by Martin Scott
"Put your mind at rest. You're in for a sudden windfall."
Next to the tournament field I manage to grab a private word with Lisutaris while Makri is preparing.
"Has Makri been taking anything she shouldn't have?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Reasonably. How did she get that dwa anyway?"
"She claims it was just a fragment she brought from Turai, and that was the last of it."
"Surely she couldn't find any more in Samsarina?" says Lisutaris. "Look how strict they are about thazis."
"Dwa's spread just about everywhere. It will be here all right, if you look hard enough."
Makri emerges from her changing room, clad in her armour. Behind us, someone laughs. It's Charius the Wise.
"At least it covers her ears," he says. "Mistress of the Sky, if you had to employ an Orc, shouldn't it at least have been a tough one?"
Lisutaris doesn't deign to reply, choosing instead to accompany me to the edge of the arena. I'm the only one allowed to accompany Makri into the fighting area, but Lisutaris has decided to remain as close as possible.
"All set, Makri?" I ask.
"I'm ready."
"If you need inspiration, just remember the way I tackled these pies."
There are a few catcalls as Makri enters the arena, though I do hear one encouraging voice. General Hemistos, in the front row, apparently hasn't lost faith in her.
Makri's opponent, a Simnian by the name of Zetorex, turns out to be an extremely large man. There's something of a comic mismatch as they square up to each other. Before he drops his helmet over his shaven head there's an expression in his eyes that suggests he's insulted to be faced with such a puny opponent. The Marshal, brightly dressed in red, raises his flag. I walk swiftly back to the edge of the small field. As I turn to watch, the Marshal signals for the fight to begin. Zetorex leaps forward to attack. Makri catches his blade on hers, and uses his momentum to spin him completely round so he ends up facing in the opposite direction. It's the sort of fancy defensive move you might see attempted in practice, but one that would never work that well in real life. Except, that is, when Makri does it. Three seconds into the fight, Zetorex is facing the wrong way and the tip of Makri's sword is touching the back of his neck. That counts as a lethal stroke, and and the Marshal signals she's the winner.
There's some applause from the crowd, and some surprised laughter. So fast was the fight, and so unexpected the ending, that most people assume it was an accident.
"She got lucky," says one spectator beside me, and his neighbour agrees.
Makri sheathes her sword and walks calmly back towards us. Lisutaris and I congratulate her.
"You'll be fighting again soon," I tell her. "Get some rest while I hurry back to Big Bixo's."
"Are we winning now?" asks Lisutaris.
"Things are looking up. We picked up two hundred and forty gurans on that fight. With the original stake, we've got two hundred and eighty. I'm planning to put it all on Makri again."
Leaving Makri in Lisutaris's care, I hurry off to do just that. A bird is singing in a tree at the edge of the fields. It suits my mood, which is better than it's been for a while. Nothing like a successful wager for brightening the spirits. Big Bixo hands over my winnings with a sullen look on his face. I study the odds chalked up on the board. Makri is still an outsider, but not by so much. Bixo is offering five to two on her winning her next fight, and the odds on her qualifying from her group have come down to eight to one. I place two hundred and forty on her to win.
As it's generally a good idea to spread your bets around if you can, I take a walk down the field to the next bookmaker's tent, where the sign says 'Generous Ges, the Gambler's Friend.' Generous Ges is offering the same odds as Big Bixo. I place my remaining forty gurans on Makri to qualify from her group at eight to one, then hurry back to the arena. On the way I meet Combius, who's celebrating with a flagon of ale.
"Happy now?" I ask.
"Yes. Should I bet on her again?"
"Definitely."
I return in time to see Parasas, the swordsman who defeated Makri, fighting again. I have to admire his technique as he puts away his next opponent. Makri glowers at him all the way through.
"How could I lose to him?" she demands. "Not that I did anyway. I was cheated."
