Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Dance of Death

“Have you seen Lisutaris?” I ask. “Do you know what costume she’s wearing?”

He looks down his nose at me.

“Please!” he exclaims. “Are you unaware of the etiquette of the masked ball?”

“Which piece of etiquette would that be?”

“One must never enquire who anyone is,” he says, haughtily. “It’s the height of bad manners.”

I head for the house, rather abashed. Coming towards me is the Deputy Consul. Cicerius, though masked, is wearing his official toga, easily recognisable. If he catches me here wearing my cheap Cicerius mask, trouble will follow. I leap into the bushes to hide. There I find myself face to face with a large man incongruously garbed as a snow pixie.

“I’m the richest man in the world,” he says.

“Well good for you.”

His knees sag and he tumbles to the ground. I kneel over him. He’s dead. Another victim of the jewel? He can’t be. The jewel is safe in my bag. I take off the man’s mask but it’s no one I recognise. Just a Senator who always dreamed of being the richest man in the world. I feel something hard beneath my knee. It’s a familiar-looking pendant. The missing pendant, in fact. I open the small bag I’ve strapped under my toga. It also contains the missing pendant. I now have two missing pendants. There’s only meant to be one. Everyone was clear on that. I scoop the new pendant into my bag and make for the house. As I’m nearing the back door, a unicorn trots across my path. People applaud, thinking it to be part of the entertainment.

Indoors the staff are directing guests through the hallways into the gardens, not allowing anyone to climb the stairs to the Sorcerer’s private apartments. I wait for a quiet moment before slipping a few gurans to a boy in a smart red tunic.

“Private business,” I say. “Look the other way.”

He looks the other way and I hurry up the staircase. I’m familiar with this house and know that if Lisutaris has not yet made her entrance she’ll be in the suite of rooms at the far end, doing her hair, or smoking thazis. Makri appears in the corridor, striding along confidently in her dark Orcish armour.

“Makri—”

She walks past, completely ignoring me.

“To hell with you,” I call after her. She must still be upset that I’ve gatecrashed the ball. I find Lisutaris’s main salon and dive through the door.

“Lisutaris, we have big problems.”

Lisutaris is sitting in front of a mirror, with a stylist beside her doing her hair. Consul Kalius is sitting nearby on a couch. He’s dressed as a pirate but has discarded his mask. Makri is standing by the window.

The Consul rises.

“What problems?”

“The musicians are running out of beer.”

The Consul laughs, and compliments me on my amusing Cicerius mask. Makri—who can’t be here because she just walked down the corridor—looks surprised to see me. Lisutaris is annoyed.

“Who are you?” she demands.

I can’t identify myself in front of Kalius before I’ve cleared things up.

“Etiquette prevents me from saying,” I reply.

“Well get the hell out of my rooms before I have my staff toss you out into the street,” says Lisutaris.

She’s wearing a magnificent winged costume, the Angel of the Southern Hurricane, I believe.

“The musicians really need beer. And Deputy Consul Cicerius is looking for the Consul on a matter of great urgency.”

Lisutaris now recognises my voice and looks alarmed. She turns to the Consul.

“Perhaps you should—”

Kalius smiles. He’s looking quite jovial. Not like a man who’s just denounced the head of the Sorcerers Guild for betraying the city.

“I will sort things out,” he says, affably. “You mustn’t be disturbed while you’re making ready for your grand entrance. The musicians need beer, you say? I’m sure I can rectify that. And Cicerius wishes to see me? No doubt on some affair of state. The Deputy Consul can never bring himself to fully relax on these occasions.”

He rises, bows formally to Lisutaris and departs. I take off my mask.

“The Consul’s looking happy.”

“What are you doing here?” demands Lisutaris.

“He couldn’t stand not being invited,” says Makri. “It’s completely childish. Just like the Elvish princess in the story.”

“What story?”

“ ‘The Elvish Princess Who Was Completely Childish.’ ”

Not for the first time I glare at Makri with loathing.

“There is no such story.”

“Yes there is. I translated it last year.”

“Is this true?” demands Lisutaris. “You have invaded my house in a fit of pique?”

“A fit of pique!” I roar. “Have you forgotten you hired me to do a job? To retrieve the fantastically important jewel? Well I’ve done it.”

“But I’ve already done that,” protests Lisutaris. “I retrieved the jewel myself. I have just been showing it to the Consul. Didn’t you notice how cheerful he was?”

“Well this might make everybody less cheerful,” I say, and produce the two pendants from my bag.

“Obvious fakes,” says Lisutaris.

“Oh yes? There’s a dead man in the bushes who doesn’t agree. Take a look.”

Lisutaris takes one of the pendants and stares deeply into it. She frowns. She studies the other jewel. She places it on her bureau and opens a drawer, producing a third jewel.

“They are all real.”

“You didn’t mention there were three of them,” I say.

“There aren’t three of them! There’s only one. But these are all the real one.”

“Well that’s a mystery,” I say, sitting down on the couch. “But it does explain why people have been being trampled by unicorns all over Turai even when I recovered the jewel. The place is awash with sorcerous pendants.”

“You say there is a dead man in my garden?”

“Yes. But well hidden in the bushes. We might expect worse. Apparitions are still going on, and I know of several other people who claim to have the pendant. Which they might have. God knows how many of these things there are out there, each of them potentially lethal. If they all turn up in the same place I’m guessing we’re in for a memorable party.”

There’s a discreet knock on the door and a maid enters.

“Centaurs are destroying the green marquee, miss,” she says, politely.

Lisutaris looks to Makri.

“I’ll deal with it,” says Makri, and puts on her helmet before hurrying off.

“You feel the need to stay?” says Lisutaris.

“There are some things we should discuss. Like how there are suddenly a lot of pendants. And what we’re going to do about it.”

“I really cannot be dealing with this sort of thing at my ball,” protests the Sorcerer. “It’s time for my entrance.”

“Don’t you realise what’s about to happen out there? If centaurs are eating your marquee it means they’re being produced by more of these jewels. Anyone in the gardens is quite likely to die because they find one and stare into it. Or else there will be a panic when a marquee appears to catch fire. Or maybe really catches fire. And don’t forget Horm the Dead has promised to pay you a visit. Which might mean another appearance from Glixius Dragon Killer. Also, Sarin the Merciless is still trying to sell a pendant. I’d say this ball might be remembered as the social occasion when everybody died.”

“You really know how to spoil a party, don’t you?” says Lisutaris, angrily, like it’s all my fault.

“Do you have any idea how the pendant might have mysteriously multiplied itself? Is there a spell which could do that?”

Lisutaris is still fussing with her hair in the mirror. It’s the largest, most perfectly made dressing mirror I’ve ever seen. Buying a piece of glass like that must have been prohibitively expensive. I doubt if there’s a better one at the Imperial Palace.