Thraxas and the Sorcerers

Chapter Ten

I pour some kuriya into a saucer. No one speaks. Makri looks uncomfortable. Cicerius is agitated. Tilupasis remains calm. We’re gathered in Cicerius’s private room at the Royal Hall and I’m preparing to show them what happened at the Avenging Axe.

“What you are about to see is hidden from all other eyes by the spell cast by Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, and Princess Direeva. I’ve only got access because Lisutaris has given me a key.”

I take out a scrap of parchment and intone a brief incantation, Lisutaris’s key. Cicerius and Tilupasis draw closer to the saucer. The air cools. A picture starts to form. My untidy office. I really should clean it up some time. Makri, Direeva and Darius are unconscious on the floor. Lisutaris enters, stabs Darius, then departs. The picture fades. Seeing it again, I don’t like it any better.

Cicerius controls his agitation. Though sometimes excitable, he’s not a man to panic in a crisis any more than me.

“How many people have seen that?”

“Just us. And it’s well hidden from everyone else. The Sorcerers will get through eventually but it will take a while.”

“It looked very real to me,” continues Cicerius. “Are you convinced by Lisutaris’s protestations of innocence?”

I shrug.

“I’ve taken her on as a client.”

“You do not sound convinced.”

Makri breaks into the conversation.

“She’s innocent! I was there, I know she didn’t stab Darius.”

“You were unconscious.”

“I was the last to fall asleep. Lisutaris didn’t do it.”

Tilupasis wonders about the magic required to falsify the past.

“My knowledge of sorcery is limited. Is it possible that the pictures are, as Lisutaris claims, fakes?”

“Maybe.”

“Please be more specific,” says Cicerius.

“Well, there are three different things involved here. Hiding, erasing, and making. Hiding means concealing the past. Plenty of Sorcerers can do that, at least for a while. The other two are not so easy. Lisutaris and Direeva searched for the real events before they made their hiding spell, but they couldn’t find them. They couldn’t find anything else apart from the pictures of Lisutaris killing Darius. So if there were other real events, someone has erased them. But that’s impossible. No one has ever perfected such an erasement spell. I guarantee you could ask every Sorcerer at the Assemblage and they’d tell you the same. The obvious conclusion is that there was no erasement, which would mean the events as depicted are true, Lisutaris is the killer.

“The same goes for a making spell, something to create the illusion of events happening, a good enough illusion to fool a Sorcerer when he checks back in time. Again, no such spell has ever been perfected. It’s a difficult thing even to imagine, painting a convincing picture of real events and placing it in the past. What we saw there was my office, complete with junk. Could someone fake that in every detail? I doubt it. Again, the obvious conclusion is that we’re looking at the real events.”

“Whether Lisutaris murdered Darius or not, we can’t let it be known,” says Tilupasis.

I point out that not everyone feels so comfortable with covering up a murder. Tilupasis gives the slightest of shrugs. She’s quite comfortable with it. We look towards Cicerius.

“If the Sorcerers Guild will eventually discover the truth, it might be better for Turai to come straight out and admit that this has happened,” he says. “Lisutaris would hang, or be sent into exile, Turai would lose influence, but at least we would not be found guilty of complicity in the murder of the Chief Sorcerer of another country. If we try and cover this up and it goes wrong, the Abelasian confederacy and the other states in the south will turn against Turai. We already have numerous enemies.”

We fall silent while Cicerius weighs up his options. The Deputy Consul is in charge here. It’s his decision, and for once I don’t feel like barging in with my own opinions.

“If Lisutaris is innocent, as she claims, what chance do you have of uncovering the real murderer?”

“A reasonable chance. Maybe less. I’ve no leads and I’ll be up against sorcery no one has encountered before. Which is not to say I won’t find anything. Criminals generally leave some traces behind, even sorcerous criminals. The problem is time. We don’t know how long it will take for the Guild to break through the hiding spell.”

