by Martin Scott
When a guard comes along and takes Drasius away, I'm sorry to see him go.
"Delighted to share a cell with you," I tell him. "Remember my name. If you need any help, just call on me."
Not long afterwards I'm taken to see Praetor Samilius. For a small state Turai has far too much officialdom. We're ruled by the King but beneath him are a whole host of elected officials, all of them jostling for power. Next in line to the King is the Consul, followed by the Deputy Consul, and then there are the four Praetors, one of whom, Praetor Samilius, is head of the Civil Guard and based at the Abode of Justice. Then you've got the ten Prefects, and a whole Senate to advise them all, and various powerful pressure groups like the Honourable Association of Merchants and the Revered Federation of Guilds and the True Church, not to mention the Army, the Civil Guard and Palace Security.
It didn't used to be like this. Fifty years ago there was the King, a few officials and a whole host of loyal citizens ready to fight for Turai. We were poor, but strong. Now we're rich and weak. It's only a matter of time before Nioj wipes us off the face of the earth.
Praetor Samilius isn't too corrupt by our standards, but he's a harsh man with little feeling of sympathy towards the struggling masses. He is a renowned snob. Like many of our upper classes, he has adopted some rather decadent foreign manners, though he did fight in the war, so he's not soft, despite the vastness of his belly and the rolls of fat around his neck.
"Don't you people in Twelve Seas ever get your hair cut?" he says by way of an opening insult.
"We're wearing it long this season."
The Praetor's hair is short, grey, and beautifully conditioned. His nails are perfectly manicured, and he smells of perfume. He looks at me with distaste.
"We really should have them washed before we bring them into this office," he says to his secretary.
He takes a sheet of paper from his desk and tosses it down in front of me.
"What's that?"
"Your confession. Sign it."
This gives me my first good laugh of the day.
"What am I meant to confess to?"
The Praetor's eyes narrow. "You know."
I remain silent. Samilius adjusts his bulk in his chair. He takes a bite from a peach and drops the rest in a wastebasket.
"Thraxas, I can't be bothered getting tough with you. There's no point. Your aura was on the knife that killed Senator Mursius."
"Says who?"
"Old Hasius the Brilliant."
I'm shaken by this, though I don't let it show. Old Hasius the Brilliant, chief Investigating Sorcerer of the Civil Guard, never makes mistakes and is almost impossible to fool. What's worse, he's honest. I remain silent.
"Nothing to say? Not going to ask for a lawyer? Maybe you expect the Deputy Consul to come to your aid?" He chuckles. "He's not going to get involved. Very bad for his reputation. You're on your way to the gallows. Even Cicerius and his famous oratory couldn't help you in court. Not for this. Not when you were found at the scene and Hasius places your aura on the knife. Why don't you make our lives simple and sign the confession?"
I remain silent.
"Very well," says the Praetor.
He makes a big show of signing some official documents, then informs me that I am being arraigned for the murder of Senator Mursius. I will be held in custody until I appear in court, where the charges will be laid against me. The Guards lead me back to my cell. I'm not feeling too happy with the way things are going. I was depending on Cicerius to get me out of this, but Samilius is right. No matter how much the Deputy Consul wants my help he's not going to come to my rescue if it's certain I killed Mursius. It would be too damaging politically.
I can't understand it. Hasius says my aura was on the knife. How can that be? A really good Sorcerer can fake an aura, just about, but it's difficult, and it would be almost impossible to fool Hasius. He might be a hundred years old, but he's still sharp as an Elf's ear on such matters. If someone stole a knife from me and used it on Mursius my aura would be on it, but so would theirs. Hasius only found my aura. It's looking worse with each passing second. A jury will convict me on this evidence. If I was in the jury, I'd convict me.
The call for prayers rings out through the Abode of Justice. I get down on my knees and pray. It seems like the smart thing to do. As I finish the door opens.
"Deputy Consul Cicerius and Government Sorcerer Kemlath Orc Slayer to visit Thraxas," barks the Guard, who sticks his chest out as he stands to attention.
