Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

He raises his arm to cast some spell at me. I brace myself, hoping that my spell protection charm is in good working order. I don’t get to find out because before Glixius can utter a word Makri slugs him on the back of his head with the pommel of her sword. He slumps unconscious to the ground.

  “Nice work, Makri.”

  “I needed that,” she says, and looks a little more cheerful. We leave Glixius lying in the mud.

  “That’ll teach him to meddle with me.”

  At the Avenging Axe four Civil Guards and a Praetor’s assistant are waiting for me. The official hands me a paper and informs me I’m due in court the day after the Triple-Moon Conjunction festival ends.

  “Care to buy me a beer to celebrate?” I ask the Praetor’s assistant.

  He doesn’t care. They depart.

  “Have they charged you with the murder?” enquires Makri.

  “Not exactly. Cicerius managed to have that delayed. I have to go before the examining magistrate, who looks at the evidence.”

  “What happens then?”

  “Then he charges me with murder.”

  Later in the day I receive the news that Bear Baiter romped home a clear winner, which gives me enough money for a few beers and Makri another fifteen gurans to add to her total. She now has fifty and needs only ten more.

  “Stop sitting around drinking beer,” says Makri, interrupting my late-night relaxation. “Start studying the form sheet.”

  I sigh. Life was easier when Makri disapproved of gambling. Cicerius’s Aedile, or Assistant, arrives on horseback looking for news. The Deputy Consul is extremely agitated at my lack of progress in locating the prayer mat. Lord Rezaz Caseg is increasingly unhappy at his charioteer’s loss and may quit the city any day. I tell the Aedile I’m doing everything I can. I have a beer in one hand and the racing sheet in the other which might give him the wrong impression. He doesn’t look too impressed when he rides away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I make no progress in the next few days. I’m sitting gloomily at my desk, beer in hand, when I hear voices in the corridor outside. Makri’s voice and another one, softer. I creep over and place my ear to the door. The other voice belongs to Hanama. Another social call from the Assassin?

  “I won fifteen gurans on Bear Baiter,” Makri is telling her. “Evens favourite at Simnia. He won by three lengths after a slow start. But Bear Baiter always starts slowly. I wasn’t worried.”

  “I didn’t know you were so informed about betting,” says Hanama, sounding impressed.

  “I picked it up here and there,” replies Makri. “If you come to the Turas Memorial I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  I wrench open the door. “Will you stop discussing gambling with Assassins outside my room? I’m trying to work in here.”

  “So, what’s eating you?” asks Makri.

  “Her,” I retort, indicating Hanama. “You might be buddies, but she still gives me the creeps. Since when have Assassins placed bets? Shouldn’t you be out murdering people?”

  Hanama eyes me calmly and retreats down the corridor without comment, followed by Makri. Damned Assassins. How come she’s so friendly with Makri recently?

  “And it was me that picked Bear Baiter,” I yell after them.

  I get out the magic dry cloak. It’s time to visit the Brotherhood. They are very powerful in Turai. They started off as a bunch of small-time crooks operating round the harbour about two hundred years ago. Now they’re one of the most powerful groups in the whole city-state. Since dwa started flooding into the city, bringing with it vast profits and a whole new class of people dependent on crime, their influence has grown alarmingly. They’re behind most criminal activity in the south of the city, but they also have their fingers in various legitimate businesses. Many of our banking houses, for instance, are now suspected of using dwa money to fund their enterprises, and when a Senator makes a speech in favour of some particular venture you can never be sure if he isn’t being heavily influenced by the vast wealth and influence of the Brotherhood.

  While I am too small-time to really irritate the Brotherhood, I couldn’t claim that they like me. Casax, their boss in Twelve Seas, was particularly displeased with me when I prevented him from making off with the King’s gold which had originally been stolen by Galwinius, our ex-Prefect. He warned me then to stay well out of his way. So some might say it is unwise of me to walk into the Mermaid, Twelve Seas’ most dangerous tavern and local Brotherhood headquarters, and demand to see him.

