by Martin Scott
«She's been taking dwa.»
«What?» Lisutaris looks horrified. «Is that true?»
Makri is sick again. I hope the carpet wasn't too expensive.
«As soon as I feel better I'm going to be really angry,» says Lisutaris.
«Do you have any lesada leaves?»
«I can't remember. I put all my supplies in my magic purse. There might be some in there.»
Lisutaris starts fumbling around in her purse.
«Dammit my head is sore,» I moan.
«You drink too much,» says Makri.
I'm about to direct some cutting remarks in her direction when Arichdamis appears. He takes in the sight of Lisutaris, Makri and me sprawled on his fine couches, and the mess on the floor.
«What is the meaning of this?» he demands. «I did not invite you into my house to turn it into a den of hopeless intoxication!»
Makri is sick again, then falls off the couch. Lisutaris erupts in a terrible outbreak of coughing, ending with her moaning and gasping for breath. Arichdamis gazes at them, appalled.
«Do you have any lesada leaves?» I ask.
«No!» barks Arichdamis. «And from what I've seen, I don't have anything left in my cellars either.»
«I did take a small jug of ale. I'll replace it, of course.»
The elderly mathematician glares angrily round the room. «I'm very disappointed in all of you. You in particular, Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, ought to know better.» With that, he departs.
«I don't see why he's blaming me,» mutters Lisutaris. «Thraxas is much worse. Everyone knows that.»
The Sorceress sticks her hand so far into her purse that her arm disappears. «I can't get used to this new magic pocket, I can never find anything.» She produces a sword, then a spell-book, before finally finding what she's looking for.
«Lesada leaves. I've had these a long time. I'm not sure if they're still potent.»
I take two of the leaves, eating one and giving the other to Makri. Lisutaris puts one in her mouth, grimacing at the bitter taste. We lie in silence for a while. The leaves, being old, take a while to work, but I slowly start to feel better.
«Who'd have thought Arichdamis would be so bad-tempered?» says Lisutaris.
«He'll get over it. Makri can smooth things out by talking about mathematics or something. Do you have a spell for cleaning the carpet?»
As we recover, I fill Lisutaris and Makri in on my investigation. There was a time when I'd never share details of my work, but these days I'm used to letting Makri know about my cases. As for Lisutaris, we're all in such a tricky situation together I figure it's as well she knows what I'm doing.
«You're dealing with important people,» says Lisutaris. «Baron Mabados, Baron Girimos, Vosanos, Chief Steward Daringos.»
«I know. I'll try not to give them any reason to blame you for anything.»
Lisutaris makes a face. She stands up unsteadily, and crosses to the large mirror which hangs in a plain bronze frame above the fireplace.
«Don't worry about it,» she says. «I'm fed up being discrete. I'm fed up with this Samsarinan hairstyle too.» She unpins her hair, letting it flow untidily around her shoulders. «I'm fed up trying to appease Samsarinans in general. They can like me or not like me. It's time I took control.»
I share the Sorceress's sentiments. All this worrying about status is getting us nowhere. If I was in Turai, I'd have already been a lot more forceful in my investigation.
«At the next meeting I'm going to tell the King it's time we elected a War Leader,» says Lisutaris. «And I'm the obvious candidate.»
«That's probably when Lasat will produce the missing plans,» says Makri.
Lisutaris loses a little of her newly regained colour, but rallies. «We'll sort that out.»
«How?»
«I don't know. Thraxas? Any thoughts?»
«Not at the moment. But I do have something else in mind. The pie eating competition.»
«Pardon?»
«You didn't want me to enter because it might be bad for your status. If you're no longer worried about that, I'm entering. We need the money.»
«Fine,» says Lisutaris. «Enter the competition. We might even be able to turn it into a heroic achievement»
«I doubt that,» says Makri. «Have you seen Thraxas eat?»
Makri is due to fight later on in the day. She's determined not to put up such a poor showing again. «I know someone used a spell against me,» she mutters.
