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“Well, if I don’t come up with the money in three days there’ll be plenty of fighting to do.”

  Makri looks happier. I feel some relief that Makri, despite her weird predilection for studying philosophy, is a keen enough fighter and a good enough friend to automatically support me in a crisis, even though it’s not her affair.

  I begin the weary task of putting my rooms in order. I’ve got no idea who wrecked them, or why. I’m in a terrible mood.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gurd stumbles into the bar from the street outside clutching the remains of a box of tankards.

  “There’s a riot outside,” he says, as he starts to barricade the door.

  A riot. I see the elections are under way. It’s always a difficult time in Turai. With the success of the Populares, or anti-monarchy party, things are getting more tense all the time. When Rittius won the position of Deputy Consul last year it was a sensational victory for the Populares, led by Senator Lodius. The Traditionals, covering the Royal Family, Consul Kalius and most of the Senate, regarded it as the end of civilisation. Civilisation is still here, but if Rittius holds on to his post this year, it might not be soon enough. The Royal Family can no longer sweep aside all opposition, but neither are they weak enough to be easily overthrown. Praetor Cicerius is standing for them against Rittius, trying to regain some of the lost ground for the Traditionals. He’s an honest man though not particularly popular. Still, he has a chance of victory. Since he was elevated from Senator to Praetor, many people think he’s done a good job, and he has the reputation of not taking bribes, which is almost unheard of in this city. People might support him in his bid for the higher post of Deputy Consul.

  I muse on things, while the riot rages. Who killed Attilan? Trying to pin down some sort of lead, I decide to work backwards. Where, for instance, did a Niojan diplomat get an Orcish spell for putting a dragon to sleep? Not the sort of thing you can buy at the local apothecary. Could Attilan have obtained it from one of the Orcish Ambassadors at the Palace? Possibly. But if their Ambassadors are anything like our diplomats, they won’t be magicians. Diplomats are always drawn from the oldest, most respectable families and they tend not to practise magic, regarding it as beneath them. Orcs have their class divisions and snobberies, just like us. Also, unless utterly treacherous to their country, they would not let such a vital spell fall into western hands. I doubt Orcish diplomats are capable of such treason.

  Who else in Turai might have such a spell? There’s always the dragonkeeper. Now there’s an Orc who might well have such a spell, and could be bribable. Many Orcs are greedy for gold, another attribute they share with Humans. Sometimes I swear if they weren’t so ugly I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I’m no oil painting myself.

  I’d like to ask Pazaz a few questions. My Orcish is very rusty so I recruit Makri, who is a rather unwilling accomplice. She’s still in a bad mood and it got worse when she was caught in the riot and had to kick her way through to her afternoon ethics class. The prospect of visiting an Orc appals her. Her hatred for Orcs is such that she protests she may not be able to prevent herself from attacking the dragonkeeper on sight. I extract a promise that she will not kill him without provocation but she flatly refuses to leave her swords at home.

  “Talk to an Orc without a sword at the ready? Are you mad?”

  “He’s here under diplomatic protection, Makri.”

  “Well, he’ll need it if he tries anything with me,” retorts my young and hot-headed companion, fastening on her blade.

  I absolutely refuse to let her bring her axe.

  “We’re visiting the Palace, for God’s sake, Makri, not going into battle. And take that knife out of your boot. It’ll be hard enough getting you into the Palace grounds without you looking like an invading army.”

  The Orcish diplomats are housed in an Embassy within the Palace walls. They never appear in public for fear of causing unrest. We all hate Orcs here. Fair enough. They all hate us. The dragonkeeper is billeted in a small house in the grounds of the zoo, which are open to the public during the day. It’s forbidden to speak to him, but I figure it’s worth a try.

  Makri is afforded some very strange looks by Guards and officials at the huge Lion Gates that open into the Palace grounds, and when it’s learned that we’re going to visit the King’s zoo there are some unpleasant comments from some of the soldiers on duty.

  “Must be missing her dragons,” says one.

  “Orc,” sneers another.

