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  Yet here are two young Elves, green-clad, tall, fair and golden-eyed, and they want to hire me. Hire me to find the Red Elvish Cloth. The substance is plaguing me. I’ve already explained my involvement in the whole affair is accidental.

  “If you heard a rumour I have it, it’s just that, a rumour. I don’t know how it got started but I’ve no idea where the Cloth is.”

  “We have heard no such rumours,” states Callis-ar-Del, the older of the two. “We have come here because our cousin, Vas-ar-Methet, loyal adviser to Lord Kalith-ar-Yil, who sent the Cloth, recommended you to us as a clever and trustworthy man.”

  I enjoy being called a clever and trustworthy man. I look on the young Elves with more sympathy. More importantly, the name of Vas-ar-Methet takes me back. One of the very few Elves I’ve ever been really friendly with, he came up from the Southern Islands with an Elvish battalion in the last Orc Wars. After the western forces took a beating we ended up sharing a ditch together along with Gurd, ingloriously if prudently hiding from a large Orcish dragon patrol scouting the area. We hid for three days before fighting our way back to safety. Sneaking back to safety might be more accurate actually, but we did have to cut our way through a band of Orcish warriors before we reached the city. It’s one of our favourite wartime stories. I relate it at least once a week in the bar downstairs.

  “How is Vas these days?”

  “He is well. His tree of life grows strong with the sky.”

  I don’t exactly know what that means but decide not to pursue it.

  “Before we left the Islands he instructed us to come to you if we found ourselves unable to make progress.”

  The Elves have been sent from the Southern Islands by their Elf Lord to locate the missing Cloth but they have made no progress. So here they are. They’ve been to their Ambassador, seen our Consul, been to Palace Security, consulted the Civil Guard and asked around at various Investigating Sorcerers uptown, all to no effect. Which brings them to Twelve Seas—rotting fish heads, stinking sewers, cheap detective. Welcome to the big city.

  I shrug. Since I’m already involved in this affair, someone might as well pay me now I’ve been sacked by the Princess. I agree to take the case. The Elves, Callis and his companion Jaris-ar-Miat, tell me what they know, which isn’t much. Their Elf Lord, Kalith-ar-Yil, sent up the Cloth on a ship bound for Turai, but it had to put in south of Mattesh because of storm damage. Rather than wait for repairs to be completed the Cloth was loaded on to a wagon train and sent up to the city. Somewhere along the way the escort was murdered and the Cloth disappeared. And that’s about it. Callis and Jaris don’t seem to have learned anything since being sent to investigate, but then they’re not professionals.

  I stare again at the double unicorn in my hand. Very valuable indeed. And another one to follow if I locate the Red Elvish Cloth. That would go a long way towards paying off the Brotherhood. Then there’s the reward for the Cloth offered by the Consul. Things might be looking up. I might even earn enough to get out of Twelve Seas. The Elves prepare to leave. A very well-mannered pair. They haven’t wrinkled their noses at the state of my rooms.

  Makri appears, failing to knock as usual. She is taken aback and gawps dumbly at the Elves, who stare back at her. Their manners let them down. They can sense her Orcish blood and it requires little insight to see they don’t like it at all. They edge away from her uncomfortably. A look of annoyance flickers over Makri’s face.

  “Well?” she demands, aggressively.

  The Elves nod to me and hurry out. I ask Makri what she wants.

  “Nothing. I’ve got work to do,” she says with what she probably imagines is dignity, and storms out, banging the door behind her.

  I’m annoyed. I don’t like to see Makri upset, but before I can pursue her Pontifex Derlex appears at my door. I try to look like a man who woke up in time for morning prayers. The Pontifex expresses concern for the attack last night.

  “I’m fine,” I assure him. “Me and Makri fought them off.”

  Derlex suppresses a grunt. His concern for my welfare doesn’t extend to Makri. With her Orcish blood, chainmail bikini and sword-wielding abilities, Makri is about one step up from a demon from the underworld in the eyes of the Church.