I leap to my feet. "Kemlath! Am I pleased to see you. And you, Deputy Consul."
Cicerius looks at me very severely. "Are you incapable of staying out of prison for more than one day? I would not be here had I not been persuaded to come by Kemlath. How strong is the evidence against you?"
"Strong," I admit. "I was there when Mursius was killed and now Old Hasius the Brilliant says my aura was on the murder weapon."
"And what do you have to say in your defence?"
"I didn't do it."
"Is that all?"
"What else can I say?"
"That depends on how keen you are to avoid the gallows. This is most inconvenient, Thraxas. I need you to find that prayer mat."
"And there's nothing I'm looking forward to doing more. But what can I do if Rittius and his gang are out to get me?"
"Are you saying Rittius has manufactured the evidence?"
"Someone has."
"I'm sure of it," agrees Kemlath Orc Slayer. "That's why I persuaded Cicerius to come. An old soldier like Thraxas wouldn't murder his ex-commander. Who knows what may have happened to the evidence?"
Cicerius is looking very dubious. As Deputy Consul he really can't be seen to be continually pulling strings to release a man from prison if that man then turns out to have murdered a Turanian war hero. It would be political suicide. On the other hand, he's relying on me to find the Orc charioteer's prayer mat.
"In view of Kemlath Orc Slayer's opinion that the evidence against you may have been manufactured, I am willing to once more use my influence on your behalf. I shall instruct Praetor Samilius to release you."
I thank him profusely. He waves it away. "Just try and stay out of trouble this time."
He turns to Kemlath. "Kindly report your findings to me as soon as possible. It is vital that you come up with something quickly. With the evidence being so strong, I will be unable to keep Thraxas out of prison for long."
Chapter Eleven
Praetor Samilius is about as angry as a Troll with a toothache.
"If you try to flee the city I'll have you hacked down at the gates."
Murder trials are traditionally not held during either of the rainy seasons, nor during festivals. But as soon as the rain dries up, and the Turas and Triple-Moon Conjunction festivals are over, I'm due back in court.
"Cicerius won't protect you forever."
"Samilius," I reply, with dignity, "I don't need Cicerius to protect me from you. As a Praetor you are about as much use as a eunuch in a brothel, besides which you are dumb as an Orc. Feel free to contact me any time. Now good day."
Kemlath meets me outside the Abode of Justice. He's hugging his cloak round him and notices that I'm not getting wet.
"Using one of your spells to keep dry?"
"I'm using my only spell to keep dry."
"Your only spell? Aren't you carrying a few others to help with your business? A couple of fighting spells and maybe something for reading hidden documents?"
I admit that I can't really carry around more than one or two these days. "It's taking all my powers just to keep dry. I don't let on how little magic I can use. How do you think my aura got on the knife?"
Kemlath isn't sure. He's well aware that Old Hasius the Brilliant is not easy to fool. "But there are ways. I'll apply myself and see what I can come up with. Meanwhile, you'd better tell me everything. It might give me some clues as to who is attacking you."
I'm grateful to Kemlath. We did fight together, but that wa
s a long time ago and he doesn't owe me anything.
There are always plenty of landuses for hire in Thamlin, unlike Twelve Seas. The drivers aren't so keen to take you down there either.
"The nearest bar," I instruct the driver. And then the Royal Library."
Kemlath is surprised. "Are you planning on some reading?"
"No, talking."
The driver pulls up at an elegant hostelry at the edge of the sloping woodlands between the Palace grounds and Thamlin. The clientele here—senior Palace servants and officials, one or two Senators and their secretaries, even a Sorcerer or two—sit sipping wine in private alcoves. I march in, grab a waitress and instruct her to bring me their largest flagon of ale and to keep them coming till I tell her to stop.
"And food," I add.
I used to come here to eat when I worked at the Palace. They had a good chef in those days, I hope he's still in the kitchen.
The waitress hands me a menu.
"Bring me everything. And extra bread."
