by Martin Scott
“Yes.”
Makri shrugs. “I don’t like to sleep too much anyway.”
She leads me through the encampment. Though dawn is approaching no one is yet stirring. The troops will be sleeping late today, a rare luxury.
“In that tent.” Makri points towards a large, square canvas construction.
The tent is unguarded. No one sees us as we enter. Inside there are ten bodies laid out carefully on the ground. They’re all wrapped in their black cloaks, distinctive garment of the Niojan army. Each has their hands clasped in front of them, resting in death. The Niojans are treating their casualties with respect before they’re buried. There’s one long table on the room. Lying on the table is Legate Apiroi. He looks peaceful. I stride forward to examine him. There’s a deep wound in his throat.
Makri peers at the body. “That would have killed him instantly.”
“I suppose it would.” I grab the body and turn it over. Doing this requires a lot of strength, and wouldn’t count as treating the corpse with due respect.
“What are you doing?”
I study the back of the Legate’s brown leather tunic. When he went into battle, he’d have been wearing a solid breastplate, with chainmail covering his back. High-quality chainmail, probably, enough to offer good protection. I bend down to examine him.
“There,” I say, pointing.
“What am I meant to be looking at?”
“That tiny hole in the tunic.”
“What about it?”
I pull the tunic up. Half way up the Legate’s spine is a tiny mark, very hard to make out unless you’re looking for it.
“You know what that is?”
“No,” says Makri. From the tone of her voice I’m not certain she’s telling the truth. Makri is generally a poor liar.
“It’s the mark made by an assassin’s dart. Small enough to penetrate chainmail, if used by an expert. Poisoned, no doubt. Fired into him under cover of the confusion of battle.”
“An assassin’s dart? This is sounding ridiculous.”
I haul the Legate back into his original position. “Hanama killed him. Presumably on Lisutaris’s orders. She brought him down with a dart, removed it, then cut his throat to make it look like he was killed in battle. Smart move by Lisutaris, I suppose. Got rid of the problem.”
“I don’t believe it,” says Makri.
“You probably knew about it already.”
“No I didn’t! I still don’t believe it anyway.”
I stare at Makri. “I hate assassins. Legate Apiroi was an annoying, power-seeking fool but he didn’t deserve to be murdered by Hanama.”
“You have no proof he was. Who cares, anyway? We’re better off without him.”
“You think so? If Lisutaris did send Hanama to kill him, she probably used sorcery to cover it up. That has a tendency to go wrong. Other people have sorcery too. The Niojans for instance. If they find out about this the trouble will be ten times worse.”
We leave the tent. I’m tired, and feel a strong desire to go to sleep for a long time. A few Niojan sentries cast unfriendly glances at Makri as we pass through their area of the encampment.
“Lisutaris isn’t Queen of the West, you know. She doesn’t get to decide who lives or dies.”
“She has to do what’s right for the army,” says Makri, stubbornly.
“Assassinating a Niojan diplomat isn’t right for the army.”
“I’d say it was.”
“That’s hardly a surprise, given your past record.”
Makri halts, and stares at me. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean you’re no stranger to executing people when you feel like it. Without bothering about the niceties of the law.”
“When did I ever do that?”
“Back in Turai. You killed Rittius, Head of Palace Security.”
“He was a traitor!”
“I suspected him of being a traitor. I was about to arrest him when you decided that was too much trouble, and stabbed him instead.”
“I can’t believe you’re complaining about that! Have you forgotten how many Turanians died outside the city walls when the Orcs attacked? Rittius betrayed the city. You said he poisoned Galwinius as well.”
“I said I suspected he poisoned Galwinius. I’d have liked to see him stand trial for it. But you just decided you’d execute him. No wonder Lisutaris likes you as her bodyguard, you’re as bad as each other.”
Makri is furious. She’s not a woman who takes criticism well. “Rittius deserved to die! Turai was besieged, there was never going to be a trial and you know it. And I don’t remember you being so upset at the time that I’d got rid of him.”
“I had other things on my mind. Like doing my duty and protecting the city. Not running around killing fellow citizens. Not that you’ve ever actually been a citizen.”