  “I am gravely concerned at the increase in crime in the Twelve Seas,” says the Pontifex, fingering his sacred beads. “As is Bishop Gzekius.”

  I grunt. “I doubt Bishop Gzekius will lose much sleep over me, Pontifex.”

  Derlex looks pained. “The Bishop is concerned with the welfare of every one of his flock,” he says. He keeps a straight face, which is more than most people could do when attributing Bishop Gzekius with any sort of charitable feelings. The good Bishop Gzekius, whose pastoral responsibilities include Twelve Seas and the rest of Turai’s miserable dockland slums, is an ambitious schemer with his eyes on the Archbishopric. He’s far too busy striving for power and influence among the city’s aristocracy to worry about the poor of Twelve Seas, or anywhere else.

  “Why did the gang attack you?”

  I profess not to know, and usher Derlex out after again promising to attend his church. I’m finding this concern for my health a little hard to take, particularly before breakfast.

  My breakfast is a cheerless affair, eaten under the frosty gaze of Makri who is currently as angry as an Orc with a toothache. She slams my plate down on my table and refuses to speak.

  “Don’t you think you’re being a bit over-sensitive?” I venture, as she passes with a mop in her hands.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snaps, brandishing the mop in a quite dangerous manner. “I’m as happy as an Elf in a tree.”

  She mops under a chair, knocks it over, and stamps on the remains.

  Customers arrive for an early drink, ending our discussion. I curse the delicate sensitivities of my axe-wielding friend and prepare for a day’s investigating. I go down to the local Civil Guard station to see if Guardsman Jevox can throw any light on things. I once used my influence to protect Jevox’s father from the Brotherhood when they were threatening his livelihood as a bookmaker at the Stadium Superbius, which makes Jevox rather more helpful to me than your average Civil Guardsman.

  “Any leads on the theft of the Red Elvish Cloth?”

  Jevox is surprised at my question. “You working on that?”

  I look vacant and he doesn’t press the point. Jevox has heard about the fight at my house with the Society of Friends, but he can’t throw any light on why they or anybody else should have thought I had the Cloth. He does tell me that the Society is rumoured to have been connected to the hijacking, though there’s nothing definite.

  “Are you saying they don’t have it any more?”

  “Possibly.”

  I ask him to let me know if the Guard makes any progress, particularly on the name of the Sorcerer who might be working with the Society, and Jevox agrees. He asks me how I got mixed up in it.

  Naturally I decline to explain. “What’s the reward?”

  “Just went up to five hundred gurans.”

  A nice figure to a man in urgent need of money. Tholius, Prefect of Twelve Seas, arrives unexpectedly and throws me out. Tholius doesn’t like me. Prefects never do. Any time I solve something it makes them feel inadequate.

  Outside the Civil Guard station some young kid from the Koolu Kings, the local street gang, shouts a disparaging remark about fat men who always gamble on the wrong chariots. I scoop up a stone and hurl it at him in one smooth movement. It hits him on the nose and he bursts into tears.

  “Never mock a trained soldier, brat.”

  Palax and Kaby are busking beside the harbour. Both are dressed in their usual bizarre assortment of shabby but colourful clothes. They augment their outfits with many strings of beads and great numbers of earrings. Each of them wears a metal stud piercing their left eyebrow (among other parts of their anatomies) and they dye their hair in colours bright enough to get any normal citizen attacked in the street,
though as travelling entertainers they have some licence in this sort of thing. Their horse-drawn caravan is parked on a patch of waste ground behind Gurd’s tavern. I was shocked the first time I saw them, and recommended that Gurd ran them off the land, but I’m used to them now. They’re actually a nice young couple and we’re quite friendly. It’s beyond me why they have to look so strange though. I mean, pierced noses and eyebrows? Ridiculous. I listen to them play for a minute, and drop a coin into their cup.

  It’s time to visit the Mermaid, one of Twelve Seas’ least pleasant taverns, which is saying something. More youths from the Koolu Kings jeer at me as I pass. Everyone in Twelve Seas knows me, but I wouldn’t claim to be popular. The prostitutes and dwa dealers ignore me as I pick my way over the filth strewn over the street.

