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  I finally manage to track down one of Drantaax’s servants, a groom. The Guard had been holding him as a material witness but his father has some influence with the Horse Masters Guild and managed to spring him. He doesn’t tell me much I don’t already know, but he does confirm Calia’s story that Drantaax seemed to be in no trouble. The statue was coming along on schedule and he doesn’t know of any debts. The groom had accompanied Drantaax and Calia on their short break to Ferias, a small town further down the coast where it’s a little cooler in the summer. People with money to spare often take a break there at this time of year. Lucky them, I reflect, as the sweat pours down inside my tunic and my leather sandals start to feel as if they’re made of wet rags.

  I wonder if Drantaax had a bank account? Most of the population never have enough money to worry about banking it, and small businessmen usually just keep their own safe or hide their takings somewhere in their property but a relatively well-off man like Drantaax might possibly have kept an account up in Golden Crescent where the upper classes transact their business. I have few contacts in that area but I might be able to nose something out. It would answer the question of whether or not Drantaax was in debt. I’m preoccupied with these sort of thoughts so I don’t notice Makri till she stumbles into me in Quintessence Street.

  “Hey, watch your feet, Makri. What’s the matter, the heat getting to you?”

  “Sorry.”

  She tells me she’s just back from her class in advanced Elvish languages, which she finds stressful because the Professor always stares at her as if she shouldn’t be there.

  “I hate him. But listen.”

  She says something in the Royal Elvish language.

  “What did that mean?”

  “Welcome to my tree.”

  “Very good, Makri.”

  “Are you impressed?”

  “Yes. So will the Elves be if you ever sail down south and start talking it to them. Very few Humans learn the royal language.”

  Not many Humans know any Elvish at all, though the Elves have no objections to people learning. Makri’s Common Elvish is quite fluent already, and mine isn’t too bad. You study some when you start off as a Sorcerer’s Apprentice, and I had a chance to practise it when I visited the Elves.

  One thing that Makri actually admires me for is that I’ve been to the Southern Islands. Few men have. We trade with them of course, but apart from the ships’ crews, few citizens would ever venture that far, deeming it much too dangerous a voyage. It might not be worth the trouble anyway. We like the Elves here, but they don’t welcome too many visitors.

  “I will sail down there one day,” says Makri.

  I’m surprised.

  “What’s brought that on? The last Elf you saw went as white as a sheet when he sensed your Orc blood. You swore you’d never even try speaking to one again.”

  “Well, they’ll be pleased to see me one day.”

  Perhaps they will. For a social outcast Makri does have a surprising capacity for winning people over. And legendary creatures. When we visited the Fairy Glade a few months ago the Centaurs couldn’t get enough of her. Of course Centaurs are, frankly, interested in any woman as well developed as Makri, no matter what her breeding.

  “Kaby has a ring through her navel,” says Makri. “I like it. Do you think I should get one?”

  I’m bewildered by this sudden change of subject.

  “You told me body piercing was taboo for the Elves,” Makri explains. “Were you making it up?”

  “No, it’s true.”

  “Well, I suppose I could always take it out when the time comes. Do you think I should get my nipples done?”

  “Only if you want to completely panic the Elves. And what the hell would you want to do it for? No one’s ever going to see.”

  Makri has never had a lover. She says she might be interested if all the men in Twelve Seas weren’t so disgusting. I admit she has a point.

  “Kaby has her nipples pierced. She was showing me—”

  “Could we please change the subject? Guild classes are fine. Intimate bodily detail I can live without.”

  Makri claims to be puzzled. “Is this another of your ‘civilisation’ things?”

  Suddenly the call for Sabav, evening prayers, rings out.

  “Now see what you’ve done, Makri. If you hadn’t started rambling on about body piercing we’d have made it home before prayers. I could be sitting on my couch with a beer. Now we have to kneel down here and pray.”

  There is no getting around this. Wherever you are when the call comes from the tall towers, you pray.

