Thraxas Under Siege (ARC)

by Martin Scott

  Astrath picks up the bolt and the cloth, one in each hand, as if weighing them. He studies them for a few moments.

  "Maybe. I think they've both got some of her aura on them. Is it urgent?"

  I tell him it is.

  "Do you want to come back in an hour, say?"

  "It's more urgent than that."

  Astrath shrugs. I've done him some favours in the past and he knows I wouldn't press him if I didn't have to. He instructs a servant to provide me with anything I want, and takes the crossbow bolt and the scrap of cloth through to his private workspace at the back of his house. He scoops up a half-full bottle of wine before leaving the room. I finish off the venison on my plate, take the rest from the silver salver in the middle of the table, and ring for the servant.

  "Any more venison?"

  The servant politely tells me that no, there isn't. I look at her suspiciously.

  "You did hear Astrath saying to bring me whatever I wanted?"

  "I'm sorry, sir, that's the last of our supply."

  A likely story. The servants are no doubt being economical with their master's household goods, possibly figuring that if they have to get through a winter on short rations, they're not about to share the supplies with a rather large Investigator.

  "Anything in the way of spicy yams?"

  "I'm afraid we finished the last of them yesterday."

  I look her in the eye but she stares straight back at me, unflinching. Eventually I have to make do with a few pastries and a small bottle of wine. According to the servant—rather a harsh-faced woman, now I think about it—Astrath is not currently holding any beer in his cellar.

  The servant leaves me to my wine. I pick up a magical text from a shelf and flick through it. It's a standard work, nothing too advanced, which doesn't mean there aren't plenty of spells in it I've never heard of. They had this book in class when I was an apprentice, yet I'd swear I've never seen most of the spells before. It shows how little attention I paid.

  Astrath hurries back into the room. I'm considering asking him straight out, man to man, if he really doesn't have any beer in his cellar, but he appears to be agitated and waves me quiet.

  "Did you say these were from Sarin?"

  "That's right."

  "And she's a killer?"

  "She is."

  "Then you'd better get back to the Avenging Axe immediately," says Astrath.

  "Why?"

  "Because she's heading that way right now."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Quite sure."

  I rise, finish my goblet of wine, and throw my cloak around my shoulders in double-quick time.

  "Can you find me a landus around here?"

  "Take my carriage," says Astrath.

  I'm surprised.

  "You have a carriage?"

  "Issued to all Sorcerers in wartime," explains Astrath.

  I'm impressed. He really is going up in the world.

  Minutes later I'm at the reins, thundering through the narrow streets of Pashish towards Twelve Seas. I turn into Moon and Stars Boulevard and head south, scattering pedestrians as I go.

  "Out of the way, dogs!" I scream, as a tutor with three children fails to cross the road quickly enough. I thunder on. At this moment the head of the Turanian Sorcerers Guild is lying sick in my bed, and one of the most deadly killers ever seen in Turai is heading towards the Avenging Axe.

  Chapter Twelve

  I make it to the Avenging Axe in record time, pulling up outside the front door and leaping from the wagon like a hungry dragon going after a plump sheep. The first person I run into is Makri, carrying a tray of tankards.

  "Sarin's here," I mutter, and head for the stairs.

  Makri isn't far behind me as I burst into my office, though she's taken a diversion to pick up her axe. My sword is in my hand, ready for action. The outside door is open, and Sarin the Merciless is standing by the couch, looking down at the still-sleeping Hanama.

  "Does your locking spell ever keep anyone out?" demands Makri, and raises her axe. I get myself in between them

  "Makri. Wait till I know why she came here before you kill her."

  Sarin regards us with her cold eyes.

  "No one is about to kill me."

  Sarin's a tall woman, with her dark hair cropped short, which is very unusual in Turai. Unlike almost every other woman in the city, from the market workers to the senators' wives, she wears no make-up of any kind, and her man's tunic is plain and undecorated. For some reason she has a liking for earrings, and there must be at least eight silver rings pierced through each of her ears. She wears a short, curved sword at her hip, and she's pointing a small crossbow at my heart.

