The snow is falling more heavily. I keep my head down and hope that no one will pay enough attention to me to give the Civil Guards a good description when they arrive to investigate. I'm keen to get back to the Avenging Axe as quickly as possible to examine the Orcish writing. I have a fair knowledge of the common Orcish tongue and Makri's is better.
I find her in her room, studying some old books. Makri has very few books. She'd like more, but they're expensive items.
'Makri. I did swear never to speak to you again after the Herminis debacle but I need your help translating this Orcish document.'
'Okay,' says Makri, quite brightly.
'New books?'
'Samanatius gave them to me. I went along to his academy to say goodbye.'
'Is he leaving town?'
'No, he's going to fight the Ores.'
I can see why Makri was saying goodbye. I can't see the elderly philosopher lasting long on the battlefield.
I spread out the sheet of paper on the floor for Makri to examine. It's torn and stained with blood. Makri purses her lips and says that it's not a form of Orcish she's familiar with.
'I can make out some of it. But there are words I've never seen before. I can probably work it out given time; it looks like some old form of the dialect they speak in Gzak. Like the Orcish their Sorcerers use, I think.'
'Okay. But what about the bits you can read? Does the heading say something about feeding dragons?'
'Not feeding,' says Makri. 'Transporting.'
'Transporting?'
With an Orcish army on the way, anything about transporting dragons can't be good news.
'Where did this come from?'
I tell Makri about Bevarius. Makri asks if the Consul's assistant was working alone. I admit I'm not sure.
'Someone killed him before I could finish my interrogation.'
I examine the betting slip. Not an official slip from one of Turai's bookmakers but the sort of note a man might make to record some bet between friends, or maybe a note to remind him who was gambling on what when he went to place the bet. Might not be important. All classes in Turai place bets on the races.
'You were right about the poison. It wasn't carasin. Something similar, but slower working. Bevarius poisoned the pastry in—'
I stop. Where did Bevarius poison the pastry? Not in the kitchen. The cook said no one entered the kitchen. In the corridor? Maybe. But if he did, it didn't show up in Lisutaris's sorcerous reconstruction of the scene, even with her improved pictures. Maybe the Consul did it. He was definitely around the food trolleys. But somehow I can't see Kalius injecting poison into a pastry in the corridor, not when he was due to negotiate a loan from a moneylender. Kalius isn't cool-headed enough to do all that. Everything seems to be pointing towards the Consul but I'm hesitant. I just don't see him as a murderer. Incompetent, yes. Greedy, to an extent. But not murderous. The whole affair sounds much more like the work of a ruthless man like Rittius. There's a man who'd have no qualms about organising a few deaths. And I could easily see him betraying the city for money.
Unfortunately nothing points in his direction, and he was never in a position to poison the pastry. Now I think about it, he was alone in the corridor with Bevarius for a while. Neither of them was near the food though. Bevarius's partner in crime has to be someone else.
I ask Makri where Herminis is and she says they've moved her to a secret location.
'Is that secret location my office?'
'No.'
I leave her to translate the Orcish paper while I go downstairs and get myself outside a substantial helping of everything on the menu. It takes more than a brush with death to affect my appetite. Viriggax and his mercenaries are drinking steadily at a table nearby. Young Toraggax is pouring a huge flagon of ale down his throat, urged on by his companions. Being new to the brigade, he doesn't want to lag behind in the drinking, but he's looking a little the worse for wear. As he finishes the tankard, Viriggax claps him heartily on the back and pushes another one into his hand.
I find myself nodding off in the chair, so I take myself off to my room, drink a last beer, then fall asleep.
Deep into the night I'm woken by noises outside. Someone is clumping around in the corridor. It's long past the hour when anyone in the tavern should be awake. I throw on a tunic, grab my sword and whisper a word to my illuminated staff, bringing forth a dim light, I open my door carefully, wary of attackers. Some way along the corridor I find Makri in the process of hauling an unconscious Toraggax out of her room. Makri's a lot stronger than she looks but she's having some difficulty in moving the huge mercenary.
'Need a hand?'
Makri spins round and looks guilty.
'No,' she replies.
I look down at the unconscious man.
'What happened? You slug him when he tried to sneak into your room?'
'He didn't sneak in. He knocked on the door and I let him in.'
And you slugged him when he started getting amorous?'
'I didn't slug him at all,' replies Makri. 'He just fell over drunk.'
I nod.
'Too much beer. He was trying to keep up with Viriggax.'
I'm puzzled.
'Why did you let a drunken mercenary into your room without punching him?'
Makri shrugs.
'No reason.'
'So what happened?'
'What do you mean, what happened? He came in, then he fell over unconscious. What's it got to do with you anyway?'
'Nothing. If you want to start inviting mercenaries into your bedroom it's your affair.'
'I didn't invite him into my bedroom. He just arrived.'
Makri suddenly glances over my shoulder. I look round to find that Hanama has arrived on the scene, quite noiselessly. The Assassin looks slightly confused at the sight that greets her.
'What are you doing here?' I demand. 'How did you get into the tavern?'
'I picked the lock. What's happening?'
'Nothing,' says Makri.
'She's just evicting a drunken mercenary,' I explain.
'Did he try to break into your room?'
'No,' I say. 'She invited him in.'
Hanama frowns.
'You're inviting mercenaries into your room? When did this start?'
'Nothing has started,' says Makri, raising her voice. 'He just knocked on my door and I let him in. I don't see anything strange in that.'
'I think it's very strange,' says Hanama, who, for some reason, is not sounding at all pleased. 'You've never done it before.'
'She's right,' I agree. 'It's not like you at all. Usually you'd just punch the guy'
'Or maybe kick him,' says Hanama.
'Or even stab him.'
'Shut up,' says Makri crossly. 'It's none of your business.'
I notice a few leaves projecting from Hanama's winter cloak.
Are those flowers?'
'No,' says Hanama.
'Yes they are.'
'Well so what if they are?'
Assassins are trained from a young age to hide their emotions. Even so, for the briefest of moments I'd swear a look of embarrassment flickers across Hanama's face.
'Did you bring them for me?' asks Makri.
'No,' says Hanama. 'I just had them on me.'
She pauses.
'Unless you want them. You can have them if you want.'
'Thank you,' says Makri.
'Of course,' says Hanama, 'if you're too busy with the mercenary ..."
'I'm not busy with anything.'
Hanama suddenly looks cross.
'I do think it's very strange that you're suddenly inviting northern mercenaries into your room late at night. Did you really think about the consequences?'
'Goddammit,' explodes Makri. 'I didn't know I had to ask permission before I had visitors!'
Heavy footsteps on the stairs announce the arrival of Gurd. He walks up, torch in hand, wondering what all the noise is.