by Martin Scott
“Sorry, Captain. I really don’t know what it was about. Myself and Makri were just out on some private business and we happened upon it.”
“No good, Thraxas. Whatever the monks are up to, you’re involved in it. Taking a lot of work on, aren’t you? The Venerable Tresius, Thalius’s daughter … and Quen.”
I almost jump when the captain says this, but I control myself. I’m appalled that the Captain knows about Quen. Maybe I should’ve expected it—he’s a good man with any number of contacts—but the news that I am being linked to Quen comes as a blow.
“If you’re hiding her, Thraxas, you’re in for a whole lot of trouble. She burned down that tavern and killed the landlord and she’s due a short trip to the gallows. She won’t even make it as far as the gallows if the Brotherhood find her first. And neither will you. What did you get involved for?”
I can’t think of a snappy answer so I remain silent.
“If you know where she is, Thraxas, and you’re holding out, I really advise you to think again. Tell me and I’ll take her away quietly so that no one connects it with you.”
Distant memories of us fighting the Niojans and the Orcs together must be stirring inside Rallee. He’s trying to do me a favour here. Prevent me from falling foul of the Brotherhood. While I’d certainly like Quen off my hands, I’m not turning a friend of Makri’s over to the authorities for them to string her up. I stay silent, and make to leave.
“I think you’re being unwise on this one, Thraxas. You have too much on your plate already. These monks are tearing each other to pieces. Whatever your involvement, you’ll probably end up getting torn apart yourself. Especially now Ixial’s back on his feet. A dangerous man, Ixial the Seer.”
I gape in astonishment. “Ixial the Seer? Back on his feet? He was next best thing to dead a couple of hours ago.”
“Maybe. But he’s walking around just fine now. I’ve seen him. We had him in for questioning about the fight in the garden. And I know one other thing I’ll tell you for free. There’s an Assassin’s contract out on him.”
“How do you know that?”
“We have our sources.”
“If you’ve got a spy in the Assassins Guild it’s liable to be a very short stay. Have they really been hired to assassinate Ixial?”
“Yes. I’d stay well out of it if I was you, Thraxas. If you can find who killed old Thalius Green Eye, good luck to you. I’d even wish you good luck if you could come up with anything to clear Grosex, even though he’s guilty as hell. But you ought to steer clear of those monks. And ditch Quen before the Brotherhood starts getting annoyed or the Abode of Justice assigns a proper Sorcerer to hunt for her.”
I walk out of the law courts with much on my mind. Ixial is alive. He can’t be, but he is. And now there’s a contract out on him. From who? And for why? Damn these monks. I wish I’d never met any of them. And damn that Quen as well. If she had to go and burn down a tavern, couldn’t she have just climbed on a horse and ridden out of town, instead of coming to the Avenging Axe and making my life difficult?
I meant to ask the Captain if the Guard was making any progress on the missing gold. I forgot. It’s hot. I find a tavern next door and push my way through the scribes and jurists and petitioners of the law courts to get one beer to quench my thirst and another to encourage some serious thinking.
Chapter Thirteen
Makri flops down on my couch. Perspiration runs down her shoulders and she rubs her skin where the chainmail bikini has been chafing in the heat.
“Stupid garment,” she mutters.
It certainly is. No protection at all in a fight. Makri has an excellent set of lightweight leather and chainmail body armour which she brought with her from the gladiator pits. Orcs are skilful metalsmiths and their armour is easily a match for ours, if not quite up to the standard of the Elves. Makri’s light mail will turn most blades, but it doesn’t turn heads—or earn tips, hence the bikini during working hours. All fairly undignified, I suppose, but as Makri regards all men in Twelve Seas as scum she doesn’t really care. She is, however, starting to care about the congestion in her room.
“Throw Dandelion out,” I suggest, hopefully.
“No. I said she could stay.”
“Doesn’t she live anywhere?”
“She doesn’t seem to. She’s been sleeping on the beach recently.”
