by Martin Scott
Makri is rendered speechless. There’s a very uncomfortable pause before Lisutaris orders us out of her command tent. When we troop outside, the guards, who’ve probably heard every word, sneer at us as we pass. Droo clambers to her feet and follows us as we depart.
“I don’t think that was justified,” says Makri, in a rather subdued tone. No one else speaks. There’s not much to say. We go our separate ways. I can’t believe our War Leader accused me of being as useless as a one-legged gladiator. It’s hardly the sort of language you expect from the aristocratic Head of the Sorcerers Guild. I’m thoughtful as I walk back to my wagon, and depressingly sober. Simnian beer, it’s really not that good. Wears off far too quickly.
Anumaris Thunderbolt is sitting with the reins in her hands, trundling forward slowly as the army gets underway again. She greets me quite formally. I doubt she admires Captain Thraxas any more than Lisutaris does. I decide to lie down for a while. Perhaps I’ll feel inspired after I’ve slept. Before I nod off, a thought strikes me. I try and ignore it. The thought won’t go away. I curse, and sit up. I’m remembering the time I was down in Mattesh with Gurd. That useless Simnian Calbeshi was there too, stealing a living by pretending to be a mercenary. Must have been twenty years ago. More, perhaps. There was another Turanian with us. Poldax. A large man with an axe. I hadn’t thought about him for years till Calbeshi reminded me of him. I don’t know what happened to him after that campaign. Something’s nagging at me. What is it? I shake my head and look around for some beer. There isn’t any. Damn this war.
Another name floats into my head. Poldius. Lisutaris said that Tirini’s father was called Poldius. A minor palace official, a respectable man. I’ve lived all my life in Turai and I’ve never heard that family name. I drag myself upright and poke my head through the flap at the front of the wagon to talk to Anumaris. Her long Sorcerers Cloak is covered in dust, as is the scarf tied round her face
“Have you ever heard of a Turanian called Poldius?”
She lowers the scarf to speak. “I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure? He’d be one of your class.”
Anumaris is sure she’s never heard of him.
“Do you have any idea where Dasinius might be? The palace scribe who was looking after Turanian refugees when they arrived in Samsara. Did he travel with the army?”
“If he did, he’d be with the other non-combatant Turanian officials in the administrative division. Their wagons are about a hundred metres behind us, a little to the right.”
I drop off our wagon, make my way to the clear pathway that’s maintained between traffic at all times, and wait for the army to slowly pass. When I spot a group of wagons with a Turanian flag fluttering above them and some elderly faces among the passengers, I cross over to them and ask for Dasinius. I’m directed to one of the Turanian vehicles where I find the palace scribe on the pillion, with the reins in his hands. Like Anumaris, he has a scarf tied round the lower part of his face, protecting him from the dust kicked up by the advancing army. He looks at me sourly.
“What do you want?”
“A brief talk about the population of Turai.”
I climb up beside him, to his obvious displeasure. None of the Officials I know from my time working at the Palace seem to remember me fondly. Class prejudice, I’d say.
“You used to work at the Palace registry, didn’t you? Recording births and deaths, and marriages and so on?”
“I was head of the department.” He sounds proud of it. I never thought it was that important a position.
“Did you ever come across anyone called Poldius?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes I’m sure. There was no Poldius in Turai.”
“Maybe you just never met him?”
Dasinius lowers his scarf and casts a baleful look in my direction. “It’s bad enough being chased out of Turai at my age, without having to answer questions from you, Thraxas, one-time investigator at the Palace. What did they kick you out for? Drunkenness? Laziness? Or were you cheating on your expenses?”
“Just answer the question, Dasinius. I’m personal security officer for Lisutaris. You don’t want to annoy her.”
The elderly official laughs. “Annoy Lisutaris? I don’t give a damn. My life’s going to end fighting Orcs who’ve captured my city and outsmarted us at every turn. Lisutaris isn’t going to make any difference.”
