Thraxas - The Complete Series (196 page)

Chiaraxi abruptly halts our argument by rising swiftly and issuing orders.

“Lisutaris is very ill. I want her isolated. She can’t be moved and no one else is to come in here. If you have to move Palax and Kaby take them to Makri’s room.”

“I don’t want them there,” protests Makri again.

“I don’t want Lisutaris in my room,” I add.

“I don’t care what you want,” says Chiaraxi. “Do as I tell you.”

Makri looks nonplussed. She turns to me.

“Can she order us around like this?”

“Stop wasting time and do as I say,” says Chiaraxi.

It’s difficult to argue with a healer when she’s engaged in ministering to the sick. Makri and I reluctantly comply with her instructions. We swiftly haul Palax and Kaby into Makri’s room.

“This can’t be right,” complains Makri. “I’ve only got one small room. How come I have to take two sick people? How can I study when they’re here? What if I get the malady?”

We only just get the moving of sickly bodies completed before Moolifi and Gurd arrive upstairs. Gurd looks at me questioningly. I give a slight nod to indicate that it’s safe to let her into the guest room. Moolifi thanks Gurd. Her voice is rather cool and gracious, less rough than I’d have expected a Kushni entertainer’s to be. She says she’s tired, and would like to lie down for a while.

“This is bad,” says Gurd, after the singer departs.

“You’re right it’s bad. The head of the Sorcerers Guild is about to die in my bed and God knows what
The Renowned and Truthful Chronicle
will say about that.”

We return to my office. Chiaraxi appears from the bedroom, briskly efficient.

“You must inform the authorities,” she says.

“I can’t,” says Gurd. “They’ll shut me down.”

“They’ll do a lot worse if they find you’re trying to conceal an outbreak of the malady,” points out the healer.

“I won’t report it,” says Gurd, stubbornly.

“Then I will,” replies Chiaraxi.

“We can’t keep it secret anyway,” points out Makri. “People are going to notice if the head of the Sorcerers Guild isn’t around.”

True, of course. Lisutaris is among the most important people in the city. She can’t just disappear. It’s our duty to let the authorities know what’s happened. It seems as if Gurd has no alternative but to report it all to the local prefect.

There’s a very light tap on the inside door. Everyone looks towards it, suspiciously. I open it carefully. I’m confronted by a small, pale woman with dark hair who I’d take to be a worker in the local market if I didn’t recognise her as Hanama, number three in the Assassins Guild. I stare at her balefully.

“What do you want?”

“Makri.”

Hanama is softly spoken. Listening to her talk, you’d never believe she’d killed so many people. I detest her, as I do all Assassins. A foul and murderous breed without whom the city would be far better off. I’m about to slam the door in her face when Makri hurries over.

“What is it?” she asks.

Hanama puts her mouth to Makri’s ear and whispers.

“Stop having murderous Assassins’ conversations at my door,” I say, harshly.

Hanama suddenly clutches at her throat and falls forward. A rather puzzling occurrence. She’s not the sort of woman to take an insult so badly.

“She’s got the malady,” cries Makri.

“She can’t have,” I yell. “Not her. Not in my office.”

I turn towards Gurd.

“This is getting out of hand. We have to get these sick people out of the tavern.”

Chiaraxi bends over the Assassin.

“Carry her to the couch,” she says.

“I refuse to let a sick Assassin lie on my couch.”

Chiaraxi and Makri ignore me. Hanama is laid on my couch. Sweat pours from her forehead and her breath comes in heavy gasps. I glare at Hanama.

“Couldn’t you get sick somewhere else? You’re not staying here. I refuse to allow it.”

“No one in Turai can refuse aid to a sick guest,” says Chiaraxi.

“She’s not a guest. She just barged her way in here.”

It’s hopeless. Chiaraxi is already busy with her herbs.

“Bring a blanket,” she instructs.

“I refuse to let you cover Hanama with my blanket,” I protest, but it’s useless. Makri is already fetching it.

