Thraxas and the Sorcerers

Chapter Thirteen

Next morning at Lisutaris’s villa I find Makri sitting in front of a well-laden breakfast table.

“Lisutaris still unconscious?”

“No, wide awake.”

I’m surprised.

“What happened? The water pipe break from overuse?”

“Lisutaris never starts on the water pipe till Copro’s been to do her hair. She needs to be fully alert for the morning beauty treatments. Copro wouldn’t like it if she wasn’t paying attention. He’s quite temperamental.”

Discussing Copro, I feel quite temperamental myself.

“I need to see her.”

“You can’t see her yet. Copro doesn’t like to be interrupted when he’s working.”

“Goddammit, are you serious? I’m trying to get her off a murder rap and she’s too busy getting her hair done?”

“You can’t expect an important Sorcerer to turn up at the Assemblage with her hair in poor condition,” says Makri. “It’s hardly going to impress people.”

“They’re voting for top Sorcerer, not fashion woman of the year.”

“No one’s going to vote for her if they think she’s not making an effort,” asserts Makri.

“So how come you’re a fan of Copro all of a sudden? I thought you didn’t like him.”

I stare at Makri suspiciously.

“There’s something different about you.”

“No there isn’t.”

“Yes there is. Your hair is different.”

“Just a little rearrangement,” says Makri, defensively. “Copro said it would show off my cheekbones better—”

“Your cheekbones? What’s got into you? When you arrived in Turai you couldn’t stop talking about how stupid the rich women were.”

“I’m just fitting in,” says Makri, calmly. “As Lisutaris’s bodyguard I can’t be arguing with her hairdresser. It would create all sorts of difficulties.”

She studies her fingernails.

“Do you think I should get my nails done as well? I’m not really happy with this colour.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It clashes with the chainmail.”

Makri holds her fingers over a piece of chainmail, and peers in the mirror.

“Thraxas, you remember how I said I’d like to be blonde after we saw all those blonde Elvish women? What do you think?”

“Will you stop talking like this? Yesterday you were going to chop up Vadinex with your axe, and today you’re twittering on about your hair.”

“I do not see the two things as mutually exclusive,” protests Makri.

“Life was easier when you were an ignorant Barbarian.”

“I was never an ignorant Barbarian.”

“Well, you didn’t used to ramble on about hair and make-up. When you arrived in this city all you wanted to do was attend the university.”

“I still do. I may wear a little eyeliner when I get there.”

“What happened to Makri the demented swordswoman?”

“Make your mind up, Thraxas. Only last week you were lecturing me about killing the dwa dealer. You want me to kill someone? Fine. Just point me in the right direction.”

“I don’t want you to kill anyone.”

“Don’t worry about me,” says Makri, warming to the topic. “I’ll kill anyone that needs killing. Orcs, Humans, Elves, Trolls, dragons, snakes, mythical beasts—”

“Will you shut up about killing things?”

“What, so now I’m not meant to talk about killing people or make-up? Is there any subject you’d be happy with?”

“Solving a murder would be a good choice. How long is Lisutaris going to be?”

“I think she’s scheduled for a manicure as well. Copro brought his best assistant, and a nail specialist.”

Quite a long time apparently. Makri is showing little interest in the food in front of her, so I pile up a plate for a good second breakfast, meanwhile silently cursing Copro and his ilk. When I was young the city wasn’t full of beauticians. Old Consul Juvenius would have thrown Copro off the walls, and a good thing too.

“So what do you think?” says Makri.

“About what?”

“Dying my hair blonde.”

“I think you’ll look like a cheap whore. Stop asking me about it.”

“Do you have to be so unpleasant? Looking after Lisutaris is stressful. I need some relaxation.”

Unable to take any more of this, I carry my plate over to the window and stare out at the ice-covered garden. If Makri asks me one more time about her hair I’m going to turn her in as an accessory to murder. There’s some commotion in the long hallway and a messenger rushes in calling for Makri. He hands her a slip of paper. Makri breaks the seal and looks concerned.