Apparently Turanian morale is not as high as might be.
“About Poldius...?”
“There’s no Poldius. I’d recognise the family name.”
“No Poldius in all of Turai? Ever?”
“Damn you Thraxas, how many times do I have to tell you?”
I mull this over for a minute or two. Dasinius coughs, and pulls the scarf back over his mouth.
“What about Poldax?”
“What about him?”
“He was a little older than me. Fought as a mercenary down in Mattesh.”
“I know, I remember him. I filed his marriage certificate. And his death certificate, about fifteen years ago.”
“What did he do?”
“He was a municipal worker. Employed by the Ministry of Civil Works to inspect the sewers.”
“Did he have any children?”
Dasinius thinks for a few moments. “One daughter. Tirina.”
He does have an impressive knowledge of the city-state’s inhabitants. I wonder if he can remember every single one.
“Tirina? What happened to her?”
Dasinius shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t recall ever filing a certificate for her - not for marriage, or death, or anything else. Maybe she left the city.”
I thank Dasinius. After leaving him I walk quickly up the line, passing the slow-moving wagons till I catch up with my own. Anumaris is still driving, Droo is still sleeping. I’m due for some sleep myself. I use my cloak as a pillow and lie down. I have a few more things to think about now. I need my rest.
Chapter Sixteen
The next day, rumours sweep through the army. Deeziz the Unseen’s name is suddenly on everyone’s lips. Everyone seems to know that the most powerful Orcish sorcerer is here, right in the middle of our army, undetected. The mood among the soldiers changes from optimism to apprehension. The storm which delayed us, previously seen as an unfortunate natural phenomenon, is now taken as proof of Deeziz’s power. It’s a severe blow to morale. Even though our rendezvous with the Niojans has been delayed, the army was in good spirits. Not any more. The shocking rumours have a devastating effect. Everywhere you look there are soldiers eying their neighbours suspiciously, wondering if they might be an Orcish spy or an Orcish sorcerer. Confidence in Lisutaris as War Leader has plummeted.
I’m sitting morosely in the back of my wagon when Droo clambers in with a half-full bottle of wine in her hand. It’s an inferior vintage but that can’t be helped. If it wasn’t for Droo’s excellent talent for sniffing out spare supplies of alcohol, I’d have been in a much worse state.
“Deeziz is a cunning Orc,” I mutter, after a hefty swig from the wine bottle. “She’s spreading rumours about her own presence. Now the troops are worried and Lisutaris looks bad.”
It could get worse. If Deeziz decides to transmit some anonymous messages to the Niojans about Lisutaris visiting the oracle, it might end our alliance.
Rinderan appears. The young sorcerer is carrying a list of names. “Sorcerer Irith and his companions have checked every name on this list,” he informs me. “They’ve come up with nothing.”
“Did they really look?”
“So Irith says. They’ve used all available sorcery and examined everyone close to our War Leader. Every Commander, every one of her personal staff, anyone who’s been in contact with her. They’ve also checked everyone in the army who has any sorcerous power - the front line combat sorcerers, the message senders, the medical sorcerers, even the weather unit. No one shows any sign of actually being an Orcish imposter.”
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br /> I grunt with exasperation. According to Irith, his sorcerous detection unit had developed some new tools of magical investigation which he regarded as foolproof. Obviously they weren’t. I take the list and dismiss Rinderan, rather wearily. The whole affair is starting to seem hopeless. The list contains details of every possible suspect, anyone close enough to Lisutaris to know details of her plans. It’s a depressingly long. There’s her war council - General Hemistos, Lord Kalith-ar-Yil, and Bishop-General Ritari. Her aide-de-camp Julius. My own security staff. Makri. Irith Victorious and his fellow Abelasian sorcerers. Captain Hanama and her staff, including the mysterious Megleth, Elvish assassin. Then there’s Tirini, and her nursemaid Saabril Eclipse. The two Kamaran sorcerers they arrived with. Coranius the Grinder. There are the trusted guards who are always in place around her command tent. They’re not senior officers but they’re in close enough proximity to Lisutaris that they’d probably be able to learn a lot of information if they wanted. Senior Storm Class Sorcerer Habintenat and his weather unit. The officers in the level below the command council, General Mexes and Admiral Arith. All of these people have already been examined, both by my own unit and Irith’s sorcerers. I stare at the list, vaguely hoping that some inspiration might strike. A half hour later, I’m still staring, when Makri climbs into the wagon. Her hair is pulled back tightly and tied in a long pony-tail, perhaps as part of an effort to look more disciplined. I ask her if she’s hiding from See-ath.
