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  I swing a hefty boot and catch him full in the face and he goes down in a heap. I spur my horse on, struggling through the hopeless crowds of Twelve Seas, many of whom have been burned out of their pitiful dwellings. There are huge gaps in the skyline where the six-storey slums have collapsed into smouldering rubble on to which municipal firemen are still pouring water. My horse is starting to protest. In the heat it finds carrying my bulk quite a difficult task. We struggle on.

  “Thraxas!”

  It’s Makri, sword in one hand and a bag of manuscripts in the other. She’s on her way to her mathematics class.

  “Makri, you are a madwoman. There won’t be any classes today. The Guild College is still on fire and the Professors are probably all hiding in their cellars, unless they’re dead…”

  She looks disappointed.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Now, if you want to be in on the end of the case, get up on the horse.”

  She leaps aboard. The horse protests some more. No doubt Lisutaris will be able to nurse it back to health.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The docks. I’m chasing the Elves. They’ve got the Cloth. Probably the dwa as well.”

  Makri finds it hard to believe that the Elves are criminals. “Callis is a healer.”

  “He’ll need healing when I get through with him. Can you think of anyone better qualified to sneak up unnoticed behind Hanama and Sarin? And don’t forget the way the Elves mysteriously appeared when Sarin had us cold outside the city. They’d been following us. They’ve used me all along, Makri. Representatives of an Elf Lord indeed. They’re after the Cloth for themselves.”

  “Crooked Elves?”

  “That’s right. I was a fool to take them on face value.”

  Makri asks me why I didn’t check their credentials in the first place. “Because they handed over a load of money of course. Now, stop asking stupid questions.”

  We’re next to the harbour. Just as well as the horse absolutely refuses to take another step. We dismount and look around. Several ships have been sunk in the harbour and a few more are smouldering at their berths. Only one vessel seems to be in good shape and the captain is obviously keen to get out of the city fast because he’s preparing to weigh anchor as we approach.

  He looks at us curiously: a large fat man, ragged and filthy, dripping with sweat, and an exotic young woman with a chainmail bikini and a sword sticking out from under her cloak.

  “Travelling far?” he says.

  “Not travelling at all,” I reply. “Just looking. For Elves. Any aboard this ship?”

  He stares at me blankly, the universal sign in Turai that a bribe is called for. I pass him a guran.

  “Just got on,” he says. “Cabin at the front. We’re sailing in three minutes, with you on board if you’re still here.”

  Makri and I rush along the deck past various surprised-looking sailors who are making ready to cast off. Most of them are bruised from the riot but work away busily. You have to be tough to sail these seas.

  There’s only one cabin door at the end of the ship—most passengers on a trader like this would simply bunk down wherever they found an empty piece of deck—and we kick it open and stride right in. I’m not prepared for what we find and am rendered temporarily speechless.

  I unsheathe my sword almost involuntarily, although there is obviously no one here to fight with. No one here at all except two dead Elves, each with a knife deep in his heart. They’ve both been stabbed in the chest, I mean; I’m not absolutely certain if Elves’ hearts are in the same place as ours. They’re dead anyway.

  I catch a momentary flicker of sadness passing over Makri’s face at the sight of the young healer dead on the floor, but she’s too hardened to death to show much emotion. Myself, I’m not sad at all, but I’m sure as hell puzzled. From the lack of outcry outside I presume that no one on the ship knows what’s happened, but it can’t be an easy thing to kill two Elves without making the slightest sound. I study the weapons. Small throwing knives, unleashed with murderous accuracy before the victims knew what was happening.

  “Looks like they met their match in sneaking,” I grunt, and start searching the cabin.

  They’ve stashed the dwa under their bunks. There’s no sign of the Cloth. A call comes from the ship’s mate that they’re about to sail. I’d like to take the dwa but it’s not strictly necessary and I don’t want to draw attention to myself by struggling off heavily laden. I notice the healer’s pouch lying spilled open on the floor. There’s a few lesada leaves among a bunch of other herbs. I pick them up and stuff them into my own pouch.

