by Martin Scott
"During the Orc Wars. You know how class divisions relaxed for a while when the Orcs were at the gate. Mursius used to come into the tavern with some of his men when they were off duty. We fell in love. After the war was over he came back to Twelve Seas, whisked me off in his carriage and married me. I wasn't expecting it. It was good for a while . . ." She spreads her hands. "But his family never accepted me."
I sympathise. I suffered much the same sort of thing with my wife's relatives. You can usually tell the birth of a Turanian from their name. High-class women's names generally end in "is," like Carilis. No one would mistake Sarija for an aristocrat, even if she acted like one.
"Do you have any beer?"
I give her a bottle.
She drinks it with some relish. "You know the upper classes only drink wine? I haven't had a beer in years."
I don't tell her about the man I found trying to cut her throat. Maybe he was just a burglar with a mean streak. I doubt it.
She drinks her beer quickly and asks for another. I'm starting to like her. Any friend of beer is a friend of mine. I hope she didn't kill Mursius. We talk about him a while more. Suddenly she starts to cry. Not hysterical, just a slow, sad kind of weeping.
I hate it when my clients cry, particularly the women. I never know what to do. I try patting her hand. It doesn't help much.
"I'll find the killer," I tell her.
She seems a little comforted, but it doesn't stop her from crying.
An official messenger arrives from the Senate. I rip open the scroll and eye it warily.
Come immediately to the Stadium Superbius, it reads. It's signed by Cicerius. I suspect it's bad news, but really I'm pleased at an excuse to run away from Sarija's tears.
Chapter Nine
The Stadium Superbius is situated outside the east gate of the city walls. It's huge, the largest arena in any of the League of City-States. The chariot-racing track is the longest you'll find in this part of the world. Samsarina's is longer of course, but Samsarina is way out west of here, and far bigger than Turai.
I travel through the pleasure gardens to the east gate. Usually I'm excited by the journey but as the pleasure gardens are half underwater they're a sorry sight and I'm apprehensive as to why Cicerius has summoned me. I guess I'm about to meet an Orc. Furthermore I am currently as wet as a Mermaid's blanket, because I've left the Avenging Axe without my magic dry cloak. Instead I've used my sorcerous capacity to load the sleep spell into my mind. No matter if Lord Rezaz is here at the invitation of the King. I'm not meeting Orcs without some means of protecting myself.
Prince Frisen-Akan owns a villa right next to the Stadium and it is here that Lord Rezaz is staying. His presence in the city is not yet publicly known. A Guard takes me to Cicerius.
"We have a problem," says the Deputy Consul.
"Already?"
"I am afraid so. Come with me."
He leads me through the villa. It's as splendid as you might expect but I'm in no mood for appreciating fine furnishings. Before I've prepared myself properly Cicerius has led me into a large reception room. There, standing in front of the window, is the Orc I last saw at the foot of the crumbling city walls fifteen years ago.
"Lord Rezaz Caseg," says Cicerius, and introduces me.
Lord Rezaz is large, even for an Orc, and looks much the same as I remember him, slightly more gnarled, though it's hard to tell. Orcs tend to be gnarled anyway. Despite his rank he wears the standard black tunic of an Orcish warrior. Over it he has a sumptuous dark red cloak and he carries a golden mace. With him are two other Orcs, both rather small for the race. Each has dark shaggy hair, as is normal, and one wears the black garb of a warrior. He looks mean. The other is unarmed and turns out to be Rezaz's charioteer.
I am extremely uncomfortable. I'm in a room with three Orcs and only Cicerius for Human support. Cicerius was never much of a fighter, even in his youth. I can't shake the feeling that, diplomatic mission or not, these Orcs are going to attack me. I prepare the sleep spell.
"I remember you," says Lord Rezaz, startling me.
"You remember me?"
"From the walls. You fought that day. I saw you. You were thinner then."
I'm even more startled, and a little annoyed. The last thing I was expecting was for Rezaz the Butcher to comment on my weight.
"I am pleased that the man assigned to aid us is a warrior," says the Orc Lord.