  "Don't you know it's illegal to carry a crossbow in the city?"

  "And yet I never seem to get arrested," says Sarin.

  She gazes first at me, then at Makri. There's a peculiar deadness to Sarin's eyes which is slightly unsettling.

  "I've been looking for something that belongs to me," she says. "It wasn't there. But I believe you were."

  She holds out her hand.

  "Give me the Ocean Storm."

  I'm staggered by the audacity of this woman, having the nerve to march into my office and demand I hand over a stolen item like she has some rights over it.

  "Why would I give it to you?"

  "Because I'm pointing a crossbow at you."

  "So you are. Maybe you'd like me to roast your insides with a spell?"

  "You can't," says Sarin, flatly. "You don't have the power. And I don't like long conversations. Give me the Ocean Storm."

  "I'd like to, Sarin, but I just don't believe it belongs to you."

  "I made an agreement with Captain Arex."

  "Too bad for you someone else got there first."

  "Too bad indeed. Hand it over or I'll kill you."

  Makri suddenly makes a move. She hurls her axe, moving so quickly that the spinning blade knocks the crossbow from Sarin's hands before she can pull the trigger. Sarin curses and pulls her sword from its sheath. Then she coughs, puts her hand to her head, and sinks gently forward on her knees, sweat pouring from her brow. The sword drops to the floor.

  "Oh come on," says Makri, and looks frustrated. Sarin continues to sink, ending up on the floor, her breath coming in short gasps.

  I turn to look at Makri.

  "What is this? Is there a sign up somewhere saying go to Thraxas's office if you get the malady?"

  "I'm going to kill her anyway," declares Makri.

  "Okay with me. I'm damned if I want another patient taking up space."

  There's the sound of footsteps on the stairs and Hansius walks in through the open door. When he sees Sarin he looks alarmed.

  "Didn't the Deputy Consul instruct you to maintain strict privacy? Why is the door open like this? And why is there another malady victim sprawled here for all to see? Get her out of sight this instant."

  I stare at Hansius. Just because Cicerius can come down here and order me about doesn't mean his assistant can.

  "What do you want?"

  "Is that—"

  "Sarin the Merciless."

  Hansius frowns. Sarin once blackmailed the government out of ten thousand gurans, and they haven't forgotten.

  "Why did you let her in?"

  "I didn't let her in. She countermanded my locking spell."

  "Thraxas's locking spell is useless," says Makri. "Anyone can get past it."

  "Why did Sarin come here?" demands Hansius.

  "Who knows? People just seem to like to visit these days."

  Hansius eyes us with some distaste.

  "Didn't the Deputy Consul inform you that we suspect a plot has been hatched to kill Lisutaris and betray the city?"

  I look at Makri.

  "I can't remember. Did he tell us?"

  Makri shrugs.

  "There's so many plots. It's hard to remember them all."

  "You must be aware of security at all times!" insists Hansius.

  I ben
d down to grab hold of Sarin.

  "What are you doing?" asks Hansius

  "Throwing her out."

  "But I want to kill her," protests Makri.

  "She'll die on the street anyway," I point out.

  Hansius practically throws himself in front of the door.

  "Have you no idea what it means to maintain security? This woman has heard us talk of Lisutaris. No one who knows that Lisutaris is ill in this tavern can be allowed to leave. We might as well just send a message to the Orcs inviting them to attack."

  "Fine," says Makri, stepping forward. "I'll kill her now."

  The inside door bursts open.

  "What are you doing?" cries a very loud voice.

  It's Dandelion, clutching potions.

  "I'm about to stab Sarin the Merciless," explains Makri.

  Dandelion hurries forward, a horrified look on her face.

  "You're about to stab a sick woman? Shame on you, Makri."

  Makri looks confused.

  "But she deserves it."

  "Put that sword away," demands Dandelion.

  "Absolutely not," retorts Makri.

  Dandelion confronts her.

  "You can't kill a sick person."

  "Yes I can. I'm going to do it now."