  “Shame to waste them,” I tell Makri. “Very good for hangovers.”

  “You don’t have to explain, Thraxas. I never expected you to have any qualms about robbing the dead.”

  We leave the cabin and stroll off the ship as though nothing has happened.

  “Shouldn’t we inform the Captain his passengers are dead?”

  “What for? Just make trouble all round. For two dead Elves the authorities will be crawling all over the ship. It’ll be weeks before he can sail. And we’ll be answering questions from the Guard for a month. This way he gets to dump the bodies out at sea as soon as they’re discovered. I expect they already paid for their passage. And he’s got six bags of dwa to make up for his trouble. Much easier all round.”

  I’m more tired than a man should be. I have difficulty walking home.

  Large parts of Quintessence Street are unrecognisable, mere burned-out shells. The municipal carts haven’t got round to collecting the bodies from Twelve Seas yet, so the place is quite a mess. The Avenging Axe is badly damaged but at least it survived. When Gurd went mad and started swinging his axe around not many of the locals fancied taking him on.

  I walk in, climb upstairs and fall asleep on the remains of my couch.

  Chapter Thirty

  Karlox has a nasty cut on his face where I kicked him. I know, because he’s standing over me with a sword in his hand.

  “You ever consider knocking?” I growl.

  “Door wasn’t locked,” says Karlox.

  I’m still lying on the couch. The point of Karlox’s sword is making it awkward for me to rise. He’s got five men with him. They’re looking for the money I owe. I don’t have it.

  “The Orc bitch went out,” grunts Karlox, reading my mind. I was hoping she’d burst in and rescue me. “Got the money?”

  “On its way. I’m just waiting for payment to arrive.”

  Which is true. Cicerius owes me plenty for clearing his son, and clearing the Princess. I can’t really explain this to Karlox however, and I doubt it would make any difference if I could. For Karlox it’s more fun if I don’t have the money.

  “Got a spell ready?” he asks, knowing full well that I haven’t.

  “No? Not much of a Sorcerer, are you? Not much of anything really. Apart from a gambler. A bad gambler. Very unlucky. And this is the most unlucky day you’re ever going to have, fat man.”

  One of his thugs laughs. They advance and stand round me, swords drawn.

  “What is going on here?” demands a now familiar voice. It’s Cicerius. I never thought I’d be so pleased to see him. He strides into my shattered room, a grim frown on his narrow face.

  “Well?” he says, going right up to Karlox and looking him squarely in the face. This is a little awkward for Karlox. Not only is Cicerius much too important for him to push around, but the Traditionals use the Brotherhood as muscle during the elections.

  “Some private business, Praetor,” says Karlox, uncomfortably.

  “The gambling debt, no doubt,” says Cicerius.

  Of course. I forgot everyone in the city knew about it.

  Cicerius motions to his attendant. The attendant draws out a purse, counts out some coins, and hands them over to the Brotherhood enforcer.

  “Depart,” orders the Praetor.

  Poor Karlox. He’s sadder than a Niojan whore at
this turn of events. He was looking forward to doing a little enforcing on me. He departs, followed by his men.

  I rise, grateful at this turn of events, and thank Cicerius. He looks at me with disapproval and gives me a brief lecture on the stupidity of gambling, particularly if I’m not good enough to win.

  “The money will be deducted from your fee.”

  Praetor Cicerius, looking more incongruous than ever in his crisp white toga in my shattered room, informs me that the Princess has been cleared.

  “The Consul has been reliably informed that the dragon was in fact killed by Orcs from their Embassy. An internal Orcish power struggle, apparently. The Civil Guardsmen picked up their bodies here in Twelve Seas.” None of this is true, of course. It’s just the story circulated by Bishop Gzekius to clear the Princess’s name, as promised. “The Orcish Ambassadors are not happy, but as several of their Orcs were found in a place they were forbidden to enter, a church, they cannot protest too much. The King is relieved to learn that his daughter has not been indulging in illegal activities. It’s a satisfactory outcome. I don’t suppose it’s true?”