Cicerius looks satisfied that I've got off to a good start. A servant brings us wine. Before coming I had determined to decline all such hospitality. I will not share drinks with an Orc, I told Gurd. "To hell with it," I think, and take the wine. No point making life difficult for myself.
"Would someone like to tell me what the problem is?"
"Sabotage," says the Deputy Consul.
"Already? But the chariot isn't here yet."
"My charioteer's prayer mat has been stolen," says Lord Rezaz. "And without it he cannot ride."
I stare at them, uncomprehending. "His prayer mat?"
"It is necessary for an Orcish charioteer to place his prayer mat under his feet before competing. Without it he cannot race. Last night someone stole my charioteer's."
"Can't you give him another one?"
Apparently not. It seems that an Orc gets his own prayer mat from a priest when he comes of age and losing it is a serious matter. A replacement can only be obtained from an Orcish temple and the nearest Orcish temple is some weeks' ride away. As I know nothing about Orcish religion this is all news to me. I wasn't even sure if they prayed.
I turn to Cicerius. "Isn't this place guarded?"
"Heavily. But the theft still happened."
"We foresaw that there may be some difficulties during our stay," says Lord Rezaz. "But we did not foresee that the moment we arrived in Turai, under the protection of the King, our religion would be insulted and our persons robbed."
Cicerius is troubled. He can see the copper mines disappearing from under his nose, and with them his favour with the King.
I ask the Deputy Consul if a Sorcerer is working on the case. He looks uncomfortable and confesses that he's worried about asking for sorcerous help. He's concerned that any Sorcerer asked to find an Orc's prayer mat might tell him to go to hell. The True Church in Turai is permanently suspicious of sorcery and consequently the Sorcerers Guild is always wary of any action that might be seen as impious. He says he'll try and arrange some sorcerous help, but meantime I better start looking.
"Who knew that Lord Rezaz was in Turai?"
"The King and his family. The Consul and myself. That's all, apart from the battalion that brought him in. And they're the most loyal troops the King has."
Few people are so loyal in Turai that they can't be bought, though I don't say this out loud, not wanting to run us down in front of an Orc. I turn to Rezaz.
"Okay, better fill me in on the details."
He looks blank.
"It's what Investigators do. Take details. Don't you have Investigators in your country?"
"No," replies the Orc Lord. "There is nothing to investigate. In my country, no one would be unwise enough to steal my charioteer's prayer mat."
I take some details. I take some more wine. It's a fine vintage. Being in a room with three Orcs doesn't seem to spoil it at all. Then I take my leave. As he escorts me to the door, Cicerius lectures me about the importance of this matter. I get the impression Cicerius is never happier than when lecturing me about the importance of something.
Back in Twelve Seas Kerk is waiting at my door, looking like a man who needs dwa. Even the rain cannot entirely wash its smell from his clothes.
He's brought me a small bronze cup that's just turned up at the premises of one of Twelve Seas' numerous dispensaries of stolen goods. He thinks it might be from Mursius's collection. In truth, Kerk has no idea where it comes from and has simply brought me the first vaguely suitable thing he found in order to raise a little money. For all he knows the cup could have been made yest
erday.
I let him know I'm not impressed, but pay him a small amount for his trouble. Later I permit myself a satisfied smile. I remember this cup. It was in the warehouse along with the paintings and sculptures.
"Made in distant Samsarina in the last century, if I'm not mistaken," I tell Makri. "It was Mursius's all right. I seem to remember he once bounced it off my head after I fell asleep on duty."
"Right, Thraxas, you know I'm always interested in your war stories. Have you studied the form yet?"
"Makri, you've made a very quick transition from stern moralist to demon of the race track. Give me a chance."
"No time," says Makri. "I have to hand over that sixty gurans soon. The women are starting to talk."
I take out the latest form sheet from Mox. It's damp, like everything else in the city now. It costs me and Makri more to take these form sheets away. Paper isn't cheap in Turai. Like The Renowned and Truthful Chronicle, it's written out by a scribe and copies are then produced by a Sorcerer, or in Mox's case, a Sorcerer's Apprentice, complete with misspellings.