“Bad news at the Assemblage.”

“The Sorcerers have got through—?”

“No. Sunstorm Ramius has dispatched Troverus to take Princess Direeva to dinner. Tilupasis is very concerned.”

Makri rises to her feet.

“I have to intercept them.”

“Who is Troverus?” I ask, feeling confused.

“Handsomest young man in Simnia, according to all reports. Tilupasis has been worried about him all along. That Ramius, he’s cunning.”

Makri starts making ready to leave. She has a determined look in her eyes.

“I won’t have it. No ‘handsomest young man in Simnia’ is going to charm Direeva into voting for Sunstorm Ramius.”

Makri hurries to don her armour, and throws her weapons into the small purse which contains the magic pocket. All the while she’s muttering about the perfidy of the Simnians.

“It’s underhand tactics. I’ll show them.”

“I thought you weren’t keen on this vote-winning business. You said it was corrupt.”

“It is. But I refuse to be defeated,” states Makri. “Look after Lisutaris till she gets to the Assemblage. And whatever you do, don’t insult Copro. He’s extremely temperamental.”

Makri takes a final, dissatisfied look at her nails, then hurries out. I sit down to finish off the food on the table, and ring for beer. The young servant who arrives has a noticeable rural accent. No doubt a sturdy and sensible woman from the outlying farmlands.

“What do you think of Copro?” I ask.

“He’s a great man, and a boon to the city,” she replies. “They should make him a Senator.”

I study her face.

“Was there much beauty treatment back on the farm?”

She shakes her head.

“That’s why I moved to the city.”

The city is doomed.

Lisutaris’s apprentice emerges from her private chambers. I learn that the Sorcerer will be ready in a little while.

“How long is a little while?”

“No more than an hour.”

Eventually Lisutaris emerges, accompanied by Copro and his two helpers.

“Thraxas.” Lisutaris greets me graciously. She is wide awake, the first time I’ve seen her like this since the Assemblage began. Copro is still fussing round her with a comb. He’s thin, dark, a little younger than I imagined. And not quite as lisping, though I wouldn’t want him on my side in a sword fight. I doubt he’d handle a blade as well as his comb. I note with displeasure that beneath his long hair, jewelled earrings glisten on his earlobes. A number of guilds in Turai use plain gold earrings as a mark of rank, but few men would wear jewels in their ears, apart from the foppish sons of wealthy Senators.

Copro motions extravagantly towards Lisutaris.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful. Lisutaris, we have to get to the Assemblage. Cicerius is starting to complain about your nonappearance. And Tilupasis is giving me a hard time.”

Lisutaris tells me she’ll be ready in an instant, and departs upstairs.

“I love your friend Makri,” says Copro. “Such a savage beauty.”

I grunt, and sit down.

“She really should let me do more with her hair.”

Makri has a vast unruly mane, remarkable in its own way. I can’t see her taking to any of the controlled styles favoured by Turai’s aristocrats. To my disappointment, Copro agrees with me.

“Of course, such a woman as Makri would not suit such a stylised coiffure. Her magnificent features would only be diminished. But a little styling to bring out her radiance, her force of character. A style the Abelasians call Summer Lightning. It would be breathtaking. I already did much the same for Princess Direeva.”

“You attend Direeva?”

“Princess Direeva insists on the best. I have often been called to the Southern Hills to assist.”

Not really wanting to engage in conversation with Copro, I busy myself with my beer, but Copro apparently finds me more interesting than I find him, because he sits down facing me at the table.

“You have such a fascinating job. Is it dangerous, tracking down all those criminals?”

“Yes.”

“Is it exciting?”

“No. But I need the money.”

