Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  “So, are you moving back to Thamlin?” asks Makri, who is busier than ever, with thirsty bricklayers, roofers, glaziers and architects clamouring for drinks all day.

  “Not yet, Makri. The Traditionals might think I’m a good Investigator but they don’t want me as a next-door neighbour. It’ll be a while yet before I’m invited back to the Palace.”

  “Who’s going to win the election?”

  “Probably Cicerius. Which is good for me. Except Senator Lodius and the Populares now really dislike me. Which is bad for me. I never have any problem making new enemies.”

  In between shifts Makri has been studying hard and spends long hours in her room with her books and scrolls. Undeterred by her experience in the Fairy Glade, she’s had her nose pierced again by Kaby. It keeps her happy.

  I take out two necklaces, and hand one to her. She stares at it suspiciously.

  “It’s the Red Elvish Cloth we wrapped round our necks on the night of the Eight-Mile Terror. It worked pretty well then, so I asked Astrath Triple Moon to treat it with a spell which means we now have strong protection against sorcerous attacks. It’s illegal to keep it, but now it’s woven into these necklaces no one’s going to know.

  Makri puts it on. “Not that I need it,” she says. “I’ll trust my swords against magic any day. But you could do with it. Try not to pawn it this time.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Kaby and Palax wander in looking tired. They’re busking on the streets again. I don’t envy them. It’s too hot to work. Fortunately, I don’t have to. Not for a while anyway.

  “Another ‘Happy Guildsman,’ if you please, Gurd.”

  He passes over a tankard but I notice he’s looking glum. “Tanrose is annoyed with me,” he complains. “She says I never pay her any attention. What can I do?”

  “For God’s sake, Gurd, don’t you even know the basics? Take her some flowers.”

  The ageing Barbarian looks puzzled.

  “Flowers? Will that help?”

  “Of course it will,” I state with confidence.

  And it does.

  Thraxas and the Warrior Monks

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  Makri steps into the Avenging Axe, her sword at her hip and her philosophy notes in her hand. Perspiration runs down her neck.

  “It’s hotter than Orcish hell out there,” she complains.

  I grunt in agreement. I don’t have the energy to do much more. It’s hotter than Orcish hell in here too. It’s as much as I can do to get my beer up to my mouth.

  Makri is due to start her shift as barmaid. She takes off the man’s tunic she wears outdoors and tosses it behind the bar, then sluices some water from the pitcher over her face and neck. It runs down over her tiny chainmail bikini, a garment that displays almost all of her physique and guarantees a healthy flow of tips from the dockers, sailors, Barbarian mercenaries and other low-life who drink in this tavern.

  Makri lives in a small room upstairs. I also live here, in a couple of rooms further down the corridor. My name is Thraxas, and when the heat isn’t so fierce that it’s impossible to move, I work for a living as a Private Investigator.

  Finest Sorcerous Investigator in the City of Turai says the sign on my outside door. Okay, I admit my sorcerous powers are now limited and diminishing all the time, but while I might not be able to perform like a high-class Palace Sorcerer I still know a spell or two. I still have the finely tuned senses you develop when you study magic. And I’m a determined man when I’m on a case. So I figure the sign is accurate enough.

  I don’t bother mentioning that I charge cheap rates. Everyone knows that already. Since I lost my job at the Palace I wouldn’t say my life has worked out especially well.

  I raise my hand limply, motioning for another beer from Gurd, ageing northern Barbarian and owner of the Avenging Axe.

  “No intention of doing any work, then?” enquires Makri.

  I wave my hand dismissively. “Still going strong on the last fee.”

  Six weeks ago I helped out Praetor Cicerius, and Cicerius is an important man in this city. More important than a Senator. More important than a Praetor now in fact, because he just won the election for the post of Deputy Consul, which makes him the second most senior government official after Consul Kalius, who answers only to the King.