  I tell him no, it isn’t and fill him in on most of the details, including everything I know about the Bishop’s misdemeanours. The Praetor is shocked to learn the extent of the Bishop’s machinations. I imagine Gzekius will find his influence at court waning from now on. Of course Bishop Gzekius will now have it in for me in no uncertain fashion so it won’t hurt to have Cicerius ranged against him. Despite being troubled by what I tell him the Praetor has to admit that I’ve done what I was hired to do. The Princess is in the clear. Soon everyone in Turai will hear rumours that the whole trouble was the fault of the Orcs trying to steal the Cloth. There’s some truth in that, I suppose. They did start it when they hired Glixius to get it for them, although events quickly spiralled out of his control.

  The Praetor informs me that he has already let it be known to the Niojan Ambassador that his attaché Attilan was killed by the rogue Orcs after he stumbled on their criminal activities. Clever of the Praetor. Gets Turai a bit of breathing space. Nioj will still destroy us one day.

  Whether it was the Pontifex I saw at Attilan’s house or the Elves that killed the attaché, I don’t know. The Elves, I think. Now that the Orcs have been blamed, it doesn’t seem to matter much.

  “Of course our Elvish allies who sent us the Cloth are not fully satisfied. We may have shifted the blame for the theft on to the Orcs but there is still no sign of the Cloth. Do you know where it is?”

  I shake my head. I’ve been expecting Cicerius to give me a hard time about this—I haven’t forgotten Consul Kalius accusing me of lying—but he seems quite prepared to believe me.

  “Well, I cannot expect you to do everything. I am already grateful to you for keeping my son out of court and preserving his reputation. And that of the Prince. However undeserved that may be.”

  He makes to leave, but halts at the door. “Princess Du-Akai wishes me to pass on her sincere gratitude,” he says, and departs abruptly. As he opens the door the smell of smoke drifts in from the smouldering buildings in the street outside.

  I muse on the Praetor’s words. Not bad. The Princess likes me. Maybe I can do a little social climbing on the back of that. Anything to get out of Twelve Seas. Makri appears the moment he departs. Having returned half-way through his visit she has, of course, been listening at the door.

  “Looks like your luck’s changing, Thraxas. Everyone’s pleased with you. The city officials, the Royal Family—even the Brotherhood is off your back.”

  I nod. It’s true. Things do look better than a few days ago. My enemies are either pacified or departed. Apart from Glixius Dragon Killer—with my luck he will have survived the riot—and the Society of Friends, who will no doubt be mad as hell at me for messing things up for them. I can live with that.

  I stub my toe on something on the floor. It’s a bottle of beer. Must’ve been hidden under the sofa. I open it and take a long swig, then stare out the window at the wreckage outside.

  “Somehow you don’t seem too pleased,” says Makri.

  I turn to face her. “I’m pleased enough, I guess.”

  “Well you’re looking as miserable as a Niojan whore.”

  I take another drink. “I don’t like being given the run-around, Makri. Not by anyone, but particularly not by you.”

  Makri raises her eyebrows. I tell her to stop acting innocent.

  “The Association of Gentlewomen stole that Cloth, didn’t they? Don’t bother looking shocked and perplexed, you haven’t been in civilisation long enough to fool an experienced liar like me.”

  Makri continues to look shocked and perplexed. She denies any knowledge of what I’m on about.

  “Oh yes? I’ve wondered all along what Hanama’s involvement in all this was. The Assassins don’t hunt for stolen goods, they assassinate people. It seemed just possible that they would’ve wanted the Elvish Cloth for their guild, to make their own magic-proof room perhaps, but in that case why was it always Hanama who kept appearing everywhere? Why not some other Assassin? There are plenty of them. Way too many in fact. But it was always her. And she’s a difficult woman to shake off, as the Elves found out last night.”

  Makri continues to be silent. I continue to talk.