  Several thugs confer with each other then send a message upstairs. Karlox, a huge bruiser whom I have had several run-ins with in the past, appears at the top and motions me up. He shows me into the large room at the back, where Casax is sitting at a table. I greet him politely and take a seat without waiting to be asked.

  He stares at me silently for a few minutes. The table is huge, beautifully carved. On the walls around us are valuable tapestries showing scenes from Turai’s legendary past. Casax is not especially ostentatious as gang chiefs go but he needs to remind visitors of his power.

  “Didn’t I tell you to stay well out of my way, Investigator?” he says eventually.

  “Probably,” I reply. “But most people say that to me, one time or another.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “A chat about the Society of Friends.”

  This gets his attention. The Society operate way out of my territory. I have no contacts there and no real means of gaining information about them, so I’m hoping that I might learn something from the Brotherhood. Even though they don’t like me, they like the Society a lot less.

  “Well?” says Casax.

  I can feel Karlox’s eyes boring into the back of my neck. Last time we met I was on a horse and I rode him down. He’d like to repay the compliment.

  “I think they’ve been working down at the docks. I wondered if you might know anything about it.”

  “Since when have the Brotherhood discussed their affairs with cheap Investigators?”

  “I’m not asking you to discuss your affairs. I’m talking about the Society of Friends. I take it you don’t know anything about the warehouse where Mursius was killed?”

  I tell him about my suspicions that the Society have been at work in the warehouse. Casax asks if I have any evidence apart from the graffiti.

  “No. But it all fits, more or less. You’ve heard the rumours that the Society are planning some sort of betting coup. Senator Mursius was entering his chariot in the Turas Memorial. His stolen artworks ended up at that warehouse. And then he ended up there too, dead. And now it turns out to be the same warehouse where the Elvish chariot is stored when it’s brought off the ship. I don’t know what that all means, but it seems like too much of a coincidence to me.”

  Casax ponders my words. Like all Brotherhood chiefs he’s capable of brutality, but he’s not dumb. If the Society has been operating secretly in his territory he wants to know all about it.

  “So, what do you want from me, Investigator?”

  “Information. In exchange for what I’ve told you. Anything you know or find out about the warehouse. And I’ll tell you anything else I learn about the Society working in Twelve Seas.”

  Casax remains silent for a time. The only sound is the rain beating down outside. Finally he nods. “Okay.” He looks at me intently. “I hear you’ve not been doing too well at the races.”

  Casax wants me to be impressed that he knows my business. I shrug, and don’t look impressed.

  “You’re not going to be a popular man in this city,” he continues. “No one’s going to like the man who’s looking after the Orcs.”

  This is a blow. I curse silently. I suppose it was bound to leak out eventually. I can’t entirely hide my discomfiture. Casax smiles; at least, the tiny twitching of his lips is probably meant to be a smile. Karlox shows me out.

  “I’ll kill you one day, fat man,” he says as a parting shot.

  I don’t bother replying. I receive too many death t
hreats to be always coming up with smart answers.

  The rain is heavier than ever. It’s almost the end of the Hot Rainy Season. The water in Quintessence Street is deep enough to drown dogs and small children. There are far too many dogs and small children around here anyway. It takes me a long time to walk back to the Avenging Axe. Sweat pours down inside my cloak. The Hot Rainy Season. I hate it. I thank God that this is the last day. Tomorrow, according to Turai’s regular calendar, the rain will dry up and we’ll have a month or so of pleasant autumn weather before winter arrives.

  The prospect of the rain ending has restored some cheer to the inhabitants of Turai, but it’s overshadowed by the knowledge that this is also the day that the Orcish chariot is due to arrive. As the land route from the east is impassable at this time of year they’ll be coming by sea like the Elves, though without the welcoming reception party. Twelve Seas is crawling with Civil Guards, posted to keep order. Even though this is the King’s idea he’s not going to risk lowering himself in public opinion by officially greeting the Orcs, and even Consul Kalius seems to be distancing himself. The only officials there to greet them will be Cicerius and Melus the Fair, Stadium Sorcerer.

