Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, a very powerful Sorcerer when she can stay away from her waterpipe, is another supporter. Strangest of all, I’m pretty sure that Hanama, number three in the Assassins Guild, is in there as well. The thought of Makri attending secret meetings with these people makes me worry that possibly some people in the city who shouldn’t know my business might occasionally be learning a few things they oughtn’t. Not that Makri would ever knowingly betray any of my secrets, of course, but she’s only been in the city a year and remains unsophisticated in the ways of civilisation. She sometimes gets cheated in the market. She finds it awkward using cutlery. I can still lie to her and get away with it.

  Makri goes off along the corridor to study. I go to sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Next day I’m awake so early I almost catch morning prayers, which I haven’t done for years. Despite my prompt start it’s a morning of complete frustration. I take a landus up to the prison but I can’t get to see Grosex. All prisoners have the legal right to see their representatives, which in this case includes me, but in Turai legal niceties aren’t always respected and I’m turned away at the prison with the abrupt news that Grosex is not seeing anyone. When I protest loud and long about it an official asks me to produce evidence that I have in fact been employed by Grosex to investigate his case.

  “Prefect Tholius dragged him off before he could write my authorisation.”

  And that doesn’t get me anywhere at all. Obviously the authorities want this wrapped up quickly without the bother of anyone constructing a reasonable defence. Grosex’s trial is scheduled for next week and if this situation continues he’ll certainly hang. Drantaax was valued by the city, and public opinion is baying for his killer’s blood.

  I curse my lack of influence with officials in this town. I have plenty of contacts in the underworld, but since getting booted out of the Palace many powerful doors have been slammed shut.

  It strikes me that Cicerius, our new Deputy Consul, might be willing to go out on a limb for me after the good service I rendered him recently, but Cicerius is away on official business in Mattesh, so I am for the moment stuck.

  If I can’t see Grosex then I should certainly see Drantaax’s wife but all my enquiries lead nowhere. No one saw her go and no one has any information as to where she might be. She has one relative in town, a brother who works in a warehouse down at the docks. He can’t tell me anything and doesn’t seem to care much. They never got on, apparently.

  “Was she having an affair with the apprentice?” I ask him.

  “Probably,” he replies, indicating it’s time for me to be on my way. I hang around to be awkward but learn no more than the fact that we’re bringing in a lot of wheat by ship these days.

  I’m interested that Drantaax’s wife Calia comes from a family of dock workers. Means she married above her class. Drantaax isn’t an aristocrat but a successful sculptor ranks some way above your standard manual labourer. Everybody in Turai is conscious of such a distinction.

  I visit the Guard station when Tholius is away but Guardsman Jevox doesn’t know where Calia is and doesn’t think the Guards have any real leads.

  “It can’t be that easy for a woman with no family to hide in the city. Where would she go? The servants claim she couldn’t have taken any money with her. And why did she disappear?”

  “Maybe she killed him so she could set up with the apprentice,” suggests Jevox.

  “Well, if she did it was pretty careless to use his knife and get him hanged as a result.”

  I wonder about Calia and Grosex. If they were really having an affair it seems strange that she would take to her heels and leave him in the lurch.

  Jevox tells me he used to know her when she still lived down by the harbour. He remembers her as a very beautiful young woman.

  “No surprise when she married a wealthy sculptor. If she’d held out she could probably have gone even higher.”

  Jevox is busy. Tholius is giving his men a hard time because Senator Lodius, who leads the opposition party, the Populares, is using the recent wave of crime as a stick to beat the Traditionals with.

  “Foreign Ambassadors’ houses burgled!” he roars in the Senate. “Gold stolen from the King! Honest citizens murdered in the streets! Dwa spreading like a curse through the city! And what are our representatives doing about this crisis?”

