malaise within your city? Nothing is going well for you now, either great or small. Your time has come. Prince Amrag will soon sweep you away.”
There’s some movement at the bedroom door. Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, has finally risen from her sick bed. I’d like to say she’s looking her usual regal and impressive self but I’d be lying. She’s pale, dishevelled and tired. Just like a woman who’s not yet got over a serious illness.
“No one is sweeping us away,” she says.
“Ah. The Mistress of the Sky.” Horm bows quite extravagantly. “I am delighted to see you making a recovery. As I observed your illness, I felt for you. The malady can be very severe.”
If Lisutaris is disturbed to learn that Horm has been observing her illness, all the while remaining undetected himself, she doesn’t show it.
“It can indeed. But I’m well enough to see you off. Which I will, this moment, unless you can give me a good reason not to.”
“Indeed,” snaps Cicerius. “What brings you here?”
“This,” says Horm, and, apparently from thin air, he produces a large conch shell.
“What’s that?”
Horm looks disappointed.
“You don’t recognise it? Why, it’s the Ocean Storm, of course. With this in our possession, the Orcish Sorcerers can break down your sea wall and allow Prince Amrag’s fleet to sail in.”
“Amrag doesn’t have a fleet within a hundred miles of Turai,” says Lisutaris.
“So you would like to believe,” says Horm.
He holds up his hand.
“Please, Coranius, desist. I perceive that you are about to attempt the sorcerous theft of the Ocean Storm. I assure you, it won’t work. I have placed one of my own spells on it. If any sorcery comes near it, it will instantly disappear and be transmitted through the magic space into the hands of Prince Amrag’s own Sorcerer, Azlax. Once that happens, you won’t see it again until your walls are tumbling down.”
Coranius glances at Lisutaris. Lisutaris frowns, and says nothing, probably a sign that she believes Horm to be telling the truth.
“How did you get hold of it?” asks Lisutaris.
“I tracked it from the moment it arrived in Turai. It went through various criminal hands, and eluded me for a while. I was up against some rather sharp minds. However, I eventually found it in the house of one Borinbax, and removed it just before a certain criminal you may have encountered before could do so. I understand she was moved to kill Borinbax for being careless enough to lose it.”
“So why have you brought it here?” demands Cicerius.
“To make a bargain, of course.”
“We don’t bargain with Orcs,” says Cicerius.
Horm raises his eyebrows.
“Really? I seem to remember you did exactly that when you allowed Lord Rezaz to enter a chariot in the Turai Memorial Race. It suited both your interests at the time.”
He turns to Makri.
“You remember the occasion, of course. You benefited hugely at the races.”
Makri narrows her eyes. It’s true. She won a lot of money but it’s not something she’d want bandied around by the likes of Horm, particularly as her success relied on some gross cheating by the Association of Gentlewomen, aided by Melus the Fair, resident Sorcerer at the Stadium Superbius.
“I didn’t really win that much,” says Makri, and manages to sound so guilty that all eyes turn towards her.
“Not enough to make a large donation to the Association of Gentlewomen anyway,” continues Makri. “Even if I’d wanted to.”
She pauses, and looks flustered.
“The Association of Gentlewomen did not cheat at the races. And Melus the Fair is not a secret supporter. It’s an outrageous accusation.”
“Have I offended you?” says Horm. “I apologise. I regarded your success at the racetrack as merely another example of your excellence in every field. Really, Makri, you are such a remarkable person. The finest sword-fighter in the land, the cleverest student in the city, and the most beautiful woman in the east or west.”
He pauses. A slight smile plays across his face.
“Yet here you are, still employed as a barmaid in a cheap tavern, surrounded by imbeciles of the lowest order. Why not admit it? Turai will never recognise your talents.”
“Did you bring me here to discuss Makri’s talents?” says Cicerius, angrily.
“Yes,” says Horm. “I did. And to propose a bargain. Or rather, a sporting venture. Tonight Thraxas will be engaged in a card game, playing some opponents who have the reputation of being the finest gamblers in the city. Thraxas has frustrated me in the past, and I would enjoy the opportunity to best him at one of his favourite pursuits.”
It’s my turn to sneer. I’m not about to sit down and play cards with an Orc who walks into my office uninvited and insults my intelligence in front of everyone.