  Makri scowls but manages to restrain her temper until they require her to hand in her sword. They don’t insist on me turning in my weapon, and Makri is livid about the prejudice against her. I pacify her the best I can, which is hardly at all, and we enter the Palace grounds with Makri angrier than a wounded dragon and threatening terrible vengeance on the next person to insult her.

  The King’s Palace in Turai is one of the wonders of the world. Many larger states than us have far less impressive imperial buildings. Since money started flowing in from the gold mines a few generations back, various Kings and Princes have turned their hands to building an ever more splendid residence for themselves.

  Behind the huge Lion Gates, six times the height of a man, is a fabulous den of luxury. The gardens alone are famous throughout the Human Lands, with towering arbours, vast lawns, avenues of trees, banks and beds of flowers, all fed by streams and fountains that were engineered by Afetha-ar-Kyet, the great Elvish garden-maker of a few generations back. The Palace itself is a vast edifice of white marble and silver minarets. The courtyards are paved with pale green and yellow tiles imported from the far west and each wing is roofed with golden slates. The corridors and state rooms are covered with mosaics of gold leaf and coloured stone, and the private quarters were decorated by artists and furnishers drawn from all over the world.

  I used to work here. When I was a Senior Investigator for Palace Security I had the run of the place. Now I’m about as welcome as the plague.

  The grounds are vast and it takes us some time to reach the zoo. It’s hot, and I’m tired. I don’t much feel in the mood for seeing Orcs or dragons. I point out a few of the architectural glories which surround us to Makri, but she’s in too bad a mood to admire them, even though architecture would be part of the University course. Her bad mood intensifies deeply when the call for Sabam rings out from a nearby tower and we are obliged to kneel and pray. I have to practically wrestle her to the ground. If we failed to make our prayers right here in the public grounds of the Palace we’d be up on an impiety charge so quick our feet wouldn’t touch the ground.

  I have trouble staying awake in the heat and doze off during the prayers. Makri unceremoniously boots me awake. I ignore her coarse witticism on my religious shortcomings and haul myself to my feet. The zoo is now in sight but as we approach its white walls a fearful commotion erupts and Guards and civilian officials start pouring this way and that. We hurry on and reach the zoo but the entrance is barred to all the people flocking round from every direction. I recognise various important Palace officials, including Kalius the Consul. The Niojan Ambassador arrives in a sedan, followed by another sedan with thick curtains and an odd, alien crest on the side. The Orcish Ambassadors. One of the Royal Princes hurries past with his bodyguard. What on earth is going on?

  Behind the Prince comes, of all people, Pontifex Derlex. I grab the priest’s arm and demand to know what’s happening.

  “The new dragon’s been killed!” he yells. “It was cut open during prayers! Princess Du-Akai’s been arrested!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I have no opportunity for further enquiries as Makri, myself and everyone else are summarily evicted from the grounds. We share a landus home with Pontifex Derlex, who is so excited by the whole affair he doesn’t seem to mind travelling with Makri, the demon from hell. It’s a lot for him to be excited about, I suppose. Derlex is a fairly lowly local priest. He’d never normally be found at t
he Palace but he had been invited there as the guest of Bishop Gzekius, who was presiding at some religious ceremony for the Royal Family.

  The sensational story soon spreads all over Turai. People gather on street corners and bars to speculate over the affair and study the latest reports in the special editions of the news-sheets. It’s one of the most serious scandals anyone can remember, and it is bound to have great repercussions. Senator Lodius is already fulminating against corruption in the Royal Family. The Populare candidates in the forthcoming elections are fighting to outdo each other in condemning the decadence and graft that they say is gripping the city. Personally I take little interest in politics, and any enthusiasm I might have for reform is tempered by the fact that Senator Lodius is in reality a nakedly ambitious power-seeker ready to use any means to attain his ends. Deputy Consul Rittius belongs to his party, which suggests how bad it is.