  Most people, more aware of this obligation than myself and Makri, have departed either to their homes or a temple, either to pray or to hide until it’s over, but there are a few other stragglers and, along with the people who live on the streets and don’t have anywhere else to go, we kneel down. It’s annoying, especially as the Avenging Axe is now in sight, but there’s nothing to be done about it. Makri is particularly unwilling to carry out this act of devotion as she doesn’t believe in the True Church, but no exceptions are allowed and failure to comply means arrest.

  I mumble my way through the evening prayers. The sun is still beating down and the ground is hard on my knees. I console myself with the thought of Gurd’s ale only a few minutes away. After what seems like a long time the call comes for the end of prayers. At that very instant I get a strong feeling that something is wrong. Some danger is very close. I’m halfway to my feet but I fling myself to the ground. There’s the whizzing sound of a crossbow bolt and I feel a sharp pain in my arm as something nicks it. On my way to the ground I crash into Makri and we fall in a heap. I look up. There’s blood on my arm, but I’m otherwise okay.

  “Damn that Sarin,” I say, drawing my sword.

  I notice that Makri isn’t moving. She’s lying face down in the dirt. I roll her over gently. There’s a crossbow bolt sticking in her chest. Sarin’s bolts are nine inches long. This one has penetrated about eight inches into Makri. Blood pours from the wound. I put my hand to her throat. I can’t feel a pulse. I put my face next to her mouth; she isn’t breathing. The lethal bolt aimed at me has smashed its way through her breastbone. Makri is dead.

  Chapter Fourteen

  For the first time in my life I’m frozen with horror. I don’t look up to see if Sarin is in sight. I don’t even try to get out of the way of another bolt. I just stare at Makri lying dead on the street in front of me.

  Some people who were praying close by edge towards us. I take no notice of them as I pick up Makri’s body and start walking helplessly back to the Avenging Axe.

  “Call the Guards,” shouts someone.

  It’s too late for the Guards to do any good. I can’t believe that this has happened. Makri’s body is light in my arms and hangs limply as I take the last few steps to the tavern. Blood seeps from her chest over my arms. In the early evening the tavern is quiet. I walk to the bar, where Gurd, polishing tankards, looks up at me. His mouth falls open. I stand there stupidly, not knowing what to do next. I can hardly even speak.

  Tanrose appears.

  “Makri’s dead,” I say eventually.

  Tanrose takes my arm and leads me through to the room at the back and I lay the body on a table.

  Gurd is as much in shock as myself and also cannot speak. Tanrose asks what happened.

  “Sarin shot her,” I say.

  Now I’m going to kill Sarin. But I can’t bear to leave Makri’s body.

  Tanrose bends over her. Her eyes fill with tears. As the initial shock wears off my eyes start to brim over too. I feel sick. Gurd groans and sits down in despair.

  I look at the body.

  “She can’t just be dead,” I say.

  Makri suddenly coughs and blood spurts from her mouth. She groans faintly, then her body goes limp again.

  “She’s still alive!” cries Tanrose.

  I waste no time talking. The second Makri coughs I’m off through the tavern o
n my way to Chiaraxi, the healer. Chiaraxi lives not far away. She’s a skilful woman, ministering to the needs of the Twelve Seas poor for little reward but a great deal of gratitude. I run like I haven’t run since I was a young man in the Army. At the entrance to Chiaraxi’s tenement I find a queue of people waiting to go in. I barge my way past them into the apartment. There’s a young woman there taking appointments in a waiting room. She looks up and starts to speak but I’m past and into the healer’s room before she has a word out.

  Chiaraxi is bending over a patient.

  “Makri’s got a crossbow bolt in her chest. She’ll die any minute.”

  I’m half expecting an argument and am quite prepared to pick up Chiaraxi and carry her to the Avenging Axe. To her credit, however, she nods, mutters something to her patient about seeing him tomorrow, and grabs her bag before hurrying out into the street at my side. We run back to the Avenging Axe, and I rush her through to the back room.

  Makri shows no sign of life. Her skin has taken on a peculiar hue.

  When Chiaraxi sees the crossbow bolt buried deep in her chest she glances questioningly at me.

