Thraxas - The Complete Series (205 page)

“No we’re not,” says Makri.

“You can’t kill a sick person!” says Dandelion. “It’s wrong. And it’s bad luck. Isn’t that right?”

Dandelion looks towards Hansius for support. There’s no denying that the taboo against killing a sick person is very strong.

“I agree. Sarin should be cared for until she recovers, and then taken into custody for her crimes.”

“Good,” says Dandelion, ignoring the look of loathing currently being directed towards her by Makri. “Now help me get her to a chair.”

Dandelion drags Sarin to a chair. No one helps her.

“I’m really not happy about this,” says Makri. “How come it’s all right for her to go around shooting crossbows at people and then it’s not okay for me to stab her? It goes against natural justice. All these taboos are stupid. Don’t blame me if the city gets overrun.”

Sarin has now lost consciousness and is sweating profusely.

“It’s a serious case,” mutters Dandelion. “She’s going to need a lot of looking after.”

I turn to Hansius.

“Why did you come here anyway?”

“The Deputy Consul has instructed Tirini Snake Smiter to add her powers to Lisutaris’s protection. I escorted her down. She should be here any moment.”

On cue, Tirini Snake Smiter walks into my office. She is Turai’s most glamorous Sorcerer, known far and wide as the woman who spent an arduous six months perfecting a new spell for preserving her nail varnish in perfect condition, no matter how trying the circumstances. And, it has to be said, her nails are never less than perfect. She arrives looking as elegant, glamorous, and about as out of place among the clutter as a person can possibly be. She’s draped in a golden fur cloak that’s so thick I’m surprised she can move. Her hair, the colour of gleaming corn, cascades around her shoulders in a way that makes me suspect it might be permanently controlled by a spell. The woman is obsessed with her appearance. Tirini has been wooed by princes, generals and senators, envied by their wives and daughters, denounced by bishops, and occupied more space in Turai’s scandal sheets than any other person in history.

Despite all this, I know that Lisutaris regards her as a powerful Sorcerer, sharp as an Elf’s ear when it comes to working her magics. I’m not at all convinced about this. Tirini is too young to have featured in the last war, so there’s no way of knowing how she’ll react in battle. I wouldn’t wager a great deal of money on her prowess. It’s all very well being clever with sorcery to make your hair look better. It’s a lot different when there’s a dragon diving out of the sky towards you, with an Orcish Sorcerer on its back firing spells, and a squadron of Orcish archers trying to outflank you at the same time.

I greet her, rather wearily.

“Cicerius asked me to check on dear Lisutaris’s health,” she says.

She looks rather dubiously around the room.

“He didn’t tell me there were other sick people.”

“There are sick people everywhere.”

“Who are they?”

“Murderous killer, murderous Assassin,” I say, nodding towards the prostrate bodies of Hanama and Sarin.

“Really? How thrilling for you. Where is Lisutaris?”

“In the bedroom.”

“Take me to her.”

“You sure? So far everyone who’s gone in there has fallen sick.”

“I’ve had the malady,” says Tirini. “And frightfully boring it was, as I recall.”

Tirini walks into my bedroom, followed by Hansius.

Dandelion is meanwhile giving the medicinal potion to Hanama and Sarin. Hanama is still badly sick. Her brow is covered in perspiration. She winces as she moves her mouth towards the cup. The muscle pains brought on by the malady can be very severe, and she’s still suffering.

“You’ll be better soon,” says Dandelion, encouragingly.

“I know,” whispers Hanama, and manages to look determined for a few seconds. Her eyes close and she drifts back to sleep. I wonder what would happen if the situation was reversed. Somehow I can’t see Hanama feeding medicine to anyone. Caring for people isn’t in her nature. There again, nor is it in mine.

Tirini emerges from my bedroom.

“I would hardly say that this is a suitable place for dear Lisutaris to lie ill,” she says.

“Neither would I. If you want to move her somewhere go right ahead.”

“Cicerius has issued instructions that she should not be moved.”

Tirini frowns.

“I have little confidence in Cicerius. Were it not for the efforts of the Sorcerers Guild, the city would have fallen to those dreadful Orcs by now.”

The sorceress glances at her hands with distaste.

“I’m covered in dust. Does your maid never clean in there?”

“I don’t have a maid.”

