“Did it cost much?”
“A little gold, a dragon-scale necklace or two. They were quite reasonable.”
Her eyes come to rest on one of the more exotic figures in the hall, a tall young woman in a cloak which is mainly gold, with the rainbow pattern visible only at the collar. The woman is dark-skinned and has hair so long as to make me suspect it’s been sorcerously enhanced, stretching down almost to her knees. In amongst the dark mass of hair are several golden streaks and some beads which brilliantly reflect the torchlight. I’ve never seen so much hair on one person. It’s an impressive sight. Beneath her rather spectacular golden cloak she’s wearing a somewhat more functional tunic and leggings, marking her out as a visitor from outside the city. Very few Turanian women ever wear male attire, apart of course from Makri, and some of the lower-class workers at the markets.
“Princess Direeva?”
“Yes. One of the most powerful Sorcerers in the Wastelands.”
“Not an associate of Horm the Dead, I hope?”
Horm the Dead, a renegade half-Orc Sorcerer, almost destroyed Turai last year.
Tilupasis shakes her head.
“Her lands are far south of his. I don’t think they’re friends.”
Turanians tend to be suspicious of anyone who lives in the Wastelands, the long stretch of ungoverned territory that separates us from the Orcs in the east.
“Better to have her as a friend than an enemy, I suppose,” I mutter.
“More than that. Princess Direeva is of huge importance in this election. She carries a great many votes.”
“She does?”
“Of course. Her father’s kingdom, the Southern Hills, is rich in sorcery. It has to be, being so close to the Orcs. Without magical protection they’d have been overrun long ago. There are ten Sorcerers here directly under her sway. But that’s not all. The Wastelands are full of tiny regions that look to them for leadership. When you count up all the Sorcerers from these regions, it comes to something like thirty votes. That could be enough to sway the election. Right now I believe she favours Darius, the Abelasian, so winning over Princess Direeva is one of the most important tasks I have.”
The Princess stands rather aloof from the crowd. She’s attended by two apprentices in blue cloaks but makes no attempt to mingle with the other Sorcerers. Tilupasis excuses herself, and heads over to begin her offensive on Direeva. I’m surprised that the young woman has thirty votes under her control. Already I’m feeling slightly baffled by the complexity of the election.
I’ve spotted Sunstorm Ramius on the far side of the room and I’m keen to get an impression of the Simnian. He’s a man of medium height and build, around fifty-five but showing no effects of age. His beard is short and well trimmed and he stands erect with something of the manner of a soldier. Ramius won himself a fine reputation during the last Orc Wars and he looks like a man who wouldn’t flinch in the face of danger. Around him are a large collection of friends and admirers, and from the way they hang on to his words I can tell that he carries a lot of weight round here.
Charismatic and powerful, I reflect. Bad news for Lisutaris. But good to know. Apart from my official business here, there’s the ever-important matter of gambling on the result, and if I can’t succeed in getting Lisutaris elected I’m at least planning to back the winner. Honest Mox has been taking bets on the outcome of this election for weeks now, but I’ve been holding off till I get a chance to study the form in person. My first impression is that Sunstorm Ramius is probably worth his place as favourite.
I hang around on the fringes of the group who surround Ramius. They’re talking of the election and I listen keenly, because there are other candidates to consider. Lisutaris, Rokim, Darius and Ramius may be the early favourites, but that’s not to say there won’t be a strong showing from anyone else. Surprise candidates have been known to win the post before, creeping through the pack when the Assemblage has been unable to make up its mind. Or bribing their way to power, though the Sorcerers will never admit that this has happened.
I’m heading back to the bar for a fresh tankard of ale when a slight stir in the hall heralds the arrival of Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky. She enters quite grandly, as befits her rank, with a young female apprentice beside her and Makri bringing up the rear. Lisutaris is extravagantly coiffured and wears her finest rainbow cloak over a white robe which trails elegantly behind her as she walks. She has silver Elvish bangles, a silver tiara, a necklace of three rows of emeralds and a pair of gold shoes that must have cost the equivalent of a shipload of grain.
Behind her Makri is wearing her full light body armour, something I’ve rarely seen. Usually when she gets into a fight in Twelve Seas there’s no time to be donning armour. She brought it with her from the Orc lands and it’s made of black leather partly covered with chainmail, which will turn most blades. Makri carries her helmet under her arm, and while she isn’t wearing a blade—this is not allowed at the Assemblage—I’ve no doubt that Lisutaris will be holding one discreetly for her in a magic pocket. Anyone with an experienced eye can see that the wearer of such a suit is a person who knows how to fight; a worthwhile bodyguard. It makes for an impressive entrance. Lisutaris looks like a Sorcerer who means business.
I make my way over to greet them. Lisutaris is already surrounded by Sorcerers and, not for the first time, Makri also finds herself the object of some interest. Makri’s reddish skin tone gives away her Orcish blood—any Sorcerer would sense it anyway—and I can see that people are already wondering who this exotic creature is that walks behind Lisutaris wearing Orcish armour with the gait of a warrior.
“Nice entrance.”
“You think so?” says Makri. “I was worried about the armour. But Lisutaris wanted her bodyguard to look businesslike.”
“Probably a wise move. Why are you late? The water pipe?”
“Only partly,” says Makri. “Lisutaris was having her hair done by Copro.”
“I guess that explains it. How did you like our finest beautician?”
“He’s okay,” says Makri, noncommittally. “He offered to show me his new range of make-up from Samsarina. I told him I didn’t need it.”
After her tough upbringing in the gladiator pits Makri still professes some contempt for the softness of our Turanian aristocracy, though in recent months she’s moderated her hostility towards make-up, particularly in the field of colouring her nails.
“Does Lisutaris have your swords?”
Makri shakes her head.
“I’ve got them in my pocket. She lent me a magic purse.” She pats her hip. “I’ve got two swords, three knives and an axe in here.”
A magic purse is a container of the magic space. You can put anything in there and it loses all mass and volume, which is very handy for carrying hidden weapons. It’s a small manifestation of the magic space in which some of the sorcerous tests will later be carried out. Normally it’s illegal to walk around Turai with a magic purse, but the Consul has suspended this law for the duration of the Assemblage.
Two young Sorcerers—Samsarinan, from their clothes—are attempting to edge their way past me to greet Lisutaris. Or possibly to introduce themselves to Makri. I leave them to it. Maybe if Makri gets involved with someone else she’ll stop being miserable about the Elf.
I’m picking up a beer when a heavy hand pounds me on the back.
“Thraxas? Is that you?”
I turn round to find a large Sorcerer with a red face and a bushy grey beard smiling at me. I don’t recognise him.
“It’s me. Irith.”
“Irith Victorious?”
“The same! You’ve put on weight!”
“So have you.”
I slap him on the back enthusiastically. I haven’t seen Irith Victorious for more than twenty years. When I was a mercenary down in Juval, Irith was a hired Sorcerer in the same army. It was the first time I met Gurd, the war was messy and confused and just about the only good things were the klee, provisions and occasional good times supplied by Irith Victorious. He was a slim youth in those days, but from the size of his waistline I’d say he’d carried on with the good times.