The crowd has grown. It's a noisy scene, with the clash of weapons, the babble of voices, and music from travelling musicians. Makri's second fight of the day lasts only slightly longer than her first. She attacks from the start. Her opponent parries her first blow and doesn't see the second coming. Makri plants her sword tip at his throat, halting it a fraction of an inch away from him, as required by the rules. The Marshal immediately flags her as the winner. Once again, the crowd is not all that impressed. A bout lasting a few seconds is not what they came here to see. Fights are usually much longer; there can be a great deal of hacking a slashing, with mighty blows landing on shields, before the outcome is decided. Not all fights are ended by a lethal strike. Blows deemed by the Marshal to have landed, but not counting as mortal wounds, are given a half point. A fighter needs four of these half points to win a match, and that's not an uncommon way for a fight to end. A lethal strike has to be performed absolutely perfectly, leaving the Marshal in no doubt that it would have led to death in real combat, before he'll call it. Makri has now done this twice, very quickly. As she retires from the field there's some grumbling.
"Was that really a killing blow?"
"I think the Marshal's going easy on her. Damned Orcs."
Taking a moment to check that Makri is undamaged, I hurry as fast as I can down to the bookmaker's tent. Not surprisingly, Big Bixo isn't pleased to see me. My two hundred and forty gurans at five to two wins me six hundred. Along with my stake, that means Bixo has to pay me eight hundred and forty gurans, which is more than he has in his till. He has to send one of his assistants off for more cash. When he returns he's flanked by a man I haven't seen before. Younger than Bixo, with a hard, flat face, and scarring round his mouth.
"Congratulations," says the hard-faced man, in a voice that's cold even by bookmaker's standards.
"Who's this?" I ask Bixo.
"My business partner."
Bixo's business partner has a sword glinting at his hip and a poorly concealed dagger under his shirt. I can guess what part of the business he might take care of.
Naturally, Makri's odds for her next fight, the fourth in her qualifying group, have now fallen drastically, particularly as she's matched against the one fighter whose chances of qualifying were rated worse than hers. Makri is the slight favourite, and Big Bixo is only offering five to six. When I check with Generous Ges, his price is the same. If Ges is actually generous, it doesn't seem to involve giving better odds than the other bookmakers. I keep sixty gurans for expenses and bet the rest, seven hundred and eighty, on Makri to win.
Lisutaris is in a much better mood after Makri's victories. I find her talking to Kublinos. The Harbour Sorcerer has put on quite a fancy cloak to visit the tournament, and is busy inviting Lisutaris to dinner. He glares at me with loathing as I interrupt, and draw Lisutaris off to one side for a private talk. I take twenty gurans from my purse and hand it to her.
"What's this?" she asks.
"Living allowance"
"Twenty gurans? Are you serious? What am I meant to do with that?"
"I'm giving the same to Makri. And myself. I need the rest for betting. You want to win big, don't you?"
The Sorcerer looks at me quite suspiciously. "You have't drunk the rest away, have you?"
"Is that any way to speak to your Chief Adviser? I've put seven hundred and eighty gurans on Makri to win."
Lisutaris gazes at the small pile of coins in her hand. "I was hoping to get my hair done. And my nails. And buy a new dress. And shoes."
"Can't you manage without all that?"
"Certainly, if I don't mind going to meet the King looking like a peasant wom
an fresh from the fields."
"Can't you use sorcery?" I suggest. "Conjure up a new dress?"
"Possibly," says Lisutaris. "But it's not the same as buying something nice."
"Are you going to accept Kublinos's invitation to dinner?"
"I don't know."
"If you do, try and bring some food home. I don't think Arichdamis is going to be restocking his cellars any time soon."
It's almost time for Makri's next fight, her third of the day. I lead her into the centre of the field, then take a few steps back to watch her demolish her opponent, which she does, quite rapidly. Makri blocks a few attacks then delivers a flurry of attacking blows, any one of which would probably be fatal. Her opponent ends up flat on his back while the Marshal signals her victory. The crowd enjoy this contest more. It was short, but it did at least contain some violence.
When I give Makri her twenty gurans she accepts it without complaint, but she does tell me she's not happy with her gorget, which isn't sitting comfortably around her neck. There's no time to do anything about it now, but we can have it altered after she qualifies, which she will do if she wins her next fight.
"We've got over 1,400 gurans now."
"Really?" Makri is impressed, which pleases me.
"Yes, I'm tormenting the bookmakers. Too much for their liking. There may be trouble if we keep taking their money."
