Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  The King doesn’t like it, the True Church fulminates against it from the pulpit and the Senate has condemned it as seditious. It was established to raise the status of women in the city. After a slow start it has gathered an increasing amount of support from the most unlikely quarters. Membership is not made public, but I happen to know that Princess Du-Akai is a supporter, as are various powerful female Sorcerers.

  The Sorcerers Guild admits women. Most other guilds do not, which is something the Association intends to put right. Or put wrong, depending on your point of view. The Association has official recognition and admittance into the Revered Federation of Guilds as its first objective, but that’s an expensive business, with fees and bribes needed all along the line. Fifty thousand was the figure Makri mentioned, I believe.

  “So, can I borrow it?”

  “Of course you can’t borrow it. If you promised that money to the A.G. you shouldn’t have gambled it away. It’s unethical.”

  “Don’t lecture me on ethics, you fraud!” roars Makri.

  I start to laugh. I can’t help it.

  “So. You lost your money on a chariot. Very amusing. Miss Austerity herself gambled it away. The Queen of Sensible Behaviour blows her cash at the races.”

  Makri doesn’t take this too well. “It was your fault, you Orc lover! I’d never have backed that chariot if you hadn’t said it was a sure thing.”

  Makri is livid at me for giving her a bad tip, but she’s even angrier at herself for losing the money. She’s had to work hard to get the respect of the local businesswomen who support the A.G. and this isn’t going to help.

  “I’ve got to take it Minarixa the baker by noon! You have to help!”

  I wave this away. “I’ll forgive you for trying to burgle my offices. I’ll put it down to the rashness of youth. But let this be a valuable lesson to you. Never blow the last of your money at the races.”

  Makri stares at me. I stare back at her.

  “I really worked hard collecting that money. And I came and supported you in court. I’ll pay you back.”

  I shake my head.

  “Come on, Thraxas. It’s not like you to be as mean as a Pontifex when it comes to money.”

  “I need that fifty gurans,” I tell her

  “What for?”

  “To win back my money at Mox’s. Now depart. I need to be alone with the bad news about Troll Mangler.”

  There’s a knock at my outside door. Makri departs, looking dispirited. I shake my head. Give my last fifty gurans to the Association of Gentlewomen indeed. Big joke.

  The knock sounds again, angry and urgent. My door is generally sealed with a locking spell. This is a common minor spell that I can use at will without having to learn it afresh every time, like one of the major spells, but it can be employed by anyone with the slightest knowledge of the mystical arts. While it’s reasonably effective against petty theft, it wouldn’t keep out someone who was seriously determined. A few months ago Hanama the Assassin came here uninvited and it didn’t keep her out for more than a second. I mutter the appropriate incantation, and the door springs open.

  It turns out to be Carilis, the not very friendly employee whom we met yesterday in Ferias, looking after Sarija. She has mud all over her fancy black boots and water drips from her elegant blue cloak.

  She strides in and looks around with disapproval. “What a mess.”

  “If I knew you were coming I’d have had it cleaned.”

  “How can you live in such squalor? It’s disgusting.”

  I glare at her. I’m starting to feel some disgust myself.

  “Did you just come here to lecture me about the state of my office?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Some people are too polite. The rest are in too much trouble to care.”

  “Well, I find it very offputting. You should do something about it.”

  “I will. I’ll throw you out on your ear if you don’t get down to business. What do you want?”

  She stares at me like I’m something that just crawled out from under a rock, but swallows the rest of her criticism and gets down to business.

  “Mursius’s belongings.”

  “What about them?”

  “He’s hired you to find them?”

  “Maybe.”

  She leans over the desk and drops a scrap of paper in front of me.

  “You’ll find them there if you hurry,” she says. She rises swiftly and departs without a backward glance.

  I look at the paper. It has an address written on it. One of the old warehouses next to the docks.

  I find my magic dry cloak. This case might be even easier than I thought.