Tirini looks at me like I’m mentally deficient. The possibility of not having a maid has probably never entered her mind. Her look of distaste intensifies as she glances at the small sink in the corner of my office.

“Where might a woman wash her hands?”

I direct her to Tanrose’s room downstairs, probably her best chance of finding something clean and pleasant. It also contains a sick healer, but everywhere you go, someone is sick. It’s not just the Avenging Axe. The malady has now made inroads into much of the population. Already there are shortages among the guards at the walls as men fail to report for duty.

Tirini departs, leaving the room with the slow, delicate gait of a woman who’s wearing heels which might be suitable for tripping round a ballroom at the Palace but are far too high for the rough terrain you meet in Twelve Seas. In the last twenty years or so, upper-class Turanian women’s heels have been becoming higher and higher, a fashion which has led to adverse comment from the Church, and other guardians of the nation’s morals. For once I agree with them. Bishop Gzekius might have been talking nonsense when he condemned gambling as the quick way to hell, but he was spot on with his sermon pointing out the iniquities of frivolous footwear. Tirini’s shoes, stitched from some yellow fabric with pink flowers embroidered over the toes, with the heel and sole decorated with beaten gold, are surely a sign of a society in decay. I doubt that a sailmaker would earn enough in a year to pay for them.

Makri regards Tirini balefully as she exits.

“I don’t think she’s the best person to protect Lisutaris. Anyway,
I’m
protecting her.”

Before Hansius leaves he questions us about our encounter with the Orcish Assassin. I can’t tell him much more than I did in my message to the Deputy Consul, though I do my best to let Hansius know every detail I can remember. Turai’s security has been breached by Orcs before, but now, in time of war, with our defensive sorcery at maximum power, it’s far more serious. Old Hasius the Brilliant, Chief Sorcerer at the Abode of Justice, has been down at the harbour, checking on the scene of the fight, trying to pick up clues as to how the Orc Marizaz might have entered the city.

With a final admonition to maintain our own security and look after Lisutaris, Hansius departs. Makri turns towards Sarin the Merciless.

“I’m still going to kill her when she gets better.”

“At least you have something to look forward to.”

I step towards the bedroom.

“Where are you going?” demands Makri.

“Just checking on Lisutaris.”

“Keep out of that room.”

“What the hell do you mean, keep out? It’s my bedroom.”

“You’re planning on asking her for money.”

“Preposterous. I have a duty to look after her too, you know.”

I slip into the bedroom, pursued by Makri.

“I refuse to let you borrow money from a sick woman.”

“I’m not going to borrow money. What’s it got to do with you anyway?”

“I’m her bodyguard.”

“So what? You’re meant to protect her from Orcish Assassins, not Investigators in need. Besides, I have some important questions regarding the Ocean Storm.”

I stare at Makri.

“Questions that need to be asked in private.”

“Not a chance,” says Makri. “The minute I’m out that door you’ll be scrounging money.”

“I order you to get out of my bedroom.”

“You can’t order a Sorcerer’s bodyguard around,” states Makri, firmly. “I’m staying.”

Lisutaris groans.

“You see?” I say to Makri. “You’re upsetting her. She needs peace and quiet.”

“She’s not going to get peace and quiet with you trying to get your hands on her money.”

“What’s a few hundred gurans to Lisutaris? She’s rolling in money. Goddamn, it’s not like she’d be taking a risk.”

“You just said you weren’t here to borrow money.”

“I’m not. But if I was, I’d be doing Lisutaris a favour. She enjoys gambling.”

“She’s got a city to defend!” yells Makri. “We’re meant to be getting her healthy so she can fight the Orcs! Have you forgotten that?”

“Life doesn’t stop just because the Orcs are besieging the city!” I roar back. “All citizens have a duty to keep things going. It’s good for morale.”

“Playing cards doesn’t count as keeping things going,” protests Makri.

We’re interrupted by some movement on the bed. Lisutaris struggles to raise her head.

“I’ll give you the money if you’ll just leave me in peace,” she whispers.

“No, don’t—” says Makri.

“I accept,” I say, butting in quickly. “Very sporting of you, Lisutaris, and I won’t forget you when I’m counting my winnings.”

Makri looks furious. I hurry to Lisutaris’s bedside. The sorceress lifts her head a few inches.

“How much do you need?”