Copro studies me. I’m just waiting for him to make some crack about my appearance. I’ve got long hair tied back in a ponytail, and if he suggests styling it I’m going to sling him out the front door. He asks me some more questions about my work and I grunt some replies. All the time I’m wishing that I wasn’t here in Lisutaris’s villa, and remembering that when I did live in the better part of town, I never felt all that comfortable about it. Finally Copro gives up on me and converses with Lisutaris’s apprentice about new styles just in from Samsarina. Summer fashions, apparently, although I can’t see why they want to talk about summer fashions when we’re still in the middle of winter.

Copro arrived in Turai with nothing, and now he’s rich. For all the hand-waving and vacuous conversation, I’d be willing to bet he’s a shrewd enough operator underneath, and smart enough never to be singed by a dragon.

Tiring of the conversation, I go in search of the Sorcerer. Servants look on with disapproval as I approach her private chambers, but I ignore them and find her in her room, sucking on her water pipe.

“Time to go,” I say, and drag her to her feet.

She looks at me with surprise.

“I can’t believe you just laid your hand on me.”

“It was either that or kill the beautician.”

“The last time anyone laid a hand on me I punished them with a heart attack spell.”

“I’d be surprised if you could remember a spell for a runny nose. Don’t you ever get sick of thazis dreams? Get your warm cloak on and call the carriage. We’re due at the Assemblage. You’ve got an election to win. Cicerius is paying me to make it happen. So let’s go,”

Lisutaris looks with longing at the water pipe.

“Touch that pipe again and I’m going to slug you.”

“I’d kill you if you did.”

“And then who’d get you off the murder rap? Face it, Lisutaris, you need me. So let’s go.”

Lisutaris looks at me with dislike.

“I didn’t realise how unpleasant you were.”

“Then you’re the only person in Turai who didn’t. I’m famous for being unpleasant. Now get ready before I pick you up and throw you in the carriage.”

Lisutaris bundles about a hundred sticks of thazis into a magic pocket and starts smoking them on the way to the Assemblage. We’re hardly out of Truth is Beauty Lane when her head starts lolling about. I grab the thazis from her hand and toss it out the carriage window.

“What the hell’s the matter with you? You used to be a good Sorcerer and now you’re about as much use as a eunuch in a brothel.”

She shakes her head slowly.

“I’m worried I might have killed Darius.”

“You seemed sure you didn’t.”

“I’m not so sure now,” she says, and takes another thazis stick from her magic pocket. Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, is starting to fall apart. By the time we get to the Assemblage she’s unsteady on her feet. Tilupasis intercepts her at the door and leads her off to some private room before the other Sorcerers can see the state she’s in. Makri and Princess Direeva are looking on.

“She wasn’t like this ten years ago,” says Direeva. Her hair sways gently. The dragon scales, finely cut by a jeweller, sparkle brilliantly in the torchlight.

“Just our bad luck that Sunstorm Ramius is a clean-living sort of Sorcerer.”

Direeva enquires if I’ve made any progress on the case. I’m noncommittal.

“I’ll get there in the end. Depends how much time I have. How is the hiding spell?”

“Strong enough,” replies the Princess.

Last night Melus the Fair visited Lisutaris’s villa to add her power to the incantation, strengthening the spell. I hope we can trust Melus. She’s sharp as an Elf’s ear and has close ties to Lisutaris, but it’s one more person who might give us away. The weight of events is getting to me. Makri wonders what would happen if Lisutaris managed to win the election and was then found to be implicated in the murder.

“Hard to say. As far as I understand the Sorcerers’ rules, the head of the Guild can’t be expelled. Lasat, Axe of Gold, is the temporary leader, but once he confirms the new Sorcerer in their post they can’t be removed. And given that important upper-class citizens in Turai are usually allowed the opportunity to slip off into exile before being convicted of a serious crime, Lisutaris might still end up as head of the Guild, exiled in another city.”

“Could she ever return to Turai?”

“Maybe, when the heat died down. I think Cicerius is hoping for something like that, if I can’t clear her name. Won’t help you or me, though.”

I’m firmly of the Turanian lower classes. Even my name marks me out as such. If I’m implicated in a murder, no one will look the other way while I flee the city.

