Thraxas and the Sorcerers

Chapter Fifteen

Next morning I’m sitting over a beer and a plate of stew at the bar with Gurd and Tanrose. Tanrose makes excellent stew, flavouring it with herbs she grows in the back yard. Gurd and I have cooked a lot of stew on our campaigns round the world but we never had any particular talent for it. For all that I detest Twelve Seas, it’s a comfort to be able to eat good meals made by Tanrose.

The Avenging Axe is not yet open and would be quiet were it not for the furious sounds of combat emanating from the back yard.

“Makri is madder than a mad dragon,” says Gurd.

Fortunately Makri is not angry with me. Not even with the filthy city of Turai. She’s angry with herself. She is appalled to have fallen over in front of an opponent. Early in the morning Tanrose was surprised to discover a bleary-eyed but fully armed Makri preparing to do battle with the wooden targets in the yard. Since then she’s been practising her weaponry, oblivious to the biting cold.

The noise of battle halts as Makri rushes in to pick up one of the long knives she keeps secreted behind the bar.

“You haven’t eaten,” says Tanrose. “Have some stew.”

“No time,” says Makri. “I fell over. I’m a disgrace.”

Makri hurries out, clutching her knife. I carry on with my stew, and take another ale.

“She pushes herself too hard,” says Gurd. “Even the best warrior can’t fight all the time. Look at Thraxas. He was a fine companion in war and he spent half his time too drunk to walk.”

There’s some truth in this. But I was a better horseman in those days.

“Makri is getting stranger,” I muse.

“Stranger?”

“In the past week she’s been miserable about See-ath the Avulan Elf. Then she was the determined bodyguard. Right after that she was getting stoned with Lisutaris and right after that she was back to being organised, rescuing Samanatius. Then she was being intellectual at the library and right afterwards getting stoned again. Now she’s back to being mad axewoman. I don’t understand it. She should just pick a personality and stick with it. It’s not normal, changing all the time.”

“Perhaps it’s the mixed blood,” suggests Gurd.

I’m inclined to agree.

“I expect it will drive her mad in the end.”

“Pointed ears.”

“Always leads to trouble.”

“Nonsense,” scoffs Tanrose. “She’s just young and enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic? About everything?”

“Of course. Makri is full of passion. Don’t you remember what that was like?”

“No, I don’t remember. Another beer if you please, Gurd.”

I wonder if I was ever passionate about my wife. My memory seems hazy on the subject. Lisutaris appears in the bar. She spent the night on Makri’s floor and her fine robe is crumpled. Her make-up is smeared and her hair is badly in need of attention.

“I’d better get back to Thamlin and clean up before the Assemblage. Big banquet today. And then the vote.”

She shows no enthusiasm for the banquet or the election.

Lisutaris sits with us at the bar. She refuses the breakfast offered by Tanrose. Though Tanrose is becoming used to the odd collection of characters who pass through the Avenging Axe these days, she’s still surprised by the sight of Turai’s leading Sorcerer, as purebred an aristocrat as Turai can offer, slumped unhappily at the bar, looking like a tavern dancer after a rough night.

“How is the Assemblage?” asks Tanrose, politely.

“Awful,” replies Lisutaris. “They’re trying to kill me.”

I’m perturbed. The Mistress of the Sky’s nerves don’t seem to be what they once were. An excess of thazis can lead to feelings of persecution, I believe.

“We’re not certain anyone is trying to kill you,” I say, in an attempt to be reassuring.

“We are. Yesterday a Simnian Sorcerer whispered something in my ear. I did her a favour a long time ago and she came to repay it. She told me that Sunstorm Ramius definitely did hire an Assassin before he left Simnia.”

“Can you trust that information?”

“Yes.”

So now we have it confirmed. Ramius has engaged the services of Covinius to kill Lisutaris.

“We’ll protect you,” I say. “No client of mine is falling to an Assassin.”

Lisutaris turns her head to stare at me.

“Any idea what Covinius looks like yet?”

“No.”

She shakes her head sadly. Lisutaris is suffering. She was okay in battle but the thought of an Assassin on her tail and the pressure of the Sorcerers Guild trying to break the hiding spell is really getting to her. It’s getting to me too.

I call Makri in from the back yard. She’s caked with sweat and the falling snow has dampened her hair so the points of her ears show through.