  The rain has halted and a hot breeze blows in from the sea, raising steam from the streets. The stals, the small black birds that infest the city, risk a few chirrups and venture from their perches high up on the tenement roofs. In the Hot Rainy Season they usually hang around looking miserable like everyone else.

  When I’m halfway down Quintessence Street I realise I haven’t had any breakfast. I’m hungry. It strikes me that it will soon be time for prayers. I hurry through the mud, keen to get indoors before Sabam, the call for morning prayers which rings out through the city as regularly as clockwork every morning. It’s a legal obligation for all citizens to kneel and pray, no matter where they are. Anyone found not complying is charged with impiety, and there’s no way round it. Naturally, most citizens take care to be in some suitable place, but if you happen to be in the street at the time, then you have to pray there. Three times a day. It gets me down. It could be worse. Up in Nioj, where things are much more strict, they have six prayer calls a day. Last time I was there on a case my knees ached for a month.

  I make it to the harbour and head for the warehouse. Unfortunately, before I reach it, the call rings out from the tower of the nearest church and I am obliged to kneel and pray. I’m seething with frustration. This sort of thing makes it hard to be an Investigator. If anything is going on in that warehouse, the culprit will have plenty of time to cover it up before I arrive.

  All around the dock workers are kneeling down so I can’t risk ignoring the call. I’d be reported for sure and hauled in front of the special clerical court for impious behaviour. Bishop Gzekius, head of the True Church locally, would relish the chance to send me away for a long trip on a prison galley. He hasn’t forgiven me for putting a stop to some nefarious operations he was engaged in earlier this year.

  As I’m kneeling, the rain starts again. I pull my cloak tighter around me and wonder how anyone is meant to pray in such circumstances. Finally prayers are over. I hurry towards the warehouse and step inside. The interior is set up with pens and feeding troughs for receiving livestock but the warehouse is empty. I follow my instincts and mount the metal staircase to where the manager’s office should be. I find the office, but there’s no sign of any manager. No sign of anyone at all.

  The door is locked. I bark out the common opening spell and it springs open. I walk in. It’s dark apart from a narrow shaft of light coming through the shutters. I wrench them open. Light floods in, and I look around me. The room is full of artwork. Nine or ten sculptures, a few paintings and what looks like a very fine old antique chest inlaid with gold and ivory. I nod. I can’t help feeling some satisfaction. When it comes to investigating I’m number one chariot for sure. Hire Thraxas to find your missing works of art, and what happens? He finds your missing works of art the very next day.

  It looks like quality goods. There’s a small statue of an Elf Maiden which might even be by Xixias, the famed Turanian sculptor who lived in the last century and whose work is now highly prized. I glance at the paintings. High quality again. One catches my eye immediately. It’s the painting Mursius was most keen to get back. It depicts a group of young men, one of whom is Mursius. He’s in the uniform of a Captain and he’s standing with a group of other soldiers, all in dress uniform with swords at their hips and long spears over their shoulders. Th
e inscription on the bottom reads: Officers of the King’s Fourth Regiment after the successful defence of Turai against the Orc Invaders.

  I was there as well, doing my share of defending. No one painted me afterwards.

  If I’d prepared for this eventuality I might have been able to load some carrying spell into my mind enabling me to take this lot home with me. But I didn’t. Which means I need some form of transport, and quick. I hurry out of the warehouse and look around. The dockers are unloading crates of what looks like Elvish wine from a small vessel tied up in the dock. I approach the foreman, a man I know slightly from drinking in the Avenging Axe. I ask him if I can hire his wagon.

  He shakes his head. I take out ten gurans. He shakes his head again. I take out another ten. He tells his men it’s time to take a break.

  “Have it back in half an hour,” he says, and pockets his twenty gurans. That’s quite a sum for hiring a wagon, but I’m sure Senator Mursius won’t mind the expense. As I’m leading the horse-drawn vehicle back towards the warehouse I suddenly sense something unusual. Nothing I can name, just unusual. I halt, trying to identify it. Sorcery? I can’t tell, it’s too faint for my senses. A clap of thunder overhead breaks my concentration but the feeling returns as soon as I re-enter the warehouse and it quickly gets stronger. Everything looks the same but I know that something has happened. This place reeks of sorcery. I draw my sword and tread softly up the stairs.