Makri touches the pommel of her sword, and smiles. "We can cope with a little trouble from a bookmaker."
I smile back at her. We certainly can. I race down to Big Bixo's tent. After three comprehensive victories, Makri's favourite to win her next bout, even though her opponent, Muxilos, is a local man with a lot of support. Bixo is only offering six to four on, or to put it another way, four to six. I keep twenty gurans for beer, and place 1410 on Makri. That will win me nine hundred and forty, which is not too bad. By now, I'm not the only one betting on Makri, and as I leave Bixo's tent, his assistant is busy changing her odds, bringing them down to one to two, which just shows how her reputation has grown over the course of the day. I pick up another beer and drink it while walking back to the arena. While recent events have made it difficult for any loyal Turanian to actually feel as happy as an Elf in a tree, there's a definite spring in my step.
Chapter Nineteen
By late afternoon, almost every noble in Elath has gathered in the vicinity of the tournament field. Word of Makri's impressive performances has spread. The Barons, either keen on sword-fighting, or keen on gambling, want to see her in action. I notice Mabados in the crowd. I should talk to him as part of my investigation but I've been putting it off. He's not going to be an easy man to interview. Lisutaris, having shaken off Kublinos, is waiting with Makri by the changing rooms.
"I brought you each a pie," I say.
Lisutaris looks with some disdain at the Samsarinan pastry. "Is it safe to eat?"
"Of course. I've had ten of them."
"I thought you ate nine in the contest?"
"I was still hungry afterwards."
Makri nibbles tentatively at the pastry, a sight I always find frustrating.
"Just eat the damned thing, you've got to keep up your strength."
Considering I have 1,410 gurans staked on her, I'm fairly calm as I lead Makri into the field for her last contest. I'm confident she'll win, although her opponent, Muxilos, has shown some good form. Both fighters need to win to qualify so there's a lot riding on the fight. As the match begins, he keeps himself well covered, evading Makri's initial attack, and then catching her out with a thrust of his shield, knocking her backwards.
"Makri still isn't good with that shield," I mutter to Lisutaris. "She's not used to it."
Makri rallies quickly, nimbly deflecting Muxilos's blade. She feints to attack and then, demonstrating her unnatural speed, she thrusts her sword towards her opponents throat. I'm on the point of cheering her victory when something odd happens. Makri is visibly jolted, as if by some unseen force. Her blade sails past Muxilos's throat. Makri is now out of position and Muxilos deals her a heavy blow on the shoulder.
"Half point to Muxilos!" cries the Marshal. The crowd roar.
"What's going on?" I yell. "They're cheating! Someone's using magic!"
Lisutaris has risen to her feet, knowing as well as I do that something untoward just happened. She scans the crowd, then looks towards the Tournament Sorcerer on his tower. The fight re-commences. Makri, for no visible reason, loses her footing. She's forced to defend desperately, down on one knee, while Muxilos presses his advantage. She's on the point of regaining her stance when the Marshal stops the fight again.
"Blow to the ribs!" he cries. "Half point to Muxilos!"
The crowd erupt. So do I. "There was no blow to the ribs! Cheats! They've bribed the Marshal!"
Makri is now really up against it. She has two half-points against her, a Marshal who's apparently biased, and a mysterious attack of sorcery to deal with.
"Do something!" I yell at Lisutaris. She doesn't reply. Her lips are compressed as she scans the crowd. Suddenly there's another great roar. Makri suffers another jolt, freezes for a fraction of a second, and Muxilos's sword comes down on her shoulder again. The Marshal waves his flag, signalling a third-half point. One more and Makri will lose the fight. I yell at Lisutaris again. "Do something!"
"Stop shouting," says Lisutaris. "You're not helping." She turns her left hand palm upwards, clenches her fist, then murmurs something I can't make out. I turn back to the fight, hoping that whatever Lisutaris did, it will end the attacks on Makri. Muxilos, now very confident, moves in quickly. Makri's sword and shield seem to be hanging too low. It's difficult to see exactly what happens next, but Makri, with some combination of sword and leg, sweeps his feet from under him. He crashes to the ground and his helmet flies off. Makri stands over him, her foot pinning down his sword-arm and her own sword at his throat. There's a huge cheer from the crowd. The Marshal looks surprised. It seems to take him forever to make a decision, but really he has no choice.