“Time to be a bodyguard. Ramius did hire an Assassin.”

“Good,” says Makri. “I’ll kill him.”

She’s back in fighting mode. I hope it lasts.

All over Turai there’s great interest in the outcome of today’s election, though few people in the city are aware of what has really gone on at the Assemblage. Even The Renowned and Truthful Chronicle, normally privy to most of the city’s dirty secrets, has remained strangely silent about the scandalous happenings, which is odd. The Chronicle loves scandal, and they’re sharp as an Elf’s ear at dredging it up. Even the Royal family has trouble keeping its affairs out of the news-sheet. Possibly Tilupasis is responsible. She’s well informed and not overburdened with scruples. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s blackmailing the editor.

I’m fretting about my appearance at the Royal Hall. For one thing I’m not going to be admitted to the feast, which is galling for a man who likes his food. For another there’s the ever-present risk that Old Hasius and his friends are suddenly going to pierce the hiding spell. I haven’t made any progress on finding the real murderer of Darius, unless the real murderer is Lisutaris, in which case I don’t want to make any progress.

And then there’s the matter of Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain. I’m meant to be winning her over. A hopeless endeavour. That woman is never going to vote for Lisutaris. Not after yesterday’s display of inebriation. Damn Sareepa. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a person who gives up drinking. It shows a great weakness of character.

Makri’s having problems of her own in the vote-winning department. As she leaves with Lisutaris she’s muttering that a certain blond-haired Simnian Sorcerer is going to find himself on the wrong end of a sharp sword if he keeps on being charming to Princess Direeva.

“How about if I just kill him? We could pretend he was the Assassin. Could you fake some evidence?”

They depart to visit Copro, who’s going to have his work cut out getting Lisutaris into shape for today’s appearance. I don’t like the beautician any better than I did before. He should go back where he came from, wherever that is. He might be number one chariot at styling hair, but what sort of achievement is that for a man? The amusing thought strikes me that if Copro were not the useless specimen of humanity he is, his work would make him an excellent Assassin. Gets into all the best houses, and no one would ever suspect.

Only Sorcerers are allowed at the banquet, no exceptions allowed, so for a large part of the day I’m exiled to the Room of Saints. My two fellow Tribunes are with me, along with those other people granted access to the Royal Hall who aren’t Sorcerers—personal staff, a few government representatives and such like. Hansius and Tilupasis drift around, carrying on with the hospitality to anyone that needs it.

Sulinius and Visus look tired. When Cicerius handed them over to Tilupasis they were expecting to be involved in some light diplomacy: showing our visitors round the city, making introductions, that sort of thing. They were surprised to find themselves plunged into an endless round of bribery and corruption. The young aristocrats have adapted well. It’ll be good preparation for life at the Palace and their careers in the Senate. Both are worrying about the upcoming election.

“Tilupasis still isn’t certain Lisutaris is going to make it. Rokim the Bright is still in the picture and Almalas has been taking votes from everyone.”

“Your companion Makri seems to be losing ground with Direeva.”

There’s a certain tone in Sulinius’s voice as he mentions Makri’s name. When he becomes a Senator and gets his own villa, he’s never going to let a woman with Orcish blood through the front door.

Visus asks me about Sareepa and I admit that I’ve made no progress.

“It’s difficult. Sareepa’s gone religious thanks to Almalas. Tilupasis should’ve given me more notice.”

“I managed to convert the Pargadan delegation in a single hour,” says Sulinius, grandly.

“That’s because the Pargadans are notorious dwa addicts and you brought them a wagonload. Anyone could have done that.”

“Perhaps if you did not concern yourself with meddling in city politics. . . .”

Sulinius is aware of my interfering with the Praetor’s business. Not having any intention of apologising or explaining myself, I tell him sharply that if his father insists on throwing poor people out into the snow, he has to expect some opposition.

“And tell him if he tries sending any more men after me, then Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, will smite him with a plague spell.”

“Lisutaris would not come to your aid.”

“Oh no? I was fighting beside Lisutaris before you were born. She already blasted your father’s thugs once. She’ll help me again.”

I wonder if she really would. Having the Mistress of the Sky as head of the Sorcerers Guild would be no bad thing if she felt obligated to me for a few favours. Good reason to clear her name. Maybe I shouldn’t have been rude to her. At least I wasn’t violent.