"One way of faking an aura—" begins Kemlath.
I wave him quiet. "Too hungry. Wait."
I down my tankard in one, start on the second and signal to the bartender to bring me another. The first courses start to arrive, bread and some fancy fish entrees. I can't scoop up enough food using the small spoon provided, so I shovel it in with my fingers and the aid of the bread.
"More beer," I tell the waitress before she leaves. "Quickly. And bring the next courses."
She smiles. No doubt the staff appreciate a man with a healthy appetite. Inside the hostelry it is cool and pleasant. I haven't been this comfortable for weeks. The waitress wheels up a cart carrying six main courses and a hefty selection of side dishes. She looks at me enquiringly.
"Just leave the cart," I tell her. "And bring me another beer. Have you any bigger flagons?"
Kemlath looks on in some surprise as I demolish the contents of the food cart. He's sipping a glass of wine and picking at a small plate of roast fowl.
"I have to be careful with my stomach," he says, apologetically.
That's sorcery. It can't guarantee a healthy appetite and a good digestion.
"Can I bring you anything else?" says the waitress. I tell her to bring another wagonload of main courses.
"But pile it up higher. And one of each dessert. And more bread. Did you bring me beer? Better bring another."
I undo my belt and my sword clatters to the floor. I let it lie there and carry on eating. Some time later I'm feeling Human again.
"More beer," I tell the waitress.
I notice the kitchen boy is peering out from the kitchen with awe on his face.
"Must be a while since they had a good eater in here," I mutter to Kemlath, and get down to the wide range of desserts.
Later, when I'm imbibing another beer and finishing off a few scraps, the chef appears at our table.
"Thraxas!" he says, throwing his hands in the air with pleasure. "I should have known it was you! We miss you!"
Outside the landus driver is wet as a Mermaid's blanket and looks as miserable as a Niojan whore. Landus drivers are notoriously bad-tempered.
"The Library," I instruct.
"I've never seen such an appetite," says Kemlath Orc Slayer admiringly, as we drive off.
"I need a lot of fuel. I've serious investigating to do. And the way I keep getting thrown in prison these days I never know when my next meal might be."
I take a drink from the flagon of ale I brought out with me. I'll have to finish it before we enter the Royal Library. I know from experience that the curators are touchy about anyone getting too close to their books and manuscripts while carrying a flagon of ale.
"Who are you meeting?" asks Kemlath as the vast marble building comes into view.
"Makri."
"The woman who killed the Orcs? Can she read?"
"She certainly can. And don't let her hear you doubting it. Makri's a budding intellectual and she's very touchy with men who give her a hard time about it. Apart from me, but then I taught her the skills needed to survive in the city."
"Why do you want to see her now?"
"Because she's smart. I want to tell her what's been happening and see if she has any ideas. Also I have some good news for her."
This is Makri's regular study time. Not surprisingly, the Library staff were taken aback when a young woman with Orc blood started to appear asking for manuscripts about philosophy and rhetoric, but as the Library extends membership to all people attending the Guild College they were obliged to let her in. Now they're used to her, the staff are pleased to see her, rather like the chef being pleased to see me: they like anyone who appreciates what they do.
I leave Kemlath in the landus after arranging to meet him in an hour at the Avenging Axe. The Royal Library is vast, with two huge wings and a massive central dome housing one of the finest collections of works in the west.
"Please leave your wet cloak in the cloakroom," says the doorkeeper.
"Completely dry," I say, pointing.
He looks impressed. Everything else in the city is soaking wet but I'm walking round dry and cosy. What a superb spell.
I head for the extensive philosophy section, housed in another smaller dome at the back. All around are thousands of books and manuscripts. Small busts of kings, saints and heroes are set into alcoves in the walls and the ceiling is painted with a magnificent fresco of Saint Quatinius banishing the Orcs, painted by the great Usax, the finest ever Turanian artist, who lived around a hundred years ago. That's certainly a lot of culture for one building. Makri likes it. I had never been to the place before Makri arrived in the city.