"Lethal stroke," he calls. "Victory to Makri."
Immediately the fight ends I sprint towards the Marshal. "What was that about?" I scream. "None of these hits made contact! And there was sorcery! What sort of crooked operation are you running here?"
The Marshal turns on his heel and walks off without replying. I'm about to pursue him when Lisutaris grabs my collar.
"We have to go."
"Go? We have to sort this out."
"We don't have time. We're due at the meeting. I'll have words with the Tournament Sorcerer later. Makri, are you all right?"
"I'm fine." Makri winces as she takes off her helmet. She rubs her injured shoulder. "But the sorcery made it difficult. Didn't everyone see it?"
"It was subtly done," says Lisutaris. "And it came from a powerful source. It took me a while to deflect it."
As always, Makri is wearing a spell-protection necklace, made from Red Elvish Cloth. I wear one exactly the same. They protect us from the worst excesses of sorcery, which probably helped Makri resist the attack as well as she did. General Hemistos is waiting for us at the edge of the field.
"Fantastic performance Makri!" he enthuses. "Touch and go for a while, but you did it." The General falls into step with her. "Going to the Ambassadors' meeting? Splendid."
Kublinos appears, and sidles his way up to Lisutaris. I find myself walking on my own, while the General and Kublinos do their best to fascinate Makri and Lisutaris. I don't mind. I'm not in the mood for casual conversation. I'm troubled by what just happened. Now that's she's qualified, Makri has a lot of fights ahead of her. She can't afford to lose a single one. The main tournament is a straight knockout competition. The winner goes through to the next round, the loser goes home.
We pass the Bathing Houses on our way to the Royal Samsarinan Assembly Hall. By this time I'm in the midst of a long, loose straggle of Barons, Sorcerers, Generals and Ambassadors, all making their way to the meeting. It's not officially a War Council,
as representatives from all nations aren't here yet, but it might as well be. Important matters of strategy have to be decided. The Orcs have stolen a march on us by taking Turai during the middle of winter. As soon as the roads in the East are passable, more Orcish hordes will be heading out from the Orcish lands to meet up with their leader, Prince Amrag. We've been talking about re-taking Turai, but a more realistic scenario might be the Orcs sweeping their way west before we've even had time to get ourselves organised.
The Assembly Hall is full of men in dark cloaks. Dignitaries here don't wear togas as they did in Turai. I find that odd. Not fully civilised. There are very few women, the only others apart from Lisutaris and Makri being two senior Sorcerers. There's a lot of milling around, and I notice the Simnian Ambassador deep in conversation with several Niojan diplomats. A delegation from the small nation of Juval has just arrived in Elath, and they've come straight to the Assembly Hall, still dressed in their riding clothes. Lisutaris and Kublinos are engaged in conversation with Barons Vosanos and Girimos. Makri, taking her duties as bodyguard seriously, stays close, silently watchful. I attempt to look like a Special Adviser, though I'm hoping no one asks me for advice, particularly as I'm distracted by the aroma of roasting venison.
"Is there going to be food?" I ask.
Lisutaris ignores me but Baron Girimos breaks off the conversation to sniff the air. "Yes! Venison! Excellent. You know, Thraxas, I've been to meetings here where there's been no food at all."
"That's just not acceptable. You can't do important business on an empty stomach."
"That's what I always say!" cries the Baron.
I like Baron Girimos. He's a man who cares about the important things in life. I can't say the same for Baron Vosanos, who's irritated at the interruption. Vosanos is a tall, lean man, who has a fancy fur collar on his cloak and a jewelled clasp at the neck, neither of which are quite in keeping with the seriousness of the occasion. I don't know that much about Vosanos, though he did fight in the Orc wars, so he can't be all bad. Baron Mabados approaches with his son Orgodas, who's due to marry Vosanos's daughter. They share a friendly greeting before Mabados turns to me, glares angrily, then asks me if it's true I've been interfering with his household by asking questions and making trouble. Not wanting to reflect badly on Lisutaris, I do my best to answer tactfully.