The great door opens and a flood of Sorcerers, led by Irith Victorious, announce the end of the formal banquet. I hear him muttering a complaint about them only serving wine with the meal as he hastens towards the bar, showing surprising speed for a man of his size.

“Beer, and make it quick,” he yells at a waitress.

There are only a few hours left till the election. I take the opportunity to talk with the Matteshan Sorcerer who once served as apprentice to Darius.

“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what this is about,” he states flatly. “I was with the other Matteshan Sorcerers all evening when he was killed.”

That’s not such a great alibi. They’d lie for him if necessary.

“Darius got through a lot of apprentices, though. And none of them liked him much better than I did. I’m not the only Sorcerer who started off in Abelasi then went elsewhere after being sacked by Cloud Walker. My predecessor, Rosin-kar, swore he’d kill him one day. And the one before him left in disgrace. I think he’s with the Pargadans now.”

Tilupasis approaches me as I head back for the Room of Saints.

“How are things progressing with Sareepa?”

“Badly.”

“You must try again.”

“I’m busy looking for ex-apprentices of Darius. They seem to have spread round the world.”

“Work on Sareepa.”

“Doesn’t anyone want me to solve this murder?”

“Of course,” says Tilupasis. “But the hiding spell will work for a little longer. It is more important that Lisutaris performs well in the election.”

I get the impression that if Lisutaris loses the election Tilupasis isn’t going to care whether she’s convicted of murder or not.

Makri rushes up and confronts Tilupasis.

“Can’t you do something about this Troverus? He’s sticking about as close as a poultice to Direeva. I can’t get near the woman.”

“Keep trying,” instructs Tilupasis.

“Is that the best advice you have? It’s not working. When you told me to charm Princess Direeva—and don’t think I didn’t notice there was something dubious in that whole concept—you didn’t say I’d have a rival who wins prizes for being handsome.”

Faced with defeat, Makri clenches her fists in frustration.

“You can’t trust a man as good-looking as that. He probably likes boys, right? Send him some boys to distract him.”

“He doesn’t like boys. I made enquiries.”

“He doesn’t? Well, send him some gold.”

Tilupasis shakes her head.

“Troverus is already wealthy. He doesn’t want money.”

Makri explodes with anger.

“So how come I’m the only one that’s up against someone incorruptible? It’s hardly fair. What am I meant to do?”

“You could sleep with him,” I suggest.

“I don’t want to sleep with him. He’s creepy. Tilupasis, Thraxas is telling me to whore myself around the Assemblage just to get you votes. Well, forget it, I’m not doing it. I’m here as a bodyguard, not a comfort woman.”

“I really must go,” says Tilupasis. “The Pargadans need more dwa. I trust the two of you to work things out.”

“Is that what Tilupasis wants me to do?” says Makri. “She can forget it. I’m not going to sleep with just any Sorcerer that fancies a good time.”

“God help anyone who thinks he’d have a good time with you.”

“I didn’t notice See-ath complaining,” retorts Makri. “Anyway, your idea is stupid. Direeva isn’t going to thank me for stealing her suitor, is she?”

A tall man in a toga greets Makri politely as he passes.

“Who’s that?”

“A mathematician from Simnia. He’s here with the delegation. He’s the only civilised person I’ve met in this place. Yesterday he was telling me about his work on prime number theory. Do you know—”

“Fascinating, Makri. Nothing interests me more than mathematics. I have work to do. Sareepa has twelve votes.”

“Direeva has thirty,” counters Makri, and we go our separate ways.

The election is drawing near. Time for one last attempt on Sareepa. She’s sitting at one of the top tables in the main hall, placed there by Tilupasis to flatter her. Sareepa herself appears calm, but her fellow Matteshan Sorcerers are unhappy. No doubt they’ve been forbidden by Sareepa to overindulge. I’ve never seen a group of Sorcerers more in need of a drink. Most of the people in the hall are carrying on with their previous intemperate behaviour. Goblets, tankards and bottles glint in the light of the flaming torches on the walls, and it’s obvious the Matteshans are aching to join in the fun. Tough break, arriving at the biggest binge in the Sorcerers’ calendar only to find that your leader has developed a puritanical streak.

I’m about to make one last desperate effort to end Sareepa’s sober behaviour. Not just for the good of Turai. Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain has fallen under the thrall of Nioj. The woman needs help.