“How can Hanama be my guest? I don’t even like her. Ask anyone.”

No one is listening to me. I take out a bottle of klee and drink a good shot, shuddering as it burns my throat. Now I’ve got a sick Sorcerer in my bedroom and a sick Assassin in my office. I shake my head, and wonder how it can possibly have happened. It’s not like these people don’t have homes of their own where they could be ill.

D
eputy Consul Cicerius hurries down to Twelve Seas as soon as he receives my message. I haven’t yet informed Prefect Drinius. I’m on bad terms with our local prefect and will leave it to Cicerius to do what’s necessary. When Cicerius arrives I’m hesitant about actually letting him in my office. The way things are going I’m half expecting him to plummet to the floor the moment he enters.

“I have had the malady,” he says, and sweeps past me. His assistant, Hansius, doesn’t look quite so comfortable in the presence of disease. Cicerius is surprised to see Hanama lying on the couch. I’m not certain if he recognises her. Asleep, she looks more child-like than ever. Not at all like a woman who once killed an Elf lord and an Orc lord both in the same day, and a senator as well, as Hanama is reputed to have done.

“There is more than one victim? Where is Lisutaris?”

“In the next room.”

I’m not thrilled at the prospect of the Deputy Consul of Turai entering my only private room, not least because it’s even more untidy than my office. I get the strange feeling that I’m back in the army and my personal kit is about to be inspected by an officer. I start to bridle. One comment about the state of my rooms and I’ll sling them out. Chiaraxi accompanies them into the bedroom. Gurd has gone back downstairs, leaving me alone for the moment with Makri, apart from Hanama, who’s sleeping under the influence of some medicinal draught. Even so, I draw Makri to the far side of the room and talk to her in a low voice, careful lest Hanama should overhear. You can’t trust an Assassin, even a sick one.

“What did Hanama want? Is it something I should know about?”

Makri shrugs.

“I don’t know. She collapsed before she could tell me.”

“Didn’t she even give you a hint?”

Makri shakes her head.

“You saw how quickly she went down.”

It’s a mystery. Damn Hanama. Couldn’t she have stayed on her feet for another thirty seconds?

“It must be something really serious,” says Makri.

“I suppose so. Unless she just felt like talking to you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” declares Makri, sharply.

“Last month she brought you flowers.”

“Will you just drop that?” says Makri. “There’s no need to keep going on and on about it. Don’t you have something else to think about?”

Hansius reappears and asks me to join the Deputy Consul. I notice his eyes flicker towards Makri. Hansius has been in my office before but I don’t think he’s ever encountered Makri in her chainmail bikini. Plenty of people regard it as a remarkable sight. Not just her breasts; Makri is the only woman I’ve ever seen with tightly defined stomach muscles. Even the dancers in the theatres up-town tend to have softer bellies. Of course, all decent women keep their stomachs well covered up.

Knowing that if Hansius keeps staring, Makri will say something rude, I take his arm and guide him back into my private room where Deputy Consul Cicerius is standing beside Lisutaris, looking thoughtful. The sorceress is conscious, but very weak.

Cicerius thanks me for notifying him.

“This is bad. I do not want news of Lisutaris’s illness to be made known. It would be disastrous for the city’s morale. Furthermore, and most importantly, the Orcs must not learn of it.”

What the Deputy Consul says is true. Lisutaris is so important to the defence of the city that news of her incapacity might be all the Orcs needed before staging an attack.

Cicerius is a thin, grey-haired man, trusted by the population though not loved. He’s too vain and too austere to generate much affection. But he’s a better man than our highest official, Consul Kalius. Kalius was injured on the battlefield, and not gloriously. He’s now recuperating but is too traumatised to take the reins of power, which leaves Cicerius in charge. The strain is showing. His face is thinner and his toga, normally as clean, white and well pressed as it could be, shows signs of having been put on in a hurry.

“The healer is concerned by Lisutaris’s condition but not overly so. The Mistress of the Sky is a strong woman and should recover.”

