I step over three young dwa addicts lying unconscious in an alleyway. I sigh. The opening up of the southern trade route through Mattesh was proclaimed by our King as a triumph of diplomacy. #2 в контекст | | |
Commerce has started to flow but unfortunately the main import has been dwa. Use of the powerful narcotic is now rife throughout the city and the effect on its population has been dramatic. Beggars, sailors, youthful apprentices, whores, itinerants, rich and idle young fashionables—all manner of people, once content to alleviate their sufferings with ale and occasional doses of the much milder drug Thazis, now spend their days lost in the powerful dream brought on by the ingestion of dwa. Unfortunately dwa is both expensive and addictive. Once you've taken your dose you're as happy as an Elf in a tree, but when you come down you feel dreadful. Those regular users who spend part of their lives lost in its pleasant grip are obliged to spend the other part raising money to buy their next day's supply. Since dwa swept Turai crime of all sorts has mushroomed. In many parts of the city it's not safe to walk the streets at night for fear of violent robbery. The houses of the rich are ringed by walls and guarded by hired members of the Securitus Guild. Gangs of youths in the slums who used to steal the occasional piece of fruit from market stalls now use knives for street robberies and kill people for a few gurans. #3 в контекст | | |
Turai is rotting. The poor are despairing and the rich are decadent. One day King Lamachus of Nioj will come down from the north and sweep us away. #4 в контекст | | |
I feel better when I've got my sword tucked snugly in my belt and I'm riding in a horse cab, or landus, up Moon and Stars Boulevard, the main street running north to south, up from Twelve Seas docks through Pashish, a poor though generally peaceful area, eventually turning on to Royal Way, which runs west through the upper-class suburb of Thamlin to the Imperial Palace. Attilan, our Royal Princess's erstwhile lover, lives here on a quiet street popular with young men about town. #5 в контекст | | |
I'm prepared to dislike him. Niojans are never friendly to Private Investigators. Private Investigators are in fact illegal in Nioj. Most things are illegal in Nioj. It's a grim place. Thamlin isn't. Our well-off citizens make their surroundings very comfortable—yellow and green tiled pavements and large white houses with fountains in well-tended gardens. Civil Guardsmen patrol the streets, keeping them safe from undesirables. It's a peaceful place. I used to live here. Some time ago. My old house is now occupied by the Queen's Royal Astrologer. He's a dwa addict, but he keeps it quiet. #6 в контекст | | |
A young Pontifex greets me politely as I turn into Attilan's private pathway. He's carrying a bag marked with the sign of the True Church. Busy gathering contributions from our wealthier citizens I expect. A servant answers the door. Attilan is not home and is not expected back in the near future. The servant shuts the door. I never enjoy having doors slammed in my face. I walk round the back. No one interrupts me as I stroll through the small garden, ending up in a patio at the back with a small statue of Saint Quatinius and various well-tended bushes. The back door is solid enough, and locked. I mutter the opening incantation, another minor spell which I can use at will, and it flies open. I walk in. I can guess the layout of the house. They're all much the same, with a central courtyard containing an altar and private rooms at the back. If, as I suspect, Attilan only has one or two servants, and they're lounging in their quarters while he's away, I may be able to carry out some uninterrupted investigating. #7 в контекст | | |
Attilan's office is neat, everything in its proper place. I check the letter rack. No sign of the Princess's letters. A safe behind a painting almost resists my opening spell, but eventually creaks open reluctantly. I might have made a fine burglar, although anyone with anything really valuable to hide gets their safe locked tight with a good spell from a competent Sorcerer. Inside the safe I find a jewelled box with the Princess's royal insignia on it. Very good. Things are going well. #8 в контекст | | |
I am about to place it in my bag when my curiosity overwhelms me. The Princess specifically requested that I did not open the box and read her letters. Which gives me an irresistible urge to open the box and read her letters. Sometimes I just can't help myself. #9 в контекст | | |
It doesn't appear to contain any letters. Just a parchment with a spell written on it. I frown. This is definitely the box the Princess asked me to retrieve; it carries her royal insignia. The spell is an unfamiliar one, not native to Turai. When I read it through I'm more puzzled than ever. It seems to be a spell for putting a dragon to sleep. Why would the Princess want to do that? I slip it into my bag, and hurry out the back way. It should be an easy getaway but as I plunge through the bushes I trip over something and cry out in surprise. #10 в контекст | | |
"Who's there?" demands a servant, appearing at a run. He stares in horror at me. Or rather, at what's at my feet, which is a dead body. #11 в контекст | | |
| | |
The case just took a bad turn. The servant obviously regards me as the man responsible for sticking a knife in his employer. So do the Civil Guards, who appear in less than thirty seconds. Not unreasonable, I suppose, as I decline to offer any explanation for my presence. They drag me off. As I'm being hauled through the garden I sense the faintest aura of something unusual but it's too fleeting to identify and I don't have a chance to think about it. I'm dumped in a wagon and driven smartly up to the prison. As the Guards fling me in a cell, I reflect that, of all my reversals of fortune, this is surely one of the quickest. #13 в контекст | | |