  "You are not," states Dandelion, quite emphatically. "No one kills any person that I'm ministering to."

  "Since when are you ministering to her?"

  "Since I took over from Chiaraxi."

  "Well this is just ridiculous," says Makri. "You're not a proper healer. You can't order us around."

  "I'm the healer," says Dandelion firmly. "I look after everyone that's sick."

  I've never seen Dandelion so determined before. She even casts a defiant glance towards Hansius, in case he might be about to argue with her.

  "I'm going to kill her," insists Makri.

  "You can't kill a sick guest," says Dandelion.

  "A person who breaks in to commit crimes doesn't count as a guest!" retorts Makri.

  "Well . . ." says Hansius. "That's a moot point. We do have a strong tradition of hospitality."

  Makri curses in Orcish. That's also taboo in Turai, and Hansius is annoyed.

  "But if Sarin hadn't suddenly fallen sick I'd have killed her by now anyway," says Makri.

  "Not necessarily," says Hansius.

  "What?"

  "She might have survived the combat. She might even have defeated you."

  Makri looks aghast at the thought. I weigh in on her side.

  "Ridiculous. Makri's a far better fighter. She'd already got rid of the crossbow with her axe."

  Hansius glances at the floor.

  "But Sarin has a sword. You companion had thrown her axe, and seems not to have brought another weapon."

  "I'd still have beaten her," says Makri. "And why do you care about her anyway?"

  "I don't care about her at all," says Hansius. "I'm just pointing out the foolishness and unpredictability of women fighting. Women should not be fighting. It's not their place."

  Makri reaches down to pick up her axe, whether to show Hansius her place or whether to kill Sarin, I'm not certain. Either one would be fine with me but Dandelion interrupts us again.

  "Stop this. It doesn't matter who would have won the fight. Sarin's sick with the malady and now we're going to look after her."

  "No we're not," says Makri.

  "You can't kill a sick person!" says Dandelion. "It's wrong. And it's bad luck. Isn't that right?"

  Dandelion looks towards Hansius for support. There's no denying that the taboo against killing a sick person is very strong.

  "I agree. Sarin should be cared for until she recovers, and then taken into custody for her crimes."

  "Good," says Dandelion, ignoring the look of loathing currently being directed towards her by Makri. "Now help me get her to a chair."

  Dandelion drags Sarin to a chair. No one helps her.

  "I'm really not happy about this," says Makri. "How come it's all right for her to go around shooting crossbows at people and then it's not okay for me to stab her? It goes against natural justice. All these taboos are stupid. Don't blame me if the city gets overrun."

  Sarin has now lost consciousness and is sweating profusely.

  "It's a serious case," mutters Dandelion. "She's going to need a lot of looking after."

  I turn to Hansius.

  "Why did you come here anyway?"

  "The Deputy Consul has instructed Tirini Snake Smiter to add her powers to Lisutaris's protection. I escorted her down. She should be here any moment."

  On cue, Tirini Snake Smiter walks into my office. She is Turai's most glamorous Sorcerer, known far and wide as the woman who spent an arduous six months perfecting a new spell for preserving her nail varnish in perfect condition, no matter how trying the circumstances. And, it has to be said, her nails are never less than perfect. She arrives looking as elegant, glamorous, and about as out of place among the clutter as a person can possibly be. She's draped in a golden fur cloak that's so thick I'm surprised she can move. Her hair, the colour of gleaming corn, cascades around her shoulders in a way that makes me suspect it might be permanently controlled by a spell. The woman is obsessed with her appearance. Tirini has been wooed by princes, generals and senators, envied by their wives and daughters, denounced by bishops, and occupied more space in Turai's scandal sheets than any other person in history.

  Despite all this, I know that Lisutaris regards her as a powerful Sorcerer, sharp as an Elf's ear when it comes to working her magics. I'm not at all convinced about this. Tirini is too young to have featured in the last war, so there's no way of knowing how she'll react in battle. I wouldn't wager a great deal of money on her prowess. It's all very well being clever with sorcery to make your hair look better. It's a lot different when there's a dragon diving out of the sky towards you, with an Orcish Sorcerer on its back firing spells, and a squadron of Orcish archers trying to outflank you at the same time.

