Thraxas and the Oracle (13 page)

This seems harsh to me. I was enjoying Droo’s intelligence report. “Keep at it,” I tell her. “You never know what information might come in useful. I’ll be interested in any beer, wine or klee-related stories.”

Droo beams, pleased. Anumaris and Rinderan look very unimpressed.

“I want to check out some more people. Saabril Clearwater, sorcerer from Kamara. She arrived with two sorcerers from Kastlin. They’re all working close to Lisutaris, see if there’s anything suspicious about them. Also, keep your ears open for any mysterious shoe-related stories.”

“Shoes?”

“Tirini Snake Smiter claims someone took her shoes. What the significance of this is, I don’t know, but I’m interested.”

“Yes Captain,” say Anumaris and Rinderan. Neither of them look very interested.

“How are our provisions? Can either of you two sorcerers produce a meal instantly? I’ve hardly had a chance to eat for forty eight hours.”

“I’ll light the fire,” says Anumaris. Lighting fires when necessary is one of the perks of being a sorcerer. Watching Anumaris bring our campfire to life with a spell reminds me of Tirini doing the same thing, back in the Avenging Axe when it was cold in winter. I can remember the pained expression on her face, as if using sorcery for such a menial task was beneath her. She was disgusted at being obliged to stay in a tavern in Twelve Seas, and didn’t waste any opportunity to remind everyone what a low-class dive it was.

We have a decent enough supper. It’s not on the level of Tanrose’s cooking, but it’ll keep me going for a while. Makri appears. She could eat with the other members of the Sorcerers Auxiliary regiment who make up Lisutaris’s staff, but I don’t think she feels comfortable with them. She sometimes joins us at our campfire, always keeping one eye on the command tent, in case she’s needed.

“Do you think Cicerius is alive?” she asks, after a while.

“Probably not. I doubt he’d have been able to escape from Turai.”

Makri frowns. “He was with us in the Avenging Axe when the Orcs arrived. Didn’t you see what happened to him?”

I shake my head. “I blacked out when Deeziz used that spell. He wasn’t there when I came round. No one was.”

Makri thinks about this. “If he’s dead do you think they might try and stop me going to the university?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it depends who ends up in charge of the city.”

Makri’s frown deepens. I know why she’s worried. She has an overwhelming ambition to attend the university in Turai. This ambition was undimmed by the fact that the university did not accept female students, nor anyone with Orcish blood. It seemed like a hopeless endeavour, even though Makri had gained the requisite qualification at the guild college. As it transpired, she preformed such sterling service for Turai that Deputy-Consul Cicerius promised he’d persuade the Senate to allow her to attend.

“Plenty of people heard him promise,” she says. “You were there, and Lisutaris. And Coranius.” A touch of doubt enters her voice. “They could tell whoever ends up in charge that Cicerius said I could go, right?”

There was a time when I’d have mocked Makri’s ambition. Now I don’t. Makri deserves support on this one. She’s earned her place.

“Lisutaris will support you,” I tell her. “So will I. Whatever the next government of Turai is, I’ll make sure they know the Deputy Consul promised you could go to the university. And I’ll make sure they keep their promise.”

I drink some wine to wash down the last of my food. “You’ve even got the money now, after all the loot we won in Elath.” Thanks to the unparalleled brilliance of my betting campaign, Makri, Lisutaris and I all ended up winning more than ten thousand gurans, gambling on Makri’s progress in the great sword fighting tournament, money which is at this moment nestling comfortably in Lisutaris’s magic purse. It’s my turn to frown. “Unless Lisutaris handed it over to The High Priestess.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t have.”

“I hope not. She was certainly keen to make her a rich woman.”

When night falls, and I lie down to sleep in the wagon, I find myself thinking about Tirini’s shoes. That shouldn’t be my main concern. Finding Deeziz is the important thing at the moment. But I’m still thinking about the missing shoes. There’s something strange about it, though I’ve no idea what.

Chapter Twelve

It takes us another two days to complete our rendezvous with the Simnian army. Both days pass uneventfully. That doesn’t stop me from worrying about Deeziz the Unseen. There’s no telling what her next move will be. For those of us aware of her presence, it adds a whole new level of anxiety to the already stressful business of going to war. Reports from Makri suggest that Lisutaris’s thazis intake is on the rise.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if I had proper access to beer,” I tell Makri. “But the Sorcerers Auxiliary Regiment is sadly under-supplied. It’s a bad oversight on Lisutaris’s part. It makes you wonder if she’s fit for the job.”