Lisutaris didn't detect any sorcery, but admits she wasn't concentrating fully, as Markinos Moonstone was there. If any hostile magic was used, he should have sensed it.
«I'll make sure no sorcery is used against you from now on,» promises Lisutaris.
Makri still insists that she won the fight anyway. «I cut his neck. In a real fight he'd have been dead. Useless judges.»
She heads out to the gardens, still complaining. Lisutaris has another meeting this evening. She asks me if I want to attend with her. Ambassadors from Nioj have finally arrived. Nioj, Samsarina and Simnia will be providing the bulk of the armies in the upcoming war. Many smaller states will lend support, but the only other really large ally is the Elves. Their ambassadors should be here soon.
«I thought the Barons didn't want me at their meetings?»
«They don't,» says Lisutaris. «But I'm taking control. You're my adviser so you should be there. If they don't like it that's their problem. Is there any chance you won't be drunk and unpleasant?»
«There's always a chance.»
«If Daringos is there I'll try and arrange for you to speak with him,» says Lisutaris.
After breakfasting on a loaf of bread and the last smoked ham in the cellar, I make my way back to the King's Record House to speak to Cetenos, father of the unfortunate Alceten. I'm carrying Baroness Demelzos's letter of introduction. The same two soldiers are on guard, and this time they don't ignore me. They're inquisitive about my business, and not friendly. Obviously someone's been talking about me. I tell them I'm here to talk to Cetenos.
«The King's Record Keeper doesn't talk to visitors.»
«He'll talk to me,» I reply. «Not that you have any reason to prevent me from entering.»
One of the soldiers laughs. «Let him in. Zinlantol will throw him out anyway.»
Zinlantol is sitting behind her desk. She starts her hostile glare while I'm still some distance away, and keeps it up.
«I'm here to talk to Cetenos.»
«He's not available.»
«My letter of introduction from Baroness Demelzos says otherwise.» I waste no time brandishing it. Zinlantol takes it as quite a blow. After studying the official seal she reluctantly admits to herself that it's genuine. She rises from her chair, and speaks to a young assistant.
«Tell Cetenos there's someone here to see him. An investigator from Turai, with an introduction from Baroness Demelzos, if you can believe it.»
I wait a long time while Zinlantol pointedly ignores me. Behind her are rows and rows of shelving, full of books and scrolls. Next to the shelves are cabinets, wood darkened with age. As I watch, an assistants arrives with a box and starts loading papers into one of the cabinets.
«What are they?» I ask.
«Mining records,» mutters Zinlantol. «Please don't interrupt, I'm busy.»
Eventually the first assistant arrives back and beckons for me to follow him. He leads me through several dimly-lit rooms full of dusty books and scrolls, up a winding staircase, though more rooms, and finally into something which might pass as a private reception room, were it not also full of boxes of papers, some of them obviously still waiting to be organised. I take a seat, and wait. For something to do I try reading a few of the documents on the table beside me, but they're all about productivity levels at a silver mine, and my eyes glaze over.
Cetenos turns out to be older than I was expecting. He must have married late. He's using a walking stick as he shuffles slowly into the room. His hair is thin and
grey, but longer than I'd expect for a Samsarinan government official. His cuffs are frayed, and his boots, once smart, are scuffed and worn. He looks like a man who's not much interested in his appearance any more. As I rise to greet him he stands motionless, staring at me, weighing me up in silence. I take out Demelzos's letter.
«The Baroness requests that you talk to me.»
He glances at the letter. «You're asking questions about Alceten?»
«That's right.»
The elderly man's arm starts to tremble, and so does his cane. It's a relief when he makes it to a chair safely.
«Her death was a terrible shock,» he says. «The pain of it has almost…» His voice tails off.
«When did you last see her?»
«Minutes before it happened. She was here, in this room. But why are you asking about this?»
«I'm just trying to clear up a few details.»
Cetenos, while distressed, hasn't lost his wits. «Is there some suggestion that my daughter's death wasn't an accident?»
