Martin Scott - Thraxas Under Siege (ARC)

Makri looks confused.

"But she deserves it."

"Put that sword away," demands Dandelion.

"Absolutely not," retorts Makri.

Dandelion confronts her.

"You can't kill a sick person."

"Yes I can. I'm going to do it now."

"You are not," states Dandelion, quite emphatically. "No one kills any person that I'm ministering to."

"Since when are you ministering to her?"

"Since I took over from Chiaraxi."

"Well this is just ridiculous," says Makri. "You're not a proper healer. You can't order us around."

"I'm the healer," says Dandelion firmly. "I look after everyone that's sick."

I've never seen Dandelion so determined before. She even casts a defiant glance towards Hansius, in case he might be about to argue with her.

"I'm going to kill her," insists Makri.

"You can't kill a sick guest," says Dandelion.

"A person who breaks in to commit crimes doesn't count as a guest!" retorts Makri.

"Well . . ." says Hansius. "That's a moot point. We do have a strong tradition of hospitality."

Makri curses in Orcish. That's also taboo in Turai, and Hansius is annoyed.

"But if Sarin hadn't suddenly fallen sick I'd have killed her by now anyway," says Makri.

"Not necessarily," says Hansius.

"What?"

"She might have survived the combat. She might even have defeated you."

Makri looks aghast at the thought. I weigh in on her side.

"Ridiculous. Makri's a far better fighter. She'd already got rid of the crossbow with her axe."

Hansius glances at the floor.

"But Sarin has a sword. You companion had thrown her axe, and seems not to have brought another weapon."

"I'd still have beaten her," says Makri. "And why do you care about her anyway?"

"I don't care about her at all," says Hansius. "I'm just pointing out the foolishness and unpredictability of women fighting. Women should not be fighting. It's not their place."

Makri reaches down to pick up her axe, whether to show Hansius her place or whether to kill Sarin, I'm not certain. Either one would be fine with me but Dandelion interrupts us again.

"Stop this. It doesn't matter who would have won the fight. Sarin's sick with the malady and now we're going to look after her."

"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.