“No. He hasn’t been around. Lisutaris asked me to leave for a while.”
“Another top-secret commanders' meeting?”
Makri frowns. “She says she’s meeting Legate Apiroi. I don’t like it.”
“Why would she meet him?”
“I don’t know. Yesterday she wanted him kept out the way and today they’re having a private conference. It can’t mean anything good. Legate Apiroi is only interested in one thing, increasing his influence. I think he’s trying to usurp Bishop-General Ritari. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s got ambitions to be War Leader.” Makri takes the bottle of wine from me and drinks. “I don’t like it. Lisutaris should just get rid of him.”
“She has to be tactful. Relations with Nioj are always tricky.”
Makri notices the scroll in my hand. “What are you reading?”
“My list of every possible suspect.”
“Is it helping?”
“No, it’s useless. There must be forty or fifty people who’ve had enough contact with Lisutaris to be doing this damage. My unit has run background checks on all of them. Irith Victorious has checked them with sorcery. No results. If Deeziz is so clever maybe it doesn’t matter what sort of checks we make. Perhaps she can just fake anything. Maybe she can plant false memories in people.”
“Is that possible?”
“I don’t know. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s anything this Orc can’t do. She must have done a lot of studying on that mountain top. Maybe Lisutaris did go to too many parties.”
I take another sip from the wine bottle. “I always knew our degenerate aristocracy would ruin Turai. Lisutaris and Tirini spend their whole time dancing and gossiping at Palace soirees while Deeziz does what a sorcerer is meant to do - learn more sorcery. And now look what’s happened. Tirini’s half-dead, Lisutaris has gone mad, and an honest man like myself has his name dragged through the mud by malicious prophesies from a corrupt High Priestess. I tell you Makri, the situation is bad. We can’t even find the Orcish army. So much for Hanama and her Intelligence Unit. We’ve got a Sorcerous Weather Unit that can’t stop storms, and a Sorcerous investigation Unit that couldn’t find an Orc if she walked up and introduced herself.”
“In other words, everyone else is to blame?” says Makri.
“Exactly. Useless, degenerate incompetents, all of them.”
“How much wine have you drunk?”
“Not enough. I can’t believe Lisutaris said I was as much use as a one-legged gladiator. That’s not the sort of crude expression you expect to hear from your War Leader.”
“I didn’t like being blamed for Ibella’s death. But Lisutaris is under a lot of pressure. She’s worried she’s not going to be able to hold the army together.”
“All the more reason to value her trusted companions. I rescued that woman from Turai!”
“Are you ever going to stop bragging about that?” Makri drinks from the bottle.
“I blame the oracle.”
“The oracle?”
“We’ve been cursed since we visited that place. I hate oracles. They’re always useless. Some mumbo-jumbo that no one can understand. You never find an oracle saying anything worthwhile like 'Tomorrow someone will buy you a flagon of ale and a mutton pie.' That would be an oracle worth having.”
“It’s interesting how powerful a grip oracles still have on people’s imaginations,” says Makri. “People are fools. Oracles are nonsense.”
Makri shrugs. “I know. Though it’s odd how accurate some of the High Priestess’s predictions were. Ibella died of poison right after she was warned to fear only poison.”