That was one reason she chose Turai. Plenty of culture. And she heard there was a lot of fighting as well. She was right on both counts, but she says she wasn't expecting us to be so degenerate. There again, she wasn't expecting to be able to earn money from her shape. She never even knew she had an impressive figure when she was a gladiator. Orcs don't find Human women attractive, so no one ever mentioned it.
I find her engrossed in some old scroll. She looks at me suspiciously.
"Have you got beer hidden somewhere?"
"Of course not."
"You had last time. The librarian was upset."
"Well, I haven't this time."
"It's not very considerate, you know, Thraxas. I need to come here to study. It's been awkward for me, as you well know. The last thing I need is for you to arrive drunk and spilling beer all over the manuscripts."
"For God's sake, Makri, I've just got out of prison. I'm on a murder charge. Will you pick some other time to lecture me about my drinking? I've got good news for you."
A librarian in a toga strides forwards and tells me to be quiet and stop disturbing the other readers. Makri gives me a foul look then stands up and motions for me to accompany her to another small room where we can talk.
"What good news?"
"Sword of Vengeance won."
Makri lets out a cry of pleasure and practically dances round the table. I'm feeling smug.
"You see? Didn't I tell you I could pick winners? Easy as bribing a Senator for a man of my talents. Okay, I may have the odd bad day, but when you want some expert help with chariot racing, Thraxas is the man to come to."
Makri tots up her winnings in her head.
"Twenty-seven gurans. And I have eighteen already except I owe you ten—that means I now have thirty-five. Is the race meeting in Juval still on?"
"Another couple of days. If you can call in at Mox's for a form sheet I'll study it tonight."
"The form sheet always gets wet when I walk back from Mox's," says Makri cunningly. "Lend me the magic dry cloak."
I hand it over with a sigh. "Great spell," says Makri, wrapping it around her comfortably. "What's happening with the murder case?"
Makri listens while I recount the latest developments. "I still don't know anything about Lisox, that guy trying to kill Sarija. Captain Rallee says he used to work
for Glixius Dragon Killer. Remember him?"
"Sure. He must be behind it all," she says. "He doesn't like you, and he's a Sorcerer."
"Maybe. He's a powerful fighter, but I'm not sure his sorcery is good enough to fool Hasius the Brilliant about the murder weapon. But he could have improved. He's certainly my number one suspect."
"Are you really in trouble?" asks Makri.
"I am. It's fairly normal for the Guards to suspect me of every crime they can't find a better suspect for, but someone is really fitting me up for this one. Even Cicerius has his doubts. If I don't crack the case soon I'm in serious trouble. I can't work out if it's all connected to the murder, or if it's more of Rittius's campaign to get me."
Makri wonders if I have any good leads. I admit I have not. I made no progress with Carilis. I think the next step is to speak to Mursius's wife Sarija.
"I expect she'll be full of dwa again. It gets me down trying to get any sense out of dwa addicts."
"Maybe she won't use so much dwa now she's taken responsibility for entering Mursius's chariot in the Turas Memorial."
I'm surprised to hear Makri say this. "How did you know about that?"
"It's all over town. The students at the college are talking about nothing else. Everyone is wondering about the race with the Elves and the Orcs. Has Sarija's chariot got any chance?"
"None at all. You weren't thinking of betting on it, were you?"
"Maybe."
"Bet on the Elf. Unless the Orcish chariot turns out to be better than we expect. That's if the Orcish chariot runs. I haven't made any progress with the prayer mat yet. I'm hoping Cicerius can persuade some Sorcerer to find it. What are Orcs like with racing chariots, anyway? They seemed pretty handy in the war."
"They're good," says Makri. "Some of them are good with horses too. I wouldn't be surprised if Rezaz the Butcher is bringing something hot to Turai."
I notice that despite her hatred of all things Orcish even Makri is getting caught up in the excitement of the race. Before I depart I ask her if she has any suggestions for finding the prayer mat. She hasn't.