  None of this matters to me right now. What does matter is the sensational events at the King’s zoo. The dragon had its belly slit open, not the easiest of things to accomplish, given that a dragon’s skin is like armour. Arrested at the scene along with the Princess was Strongman Brex, with an axe over his shoulder. When the Princess was found to be carrying a large quantity of dwa it was presumed that she had somehow drugged the beast before Brex hacked it open. As far as I can learn, no one knows why they did it.

  Naturally the Orcs are furious. The King is furious. The population is in uproar. And when you consider that the Niojan Ambassador is still threatening war if the murderer of Attilan is not brought to justice, it might be a good time for the faint-hearted to vacate the city. Senator Lodius is going to exploit this to the utmost, which means the elections will be more violent than usual. We’re in for a tough time this summer, unless the Niojans just invade and get it over with.

  Makri is hurrying her meal before rushing out to tonight’s class. Principles of geometry, I think. She’s wrapped in the all-over cloak she’s obliged to wear at the Institute to prevent her from panicking the young scholars.

  “What are you going to do?” she asks me.

  “See if I can find out where the Princess has hidden the Cloth. It hasn’t come to light yet, and no one else seems to realise that it was hidden inside the dragon. I might still be able to recover it for the Elves.”

  “Aren’t you going to help the Princess?”

  “Of course not. She isn’t paying me, and I don’t owe her any favours.” Sometimes Makri just doesn’t understand the commercial nature of my business. I don’t help people for fun. I do it for money. Anyway, the Princess may well be beyond help. If she’s foolish enough to be caught slaying the King’s dragon, that’s her problem.

  Of course, if I keep on looking for the Cloth it might be harder to convince those murderous people who think I already have it to leave me alone. But that’s my problem.

  This evening, life in the Avenging Axe is in full swing. Mercenaries, dockers, labourers, pilgrims, sailors, local vendors and shop workers drink heartily, washing away their troubles. Young Palax and Kaby arrive and get out their mandolins, flutes and lyres and start entertaining the crowd with some raucous drinking songs, stomping traditional folk dances and a few maudlin ballads for the tavern’s lonely hearts. They’re good musicians and popular with the crowd, which is just as well really, or they might suffer more than the friendly abuse they already get for that brightly dyed hair and those colourful clothes and pierced ears and noses. Gurd pays them with free drinks. Quite a good scam really. Makes me wish I played an instrument.

  Despite all the jollity Gurd is looking as miserable as a Niojan whore and fails to respond when I clap him on the back and ask him if he remembers the time we faced fourteen half-Orcs in the Simlan Desert with only one knife between us and still came out on top. He looks at me gloomily then asks if I’ll come and see him tomorrow.

  I nod, though it’s not something I’m looking forward to. The talk I imagine will be about the cook, Tanrose, with whom Gurd thinks he may be in love. As an old bachelor who’s spent most of his life wandering the earth as a mercenary, Gurd finds this very confusing. He can’t make his mind up what to do, not wishing to offer her his hand in marriage and then find out that what he thought was love turns out later to be merely an infatuation with her excellent venison pies. He frequently asks my advice on the matter, even though I’ve pointed out that I have a poor record in affairs of the heart. Still, lending him a sympathetic ear is always a good thing. Makes him more tolerant when I’m late with the rent.

  People laugh, dance, gamble, swap stories and talk about the day’s scandalous affair. By the light of the oil lanterns Palax and Kaby work up a furious rhythm which has the whole tavern either dancing or stamping their feet. I bang my tankard on the table in time to the beat, and shout for more beer. All in all, it’s a fine night in the Avenging Axe; more fun with the poor of Twelve Seas than I ever had with the aristocrats at Palace social functions. I end up hideously drunk, which would be fine but, just as Gurd and Makri are carrying me upstairs, Praetor Cicerius arrives. He is Turai’s most famed Advocate and a man of great influence in the city. He informs me that I have to come up to the Palace and interview Princess Du-Akai right away.

  It takes me some time to realise what he means, and for a while I keep trying to tell the Praetor it’s no good. I’ve heard the rumours about his wife but I don’t do divorce work.