  I pause outside the office door. My senses are going crazy. I take a deep breath and kick the door with all my might then charge in with my sword raised. There’s no one inside. The room is empty. And when I say empty I mean empty. Of the sculptures and paintings, there is no sign. Damn.

  I swear out loud. In the few minutes I’ve been outside I’ve been outsmarted by a Sorcerer. I vent my frustration by kicking a cupboard door. It swings open slowly, propelled by some weight behind it. I watch with horror as a body slumps forward to lie sprawled at my feet. It’s Senator Mursius. Blood seeps out of a wound in his back. He’s dead.

  I stand there staring stupidly at the corpse, trying to work out what’s happened. Suddenly heavy boots sound from outside, thundering up the stairs. There’s no time to flee and nowhere to hide. A platoon of Civil Guards bursts into the office. As soon as they see me standing beside the body they surround me, swords drawn. Their Captain bends down and examines the body.

  “It’s Senator Mursius!” he exclaims.

  I’m arrested on the spot. Within a minute I’m in the back of a covered Guard wagon on my way to the main Twelve Seas Civil Guard station.

  “You’re in serious trouble,” mutters one of the Guards.

  Senator Mursius was a hero of Turai. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that I am the number one suspect for murdering him. I am in trouble. Lightning flashes overhead as I’m led out of the wagon and into a cell.

  I was right. My cases usually do turn bad. This one just went very bad indeed.

  Chapter Six

  At the Guard station they fling me into an underground cell which is as hot as Orcish hell and stinks like a sewer. The Guards all know me but there’s no one likely to do me any favours apart from young Guardsman Jevox, and he’s nowhere to be seen. Civil Guards don’t like Investigators. In particular, they don’t like me. The Guards are under the control of the Prefects in their area. The last Prefect of Twelve Seas, Galwinius, was a man of such corruption that they should have given me a medal for my part in running him out of town, but the Guards don’t appreciate a Private Investigator cutting off their supply of bribes. I haven’t met Galwinius’s replacement Drinius yet, but I doubt he’s any better.

  A Sergeant questions me for a while. I tell him I had nothing to do with the murder and I’ll give him the full story when my lawyer arrives. He tells me that that will probably be a long time.

  “Why did you kill the Senator?” he demands.

  I shake my head wearily. If he didn’t believe my denial the first ten times, I doubt I’m going to convince him now, so I clam up and wait for someone else to arrive. Everyone in a Guard cell is entitled to a Public Defender, but that doesn’t mean you’ll actually get one. They don’t go out of their way to respect your civil liberties in Twelve Seas. I should have my own lawyer on a retainer, but I can’t afford it.

  It seems obvious that Carilis has set me up for the murder, but I have no idea why. The door opens and in walks Prefect Drinius, his toga edged in yellow to denote his rank. He’s a tall, lean man with aquiline features and close-cropped hair, still dark. He can’t be much more than a couple of years older than me. I’ve an idea he fought in the war, which says something for his character. Many city officials managed to avoid it. He has the well-modulated voice of the aristocrat who learned rhetoric at school.

  “Did you kill Senator Mursius?”

  “No.”

  “Explain to me what you were doing there.”

  I repeat my request for a lawyer. It’s never a good idea to give statements to the Guard without one present. And I’d as soon not have to blacken Mursius’s reputation by spilling the truth about his wife. Even though Mursius is dead I still feel some obligation to protect my client’s good name.

  Drinius informs me that I’ll get a lawyer when he’s ready to provide me with one. “I am aware of your reputation, Thraxas. You take pleasure in interfering in the business of the Civil Guards. I do not intend to let you meddle now that I am in command.”

  “You ought to be grateful. There wouldn’t have been a vacancy if I hadn’t exposed Galwinius’s corruption.”