That’s quite a wounding remark. Makri wasn’t an official citizen of Turai, though she’d made her home there. I feel like wounding her. I’m tired. I’m angry. I’m feeling a strange sense of depression after the elation of defeating the Orcs. I don’t like it that Lisutaris sent Hanama to kill Legate Apiroi. It’s illegal, and I believe in the law.
Makri regards me with loathing. “I’d never want to be a citizen of any place you lived.”
“Fine. We weren’t looking to recruit homicidal pointy-eared Orcs anyway.”
Makri’s hand flies to the pommel of her sword. She controls herself, with an effort. “I hate you. Never speak to me again.” Makri turns on her heel and marches off.
A few Niojans in the distance are laughing. I catch a snippet of their conversation. Something about a fat Turanian and a crazy Orc woman. Fair enough. I trudge on, heading back to my place in the camp. On the way I pass by the parked wagons under the command of the Simnian Quartermaster Calbeshi. He laughs when he sees me.
“Thraxas, you look worse than usual, and that’s saying something. Where have you been? Hiding from the action again?”
“Just give me a beer, Calbeshi.”
The quartermaster fills up a leather tankard and hands it over. The sun is rising in the sky and it’s a warm morning. I sit down, rest my back against the quartermaster’s wagon, drink my beer, then fall asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A few hours later I wake up feeling refreshed. Calbeshi and his men are nowhere to be seen. Lazing around somewhere, I suppose. Indolent Simnians. I head back towards my unit’s wagon. It’s a warm afternoon and I might get the chance for some more sleep before we set off tomorrow. I should make sure we’re ready to go, but Anumaris will probably take care of it. With the warm sun overhead, I’m feeling almost jovial as I stroll through our encampment. There’s not much activity. A few soldiers can be seen, checking their equipment, but most people are taking the opportunity to rest.
As I’m walking past the end of the Turanian section I find myself confronted by Tanrose. She appears to be annoyed. I’ve no idea why.
“What did you say to Makri?” she demands.
“What?”
“What did you say to her? Why did you upset her?”
“A minor disagreement. Nothing important.”
“Nothing important? I’ve never seen her so upset.”
“That’s hard to believe. She’s always upset.”
“Why did you tell her she wasn’t welcome in Turai?”
“That’s not really an accurate - ”
“Didn’t she stick up for you when everyone thought you were wrong about Deeziz?”
“Yes, but - ”
“It’s not good enough Thraxas. I thought you’d got over bullying Makri by now.”
“Bullying? Bullying? Are you insane? I wasn’t bullying her! She was insulting me. I was just standing up for myself.”
“By calling her a homicidal pointy-eared Orc?”
“Some harsh words may have been spoken. Look, Tanrose, this isn’t the Avenging Axe. We’re not safe in our tavern now. We’re at war. I can’t go around b
eing nice all the time. I have a job to do.”
Tanrose isn’t looking any less hostile. “Does this job involve insulting Makri?”
“Strictly speaking, it doesn’t. But the need may arise.”
“You’re talking nonsense. I insist you make things up with her.”
“You mean apologise? Certainly not. And I’m not taking her flowers either. This isn’t a little girl’s birthday party. This is war.”
And with that I depart. I don’t care what Tanrose says, I’m not apologising to Makri. I’m still furious that Lisutaris ordered Legate Apiroi’s murder and I have a notion that Makri knew all about it. Lisutaris, Makri, Hanama, they were all involved in the Association of Gentlewomen back in Turai; an illicit organisation full of troublemakers. You can’t trust any of them. The law has no meaning for people like that.
I march on, my good mood evaporating. I review my conversation with Tanrose, hoping I didn’t say anything too insulting. She might get the notion to ban me from her campfire. I’ll never get through this war without her food inside me. Just past Lisutaris’s command tent I come to an abrupt halt. Makri, with her back to me, is engaged in conversation with an Elf: See-ath, her ex-lover. Either she’s finally decided to confront him, of they’ve just run into each other accidentally. Either way, Makri isn’t comfortable, from the way she’s shifting her feet and looking down at the ground.
“I’m sorry about all these messages,” she mumbles.
See-ath regards her unsmilingly. His long blonde hair flows over his shoulders. He’s a handsome young Elf. I don’t take to him.
“You caused me a lot of trouble,” he says. “So many messages. The communication sorcerer on Avula told everyone. I was the laughing stock of the island. Makri shuffles her feet some more. “I’m sorry I sent them.”