Makri has intercepted Princess Direeva before her appointment with Troverus. She’s doing her best to keep her entertained with tales of her exploits in the gladiatorial arena. Direeva seems interested.

“I too have often had to fight. When my grandfather died my uncle attempted to seize the kingdom from my father. It took two years of continual warfare till he was in control. My uncle hired an army of Orcish mercenaries, and it was only with help from the Abelasians that we overcame them. Darius Cloud Walker was our ally. We will miss him.”

A cunning look comes into Makri’s eyes.

“Yes, it’s a terrible loss. But now you have thirty votes to spare, I expect you’ll be transferring them to Lisutaris.”

“Is that why you have been hospitable?” says Direeva, slightly stiffly.

“Of course not,” replies Makri, a little flustered. “I’m naturally hospitable to any woman who can lead an army. But now your friend has been brutally murdered, you have to vote for someone. I mean, it’s a shame your old ally ended up in a snowdrift with my knife in his back, but you can’t dwell on the past. Voting for Lisutaris seems like the natural thing to do . . . given that Darius was unfortunately killed in Thraxas’s office . . . just the other night . . . with my knife. . . .”

Makri’s voice tails off. She holds up her hand.

“Do you like this nail varnish? I’m not sure about it.”

Direeva laughs, quite heartily for a Princess.

“If you get exiled from Turai you can stay with me in the Southern Hills,” she says. “I may vote for Lisutaris. Having seen Turai, I’d say it’s vital to you that Lisutaris becomes head of the Guild. I did not know that your strength was so diminished. You’re extremely vulnerable to attack from the Orcs.”

“They haven’t recovered from the beating we gave them last time,” I say.

Princess Direeva isn’t so sure.

“It’s difficult to predict when a new leader may arise to unite the Orcish nations and lead them against the west.”

I’ve been through one major Orc war and I don’t expect to live out my days without seeing another, so I’m interested in Direeva’s opinions.

“You weren’t expecting it last time,” she continues. “King Bhergaz of Aztol was of no special importance till the neighbouring country asked him to intervene in their succession dispute. He put his own cousin in charge, got control of the eastern trade route, started dealing in gold and slaves and became rich. Next thing anybody knew he was calling himself Bhergaz the Fierce and raising an army to conquer the region. Once he got Rezaz the Butcher on his side he became effective leader of the Orc lands only six years after ascending to the throne of Aztol. And you remember what happened after that.”

I certainly do. Without the timely intervention of the Elvish armies, Turai would now be a province of Aztol.

“The Kingdom of Aztol hasn’t recovered from defeat,” continues the Princess. “But Gzak is growing stronger. It’s a rich land and a lot of Orcs still look up to Gzak for its victories last century.”

“So you think Gzak will invade?” asks Makri. She doesn’t sound too distressed by the prospect. Here in Turai she can never find enough Orcs to kill.

“It’s possible. But hard to predict. It takes something special to unite the Orcs. Last century Ormizoan the Great started his career as leader of a small band of rebels. The same magnetism that made his followers stand by him in difficult times eventually made him war leader of the entire east. The Orc lands are rarely peaceful. Who knows if one of the current warring rebel Princes might be destined for greatness? Have you heard of the young Prince Amrag of Kose who just overthrew the King? He was abandoned as a bastard child, so the story goes, but his brilliant guerrilla warfare proved too much for the army to contend with. He has a reputation as a very charismatic Orc.”

I nod. I’ve heard of Prince Amrag. Charismatic, savage and successful, so they say.

“Isn’t there some weird story that he’s not entirely Orc?”

“What do you mean, not entirely Orc?” asks Makri.

“Mixed blood,” answers Direeva. “A little Human perhaps. Some of the wilder stories even say he has Elvish blood, though I find that impossible to believe. But even the fact that such stories gather around Amrag shows he’s an Orc to set their imaginations rolling.”

