Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Sorcerers

“Direeva has thirty,” counters Makri, and we go our separate ways.

The election is drawing near. Time for one last attempt on Sareepa. She’s sitting at one of the top tables in the main hall, placed there by Tilupasis to flatter her. Sareepa herself appears calm, but her fellow Matteshan Sorcerers are unhappy. No doubt they’ve been forbidden by Sareepa to overindulge. I’ve never seen a group of Sorcerers more in need of a drink. Most of the people in the hall are carrying on with their previous intemperate behaviour. Goblets, tankards and bottles glint in the light of the flaming torches on the walls, and it’s obvious the Matteshans are aching to join in the fun. Tough break, arriving at the biggest binge in the Sorcerers’ calendar only to find that your leader has developed a puritanical streak.

I’m about to make one last desperate effort to end Sareepa’s sober behaviour. Not just for the good of Turai. Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain has fallen under the thrall of Nioj. The woman needs help.

I’m carrying a bottle of the finest klee Turai can offer. Distilled in the mountains, this liquid could burn a dragon’s throat. They don’t make liquor like this in Mattesh. Before Sareepa realises what’s happening, I’m standing beside her at the table, pouring it into the empty glasses of her delegation.

“What do you think you are doing?” demands Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain.

“Part of my Tribunate duties. A toast to the King of Mattesh.”

At these words Sareepa’s companions’ eyes light up. No Matteshan can refuse a toast to the King. It would be disloyal. They raise their glasses and look towards their leader expectantly. Very reluctantly, Sareepa raises her goblet, all the while staring at me in a manner which would cause grave concern were I not wearing such a fine spell protection necklace.

We drink. There is a moment’s stunned silence as the fiery liquid hits their throats. Sareepa coughs violently. I fill up her goblet again in a manoeuvre so swift that only an expert at the bottle like myself could pull it off.

“A toast to the Queen!”

“The Queen!” yell the delegation, filling up their own glasses.

“A toast? To who?” enquires Sulinius, appearing at that moment, as I have asked him to.

“The Queen.”

Sulinius grabs a goblet.

“The Queen!!”

He drinks. Everybody drinks. You can’t not drink when a foreigner is toasting your Queen.

“And the King!” says Sulinius, and drinks again.

I’m already filling glasses.

“To Mattesh!” I cry.

No Matteshan can refuse a toast to their country. It would be disloyal.

We drink. I break open another bottle.

“Let me see that,” says Sareepa.

I hand it over.

“Interesting . . . from the mountains?”

“Yes. Finest quality.”

The Sorcerers wait expectantly.

“A toast to the King,” says Sareepa, and starts pouring herself another large one.

An hour or so later, Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain is challenging the Simnians at the next table to a drinking contest.

“You Simnian dogs couldn’t drink if you fell in a barrel of ale!” she roars.

Before leaving the Matteshan Sorcerers I ask them if any of them have heard of a spell for making a new version of reality and sending it back into the past. None of them have.

“There’s no such spell.”

I’m getting sick of hearing that.

Tilupasis and Cicerius are waiting for me in the Room of Saints.

“What happened with Sareepa?”

“I got her drunk. Better have the apothecary standing by. Klee laced with dwa has been known to cause fatalities.”

“And her votes?”

“Heading for Turai. By the third bottle she was cursing all Niojans.”

Tilupasis roundly congratulates me.

“It was a fine plan.”

“Sharp as an Elf’s ear,” I mumble, and look round for a chair. Even by my standards, I’ve drunk a lot of klee. Makri is sitting at a table nearby, with Direeva and Troverus. Makri looks aggressive, Troverus looks unruffled and Direeva looks interested.

“I can out-drink any Simnian Sorcerer,” declares Makri, and downs the goblet of klee in front of her. Troverus does the same. Makri refills the goblets. They drink again, and then again.

“No one likes a Simnian,” says Makri. “Direeva is never going to be impressed with a weakling like you.”

A few goblets later, Makri’s face goes a horrible shade of green and she is obliged to hurry from the room. I find her in the corridor, throwing up into a pot plant.

“Goddammit,” she gasps, still retching.

“You were never going to win a klee-drinking contest,” I say, and hunt around in my bag for a Lesada leaf to make Makri feel better. Makri takes the leaf and washes it down with my beer.

“I couldn’t think of anything else. Everything I do, Troverus does better. He knows more about art and culture than me, and he’s been everywhere and done everything, and everything he says is witty. Princess Direeva is eating out of his hand. She’s bound to vote for Ramius.”

As the leaf takes effect her colour returns to normal. I advise her to give up.

“Give up?”

“Why not? You don’t really care who Direeva votes for.”

“It’s not in my nature to give up,” says Makri, then vomits noisily into the pot plant again.

“I didn’t become champion gladiator by giving up.”

She’s sick once more. I wince. It’s a painful sight.

“Give me another leaf.”

Makri hauls herself to her feet.

“I have an excellent idea,” she says, and stumbles off in the direction of the Room of Saints. I follow on, interested to see what Makri’s new strategy might be. Possibly some learned disquisition of political theory, learned from Samanatius?

Makri weaves her way across to Direeva, knocking over several Sorcerers on the way. At the table she stands in front of Troverus, lays her hand on his rainbow cloak and yanks him to his feet.

“I’m getting really sick of you,” she says, and then punches him in the face hard enough for him to tumble unconscious to the floor. Princess Direeva looks startled.

“Don’t vote for the Simnians,” says Makri to Direeva. “I hate them. Turai is a disgusting city but Lisutaris is a good woman and she’s given you a lot of thazis.”

“And if I need military help?” says Direeva.

“Call on me,” says Makri, and slumps down beside her. “I’ll sort them out. Number one chariot at fighting.”

Irith Victorious is occupying a large couch in the corner. I take him a beer and join him in a final drinking session before his fellow Juvalians drag him off to vote. The Room of Saints empties of Sorcerers. Makri appears at my side. She’s unsteady on her feet and her speech is slurred.

“That seemed to go well,” she tells me.

In the distance, Troverus’s companions are carrying him off to vote.

“You want this couch?” says Makri.

“You can have it.”

“I don’t really need it. I’ve been practising with weapons. Stayed sober all day, more or less.”

Makri plummets to the floor. I help her on to the couch then sink into a nearby chair. Electioneering. It’s tough.

I awaken to the sensational news that Sunstorm Ramius has won the vote, with Lisutaris in second place. Both of them will now go forward to the final test. Turai has accomplished the first part of its mission. Cicerius makes a gracious speech to everyone in the Room of Saints, thanking them for their support, and indicating that though most of the credit belongs to him, others were involved in an important capacity.

Some time later Tilupasis arrives at our side.

“Congratulations to you both,” she says.

Makri wakes and vomits over the edge of the couch. She’s not the drinker I am. Tilupasis is unperturbed, and motions to an assistant to bring a cleaner.