I’m dissatisfied with this. Other than confirming that Covinius is in town, Hanama hasn’t really told me anything.
“There is nothing more to tell. I do not discuss our private affairs with anyone. Sending the message was the most I could do.”
Hanama stands up and leaves swiftly. I toss some money on the table for my beer, and depart, angry. Talking to Assassins always bothers me.
It’s not far to the Imperial Library. This is a magnificent piece of architecture but it’s a place I rarely visit. All those scrolls make me feel inadequate. And I don’t like the way the assistants walk around so quietly in their togas. They make a man feel like he doesn’t belong.
There’s a whole room devoted to sorcerous learning but that’s as far as I get. When I start trying to work out the catalogue I develop a serious mental block and am obliged to wait till Makri shows up, which takes a while. When she finally waltzes in I’m annoyed to see the staff greet her in a friendly manner. She grew up in an Orcish slave pit. I’m a native-born citizen of Turai. They ought to show me more respect.
“What do you expect?” whispers Makri. “You once spilled beer over a manuscript.”
“Not much beer. You think they’d have forgotten by now. How’s Lisutaris?”
“Glued to the water pipe. She’s taking it all badly. You know, I’m starting to think she might not be such a great candidate for head of the Sorcerers Guild. I like her a lot but I can’t see her spending much time looking after Guild affairs.”
“You just realised that?”
“Well, you’re the one who betted on her,” Makri points out.
“That was before I realised that helping her election would mean covering up a murder. I’m going to have to work hard to pick up my winnings.”
“Is that why you took her as a client?”
“It tipped the balance. Did you leave her safe?”
Makri thinks so. Lisutaris’s house is full of servants and attendants and Makri left instructions that they should be wary of strangers.
“Not that that’s going to help much if the great Assassin Covinius decides to pay a visit. I’ve seen Hanama. She didn’t tell me much. But Covinius is definitely in town.”
“Did he kill Darius Cloud Walker?”
“Who knows? I’ll have to try and find out more, which isn’t going to be easy.”
A passing library assistant frowns at me. I lower my voice. “I need to find out what kind of spell could possibly make it appear as if Lisutaris killed Darius. I’ve been racking my brains and I looked all through my own grimoire, but I can’t think of anything. Neither can Astrath.”
Makri seems distracted. I study my companion suspiciously.
“Did you take a turn on the water pipe?”
“Of course not. Stop treating me like I’m Turai’s biggest drug abuser. There were special circumstances. I was depressed. Did you know that Jir-ar-Eth the Avulan Sorcerer is here?”
“What about it?”
“You told me no one could travel from the Elvish Isles to Turai in winter.”
“Jir-ar-Eth set off early, shortly after we left.”
“Then why didn’t See-ath send me a message with him?”
“Possibly Lord Kalith’s Chief Sorcerer felt he had more important things to do than carry love letters. Do you have to go on about See-ath all the time?”
“It’s important,” says Makri.
I shake my head helplessly.
“Try and concentrate, we’ve got work to do.”
I describe to Makri what I’m after and we get busy at the catalogue, looking for a spell. Two spells probably, one to hide the real events and one to create the false ones. It’s sounding more and more unlikely. The pictures of Lisutaris killing Darius were very clear. Just because I can’t think of a motive doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I’ve come across stranger things. Perhaps the thazis is driving her mad. At such extreme levels, who knows what it might do?
“Did Lisutaris share your dwa?”
“Stop going on about dwa,” hisses Makri. “I said I was sorry.”
We struggle through tome after tome, scroll after scroll. Faced with this task I quickly tire. I hate this catalogue. I’d rather be on a stake-out in a freezing alleyway.
“Can’t they organise it in a way a man can understand?”
“It’s perfectly logical.”
“What do these numbers mean? I can’t make any sense of it.”
“It’s the classification system,” explains Makri. “It tells you where to find things.”
“Why isn’t it clearer?”
“It’s very clear. You just don’t understand it.”
I struggle on, working my way through books listing spells for every conceivable occasion. If I wanted to learn how to attack a Troll, I’d be fine. If I needed to know how to tell what the weather is like two hundred miles away, I could locate the right incantation. I even come across a spell for testing the strength of beer, and that’s something I’d be interested in. But for what I’m looking for, there’s nothing.
“This is hopeless. I’ve said all along it couldn’t be done. Okay, I might be about the worst magic user in Turai. I can’t do much more than heat up a cloak or send an opponent to sleep. But I understand the principles of sorcery, and its limitations. I think we’re going to have to face it. Lisutaris is guilty.”
“You don’t really believe that,” protests Makri. “You just can’t stand being in the library any longer. You can’t send a woman to the gallows just because you don’t understand the classification system.”
“Don’t bet on it. Anyway, I can’t concentrate any more. If I don’t eat soon I’m going to expire. I suggest we go to the hostelry across the road, and try again later.”
Makri isn’t hungry.
“And I don’t like giving up on research. I want to go all through the catalogue.”
I’m forced to admire her persistence, but I can’t carry on myself.
“Meet me in the tavern when you’ve run out of energy. Maybe once my belly’s full I’ll come up with an idea.”
The Imperial Library stands in a magnificent square, flanked by an enormous church and the Honourable Merchants Association’s building. All these workers need refreshment and there are several small taverns tucked away round the corner. I choose The Scholar, which, despite its name, seems a welcoming enough establishment. The short walk from the library to the tavern is an ordeal. The wind slices through me and snow whips into my face. By the time I arrive my cloak is encrusted with tiny particles of ice and I hang it close to the fire to dry. At this time in the afternoon the tavern is empty, save for two young men, probably students, who sit at a table with two small jars of ale, studying a scroll. I order the special haunch of salted beef, then take my beer and sit in a prime spot in front of the fire to thaw out.
Another few winters like this will finish me off. Fleeing south towards the sun might not be such a bad idea. I’m in a tough spot. Already the most powerful Sorcerers will be turning their attention to the matter of Darius. They’ll find their way blocked by Lisutaris’s spell, but for how long? What if Lisutaris was too addled by thazis to cast it properly? The Civil Guard might be looking for me at this very moment. For the first time in my career I start to think I may be in over my head. I can’t fight the Sorcerers Guild. I was foolish to try. I pick at my salt beef without much enthusiasm, finishing it only with the aid of an extra portion of sauce and another beer.
The door slams, an icy gust rushes into the tavern and Makri staggers in.
“Move over from that fire, Thraxas, I’m as cold as the ice queen’s grave.”
Before she has time to even sit down, the landlord appears and brusquely informs her that women are not permitted in this establishment. Makri gapes.
“Are you serious?”
He’s completely serious. It’s their regular policy. In truth, it’s not that unusual in some of the more respectable sections of the city.