“Out of the question. I can never see him again.”
“Then what’s your plan?”
“Didn’t you once mention some place in the furthest west? I could flee there.”
“For goodness sake, Makri.” I drag her out from behind the couch. “You can’t hide forever. You might not even see him again. He’s young, isn’t he? That means he’s not a senior figure in the Elvish military. He probably just arrived at headquarters to deliver a message or something like that. Once the armies march tomorrow you’ll have thousands of men between you and him.”
Makri considers this. “You might be right. Could you check the corridor for me?”
I open the door and stick my head out. There’s no one there, Elvish or otherwise. “The coast is clear. Do you need me to walk you back to Lisutaris?”
Makri peers out into the corridor. “I’m all right. But don’t lock your door in case I need to run back here.”
With that, Makri, champion gladiator of the Orcish lands, undefeated in combat since she arrived in the West, winner of the great sword-fighting competition in Samsarina, and now personal bodyguard to the Commander of the Western Army, creeps furtively out into the corridor like a guilty schoolgirl returning late from her holidays. It’s a pathetic sight. I shake my head sadly, and finally mange to return to my couch for my long-delayed afternoon sleep.
Chapter Seven
Despite their inexperience, my security unit proves to be adept at the tasks I’ve given them. The previously intoxicated and irresponsible Droo seems like a reformed character. She hurries around, gathering information, writing things down, and generally doing everything that’s asked of her. She appears to be enjoying herself. It’s the first time she’s left the Elvish islands, so I suppose it’s all quite exciting for her. As for Anumaris and Rinderan, the young sorcerers manage to be both tactful and efficient while carrying out their security checks. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find myself confronted by angry senior officers, furious at the suggestion that their backgrounds needed looking in to, but so far it hasn’t happened. Anumaris and Rinderan mange to establish a coherent and uninterrupted timeline for both Bishop-General Ritari and General Hemistos. Neither of them have gone missing recently, or suffered any unexpected interruptions to their normal routines. For the past few months neither of them have been alone for any length of time. That, along with some sorcerous investigation, seems to rule out the possibility of either of them being an impostor. I’m keenly aware of Deeziz’s power, but I’m now reasonably certain that neither our infantry Commander nor our cavalry Commander are fakes. As they’re the closest people to Lisutaris, that’s a relief. I instruct Anumaris and Rinderan to look into the background of their immediate subordinates.
“Pay special attention to Bishop-General Ritari’s second-in-command, Legate Apiroi. I’m suspicious of him.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s been complaining about Lisutaris filling her staff with low-class Turanians. Sounds like a trouble-maker to me. Could be an Orcish spy.”
We’re still checking up on Lord Kalith-ar-Yil, something Droo takes to with great enthusiasm. She finds it funny that’s she’s investigating an Elf Lord, who, back in his own realm, would be immune from any sort of enquiry.
Anumaris and Rinderan share some similarities in character, and even in appearance. They’re both young sorcerers with good reputations, they both have long dark hair and always wear their sorcerers' cloaks. Each is rather methodical, not a bad trait in the circumstances. Neither are what you’d call gregarious, but Rinderan does hold one big advantage over Anumaris. The sorcerer from the Southern Hills is an unexpected authority on beer. His family own a brewery. I’m impressed.
“A whole brewery? They own it?”
“It’s the largest of its kind in the Southern Hills. We supply all the taverns in the region. I was meant to go into the family business until I turned out to have a talent for sorcery. I went to sorcerers college instead. My father was disappointed but my mother was proud. We’ve never had a sorcerer in the family before.”
“What do you brew?”
“Dark ale mainly, but we make a good mild ale too. We use hops and barley from our own farms.”
“I’ve never heard anything more interesting from a sorcerer. Tell me more.”
At this moment we’re loading equipment onto our wagon. I’d expected to be marching, but as an integral part of Lisutaris’s command, we’ve been given a covered wagon. We’ll be riding along not far behind our War Leader. I dump my armour in the back, though I take more care with my sword, a new Elvish blade given to me by Makri. It was part of her prize for winning the great sword-fighting tournament. It was a good prize, and a fine gift. So good that I didn’t know how to thank her properly, leading to an awkward silence, as I recall. Rinderan is just describing the brewing process when Anumaris bustles up and interrupts us with some footling enquiry about provisions. I attempt to brush her off but Anumaris is persistent, and difficult to brush off.
“We’re leaving in three hours,” she insists. “I need to make sure this check-list of provision is complete.”
I glance at the list. “You forgot the beer.”
“We’re not bringing any beer.”
I’m really starting to dislike her. I send Droo off to find beer and get back to my conversation with Rinderan. The scene all around is chaotic as the army prepares to march. Orders are being shouted from all directions. Trumpets sound as officers struggle to get their men in order. Huge dust clouds billow from the north where the cavalry are manoeuvring into position. Getting an army moving is no easy task. The fact that we’re still on schedule is further testament to Lisutaris’s powers of organisation.
I haven’t had much further opportunity of talking with Gurd, though I did meet him briefly. Gurd had joined up with the Turanian phalanx, but to his dismay, he was immediately seconded to the Sorcerers Auxiliary regiment, the same as me. He’s not particularly happy about it. He wanted to be in the front lines, and worries that he won’t see any fighting.
“Protecting sorcerers? That’s no task for a warrior.”
Gurd is older than me, and I’m in my mid-forties. You might say that a position in a leading phalanx is no task for a man that age either. You wouldn’t actually say that out loud to Gurd, obviously, or he’d knock you unconscious, but it might be the reason for his secondment. Or he might be there by request of whichever Turanian officer was responsible for assigning duties. Gurd is known in the city as a man you can trust. If he turned out to be the only person between a vulnerable sorcerer and a horde of Orcs, he’s not going to flee. I’m still heartened by his reappearance, and wonder if any of my other old friends escaped from the city. Captain Rallee, for instance. Old friend might not be quite the right term for Rallee. We seemed to find ourselves on opposing sides more often than not, him being a civil guard and me being a private investigator, Even so, I’ve known him a long time, and I hope he survived. I’m loading my last bag of supplies into the wagon when Droo trots into view with a crate of beer cradled in her arms and a grin on her face.
“I’ve got the beer, enormous human.”
“Captain Thraxas would be the correct form of address.”
“Also, Lord Kalith-ar-Yil wants to see you.”
“What for?”
“Something about 'Young elves who ought to be thrown in prison for insubordination and wait till he gets his hands on that damned rogue Thraxas who probably put her up to it.'”