I get a brief vision of the horrors of the last war. I banish it with an effort. There’s no time to dwell on that, or on what may be to come.

“I have to do something about the current crisis. I’m no closer to finding the murderer. And now we know Covinius is here, Lisutaris is in terrible danger.”

“I’ll see if Hanama can learn any more,” says Makri, unexpectedly.

“What changed your mind?”

“You helped Samanatius.”

Poor Makri. If she wasn’t so naive she’d know I’d never have gone near the eviction without being blackmailed into it.

Makri turns back to Direeva but the Princess has now switched her attention to a young man wearing a well-cut rainbow cloak whose bright golden hair tumbles over his shoulders in a raffish manner. Troverus, we presume.

“Where’d he come from?” demands Makri, not pleased at being outflanked by the young Simnian Sorcerer. “You think he’s handsome?”

I shrug.

“I don’t think he’s that handsome,” says Makri. “Look at all that girly blond hair.”

“You like girly blond hair.”

“Yes, it’s really nice, now you mention it,” says Makri. “Excuse me, I have to get between them.”

With the determined look of a woman who is not about to be easily defeated, Makri plants herself firmly between Direeva and Troverus and eyes the Simnian like a hostile attacking force.

“I understand that venereal disease is rampant in Simnia,” she says. “How do you cope with that?”

I leave her to the struggle. Things may be bad but at least Tilupasis doesn’t have me trying to charm anyone. The Assemblage continues to be the one bright spot in a frozen city. If the murder of Darius has cast a shadow over proceedings, you wouldn’t guess it from the behaviour of Irith Victorious and his jolly Juvalian companions. Behind the scenes the senior Sorcerers may be working assiduously, but in the main hall, behaviour has become riotous. Cicerius is shaken.

“I was not quite prepared for this,” he admits. Nearby, some dark-skinned southern Sorcerers are engaged in a contest to see who can levitate the largest barrel of beer.

“At least we have their vote,” says Cicerius, moving swiftly to avoid a floating river of ale. “We sent a wagonload of beer to their lodgings.”

With Darius out of the way, it seems certain that Ramius will win the vote. Lisutaris is still favourite to gain second place, ahead of Rokim, but there’s been an unexpectedly good showing by a Sorcerer named Almalas.

“A Niojan, of all things,” says Cicerius, animatedly.

Nioj, our large northern neighbour, is one of the biggest threats to Turai’s security. If they gain control of the Sorcerers Guild we might as well surrender to King Lamachus.

“How can a Niojan be making gains?” I ask. “No one likes Niojans. They’re religious fundamentalists. Their church isn’t even that keen on sorcery. They don’t drink, don’t have fun, don’t do anything except pray.”

“Sober habits are not universally despised,” retorts Cicerius.

“We’re talking Sorcerers here. Whoever heard of a Sorcerer voting for a man who doesn’t drink?”

Cicerius admits it’s strange.

“Has he been spreading his Niojan gold around?”

“Quite probably. But remember, many northern states look to Nioj for protection from the Orcs. Almalas’s sober habits may not be so unwelcome to those who worry about imminent attack. Also, he is a war hero, at least as much as Lisutaris or Ramius, possibly more so. Tales of him leading troops into battle have been widely circulated.”

“I remember Almalas. I guess he was a good enough commander. His sorcery wasn’t on a par with Lisutaris’s, though.”

“He is at least able to walk around, which helps,” says Cicerius, in a withering tone. “What about the hiding spell?”

“Still in place. It’s been boosted by Direeva and Melus the Fair.”

“Have you eliminated Princess Direeva from suspicion?”

“No. I haven’t eliminated her from anything. I still don’t like the way she’s sticking close to Lisutaris. I have some other leads, though. There’s an apprentice used to work for Darius who got the boot after being accused of embezzling funds and left threatening to kill Darius. The apprentice was last heard of in Mattesh, still practising sorcery and threatening revenge. And I’ve got a lead on the erasure spell.”