“Why would we let you play? It’s Humans only. Orcs not welcome.”
“You see?” says Horm, once more turning to Makri. “You see how they hate the Orcish blood? You don’t belong here.”
“Yes she does,” says Samanatius, speaking for the first time. “Makri will always be welcome in this city.”
“Welcomed by you perhaps, philosopher,” replies Horm, in a tone that’s a good deal more respectful than the one he used towards me. “But you are a man of uncommon wisdom and civilisation. As for the others… Is the Deputy Consul really comfortable being in the same room as a woman with Orcish blood? Did he protest when she was banned from accompanying Lisutaris to the Palace? How about you, Lisutaris? Did you argue on her behalf?”
“We’re at war,” snaps Lisutaris. “There wasn’t time to argue.”
“Of course not. You’re pleased to have the protection of her fighting skills. But it’s a different matter when it comes to mixing in polite society. I imagine that Makri has encountered very little of polite society during her employment with you.”
Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky flushes slightly. Whether because of her illness, or because Horm has struck a nerve, I’m not sure.
“Well she’s quite welcome here,” I growl. “And you still haven’t told us why I should let you join in our card game tonight.”
Horm holds up the Ocean Storm.
“Because if you can beat me at the card table, Investigator, I’ll hand this over to the city.”
There’s a pause while this sinks in.
“Which will give Turai some chance of survival,” he adds.
“And what if he doesn’t beat you at the card table?” says Cicerius. “What then?”
“Then Makri returns with me to the kingdom of Yall as my wife.”
I doubt if Deputy Consul Cicerius has ever been lost for words before. He is now. He looks from Horm to Makri and back again. Coranius and Lisutaris do the same. I’m attempting to formulate a withering reply, but Samanatius beats me to it.
“Out of the question, Horm,” he says. “Makri is not some chattel to be traded at your whim.”
That’s not quite as withering as I’d have liked, but it gets the conversation going.
“Abandon the notion, Horm,” says Lisutaris. “You’re not gambling for my bodyguard.”
“He’s completely insane,” I yell. “Lisutaris, Coranius. Work some spell on him so I can throw him down the stairs.”
Horm looks round at us.
“I don’t believe any of you have the authority to make decisions on behalf of your city. Which is why I asked the Deputy Consul here. Well, Cicerius?”
Cicerius he
sitates. To give him his due, he doesn’t hesitate for that long.
“I refuse to consider it, Horm. A person cannot be traded as goods in this city. It’s against the law.”
“I understood that in time of national emergency, the laws could be superseded by the King? And if he was not in a fit state to rule, by the Consul? As your consul is unfortunately not in a fit state either, that power has devolved on to you.”
Cicerius looks rather offended.
“I am not in the habit of making up laws to suit my own convenience,” he says, sharply. “Not without a discussion and vote in the senate.”
Coranius hasn’t spoken up till now. He takes a step forward.
“It’s not such a bad bargain for the city.”
“Really Coranius,” protests Lisutaris. She looks at him angrily, but Coranius is too senior a Sorcerer to be quelled by a look, even from the head of the Guild.
“Well it’s not. We have here an item that may seriously harm Turai. We seem to have no other way of retrieving it other than Thraxas winning it at cards. So why not agree to the bargain?”
“Because it means gambling away a person’s liberty, that’s why not.”
Coranius shrugs.
“One person is of little account compared to the welfare of the city.”
“Coranius, this is outrageous. I refuse to discuss it.”
“We have to discuss it.”
Cicerius and Samanatius join in. Coranius stands his ground, and there’s soon a heated argument raging around the room.
“Who knows?” says Tirini. “Makri might like being Queen of Yall. It has to be better than this tavern. Do you know, they have no servants to clean their rooms?”
“Can’t you do something to circumvent this, Lisutaris?” demands Cicerius.
“Like what?”
“Use your sorcery, of course. There are four Turanian Sorcerers in this room. Simply remove the Ocean Storm from Horm’s grasp.”
Lisutaris shakes her head.
“No. He’s telling the truth. It would immediately disappear into the magic space and end up with Prince Amrag.”
“Then we have to agree to play cards for it,” says Coranius.