I stare rather mournfully at the empty tankard in my hand. “I’ve completely run out, and that corrupt fool of a quartermaster refuses to hand over any of tomorrow’s supply in advance. How am I supposed to function like this? It’s no wonder I can’t catch Deeziz. If I was back in Turai I’d be full of beer by now, probably slumped happily on my couch.”

“That never really helped with your investigations,” says Makri.

“Of course it helped.”

“Only in your imagination.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad if wasn’t for that prig Anumaris. I was half-way through concocting a promising scheme with Droo for purloining extra supplies when she butted in and started lecturing us about our duties. As if snatching a little extra beer was going to harm the war effort. I’m starting to loathe the woman.

“She’s efficient and does everything properly,” says Makri. “You should be pleased to have her.”

I glare at Makri. “I’m not taking lectures from a woman who’s currently hiding in my wagon because her Elvish ex-lover is delivering messages to our War Leader.”

“Keep your voice down,” says Makri. “He’s close, he might hear us.”

“How long is this going to go on for?”

“Until the war ends and the Elves all go back home. Or I get killed. Either one.”

“You’re going to have to face him some time.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m really not going to do that,” says Makri. “I’m going to keep hiding till it’s all over. I can never face See-ath again and that’s all there is to it. Also I’m never having a lover again. Probably I won’t talk to any Elves either, just to be safe.”

“What if you’re guarding Lisutaris at some vital moment and he appears? Are you going to run away?”

“I’m hoping that doesn’t happen.”

I shake my head, and peer out of the flap. See-ath is disappearing in the opposite direction. I tell Makri he’s gone. She sits up.

“I should never have got involved with an Elf.”

“Getting involved wasn’t the problem. It was the death threats afterwards that made the situation awkward. Does your wish never to talk to Elves again extend to female Elves?”

“I’m not sure. Why?”

“Because I’ve been meaning to question Hanama about her new Elvish companion. An unknown woman with an unknown past. Not the sort of person who should be close to Lisutaris, given our present difficulties. Come with me.”

“Why?”

“Because normally I can’t exchange more than a word with Hanama without us getting into an argument. She likes you, maybe that will help.”

“Are you sure See-ath has gone?”

“Quite sure.”

“What if he comes back? Did he look like he was coming back?”

“Makri, please stop this. Let’s go and visit our so-called Chief of Intelligence.”

We leave the wagon. We’re now on the southern border of Simnia, and the Simnian army has met us as arranged, on time and in good order. Accompanying them are various units from the territories to the north of Simnia, including some from Gurd’s homeland. There are strange accents to be heard all over the enlarged camp, and, unfortunately, a lot of Simnians.

“I’ve never liked Simnians.”

“That’s the hundredth time I’ve heard you say that,” says Makri.

“It bears repeating.”

“I think it was the first thing I ever heard you say, when I first arrived in Turai. Followed by
'Can you buy me a beer?'”

Makri comes to a halt, and scowls. “I just remembered the third thing you said.”

“Which was?”

“If you can’t buy me a beer then take your pointy ears somewhere else, pointy-eared wench.
“

“Forthright and to the point. I was toughening you up for city life.”

Hanama and her Intelligence Unit are quartered in a series of small, plain tents, pitched on the far side of Lisutaris’s large command tent. We pick our way through the guards, whose numbers have increased since our experience at the Oracle.

“Are you really suspicious of this Elvish woman? Or are you just looking for an excuse to criticise Hanama?”

“Both. She shouldn’t be introducing strange Elves into our ranks. And she deserves criticism. She’s an assassin. I don’t believe she has any loyalty to anyone except the Assassins' Guild. If Lisutaris thinks she can really trust her she’s making a mistake.”

“I trust Hanama,” says Makri.

“She’d kill you without a second thought if her Guild accepted a commission for the job.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

As we arrive, Hanama is sitting cross-legged on her own, in front of her tent. She regards me with no apparent emotion but she smiles when she sees Makri. The assassin’s smile doesn’t light up her face, though it does make her look even younger.

