“How is Tirini?”
“Not very well. Lisutaris thought you might be able to help.”
I don’t mind the thought of helping Tirini, after she helped Gurd and Tanrose escape from Turai, but I’ve no idea how. If a Medical Sorcerer, First Class, isn’t able to heal her, I’m certainly not going to be able to. Saabril asks me if I’d accompany her to see Tirini, who’s resting up in a small wagon of her own, not far from Lisutaris’s travelling command centre. All around, soldiers and camp followers are finishing off their meals, packing up, and making ready to move.
“What’s wrong with Tirini?”
“It’s difficult to say. Making an instant journey through the magic space is very dangerous. You can collide with anything. A sharp object might go through your body or take your head off. Then there are the strange energy fields. Sorcerers think these are responsible for the way the space shifts continually, but we don’t really understand them. Travelling through an energy field just as it changes might have a terrible effect. But really, I don’t know what’s wrong with Tirini. Her body seems healthy enough but she’s not recovering the way she should.”
By this time we’ve reached the small wagon. I climb in after Saabril. I’m not prepared for the sight that greets me. Tirini, famed for her beauty, fashionable outfits and expensive accessories, looks rather like one of the poor women you might see begging around the docks in Turai. She’s wrapped up in a decent enough blanket but her body seems shrunken. Her face is lined and her eyes are watery. Her hair, previously the brightest blond ever seen at a fashionable party at the Imperial Palace, is lank and dull. Dark roots are showing prominently around her scalp. She wears no jewellery and her feet are encased in a pair of old slippers which she’d rather have died than been seen wearing back in Turai. I’m shocked. She seems to have aged twenty years in the space of a few months. I’m not certain how to greet her. “Hello Tirini,” I venture.
She doesn’t respond. There’s a bowl of soup lying next to her on a small table but it doesn’t look like it’s been touched. I look towards Saabril Clearwater.
“She doesn’t speak much,” says the sorcerer, softly.
Distressing as this is, I’m still not clear as to why Saabril has asked me here. I have no medical skills, apart from the rough-and-ready sort a man learns on the battlefield, for patching up comrades till they can find proper attention. If Tirini crashed through some harmful energy field in the magic space, thereby frying her brain, there’s nothing I can do about it. Maybe there’s nothing anybody can do about it.
Tirini mumbles something inaudible.
“What was that?”
“They took my shoes,” she says, a little louder.
“Who took your shoes? What shoes?”
“They took my shoes.” Tirini sounds unbearably sad. Her voice tails off. She closes her eyes.
“What does she mean? Who took her shoes?”
“I don’t know, but that’s all she ever says. Commander Lisutaris thought you might be able to help. She told me you were an investigator.”
“It helps if I know what I’m investigating. Are we talking about an actual pair of shoes?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are these shoes important for her health?”
“I don’t know that either. But none of my treatments are working and she’s getting worse.”
It crosses my mind to say something harsh to the medical sorcerer, pointing out that we’re in the middle of a war and I’ve already got more than enough vital work to be getting on with. But I’m discomfited by the sight of Tirini Snake Smiter in such a poor state, so I remain silent. We leave the wagon.
“Is she suffering the effects of some hostile spell?” I ask.
“None that I can find. Nor Lisutaris. Neither of us can diagnose the problem, or do anything that seems to help.” Saabril looks at me quite apologetically. “I know you’re busy, but Lisutaris asked me to consult you, just in case you could discover anything.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I turn and leave, heading back towards my own wagon. I’m unsettled by what I’ve just seen. More unsettled than I’d have imagined I would be. In Turai, Tirini was a vain woman who, as far as I could see, was a frivolous waste of time. She seemed to spend her entire life indulging in scandalous affairs while wasting her money on endless streams of fancy clothes and expensive trinkets. She probably spent more on her hair every week than the poor of Turai had to feed their families for a year. On the few occasions we met, she made it clear she regarded me as her inferior, in every way.
I bump into Makri just outside my wagon, and tell her about my encounter with the ailing Tirini.
“Is that why you’re looking gloomy?”
“I suppose so.”
“But you never liked her.”
“I know. She’s a frivolous idiot. But she’s our frivolous idiot. Having a glamorous sorcerer spending a ridiculous amount of money on golden fur cloaks and pink shoes, and outraging the Bishops by her disreputable behaviour, was part of what made Turai what it was.” I shake my head. “I didn’t like to see her the way she is now. Especially after she rescued Gurd and Tanrose.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Find out what she meant by 'they took my shoes,' I suppose. It might mean something.”
Makri is dressed in her lightweight Orcish armour; dark leather, covered in places by chainmail and small metal plates. The Orcish workmanship is very distinctive. I ask her what she’s doing here. “Are you hiding from See-ath the Elf again?”
“Of course not. I’m over that now.” Makri lowers her voice, although with the sound of trundling wagon wheels and marching feet all around, there’s not much chance of being overheard. “I’ve worried about this visit to the Vitin oracle. I don’t like it. It’s dangerous.”
“I don’t like it either. Lisutaris shouldn’t be going out on a secret mission with only a few followers.”
“I tried to dissuade her,” says Makri. “She got angry and told me to drop the subject.”
“It seems like the Vitin Oracle is too important to the Sorcerers Guild for her to ignore.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they all still secretly worship the Goddess Vitina. Or maybe they really need some advice from the oracle.”
“I don’t believe anyone can foretell the future.”
I agree with Makri. “I’ve always regarded these oracles as frauds. Either they give you some prediction so general it could mean anything, or so obscure there’s no telling what it means.”
Makri looks up, scanning the skies above, as if for dragons. We ride on in silence for a while.
“Where did you find another set of Orcish armour?”
“The King’s armoury.”
“You didn’t consider wearing normal, human armour?”
“I like this better.”
“It’s guaranteed to annoy some people.”
“You mean Elves?”
“I was thinking more of the Niojans.”
“Bishop-General Ritari and Legate Apiroi don’t like me anyway. I don’t think they like Lisutaris much either. They’re tolerating her as War Leader because of the Elves, but I don’t trust them. What if they make trouble when we meet up with the Simnians?”
“I can’t see that happening. By that time we’ll be ready to face the Orcs. You can’t change War Leader at the last moment.”