Thraxas and the Oracle (8 page)

“Tanrose likes her food to be appreciated,” I tell Droo. “That’s why I eat so much of it. It helps her.”

Gurd and a few other Turanian exiles are gathered round a small fire. Above the fire is a metal tripod, from which hangs a pot, the contents of which are simmering gently. Tanrose stands over it, adding spices.

“Back already?” Gurd laughs. “Don’t they feed you in the security unit?”

“Not as well as Tanrose feeds you. I’ve brought you a flagon of wine so stop hogging that stew and let a proper eater in for his share.”

Gurd has not quite got over his chagrin at being placed in the Sorcerers Auxiliary Regiment. He’s none too pleased to find himself in one of the squadrons designated as protection for Lisutaris, and still hopes he’ll see more action. “It’s not going to be much of a war if we’re stuck at the back all the time, protecting sorcerers.”

“We’ll see plenty of action. Lisutaris will end up in the thick of things. ”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because we’re not strong enough to beat the Orcs without her sorcery.”

Tanrose is concerned. “I don’t like the thought of you coming so close to the Orcish sorcerers.”

“Don’t worry. When these sorcerers are concentrating on their spells they’re quite susceptible to a swift thrust from a spear. Seen it happen plenty of times. We’ll be fine. As long as I’m good shape. You know, plenty of pies and that sort of thing.”

“I’m sorry Thraxas, I can’t make a pie on this little campfire. I’d need some sort of oven.”

I don’t try to hide my disappointment. “I’m fading away. By the time we meet the Orcs I’ll be a shadow of myself.”

“I don’t think there’s much chance of that,” says Tanrose, eyeing my waistline.

I settle down to eat a bowl of Tanrose’s stew. Talk of pies and ovens reminds me of a man called Erisox. Back in Turai, he made good batch in his portable oven while there were dragons attacking overhead. He did tell me a lot of lies when I was investigating him, but I forgave him because of his pies. Thinking of that case reminds of Turai’s highest official, Consul Kalius.

“Has there been any news of the Consul? Or the Royal family?”

None of the Turanians around Gurd’s campfire have heard anything. The general opinion is that our ageing, ailing King and his family probably perished, along with their senior officials. The palace and main institutions of government were all close to the northern walls where the Orcs broke through. By that time, Deputy Consul Cicerius was in effective control of the city. Cicerius was a better man that the Consul, but there’s been no news of him either. At this moment, Turai has no government. What will happen if we retake the city, no one knows.

For a few moments there’s a peaceable atmosphere as everyone enjoys Tanrose’s cooking. It doesn’t last.

“Where is this vagabond Captain Thraxas? Take me to him!”

Whoever’s angry with Captain Thraxas has a strong Niojan accent. I look up to see Legate Apiroi storming towards me with the Anumaris and Rinderan trailing in his wake. The Legate, second-in-command to Bishop-General Ritari, is a large man with closely-cropped hair and a permanent scowl. He wears the austere black tunic of the Niojan officer class and carries a short sword in a scabbard at his waist.

“Captain Thraxas!” he roars. “Are you responsible for this outrage?”

I clamber to my feet. “Probably. What outrage are we talking about?”

“The outrage of your lackeys daring to doubt me! It was bad enough when they demanded details of my past movements. An impertinent request to which I’d have given short shift had not our War Leader urged us to comply. And now I find they’ve been checking up on the answers I gave them! How dare you order them to do that! If a Niojan Officer deigns to answer your foolish security questions, you will take him at his word, not sneak around behind his back!”

Behind him, Anumaris and Rinderan are looking flustered, obviously unsure how to react to the wrath of this senior officer.

“Well, you Turanian dog!” continues the Legate. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

I turn to Anumaris Thunderbolt. “Have you finished your background checks on Legate Apiroi?”

“Not quite, Captain.”

“Then carry on with them till you have.”

“What?” The Legate practically explodes with rage. “You dare to insult me, second-in-command to Bishop-General Ritari? I’ll have your head for this!”

I look him in the eye. “Everyone close to Commander Lisutaris needs to be checked out. No exceptions. Orders from the War Leader herself. If you don’t like it, tough. Maybe you’ve got something to hide?”