"Let's see. I don't like anything in the first race. Or the second. Maybe the third . . . Sword of Vengeance, six to four. That's a good chariot."
"What about Castle of Doom?" says Makri suspiciously. Castle of Doom is the even-money favourite and Makri is now dubious of anything that seems risky.
I shake my head. One of its horses injured a leg last season and I'm not convinced it has fully recovered.
"Sword of Vengeance ran two good seconds last year and they've been out training in the west. I reckon it'll win."
"Well, I hope so," grumbles Makri. "My life was stressful enough already before you started me worrying about chariot racing."
She hands me her eighteen gurans. "Are you sure that Stadium Sorcerer in Juval is honest?" she demands.
"I think so. More honest than Astrath Triple Moon was anyway. Incidentally I went up to see Lord Rezaz Caseg today."
Makri reels in surprise. "What?"
"Up at the Stadium. He's staying at the Prince's racing villa."
Makri starts preparing for her inevitable bad mood about Orcs. I brush this aside and tell her about the day's events.
"Good," she says. "Maybe they'll go home."
"Afraid not. They're staying. And I'm helping find the prayer mat. Bit of a weird crime. Not what I was expecting."
Makri tells me that it was a very smart crime. "What better way would there be to make sure the Orcs don't enter the race? If someone sabotages the chariot after it arrives, it could always be fixed. I presume the King will place the services of Turai's wagonsmiths at the disposal of Rezaz. Even the horses would be difficult to harm because Cicerius said they're bringing a spare team. But the prayer mat is a clever target. No Orcish charioteer will ride without his mat. If he dies in the race he wouldn't get to heaven. And there's no chance of getting another one to Turai in time, not in this weather. Didn't you know about Orcish charioteers and their prayer mats?"
"No. And neither did anybody else in Turai, apart from whoever stole it. Why didn't you mention it earlier?"
Makri looks annoyed. "No one asked me. I don't go around giving out lectures about Orcs. It's not my fault if you're all completely ignorant about their culture."
"Well, it's fortunate you know so much, Makri, because you're helping me find it. Don't start protesting, you know you have to. If the Orcish chariot doesn't run then Rezaz withdraws his protection from the copper mines. Cicerius will be down on us like a bad spell. I'll lose my licence and you'll fail college. First thing I have to know is who in the city wants the Orcs not to run."
"Wouldn't that be everyone?"
"Yes. That makes things difficult. But there must be someone with a stronger reason than most. And who would have enough knowledge to pull this off? There can't be many people who know enough about Orcish culture to realise that taking the prayer mat would have such an effect."
Makri stops being angry and gets depressed. All this involvement with Orcs is really upsetting her. She doesn't like to think about her time as a gladiator slave. "It's okay when I can just kill them. But I can't stand this collaboration."
I sympathise. I'm not enjoying it either. And there's still the matter of Mursius's murder to be cleared up. More tramping round in the torrential rain asking questions of people who don't want to answer them. Not for the first time, I curse Rittius for plunging me into poverty and making me work.
I'll take the bronze cup up to Astrath Triple Moon. He's a good Sorcerer and may be able to learn something from it. Before I can do that Captain Rallee appears. He's the officer in charge of the small Civil Guard station next to the docks. The Captain and I go back a long way. We were in the same unit in the Army and fought against the Niojans and then the Orcs. Most times we meet now I annoy the hell out of him. He thinks that when I'm investigating criminal activities I should go running to the Guard every time I find out something. I rarely do.
Incidentally, our careers both took a sharp downward turn around the same time. When I was sacked from the job as a Senior Investigator at the Palace the Captain was moved out of his comfy job at the Abode of Justice due to some political manoeuvring by Rittius, who was then still Deputy Consul. The Captain ended up pounding the beat and he doesn't like it at all. The small station next to the harbour is not the most comfortable place for a man to spend his time, and certainly not a suitable reward for a man who fought bravely for his city. But in the corrupt city that Turai has now become, advancement comes to those with good connections, not to those who have served her well. This, plus the fact that Turai is currently struggling under a dwa-fuelled crime wave, puts the Captain in a more or less permanent bad mood.