  “I knew immediately when I saw the Elves that Hanama had killed them. A knife throw to their hearts before they could even move. Very efficient. Difficult to carry out, of course, given that Elves are practically impossible to take by surprise, and they move pretty damned quick when they’re in danger. But not beyond the powers of Hanama. They only outsmarted her before because she was half drowned in the flood. I wondered at first how she could possibly have known it was the Elves—after all, I’d only just worked it out and I swear no one did before me—then I realised. I mentioned it to the Princess just before I went after them myself. And to Lisutaris. One of them got a message to Hanama, and fast. Quite a group, this Association of Gentlewomen, Makri. Princesses, Assassins, Sorcerers. And barmaids.”

  I fix her with a stare.

  “Are you suggesting I’ve been passing on information?” says Makri, not sounding too pleased about it.

  “Well, have you?”

  “No, I have not. And if the Association of Gentlewomen has been pursuing the Elvish Cloth it’s news to me. Why would they want it anyway?”

  “Same reason everybody else in this city wants things. For money. You told me you needed fifty thousand to buy a Charter. Taking a collection box round Twelve Seas isn’t going to get you far. But a nice fat thirty thousand for the Cloth will.”

  Makri absolutely denies it. “I don’t even believe that Hanama is in the Association of Gentlewomen. She’s an Assassin.”

  “So? Maybe she feels she’s not making out as well as she should. Held back from promotion by the men in the Assassins Guild. And, now I think about it, when she came round on the beach she called you Makri. Struck me as pretty friendly at the time, for someone you’d only ever seen once before during a fight. And the Princess passes on her best regards as well…”

  We stare at each other across the room. Makri strides over to me and sticks her nose right in my face.

  “Thraxas,” she says, her voice clipped and hostile. “You might be right about the Association. Maybe Hanama was getting the Cloth for them. I hope she was. We need the money. But I wasn’t in on it. I wouldn’t pass any information about your business behind your back, because you’re the only friend I have in this stinking city.”

  She glares at me angrily. I glare back at her. Seconds pass in hostile silence. It strikes me that I don’t have too many friends in this stinking city either.

  “You’ve been working too hard, Makri. Let’s go downstairs. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  In the aftermath of the Eight-Mile Terror the violence that was gripping Turai fades into the background. The elections are still going ahead, and the Brotherhood and the Society of Frien
ds are still struggling to control the dwa market, but in the face of the recent calamity most of the outright hostility is either toned down or suspended altogether. Everyone is too busy rebuilding the city, and rebuilding their lives.

  Cerius is not brought to court, due to the evidence I present to the Consul. Prince Frisen-Akan’s attempt to import narcotics on a large scale doesn’t reach the ears of the public. Cicerius is pleased on both counts. Thanks to me he keeps his reputation. What’s more, any sort of civic disaster usually unites the population behind the Royal Family, which will quite probably hand the elections to the Traditionals. Too good a politician to miss an opportunity, he makes a fine series of speeches in the Senate, urging everyone in Turai to pull together to rebuild the city. It does his election chances no harm at all.

  The Renowned and Truthful Chronicle of All the World’s Events notes that one of the sad losses to the city in the recent riot was one of its most powerful Sorcerers, Tas of the Eastern Lightning, found dead in an alley with a crossbow bolt in his back. The paper laments the fact that a mad rioter could have acquired such a weapon. It didn’t take Sarin the Merciless long to get rid of him.

  “I guess if you’ve extorted ten thousand gurans, it’s better not to have to share it,” said Makri when she hears the news. “Are you still keen to meet her again?”

  “Absolutely. The sooner Sarin comes back to Turai the better. I could do with some reward money. I’ll soon show her who’s number one chariot around here.”

  The Avenging Axe is being knocked back into shape. Here, as in the rest of Twelve Seas, architects and builders are engaged round the clock to put things right. Workmen are busy everywhere, sweating in the heat. Flocks of stals, displaced by fire from their old perches, fight for nesting space on the roofs of the new buildings. The King opens the royal vaults to pay for much of the work, which is very generous of him, although cynics might say he was merely buying his supporters’ victory in the elections.

  Personally, I’m in good shape. A fat payment from Cicerius and an extra bonus from the Princess, not to mention the valuable double unicorn the Elves gave me as a retainer. Plus a solid reputation as a man who gets things done.