Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Sorcerers

“There’s no such spell,” replies Sareepa. “No one could do that.”

Moments later I’m apprehended by a furious Makri.

“You know what happened? I was just telling Direeva how I once killed three Trolls with my bare hands in the arena, and that creepy Troverus smiled in this really annoying manner and said he’d come to the Assemblage to forget about unpleasant things like fighting and then whisked Direeva off for dinner!”

“Couldn’t you have stopped them?”

“I was too taken aback by anyone wanting to forget about fighting,” complains Makri. “By the time I recovered, they were gone. Damn that Troverus. I don’t trust him at all. Right this moment he’s charming Direeva over a bottle of wine, and who knows what’ll happen after that? And he’s not that handsome anyway. See-ath was a lot better-looking and he never said he was bored with my fighting stories. I hate these smooth-talking Simnians. What am I meant to do now?”

“I’ve no idea. Ask Tilupasis, she’s the expert.”

“Come and help. You could detain Troverus with some tedious war story while I charm Direeva.”

“Can’t do it. I need to go out and investigate.”

As I leave the hall I pass a tall man with a long beard who’s wearing the most sober rainbow cloak ever woven. It’s hard to imagine a rainbow cloak could be so dull. He’s talking in a deep voice to a large crowd of younger Sorcerers who appear to be hanging on his every word, which is some achievement, with the uproar on all sides. Almalas, I presume. Niojan Sorcerers never take on fancy names. I listen to him for a while, but as he seems to be talking about honour, duty and such like, I quickly lose interest.

The rest of the afternoon is spent travelling round the frozen city, checking out people who bought dragon scales from Coralex. It gets me nowhere. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. Someone who’s been buying scales but doesn’t look like they’d wear them in their hair. Someone who looks like they could work an erasure spell never before used in Turai. No one I visit fits the bill. Just a lot of aristocratic women with plenty of jewellery. Or merchants’ wives on the way up, also with plenty of jewellery. Even a Captain of the Guards, who’s buying jewels for a girl he’ll never be rich enough to marry.

The last name on my list is Rixad, the merchant whose wife I was recently tailing. He isn’t pleased to see me. People who once hired me often aren’t, even when I’ve done a good job for them. The results are the same as everywhere else. Rixad bought the scales for his wife. His wife likes plenty of decoration. Rixad makes it clear he’s not keen for me to hang around. Now he trusts his wife again he doesn’t want her finding out he was checking up on her.

He’ll always be checking up on her. He should have married someone less demanding. She should have carried on as an actress till someone better came along.

Outside the snow is still falling. As I walk through the northern outskirts of Pashish I notice two legs protruding stiffly from a snowdrift. A beggar, frozen to death. And it’s not even a bad part of town. Thinking of the wealth that’s pouring into the Assemblage, I get annoyed. A little of that money could have housed a beggar for the winter instead of disappearing down the throat of some corpulent freeloader. Like Irith. Like me. I stop feeling annoyed and start feeling depressed. I want to go home but I have to call back to the Assemblage to check up on Lisutaris and report to Cicerius. I shiver. I’ve learned two new spells for warming my cloak but it never seems to keep out the cold.

I make my report to Cicerius, including my failure with Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain.

“You must try again.”

“Okay, I’ll try again. Where’s Lisutaris?”

“Unconscious. Sulinius and Visus took her to my private room.”

“Is she losing votes, being so stoned?”

Cicerius no longer knows. With half the Assemblage now permanently under the influence of dwa or thazis, it might even be in her favour.

“And we’ve spread plenty of gold around.”

The Deputy Consul nods. He doesn’t look that happy about it.

“You wish you had a nice clean candidate like Almalas?”

“Yes. But I don’t.”

“Don’t worry, Cicerius. If Lisutaris is elected, you’ll get plenty of credit.”

Cicerius nods. He’ll enjoy getting the credit. He’s not enjoying the process.

At this moment Makri and Lisutaris wander past. Makri has discarded her body armour and is wearing only her chainmail bikini. It’s the smallest bikini ever seen in the west. It’s not even on properly. Lisutaris is fully dressed but completely drenched, possibly from an unsuccessful experiment with beer levitation. Both have huge thazis sticks hanging from their lips, creating a mushroom-shaped cloud of smoke above their heads.

Cicerius looks at them with horror.

“Were Visus and Sulinius not—”

“I broke out,” says Lisutaris, her speech slurred. “Had to console Makri.”

“Failed with Direeva,” says Makri. “Sorry about that. Simnian outmanoeuvred me. Tell Tilupasis she should have him killed.”

“Thraxas has to charm Sareepa,” says Lisutaris.

“Tough assignment,” says Makri. She laughs. Her thazis stick falls from her lips and is extinguished by the beer that drips from Lisutaris’s cloak. Lisutaris mutters a word and the thazis flies from the floor into Makri’s hand, and relights itself. At least the Mistress of the Sky hasn’t completely forgotten how to work magic.

It’s fortunate that entry into the Assemblage is so closely regulated. Were the ordinary citizens of Turai to see their leaders freely distributing illegal substances, there would be consternation. Or jealousy, maybe.

“You’re looking as miserable as a Niojan whore,” says Lisutaris. “Have some thazis.”

“Please take them home,” says Cicerius, sounding as close to desperate as I’ve ever heard him.

They want to go to Twelve Seas rather than Thamlin. I don’t argue. It’s as well for me to be close to Lisutaris. Makri isn’t in a state to do much in the way of guarding her. I sneak them out a side door and into an official carriage. On the journey back to Twelve Seas, Makri wakes up.

“Did you bring my armour?”

“Yes.”

“Keep it safe,” says Makri, and goes back to sleep. She’s clutching her armour. I’ve wrapped my cloak around her to stop her freezing. The carriage takes a long, long time to make the journey. The streets are next to impassable and the driver has to coax the horses through the falling snow. I’m cold as the ice queen’s grave. I’ve been cold for weeks. I’m sick of it.

Getting my companions up the stairs to my office is difficult. Before we’re more than halfway up, a large band of men emerge from the snowstorm.

“Thraxas!” they call.

I take out my sword. I don’t recognise them. Not the standard Brotherhood thugs of Twelve Seas. There must be thirty of them, all armed.

“What?”

“We’re here on business.”

“Whose business?”

“Praetor Capatius’s business.”

Their leader steps forward.

“The Praetor outranks you, Tribune. It wasn’t very bright to go against him.”

“It wasn’t very bright of the Praetor to send you after me. I’m working for the Deputy Consul and he outranks the Praetor.”

“Really?” says the leader. “How about that?”

Thirty armed men advance towards me. Hearing the voices, Makri once more wakens. She sees the situation and quickly pulls a sword out of her magic pocket. As she raises it, it slips from her hand and clatters down the stairs.

Makri has never dropped her sword before.

“Damn,” she says, and pulls out another blade. She loses her footing on the icy stairs and tumbles down in a heap. The men laugh at the sight. Makri attempts to rise, but can’t make it to her feet. Capatius’s men advance.