Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Ice Dragon

«Tell Cetenos there's someone here to see him. An investigator from Turai, with an introduction from Baroness Demelzos, if you can believe it.»

I wait a long time while Zinlantol pointedly ignores me. Behind her are rows and rows of shelving, full of books and scrolls. Next to the shelves are cabinets, wood darkened with age. As I watch, an assistants arrives with a box and starts loading papers into one of the cabinets.

«What are they?» I ask.

«Mining records,» mutters Zinlantol. «Please don't interrupt, I'm busy.»

Eventually the first assistant arrives back and beckons for me to follow him. He leads me through several dimly-lit rooms full of dusty books and scrolls, up a winding staircase, though more rooms, and finally into something which might pass as a private reception room, were it not also full of boxes of papers, some of them obviously still waiting to be organised. I take a seat, and wait. For something to do I try reading a few of the documents on the table beside me, but they're all about productivity levels at a silver mine, and my eyes glaze over.

Cetenos turns out to be older than I was expecting. He must have married late. He's using a walking stick as he shuffles slowly into the room. His hair is thin and grey, but longer than I'd expect for a Samsarinan government official. His cuffs are frayed, and his boots, once smart, are scuffed and worn. He looks like a man who's not much interested in his appearance any more. As I rise to greet him he stands motionless, staring at me, weighing me up in silence. I take out Demelzos's letter.

«The Baroness requests that you talk to me.»

He glances at the letter. «You're asking questions about Alceten?»

«That's right.»

The elderly man's arm starts to tremble, and so does his cane. It's a relief when he makes it to a chair safely.

«Her death was a terrible shock,» he says. «The pain of it has almost…» His voice tails off.

«When did you last see her?»

«Minutes before it happened. She was here, in this room. But why are you asking about this?»

«I'm just trying to clear up a few details.»

Cetenos, while distressed, hasn't lost his wits. «Is there some suggestion that my daughter's death wasn't an accident?»

«Yes. But if you repeat that to anyone it will make it harder for me to investigate.»

«How could it not have been an accident? No one would have wanted to harm Alceten.»

«Could you tell me what she was doing that day, just before she left the building?»

«She was in here, sorting out records.»

«What records?»

«I'm not certain. Alceten had taken over a lot of my work.» He waves his hand, indicating the jumble of shelves and boxes. «We have so much here…»

«What sort of records do you keep in this building?»

«Everything. Crop yields, taxation, mining rights, import duties, family records, births, amendments to laws — it's the main repository for all official business.»

«But you can't say what she was doing?»

Cetenos puts his hand to his forehead, and sighs, as if even thinking of his daughter is too much to bear.

«I'm really not sure. Mining rights, probably. There are always a lot of claims being filed. They have to be checked with existing claims, and double checked with with our records of statutes and inheritances, to make sure the rights don't already belong to someone else.»

«Was you daughter the only one working here?»

«In this room, yes.»

«Did she indicate to you that she'd found anything strange? Some financial transaction someone didn't want made public, for instance?»

«No, she never said anything like that. Really, this all sounds unlikely. Didn't Chief Steward Daringos investigate the accident?»

«He did. I'm not sure how thorough he was.»

I talk to Cetenos for a while longer, without discovering anything that seems significant.

«When she met Merlione, was it always outside this building?»

«I'm not sure. I think they used to exchange messages, making their arrangements.»

«So someone might have learned when they were due to meet?»

«Yes. But why are you asking about Merlione?»

«Just filling in some details.»

Being surrounded by so many dusty books and scrolls is making me thirsty. I rise from my chair. As I leave the building, I'm no less inclined to believe that Alceten may have been murdered. Wills, financial transactions and trading agreements have led to plenty of deaths in the past. It's unfortunate her father couldn't tell me what she was working on. I make a few more enquires downstairs, with several young assistants, but they lead nowhere. None of them know what Alceten might have been working on before she died. Whether they're telling the truth, or have clammed up like Zinlantol, I'm not certain.

Thirsty as I am, I have no money for beer, and that's a bitter thing for a man to admit, particularly a man who's served his country bravely, and worked hard to make his city a better place. Forty-five years old and not enough money for a tankard of ale. At least there's the eating contest to look forward to. I'm heartened by the thought that's it's standard for such events to provide their contestants with a plentiful supply of ale, but my hopes are quickly dashed by the Master of Ceremonies.

«No beer? Are you serious?»

«We supply as much water as required.»

«Water? You expect a champion eater to manage with water? What sort of cheap competition is this anyway? There's something far wrong in the nation of Samsarina if you can't give a man beer when he's eating. We'd never have stood for it back in Turai.»

«Then maybe you should go back to Turai,» says the Master of Ceremonies.

«I would, if you Samsarinans would stop dallying around and get yourself organised. I tell you»

I'm interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. Makri and Lisutaris have arrived.

«What are you doing here?»

«We came to support you,» says Makri.

«Just in time to prevent you causing an international incident, it seems,» says Lisutaris. «I'd tone down the insults about Samsarina, while we're actually in Samsarina.»

«But did you hear that man? No beer! In a pie eating contest! It's ludicrous. I need beer.»

«Did you ever consider you might have a problem?» asks Makri.

«What problem?»

«You're addicted to beer.»

«Addicted to beer? There's no such thing.»

«Yes there is.»

«Name me one respected doctor who's ever said that drinking too much beer is a problem.»

«They all say that.»

«Absolute nonsense. A spot of ale is good for a man. You'd be a lot better off if you took a tankard every now and then. Less skinny, for one thing. Probably better tempered too.»

«I have a few quarter-gurans,» says Lisutaris, fishing awkwardly in her magic purse. «Here, you'd better hurry.»

I rush outside for a beer, arriving back just in time to hear the announcement for the start of the contest. The walls of the tent have been rolled up, allowing a large crowd of spectators to look in, and there are shouts of encouragement to various crowd favourites. The Master of Ceremonies rings a bell and a troupe of serving girls appear, each carry a tray brimming with pies. Beef pies, I'm given to understand. Should be reasonable quality, given the amount of farmland there is here. The serving girls begin to distribute the pies. I suddenly feel achingly hungry. I haven't really made up for all that starvation on the boat.

When everyone has a large pie on the table in front of him, there's a brief, expectant silence. Then, at the command, we fall to eating. I demolish half my pie in one or two bites, take a sip of water, finish the pie, and roar for another. The nearest serving girl slams one onto my plate. Again, I finish it very quickly.