  “She’s still alive,” I state. “Do what you can. I’ll get Astrath Triple Moon.”

  I hurry out the back and saddle up Gurd’s old horse as quickly as any old soldier in the country would. Then I leap on, ram my feet into the stirrups and ride furiously up Quintessence Street, careless of the pedestrians who scream abuse at me as I bowl them over. I make it from Twelve Seas to Pashish in record time and I don’t waste any words on Astrath’s servant as I shove him out the way at the front door and charge into Astrath’s private room.

  Less than a minute later we’re heading back to the Avenging Axe. Astrath doesn’t specialise in healing like some Sorcerers, but he has much knowledge and power. I’m praying he’ll be able to help.

  The horse protests as I mercilessly urge it on. It’s on its last legs when it deposits myself and the Sorcerer at the tavern. I hurry Astrath through to where Makri lies motionless with Chiaraxi standing over her. She’s stopped the bleeding.

  “Is she alive?” I demand.

  “Just.”

  “She shouldn’t be,” mutters Astrath, as he studies the wound, and Chiaraxi agrees with him. Astrath takes out a small clear crystal. It’s a lifestone, carried by most Sorcerers. One of its properties is that when held next to a person’s skin it glows with a green light. Unless they’re dead. Then it doesn’t glow at all. Astrath presses it on Makri’s forehead. We strain to make out any colouring in the crystal. At first nothing happens and then, with painful slowness, the tiniest flicker of green appears.

  Astrath stands up, looking troubled. He doesn’t seem to want to say anything. I tell him to spit it out.

  “No one recovers from that,” he says, glancing at the crystal, which has already returned to its colourless state.

  It seems clear that only Makri’s great inner strength, derived from her mixed blood, has kept her alive. Even that is fading now.

  “Take the bolt out!” screams Gurd suddenly, as his emotions pour out in a great burst.

  Chiaraxi shakes her head. The bolt is buried in the bone. Even attempting to move it will kill Makri for sure.

  “I’ve given her amacia herb,” she says. “It’ll strengthen her. I can’t do any more.”

  Astrath speaks a spell over the body. I recognise it as a spell for strengthening the body’s resistance. Very good if you have the plague. Not so helpful if you have eight inches of crossbow bolt buried inside you. Astrath and Chiaraxi hold out no hope. The amacia herb and the spell will do no more than delay the inevitable, and not for long. They can’t even estimate how long Makri will stay alive, as she should be dead already. So I can’t think of anything to do but wait till she dies then go and kill Sarin.

  “What’s happening?”

  It’s Dandelion. She yells in horror when she sees Makri. I’m too upset by events to care. My sleeves are still wet with Makri’s blood.

  Dandelion turns to me. “The dolphins’ healing stone!”

  So desperate is the situation that I’m prepared to grasp at the straw. “The healing stone? Is it real?”

  “Of course it’s real. I keep telling you. It will heal anything, but it was stolen.”

  A flash of inspiration strikes. One that should have struck before. Ixial the Seer. He couldn’t recover from his wounds, but he did.

  “What’s the healing stone like?” I demand.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” I roar.

  Dandelion quails, thinking I’m about to strike her. I might.

  “I never asked them what it was like. I just know it’s their healing stone.”

  I want to rush off and find Ixial but I force myself to calm down and think. No use running blindly around town not even knowing what I’m looking for. The dolphins that talk live out in the bay. It’s about a twenty-minute ride there. Too long.

  “I could try calling from the harbour,” says Dandelion. “They sometimes swim close enough to hear.”

  I agree to try. And I ask Astrath if he can locate Ixial for me.

  “Maybe, if you have something belonging to him. Otherwise, maybe not.”

  I don’t have anything. Or anything he’s touched. I rack my brains for inspiration. There’s the gold in the statue. If he was behind the bullion robbery he might have touched that.

  I take out the magic purse and drag the top of it down. In the general horror about what has happened to Makri no one even gasps as the statue appears.