“Well, at least she’s close to the dolphins.”
Makri won’t go back on her word, so Dandelion stays for the meantime, but she does admit that it’s starting to be a strain. Dandelion keeps wanting to do her horoscope and Makri doesn’t really have the time for this sort of thing. Also she lit some perfumed candles which dripped wax all over Makri’s axe. Which was annoying for a woman who loves her axe.
“Why do you put up with it?”
“I like her, sort of. I never met anyone before who thought trees were as important as people. Anyway, I don’t have any friends in this city. Except for you, I suppose. It’s good to have someone else to talk to. At least she’s friendlier than Quen—Quen never speaks. You’d think she might be more civil, seeing that I’m saving her life by letting her live here.”
I suggest that Quen might have been too soured by her experiences as an exotic dancer to be friendly to anyone any more. Or maybe she’s too scared of the Brotherhood to think about small talk.
“Maybe. But all she does is sit there in silence. It’s a bit of a strain. How come I’ve ended up with Soolanis as well?”
“I think she’s too unhappy about her father being killed to go back home. I expect it gets lonely in a villa on your own.”
“Couldn’t she sleep in here?”
“Absolutely not. I need the couch for whenever I can’t make it into the bedroom. You’re too soft, Makri. If you don’t want her around, just throw her out. No one’s trying to kill her.”
Makri grunts. “Well she’s not much trouble. Just lies around drunk all day.”
It’s interesting the way she’s gathered a group of troubled young women around her. She could start holding her own branch meetings of the Association of Gentlewomen. Provided they allowed for wide interpretation of the word “Gentlewomen.” They let Makri in, so I guess they must.
Makri has come along to study her notes for her next class, as it’s too crowded in her own room to concentrate.
“What are you studying?”
“Elvish languages.”
“You speak Elvish already.”
“Only the common tongue. I’m learning the royal language.”
I’m not sure how come Makri speaks Elvish. She’s quarter Elvish of course, but I assume the Elvish grandparent wasn’t around in the gladiator pits. She never volunteers information about her upbringing, and I’ve never asked.
“What’s that?” she enquires, noticing that I have a sheet of paper in front of me on the desk.
“I’ve been making a list of everything I need to deal with. It’s something I do when I get too many things going on to remember at once.”
I pass it over and she reads it out.
“Monks, statue, gold robbery, Drantaax, Grosex, Thalius, Assassins Guild, Quen, Sarin, Ixial, Tresius. You’re right. You do have too many things to remember. Funny how you weren’t going to do any work this summer.”
“Hilarious.”
“You can cross Ixial off now anyway.”
“No, I can’t. He’s walking around healthy.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
I assure her it’s true. Makri is just as astonished as me. She knows as well as I do that Ixial should be dead by now. Even if he somehow managed to cheat death, he’d be recuperating for months. There is just no way he could be up and about.
“Sorcery?”
“No sorcery I’ve ever heard of can cure gangrene and heal wounds like that. I just don’t know.”
“What’s the Assassins Guild doing on the list?”
“They’ve been engaged to kill Ixial. Don’t know who by, but it
’s reliable information. He’s not going to be an easy target from what I hear. If your friend Hanama gets the job, she’d better watch out.”
Makri stiffens slightly at the mention of Hanama, wondering if we’re going to have our standard disagreement about the subject, but the moment passes without dispute.
“And take care when you’re out. Sarin the Merciless is threatening to shoot on sight if I don’t hand over the statue.”
“I will. Are you close to digging up anything to clear Grosex?”
“Not really. I strongly suspect those two guys we fought here but now they’re gone up in smoke there’s no way of connecting them with the crime. Even if they did carry out the killing, I figure someone else organised it. If I could prove that I’d still get the apprentice off. Everything revolves round the statue, which does point towards Ixial and the Star Temple, but now it’s turned out to be full of gold who’s to say it wasn’t someone else altogether? Maybe whoever organised the heist fell out with Drantaax and had him killed. It could just be a coincidence that right at that moment the Star Temple came looking for a statue. Or else Ixial knew about the gold and was in on it all along. I just don’t know. I can’t turn up in court with some wild story about monks and statues. If the Consul found out I had the gold he’d be more likely to hang me than clear Grosex.”