I'm generally pleased enough to see my old fighting companion though a visit from him usually means trouble.
"You're in trouble," says Captain Rallee.
"Trouble is my middle name," I reply.
It doesn't raise a smile. "The name Lisox mean anything to you?"
I shake my head.
"Small-time thug. We just found him dead in an alley, not far from here. He had a knife wound in his chest. Thrown, not stabbed, according to my medical expert. Not many men can throw a knife that accurately, Thraxas. Specialised art." He eyes me.
"Lots of men learn how to do it in the Army," I point out.
"Not many as well as you."
"I expect it was the Brotherhood. They have a lock on crime in the area. You know how they hate any independent men trying to muscle in."
"You care to hand over your knife for sorcerous examination?"
"I would. But I haven't seen my knife for some time. I lost it on a case and never got round to replacing it."
"Then perhaps we better just get a Guard Sorcerer down from the Abode of Justice and have him check the aura on the body. See if it has any connection with your office, perhaps."
"Come on, Captain. The Abode of Justice isn't going to send down a high-class Sorcerer just to check on some vagabond found dead in Twelve Seas."
"Probably not," agrees Captain Rallee, realistically. "So why don't you just tell me what it was about?"
I remain silent.
"What's the idea of reporting Orcs in Ferias?" he demands, taking me by surprise.
"I met some. You don't expect me to ignore them, do you?"
"Well, no one else met them. I hear that Kemlath Orc Slayer himself was down there. If he says there were no Orcs around it means there were no Orcs around."
The Captain looks thoughtful. I know he's reliving memories similar to mine, of when we knew the young Kemlath and how he fought at the walls.
"Except, Captain, you know I wouldn't make up a story like that. I don't know why Kemlath couldn't find any trace. Someone must have cleaned up the area with sorcery. It was good seeing old Kemlath again. You remember that day when he brought down a war dragon and Gurd was furious because it crushed his tent?"
"Never mind the war stories. What were you doing out in Ferias
?"
"Working for Senator Mursius. Not that Ferias falls within your jurisdiction."
"The Senator was murdered at the docks. That does. Prefect Drinius thinks you killed him."
"Well what do Prefects know about anything?"
"Drinius is much smarter than Galwinius was. How come you suddenly have the Deputy Consul on your side?"
"Cicerius is always willing to come to the assistance of an honest citizen."
"So why's he helping you then?"
I decline to answer. I offer the Captain a beer but he doesn't accept it.
He's around the same age as me but much better preserved; tall, strong, broad-shouldered. His hair hangs down his back in a long pony tail. So does mine, but mine is brown, fast going grey, and the Captain's is still golden. A ladies' man, or used to be before he grew too tired of trying to keep the lid on the spiralling crime wave to do anything except work and sleep.
"Last time the Guards met Lisox he was working for Glixius Dragon Killer. Remember him? So maybe you're running into trouble, Thraxas. Now, do you want to tell me about it?"
"There's nothing to tell."
"Then if Glixius starts getting on your tail don't come running to us for help. And if I find you stepping out of line on this one I'll be down on you like a bad spell. I've enough problems without you adding to my grief."
He slings his heavy rainproof cape over his shoulders.
"I hate the Hot Rainy Season. It's pouring down out there and I'm still sweating like a pig. If I have to wade through Quintessence Street to visit you again I'm not going to be pleased.'
Weather shouldn't be like this. Thirteenth day of the Hot Rainy Season. Seventeen more to go. Makri was right. It was a dumb place to build a city.
I ponder his news. Glixius Dragon Killer. He's a powerful Sorcerer. Not up to the standards of the greats, but a lot more powerful than me. It seems likely he's behind the death threats. And now one of his thugs is creeping into my rooms, disturbing the occupants. Glixius is a known criminal associate of the Society of Friends. He's never been convicted of anything. Too smart, too many connections. I eat some breakfast, and wonder what it's all about.