Cicerius drums his fingers lightly on the table. Finally he makes a decision.

“Carry on with your investigation. We shall continue with our efforts to have Lisutaris elected as head of the Guild.”

Hansius appears at the door, Cicerius is needed for a conference with Lasat, Axe of Gold. He departs swiftly.

“I must return to my work,” says Tilupasis. “Now that Darius is no longer in the running, I should be able to win over some of these southern votes. Keep watching Lisutaris. And Makri, be nice to Princess Direeva. This is now more important than ever. With Darius out of the running we have an excellent chance of winning her over.”

“Not if she decides to believe that Lisutaris killed Darius.”

“You must persuade her otherwise,” instructs Tilupasis.

She hurries off.

“What exactly do I have to do to get Princess Direeva’s votes?” asks Makri.

“I don’t know. I was never any good at politics.”

I stare at the now blank pool of kuriya. After the spell the temperature in the room has again risen. The authorities have made it warm for the Sorcerers. Anything to keep them happy.

“It’s unfortunate the body was discovered so quickly.”

“You should’ve dumped it in a deeper snowdrift,” says Makri. “Do you have any suspects?”

“Lisutaris. Maybe Sunstorm Ramius. He had something to gain from Darius’s death. Got rid of a rival.”

I’m not fooling myself. Darius wasn’t really a rival to Ramius. There was no sign of him picking up enough support to overhaul the Simnian. Nonetheless, I find myself suspicious of Ramius. He’s arrogant, powerful and successful, and that’s three things I dislike in a Sorcerer.

“It’s time to go to work. Have you shaken off the thazis?”

“Yes.”

“Does the Imperial Library have much about sorcery?”

“The largest collection in the west,” says Makri. “How can you possibly not know that?”

“I’ve been cultivating ignorance for a long time. Take Lisutaris home then meet me there as soon as you can. I need to do some research into spell-casting and I’m terrible at using a catalogue.”

There is great agitation in the main hall as the Sorcerers congregate to discuss the murder. They come pouring from all corners of the building, workshops abandoned. Even the Juvalians emerge from the Room of Saints, drinks in hand. Illuminated staffs are fired up all over the hall, as if to cast light on the affair. Sunstorm Ramius is already deep in discussion with other important Sorcerers. It won’t be long before they start looking for the killer. Again I get the urge to ride out of town. When they conjure up a picture of me dumping that body, the whole Guild will be down on me like a bad spell. If the Sorcerers don’t just blast me on the spot, the Civil Guards will prosecute. Either way, my prospects are poor.

Astrath Triple Moon is standing alone on the fringes of the crowd.

“Any news on the knife?”

The Sorcerer is very worried.

“No. It’s been wiped. Is it the knife which. . . .”

His voice tails off. I tell him I’d rather not give him any more details. Astrath accepts this. He’d rather not know. He promises to keep on working but he’s deeply troubled to find himself involved in such an affair.

“I owe you a lot, Thraxas, but if the Guild really gets on my back it’s going to be difficult to lie to them.”

I take the opportunity to ask Astrath if he knows of any spell, or any Sorcerer, who could create a sequence of fake events lasting almost a full minute, and send it back into the past. He doesn’t.

“I don’t think it could be done. Not by us, or the Elves, or the Orcs. Every detail of a long scene? There would just be too many things to control. And what about the real events? It’s one thing to hide them for a while, but unless you completely erased them somehow they’d keep bursting through any illusion.”

The news spreads that Darius was found in a snowdrift, stabbed to death. Those Sorcerers who are familiar with Turai explain to those who are not that Twelve Seas is the bad part of the city near the harbour, where crime is rampant. There’s a lot of nodding of heads. The immediate impression is that the Abelasian must have gone there seeking either dwa or a prostitute, neither of which would be particularly strange for a Sorcerer on holiday.

