enter the tournament, no one would give her a chance. The bookmakers' odds would be immense. A man could make a fine profit by backing her.
Finally an officer arrives to take us to Kublinos. "Send ahead for beer," I tell him, but I don't think he's really paying attention. He leads us through narrow streets lined with fish vendors and sail-makers' shops. As we turn a corner he indicates a large, rather splendid looking building in the distance.
"Kublinos's official residence."
Lisutaris draws herself up as we approach. Bedraggled or not, she still exudes power and dignity as she strides through the gate of Kublinos's residence, where we're greeted by a uniformed attendant.
"Tell Kublinos that Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky is here."
"And we need beer immediately," I add.
"Pardon?" The servant looks confused.
"We need beer. The head of the Sorcerers Guild has just survived a dangerous voyage across the ocean. I'm shocked that no one yet has offered us beer. Bring flagons."
Lisutaris purses her lips. "My eh… Chief Adviser Thraxas… is… " She shakes her head. "Just give him some beer. And take me to Kublinos."
Lisutaris and Makri disappear down the purple carpet that leads to the main staircase while I head downstairs with a kitchen servant.
"Does the Sorcerer require any particular sort of beer?" he enquires.
"Hard to say. Just bring them all and I'll sample them. And don't stint on the flagons, keep bringing them till I tell you to stop."
I will say this for the Samsarinans - they may be a bunch of rural bumpkins who spend most of their time plodding along in fields, but they do produce some fine beer. Dark and full of flavour. With six or seven flagons inside me, and the remnants of four loaves of bread on the table, I start to feel more like myself again. For the first time since I was forced to flee Turai, life seems not quite so hopeless.
"Of course," I say, quite loudly, to the servant who brings me my eighth flagon. "You can't blame a man for feeling hopeless if he's stuck on a boat with a crazy Orc, a depressed Sorcerer, and no beer. Stronger spirits than mine would have quailed. Do you have any more bread? A few yams maybe?"
I notice my flagon is empty. "What's the matter? Is there a beer shortage? The Head of the Sorcerers Guild isn't going to be pleased when she hears you've been stingy with the ale."
It seems to me that the servant is a little tardy in bringing my ninth large flagon, but I don't make a fuss. After all, I'm a guest in this country. To show my appreciation of their hospitality, I rise to my feet, fling my arm round his shoulder and draw him close.
"You Samsarinans are not as bad as everyone says. Fine beer you have. Clears a man's head. You know, when I was on that boat I thought of packing it all in. Just let the Orcs walk over us. But now - " I take out my sword. The servant, possibly misinterpreting this, attempts to wriggle free. " -I'll chase these damned Orcs all the way back to the dirt hills they came from. Right after you've brought me more beer. Try using a decent sized tankard this time. And more food, damn it, don't you know how to treat a guest in this country? Where's Lisutaris? I'm her adviser, I should be advising her."
The servant hands me another flagon of ale, then leads me back upstairs, where he shows me into a reception room and asks me to wait. I'm in no mood for waiting. I march swiftly through the large door in front of me, arriving in a stateroom containing Makri, Lisutaris, Kublinos the Harbour Sorcerer, and a few others.
"We've wasted enough time on these pointless discussions!" I cry, banging my sword on the huge ornate desk in the middle of the room. "It's time for action! We need to organise an army and march back to Turai."
There's a brief silence. One of the men in the room, a beefy individual with blunt features and longish grey hair, looks at me in surprise, then turns to Lisutaris.
"Who is this?"
"My Chief Adviser," says Lisutaris, wearily.
"That's right!" I say. "And I advise you to stop talking and start marching."
Suddenly I feel quite suspicious of the grey-haired man. "Have you been talking about surrendering? Samsarinans never did have the stomach for a fight."
"How dare you talk to Baron Mabados like that!" cries an