«Yes. But if you repeat that to anyone it will make it harder for me to investigate.»
«How could it not have been an accident? No one would have wanted to harm Alceten.»
«Could you tell me what she was doing that day, just before she left the building?»
«She was in here, sorting out records.»
«What records?»
«I'm not certain. Alceten had taken over a lot of my work.» He waves his hand, indicating the jumble of shelves and boxes. «We have so much here…»
«What sort of records do you keep in this building?»
«Everything. Crop yields, taxation, mining rights, import duties, family records, births, amendments to laws — it's the main repository for all official business.»
«But you can't say what she was doing?»
Cetenos puts his hand to his forehead, and sighs, as if even thinking of his daughter is too much to bear.
«I'm really not sure. Mining rights, probably. There are always a lot of claims being filed. They have to be checked with existing claims, and double checked with with our records of statutes and inheritances, to make sure the rights don't already belong to someone else.»
«Was you daughter the only one working here?»
«In this room, yes.»
«Did she indicate to you that she'd found anything strange? Some financial transaction someone didn't want made public, for instance?»
«No, she never said anything like that. Really, this all sounds unlikely. Didn't Chief Steward Daringos investigate the accident?»
«He did. I'm not sure how thorough he was.»
I talk to Cetenos for a while longer, without discovering anything that seems significant.
«When she met Merlione, was it always outside this building?»
«I'm not sure. I think they used to exchange messages, making their arrangements.»
«So someone might have learned when they were due to meet?»
«Yes. But why are you asking about Merlione?»
«Just filling in some details.»
Being surrounded by so many dusty books and scrolls is making me thirsty. I rise from my chair. As I leave the building, I'm no less inclined to believe that Alceten may have been murdered. Wills, financial transactions and trading agreements have led to plenty of deaths in the past. It's unfortunate her father couldn't tell me what she was working on. I make a few more enquires downstairs, with several young assistants, but they lead nowhere. None of them know what Alceten might have been working on before she died. Whether they're telling the truth, or have clammed up like Zinlantol, I'm not certain.
Thirsty as I am, I have no money for beer, and that's a bitter thing for a man to admit, particularly a man who's served his country bravely, and worked hard to make his city a better place. Forty-five years old and not enough money for a tankard of ale. At least there's the eating contest to look forward to. I'm heartened by the thought that's it's standard for such events to provide their contestants with a plentiful supply of ale, but my hopes are quickly dashed by the Master of Ceremonies.
«No beer? Are you serious?»
«We supply as much water as required.»
«Water? You expect a champion eater to manage with water? What sort of cheap competition is this anyway? There's something far wrong in the nation of Samsarina if you can't give a man beer when he's eating. We'd never have stood for it back in Turai.»
«Then maybe you should go back to Turai,» says the Master of Ceremonies.
«I would, if you Samsarinans would stop dallying around and get yourself organised. I tell you»
I'm interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. Makri and Lisutaris have arrived.
«What are you doing here?»
«We came to support you,» says Makri.
«Just in time to prevent you causing an international incident, it seems,» says Lisutaris. «I'd tone down the insults about Samsarina, while we're actually in Samsarina.»
«But did you hear that man? No beer! In a pie eating contest! It's ludicrous. I need beer.»
«Did you ever consider you might have a problem?» asks Makri.
«What problem?»
«You're addicted to beer.»
«Addicted to beer? There's no such thing.»
«Yes there is.»
«Name me one respected doctor who's ever said that drinking too much beer is a problem.»
«They all say that.»
«Absolute nonsense. A spot of ale is good for a man. You'd be a lot better off if you took a tankard every now and then. Less skinny, for one thing. Probably better tempered too.»
«I have a few quarter-gurans,» says Lisutaris, fishing awkwardly in her magic purse. «Here, you'd better hurry.»