Princess Direeva and her apprentice remain aloof from the masses. There’s no telling how the Princess will react if she finds herself being questioned by the Guards. Will she maintain silence, to help Makri and Lisutaris? Or tell what she knows, claim diplomatic immunity and depart swiftly? Already with Direeva and Astrath it seems like there are too many people who might be indiscreet. Even if Lisutaris’s spell miraculously hides the events of the murder for weeks, I can’t see the Civil Guard being baffled for long. They know how to follow a trail. Nor can I see the addled Mistress of the Sky standing up to questioning. I curse the day I ever became involved with the woman. It would have been better all round if the dragons she brought down had fallen on top of her.

It’s time to visit Hanama. There’s a Messengers Guild post in the entrance hall, placed there for the convenience of the Sorcerers. The young messenger who takes my scroll looks surprised when he sees that it’s addressed to the headquarters of the Assassins Guild, but he hurries off, keen as always to do his duty. These young messengers are always keen. I’ve no idea why.

I hurry from the Assemblage and pick up a landus outside. Shortly afterwards I’m sitting in a tavern on the outskirts of the notorious Kushni quarter. Kushni is a hive of drinking dens, gambling dens, dwa houses, whorehouses and anything else disreputable you might wish for. In the summer it’s a seething, sweltering mass of decadent humanity. Even in the depths of winter, trade goes on at an unhealthy pace. The Assassins have their headquarters nearby. I’ve informed Hanama that if she ignores this message I’m going to march in and call for her in a loud voice. I figure that ought to bring her out. No Assassin likes hearing their name shouted out loud, they’re a private sort of people.

A young whore with red ribbons in her hair sidles up to the table. I ignore her. Her young male companion then approaches. He’s also got red ribbons in his hair. I don’t think the Whores Guild admits men. I could be wrong. I ignore him as well. A dwa dealer offers me some Choirs of Angels, cheap. I tell him to get lost. The dealer’s friend gets insistent. I take a dagger from my pocket and lay it on the table. They sneer at me and mouth a few insults but they leave me alone. There are plenty of willing customers to cater for. No need to argue with a big angry man with a knife.

Hanama arrives in the dark garb of a common market worker. Each time I’ve encountered her I’ve been surprised by how young she looks. From her many reported exploits she can’t be much under thirty, but she’s a small, slender woman, dark-haired but very pale-skinned. With the aid of a little disguise she could pass as a child. The thought of Hanama dressing up as a child before disposing of another victim makes me shudder. I loathe the Assassins. Hanama is as cold as an Orc’s heart. The fact that I fought beside her last year doesn’t make me like her any better.

Hanama refuses my offer of beer.

“Staying sober? Got an assassination coming up?”

Not the best introduction perhaps, but it’s hard to find the right tone when you’re talking to a woman who has famously killed all sorts of important people. It’s said she once killed an Elf Lord, an Orc Lord and a Senator all in one day. Hanama stares at me, pale and expressionless. She’s not pleased at my method of bringing her to a meeting. I wonder whether I could knock her out with a sleep spell before she got her knife in my throat. I’m not carrying any spells. I’d better not offend her too much.

“Why did you insist on seeing me?”

“I’m looking for some information about Covinius.”

“An Assassin from Simnia, as is public knowledge, I believe.”

“But public knowledge doesn’t go any further. Like whether it’s a man or a woman. Or what Covinius looks like. Or whether he actually comes from Simnia.”

“I know no more about him.”

“What brings him to Turai?”

“I did not know that he was in Turai.”

“Then why did you send a message to Lisutaris warning her?”

This has to take Hanama by surprise but you couldn’t tell from her expression. She denies it coolly. I tell her to stop wasting time.

“I know you sent the message. You might be number one chariot at murder but when it comes to covering your tracks you’re a washout. I worked out it was you in a couple of minutes, and I’ve got sorcerous proof to back me up.”

The tiniest hint of colour touches Hanama’s cheeks for a second or two. I think I might actually have embarrassed her.

