Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Sorcerers

“Since I decided it was my duty.”

“Your duty? Very amusing. Step aside, Investigator.”

“How did you get in here? And what are you doing here anyway?”

“Protecting Lisutaris. So I have no time to talk,” says Hanama, and walks past. I stare at her retreating figure.

“I’ve got more right to be here than you!” I roar. “I’m a Tribune!”

Hanama is now out of sight. Damn these Assassins. Always turning up when you don’t want them.

I walk on. By Hanama’s standards that was quite talkative. Maybe she’s warming to me. Another unicorn appears. Or maybe it’s the one I saw earlier. They all look much the same. It trots in my direction. Perhaps it can help. In the magic space, anything is possible. The sun’s just gone green, and the daisies are up to my waist.

“Greetings, unicorn. Have you seen a Simnian Sorcerer called Sunstorm Ramius?”

The unicorn regards me in silence.

“About so high,” I say, waving my hand. “Probably scowling.”

Behind me there’s a burst of raucous laughter.

“He’s trying to question a unicorn!”

I spin round. Quite a large squirrel is laughing at me.

“Don’t you know unicorns can’t talk?”

“I figured it was worth a try. I don’t suppose you’ve seen Ramius?”

“The Simnian Sorcerer? Ex-soldier type? Certainly I’ve seen him.”

The squirrel looks at me keenly.

“You have any thazis?”

“Yes, as it happens.”

I take out a stick and hand it over.

“Take the next right then keep to the left,” says the squirrel, then bounds off, thazis clutched tightly in one claw.

I walk on. I’ve just bribed a large squirrel with thazis. It’s fine, if you don’t think about it too much. The breeze is picking up and the daisies are still growing. It’s getting colder. I think I hear voices so I creep forward quietly. When the voices grow louder I halt. Sunstorm Ramius is round the next corner.

“You have the question?”

“I do.”

The sound of paper passing from one hand to another. I risk a glance. Ramius is conferring with a tall man in a toga who talks with a Simnian accent. It’s the mathematician Makri encountered at the Assemblage. This is outrageous behaviour. The final test is meant to be sacred. Like I always say, you can’t trust a Simnian.

The scholar studies Ramius’s paper. Quill in hand, he makes some calculations.

“Hurry,” hisses Ramius. “Lisutaris is working on the problem at this moment.”

The scholar looks rather coldly at the Sorcerer.

“I am the finest mathematician in the west. No one will find the answer faster than I.”

He carries on scribbling. I’m tempted to advance and confront them with their perfidy. Without doubt Charius the Wise was bribed to set some numerical test, and the Simnians had their man ready to enter the field. If Ramius wins I’m denouncing him as the fraud I’ve always known him to be.

Finally the mathematician seems satisfied.

“The answer is—”

Ramius silences him.

“Don’t say it. Lisutaris may be listening in. You can’t trust these Turanian dogs. Write it down and show it to me quickly.”

The scholar does as he’s told. Ramius glances briefly at the answer then instructs him to take the paper away with him. The Sorcerer pulls a small globe from a pocket in his cloak, waves his hand over it, and the familiar green light grows till it’s large enough for his companion to step into, back to the real world. As Ramius turns round I withdraw quickly out of sight. Next second he marches round the corner and bumps into me. I beat him on the head with the pommel of my sword and he collapses in a heap.

“I’m appalled,” I say, staring at his prone figure. “You Simnians, you’re all cheats. And you were no use in the war.”

I hurry off as fast as I can. The air goes suddenly icy and snow starts to fall. Winter has arrived in the magic space. That’s all I need. A fierce wind blows the snow into my eyes. I curse. Ramius won’t be out for long. If only the mathematician had written down the answer, I’d have stolen it. Maybe back in Turai there’s someone who could work it out. That means getting out of here quickly. I need to find Direeva.

The icy wind hinders my progress. Not imagining that it would be winter here, I’m not wearing my magic warm cloak and am soon as cold as the ice queen’s grave and cursing all places magical where you can’t depend on the weather to be consistent for two minutes.

The hedges have been flickering, threatening to disappear but never quite going. I’m concentrating on following my path back to Lisutaris and it doesn’t immediately register that the hedge on my left has shrunk to just two feet tall. As I glance round, I catch sight of a figure walking along the next path. The snow is flying in my eyes, visibility is poor and I can’t be certain, but I’d swear that the person I see is Copro, beautician to the aristocracy. He’s carrying a crossbow. Immediately I attempt to leap the hedge. Unfortunately it chooses that moment to grow back to normal size and I bounce off with a face full of prickly leaves.

“Copro?” I mutter. “With a crossbow?”

By dint of some fine navigational skills I bring myself back to where Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, and Makri are sitting beside the water pipe. I tell them what just happened.

“They brought in the mathematician?” says Makri. “That’s really unfair.”

“Didn’t I say you can’t trust a Simnian?”

“Yes, you said it hundreds of times.”

“What’s this about Copro?” asks Lisutaris.

“He’s walking around the maze with a crossbow.”

“You imagined it.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because we’re in the magic space, where nothing is certain, and also there’s a heavy snowstorm affecting visibility.”

Lisutaris is annoying me so much these days. I can’t believe I ever liked her.

“I tell you it was Copro. Where’s Direeva? I need to get out of here to find someone back in Turai who can answer the question.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. I’ll go to the university and look for a professor.”

“That’ll take too long,” points out Makri. “How about Samanatius?”

“Could he do it?”

“He’s the finest philosopher in the west.”

“But can he do sums?”

Makri thinks so.

“I’ve been trying to work it out myself,” she adds. “But I haven’t got anywhere.”

“Where is Direeva? I have to get out.”

“Use salt,” says Makri, who remembers that on a previous occasion I brought us out of the magic space by sprinkling salt on the ground. I’m dubious about trying this again.

“It might collapse the magic space, and then what would happen to the test?”

“Wouldn’t work anyway,” says Lisutaris, looking up from her pipe. “Charius’s magic space is different. Stronger.”

“Can you send me back to Twelve Seas?”

“Yes. But it’ll create a large disruption in the magic field. Charius the Wise will know something has happened. If we want to be discreet, we need Direeva.”

The snow starts coming down more heavily. Lisutaris waves her hand and a fire grows up beside her. Direeva walks into the clearing and collapses. Blood spurts out of a bad wound in her shoulder, caused by a crossbow bolt which is deeply embedded in the flesh.

“Who did it?”

Direeva didn’t see her assailant’s face.

“It was Copro!” I yell.

“Why did they hire this Investigator?” says Princess Direeva. “He gets more foolish every day.”

“You never liked Copro,” says Makri. “But that’s no reason to start accusing him of assassination attempts.”

I ignore this.