I glance at Lisutaris. Her eyes are open, but I’m not sure if she can hear us or not.

“So are you going to send a wagon to ship her back home?”

“No. She must stay here while she recovers,” continues Cicerius. “Your healer advocates complete rest.”

I start complaining loudly. Cicerius glares at me.

“Do you not trust this healer Chiaraxi?”

I’m forced to admit I do.

“She keeps people going in Twelve Seas and that’s not easy.”

Cicerius nods.

“I have the feeling she is to be trusted. I could send down healers from the Palace, but…”

He ponders for a while.

“But I would rather as few people learn of this as possible. Already this month our intelligence services have rooted out an Orcish spy in the Palace and another one in the senate. There are probably more. I’d far rather leave Lisutaris to recover here, away from all prying eyes. Makri is already employed as bodyguard to protect her. I’ll send down a few other agents, discreetly, to ensure her safety. All being well, our sorceress should recover fully in a few days with no one even knowing she was ill.”

“Won’t people miss her at the Palace? Or on the war council?”

Cicerius shakes his head.

“I can assign her duties which would keep her away from the war council for a few days. And we can use her double for some public appearances, to allay any suspicions.”

“Her double?”

Cicerius informs me that the Consul’s office has people ready to play the parts of various important citizens in Turai, for precisely this sort of emergency.

“There is an employee at the Palace—a keeper of imperial records—who has already served in this capacity on occasion.”

I’m impressed. I didn’t realise our government was so organised.

“What about quarantine?”

Cicerius shakes his head.

“Prefect Drinius is not to be informed and the Avenging Axe is not to be quarantined. Do nothing which might attract attention to this tavern, until Lisutaris has fully recovered.”

“And Hanama?”

“She must stay here. We cannot risk her leaving. She might let it be known that Lisutaris is ill.”

“But it’s not safe having her here. What if she assassinates Lisutaris?”

“That hardly seems likely,” says Cicerius. “Assassins do not kill at random. They work to contract.”

“I don’t like this at all. Why should I look after a sick Assassin?”

“You are aware, of course,” says Cicerius, “of the Turanian tradition which requires all citizens to give hospitality to a sick guest?”

“Of course. I just don’t think it should apply to Assassins.”

“It applies to everyone,” says Cicerius, who’s always keen on Turanian traditions, no matter how stupid they are. “Simply care for them, go about your business, and Lisutaris’s illness should pass unnoticed.”

I give up the argument. At least if the tavern isn’t quarantined the card game can go ahead. I get the insane notion to ask Cicerius for 500 gurans but dismiss it immediately. He’s not known for his generosity. Besides, he’d probably find it impossible to imagine that anyone could think of playing cards at a time like this.

Inspiration suddenly strikes.

“How is the hunt for the Ocean Storm?”

Cicerius looks at me suspiciously.

“You know of that?”

“Of course. Lisutaris came down to consult me. She knows I’m number one chariot at finding missing items.”

“Any help you can give will be appreciated,” says Cicerius, brusquely. “But there are already many people looking. Praetor Samilius is organising the search.”

“Then you can expect not to find it. Best hire me. I’ve come through for you before. Shouldn’t take more than—let me see—five hundred gurans should do it.”

The Deputy Consul looks shocked.

“Are you trying to extort money for finding an item on which national security may depend?”

“Extort? You call asking for a decent wage extortion?”

“As I recall, your normal daily rate is thirty gurans,” says Cicerius. “It saddens me to see any citizen of Turai trying to make money from the crisis.”

“And me. But it so happens I need five hundred gurans in a hurry. That’s not a great sum. You could lose it in the treasury accounts easily enough. So how about offering a reward of five hundred gurans for the swift locating of the Ocean Storm?”

Cicerius gives me a withering look. He clearly regards me among the ranks of the profiteers who buy up supplies in times of hardship and sell them for vastly inflated prices to the suffering population.