Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  “I have to be careful with my stomach,” he says, apologetically.

  That’s sorcery. It can’t guarantee a healthy appetite and a good digestion.

  “Can I bring you anything else?” says the waitress. I tell her to bring another wagonload of main courses.

  “But pile it up higher. And one of each dessert. And more bread. Did you bring me beer? Better bring another.”

  I undo my belt and my sword clatters to the floor. I let it lie there and carry on eating. Some time later I’m feeling Human again.

  “More beer,” I tell the waitress.

  I notice the kitchen boy is peering out from the kitchen with awe on his face.

  “Must be a while since they had a good eater in here,” I mutter to Kemlath, and get down to the wide range of desserts.

  Later, when I’m imbibing another beer and finishing off a few scraps, the chef appears at our table.

  “Thraxas!” he says, throwing his hands in the air with pleasure. “I should have known it was you! We miss you!”

  Outside the landus driver is wet as a Mermaid’s blanket and looks as miserable as a Niojan whore. Landus drivers are notoriously bad-tempered.

  “The Library,” I instruct.

  “I’ve never seen such an appetite,” says Kemlath Orc Slayer admiringly, as we drive off.

  “I need a lot of fuel. I’ve serious investigating to do. And the way I keep getting thrown in prison these days I never know when my next meal might be.”

  I take a drink from the flagon of ale I brought out with me. I’ll have to finish it before we enter the Royal Library. I know from experience that the curators are touchy about anyone getting too close to their books and manuscripts while carrying a flagon of ale.

  “Who are you meeting?” asks Kemlath as the vast marble building comes into view.

  “Makri.”

  “The woman who killed the Orcs? Can she read?”

  “She certainly can. And don’t let her hear you doubting it. Makri’s a budding intellectual and she’s very touchy with men who give her a hard time about it. Apart from me, but then I taught her the skills needed to survive in the city.”

  “Why do you want to see her now?”

  “Because she’s smart. I want to tell her what’s been happening and see if she has any ideas. Also I have some good news for her.”

  This is Makri’s regular study time. Not surprisingly, the Library staff were taken aback when a young woman with Orc blood started to appear asking for manuscripts about philosophy and rhetoric, but as the Library extends membership to all people attending the Guild College they were obliged to let her in. Now they’re used to her, the staff are pleased to see her, rather like the chef being pleased to see me: they like anyone who appreciates what they do.

  I leave Kemlath in the landus after arranging to meet him in an hour at the Avenging Axe. The Royal Library is vast, with two huge wings and a massive central dome housing one of the finest collections of works in the west.

  “Please leave your wet cloak in the cloakroom,” says the doorkeeper.

  “Completely dry,” I say, pointing.

  He looks impressed. Everything else in the city is soaking wet but I’m walking round dry and cosy. What a superb spell.

  I head for the extensive philosophy section, housed in another smaller dome at the back. All around are thousands of books and manuscripts. Small busts of kings, saints and heroes are set into alcoves in the walls and the ceiling is painted with a magnificent fresco of Saint Quatinius banishing the Orcs, painted by the great Usax, the finest ever Turanian artist, who lived around a hundred years ago. That’s certainly a lot of culture for one building. Makri likes it. I had never been to the place before Makri arrived in the city.

  That was one reason she chose Turai. Plenty of culture. And she heard there was a lot of fighting as well. She was right on both counts, but she says she wasn’t expecting us to be so degenerate. There again, she wasn’t expecting to be able to earn money from her shape. She never even knew she had an impressive figure when she was a gladiator. Orcs don’t find Human women attractive, so no one ever mentioned it.

  I find her engrossed in some old scroll. She looks at me suspiciously.

  “Have you got beer hidden somewhere?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You had last time. The librarian was upset.”

  “Well, I haven’t this time.”

  “It’s not very considerate, you know, Thraxas. I need to come here to study. It’s been awkward for me, as you well know. The last thing I need is for you to arrive drunk and spilling beer all over the manuscripts.”

  “For God’s sake, Makri, I’ve just got out of prison. I’m on a murder charge. Will you pick some other time to lecture me about my drinking? I’ve got good news for you.”