I’m carrying a bottle of the finest klee Turai can offer. Distilled in the mountains, this liquid could burn a dragon’s throat. They don’t make liquor like this in Mattesh. Before Sareepa realises what’s happening, I’m standing beside her at the table, pouring it into the empty glasses of her delegation.

“What do you think you are doing?” demands Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain.

“Part of my Tribunate duties. A toast to the King of Mattesh.”

At these words Sareepa’s companions’ eyes light up. No Matteshan can refuse a toast to the King. It would be disloyal. They raise their glasses and look towards their leader expectantly. Very reluctantly, Sareepa raises her goblet, all the while staring at me in a manner which would cause grave concern were I not wearing such a fine spell protection necklace.

We drink. There is a moment’s stunned silence as the fiery liquid hits their throats. Sareepa coughs violently. I fill up her goblet again in a manoeuvre so swift that only an expert at the bottle like myself could pull it off.

“A toast to the Queen!”

“The Queen!” yell the delegation, filling up their own glasses.

“A toast? To who?” enquires Sulinius, appearing at that moment, as I have asked him to.

“The Queen.”

Sulinius grabs a goblet.

“The Queen!!”

He drinks. Everybody drinks. You can’t not drink when a foreigner is toasting your Queen.

“And the King!” says Sulinius, and drinks again.

I’m already filling glasses.

“To Mattesh!” I cry.

No Matteshan can refuse a toast to their country. It would be disloyal.

We drink. I break open another bottle.

“Let me see that,” says Sareepa.

I hand it over.

“Interesting . . . from the mountains?”

“Yes. Finest quality.”

The Sorcerers wait expectantly.

“A toast to the King,” says Sareepa, and starts pouring herself another large one.

An hour or so later, Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain is challenging the Simnians at the next table to a drinking contest.

“You Simnian dogs couldn’t drink if you fell in a barrel of ale!” she roars.

Before leaving the Matteshan Sorcerers I ask them if any of them have heard of a spell for making a new version of reality and sending it back into the past. None of them have.

“There’s no such spell.”

I’m getting sick of hearing that.

Tilupasis and Cicerius are waiting for me in the Room of Saints.

“What happened with Sareepa?”

“I got her drunk. Better have the apothecary standing by. Klee laced with dwa has been known to cause fatalities.”

“And her votes?”

“Heading for Turai. By the third bottle she was cursing all Niojans.”

Tilupasis roundly congratulates me.

“It was a fine plan.”

“Sharp as an Elf’s ear,” I mumble, and look round for a chair. Even by my standards, I’ve drunk a lot of klee. Makri is sitting at a table nearby, with Direeva and Troverus. Makri looks aggressive, Troverus looks unruffled and Direeva looks interested.

“I can out-drink any Simnian Sorcerer,” declares Makri, and downs the goblet of klee in front of her. Troverus does the same. Makri refills the goblets. They drink again, and then again.

“No one likes a Simnian,” says Makri. “Direeva is never going to be impressed with a weakling like you.”

A few goblets later, Makri’s face goes a horrible shade of green and she is obliged to hurry from the room. I find her in the corridor, throwing up into a pot plant.

“Goddammit,” she gasps, still retching.

“You were never going to win a klee-drinking contest,” I say, and hunt around in my bag for a Lesada leaf to make Makri feel better. Makri takes the leaf and washes it down with my beer.

“I couldn’t think of anything else. Everything I do, Troverus does better. He knows more about art and culture than me, and he’s been everywhere and done everything, and everything he says is witty. Princess Direeva is eating out of his hand. She’s bound to vote for Ramius.”

As the leaf takes effect her colour returns to normal. I advise her to give up.

“Give up?”

“Why not? You don’t really care who Direeva votes for.”

“It’s not in my nature to give up,” says Makri, then vomits noisily into the pot plant again.

“I didn’t become champion gladiator by giving up.”

She’s sick once more. I wince. It’s a painful sight.

“Give me another leaf.”

Makri hauls herself to her feet.

“I have an excellent idea,” she says, and stumbles off in the direction of the Room of Saints. I follow on, interested to see what Makri’s new strategy might be. Possibly some learned disquisition of political theory, learned from Samanatius?

Makri weaves her way across to Direeva, knocking over several Sorcerers on the way. At the table she stands in front of Troverus, lays her hand on his rainbow cloak and yanks him to his feet.

