I certainly do. Without the timely intervention of the Elvish armies, Turai would now be a province of Aztol.
“The Kingdom of Aztol hasn’t recovered from defeat,” continues the Princess. “But Gzak is growing stronger. It’s a rich land and a lot of Orcs still look up to Gzak for its victories last century.”
“So you think Gzak will invade?” asks Makri. She doesn’t sound too distressed by the prospect. Here in Turai she can never find enough Orcs to kill.
“It’s possible. But hard to predict. It takes something special to unite the Orcs. Last century Ormizoan the Great started his career as leader of a small band of rebels. The same magnetism that made his followers stand by him in difficult times eventually made him war leader of the entire east. The Orc lands are rarely peaceful. Who knows if one of the current warring rebel Princes might be destined for greatness? Have you heard of the young Prince Amrag of Kose who just overthrew the King? He was abandoned as a bastard child, so the story goes, but his brilliant guerrilla warfare proved too much for the army to contend with. He has a reputation as a very charismatic Orc.”
I nod. I’ve heard of Prince Amrag. Charismatic, savage and successful, so they say.
“Isn’t there some weird story that he’s not entirely Orc?”
“What do you mean, not entirely Orc?” asks Makri.
“Mixed blood,” answers Direeva. “A little Human perhaps. Some of the wilder stories even say he has Elvish blood, though I find that impossible to believe. But even the fact that such stories gather around Amrag shows he’s an Orc to set their imaginations rolling.”
I get a brief vision of the horrors of the last war. I banish it with an effort. There’s no time to dwell on that, or on what may be to come.
“I have to do something about the current crisis. I’m no closer to finding the murderer. And now we know Covinius is here, Lisutaris is in terrible danger.”
“I’ll see if Hanama can learn any more,” says Makri, unexpectedly.
“What changed your mind?”
“You helped Samanatius.”
Poor Makri. If she wasn’t so naive she’d know I’d never have gone near the eviction without being blackmailed into it.
Makri turns back to Direeva but the Princess has now switched her attention to a young man wearing a well-cut rainbow cloak whose bright golden hair tumbles over his shoulders in a raffish manner. Troverus, we presume.
“Where’d he come from?” demands Makri, not pleased at being outflanked by the young Simnian Sorcerer. “You think he’s handsome?”
I shrug.
“I don’t think he’s that handsome,” says Makri. “Look at all that girly blond hair.”
“You like girly blond hair.”
“Yes, it’s really nice, now you mention it,” says Makri. “Excuse me, I have to get between them.”
With the determined look of a woman who is not about to be easily defeated, Makri plants herself firmly between Direeva and Troverus and eyes the Simnian like a hostile attacking force.
“I understand that venereal disease is rampant in Simnia,” she says. “How do you cope with that?”
I leave her to the struggle. Things may be bad but at least Tilupasis doesn’t have me trying to charm anyone. The Assemblage continues to be the one bright spot in a frozen city. If the murder of Darius has cast a shadow over proceedings, you wouldn’t guess it from the behaviour of Irith Victorious and his jolly Juvalian companions. Behind the scenes the senior Sorcerers may be working assiduously, but in the main hall, behaviour has become riotous. Cicerius is shaken.
“I was not quite prepared for this,” he admits. Nearby, some dark-skinned southern Sorcerers are engaged in a contest to see who can levitate the largest barrel of beer.
“At least we have their vote,” says Cicerius, moving swiftly to avoid a floating river of ale. “We sent a wagonload of beer to their lodgings.”
With Darius out of the way, it seems certain that Ramius will win the vote. Lisutaris is still favourite to gain second place, ahead of Rokim, but there’s been an unexpectedly good showing by a Sorcerer named Almalas.
“A Niojan, of all things,” says Cicerius, animatedly.
Nioj, our large northern neighbour, is one of the biggest threats to Turai’s security. If they gain control of the Sorcerers Guild we might as well surrender to King Lamachus.
“How can a Niojan be making gains?” I ask. “No one likes Niojans. They’re religious fundamentalists. Their church isn’t even that keen on sorcery. They don’t drink, don’t have fun, don’t do anything except pray.”
“Sober habits are not universally despised,” retorts Cicerius.
“We’re talking Sorcerers here. Whoever heard of a Sorcerer voting for a man who doesn’t drink?”
Cicerius admits it’s strange.
“Has he been spreading his Niojan gold around?”
“Quite probably. But remember, many northern states look to Nioj for protection from the Orcs. Almalas’s sober habits may not be so unwelcome to those who worry about imminent attack. Also, he is a war hero, at least as much as Lisutaris or Ramius, possibly more so. Tales of him leading troops into battle have been widely circulated.”
“I remember Almalas. I guess he was a good enough commander. His sorcery wasn’t on a par with Lisutaris’s, though.”
“He is at least able to walk around, which helps,” says Cicerius, in a withering tone. “What about the hiding spell?”
“Still in place. It’s been boosted by Direeva and Melus the Fair.”
“Have you eliminated Princess Direeva from suspicion?”
“No. I haven’t eliminated her from anything. I still don’t like the way she’s sticking close to Lisutaris. I have some other leads, though. There’s an apprentice used to work for Darius who got the boot after being accused of embezzling funds and left threatening to kill Darius. The apprentice was last heard of in Mattesh, still practising sorcery and threatening revenge. And I’ve got a lead on the erasure spell.”
The air starts turning orange and gold as the southern Sorcerers begin to show off their illuminated staffs. Three days into the convention, inhibitions are fading and there’s more magic in evidence. The Royal Hall is not a place to visit if you don’t like surprises.
“I can hardly bear to go into the main room,” confesses Cicerius. “Every time I do I seem to get covered in beer or wine.”
“At least they’re celebrating. Better than them all trying to solve the murder.”
Cicerius’s assistant Hansius approaches briskly. He leans over to whisper in the Deputy Consul’s ear, though as the nearby Sorcerers have now started up a raucous drinking song, it’s difficult to hear anything. Cicerius listens briefly before dismissing Hansius.
“Bad news. Sunstorm Ramius and Old Hasius the Brilliant have let it be known they are close to uncovering the hidden events. Ramius of course is keen to do this. It will enhance his reputation.”
“Couldn’t you do something to get Old Hasius off the case? He’s sharp as an Elf’s ear when it comes to looking back in time. Isn’t there some matter at the Abode of Justice which requires his urgent attention?”
“Unfortunately not,” replies Cicerius. “The King has granted permission for Hasius to remain here and help. He naturally wishes to give all possible aid to the Sorcerers Assemblage.”
“I take it the King doesn’t actually know that our own candidate is prime suspect?”
Cicerius shakes his head, and looks grim.
“You must at least hold them off till after the election,” he tells me. “We depend on it. Now, about this matter of Praetor Capatius and the eviction.”
I’m expecting Cicerius to chew me out over this one, but the Deputy Consul for once seems to perceive that I was in an impossible position.