Thraxas - The Complete Series (123 page)

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.”

I
rith Victorious is lying belly-up on the floor of the drinking area. His companions are laid out beside him on a bed of tangled rainbow cloaks. Tilupasis ordered the closure of a busy local tavern in order to divert its entire supply of ale to the Juvalian Sorcerers. When that proved insufficient she ordered the next tavern to close, bringing in its beer and klee as reinforcements. Finally overwhelmed by the flood of free alcohol, the Juvalians are now rarely conscious and spend their days in a stupor, awakening only to drink. They’ve promised to cast their votes for Lisutaris.

Not far away, the five members of the Misan delegation lie dwa’d out of their heads, courtesy of Tilupasis. She had the drug brought in from the confiscated supplies stored at the Abode of Justice. Officially these mounds of dwa should have been destroyed, but Tilupasis seems to have the authority to do just about anything.

Four Sorcerers from the far western state of Kamara who once strode confidently into the Royal Hall are now unfit to leave their private quarters after a forty-eight-hour orgy of unprecedented degeneracy. Some of the Kamaran tastes were, strictly speaking, illegal in Turai, but not beyond the organisational powers of Tilupasis and the city’s efficient brothel keepers. The Kamarans have promised that when they recover, they’ll be sure to vote for Lisutaris.

What Sunstorm Ramius makes of all this I don’t know. I’m certain his Simnian delegation has also been indulging in bribery but I can’t imagine it’s on anything like the vast scale of corruption wrought by Tilupasis on behalf of our city. Thanks to us, the Sorcerers Assemblage has descended into an unparalleled orgy of illicit gold, extravagant drunkenness, wanton sex and extreme drug abuse. It makes a man proud to be Turanian.

“You Turanians are a filthy, degenerate nation,” says Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain.

I’ve sought her out to say a friendly hello. So far it’s not going well.

“I cannot believe the way the Sorcerers are behaving. I blame Turai, the entire city is corrupt.”

“It’s really not so bad…”

“It is vile,” insists Sareepa. “Thank God for Almalas. He is a beacon of light in this foul den of corruption.”

Is this really the same Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain I used to know? When we were fifteen she’d already worked her way through the male population of the district and was looking to neighbouring towns for new lovers.

“Why are prayer calls ignored at this Assemblage?” she demands.

“A little laxity is common at such events.”

“A little laxity? Not for the Niojans. They pray six times a day. Would that others would follow their example. Thraxas, you must escape from this iniquity. I will introduce you to Almalas.”

“Could we perhaps discuss this over a bottle of wine?” I venture, remembering my mission.

Sareepa looks as if she’s about to explode.

“Wine? Do you realise—”

At this moment some Sorcerers stumble between us in drunken pursuit of a levitated beer barrel.

“A flagon of klee to the man who brings it down,” shouts one of their number, and starts firing bolts of light from his staff.

Sareepa is rendered temporarily speechless. Realising that alcohol is not the best subject to be discussing, I turn the conversation to Darius’s apprentice.

“Left Abelesi with a powerful hatred for Darius. Settled in Mattesh, I believe?”

Sareepa knows the apprentice in question.

“Quite a powerful Sorcerer these days. He’s here with us.”

“With you? How?”

It turns out that said apprentice finished his studies, took up Matteshan citizenship, and is now a fully fledged Sorcerer in attendance with the rest of the delegation.

“He still hated Darius,” agrees Sareepa. “But don’t go suspecting him of murder. My delegation is firmly under my control.”

I ask for an introduction anyway, which Sareepa agrees to make, providing I’m sober. The woman really hates alcohol. It’s a sad state of affairs.