  A librarian in a toga strides forwards and tells me to be quiet and stop disturbing the other readers. Makri gives me a foul look then stands up and motions for me to accompany her to another small room where we can talk.

  “What good news?”

  “Sword of Vengeance won.”

  Makri lets out a cry of pleasure and practically dances round the table. I’m feeling smug.

  “You see? Didn’t I tell you I could pick winners? Easy as bribing a Senator for a man of my talents. Okay, I may have the odd bad day, but when you want some expert help with chariot racing, Thraxas is the man to come to.”

  Makri tots up her winnings in her head.

  “Twenty-seven gurans. And I have eighteen already except I owe you ten—that means I now have thirty-five. Is the race meeting in Juval still on?”

  “Another couple of days. If you can call in at Mox’s for a form sheet I’ll study it tonight.”

  “The form sheet always gets wet when I walk back from Mox’s,” says Makri cunningly. “Lend me the magic dry cloak.”

  I hand it over with a sigh. “Great spell,” says Makri, wrapping it around her comfortably. “What’s happening with the murder case?”

  Makri listens while I recount the latest developments. “I still don’t know anything about Lisox, that guy trying to kill Sarija. Captain Rallee says he used to work for Glixius Dragon Killer. Remember him?”

  “Sure. He must be behind it all,” she says. “He doesn’t like you, and he’s a Sorcerer.”

  “Maybe. He’s a powerful fighter, but I’m not sure his sorcery is good enough to fool Hasius the Brilliant about the murder weapon. But he could have improved. He’s certainly my number one suspect.”

  “Are you really in trouble?” asks Makri.

  “I am. It’s fairly normal for the Guards to suspect me of every crime they can’t find a better suspect for, but someone is really fitting me up for this one. Even Cicerius has his doubts. If I don’t crack the case soon I’m in serious trouble. I can’t work out if it’s all connected to the murder, or if it’s more of Rittius’s campaign to get me.”

  Makri wonders if I have any good leads. I admit I have not. I made no progress with Carilis. I think the next step is to speak to Mursius’s wife Sarija.

  “I expect she’ll be full of dwa again. It gets me down trying to get any sense out of dwa addicts.”

  “Maybe she won’t use so much dwa now she’s taken responsibility for entering Mursius’s chariot in the Turas Memorial.”

  I’m surprised to hear Makri say this. “How did you know about that?”

  “It’s all over town. The students at the college are talking about nothing else. Everyone is wondering about the race with the Elves and the Orcs. Has Sarija’s chariot got any chance?”

  “None at all. You weren’t thinking of betting on it, were you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Bet on the Elf. Unless the Orcish chariot turns out to be better than we expect. That’s if the Orcish chariot runs. I haven’t made any progress with the prayer mat yet. I’m hoping Cicerius can persuade some Sorcerer to find it. What are Orcs like with racing chariots, anyway? They seemed pretty handy in the wa
r.”

  “They’re good,” says Makri. “Some of them are good with horses too. I wouldn’t be surprised if Rezaz the Butcher is bringing something hot to Turai.”

  I notice that despite her hatred of all things Orcish even Makri is getting caught up in the excitement of the race. Before I depart I ask her if she has any suggestions for finding the prayer mat. She hasn’t.

  I call in on my friend Astrath Triple Moon but it’s another fruitless meeting. He can’t tell me anything about the bronze cup Kerk brought me.

  “It’s been cleaned.”

  Every single thing I need to know about these days has been sorcerously tampered with. Damned Sorcerers.

  I ask Astrath if he can look back in time and pick up something about the three Orcs I encountered in Ferias, but he draws a blank on that too.

  “Whoever cleaned the area is too powerful for me, Thraxas,” he says, looking gloomy because he’s stuck in the city in the rain along with the rest of us, and doesn’t have a nice villa in Thamlin to shelter in like the other Sorcerers.

  “How much would Turai’s Sorcerers know about Orcs? Specifically their religion?”

  “Do Orcs have a religion?” asks Astrath.

  “They might have. You know, temples and bishops and things like that. And prayer mats.”

  Astrath chuckles. “I doubt it. They’re too savage to spend any time praying.”

  So it seems that even Sorcerers are ignorant of Orcish prayers. Someone in this city must be aware. Someone knew enough to remove the prayer mat.