“Don’t feel bad. Investigating’s my business. No one else knows you’ve been sending messages.”

If Hanama’s Guild knew she had she’d be in trouble. The Assassins generally strive to avoid becoming embroiled in the world of politics. Neither would Hanama’s companions be pleased to know of her involvement in the Association of Gentlewomen.

“I’m presuming you warned Lisutaris because of that Association?”

Hanama remains silent. I point out that as I’m responsible for Lisutaris’s well-being, along with Makri, it would make a lot more sense to tell me what she knows. Hanama considers it while I calculate the chances of leaving the tavern alive if I’m forced to blackmail her.

“You know your buddy Lisutaris is quite likely to end up dead at the hands of Covinius?”

This seems to sway her.

“An informant who works for my organisation was fatally wounded last week. Before dying he informed us that Covinius the Simnian was heading to Turai. He had encountered him in the course of his work. The nature of this informant’s mission is secret, and unconnected with either Lisutaris or the Sorcerers Assemblage, so I am unable to tell you any more. But it did occur to me that if Simnia were bringing an Assassin with them, Lisutaris would be the likely target. She is Ramius’s main rival.”

I’m dissatisfied with this. Other than confirming that Covinius is in town, Hanama hasn’t really told me anything.

“There is nothing more to tell. I do not discuss our private affairs with anyone. Sending the message was the most I could do.”

Hanama stands up and leaves swiftly. I toss some money on the table for my beer, and depart, angry. Talking to Assassins always bothers me.

It’s not far to the Imperial Library. This is a magnificent piece of architecture but it’s a place I rarely visit. All those scrolls make me feel inadequate. And I don’t like the way the assistants walk around so quietly in their togas. They make a man feel like he doesn’t belong.

There’s a whole room devoted to sorcerous learning but that’s as far as I get. When I start trying to work out the catalogue I develop a serious mental block and am obliged to wait till Makri shows up, which takes a while. When she finally waltzes in I’m annoyed to see the staff greet her in a friendly manner. She grew up in an Orcish slave pit. I’m a native-born citizen of Turai. They ought to show me more respect.

“What do you expect?” whispers Makri. “You once spilled beer over a manuscript.”

“Not much beer. You think they’d have forgotten by now. How’s Lisutaris?”

“Glued to the water pipe. She’s taking it all badly. You know, I’m starting to think she might not be such a great candidate for head of the Sorcerers Guild. I like her a lot but I can’t see her spending much time looking after Guild affairs.”

“You just realised that?”

“Well, you’re the one who betted on her,” Makri points out.

“That was before I realised that helping her election would mean covering up a murder. I’m going to have to work hard to pick up my winnings.”

“Is that why you took her as a client?”

“It tipped the balance. Did you leave her safe?”

Makri thinks so. Lisutaris’s house is full of servants and attendants and Makri left instructions that they should be wary of strangers.

“Not that that’s going to help much if the great Assassin Covinius decides to pay a visit. I’ve seen Hanama. She didn’t tell me much. But Covinius is definitely in town.”

“Did he kill Darius Cloud Walker?”

“Who knows? I’ll have to try and find out more, which isn’t going to be easy.”

A passing library assistant frowns at me. I lower my voice. “I need to find out what kind of spell could possibly make it appear as if Lisutaris killed Darius. I’ve been racking my brains and I looked all through my own grimoire, but I can’t think of anything. Neither can Astrath.”

Makri seems distracted. I study my companion suspiciously.

“Did you take a turn on the water pipe?”

“Of course not. Stop treating me like I’m Turai’s biggest drug abuser. There were special circumstances. I was depressed. Did you know that Jir-ar-Eth the Avulan Sorcerer is here?”

“What about it?”

“You told me no one could travel from the Elvish Isles to Turai in winter.”

“Jir-ar-Eth set off early, shortly after we left.”

“Then why didn’t See-ath send me a message with him?”