  “Yes,” I reflect, raising my beer. “Old Cicerius was pretty generous with his money, I have to admit. As he should’ve been, of course. He wouldn’t have won the election if I hadn’t saved his reputation.”

  Makri scoffs. Makri scoffs at a lot of what I say. I don’t mind, usually. For one thing, she’s one of the few friends I have in this filthy city. For another thing she often helps me out in my work. Not with the investigating exactly. More with the fighting. Here in Twelve Seas, the poor and crime-ridden dockland neighbourhood, people generally don’t like being investigated. Most times I’m on a case I figure I’m going to have to use my sword at some point or other. Which is okay. I’m pretty good with it. But Makri is an escapee from the Orcish gladiator pits and consequently one of the most lethal swordswomen ever to walk the earth. I don’t exaggerate. Makri may be only twenty-one and working as a barmaid to put a little food in her mouth and pay for her classes at the Guild College, but place her sword in one hand, her axe in the other and a row of enemies in front of her and the carnage can be quite incredible.

  For seven years she fought in the Orc slave pits. As well as honing her fighting technique to near perfection, this has also given her powerful hatred of Orcs. Of course all humans hate Orcs, despite the peace treaty in force just now. But Makri’s hatred is particularly fierce. Which makes the fact that she actually has some Orc blood in her veins all the more difficult for her. As well as some Elf blood. She’s certainly an unusual mixture, unusual enough to take considerable abuse for it, although when she’s serving drinks with her long dark hair swinging round her bronze shoulders and her small metal bikini clinging to her perfect figure, I notice the drinkers tend to forget their prejudices.

  “You’ll put on weight,” says Makri.

  I pat my large belly in a satisfied manner.

  “Let him be,” says Gurd, grinning, as he pulls me another flagon. “Thraxas doesn’t like to work too hard when it’s hot. I remember, back in the Orc Wars, we could never get him to do a decent day’s fighting when the sun shone.”

  I ignore this quite untruthful slur on my reputation. Back in the Orc Wars I fought damned hard, I can tell you. Let them mock. I deserve a rest. This time last year I was pounding the docks looking for a crazed Half-Orc who had killed eight men and damn near made me the ninth. Now, with a fat payment from Cicerius and no need to work through the rest of the burning hot summer, I’m as happy as an Elf in a tree.

  “Another beer, if you please, Gurd.”

  Gurd is about fifty. His face is weather-beaten and his long hair is completely grey, but his muscles are undiminished with age. They bulge as he pours the drink and passes it over the bar.

  “Not tempted to get involved in this?” he asks, pointing to an article in The Renowned and Truthful Chronicle of All the World’s Events, the thin, badly printed news-sheet that specialises in reporting all of the many crimes and scandals that infest Turai. I glance at it.

  “Death of a Sorcerer? No, I can live without it. He was only a minor Sorcerer, anyway.”

  The Chronicle reports that the sai
d Sorcerer, Thalius Green Eye, was found dead yesterday at his house in Thamlin. Poison is suspected and his household servants have been taken into custody. I remember Thalius from my days at the Palace. He was a fairly unimportant figure, more interested in casting horoscopes for young aristocrats than practising any serious magic. Which isn’t to say his death will be treated lightly. Being a Sorcerer has proved to be unusually hazardous in Turai recently. Only last month Tas of the Eastern Lightning was killed along with Mirius Eagle Rider, both of them connected with the case I was working on. As Sorcerers are important to any state, particularly a small one like Turai, and as they’re not in endless supply, I imagine the Guards will be working away busily on the case. Let them. If old Thalius annoyed his servants enough that they went and poisoned him, he probably got what he deserved. Degenerate, these Palace Sorcerers. Dwa addicts, most of them. Or drunks. Or both.

  “Another beer, please, Gurd.”

  I read the rest of the Chronicle. There’s enough crime, but that’s always the case in Turai. A Praetor’s been indicted for smuggling dwa into the city, a wagonload of gold from the mines in the far north has been hijacked on its way to the King’s treasury and the house of the Simnian Ambassador has been burgled.