  There’s more to the speech, as reported in the Chronicle, and it naturally makes every city official from Consul Kalius downwards uncomfortable. Senator Lodius’s Populares suffered a slight reverse in the elections a few months back, but he’s still a powerful man in the city, capable of causing any amount of problems if he stirs up the mob. So the Civil Guards are all working overtime to try and solve a few outstanding crimes and they’re none too pleased about it. I leave Jevox staring glumly at a pile of witness reports concerning a dwa-related murder at the docks. None of the witnesses seem to have seen anything, which is usually the case when powerful dwa gangs commit violence.

  If I had something belonging to Calia I might be able to work a spell to locate her but I have nothing. I go back to the sculptor’s house but it is now locked tight and guarded and nothing I can say will get me inside. I curse myself for not taking something when I had the chance before. However, the Guards’ Sorcerers won’t make any progress in this direction either because the moons won’t be back in the right conjunction for several months. Grosex can’t wait several months.

  I complain about this to Astrath Triple Moon.

  “Any time I need to find someone in a hurry the moons are in the wrong alignment. Sorcery’s a bust when it comes to solving crimes.”

  “Not always. I’ve got you some good results in the past.”

  That’s true enough. Anyway, it’s just as well sorcery can’t solve all the crime in the city, otherwise I’d be out of a job.

  Astrath scans the city for the statue, without success. Which seems to make it certain that it’s gone far away, but how remains a mystery. Back in the Avenging Axe I complain about my lack of progress to Makri.

  “The only thing that’s happening is I’m getting followed.”

  “Followed? Who by?”

  “I don’t know. Haven’t caught so much as a glimpse. But I can feel it.”

  “Have you tried the kuriya?”

  I shake my head. Kuriya, a dark and mysterious liquid, will sometimes yield up a picture in reply to a question, provided the enquirer has been trained in the process. It’s something I can still do with reasonable results on occasion, though it completely drains me these days. However, it doesn’t always work and the liquid, imported from the far west, is hideously expensive, so I’ll only really be able to try it once. I’d rather get information about Grosex than whoever is tailing me. I’ll look after them in person when they show their faces.

  I finish my lunchtime ale. I can’t see Grosex and I can’t find any witnesses to what went on and I need to know. I turn my thoughts back to Drantaax’s wife Calia. Perhaps the kuriya might give me a hint. Worth trying. I’m not getting anywhere without it.

  It takes a long time to put myself into the required mental state. Ideally a Sorcerer should work in a peaceful environment but there is precious little quiet in Twelve Seas at the best of times, with fish vendors, dwa dealers and whores all competing to advertise their wares. Stray dogs growl and fight with each other, children play noisily in the dirt and women shout at the stallholders as they bargain for their cheapest vegetables. Apart from this uproar there’s the additional noise of the builders everywhere. It’s not easy to sink into a trance. I do my best.

  In front of me is a saucer full of the precious black liquid. The one merchant who imports it from the far west claims that it’s dragon’s blood. This is not true—I’ve seen dragon’s blood—but it gives him a reason to charge such a ridiculous price for it. Whatever its origins, it can respond to the searching mind of a skilled Sorcerer. And even me, though I never made it much past Apprentice.
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  I’ve drawn the curtains and illuminated my room with a large red candle. The shiny black liquid reflects the light. I concentrate on the flame, and think about Drantaax’s wife, and where she might be.

  For a while, nothing happens. Almost long enough to think that nothing will happen. I stay in my trance. Time passes. The room goes cold and I can no longer hear the noise outside. Finally a picture starts to form: a house, a large house, a white villa on a wooded hill.

  I’m straining to see more clearly when my concentration is affected by a tiny nagging feeling of unease. I don’t know what it is. I ignore it. It won’t go away. I try and concentrate on the picture, but it’s slipping. Deep in my trance, I realise that someone is in my room. A bolt of fear shoots through me, the horrible terror of being helpless in front of an enemy. I emerge from the trance with a frightened roar, leaping to my feet confused and disorientated and whirling round frantically to see who’s there. My vision spins crazily for a second and then focuses sharply on two figures just yards from where I was kneeling. One of them is engaged in going through the papers on my desk while the other one keeps look-out. They’re both wearing red robes. They both have shaven heads. Monk burglars?

