They depart together, Rinderan still unsatisfied. I clamber down from the pillion. “Where are we going?” asks Droo.
“Wherever we can get a drink. Gurd and his cohort aren’t far away. If we’re lucky, Tanrose will be cooking.”
“Will we get any investigating done there?”
“As much as anywhere else. Let Rinderan and Anumaris wander around asking questions, they enjoy it.”
We walk through a mass of soldiers. A few are spending their break sleeping, while others busy themselves making a quick meal, something at which seasoned campaigners are well-practiced. Tanrose has never been on a military campaign before, as far as I know, but she’s such a talented cook she can produce excellent meals in any circumstances.
“Tanrose likes her food to be appreciated,” I tell Droo. “That’s why I eat so much of it. It helps her.”
Gurd and a few other Turanian exiles are gathered round a small fire. Above the fire is a metal tripod, from which hangs a pot, the contents of which are simmering gently. Tanrose stands over it, adding spices.
“Back already?” Gurd laughs. “Don’t they feed you in the security unit?”
“Not as well as Tanrose feeds you. I’ve brought you a flagon of wine so stop hogging that stew and let a proper eater in for his share.”
Gurd has not quite got over his chagrin at being placed in the Sorcerers Auxiliary Regiment. He’s none too pleased to find himself in one of the squadrons designated as protection for Lisutaris, and still hopes he’ll see more action. “It’s not going to be much of a war if we’re stuck at the back all the time, protecting sorcerers.”
“We’ll see plenty of action. Lisutaris will end up in the thick of things. ”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because we’re not strong enough to beat the Orcs without her sorcery.”
Tanrose is concerned. “I don’t like the thought of you coming so close to the Orcish sorcerers.”
“Don’t worry. When these sorcerers are concentrating on their spells they’re quite susceptible to a swift thrust from a spear. Seen it happen plenty of times. We’ll be fine. As long as I’m good shape. You know, plenty of pies and that sort of thing.”
“I’m sorry Thraxas, I can’t make a pie on this little campfire. I’d need some sort of oven.”
I don’t try to hide my disappointment. “I’m fading away. By the time we meet the Orcs I’ll be a shadow of myself.”
“I don’t think there’s much chance of that,” says Tanrose, eyeing my waistline.
I settle down to eat a bowl of Tanrose’s stew. Talk of pies and ovens reminds me of a man called Erisox. Back in Turai, he made good batch in his portable oven while there were dragons attacking overhead. He did tell me a lot of lies when I was investigating him, but I forgave him because of his pies. Thinking of that case reminds of Turai’s highest official, Consul Kalius.
“Has there been any news of the Consul? Or the Royal family?”
None of the Turanians around Gurd’s campfire have heard anything. The general opinion is that our ageing, ailing King and his family probably perished, along with their senior officials. The palace and main institutions of government were all close to the northern walls where the Orcs broke through. By that time, Deputy Consul Cicerius was in effective control of the city. Cicerius was a better man that the Consul, but there’s been no news of him either. At this moment, Turai has no government. What will happen if we retake the city, no one knows.
For a few moments there’s a peaceable atmosphere as everyone enjoys Tanrose’s cooking. It doesn’t last.
“Where is this vagabond Captain Thraxas? Take me to him!”
Whoever’s angry with Captain Thraxas has a strong Niojan accent. I look up to see Legate Apiroi storming towards me with the Anumaris and Rinderan trailing in his wake. The Legate, second-in-command to Bishop-General Ritari, is a large man with closely-cropped hair and a permanent scowl. He wears the austere black tunic of the Niojan officer class and carries a short sword in a scabbard at his waist.
“Captain Thraxas!” he roars. “Are you responsible for this outrage?”
I clamber to my feet. “Probably. What outrage are we talking about?”
“The outrage of your lackeys daring to doubt me! It was bad enough when they demanded details of my past movements. An impertinent request to which I’d have given short shift had not our War Leader urged us to comply. And now I find they’ve been checking up on the answers I gave them! How dare you order them to do that! If a Niojan Officer deigns to answer your foolish security questions, you will take him at his word, not sneak around behind his back!”
Behind him, Anumaris and Rinderan are looking flustered, obviously unsure how to react to the wrath of this senior officer.
“Well, you Turanian dog!” continues the Legate. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
I turn to Anumaris Thunderbolt. “Have you finished your background checks on Legate Apiroi?”
“Not quite, Captain.”
“Then carry on with them till you have.”
“What?” The Legate practically explodes with rage. “You dare to insult me, second-in-command to Bishop-General Ritari? I’ll have your head for this!”
I look him in the eye. “Everyone close to Commander Lisutaris needs to be checked out. No exceptions. Orders from the War Leader herself. If you don’t like it, tough. Maybe you’ve got something to hide?”
Beside me, Gurd has risen to his feet, ready to come to my aid if the Legate draws his sword and attacks me, which doesn’t seem that unlikely. Apiroi steps forward so his face is almost touching mine.
“You’ll pay for this insult. A Niojan Legate does not have to answer to a man like you. It’s bad enough our War Leader employs a filthy Orc as a bodyguard without her filling her personal staff with low-born Turanians. I warn you Captain, if the Bishop-General or I are bothered by your Security Unit again, there will be dire consequences.”
Legate Apiroi glares at me, Anumaris and Rinderan. Having satisfied himself that he’s done enough glaring, he storms off.
“Touchy fellow,” says Gurd.
“Niojans are never that friendly.”
“What should we do?” asks Rinderan.
“Sit down and have some stew and a jug of wine. Then get back to checking up on him. He’s a suspicious character.”
“Is that really wise?” Rinderan looks nervous.
“Wise or not, we’re doing it. No one escapes the attention of my security unit.”
“What if he attacks us?”
“You’re sorcerers. You should be safe enough.”
“Senior Niojan officers have a lot of spell protection,” says Anumaris.
“Then poke him in the eye with a stick. Now are we going to stand here taking all day or are we going to eat?”
Tanrose’s stew is one of the finest meals I’ve eaten since I left Turai. She has a way of seasoning and simmering that brings out the best in even the most basic of ingredients. After several large bowlfuls I’m feeling optimistic about our prospects.
“We’ll chase these Orcs back where they came from.”
So beneficial is Tanrose’s cooking to my state of mind that I don’t even object when I’m approached by an unfamiliar sorcerer on my way back to my wagon.
“Captain Thraxas? I’ve been looking for you.”
“Why? And who are you?”
“Saabril Clearwater. Medical Sorcerer, first class, from Kamara. Commander Lisutaris assigned me to look after Tirini Snake Smiter.”
“I see.”
Saabril Clearwater is around thirty, fair haired and fair skinned. She speaks with a rather unusual accent, though one I’ve heard before, from the few Kamaran mercenaries I’ve encountered on my travels. Kamara is a very small nation, a long way west, near Kastlin. Its citizens aren’t often found this far East. I don’t think I’ve ever met a Kamaran Sorcerer before.