  Kerk can usually be found around here. As a dwa dealer he often learns interesting facts in the way of his business. Unfortunately for him, he consumes rather too much of his own product, and is therefore generally in need of money. I find him outside the tavern, leaning unsteadily against the wall. He’s tall and dark but his once handsome features are sunken and undernourished and his large eyes are dull and vacant. From his eyes I think he may have a trace of Elvish blood, which wouldn’t be so strange. Elvish visitors to our city are not above dallying with our whores, whatever their professions of moral superiority.

  I ask him if he knows anything about the Cloth.

  “Choirs of Angels,” he mutters, staring at the floor. I don’t know what that means. I presume he’s in the grip of some powerful hallucination. Kerk’s been getting worse recently. I’m surprised he manages to keep his business going.

  “Red Elvish Cloth,” I repeat.

  He focuses on me with some difficulty.

  “Thraxas. You’re in trouble.”

  “I know that already. I just don’t know why.”

  “You robbed Attilan.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “That’s what people say.”

  “Well what about it?” I demand.

  “Attilan was trying to get his hands on the Elvish Cloth for Nioj. Some people think he already had it when you killed him.”

  “I didn’t kill him. Or rob him. Anyway, how could Attilan have had the Cloth? It isn’t in the city.”

  Kerk shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe Glixius Dragon Killer’s behind it all.”

  “Who the hell is Glixius Dragon Killer?” I demand.

  Kerk looks at me. “Don’t you know anything? You’re not much of an Investigator, Thraxas. Surprised you’ve stayed alive so long. Glixius Dragon Killer is the rogue Sorcerer who hijacked the stuff in the first place. He’s been working with the Society.”

  Kerk holds out his hand. I press a coin into it.

  “Choirs of Angels,” he mumbles again. He dribbles, slides down the wall and passes out. I must find some informers who are not the scum of the earth. At least I now know why my name became connected with the Cloth. Attilan was after it and I had the misfortune to be arrested for his murder. No wonder people thought I’d robbed him.

  I stare with distaste at Kerk’s unconscious figure. I doubt I’m the only person he sells information to. If he’s been spreading what he knows it’s no surprise that various other people might think I have the cloth.

  It’s hot. I want to go home and drink beer. However, with the Assassins Guild and the Society of Friends both out to get me, and two Elves waiting to pay me handsomely, I have an incentive to start work. I need to talk to Captain Rallee but it takes a while to find him. He had a cushy desk job at the Abode of Justice up till last year, which he didn’t mind at all, but then he fell out of favour when the wheels of internal Palace politics moved against him. Deputy Consul Rittius replaced him with his own man, and the Captain is therefore once more pounding the streets. Which does at least give me something in common with the good Captain, because Deputy Consul Rittius, the second most important government official in Turai, hates me as well.

  I find the Captain staring morosely at a few dead bodies on the outskirts of Kushni.

  “What happened?”

  “Same as usual,” he grunts in reply. “Brotherhood and Society fighting over territory for the dwa trade. It’s getting out of hand, Thraxas. Half the city’s caught up in it.”

  We watch as city employees load corpses into wagons and drive them off. I don’t bother asking the Captain if he’s planning to arrest anyone. The drug barons of the Society of Friends and the Brotherhood have too much protection in this city for the Civil Guard to touch them. As for their lesser minions, there’s so many of them it hardly makes any difference how many he throws in jail.

  “Just trying to keep the lid on things till I retire,” sighs the Captain. “And now the elections are about to start. More chaos.”

  He shakes his head, and asks me what I want. I explain my situation to him, without mentioning the Elves. He nods.

  “We heard a rumour that Nioj was interested in the Cloth. The Elves don’t like selling to them. They get annoyed when the fundamentalist Niojan clerics denounce them as demons from hell. Don’t think the Niojans were involved in the hijacking though. We’ve obtained information as to who was responsible.”