  I toss the news-sheet away. Let the Civil Guard sort it out. That’s what it’s paid for.

  The door slams open and two unfamiliar characters walk in. Fighting men, but not the normal mercenaries we get round here on their way to join up with the King’s forces. The pair of them march up to the bar and order beer. Gurd pours them a couple of tankards and they make for a table to rest from the heat.

  The taller of the two, a rough-looking individual with closely cropped hair and a weatherbeaten face, halts as he passes my chair. He stares at me. I glance back casually. I recognise him. I was hoping he wouldn’t recognise me. It would have made my life easier. Under the table, my hand slides automatically towards the pommel of my sword.

  “Thraxas,” he says, spitting out the word.

  “Have we met?” I enquire.

  “You know damn well we met. I spent five years on a prison galley because of you.”

  “Because of me? I didn’t force you to rob that Elvish Ambassador.”

  I suppose I did gather the evidence to put him away. He draws his sword with well-practised ease. His companion follows his lead and with no further discussion they leap towards me with murder in their eyes.

  I’m out of my chair fast. I may be forty-three years old and have a fat belly, but I can still move when I have to. The first attacker slashes at me but I parry and riposte to send him hurtling backwards with blood spurting from his chest before whirling round to face the other assailant.

  The other assailant is already lying dead. In less time than it took me to dispatch my opponent Makri has grabbed her sword from its place of concealment behind the bar, leaped into the fray and slain him.

  “Thanks, Makri.”

  Gurd now has his old axe in his hands and looks disappointed there is no one left for him.

  “Getting slow,” he mutters.

  “What was that about?” asks Makri.

  “They robbed an Elvish Ambassador to the Imperial Palace. Took his money when he was lying drunk in a brothel in Kushni. Civil Guards couldn’t find them but I tracked them down. About five years back. They must have only got off the prison ship a couple of months ago.”

  And now they’re dead. Every time I put someone away they swear to get me, but they never usually carry out their threat. Just my bad luck this pair happened to walk into the Avenging Axe. Or their bad luck, I suppose.

  I frisk the corpses from habit, with no results. Nothing linking them to any of the City’s criminal gangs. Probably they were just enjoying their freedom before embarking on a life of crime again. I’d rather not have had to kill them but I don’t care too much. Next time they were convicted of anything they’d have been hanged anyway. One of them has a purse hanging round his neck but it’s empty. Not even a coin. Their next robbery wouldn’t have been too far away.

  Blood oozes over the floor.

  “I’ll deal with this mess,” says Makri, returning her sword to its hiding place, where it rests alongside her spare axe and a few knives and throwing stars. Makri likes weapons.

  She mops up the blood then bends down to pick up the empty purse that I’ve discarded on the floor.

  “Nice embroidery,” she says. “I could do with a new one.”

  She puts it round her neck. Seven years in the Orc gladiator pits has left Makri fairly immune to the effects of death. No qualms about putting a dead man’s purse round her neck, provided it’s handsomely embroidered.

  Gurd and I drag the bodies outside. No one takes much notice. Corpses on the street are not an especially unusual sight in Twelve Seas. Most people are too busy scratching a living to pay them much attention.

  I grab a passing child and slip him a coin to take a message to the Civil Guards informing them of what has happened. They won’t be too bothered about the affair either but as I’m a licensed Investigator, it pays to keep on the right side of the law.

  Back inside Makri has cleaned up the floor and is polishing the bar. I get myself another beer and sit down to rest. It’s getting hotter by the minute. The bar starts to fill up. The city suffered riots recently and, as much damage remains in the streets, much construction is going on to repair it. Come lunchtime the tavern is full of workers seeking refreshment from their morning shifts on the scaffolding. It’s good business for Gurd. Good business for Tanrose as well, who makes and sells the food in the tavern. She’s a fine cook and I purchase one of her large venison pies for lunch. With plenty of money left after my last case I’ve sworn to survive the rest of the burning hot summer without working. This morning’s fighting came too close to work for my liking.

