"Why?" says Makri.
"The whale was full of religious knowledge. So the story goes, anyway."
Makri eyes me.
"And you've only just thought of this?"
"My thoughts rarely venture into the realms of religious mystery. Anyway there's a small fountain in the back streets off Quintessence Street. The statue in the middle is of St Quatinius talking to the whale."
"And you've only just thought of that?"
"Do you want to come or are you just going to make sarcastic comments?"
Makri sheathes her swords.
"Number one chariot at investigating," she mutters. "He just remembers now there's a whale fountain in Twelve Seas."
We set off once more along Quintessence Street.
"I can't believe you didn't think of this earlier," says Makri. "Like maybe before we tramped all over the entire city searching for anything that looked like a whale."
"Don't exaggerate. Anyway, I told you. I have a mental blank on anything to do with religion."
"It's a fountain. With a statue of a whale. How much more obvious could it be?"
By now we're close to the street with the fountain. We turn the corner to find a riot going on. A mob is attempting to reach the fountain and the Civil Guards are trying to hold them back. The mob is mostly made up of beggars, but I can see a few shopkeepers in there, and one or two craftsmen. We stand on the corner and watch the struggle.
"It looks like other people were thinking the same thing," says Makri.
I nod. Apparently everyone wants to find out if there's gold under the statue. The mob advances. The Civil Guards put away their batons and draw their swords. The crowd hesitates, but doesn't retreat. Plenty of people in Twelve Seas are willing to risk a sword point for 14,000 gurans.
Before battle can be fully joined, a carriage thunders into the street, flanked by a troop of soldiers. The door opens and Prefect Drinius steps out, elegant in his snow-white toga. He holds up his hand and the crowd goes quiet. Turai might have become a disorderly place in the past few years, but the sight of the local prefect is still enough to quieten the mob. Drinius looks around him quite disdainfully, then starts to lecture the crowd. He isn't a bad speaker. Quite an effective orator in fact, given his total lack of talent at any other aspect of his job. Even the most useless of our senatorial aristocrats can often speak well in public. They learn the art at school, and later from private tutors. A man can't succeed in politics in Turai unless he has some skill as an orator.
The prefect castigates the crowd for their disorderly behaviour. He points out that at a time of crisis in the city, every man should be at his post, doing his duty, rather than scrabbling around for gold. He points out a few examples of heroic behaviour from Turai's glorious past. Then he reminds them all of the sacrilegious act they're about to commit, excavating under a statue of our city's patron saint.
"Nothing could ensure the downfall of the city more quickly than this profane act," he thunders.
By now the crown have quietened. Drinius softens his tone, and assures everyone that if they all go home now, the riot will be forgotten about. Besides, he says, there isn't any gold under the statue.
"I too have heard these rumours. I don't believe a word of them. There is no gold in Twelve Seas. And if there were, it wouldn't be under this fountain. I was here when the Consul himself laid the first stone in its foundations. I witnessed its construction, as did many of you. It rests on good Turanian earth, not a mythical chest of gold."
Looking at the fountain, he has a point. It's a hefty piece of stonework. I don't really see how a lone sea captain could have buried anything under it. Makri thinks the same.
"At least you weren't the only one with such a ridiculous notion," she says.
Drinius brings his speech to an end. The crowd, by now thoroughly abashed, begin to drift off. It's a job well done by our prefect.
"It's strange how a man in a toga can still win over the masses," says Makri.
As we leave the street, soldiers are already starting to cordon it off. A gang of workers make their way in, with picks and shovels.
"What's going on?" asks Makri.
"Now Drinius has cleared the rabble out of the way, he's going to have a good look under the fountain himself, of course. You can't expect the local prefect to miss out on a treasure hunt. I doubt there's anything there, though. One man in a hurry couldn't bury anything under that fountain."
"Any more ideas?"
I admit I haven't.
"I thought the whale fountain was a breakthrough. I was wrong. I'm just going to have to go into the card game short of funds and hope for the best."
"You don't sound very confident," says Makri.
"I'm not feeling very confident."
"Why not?"
I shrug.
"Who knows? The war. The malady. My continual lack of success at everything."
Makri bats me quite a hard blow on the shoulder.
"Is this Thraxas I'm talking to? Fighter, gambler, drinker, and all-round notorious braggart? Get a hold of yourself. I'm expecting you to sit down at that card table and make them weep. So Glixius is rich? So Praetor Capatius owns his own bank? So what? Who's the best rak player? You or them?"
"Me."
"Exactly. So just get in there and give them hell. Did I ever tell you about the time I was faced with eight Orcs and two trolls in the arena and my sword broke?"
She has actually, but I don't interrupt.
"You didn't catch me complaining," continues Makri. "I didn't start wondering if I was any good. I just killed the nearest Orc with my bare hands, took his sword and got on with business as usual. I set a new record for multiple slaughter."
"They had records?"
"Of course," says Makri. "I was champion in every category. I'm expecting you to be down like a bad spell on your opponents tonight no matter what the odds."
We walk on towards the tavern. I am slightly cheered by Makri's encouragement. Not that she understand the intricacies of playing rak, of course, but even so, she has a point. It's not like me to become discouraged.
"You're damn right, Makri. I don't know what I was thinking. I'm going to give them hell. Nothing will get in my way."
We walk up the steps to my office. My outside door is open. I frown, and hurry inside. Standing there quite calmly is Horm the Dead, one of the most powerful Sorcerers in the world and a deadly enemy of Turai.
"I suppose this could be a problem," I say, and draw my sword.
Chapter Seventeen
In the past few years my office has hosted some interesting gatherings. Sorcerers, senators, thieves, murderers, Assassins, demagogues, Orcs, Elves and a few you couldn't really put a name to have all passed through my door. Even royalty. Princess Du-Akai was once a client of mine. However, I'd say that the present gathering matches anything in terms of the diversity of characters involved. We have, in the middle of the floor, Horm the Dead, Orcish Sorcerer and Lord of the Kingdom of Yal. Once seen flying over Turai on a dragon, trying to destroy the city with a malevolent spell, and almost succeeding. He's caused a lot of trouble for Turai, and the fact that last time he was here he sent Makri some flowers hasn't endeared him in any way.
On the couch is Hanama, Assassin, cold, ruthless, previously sick but now looking somewhat better. She brought Makri flowers too, an occurrence so strange I don't really want to think about it.
At the door to the bedroom stands Coranius the Grinder, as grim and short-tempered a Sorcerer as Turai can boast, which is saying something. Behind him is Tirini Snake Smiter, still glamorous, and behind her is Anumaris Thunderbolt, looking young, keen, but possibly glad that the others are between her and Horm.
Samanatius the philosopher is standing next to my desk, grey-haired, some way past middle-aged, but very upright. As if the assembly wasn't splendid enough, Deputy Consul Cicerius and his assistant Hansius thunder up the steps and in through the door, followed by two armed guards. When the guards see Horm they fling themselves in front of the Deputy Consul to protect him. Horm the Dead greets them all courteously.