The tent is unguarded. No one sees us as we enter. Inside there are ten bodies laid out carefully on the ground. They’re all wrapped in their black cloaks, distinctive garment of the Niojan army. Each has their hands clasped in front of them, resting in death. The Niojans are treating their casualties with respect before they’re buried. There’s one long table on the room. Lying on the table is Legate Apiroi. He looks peaceful. I stride forward to examine him. There’s a deep wound in his throat.
Makri peers at the body. “That would have killed him instantly.”
“I suppose it would.” I grab the body and turn it over. Doing this requires a lot of strength, and wouldn’t count as treating the corpse with due respect.
“What are you doing?”
I study the back of the Legate’s brown leather tunic. When he went into battle, he’d have been wearing a solid breastplate, with chainmail covering his back. High-quality chainmail, probably, enough to offer good protection. I bend down to examine him.
“There,” I say, pointing.
“What am I meant to be looking at?”
“That tiny hole in the tunic.”
“What about it?”
I pull the tunic up. Half way up the Legate’s spine is a tiny mark, very hard to make out unless you’re looking for it.
“You know what that is?”
“No,” says Makri. From the tone of her voice I’m not certain she’s telling the truth. Makri is generally a poor liar.
“It’s the mark made by an assassin’s dart. Small enough to penetrate chainmail, if used by an expert. Poisoned, no doubt. Fired into him under cover of the confusion of battle.”
“An assassin’s dart? This is sounding ridiculous.”
I haul the Legate back into his original position. “Hanama killed him. Presumably on Lisutaris’s orders. She brought him down with a dart, removed it, then cut his throat to make it look like he was killed in battle. Smart move by Lisutaris, I suppose. Got rid of the problem.”
“I don’t believe it,” says Makri.
“You probably knew about it already.”
“No I didn’t! I still don’t believe it anyway.”
I stare at Makri. “I hate assassins. Legate Apiroi was an annoying, power-seeking fool but he didn’t deserve to be murdered by Hanama.”
“You have no proof he was. Who cares, anyway? We’re better off without him.”
“You think so? If Lisutaris did send Hanama to kill him, she probably used sorcery to cover it up. That has a tendency to go wrong. Other people have sorcery too. The Niojans for instance. If they find out about this the trouble will be ten times worse.”
We leave the tent. I’m tired, and feel a strong desire to go to sleep for a long time. A few Niojan sentries cast unfriendly glances at Makri as we pass through their area of the encampment.
“Lisutaris isn’t Queen of the West, you know. She doesn’t get to decide who lives or dies.”
“She has to do what’s right for the army,” says Makri, stubbornly.
“Assassinating a Niojan diplomat isn’t right for the army.”
“I’d say it was.”
“That’s hardly a surprise, given your past record.”
Makri halts, and stares at me. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean you’re no stranger to executing people when you feel like it. Without bothering about the niceties of the law.”
“When did I ever do that?”
“Back in Turai. You killed Rittius, Head of Palace Security.”
“He was a traitor!”
“I suspected him of being a traitor. I was about to arrest him when you decided that was too much trouble, and stabbed him instead.”
“I can’t believe you’re complaining about that! Have you forgotten how many Turanians died outside the city walls when the Orcs attacked? Rittius betrayed the city. You said he poisoned Galwinius as well.”
“I said I suspected he poisoned Galwinius. I’d have liked to see him stand trial for it. But you just decided you’d execute him. No wonder Lisutaris likes you as her bodyguard, you’re as bad as each other.”
Makri is furious. She’s not a woman who takes criticism well. “Rittius deserved to die! Turai was besieged, there was never going to be a trial and you know it. And I don’t remember you being so upset at the time that I’d got rid of him.”
“I had other things on my mind. Like doing my duty and protecting the city. Not running around killing fellow citizens. Not that you’ve ever actually been a citizen.”
That’s quite a wounding remark. Makri wasn’t an official citizen of Turai, though she’d made her home there. I feel like wounding her. I’m tired. I’m angry. I’m feeling a strange sense of depression after the elation of defeating the Orcs. I don’t like it that Lisutaris sent Hanama to kill Legate Apiroi. It’s illegal, and I believe in the law.
Makri regards me with loathing. “I’d never want to be a citizen of any place you lived.”
“Fine. We weren’t looking to recruit homicidal pointy-eared Orcs anyway.”
Makri’s hand flies to the pommel of her sword. She controls herself, with an effort. “I hate you. Never speak to me again.” Makri turns on her heel and marches off.
A few Niojans in the distance are laughing. I catch a snippet of their conversation. Something about a fat Turanian and a crazy Orc woman. Fair enough. I trudge on, heading back to my place in the camp. On the way I pass by the parked wagons under the command of the Simnian Quartermaster Calbeshi. He laughs when he sees me.
“Thraxas, you look worse than usual, and that’s saying something. Where have you been? Hiding from the action again?”
“Just give me a beer, Calbeshi.”
The quartermaster fills up a leather tankard and hands it over. The sun is rising in the sky and it’s a warm morning. I sit down, rest my back against the quartermaster’s wagon, drink my beer, then fall asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A few hours later I wake up feeling refreshed. Calbeshi and his men are nowhere to be seen. Lazing around somewhere, I suppose. Indolent Simnians. I head back towards my unit’s wagon. It’s a warm afternoon and I might get the chance for some more sleep before we set off tomorrow. I should make sure we’re ready to go, but Anumaris will probably take care of it. With the warm sun overhead, I’m feeling almost jovial as I stroll through our encampment. There’s not much activity. A few soldiers can be seen, checking their equipment, but most people are taking the opportunity to rest.
As I’m walking past the end of the Turanian section I find myself confronted by Tanrose. She appears to be annoyed. I’ve no idea why.
“What did you say to Makri?” she demands.
“What?”
“What did you say to her? Why did you upset her?”
“A minor disagreement. Nothing important.”
“Nothing important? I’ve never seen her so upset.”
“That’s hard to believe. She’s always upset.”
“Why did you tell her she wasn’t welcome in Turai?”
“That’s not really an accurate - ”
“Didn’t she stick up for you when everyone thought you were wrong about Deeziz?”
“Yes, but - ”
“It’s not good enough Thraxas. I thought you’d got over bullying Makri by now.”
“Bullying? Bullying? Are you insane? I wasn’t bullying her! She was insulting me. I was just standing up for myself.”
“By calling her a homicidal pointy-eared Orc?”
“Some harsh words may have been spoken. Look, Tanrose, this isn’t the Avenging Axe. We’re not safe in our tavern now. We’re at war. I can’t go around being nice all the time. I have a job to do.”