  “Yeah, I know, Glixius Dragon Killer,” I say, disappointing the Captain. “I’ve met him already. Any leads on where the stuff is?”

  “No,” replies the Captain. “But I reckon it’s long gone. Probably never reached Turai at all.”

  I ask him if the Guards are any closer to finding Attilan’s killer.

  Captain Rallee sneers. “We reckon you make a pretty good suspect, Thraxas.”

  “Come on, you know I didn’t kill him.”

  “Maybe. But that might not stop us charging you anyway. If no one better comes along. Rittius would be delighted to see you in a prison galley. And he’s going to have to charge someone. The Niojan Ambassador is raising hell.”

  “Don’t you have any real leads?” I ask him.

  “You expect a lot, Thraxas. Information from me, but you won’t say what your involvement is. Why should I help you?”

  “I once pulled you out from under the wheels of an Orc chariot?”

  “That was a long time ago. I’ve done you enough favours since then. You got yourself mixed up in this, and now the Society’s on your tail. Tough. Come clean with us, Thraxas, and I might be able to help you. Otherwise you’re on your own.”

  That’s as much as I get from the Captain, though he does tell me that an even more powerful form of dwa has appeared in the city, going by the name of Choirs of Angels. No one knows where it’s coming from.

  “Kerk seems to like it. Well, Captain, if you refuse to help me, I’ll just have to find the Cloth myself. I could do with a fat reward.”

  “Well, if we find you were mixed up in its theft, you won’t get out of prison to spend your reward. Still, Thraxas, maybe you should look for it. If the Society of Friends think you’ve got it, your life isn’t worth much anyway. Not that it’s going to be worth anything at all in two days’ time if you don’t hand over five hundred gurans to Yubaxas.”

  I sneer at him.

  “No doubt the Civil Guard will provide me with constant protection if a criminal organisation such as the Brotherhood is out to harm me?”

  “Yeah right, Thraxas. Sure we will. Best thing you could do is leave town. Except you can’t, because you’re still a suspect for Attilan’s murder. Looks like you’re in a difficult position.”

  “Thanks a lot, Captain.”

  The heat is becoming oppressive. The sun’s rays are trapped between the six-storey slums that line the streets. It’s illegal to build above four storeys in Turai. Too dangerous. The property developers bribe the Prefects and the Prefects pass on some money to the Praetors’ officials and then no one minds that it’s dangerous any more. Stals, the small black birds which infest parts of the city, sit miserably on the rooftops, lacking the energy to scavenge for scraps. I’m sweating like a pig, the whores look tired and the stre
ets stink. It’s a bad day. I might as well visit the Assassins.

  Chapter Ten

  Kushni is the most disreputable area of a city which has more than its fair share of disreputable quarters. The narrow, filthy streets are comprised of brothels, gambling dens, dwa joints and dubious taverns. The streets are full of pimps, prostitutes, derelicts, junkies and thieves. It is perverse of the Assassins to have their headquarters there. Not that they’re in any danger of being robbed or assaulted by any of Kushni’s low-life habitués. No one would be so stupid.

  “I’m surprised at you visiting us,” says the black-hooded woman sitting opposite me. “Our informants didn’t say you were possessed of great intelligence, but neither did they tell us you were a fool.”

  I’m sitting in a plain room without decoration of any sort talking to Hanama, Master Assassin, and I can’t say I’m enjoying it. Hanama is number three in the Assassins’ chain of command, or so I believe. They don’t publish details of their ranks. She’s around thirty, I think, though she looks younger, but it’s hard to tell as her head and part of her face are generally covered by a black hood. She is small, very pale-skinned, and rather softly spoken.

  “It was easy to break the locking spell on your door,” she murmurs. “I doubt if your protection spell would hold out against me for long.”

  Little does she know I’m not carrying a protection spell. I put the sleep spell into my subconscious before I came out, and I can’t manage two spells these days. Could I utter the sleep spell before she made it across the table to kill me? Possibly. Possibly not. I’ve no intention of finding out.