Beside me, Gurd has risen to his feet, ready to come to my aid if the Legate draws his sword and attacks me, which doesn’t seem that unlikely. Apiroi steps forward so his face is almost touching mine.

“You’ll pay for this insult. A Niojan Legate does not have to answer to a man like you. It’s bad enough our War Leader employs a filthy Orc as a bodyguard without her filling her personal staff with low-born Turanians. I warn you Captain, if the Bishop-General or I are bothered by your Security Unit again, there will be dire consequences.”

Legate Apiroi glares at me, Anumaris and Rinderan. Having satisfied himself that he’s done enough glaring, he storms off.

“Touchy fellow,” says Gurd.

“Niojans are never that friendly.”

“What should we do?” asks Rinderan.

“Sit down and have some stew and a jug of wine. Then get back to checking up on him. He’s a suspicious character.”

“Is that really wise?” Rinderan looks nervous.

“Wise or not, we’re doing it. No one escapes the attention of my security unit.”

“What if he attacks us?”

“You’re sorcerers. You should be safe enough.”

“Senior Niojan officers have a lot of spell protection,” says Anumaris.

“Then poke him in the eye with a stick. Now are we going to stand here taking all day or are we going to eat?”

Tanrose’s stew is one of the finest meals I’ve eaten since I left Turai. She has a way of seasoning and simmering that brings out the best in even the most basic of ingredients. After several large bowlfuls I’m feeling optimistic about our prospects.

“We’ll chase these Orcs back where they came from.”

So beneficial is Tanrose’s cooking to my state of mind that I don’t even object when I’m approached by an unfamiliar sorcerer on my way back to my wagon.

“Captain Thraxas? I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why? And who are you?”

“Saabril Clearwater. Medical Sorcerer, first class, from Kamara. Commander Lisutaris assigned me to look after Tirini Snake Smiter.”

“I see.”

Saabril Clearwater is around thirty, fair haired and fair skinned. She speaks with a rather unusual accent, though one I’ve heard before, from the few Kamaran mercenaries I’ve encountered on my travels. Kamara is a very small nation, a long way west, near Kastlin. Its citizens aren’t often found this far East. I don’t think I’ve ever met a Kamaran Sorcerer before.

“How is Tirini?”

“Not very well. Lisutaris thought you might be able to help.”

I don’t mind the thought of helping Tirini, after she helped Gurd and Tanrose escape from Turai, but I’ve no idea how. If a Medical Sorcerer, First Class, isn’t able to heal her, I’m certainly not going to be able to. Saabril asks me if I’d accompany her to see Tirini, who’s resting up in a small wagon of her own, not far from Lisutaris’s travelling command centre. All around, soldiers and camp followers are finishing off their meals, packing up, and making ready to move.

“What’s wrong with Tirini?”

“It’s difficult to say. Making an instant journey through the magic space is very dangerous. You can collide with anything. A sharp object might go through your body or take your head off. Then there are the strange energy fields. Sorcerers think these are responsible for the way the space shifts continually, but we don’t really understand them. Travelling through an energy field just as it changes might have a terrible effect. But really, I don’t know what’s wrong with Tirini. Her body seems healthy enough but she’s not recovering the way she should.”

By this time we’ve reached the small wagon. I climb in after Saabril. I’m not prepared for the sight that greets me. Tirini, famed for her beauty, fashionable outfits and expensive accessories, looks rather like one of the poor women you might see begging around the docks in Turai. She’s wrapped up in a decent enough blanket but her body seems shrunken. Her face is lined and her eyes are watery. Her hair, previously the brightest blond ever seen at a fashionable party at the Imperial Palace, is lank and dull. Dark roots are showing prominently around her scalp. She wears no jewellery and her feet are encased in a pair of old slippers which she’d rather have died than been seen wearing back in Turai. I’m shocked. She seems to have aged twenty years in the space of a few months. I’m not certain how to greet her. “Hello Tirini,” I venture.

She doesn’t respond. There’s a bowl of soup lying next to her on a small table but it doesn’t look like it’s been touched. I look towards Saabril Clearwater.

“She doesn’t speak much,” says the sorcerer, softly.