I rush outside for a beer, arriving back just in time to hear the announcement for the start of the contest. The walls of the tent have been rolled up, allowing a large crowd of spectators to look in, and there are shouts of encouragement to various crowd favourites. The Master of Ceremonies rings a bell and a troupe of serving girls appear, each carry a tray brimming with pies. Beef pies, I'm given to understand. Should be reasonable quality, given the amount of farmland there is here. The serving girls begin to distribute the pies. I suddenly feel achingly hungry. I haven't really made up for all that starvation on the boat.
When everyone has a large pie on the table in front of him, there's a brief, expectant silence. Then, at the command, we fall to eating. I demolish half my pie in one or two bites, take a sip of water, finish the pie, and roar for another. The nearest serving girl slams one onto my plate. Again, I finish it very quickly.
«What's going on here?» I cry, looking at my empty place. «Is there a shortage of pies?»
The servant hurries to put another pie in front of me. By now I've settled into a comfortable eating groove. The pies, while not the absolute finest quality, are quite acceptable — tasty beef, crisp pastry, and a reasonable ratio of gravy. I finish a third and a fourth and keep on going. The servants with trays are running around in all directions, and there's an occasional delay of a few seconds before I get my next pie, which I find annoying. There's still a lot of shouting going on but I ignore it, and keep on eating. I have a vague impression of the person next to me moaning in discomfort but I don't let it distract me.
As I'm yelling for another pie a bell rings. I bang my fist on the table and shout louder, to drown it out. «Where's my next pie? What's the delay? You call this a fair contest?» Suddenly I notice Makri standing in front of me. «Did you bring me a pie?»
«No. The contest is over.»
«What?»
«You won.»
I notice everyone is looking at me. I feel a tinge of disappointment. «So they're not giving me any more pies?»
The Master of Ceremonies approaches. «Ladies and gentlemen,» he cries, lifting up my arm. «We have a winner. Nine pies completed! Saxarth of Turai!»
There's a lot of cheering. I stand up and take a bow. A few of my f
ellow competitors are looking unwell. Several are slumped over their tables. The Master of Ceremonies hands me fifty gurans.
«Let's hear it for a mighty eater!» he shouts. To be fair to the Samsarinans, they do give me a decent round of applause. I'm feeling rather pleased with myself as I leave the tent in the company of Makri and Lisutaris.
«You see that? Thraxas, number one chariot at eating pies. No problem whatsoever. I could have eaten more.»
«You tried to,» says Makri.
«I still have a few corners to fill. As pies go, they weren't that big.»
«Your nearest competitor only managed six.»
«Lightweights. Well, I hope you both take note of this. While you're flailing around, I get the job done.»
«What does that mean?» demands Lisutaris.
«It means that while certain members of our party crumble at the first sign of pressure, ending up half-killing themselves with thazis, and others stumble about like a child with a toy sword, losing their first fight and going home in tears, I, Thraxas of Turai, simply approach a difficult task in a determined manner, and complete the deal. Nine pies eaten, competitors snivelling in the dust, and we've earned fifty gurans. Let this be an inspiration to you.»
«You're a fantastic inspiration,» says Lisutaris, dryly. «I'll certainly never forget the sight of you wolfing down these pies.»
«Greetings, Lisutaris,» comes a familiar, unwelcome voice. It's Lasat Axe of Gold, who, along with his sidekick Charius, seems to be haunting the place. «Is it true that your Chief Adviser has just taken first place in a pie eating contest?»
«It is,» says Lisutaris, stiffly.
«Really? That will make an amusing story for the King…»
Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, draws herself up to her full height. Her cloak, elegant dark blue with the Sorcerer's rainbow motif embroidered around the edge, flutters regally in the breeze.
«Pie-eating is an honourable occupation where I come from. I'm proud of my Chief Adviser's endeavours.»
«Really?» Lasat smirks. «I wouldn't allow a member of my staff to participate.»
«What you would or would not allow is of no consequence to me. Thraxas's mighty appetite has often been the precursor to some of his most brilliant advice. Come, Thraxas, and Makri. It's time to prepare for the sword-fighting competition.» With that, Lisutaris sweeps away, head held high. We follow on.