“I’d never have got involved with you if I’d known you were mad. You threatened to chop my head off!”
Makri hangs her head, and doesn’t seem to know what to say.
“And now you’ve been making a fuss again,” continues the Elf. “Do you think people haven’t noticed you diving for cover when I approach our War Leader’s tent? Everyone in my unit knows about you. My commanding officer is on the verge of complaining to Lisutaris. Do you have to keep humiliating me? Can’t you act normally?”
Makri’s head is already hanging in shame. It droops even lower. “I’m sorry.”
“You were lucky I paid any attention to you in the first place. You know what people said when I started talking to a woman with Orcish blood? They said I’d end up tainted. And they were right. I must have been insane.”
Having now heard enough of this, I stride forward. I walk past Makri and grab the front of See-ath’s green tunic. Then, using a move I perfected in the schoolyard, I hook his leg with my own and push him over. He falls to the ground, startled. I glare down at him.
“Mind your language when you’re talking to Makri,” I tell him. “You should count yourself lucky she paid you any attention at all, you scrawny excuse for an Elf. You can go tell your unit, your Commander and your whole damn island that Ensign Makri of the Commander’s Personal Security Unit, Sorcerers Auxiliary Regiment, bodyguard to our War Leader, undefeated champion gladiator of the Orcish lands, top student at Turai’s distinguished Community College and recent victor in the prestigious Samsarinan sword-fighting tournament, has better things to do that waste her time on you. If I catch you being rude to her again I’ll knock your head off.”
I take Makri’s arm. “Let’s go.”
Makri allows herself to be led away. Her head and shoulders are still hunched in shame and it takes her a while to come out of it.
“Thanks for rescuing me,” she says, as we arrive at my wagon. “You’re welcome.”
She looks down at my hand. “You can let go my arm now.”
I release my hold. I notice Makri’s eyes are moist. “Are you going to burst into tears? If so, get in the wagon where no one can see.”
Makri sniffs. “I’m all right.”
“You’d probably better get in the wagon anyway, just in case.”
The wagon is empty. Makri sits down, dabs her eyes, and recovers her composure. She looks up at me. “I was planning never to speak to you again. You were very insulting.”
“Only in an inconsiderate, heat-of-the-moment sort of way. Happens all the time between companions at war.”
There’s a few moments silence. I really could do with some beer. At that moment Droo clambers in with a smile on her face and a bottle of wine she’s filched from somewhere. “I saw you push See-ath over!” she laughs. “I never liked him.”
We drink Droo’s wine as the day passes, and do little else. Anumaris and Rinderan appear. They’ve both been satisfactory as security assistants. More than satisfactory, in Anumaris’s case. My unit would be in chaos without her organisational skills. I should probably tell her that, in light of all the abuse I’ve given her. I’ll think about it. No point filling her head with praise this early in her military career. I will mention her good work to Lisutaris, when I next make a report. It’s a more relaxing afternoon than might have been expected, given that we’ll be marching east tomorrow. The further we go, the more likely it is that we’ll encounter the Orcish dragons. That won’t be pleasant. It will bring us closer to Turai however, and Makri and I are both pleased at the thought. When we were chased out of the city I wasn’t sure that I’d ever be able to return. Now, after our victory over the Orcs, it seems possible.
Makri falls asleep beside me, her head resting on my shoulder. I reflect on the day’s events. I’m still troubled by Apiroi’s death. If there was anything suspicious about it, I can see trouble ahead. The Niojans aren’t fools. Lisutaris may find herself with some explaining to do. Perhaps I’m worrying unnecessarily. People die on the battlefield. No one else may even suspect there was anything unusual about his demise.
I take a final sip of wine, finishing the bottle. Deeziz the Unseen has been banished from our camp and Captain Thraxas is in good standing with everyone. Not so bad, all things considered. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep beside Makri.
The Author
Martin Millar was born in Scotland and now lives in London. He is the author of such novels as Lonely Werewolf Girl, The Good Fairies of New York, and Suzy, Led Zeppelin and Me. He wrote the Thraxas series under the name of Martin Scott. Thraxas won the World Fantasy Award in 2000. As Martin Millar and as Martin Scott, he has been widely translated.