I take a drink of beer and a mouthful from a pastry I got at Minarixa’s fine bakery. “What I need is some inspiration. Or a stroke of luck. Either will do.”
“How long till they hang Grosex?”
“Two or three days.”
“Well, at least there’s no hurry. Have another beer.”
I note that Makri’s sarcasm is coming along nicely. She settles down with her Elvish manuscript and I stare vacantly out of the window, waiting for inspiration. I’ve got too much information. I can’t sort it out. I’m confused. I go downstairs and bring up another beer.
Some hours later I’m still staring out of the window, though now I have a pile of empty flagons at my feet. Makri, who has been busy reading all this time, finally rises from the floor and folds up her manuscript. She casts a glance at the empty flagons.
“It’s been a pleasure to watch you at work,” she says, grinning. She heads downstairs to the back yard for a little weapons practice before her Elvish languages class.
I sigh. Inspiration never arrived. And I gave it every opportunity. I suppose I’d better just go out and see if I can stir things up a little. I’ll go and visit Ixial the Seer. Even if I don’t learn anything new about the case, he might let me into his health secrets.
I load up with a vast tray of stew and assorted vegetables from Tanrose. Just audible from outside are the sounds of a young woman attacking a target dummy with an axe and assorted swords and knives.
“Makri tells me she’s making good progress at the Guild College,” says Tanrose.
“Yes. She’ll be talking to the Elvish Royal Family in their own language soon. I wonder if they’ll talk back to her?”
Tanrose’s stew fails to provide me with the pleasure it normally does. I take an extra pancake to mop up my plate, but my heart isn’t really in it. In a morose mood I head out into the afternoon heat to see what I can dig up.
“Better than rowing a slave galley I suppose,” I mutter to myself, striding up Quintessence Street.
A bunch of young Koolu Kings are hanging around at the first corner, trying to look tough. They stare at me as I go past. I stare back. They’ll all be in the Brotherhood soon enough, ready for the real world of crime, unless war breaks out and they get conscripted, in which case most of them will be dead. Or the plague strikes like it did a few years back—another good way of emptying the slums.
I find a landus quickly and direct the driver to the villa in Thamlin. I’m in two minds as to whether to make a direct approach to Ixial or whether to try sneaking quietly in the back. I decide on the direct approach. I’ve had enough of sneaking for now.
My direct approach achieves results. After marching up to the villa and banging on the front door loudly enough to wake Old King Kiben it’s answered by Calia herself. It’s odd the way there don’t seem to be any servants here. I suppose the monks must look after themselves. At any other abode in Thamlin the women of the house would rather die than actually answer the door themselves, but I suppose that Calia, coming from Twelve Seas, doesn’t mind so much.
Calia informs me no one is in. She stands in the door in a manner to suggest I’m not welcome to come in and check. I notice she’s looking happier with life.
“I hear Ixial got well.”
She nods.
“How?”
“Through his great powers of recovery.”
“Amazing powers. Almost makes me want to take up meditation. Where is he? Looking for Tresius?”
If she knows she isn’t saying.
I tell her I’d like to ask a few questions about Drantaax. She doesn’t want to talk till I point out that she’s still wanted by the Guards for questioning and I’m not above turning her in. This gets me inside the door, but not much further. According to Calia she knows no more than she told me before. She doesn’t know who killed her husband, and she doesn’t seem to know anything about illegal gold.
“You know Drantaax was heavily in debt?”
“No he wasn’t. He was the most successful sculptor in the city. He had commissions for years to come, all of them worth money.”
“Maybe, but he liked to gamble. The way I hear it he’d remortgaged the house to pay off the bookmakers, and he was about to lose everything.”