  I practically bump into Captain Rallee at the foot of my stairs. “Don’t expect the Guards to protect you over this one,” he says.

  “I take it you’ve heard the news.”

  “I have. Never thought I’d see the day when you’d be guarding Orcs, Thraxas.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Why are you doing it?”

  I explain to the Captain upstairs in my office. He understands how I’ve been forced into it, but he doesn’t think that your average Turanian will have much sympathy. “The way the scandal sheets will report it you’ll have volunteered for the job.”

  The Captain crosses over to the window and stares out at the rain. “Last day, thank God,” he mutters. I ask him if he’ll be putting in an appearance at the Avenging Axe tonight. There’s always a prolonged celebration on the night of the last day of the Hot Rainy Season and the Captain’s not averse to a spot of celebrating himself. He shakes his head.

  “I’m on duty. They’ve cancelled all leave. The city’s restless. The rain’s been keeping the lid on, but no one’s happy about the Orcs coming. I don’t like the way things are shaping up, Thraxas. Too many strange things are happening. You know it’s rumoured the Society of Friends are planning some sort of betting coup?”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “You know I even heard a whisper that the Assassins are placing bets? It’s like some sort of fever’s gripped the city since it was learned the Elves and the Orcs are coming.”

  The Captain tosses down the rest of his klee, fastens his cloak and departs abruptly. Melus the Fair is going to have to be in good form to keep things legal. Talking of Melus the Fair, she’s due back in town today. She’s been away out west on a goodwill mission to study sorcery in Samsarina. She’s due to welcome the Orcish chariot into town.

  There’s a knock at the door. I answer it with a sword in my hand, ready for anything. It turns out to be a bedraggled messenger who hands over a scroll then departs. I unroll it and read it:

  Found more artwork, it says. Kerk’s signature is at the bottom. Good. At last something is going well.

  Makri arrives. “Are we going to Mox’s?”

  “Sure you don’t want to go with your Assassin friend?” I say.

  Makri doesn’t rise to the bait. We sneak down Quintessence Street, which isn’t too difficult as the torrential downpour cuts visibility almost to zero. We’re sneaking because Minarixa the baker is annoyed at Makri for failing to come up with the sixty gurans as promised.

  “I’ve really offended the Association of Gentlewomen. It’s hell. Last night Chulani the carpet-weaver said very pointedly that she was surprised to hear that certain members had been gambling with the Association’s money and was Minarixa planning to do anything about running these members out of Turai.”

  “She might not have been referring to you,” I point out. “Half the city is gripped by gambling fever just now. You’re probably not the only member of the A.G. who’s diverted funds to the bookies.”

  “I’m sure someone’s been spreading rumours.”

  “Well don’t look at me. The only contact I have with the Association of Gentlewomen is my daily order for two large meat pies and three loaves of bread at Minarixa’s bakery. Face it, Makri, you haven’t been that discreet. Anyone could have seen you hanging round Honest Mox’s.”

  Makri screws up her face in near anguish. “How did I ever get into this?” she demands, staring accusingly at me.

  We’re on our way to place a bet before joining in the welcoming committee for the Orcish chariot. Makri’s fifty gurans have shrunk to thirty, the result of a very poor performance by the favourite in the last race in Simnia. Makri spent most of the evening cursing all horses, chariots and race meetings and demanded to know if the Sorcerer at Simnia is honest.

  “If I find he’s been taking bribes I’ll ride down to Simnia myself and gut him like a pig,” she raged. More or less standard behaviour for any gambler in Turai. It gets into the blood somehow. The streets are thick with Civil Guards and the Palace has sent down wagonloads of troops to back them up in case serious trouble erupts.

  I sense a certain coldness in the air as Makri and I enter Mox’s. News of my cursed mission must be spreading.

  “Just can’t keep away from Orcs,” whispers someone.

  “He’s brought one with him,” whispers someone else.