“Possibly Lord Kalith’s Chief Sorcerer felt he had more important things to do than carry love letters. Do you have to go on about See-ath all the time?”

“It’s important,” says Makri.

I shake my head helplessly.

“Try and concentrate, we’ve got work to do.”

I describe to Makri what I’m after and we get busy at the catalogue, looking for a spell. Two spells probably, one to hide the real events and one to create the false ones. It’s sounding more and more unlikely. The pictures of Lisutaris killing Darius were very clear. Just because I can’t think of a motive doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I’ve come across stranger things. Perhaps the thazis is driving her mad. At such extreme levels, who knows what it might do?

“Did Lisutaris share your dwa?”

“Stop going on about dwa,” hisses Makri. “I said I was sorry.”

We struggle through tome after tome, scroll after scroll. Faced with this task I quickly tire. I hate this catalogue. I’d rather be on a stake-out in a freezing alleyway.

“Can’t they organise it in a way a man can understand?”

“It’s perfectly logical.”

“What do these numbers mean? I can’t make any sense of it.”

“It’s the classification system,” explains Makri. “It tells you where to find things.”

“Why isn’t it clearer?”

“It’s very clear. You just don’t understand it.”

I struggle on, working my way through books listing spells for every conceivable occasion. If I wanted to learn how to attack a Troll, I’d be fine. If I needed to know how to tell what the weather is like two hundred miles away, I could locate the right incantation. I even come across a spell for testing the strength of beer, and that’s something I’d be interested in. But for what I’m looking for, there’s nothing.

“This is hopeless. I’ve said all along it couldn’t be done. Okay, I might be about the worst magic user in Turai. I can’t do much more than heat up a cloak or send an opponent to sleep. But I understand the principles of sorcery, and its limitations. I think we’re going to have to face it. Lisutaris is guilty.”

“You don’t really believe that,” protests Makri. “You just can’t stand being in the library any longer. You can’t send a woman to the gallows just because you don’t understand the classification system.”

“Don’t bet on it. Anyway, I can’t concentrate any more. If I don’t eat soon I’m going to expire. I suggest we go to the hostelry across the road, and try again later.”

Makri isn’t hungry.

“And I don’t like giving up on research. I want to go all through the catalogue.”

I’m forced to admire her persistence, but I can’t carry on myself.

“Meet me in the tavern when you’ve run out of energy. Maybe once my belly’s full I’ll come up with an idea.”

The Imperial Library stands in a magnificent square, flanked by an enormous church and the Honourable Merchants Association’s building. All these workers need refreshment and there are several small taverns tucked away round the corner. I choose The Scholar, which, despite its name, seems a welcoming enough establishment. The short walk from the library to the tavern is an ordeal. The wind slices through me and snow whips into my face. By the time I arrive my cloak is encrusted with tiny particles of ice and I hang it close to the fire to dry. At this time in the afternoon the tavern is empty, save for two young men, probably students, who sit at a table with two small jars of ale, studying a scroll. I order the special haunch of salted beef, then take my beer and sit in a prime spot in front of the fire to thaw out.

Another few winters like this will finish me off. Fleeing south towards the sun might not be such a bad idea. I’m in a tough spot. Already the most powerful Sorcerers will be turning their attention to the matter of Darius. They’ll find their way blocked by Lisutaris’s spell, but for how long? What if Lisutaris was too addled by thazis to cast it properly? The Civil Guard might be looking for me at this very moment. For the first time in my career I start to think I may be in over my head. I can’t fight the Sorcerers Guild. I was foolish to try. I pick at my salt beef without much enthusiasm, finishing it only with the aid of an extra portion of sauce and another beer.

The door slams, an icy gust rushes into the tavern and Makri staggers in.

“Move over from that fire, Thraxas, I’m as cold as the ice queen’s grave.”

Before she has time to even sit down, the landlord appears and brusquely informs her that women are not permitted in this establishment. Makri gapes.

“Are you serious?”