  Drinius almost smiles. “Perhaps. I understand the Consul himself was pleased. But as you are no doubt aware, it did not increase your popularity among the Civil Guards.”

  “I’ve never been really popular with the Guards. I try and try but they still don’t like me.”

  Drinius motions for his scribe to come to his side.

  “Put it on record that the prisoner refused to make a statement.”

  The scribe puts it on record. Drinius dismisses him and the Sergeant.

  “Thraxas, I am not the sort of man to leap to conclusions. You may have a good explanation for what you were doing in that warehouse, but as things stand just now, it looks bad for you. You were found next to Mursius’s body. He had been dead for a very short while. The Guard Sorcerer who checked the office found no trace that anyone else had been there. No one at all. Just you and Mursius. Well?”

  “Well, he’s wrong.”

  “I doubt it. Furthermore, our Sorcerer reports that no sorcery was used in the area.”

  This surprises me. I wasn’t expecting the Prefect to try and trick me with such an obvious untruth. The room reeked of sorcery, which would have lingered for a long time after I’d left. Drinius sees my surprise.

  “Are you claiming that sorcery had been used? If so, you’re lying. No sorcery was found. Our Sorcerer is quite certain on that point. Which just leaves you and Senator Mursius. And he’s dead. Is there anything you’d like to say?”

  “Yes. How about some food? I haven’t eaten today.”

  Drinius shrugs, and departs.

  A Guard locks the cell and insults me through the barred slot in the door. “Things were good when Galwinius was Prefect. Then you stuck your nose in. Now we’re going to hang you.”

  I don’t know what to make of Drinius. I’d assumed he was your standard corrupt Prefect but in reality he doesn’t seem so unreasonable. But why bother lying that no sorcery had been used in the warehouse? That wouldn’t stand up at the trial. A Guard Sorcerer wouldn’t perjure himself about something like that. Even weeks after the event a really good Sorcerer working for my defence could prove that magic had been used at the scene. The Guard Sorcerer would look foolish in court and the Sorcerers Guild would be down on him like a bad spell for abusing his skills. Odd.

  The door opens. Breakfast arrives. Bread, cheese and water. All fresh. Perhaps Drinius isn’t so bad. Prefect Galwinius would have let me starve.

&nbs
p; I wonder who did kill the Senator. Strictly speaking I shouldn’t have to worry about it. I only work when I’m paid. The Senator hired me to recover his works of art. I recovered them. Then they went missing again. But now he’s dead there’s no one to pay me to find them again, which kind of ends my involvement. Unless they do accuse me of the murder, and I end up having to clear my name. I sigh. If that happens, I’ll end up investigating with no one to pay me. Private Investigator. What a life.

  The door opens. Young Guardsman Jevox appears. I helped him in the past, and he owes me a few favours.

  “Thraxas,” he says urgently. “You’re in serious trouble.”

  “So they keep telling me.”

  “I can’t stay here. But I’ve sent a message to the Avenging Axe.”

  He disappears. The day gets hotter and I feel more and more in need of a beer. Sabap, the call for afternoon prayers, rings through the city. I kneel and pray. No sense in giving them something else to get me on. Shortly afterwards the door opens.

  “Someone to see you.”

  Makri walks in. The door closes behind her.

  “In the cells again, Thraxas? They ought to put your name on the door.”

  “Very funny. How did you get in here?”

  “I said I was your wife. And they believed me, which doesn’t say much for your reputation. Or mine, come to that.”

  “Well, thanks for coming. I need you to—”

  Makri interrupts me. “Let me guess. The case you were working on has now gone drastically wrong. You have annoyed the hell out of the local Prefect and to make matters worse you are now a prime suspect for murder. You need a lawyer, but they won’t bring you a Public Defender so you want me to get you one. Correct?”

  “In every detail.”

  “Funny how it always happens that way,” says Makri, grinning.

  Gurd and Tanrose tell me that Makri has a very attractive smile. I don’t really see it myself.

  “So, have you seen Gosax?”