For the first time Calia looks surprised, then angry. She insists I must be mistaken.
“Drantaax didn’t gamble. He might not have been so dull if he did. And he didn’t drink. I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but none of it’s true.”
So Drantaax managed to conceal his debts from his wife. And his drinking. Lucky man.
“If he wasn’t in debt, why was he so worried about finishing this statue?”
“He wasn’t worried,” claims Calia. “It was on schedule. We took a few days off in the country right before he was killed. That’s how worried he was. Now, excuse me, I have things to do.”
“Like what?”
“Packing. I’m leaving with Ixial.”
“You’re leaving Grosex to hang.”
“There’s nothing I can do about that. Nothing I can tell the Guards would clear his name.”
“Ixial being arrested for murder would clear his name.”
She falls silent. I can’t get anything more out of her. Quite possibly she has nothing more to tell. Before I go I warn her about the Assassins. Ixial’s welfare doesn’t concern me but I hate the Assassins Guild for being a bunch of cold-hearted killers, and I’ll frustrate them if I can. Besides, if they kill Ixial I’m never going to bring him to court.
“Ixial the Seer can look out for himself.”
“I’m sure he can. But pass on the information anyway. The Assassins Guild is no joke. If Hanama takes the case, I don’t reckon much for his chances. She won’t bother marching up for a fair fight like the Venerable Tresius. She’ll put an arrow in his back or use a poison dart while he’s sleeping.”
As I’m leaving the villa I have the slight impression that there’s something close by that doesn’t belong. Something or someone. I can’t quite make out what. The sensitivity that I developed during my Sorcerer’s training rarely lets me down even now. It wouldn’t surprise me if there was an Assassin in the garden. Well, I warned Ixial. If he ignores me, that’s his problem.
I figure I should check on the gambling debts. I call in on Starox, the bookie, who operates from an illegal shop between Pashish and Twelve Seas. Starox is a Brotherhood man but we’re on good terms, largely because I’ve lost so much money to him. To my surprise Starox tells me that he never took a bet from Drantaax.
I can’t work out why not. If the sculptor wanted to gamble then Starox is the obvious person for him to transact
his business with. What’s more, Starox is of the opinion that if Drantaax was making large losses with any other bookmaker in town he’d have been bound to know about it.
“I know every heavy gambler in Turai. I don’t figure the sculptor as a gambler, Thraxas. He was a well-known man and as far as I know he never made a bet.”
I thank Starox. I also place a couple of bets before I leave. It’s not the racing season in Turai—it’s too hot for the chariots to run at the Stadium Superbius—but there’s a small amphitheatre and track further down the coast where they catch the breeze off the sea and they’re holding a race meeting this week. I was planning to go before I got bound up in this affair.
My next stop is the Public Records Office, which isn’t far from the law courts. It’s another place I used to be welcome but where the officials now pretend not to know me. To hell with them. I find a young clerk with time on his hands and we hunt through the scrolls in the records room till we find a document relating to Drantaax’s property in Pashish.
“Who owns it?”
“Drantaax.”
“But who’s holding the mortgage?”
“No one. According to the city records it isn’t mortgaged.”
I take a look myself. He’s right. Drantaax owned it outright. No problems with his finances are recorded here.
No debts and no gambling? Then why did Grosex think he was in such trouble? Stranger and stranger. I walk home, stopping off at a market stall to buy a watermelon which I eat, very messily, as I walk along.
It strikes me that if Sarin the Merciless carries out her threat then a bolt from her crossbow would go through me about as easily as the watermelon. There’s not much I can do about that except be careful and rely on my senses to give me some sort of warning. I can’t walk around wearing a breastplate in this heat. It’d kill me just about as quick as the crossbow. I could place the personal protection spell in my mind I suppose, but that’s a large spell and I find it tiring to carry it around these days. Also, I like to have the sleep spell handy when I’m on a case, and I can’t carry both. I just don’t have the capacity any more.