He’s completely serious. It’s their regular policy. In truth, it’s not that unusual in some of the more respectable sections of the city.

Makri has not been herself recently. With the emotional upset over See-ath and the overindulgence in substances—for which I blame Lisutaris—she’s not really been exhibiting the hard edge I’ve come to expect. In some ways that’s not such a bad thing. Makri continually getting into fights can be wearing on a man. On the other hand, Makri being emotional is pretty wearing as well. As the landlord asks her to leave she snaps right back into character and places her face as close to his as she can get, which is close enough, though he’s a large man and quite a lot taller than her.

“I just struggled through the snow to get here. I’m not planning on leaving right now.”

The landlord makes the unforgivable mistake of laying his hand on her shoulder to lead her out. Makri immediately lands him such a fearsome kick in the groin that the students at the far end of the tavern shrink back in terror. The landlord collapses to the floor. Makri grabs a table and hurls it on top of him. She glares down at his prostrate body.

“I will be taking this matter up with the Association of Gentlewomen,” she says.

Outside the snow is falling faster and heavier.

“Can you believe that?” yells Makri, over the howling wind.

We struggle down the street till we reach another tavern, The Diligent Apprentice. Makri marches in. I follow with my hand on the hilt of my sword, ready for trouble. A friendly-looking landlady greets us as we enter. Makri seems almost disappointed.

“Are you going to complain about me hitting the landlord?” she demands, as we sit down with two beers and two glasses of klee.

“No. I didn’t like the tavern much anyway.”

A year ago I’d have objected plenty. Now, I’m more sympathetic. Or maybe I’m just used to it.

“Did they really not serve women? Or just women with Orcish blood?”

“I don’t know. Probably both. It wasn’t much of a place. Their haunch of beef was adequate at best. I think I’ll pick up another meal while I’m here.”

Makri grins.

“I always get depressed when life is too peaceful. All those years being a gladiator, I suppose. I need to fight every now and then, and it’s been a long time since I was in a fight.”

I point out to her that only a few days ago she killed a dwa dealer.

“Right. I forgot about that. Well, it wasn’t really what you’d call a fight.”

“And soon after that you got in a brawl with those three dock workers.”

“What are you doing, keeping records?”

“How are you ever going to manage if you get to the Imperial University? They frown on violence.”

“I can probably wean myself off it.”

Makri drinks heartily of her ale.

“Don’t get too cheerful, Makri, we’re still in a hell of a situation. The Sorcerers Guild could be looking at pictures of our involvement in a murder right now.”

Makri slaps the table.

“I almost forgot. I found a spell!”

“You did?”

Makri brings out a sheet of paper and reads from it.

“ ‘A spell for wiping out events in the past. With this incantation an experienced practitioner can erase all traces of events, so that they can never be seen, even by sorcerous enquiry.’ ”

Makri looks up from her notes.

“You wouldn’t believe the obscure place I found this in. I swear no one else could have located it. It wasn’t in the main sorcery collection, it was hidden away in—”

“Yes, Makri, I already know you’re number one chariot in the library. Let me see the spell.”

I study Makri’s copy. It’s very interesting, a spell the like of which I’ve never encountered. It claims that if worked properly it can erase almost a full hour.

“I’m certain no one in Turai has ever worked this. Where did it originate?”

“Developed in the Wastelands, according to the catalogue. The Southern Hills.”

I raise my eyebrows. Princess Direeva lives in the Southern Hills.

“We might be on to something. But this doesn’t account for everything. It might work for erasing events but it’s not a spell for creating new ones.”

“I’m sure it’s relevant,” says Makri. “You know how when things happen during an investigation and it seems like a coincidence, you generally get suspicious? Well, take a look at the ingredients for the spell.”

She hands over another sheet of paper. The spell requires a healthy dose of dragon scales.

“And only recently you were hunting for a dragon-scale thief.”

It is a coincidence. And Makri’s correct. In my line of work, coincidences always make me suspicious.

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