“Don’t give it to him,” says Makri.

Lisutaris manages a thin smile.

“Makri. Thraxas has been looking after me. Which is so against his nature, I think he deserves something for his trouble.”

She motions for me to hand her a fancy embroidered bag, which I do, hastily. Lisutaris fumbles inside the bag. It takes some effort on her part and I start to worry that she might pass out before she finds her purse. If she does, I’ll probably have to engage Makri in combat before I can take possession.

Lisutaris finds her purse, and opens it with an effort.

“How much is there?”

I look inside. There are seven coins. Seven silver fifty guran pieces. Not a common sight in Twelve Seas.

“Three hundred and fifty gurans.”

“Is that enough?”

“Just about.”

Lisutaris hands them to me. I’m deeply moved. Surely this is one of the finest citizens Turai has ever produced. I cram the coins into the pocket of my tunic.

“Do you want anything?” I ask.

“Some peace,” whispers Lisutaris.

“Absolutely peace is what you need.”

I rise swiftly and turn to Makri.

“You heard her. Absolute peace. From now on, make sure no one disturbs Lisutaris.”

I leave the room quickly, delighted after a successful operation. I now have 440 gurans and require only sixty more. Surely I can raise that in the next few hours. I’m just strapping on my sword when I am struck by an annoying piece of inspiration about the Ocean Storm. Right now I’m not looking for inspiration. I’m more concerned with raising the cash for tomorrow night’s gambling extravaganza. I hesitate. I could ignore it, or deal with it later. I head for the door, but turn back with a sigh. It’s no use. No matter how I try, I never seem to be able to ignore an investigation.

I stride back into my bedroom. Makri is sitting beside Lisutaris’s bed, not actually mopping her brow but looking like she might do it any moment. She glares angrily at me as I reappear.

“Need more money already?”

I ignore her.

“Lisutaris. I just had some sudden inspiration.”

Lisutaris turns her face towards me. She’s still looking very unhealthy. The head of the Sorcerers Guild has really taken the malady badly. I’ve known far less healthy people than her recover from it quicker.

“What inspiration?”

“Yesterday we met an Orcish Assassin. No one knows how he could have got into the city without being detected. Have you had any thoughts on that?”

The Sorcerer shakes her head.

“We’re working on it,” she whispers.

“Before we met him I passed some mourners, close to the harbour. A couple of men and a woman. Or I thought it was a woman. She was wearing a veil. But now I’m wondering if it might have been Deeziz the Unseen.”

Lisutaris stares at me. She stares at me for so long I wonder if she might not be completely with us. Finally she manages the smallest of smiles.

“Deeziz the Unseen? I thought I was the one who was sick. You must be hallucinating.”

“I wasn’t hallucinating. I didn’t see anything strange. Just a standard Human mourner, in a veil. Deeziz is known for wearing a veil. So I’m wondering if it might have been him.”

“But mourners often wear veils,” says Makri, which is true.

“Did you sense sorcery?” asks Lisutaris.

“No, nothing.”

“Did you sense Orcs?” asks Makri.

I admit I didn’t.

“It’s just a feeling.”

Lisutaris tries to raise herself on one elbow, but can’t quite make it, and sinks down again.

“Deeziz the Unseen is on top of a mountain hundreds of miles away. We’d have detected him if he’d come anywhere near Turai. Cicerius’s intelligence service would have heard something about it.”

“Maybe not,” I say. “It’s not unheard of for an Orcish Sorcerer to infiltrate the city. Makri ran into one only a few months ago when she rescued Herminis”—I break off to cast a dirty look at Makri, signifying my continuing disapproval—“and we both came across one at the races a year or so ago.”

“True,” replies Lisutaris. “But every Sorcerer in the city has been on the highest alert since Amrag attacked. I think we’d have detected an intruder. And General Pomius doesn’t even think Deeziz has joined Prince Amrag.”

Lisutaris motions to Makri for water, and Makri raises a beaker to her lips.

“You don’t have any reason for thinking it was Deeziz the Unseen, do you? Apart from your intuition?”

“No. I don’t. But I’ve made it a long way on my intuition. Now I think about it, isn’t it strange the way you’ve taken the malady so badly? You should have been starting to recover by now. What if it’s Deeziz attacking you with a spell? Sorcery can prolong an illness.”