“No.”
Lisutaris glares at me. “Ensign Makri, if Deeziz kills me, make sure Captain Thraxas is discharged from the army in disgrace and banished from Turai.”
“Yes Commander.”
Outside the tent, the waiting officers and Elves look at me with disapproval as I walk by, not liking the easy way I gained access to Lisutaris while they’re still waiting outside. I walk off, attempting to look like a man on important business, meanwhile wondering what to do next. I should be looking for Deeziz but I’ve come to a dead end. I’m interested in Tirini’s shoes but I need time to ponder my next move. I come to a halt.
“Beer. Of course.”
It’s no wonder I’ve been floundering. You can’t expect Thraxas, number one chariot among investigators, to do his job properly if you deny him beer. It simply won’t work. I reach my wagon in time to see Anumaris Thunderbolt emerge with her notebook in her hand.
“You’re largely responsible,” I tell her.
“What?”
“I’m floundering around here, unable to make progress in this vital investigation. And you know why? Lisutaris’s fanatical anti-beer instructions, aided and abetted by the informer she sent to spy on me and report every move. Meaning you. It’s all very well you running off to Lisutaris telling tales every time I so much as glance at a flagon of ale but did you ever stop to think how harmful this is to my work? If my investigation fails and Deeziz the Unseen kills Lisutaris, it will be mainly your fault. How does that feel? You’ll be remembered in history as the woman responsible for the demise of the West.”
“I do not run off to Lisutaris every time - ”
I hold up my hand. “Enough, Storm Class Sorcerer Anumaris. I’m not going to put up with it any longer. I’m off to find a proper supply of beer and there’s nothing you can do about it. Count yourself lucky I don’t denounce you to the army. If they knew how you’d been hindering my work they’d probably lynch you. Ensign Droo, where is the nearest easily-accessible supply of ale?”
“The Simnians.”
“I detest Simnians.”
“Their quartermaster brought in eight wagon-loads.”
“Really? Well, we all need to co-operate in times of war. Lead me to him.” I depart with Droo, heading over to the left flank of the slowly advancing army to investigate the important matter of the Simnian ale supply.
Chapter Fourteen
I’ve soldiered all over the world. It’s therefore not that much of a surprise to find that I know the Simian Quartermaster. Not a good surprise, unfortunately. It must have been twenty years ago that I encountered Calbeshi, campaigning down south in Mattesh. As a young man he was a loudmouthed braggart and a hopeless soldier. I don’t expect he’s improved any with the passing of the years.
“What the hell?” he exclaims, as I approach. “Is that Thraxas? Haven’t they hanged you for cowardice yet?”
“Calbeshi, I might have known you’d find an easy job, far away from the fighting. How much beer have you stolen since you’ve been quartermaster?”
“Not as much as you’ve drunk, from the looks of you,” growls Calbeshi. He’s large, paunchy, bald and ugly. Much the same as he was when he was young.
“I thought you’d be dead years ago,” he says. “Probably from an arrow in the back, fleeing from battle.”
“Lucky for you soft Simnians I’m not. I’ve been fighting Orcs while you’ve been tucked up safely in bed.”
“And not making a very good job of it. Shame Turai was destroyed. I hear you didn’t put up much of a fight.”
“I put up more of a fight than you ever will. It’s taken you long enough to get here.”
“I was in no rush. Your army’s led by women.” Calbeshi looks at Droo. “And you’ve got an Elf. Very sweet. Mind you, she’s probably tougher than most Turanians.”
“If you insult my city again I’ll run you through.”
Calbeshi laughs. “Your sword’s been rusted in its scabbard for the last ten years, from the looks of you.”
The Quartermaster’s platoon have been unloading barrels of beer, prior to distributing them to their regiments, but I notice they’ve opened one already, tapping it and laying it on the ground where they’ve been helping themselves. Much as I imagined they would. I glare at Calbeshi. “Are you going to stand there like the useless Simnian dog you are, or are you going to give me a beer?”
The Simnian raises his eyebrows. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I saved your hide down in Mattesh. Without me you’d never have got out of the jungle.”
“Without you we’d never have been trapped there in the first place.” Calbeshi takes a leather tankard from a crate. It’s a familiar soldier’s item - tough and lightweight, impossible to break. He fills it from the open cask and hands it to me.
“Turanian scum,” he says, handing it over.
“Simnian dog,” I reply, raising the tankard. I notice Droo already has a full tankard of her own. I’m not sure how she managed that. Possibly she went and asked for it politely. That would have been another possible approach, I suppose.
Calbeshi draws himself a beer. “So, how are things looking?”
“Not that great. The Orcs are better organised than last time, and our army is smaller.”
“What’s Lisutaris like as War Leader?”
“Good. She’s made us better organised too, which is something. What do the Simnians think of her?”
“Most didn’t like it when they heard they’d picked a woman, but there were some that said she can bring down dragons. That’s a point in her favour. Can she really do that?”
“She can. Just as well, because the Orcs are controlling them better than ever. They got them flying in winter. I saw her bring down two right in front of the walls.”
“Didn’t save your city though, did it?”
“It didn’t. But I wouldn’t give anyone else much chance of leading us back there.”
I look at my tankard, which is empty. “I need a refill.”
“We didn’t bring this beer all the way here just to fill up fat Turanian bellies.”
“Just give me a refill, Calbeshi, and I won’t tell your men about your dishonourable behaviour in Mattesh.”
“Dishonourable behaviour? I was the only man who knew how to fight.”
“For a Simnian, maybe. That’s not saying much. Are you ever going to fill this tankard?”
“You ought to take care. This is proper Simnian beer, not that cheap swill you brew in Turai.”
“Simnian beer? You don’t know what the word means.”
Calbeshi fills up my tankard, and his. We drink. For a lying, cheating Simnian, I suppose he’s not such a bad person.
Droo is perched on the beer wagon with a large flagon in her small hands. “I met this fool when I was down in Mattesh,” I tell her. “The other Simnians fled like rabbits, but he managed to hang around, as far as I recall. Once Gurd and I had saved his life four or five times, he almost learned how to use a sword properly.”
Calbeshi roars with laughter. “Gurd? Now he wasn’t bad, for a northerner. Couldn’t figure out why he was wasting his time hanging round with Turanians. Me and Gurd must have saved Thraxas eight or nine times, him being a fat, useless drunk even when he was young.”
We drink a fourth flagon.
“Who was that other Turanian fool you were with?” asks Calbeshi. “The tall, stupid man with an axe?”
“Poldax. Good man. Survived the war, I remember.”
We get down to swapping war stories. Around us, Calbeshi’s men, more industrious than their boss, unload beer and send it off to the Simnian units which now make up the left flank of the army. Droo sits on the wagon, observing everything, looking quite cheerful in her unfamiliar environment. She has a long knife at her hip. I wonder if she can use it in combat. I can’t quite imagine Droo going into combat. It might happen sooner than she imagines. We’ll be meeting up with the Niojans any time now. After that, we’ll be marching East. We don’t have any intelligence about the whereabouts of the Orcish army, but we’ll encounter them somewhere.