  I greet her, rather wearily.

  "Cicerius asked me to check on dear Lisutaris's health," she says

  She looks rather dubiously around the room.

  "He didn't tell me there were other sick people."

  "There are sick people everywhere."

  "Who are they?"

  "Murderous killer, murderous Assassin," I say, nodding towards the prostrate bodies of Hanama and Sarin.

  "Really? How thrilling for you. Where is Lisutaris?"

  "In the bedroom."

  "Take me to her."

  "You sure? So far everyone who's gone in there has fallen sick."

  "I've had the malady," says Tirini. "And frightfully boring it was, as I recall."

  Tirini walks into my bedroom, followed by Hansius.

  Dandelion is meanwhile giving the medicinal potion to Hanama and Sarin. Hanama is still badly sick. Her brow is covered in perspiration. She winces as she moves her mouth towards the cup. The muscle pains brought on by the malady can be very severe, and she's still suffering.

  "You'll be better soon," says Dandelion, encouragingly.

  "I know," whispers Hanama, and manages to look determined for a few seconds. Her eyes close and she drifts back to sleep. I wonder what would happen if the situation was reversed. Somehow I can't see Hanama feeding medicine to anyone. Caring for people isn't in her nature. There again, nor is it in mine.

  Tirini emerges from my bedroom.

  "I would hardly say that this is a suitable place for dear Lisutaris to lie ill," she says.

  "Neither would I. If you want to move her somewhere go right ahead."

  "Cicerius has issued instructions that she should not be moved."

  Tirini frowns.

  "I have little confidence in Cicerius. Were it not for the efforts of the Sorcerers Guild, the city would have fallen to those dreadful Orcs by now."

  The sorceress glances at her hands with distaste.

  "I'm covered in dust. Does your maid never clean in there?"


  "I don't have a maid."

  Tirini looks at me like I'm mentally deficient. The possibility of not having a maid has probably never entered her mind. Her look of distaste intensifies as she glances at the small sink in the corner of my office.

  "Where might a woman wash her hands?"

  I direct her to Tanrose's room downstairs, probably her best chance of finding something clean and pleasant. It also contains a sick healer, but everywhere you go, someone is sick. It's not just the Avenging Axe. The malady has now made inroads into much of the population. Already there are shortages among the guards at the walls as men fail to report for duty.

  Tirini departs, leaving the room with the slow, delicate gait of a woman who's wearing heels which might be suitable for tripping round a ballroom at the Palace but are far too high for the rough terrain you meet in Twelve Seas. In the last twenty years or so, upper-class Turanian women's heels have been becoming higher and higher, a fashion which has led to adverse comment from the Church, and other guardians of the nation's morals. For once I agree with them. Bishop Gzekius might have been talking nonsense when he condemned gambling as the quick way to hell, but he was spot on with his sermon pointing out the iniquities of frivolous footwear. Tirini's shoes, stitched from some yellow fabric with pink flowers embroidered over the toes, with the heel and sole decorated with beaten gold, are surely a sign of a society in decay. I doubt that a sailmaker would earn enough in a year to pay for them.

  Makri regards Tirini balefully as she exits.

  "I don't think she's the best person to protect Lisutaris. Anyway, I'm protecting her."

  Before Hansius leaves he questions us about our encounter with the Orcish Assassin. I can't tell him much more than I did in my message to the Deputy Consul, though I do my best to let Hansius know every detail I can remember. Turai's security has been breached by Orcs before, but now, in time of war, with our defensive sorcery at maximum power, it's far more serious. Old Hasius the Brilliant, Chief Sorcerer at the Abode of Justice, has been down at the harbour, checking on the scene of the fight, trying to pick up clues as to how the Orc Marizaz might have entered the city.

  With a final admonition to maintain our own security and look after Lisutaris, Hansius departs. Makri turns towards Sarin the Merciless.

  "I'm still going to kill her when she gets better."