  “Who the hell are you?” I roar.

  They turn and head for the door. I leap after them and grab the nearest one by the shoulder, spinning him round.

  “What’s going on?”

  He pulls away. Still shocked by the interruption to my trance, I have even less patience than usual. I let fly with a blow that should send the monk through the wall. He blocks it. I’m surprised. I try again. He blocks it again, automatically, with no apparent effort. When I aim a third clubbing blow at his face he touches my arm and I find myself facing the other way, God knows how. Then I’m propelled across the room by a mighty slap between the shoulder blades. I bounce into the far wall and crumple on to the floor.

  Makri charges in and finds me lying confused and disorientated. She rushes to the outside door, but there’s no one in sight. My assailants have departed as swiftly and mysteriously as they appeared.

  “Who was it?” asks Makri, helping me to my feet.

  “Just two warrior monks out for a little fun,” I gasp, and sink down on the couch, exhausted from looking in the kuriya. Having to confront two warrior monks on top of that is way too much.

  “What are warrior monks?”

  “Monks who are also warriors. They spend half their time in prayer and meditation, and the other half learning how to fight. Excuse me, Makri, I have to lie down.”

  My head swims. The blow winded me. I lie on my couch till it clears. Makri brings me a beer and I start getting back into the real world.

  “Damn them. I was just starting to get a picture when they arrived.”

  I strive to remember what the house in the kuriya pool was like. A villa on a wooded hill. Could be any one of a number of places up on the edges of the rich suburb of Thamlin where the land rises up towards the Palace. But it might be somewhere else—another city even.

  “No, Calia couldn’t have made it so far away. If she’d taken passage on a ship the Guards would have heard about it. And I don’t believe she galloped off on a horse. Rallee tells me they’ve made a thorough check on everyone who hired out horses that day. Checked the trading caravans leaving the city as well.”

  Makri wonders why the Guards are so keen. “They’re taking a lot of trouble over this, aren’t they? For a run-of-the-mill murder?”

  “Perhaps. But Senator Lodius is making speeches about the city going to ruin again, so the Guards are working flat out to try and prove they’re not the waste of space he accuses them of being. Poor Jevox was looking forward to a week’s holiday and instead he’s up to his eyebrows in witness statements and is consequently about as miserable as a Niojan whore about everything. The Guards need to do a good job on Drantaax and reckon they’re off to a flying start having actually arrested someone so quickly. They won’t want to risk messing up the trial of his killer.”

  I ought to get up to Thamlin and see if I can find that villa. Damn those monks for interrupting.

  Gurd knocks and pokes his head round the door.

  “Makri,” he says, “you should be working. And Thraxas, there’s someone downstairs to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “I think her name was Dandelion.”

  “Tell her I’ve gone out,” I say, rising hastily. “Important investigating. Stop looking at me like that, Makri. I am not going to look for the dolphins’ healing stone that fell from the sky, and that’s final. If you’re so concerned, take Dandelion to one of your Association of Gentlewomen meetings. They’ll sort her out.”

  I grab a sword, pick up some money to buy a loaf of bread at Minarixa’s bakery, and head on out.

  As soon as I hit the street I know I’m being followed. I frown. I’m getting fed up with this. I jump in a landus and instruct the driver to take me to Thamlin quickly. He does his best, but, with all the construction work, the potholes in the roads and the market traffic, we move slowly and I fail to shake off my tail. I regret not dealing with this earlier.

  Thamlin is a different world to the filth of Twelve Seas. Here the streets are clean and paved with pale green and yellow tiles. The luxurious villas stand behind leafy gardens and white walls manned by members of the Securitus Guild. Civil Guards patrol the streets in numbers, keeping them safe from the rabble. No one disturbs the calm. Even the stals, the small black birds which infest the city, look better fed. Anyone wandering up here to do a little begging is soon chased away so as not to disturb the peace of our aristocracy.

