Tanrose isn’t looking any less hostile. “Does this job involve insulting Makri?”
“Strictly speaking, it doesn’t. But the need may arise.”
“You’re talking nonsense. I insist you make things up with her.”
“You mean apologise? Certainly not. And I’m not taking her flowers either. This isn’t a little girl’s birthday party. This is war.”
And with that I depart. I don’t care what Tanrose says, I’m not apologising to Makri. I’m still furious that Lisutaris ordered Legate Apiroi’s murder and I have a notion that Makri knew all about it. Lisutaris, Makri, Hanama, they were all involved in the Association of Gentlewomen back in Turai; an illicit organisation full of troublemakers. You can’t trust any of them. The law has no meaning for people like that.
I march on, my good mood evaporating. I review my conversation with Tanrose, hoping I didn’t say anything too insulting. She might get the notion to ban me from her campfire. I’ll never get through this war without her food inside me. Just past Lisutaris’s command tent I come to an abrupt halt. Makri, with her back to me, is engaged in conversation with an Elf: See-ath, her ex-lover. Either she’s finally decided to confront him, of they’ve just run into each other accidentally. Either way, Makri isn’t comfortable, from the way she’s shifting her feet and looking down at the ground.
“I’m sorry about all these messages,” she mumbles.
See-ath regards her unsmilingly. His long blonde hair flows over his shoulders. He’s a handsome young Elf. I don’t take to him.
“You caused me a lot of trouble,” he says. “So many messages. The communication sorcerer on Avula told everyone. I was the laughing stock of the island. Makri shuffles her feet some more. “I’m sorry I sent them.”
“I’d never have got involved with you if I’d known you were mad. You threatened to chop my head off!”
Makri hangs her head, and doesn’t seem to know what to say.
“And now you’ve been making a fuss again,” continues the Elf. “Do you think people haven’t noticed you diving for cover when I approach our War Leader’s tent? Everyone in my unit knows about you. My commanding officer is on the verge of complaining to Lisutaris. Do you have to keep humiliating me? Can’t you act normally?”
Makri’s head is already hanging in shame. It droops even lower. “I’m sorry.”
“You were lucky I paid any attention to you in the first place. You know what people said when I started talking to a woman with Orcish blood? They said I’d end up tainted. And they were right. I must have been insane.”
Having now heard enough of this, I stride forward. I walk past Makri and grab the front of See-ath’s green tunic. Then, using a move I perfected in the schoolyard, I hook his leg with my own and push him over. He falls to the ground, startled. I glare down at him.
“Mind your language when you’re talking to Makri,” I tell him. “You should count yourself lucky she paid you any attention at all, you scrawny excuse for an Elf. You can go tell your unit, your Commander and your whole damn island that Ensign Makri of the Commander’s Personal Security Unit, Sorcerers Auxiliary Regiment, bodyguard to our War Leader, undefeated champion gladiator of the Orcish lands, top student at Turai’s distinguished Community College and recent victor in the prestigious Samsarinan sword-fighting tournament, has better things to do that waste her time on you. If I catch you being rude to her again I’ll knock your head off.”
I take Makri’s arm. “Let’s go.”
Makri allows herself to be led away. Her head and shoulders are still hunched in shame and it takes her a while to come out of it.
“Thanks for rescuing me,” she says, as we arrive at my wagon. “You’re welcome.”
She looks down at my hand. “You can let go my arm now.”
I release my hold. I notice Makri’s eyes are moist. “Are you going to burst into tears? If so, get in the wagon where no one can see.”
Makri sniffs. “I’m all right.”
“You’d probably better get in the wagon anyway, just in case.”
The wagon is empty. Makri sits down, dabs her eyes, and recovers her composure. She looks up at me. “I was planning never to speak to you again. You were very insulting.”
“Only in an inconsiderate, heat-of-the-moment sort of way. Happens all the time between companions at war.”
There’s a few moments silence. I really could do with some beer. At that moment Droo clambers in with a smile on her face and a bottle of wine she’s filched from somewhere. “I saw you push See-ath over!” she laughs. “I never liked him.”
We drink Droo’s wine as the day passes, and do little else. Anumaris and Rinderan appear. They’ve both been satisfactory as security assistants. More than satisfactory, in Anumaris’s case. My unit would be in chaos without her organisational skills. I should probably tell her that, in light of all the abuse I’ve given her. I’ll think about it. No point filling her head with praise this early in her military career. I will mention her good work to Lisutaris, when I next make a report. It’s a more relaxing afternoon than might have been expected, given that we’ll be marching east tomorrow. The further we go, the more likely it is that we’ll encounter the Orcish dragons. That won’t be pleasant. It will bring us closer to Turai however, and Makri and I are both pleased at the thought. When we were chased out of the city I wasn’t sure that I’d ever be able to return. Now, after our victory over the Orcs, it seems possible.
Makri falls asleep beside me, her head resting on my shoulder. I reflect on the day’s events. I’m still troubled by Apiroi’s death. If there was anything suspicious about it, I can see trouble ahead. The Niojans aren’t fools. Lisutaris may find herself with some explaining to do. Perhaps I’m worrying unnecessarily. People die on the battlefield. No one else may even suspect there was anything unusual about his demise.
I take a final sip of wine, finishing the bottle. Deeziz the Unseen has been banished from our camp and Captain Thraxas is in good standing with everyone. Not so bad, all things considered. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep beside Makri.
The Author
Martin Millar was born in Scotland and now lives in London. He is the author of such novels as Lonely Werewolf Girl, The Good Fairies of New York, and Suzy, Led Zeppelin and Me. He wrote the Thraxas series under the name of Martin Scott. Thraxas won the World Fantasy Award in 2000. As Martin Millar and as Martin Scott, he has been widely translated.