“That’s only one prophesy. Anyone can get lucky. I still think her words to Hanama were ridiculous. Much Death. Hanama’s an assassin, it didn’t take tremendous insight to come up with that.”
“Did the High Priestess know she was an assassin?”
“Probably. It wouldn’t surprise me if her followers sneaked her some hints about the people who visit her. Charlatans, all of them. As for Gurd, and Much Life - ” I pause. “Now I think about it, Gurd told me Tanrose wants to have a baby. I suppose that might qualify as much life.”
Makri is amused. “Maybe the High Priestess knew what she was talking about.”
I refuse to rise to the bait. I know Makri has no more belief in oracles than me.
“Why did Gurd tell you Tanrose wanted to have a baby?”
“Because he knows I’m one of the few sensible men left in the West, and he wanted advice.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Mainly that I didn’t want to talk about babies.”
“He’d be a good father,” says Makri.
“He would be. But he’s worried he won’t be alive long enough to see the child. That’s a sensible worry. If this campaign continues to go downhill none of us will be around for long.”
We’re still trundling slowly over the low hills on the approach to the border between Simnia and Nioj. We’ll be meeting up with the Niojan army any time now. I wonder what sort of reports Legate Apiroi and Bishop-General Ritari have been sending them.
“I found out something odd about Tirini Snake Smiter,” I tell Makri, lowering my voice so that Anumaris won’t overhear. “She doesn’t come from the respectable family she claims. I don’t think she came from Turai’s upper class at all. Her father was a sewer inspector. If he’s the man I used to know, he was about as low class as me, which is very low, in Turanian terms.”
“Why would Tirini lie about that?”
“You lived in Turai long enough to know what it’s like. Class makes a lot of difference. The upper classes are obsessed with status and they don’t like sharing their privileges.”
Makri, as a foreign female gladiator with Orcish blood, had the lowest status it was possible to have in Turai, so she knows what I’m talking about. Even so, she’s puzzled about Tirini.
“Sorcerers don’t have to come from the aristocracy, do they?”
“Most sorcerers are the sons and daughters of respectable families. Not the highest aristocracy, but respectable. There are a few from the lower classes but they don’t get far in the Sorcerers Guild. Not promoted to the best posts. I suppose Tirini didn’t want to admit her background, particularly as she was so obsessed with being Turai’s most glamorous woman. I can understand that. But I’m puzzled.”
“Why?”
“I wouldn’t have thought it was easy for her to hide her background from other sorcerers. Not when she started out, anyway. When she first went to the Sor
cerers College, she couldn’t have had that much power. The professors there should have seen through any attempt at deception. They do look into their students' background as part of the induction process.”
Makri takes a small bag from a pocket inside her armoured tunic.
“Lisutaris gave me this.”
“So she hasn’t stopped using it?”
“She’s cut down a lot. Quite a lot. Well, she doesn’t smoke as much as she used to.” Makri rolls up the thazis into a stick and lights it. She inhales then passes it to me. We smoke it peacefully together for a few minutes.
“What’s wrong with being a sewer inspector anyway?” asks Makri.
“Pardon?”
“You said Tirini was ashamed of her father being a sewer inspector. I don’t see why anyone would be ashamed of working on the sewers. Haven’t you used them during your investigations?”
“Once or twice.”
“And we escaped from the city via the sewers. You might say they saved Lisutaris’s life. Anyway, they’re a good piece of architecture.”
“They are?”
“Of course. Turai’s sewerage system is one of the best there is, in any city. It was all designed by the Master Architect Janavius.”
“How do you know that?”
“I learned in college. If it wasn’t for the innovations made by Janavius, Turai would be the festering mess it deserves to be. He built eight new tunnels under the city, incorporating three ancient streams into the system, and he was responsible for - ”
I hold up my hand. “Makri, does it ever worry you that you seem able to deliver a lecture on any conceivable subject?”
“No.”
“It worries me.”
“I think you just resent that women can get a good education at the Guild College.”