  I used to live here. Now I’m about as welcome as an Orc at an Elvish wedding.

  Having no particularly good idea as to where to start my search I halt the landus in Truth is Beauty Lane, where the Sorcerers live, and stroll on up the gentle slope towards the wooded area adjoining the grounds of the Imperial Palace. All around me are houses similar to the one I saw in the kuriya pool. I strain to recall any distinctive features but nothing comes to mind. Just another luxurious villa where the occupants can lie around in the shade drinking wine from their own vineyards and eating fish from their private ponds. I frown. A fine piece of investigation this is turning out to be.

  I notice a Guard standing outside one of the smaller villas set back from the road. No one else is in sight, no servants trimming the lawns or tending to the flower beds. It strikes me that it is very probably the house of Thalius Green Eye, the recently killed Sorcerer.

  It’s nothing to do with me. I should stay away. So I wander over for a look. The Guard isn’t paying much attention to anything. He doesn’t notice me slipping over the small wall and into the garden. I don’t know why I’m doing this. Just naturally curious about Sorcerers being murdered, I guess.

  The gardens are well tended but empty. Presumably all of the dead Sorcerer’s servants are still in custody, answering questions about their knowledge of poisons. I walk swiftly through some tall trees till I reach a small ornamental pond at the back of the house. Unlike some of our wealthier residents, Thalius didn’t keep it stocked with fish. A well-stocked fish pond is a big status symbol in Turai; an aristocratic matron couldn’t ask a member of the Royal Family to dinner unless she could produce a first course from her own private source. Takes some money to maintain though.

  I’m now close to the back door, painted yellow with a small statue of Saint Quatinius at each side. Yellow is regarded as the luckiest colour to paint your back door in Turai. The front one should be white. Virtually everyone falls into line on this one. Even if you’re not superstitious, why tempt fate?

  I’m closing in on the door when a noise inside sends me hurrying to hide behind a large bush. Another noise from behind sends me deeper into the undergrowth. I watch with interest bordering on amazement. First, the back door opens and out come three shaven-headed and red-robed monks, very quietly indeed. They glide through the portal warily, checking that they are unobserved before mov
ing off towards the far end of the grounds. They are not unobserved, however, because from the undergrowth behind me emerge four other monks, equally shaven-headed but garbed in yellow. They immediately rush at the first group and attack them without warning.

  The silence is broken as battle is joined, and a very athletic battle it is too. People talk of the fighting prowess of warrior monks but I’ve never seen such a demonstration myself. I watch in astonishment as kicks fly head high and crunching blows send opponents spinning great distances over the lawn, until the recipients of these blows leap athletically to their feet and run back into the fray. Most of the blows are accompanied by peculiarly intense shouts so the whole neighbourhood must surely hear what is going on.

  It doesn’t take long for the Civil Guard from the front of the house to arrive. When he sees the seven warring monks he wisely decides not to get involved, but blows a piercing whistle to summon help.

  Hearing this, the monks disengage. They eye each other with hatred, then the uninjured help the wounded and they make off in different directions. Again, they display great agility in leaping over walls and various other obstacles between themselves and freedom.

  More Civil Guards will arrive at any second. I just have time to make my escape. I ought to get as far away from here as I can. So instead I walk over to the back door and step inside. I’m a fool sometimes. My overwhelming curiosity—or nosiness—has landed me in trouble since the day I was born.

  At least there’s some relief in here from the baking sun outside. I sluice some water over my neck from the pitcher in the kitchen, and head on into the house. In the first room I enter—a wide, white, calm room with pastel tapestries on the walls—I meet a young woman with a knife in her hand who challenges me in a spirited manner and attempts a vicious slash at my belly before she trips over the empty bottle of klee at her feet and falls down in a drunken heap on the floor.