  Astrath Triple Moon shakes his head. “No use, Thraxas. It’s been in the magic space. Any lingering aura will be wiped off.”

  I step outside and return with the sledgehammer, then smash more of the bronze covering off, revealing a fresh piece of gold. “How about that? It’s been covered all the time it’s been in there.”

  Astrath fingers his short grey beard. “I might get something.”

  “Do what you can, then meet me at the bottom of Moon and Stars Avenue.”

  Gurd’s old horse won’t make another journey with two people on its back. I hurry along Quintessence Street with Dandelion, looking for a landus. The first one that trots past has some sort of minor official in the back. I grab the reins, bringing it to a halt, then brandish my sword.

  “Need this landus,” I say.

  He leaps out, uttering threats. I punch him, and he falls down.

  “Take us to the harbour and make it quick,” I tell the driver.

  I’m still carrying my sword. He takes us to the harbour, and he makes it quick.

  Dandelion says she once talked to a dolphin at the furthest edge of the longest pier. We head there, out past the triremes and biremes docked for loading and unloading. The hulks are quiet in the evening, each burning only a small harbour light at the bow and stern. A few Securitus men, hired by the harbour authority, patrol the docks at night, but we encounter no one as we run along the pier. I don’t run too far these days, as a rule. I feel my heart pounding with the effort, but I ignore it. Dandelion stumbles and falls. I drag her up. She’s cut her foot on a sharp piece of metal and leaves a blood-stained footprint behind as we rush on. At the furthest part of the harbour is a breakwater which juts far out into the sea, providing shelter from the wind for incoming vessels. We stop when we can go no further.

  “Well?” I demand.

  Dandelion looks out over the dark sea. The sun has dipped over the horizon, its last rays casting a dark red hue over the water. Like wine, as I believe an Elvish poet once said. Dandelion tilts her head slightly and emits a very strange sound, a high-pitched whine with clicks and gurgles mixed in. We wait. Nothing happens. She does it again. I glance at her with fury. If this is her idea of a joke I’m going to throw her into the sea.

  “Where are the dolphins?” I practically scream.

  She makes the noise a third time. I’m about to turn on my heels and go off looking for Ixial when she suddenly calls
and points. Right underneath us a dolphin has poked its head through the surface and looks at Dandelion expectantly.

  “What’ll I say?”

  “Tell it I’m here to find the healing stone. And tell it I have no time to waste.”

  They gurgle and whistle to each other for what seems like an eternity, though I suppose it’s reasonably fast for a conversation between a dolphin and a human. Dandelion finally turns to me and tells me that the dolphins’ healing stone is vaguely cross-shaped, made of black stone and about the size of a man’s hand. That seems like enough to be going on with.

  “It was on the altar of their undersea temple far off in the bay and a diver took it when they were all playing out at sea. The temple is—”

  “Tell me the details later,” I grunt. I head off, leaving the barefoot Dandelion to commune further with the dolphin.

  Now I know what I’m looking for. If Astrath has done the business with the gold in the statue he might be able to tell me where to search. He’s already waiting for me in a landus at the corner of Quintessence Street and Moon and Stars Avenue. Gurd is there too.

  “Any luck?”

  “Yes. Ixial the Seer’s aura is all over the gold. I scanned the city and found him in Twelve Seas.”

  “Twelve Seas? You sure?”

  “Yes. He’s at the official residence of Prefect Tholius.”

  Prefect Tholius. That’s probably something that’s going to make sense when I have time to think about it.

  “What are you going to do?” says the Sorcerer.

  “Find the healing stone. Kill anyone who gets in my way.”

  “Lets go,” says Gurd.

  His axe hangs at his hip. It’s good to have Gurd along. It’s a long time since we fought anyone together. I tell Astrath he doesn’t need to come too. If he gets involved in a brawl with Prefect Tholius he’ll never be readmitted to the Sorcerers Guild. But he wants to come anyway. There’s no time to argue so we set off fast for Tholius’s official residence in Tranquillity Lane which, apart from the church and the public baths, is the only decent building in Twelve Seas.