  “There are no rumours about my wife,” retorts Cicerius, who is not the sort of man you can have a laugh and a joke with. He’s around fifty, thin, grey-haired, austere, and is famously incorruptible. I invite him to join in an obscene Barbarian drinking song I learned from Gurd. He declines.

  “Why don’t you sort things out in this city, Praetor?” I demand, suddenly aggressive. “Everything’s going to hell and the government’s about as much use as a eunuch in a brothel.”

  Colour drains from the Praetor’s face. Gurd and Makri abandon me in disgust. The Praetor’s two servants pick me up bodily and bundle me outside and into a landus, which Cicerius is allowed to ride at night as part of his senatorial privilege. I begin to enjoy the experience, and start bellowing the drinking song out the window as we ride through the quiet streets of Pashish. Cicerius looks at me with contempt. Let him. I didn’t ask him to come visit me.

  “No use looking at me like that,” I tell him. “If the Princess chopped off the dragon’s head, it’s her fault, not mine. Bad thing to do. Poor dragon.”

  I fall asleep, and have only dim memories of being carried into the Palace. The servants are insulting about my weight. I insult them back. I’m not the first man carried drunk into the grounds of the Imperial Palace, though I may well be the heaviest. I’m deposited in some building I don’t recognise and the servants start forcing deat down my throat. Deat is a hot herbal drink. Sobers you up. I detest it.

  “Gimme a beer,” I say.

  “Get him sober,” says Cicerius, not bothering to conceal his loathing and contempt. “I will bring the Princess. Though why she insists on seeing him is beyond me.”

  I drink some deat, fail to sober up, and start wondering exactly where I am.

  “The reception room of the Princess’s chambers,” a servant tells me.

  “Right,” I grunt. “I suppose Princesses don’t get thrown in the slammer like ordinary people.”

  I think of all the times I’ve been thrown in jail and get slightly maudlin. “Nobody loves me,” I tell the servant.

  Cicerius arrives back with Princess Du-Akai. I greet them genially. The Princess thanks me for coming. She doesn’t comment on my drunkenness. Good breeding.

  “I am in grave trouble.”

  “I bet you are.”

  “I need you to help me.”

  “Too bad,” I say, again gripped by alcoholic aggression. “I’m all out of help for clients who lie to me.”

  “How dare you speak to the Princess like that,” roars Cicerius, and we start to argue. Princess Du-Akai intervenes. She motions both the servants
and the Praetor outside, and draws up a chair next to me.

  “Thraxas,” she says, in the most pleasant of voices. “You are a drunken oaf. Tales of your misdemeanours while working at the Palace do not do you full justice. In the normal course of affairs, I would have nothing whatsoever to do with you. You’re so far below me in the social ladder I wouldn’t notice if I stepped on you. That woman with the Orcish blood is better bred than you. As well as being a drunk, you’re gross, and a glutton, both qualities I despise. You belong in your slum in Twelve Seas, and I’d much rather you were there than here in this room with me. However, I need your help. So sober up, stop playing the fool, and get ready to listen.”

  “I seem to be doing a lot of listening already. Why should I help you?”

  “For two reasons. Firstly, I shall pay you extremely well. I understand you are badly in need of money. Gambling is another of your bad habits.”

  I curse. My gambling debt seems to be the most talked about thing in this city. Even the Royal Family knows about it.

  “What’s the second reason?”

  “If you don’t help me, I will ensure that your life in this city is hell on earth. I may be heading for a secure cell in a nunnery but I’m still third in line to the throne, and I have more influence in my little finger than you have in your whole fat body. So listen.”

  She holds out a heavy purse. I listen.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When I’m finished listening I’m led into the next chamber by a servant. Cicerius is waiting for me. He is no more friendly than before. The fact that the Princess thinks I can help her doesn’t make him any keener on me. Cicerius is not known for his affability. Despite his unparalleled reputation for honesty he is commonly regarded as a rather distant and austere man. Senators rarely hobnob with commoners like myself, and Praetors never do, except when they need their votes.