  Back in Twelve Seas the mood is still ugly. The Civil Guards have pacified the area, but you can feel the sullen resentment everywhere. The drinkers in the Avenging Axe mutter complaints against the King and the Consul for allowing it.

  “I didn’t risk my life against the Orcs just so they could run chariots at the Turas Memorial,” growls old Parax the shoemaker. His cronies nod in angry agreement.

  I don’t remember Parax risking his life at the time—I seem to recall he spent the war hiding in his mother’s attic—but he catches the mood of the moment in the Avenging Axe. Gurd is bewildered. As a Barbarian he never had much grasp of grand strategy and stolidly subscribes to the idea of killing all Orcs on sight.

  “Maybe we’re just luring Rezaz here so we can ambush him,” he says hopefully.

  Makri squeezes her body into her bikini but the gloom that pervades the place is bad for tips. Drinker after drinker arrives in the tavern, curses the rain, curses the Orcs and sits brooding over a flagon of ale. Even when she adopts emergency tactics of removing a couple of links from the garment, making it so small she might as well be wandering around naked, it doesn’t bring much of a result.

  “These copper mines might be good for the King’s treasury, but it’s ruining my income,” she complains, slamming a few beers down at a table full of dockers who barely glance at her before getting back to muttering to each other.

  A few people ask me about my hunt for Mursius’s killer. They know the Guards suspect me but, at least in the Avenging Axe, no one takes me for a murderer. I tell everybody I’m making good progress.

  “Mursius knew how to treat Orcs,” says Parax. “Fling them off the battlements, that’s what you do with Orcs.”

  He leaps to his feet, banging his fist on the table.

  “I’d kill any man who helped an Orc!” he roars.

  “We’re going to be popular when news leaks out,” whispers Makri as she passes.

  Kemlath arrives. His sumptuous rainbow cloak creates a minor sensation in the Avenging Axe. We don’t get many high-class Sorcerers down this way. With his large frame, his jovial laugh and his collection of gold necklaces, Kemlath is hard to ignore. The jewellery alone would attract plenty of attention as no one would normally be foolish enough to walk through Twelve Seas wearing such valuable items. Kemlath is safe of course. No one is going to try and rob a Sorcerer. Not even a dwa addict would be confused enough to do that. Sorcerers Guild rules allow them to respond to personal attacks with as much force as necessary, and an angry Sorcerer might well decide it’s necessary to fry you to a crisp.

  He’s come to get a full description of recent events and see what he can find out by sorcerous means.

  “Good tavern,” he says, as I lead him upstairs. “Can you smell burning?”

  I can. There’s smoke in the upstairs corridor, coming from beneath my office door. I rush in and my desk is on fire. My desk?

  I run to the bucket under the sink to get water. The bucket’s empty. I haven’t been bringing up water for bathing these last few days. No real need, with all the rain.

  “It’s all right,” calls Kemlath before he utters some word of power. The fire immediately dies away. Yet again I regret not studying more when I was an Apprentice. I open the outside door and the smoke clears slowly out of my room, mingling with the steam rising from the streets outside as the sun beats down during a break in the rain.

  A message is scorched on the surface in spidery, blackened letters.

  Do not attempt to find the works of art, it says.

  I stare at the warning. Bit of an odd message.

  “It isn’t easy to send a burning message like that,” muses Kemlath Orc Slayer. “He must be a powerful Sorcerer. Or she.”

  “Well, he or she is going to get a nasty shock when I catch up with them,” I growl. “No one burns my desk and gets away with it. Do not attempt to find the works of art, indeed. I’ll find them and ram them down his throat.”

  Kemlath looks around, seeing if he can pick up any trace of where the attack came from. Could it be Glixius Dragon Killer? If so, he’s much more skilled than he used to be. Makri said she saw him in the Royal Library last week. Perhaps he’s been studying.

  The smoke clears. I drink some klee and note with dissatisfaction that it’s my last bottle. I now have very little money left, and every time I turn around I’m being warned, attacked, arrested and generally harassed half to death. I’m making little progress in any direction and Sarija has been sending me messages asking what I’m doing about finding Mursius’s murderer. I send back a message saying I’m doing everything I can. In which case, I suppose, I’d better do something.