“I’m getting really sick of you,” she says, and then punches him in the face hard enough for him to tumble unconscious to the floor. Princess Direeva looks startled.

“Don’t vote for the Simnians,” says Makri to Direeva. “I hate them. Turai is a disgusting city but Lisutaris is a good woman and she’s given you a lot of thazis.”

“And if I need military help?” says Direeva.

“Call on me,” says Makri, and slumps down beside her. “I’ll sort them out. Number one chariot at fighting.”

Irith Victorious is occupying a large couch in the corner. I take him a beer and join him in a final drinking session before his fellow Juvalians drag him off to vote. The Room of Saints empties of Sorcerers. Makri appears at my side. She’s unsteady on her feet and her speech is slurred.

“That seemed to go well,” she tells me.

In the distance, Troverus’s companions are carrying him off to vote.

“You want this couch?” says Makri.

“You can have it.”

“I don’t really need it. I’ve been practising with weapons. Stayed sober all day, more or less.”

Makri plummets to the floor. I help her on to the couch then sink into a nearby chair. Electioneering. It’s tough.

I awaken to the sensational news that Sunstorm Ramius has won the vote, with Lisutaris in second place. Both of them will now go forward to the final test. Turai has accomplished the first part of its mission. Cicerius makes a gracious speech to everyone in the Room of Saints, thanking them for their support, and indicating that though most of the credit belongs to him, others were involved in an important capacity.

Some time later Tilupasis arrives at our side.

“Congratulations to you both,” she says.

Makri wakes and vomits over the edge of the couch. She’s not the drinker I am. Tilupasis is unperturbed, and motions to an assistant to bring a cleaner.

“I’ll call a landus to take you home. As long as we can keep Lisutaris’s name clear for another day, we’re in with a chance of having a Turanian head of the Sorcerers Guild. Is the hiding spell holding up?”

“Yes.”

“How long will it last?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“I’m too drunk to think.”

Tilupasis smiles. She smiles a lot. I doubt she ever means it but it seems to hide her insincerity, for some reason.

I help Makri to her feet and we head for the door. The Sorcerers will now carry on with their celebrations but I need a rest. As we pass through the main hall, Hansius hurries up to us.

“Trouble,” he says, and motions for us to follow. He leads us to a room at the far end of the hall I’ve not been in before, a room reserved for the senior Sorcerers. Inside the room, Old Hasius the Brilliant, Sunstorm Ramius, Lasat, Axe of Gold, and Charius the Wise are deep in conference with Cicerius. They’re talking in low voices but I catch enough to know that we’re in trouble.

“Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, killed Darius Cloud Walker.”

Cicerius protests.

“This is impossible.”

“We have seen clear pictures,” insists Ramius. “She must be apprehended immediately.”

Ramius becomes aware of our presence, and looks round. He ignores me, but when he sees Makri he recognises her immediately.

“She was in the room with Darius when he died. As was Princess Direeva. What has been happening in this city? Deputy Consul, are you going to send for the Guards or must I rouse the Council of Sorcerers to apprehend Lisutaris?”

At this moment Tilupasis strides confidently into the room.

“I have sent for Consul Kalius. He will be here shortly. Until then, this news must not be allowed to spread.”

“And why not?” demands Lasat.

“It may prejudice Lisutaris’s chances in the final test.”

“The final test? Lisutaris will not be entering any final test. As Senior Sorcerer I am disqualifying her immediately.”

If Tilupasis has a reply to this, she saves it for now, but she motions for Hansius to shut the door.

“Consul Kalius will take care of the matter.”

Lasat, Axe of Gold, reluctantly agrees to await the arrival of Turai’s highest official, but I can’t see it doing anything but buying us a few minutes’ grace. Axe of Gold is not the sort of person to be pushed around by city officials. As Senior Sorcerer of the Guild, and one of the most powerful people in the west, he’s not about to take orders from Tilupasis or Cicerius. He’d bring down the city wall before buckling under to a mere government official.

Beside me Makri still looks unwell. I wonder if she might be sick again. On one memorable occasion she threw up over the Crown Prince’s sandals. Taking aim at the Consul’s feet would certainly lighten things up. Vomiting over Lasat, Axe of Gold, would be even more sensational.

The noise of celebrating Sorcerers drifts into the room, but we wait, quiet and grim, for Kalius to arrive.

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