  Makri’s eyes widen and her hand flashes to her sword as she prepares to wreak mayhem for being called an Orc, but she remembers what she’s doing here and checks herself. She needs to win another thirty gurans urgently and she’s not going to be able to do that if she destroys Mox’s shop and everyone in it. She’s tense enough already at the bet she’s putting on. Victory or Death is even money but is only joint favourite and I’m not at all certain about its chances. Makri, however, has no choice. She’s run out of time and must now place her whole remaining thirty gurans on the chariot and hope it comes in a winner.

  “Shame you haven’t found the prayer mat, Thraxas. I’d have given it a try.”

  We wait at the queue. The man in front of me, a large, ugly individual I’ve never seen before, suddenly turns to me and snarls “Orc lover” right in my face.

  Like Makri, I hold myself back. I don’t want to get into a fight, not before I’ve placed a bet.

  “Merely helping the King out,” I answer pleasantly. It doesn’t placate him. I draw myself up and try to look like a Sorcerer who might just blast everyone to hell if they’re not careful. This sometimes works, as most people in Twelve Seas don’t realise how insignificant my powers really are. Many hostile eyes follow me as I advance up the queue. At the counter Mox is sullen. Despite the fact that I’ve been one of his finest customers for years he refuses to greet me, and takes my bet in silence.

  Outside the shop I hurry away, with Makri at my heels.

  “This is bad. Damn that Cicerius.”

  Makri is bristling about her treatment. She says that if her chariot doesn’t win she’s going to go back and kill everyone in Mox’s for daring to call her an Orc.

  “What if it wins?”

  “I’ll let some of them live.”

  I figure I might as well take a look at the Orcish chariot that’s causing me so much grief. The rain beats down and another storm rolls in off the sea. By the time we reach the harbour the sky is black and the crowd is wailing that we’re cursed.

  “God will destroy us for welcoming them into the city,” yells a young Pontifex, who urges the crowd to repent while they still have the chance.

  Visibility is so poor that the Orcish ship is not seen until its monstrous black sails suddenly loom out of the darkness right at the mouth of the harbour. The mob yells in fury and the Civil Guards and soldiers struggle to keep order. Thunder roars in one long continuous explosion and
the rain batters down like hailstones from hell. As the ship draws slowly alongside the pier Lord Rezaz Caseg and his attendants suddenly appear to welcome their fellow Orcs. His black cloak billows in the wind. His features are hidden by a black and gold helmet. The crowd explodes with rage and the soldiers beat them back with staffs.

  Suddenly, at the podium set up for the welcoming committee, green and blue shafts of light cut through the air. The shafts grow in intensity before bursting into star shapes which float over the heads of the crowd. They hang in the rain-darkened atmosphere before changing again into huge yellow flowers which slowly drift off towards the clouds. The crowd stop rioting, their attention drawn by the fine pyrotechnic display.

  Melus the Fair steps forward on to the podium, her staff in her hand. I have my own illuminated staff with me, hanging from my belt. It’s pretty feeble compared with Melus’s. The crowd applauds. Melus the Fair is a popular favourite. As she raises her hands, the crowd becomes almost peaceful and the Orcs begin to disembark without trouble.

  “Nice trick,” I mutter to Makri. “Lets hope she’s in as good form at the Turas Memorial.”

  We all watch as Lord Rezaz removes his helmet and marches forward, flanked by eight warrior Orcs, to meet Melus. Cicerius has now appeared at her side and he holds his hand up, palm outwards, in formal greeting. I notice that Melus has put a magic dry spell on her cloak, which is the smart thing to do, but poor old Cicerius is getting very wet indeed. His toga clings to his bony frame.

  The crowd watch, partly in anger and partly in fascination. Many of our younger citizens have never even seen an Orc before. The Orc Lord marches with more dignity than I would have credited, and greets his compatriots and Melus. Speeches are extremely brief. Everyone knows this is not an occasion to spend too much time over.

  Lord Rezaz mutters an order that is transmitted from his attendants to the crew of the ship. A huge covered crate is lowered from the ship to the pier. The Orc chariot. Attendants are strapping the Orc steeds into the harnesses they use at the docks for unloading livestock.