  Chapter Twelve

  Unfortunately during the week that follows I achieve very little. The rain pours down, the streets turn into rivers of mud, and I run into dead end after dead end. It’s been raining for twenty-two days and I’m no nearer to finding either Mursius’s killer or the Orcish prayer mat. Cicerius keeps demanding to know when I’m going to come up with something, and I’m fast running out of excuses.

  I’ve asked representatives from every conceivable group of people in Turai what they know about Orcish religion, and the sum total is nothing at all. The Honourable Association of Merchants, the Sorcerers, the Guard, the Brotherhood, the Transport Guild, the True Church, the Goldsmiths, and plenty more besides. As far as I can see no one in Turai knows enough about Orcs to even guess they have a religion, let alone deliberately set out to steal their prayer mat. I’m starting to wonder if the whole thing is a coincidence. Maybe someone took the mat to keep their feet dry. Furthermore these questions are very bad for my reputation, with the city being so touchy about Orcs just now.

  I wouldn’t be floundering around in quite such a hopeless manner if Cicerius could tell me anything useful, but he can’t. No one who shouldn’t have been there was seen near the Prince’s villa. And when Old Hasius the Brilliant gets round to checking the scene, he can’t find anything.

  “How is it that Sorcerers can never find anything?” I complain loudly to Makri. “The damned city is top heavy with Sorcerers yet every time there’s a crime and I could use a little help there’s nothing they can do. Either the moons are in the wrong conjunction or the whole area’s been mysteriously cleaned up. What’s the point of having so many Sorcerers if all they can do is make up horoscopes for handmaidens? It’s not like that when I get accused of something, of course. No chance. Then it’s, ‘We f
ound Thraxas’s aura on the knife so let’s throw him in the slammer.’ I tell you, Makri, they’re useless. Damned Sorcerers. I hate them.”

  “What about Kemlath?”

  I admit I don’t hate Kemlath. At least he’s trying to be helpful. He keeps hanging round anyway, though I think there might be more to it than helping me.

  “I think he’s taken a shine to Sarija,” I say.

  “Sarija? Wouldn’t he regard her as beneath him? And kindly don’t turn that into one of your crude jokes.”

  “Who knows? Sorcerers aren’t quite as hidebound about that sort of thing as other aristocrats. And Kemlath comes from the far west originally, same as Astrath. He’s certainly been spending a lot of time with her. Says he’s helping her to kick dwa.”

  Makri agrees that this does seem to be working. “But that might be because you got her addicted to beer instead.”

  “Well it’s far healthier. Build her up. She’ll need her energy if she’s still planning to enter Storm the Citadel in the Turas Memorial.”

  I stare glumly out of the window. Magic dry cloak or not, I can hardly bear going out in the rain again. Yesterday the aqueduct that runs down to Twelve Seas collapsed with the weight of water. Workers sent by the local branch of the Revered Federation of Guilds are now struggling to repair it. The guilds are blaming Prefect Drinius for the lack of maintenance. The Prefect is accusing the guilds of inflating their workmen’s fees. Strikes and litigation are threatened on all sides. It’s standard Hot Rainy Season stuff, and adds to the general gloom.

  Kerk’s seller of stolen goods claims to know nothing of the bronze cup. He has no more of the works of art and won’t even admit that the cup came from his shop. His business is under the protection of the Brotherhood so there’s little I can do to threaten him. I ask Kerk to notify me if anything else comes on to the market.

  Neither Astrath or Kemlath could learn anything from the cup, and I’m no further on with the murder of Mursius. Even though Sarija is my client I haven’t neglected to have her checked out, or Carilis. Nothing useful turns up. Close questioning of servants, relatives, local shopkeepers and various others fails to reveal if Carilis was having an affair with Senator Mursius. Some think she might have been. Others don’t. No one knows for sure. And even if she was, so what? There’s nothing particularly unusual in a Senator having an affair with another woman. If that woman is young, attractive and engaged in looking after the dwa-ridden shell of Mursius’s wife, it seems quite probable, but no reason for a man to get murdered. Even if his wife Sarija was the jealous type, I doubt she could have stayed on her feet long enough to do it.