“Hello Makri, I’ve been meditating. Would you like some food?”

Makri politely declines. She never has much of an appetite. Hanama seems disappointed. I’m mildly offended that she didn’t offer me any food, not that I’d have taken it from an assassin anyway.

“Who is this Elvish woman you’ve employed?” I demand, getting straight to the point.

Hanama rises smoothly to her feet. She’s a small woman, several inches shorter than me, and about one quarter as wide.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because anyone working close to Lisutaris needs to be checked out. She might be a security risk.”

“She isn’t.”

“That’s for me to decide.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is, Captain Hanama. Kindly provide me with full details so I can do my job.”

“Her name is Megleth and she’s an Elf,” says Hanama. “That’s all I can tell you.”

We stare at each other.

“I demand to know more.”

“That’s all I’m saying.”

“I outrank you.”

“No you don’t, we’re both Captains.”

“I outrank you in this. I’m Captain in charge of security.”

“You don’t outrank me in anything,” says Hanama, coldly. “Commander Lisutaris is already aware of Megleth.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I have no interest in what you believe.”

As always, when faced with Hanama, I feel a mixture of annoyance and distaste. I loathe assassins.

“So where is this mysterious Elf?”

“With Commander Lisutaris.”

“She’s with Lisutaris?” I turn to Makri. “Why have you left Lisutaris alone? Hanama’s Elf is probably assassinating her at this moment.”

“Lisutaris told me to leave. She had private sorcerers' business to discuss.” Makri wrinkles her brow. “I don’t like when she does that.”

“Neither do I. We should check she’s safe.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” says Hanama. “There is no danger.”

At that moment the sky goes dark, there’s a flash of lightening and an enormous peal of thunder. Rain begins to pour down in torrents from a sky which was clear only seconds before. A gale-force wind blows through the camp, driving the rain before it, picking up debris from the ground and tossing it around. So unexpected is the storm, and so violent, that for a second or two I’m disorientated, not sure what to do. I snap out of it quickly as another deafening clap of thunder explodes overhead.

“Makri!” I scream to make myself heard. “This storm isn’t natural! We need to get to Lisutaris.”

This storm can only have been conjured up by a hostile sorcerer. It came out of nowhere, and it’s the wrong season for bad weather in Samsarina. Makri and I hurry towards the command tent. Though it’s been raining for only a few minutes the ground is already treacherous. So heavy is the rain that the earth turns to mud beneath our feet, and water laps up over our ankles. With the wind howling in our faces, progress is slow. By the time we’re close to Lisutaris’s tent we’re wading through several inches of mud. My face is sore from the pounding rain, some of which is now turning to hailstones.

All around us, tent pegs are torn out of the ground by the wind. Soldiers struggle to hold on to their tents which threaten to fly away in the gale. Items of clothing, food, even weapons, are picked up by the storm and whirl around our heads. It’s a chaotic scene. A horse gallops past, panicked by the ferocity of the storm, knocking down a centurion who ends up in a pool of muddy water. His soldiers drag him out of the pool and look for cover, but there’s no cover to be had. We’re stuck on an open plain in the middle of a storm as bad as any I’ve ever encountered.

Outside Lisutaris’s tent, the sentries are still at their posts though they’re struggling to stay on their feet. One soldier’s helmets blows off and he falls over in the mud trying to catch it. I’m finding it difficult to advance. My weight - which I refuse to admit is a handicap in most circumstances -does make it difficult to pass quickly over the cloying mud. Makri sprints ahead of me, reaching Lisutaris' tent just in time to see it collapse. The large, square edifice tumbles in on itself, engulfing its contents and anyone who was inside. As I reach the tent Makri is attempting to lift it, a hopeless endeavour given the size of the canvas, which is now water-logged and extremely heavy. With the wind and hailstones battering us we make no progress at all. While we’re still puzzling about how to proceed, the tent begins to rise in the air. Not flapping furiously, like all the other tents currently careering all over the place, but serenely. I take a step back. The tent continues to rise, coming to a halt about ten feet in the air. Standing beneath it is Lisutaris. She moves one of her fingers slightly, causing the tent to descend gently and land behind her.