  “What was an Elvish Ambassador doing drunk in a brothel in Kushni?” enquires Makri, later.

  “Enjoying himself. His Elf Lord called him back to the Southern Islands right afterwards in disgrace and it was all hushed up here in the city. The King never likes anything that might damage our relations with the Elves.”

  I order myself another beer and wonder if I should have another venison pie. Unexpected activity tends to give me a powerful appetite.

  “Everything gives you a powerful appetite,” says Makri, grinning, as she carries on cleaning the tables.

  Chapter Two

  After I finish my venison pie, I load up with a few of Tanrose’s pastries and buy another beer to take upstairs.

  “You’re drinking too much,” says Tanrose.

  “Needed a hobby after my wife left.”

  “You took it up as a hobby long before that.”

  I can’t deny it.

  I have two rooms at the Avenging Axe, one for sleeping and one for working. The workroom has an outside door with steps down to the street outside so clients can visit without coming up through the tavern. I’m planning to sleep the afternoon away but before I can settle down a frantic banging comes at the door. I open it and a young man rushes in, bouncing off me and ending up in the middle of the room looking scared and confused.

  “They’re going to hang me!” he cries. “Don’t let them do it!”

  “What? Who?”

  “I didn’t kill him! It’s a lie! Help me!”

  I glare at him. My rooms are in their usual mess and he’s not helping any. He’s in a real state and for a long time I can’t make head nor tail of what he’s saying. Eventually I have to fling him in a chair and tell him to start talking sense or get the hell out of my office. He quietens down, but keeps glancing anxiously at the door, as if he’s expecting his pursuers to burst in any second.

  I walk over to the door and mutter the few short sentences that make up the standard locking spell. It’s a common minor spell and you don’t have to be particularly skilled in magic to perform it, but the young man seems reassured.

  “Now, tell me what’s going on. I’m too hot to sta
nd around guessing. Who are you, who’s after you, and why?”

  “The Guards! They say I killed Drantaax!”

  “Drantaax? The sculptor?”

  He nods.

  Drantaax is a well-known man in Turai. Best sculptor in town. One of the best anywhere. Well respected for his work, even by the aristocracy, who generally look down on artisans. His statues decorate many of Turai’s temples, and even the Royal Palace.

  “Drantaax was murdered last night. But I didn’t do it!”

  “Why would anybody think you did? And who are you anyway?”

  “I’m Grosex, Drantaax’s apprentice. I was working with him last night. We’re busy finishing off the new statue of Saint Quatinius for the Shrine. We’ve been working on it for days … but now he’s dead. He was stabbed in the back.”

  “Where were you at the time?”

  He was next door. He came through to the workroom and found Drantaax lying dead with a knife in his back. Then Drantaax’s wife Calia arrived and starting screaming.

  “Calia called the Guard. All the time she was shouting at me, saying I’d stabbed him. But I didn’t.”

  He hangs his head. He’s running on nervous energy and it’s making him ill. I offer him a thazis stick. Thazis, a mild narcotic, is still illegal but everyone uses it—well, everyone in Twelve Seas anyway. As he inhales the smoke his features relax.

  I demand more details. I frown when I learn that instead of waiting for the Guards he fled the scene. And he mentions the interesting fact that the knife sticking in Drantaax belonged to him. I raise an eyebrow. It’s not exactly hard to understand why everyone might think he did it. He’s spent the night hiding in alleyways, wondering what to do, and now he’s here, trying to hire a detective who, frankly, is not too keen to be hired. I’m still too hot, I don’t need the work, and for all I know he’s guilty as hell.

  He looks pathetic. Even though I’m hardened to most things in Turai, I almost feel sorry for him.