Distressing as this is, I’m still not clear as to why Saabril has asked me here. I have no medical skills, apart from the rough-and-ready sort a man learns on the battlefield, for patching up comrades till they can find proper attention. If Tirini crashed through some harmful energy field in the magic space, thereby frying her brain, there’s nothing I can do about it. Maybe there’s nothing anybody can do about it.

Tirini mumbles something inaudible.

“What was that?”

“They took my shoes,” she says, a little louder.

“Who took your shoes? What shoes?”

“They took my shoes.” Tirini sounds unbearably sad. Her voice tails off. She closes her eyes.

“What does she mean? Who took her shoes?”

“I don’t know, but that’s all she ever says. Commander Lisutaris thought you might be able to help. She told me you were an investigator.”

“It helps if I know what I’m investigating. Are we talking about an actual pair of shoes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are these shoes important for her health?”

“I don’t know that either. But none of my treatments are working and she’s getting worse.”

It crosses my mind to say something harsh to the medical sorcerer, pointing out that we’re in the middle of a war and I’ve already got more than enough vital work to be getting on with. But I’m discomfited by the sight of Tirini Snake Smiter in such a poor state, so I remain silent. We leave the wagon.

“Is she suffering the effects of some hostile spell?” I ask.

“None that I can find. Nor Lisutaris. Neither of us can diagnose the problem, or do anything that seems to help.” Saabril looks at me quite apologetically. “I know you’re busy, but Lisutaris asked me to consult you, just in case you could discover anything.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I turn and leave, heading back towards my own wagon. I’m unsettled by what I’ve just seen. More unsettled than I’d have imagined I would be. In Turai, Tirini was a vain woman who, as far as I could see, was a frivolous waste of time. She seemed to spend her entire life indulging in scandalous affairs while wasting her money on endless streams of fancy clothes and expensive trinkets. She probably spent more on her hair every week than the poor of Turai had to feed their families for a year. On the few occasions we met, she made it clear she regarded me as her inferior, in every way.

I bump into Makri just outside my wagon, and tell her about my encounter with the ailing Tirini.

“Is that why you’re looking gloomy?”

“I suppose so.”

“But you never liked her.”

“I know. She’s a frivolous idiot. But she’s
our
frivolous idiot. Having a glamorous sorcerer spending a ridiculous amount of money on golden fur cloaks and pink shoes, and outraging the Bishops by her disreputable behaviour, was part of what made Turai what it was.” I shake my head. “I didn’t like to see her the way she is now. Especially after she rescued Gurd and Tanrose.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Find out what she meant by
'they took my shoes,'
I suppose. It might mean something.”

Makri is dressed in her lightweight Orcish armour; dark leather, covered in places by chainmail and small metal plates. The Orcish workmanship is very distinctive. I ask her what she’s doing here. “Are you hiding from See-ath the Elf again?”

“Of course not. I’m over that now.” Makri lowers her voice, although with the sound of trundling wagon wheels and marching feet all around, there’s not much chance of being overheard. “I’ve worried about this visit to the Vitin oracle. I don’t like it. It’s dangerous.”

“I don’t like it either. Lisutaris shouldn’t be going out on a secret mission with only a few followers.”

“I tried to dissuade her,” says Makri. “She got angry and told me to drop the subject.”

“It seems like the Vitin Oracle is too important to the Sorcerers Guild for her to ignore.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they all still secretly worship the Goddess Vitina. Or maybe they really need some advice from the oracle.”

“I don’t believe anyone can foretell the future.”

I agree with Makri. “I’ve always regarded these oracles as frauds. Either they give you some prediction so general it could mean anything, or so obscure there’s no telling what it means.”

Makri looks up, scanning the skies above, as if for dragons. We ride on in silence for a while.

“Where did you find another set of Orcish armour?”

“The King’s armoury.”

“You didn’t consider wearing normal, human armour?”

“I like this better.”

“It’s guaranteed to annoy some people.”

“You mean Elves?”

“I was thinking more of the Niojans.”

“Bishop-General Ritari and Legate Apiroi don’t like me anyway. I don’t think they like Lisutaris much either. They’re tolerating her as War Leader because of the Elves, but I don’t trust them. What if they make trouble when we meet up with the Simnians?”

“I can’t see that happening. By that time we’ll be ready to face the Orcs. You can’t change War Leader at the last moment.”