Thraxas and the Ice Dragon - By Martin Scott Page 0,35

back of my neck tingle. I have an uncanny sense of when a woman is about to say something concerning romance, emotion and affairs of the heart, none of which I want to talk about.

"Why do you think that is?" says Lisutaris.

"Probably just put off by your position. You know, Head of the Sorcerers Guild. It can be intimidating."

Lisutaris isn't convinced. "I don't think it's that intimidating."

"Well there's probably some other simple explanation," I hazard.

"I'm not attractive? Is that what you're saying?"

"I didn't say that at all."

"There's no real need to say it, is there? I mean, face facts. Men simply regard me as unattractive."

Lisutaris looks so unhappy I'm worried she might burst into tears, something I'm completely unable to cope with.

"Could we stop having this conversation?" I say, desperately. "We have to get back to Makri."

"Of course, you can't last five minutes without Makri," says Lisutaris. "It's obviously tedious spending any time in my company. You're wasting your time you know, Thraxas. A beautiful young woman like Makri is never going to go for you, no matter how much you keep trying to seduce her."

"I've never tried to seduce Makri," I protest.

"I suppose seduce is the wrong word. More like skulking around the Queen's Bathing House, hoping to see her naked again. I tell you Thraxas, it looks bad for a man of your age. People are starting to notice."

"What people?"

"Many people. Your relentless pursuit of Makri is the talk of the Baroness's swimming group."

"I refuse to continue this conversation."

"Hah." Lisutaris smokes the rest of her thazis in gloomy silence. I think her moods are becoming worse. I've no idea why. I suppose the prospect of abject humiliation in front of her peers might have something to do with it.

"I need to speak to the King's Chief Steward, Daringos," I say. "Could you arrange that for me?"

"I suppose so," says Lisutaris. Why?"

"He carried out the original investigation into the death I'm looking into for the Baroness."

"I should be able to arrange it. I'll talk to him."

When Lisutaris has finished her thazis, I open the door. Somehow it's no surprise to find Kublinos outside, glaring at me suspiciously. Lisutaris walks by him without a word. I try to do likewise but the Sorcerer grabs me by the arm.

"I'm warning you, Turanian," he hisses. "I'm not going to stand idly by while you try to take advantage of a fine woman like Lisutaris."

I glare back at him. "Let go of my arm or I'll kill you."

Kublinos, surprised, lets go. I turn round and walk off, angry at the foolishness of everyone. By now, tournament officials are pinning hastily-prepared signs to the public noticeboards, laying out the schedule for the remainder of the day. Makri, being in the final qualifying group, will only have one fight this evening, and will have to complete her group tomorrow. It's a minor inconvenience, nothing more. Makri appears completely relaxed as she departs with Lisutaris to change into her armour. General Hemistos, Baron Girimos and several others are still around. When I see Baron Mabados approaching I withdraw into the crowd, not feeling like dealing with another unfriendly Samsarinan at this moment.

Chapter Fifteen

Makri's visor covers her face. Tournament rules state that all entrants must be fully armoured. As well as the helmet, Makri is wearing a metal gorget to protect her neck, and a thick steel breastplate. Her leggings are covered in chainmail, with steel plates hanging over her thighs, and there are more metal plates on her upper arms and forearms. It's all much heavier than the armour Makri would normally wear. I hope she's adapted to it. I'm not sure how often she's worn it for practice.

I make my way to her side and escort her into the tournament field. The field is roughly circular, with banks of wooden seats set up for spectators, making it into a temporary arena. There's a good crowd. While excitement during the early rounds is not exactly fevered, everyone is eager to see if there might be any new talents coming through. In the centre of the field, the presiding Marshal, in his distinctive red costume, checks her equipment. He studies the edge of her sword, making sure it's properly blunted, then examines her shield, checking that the rim hasn't been illegally sharpened. He glances at her armour. The Marshal is meant to ensure that no one's armour is deficient in any way, but in truth his examination is quite perfunctory. While the organisers do make a public