The air starts turning orange and gold as the southern Sorcerers begin to show off their illuminated staffs. Three days into the convention, inhibitions are fading and there’s more magic in evidence. The Royal Hall is not a place to visit if you don’t like surprises.

“I can hardly bear to go into the main room,” confesses Cicerius. “Every time I do I seem to get covered in beer or wine.”

“At least they’re celebrating. Better than them all trying to solve the murder.”

Cicerius’s assistant Hansius approaches briskly. He leans over to whisper in the Deputy Consul’s ear, though as the nearby Sorcerers have now started up a raucous drinking song, it’s difficult to hear anything. Cicerius listens briefly before dismissing Hansius.

“Bad news. Sunstorm Ramius and Old Hasius the Brilliant have let it be known they are close to uncovering the hidden events. Ramius of course is keen to do this. It will enhance his reputation.”

“Couldn’t you do something to get Old Hasius off the case? He’s sharp as an Elf’s ear when it comes to looking back in time. Isn’t there some matter at the Abode of Justice which requires his urgent attention?”

“Unfortunately not,” replies Cicerius. “The King has granted permission for Hasius to remain here and help. He naturally wishes to give all possible aid to the Sorcerers Assemblage.”

“I take it the King doesn’t actually know that our own candidate is prime suspect?”

Cicerius shakes his head, and looks grim.

“You must at least hold them off till after the election,” he tells me. “We depend on it. Now, about this matter of Praetor Capatius and the eviction.”

I’m expecting Cicerius to chew me out over this one, but the Deputy Consul for once seems to perceive that I was in an impossible position.

“It was clever of Senator Lodius to spot that you could aid him in this matter. It did not occur to me when I nominated you as Tribune of the People that this might happen. I regret that it has granted the Populares party a small victory. However, in the scheme of things it does not matter too much. But whatever happens, do not be drawn into further such actions.”

“I’ll try my best.”

Tilupasis joins us, neatly sidestepping a levitated goblet. In the midst of the uproar she remains unruffled. She gives a brief report to the Deputy Consul. Two days away from the vote, things are looking reasonably good, but she’s worried about the growing support for Almalas.

“Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain seems quite taken with him. God knows why.”

Cicerius is perturbed. Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain is head of the Sorcerers Guild in Mattesh, our southern neighbour.

“They have a lot of influence in the League of City States. Sareepa probably controls twelve votes. We can’t let them go to Nioj.”

“Didn’t we already pay Sareepa?”

“She gave the gold back,” explains Tilupasis. After listening to Almalas talking about a Sorcerer’s duty to God and state, she says she regrets even considering taking an immoral bribe.”

Tilupasis spreads her arms in despair.

“What am I meant to do with a senior Sorcerer who suddenly gets religion?”

“Increase the bribe?”

“It won’t work.”

“Send a young Tribune to her private chambers.”

“I already tried. She sent him away. And she instructed her delegation that thazis and dwa would no longer be tolerated. The woman’s gone mad with moral behaviour. Damn that priest Sorcerer.”

Tilupasis lays her hand on my shoulder.

“Thraxas, didn’t you know Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain when you were an apprentice?”

“Sure. She used to distil klee in a cauldron and invite young mercenaries to sample it, as I recall. The woman was never more than one step away from being slung out of the apprentices’ college. Weird that she should suddenly become respectable.”

“You have to change her back.”

“Pardon?”

“Get her drinking again. Once she’s got some klee inside her she’ll forget this Niojan ethical nonsense and take the bribe.”

I point out that I’m already busy doing various other vital tasks, and besides, I’m not what you’d call a skilful diplomat.

“No one’s going to vote for Turai on my recommendation.”

“How important are Sareepa’s votes?” Cicerius asks Tilupasis.

“Absolutely vital.”

Cicerius draws himself up to his full height, adjusts his toga, and turns to me.

“I’m ordering you to get her drunk,” he says. “Don’t argue. You’re the man for the job.”

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