Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  “Lothian has told me of the battle,” he says to us. “I understand that you stood over him when he fell. He would certainly have been killed had it not been for you. He has asked me to thank you, which I now do. And you have my personal thanks as well.”

  He bows lightly to me, and then, with the sort of courteous gesture you find among important Elves, he takes Makri’s hand and kisses it. She gapes at him in surprise and stammers out a thank you. Lisith walks off to confer with Kalius and Cicerius, leaving me and Makri with our social status greatly improved. Not everyone in this city gets personally thanked by an Elf Lord. Everyone looks impressed.

  A young Elf, who may be the one that stared in surprise at Makri when the ship was being unloaded, also walks over to thank us. His salutation to me is brief and formal. I suspect the real reason is that he has suddenly had a desire to kiss Makri’s hand as well, which he does, though formal Elvish etiquette doesn’t absolutely demand it. Makri blushes. I’ve never see her do that before. The Elf hopes he’ll see her at the Turas Memorial, then departs after his Lord.

  Makri is left confused, unused to having her hand kissed by Elves.

  “You’re blushing.”

  “What?”

  “Blushing.”

  Makri claims not to know what the word means. I explain it. “That’s the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard,” she says. “I don’t believe it happens.”

  A tall figure swathed in a black cloak arrives in the now crowded reception room. Even among the city’s important figures few have been introduced to Lord Rezaz Caseg and there is a frisson of shock as he draws back his hood. Many of these government officials, Army commanders and Sorcerers were young soldiers themselves the last time Rezaz the Butcher was here and they’re reliving similar memories to the ones which have flooded my own mind recently. Consul Kalius prepares to greet him but the Orc walks right over to me.

  “Azgiz wishes me to thank you for saving his life,” says the Orc Lord.

  “Think nothing of it,” I reply.

  He turns to Makri and thanks her. I dig down into my bag and bring out the prayer mat.

  “Tell your charioteer I was as careful with it as I could be.”

  Lord Rezaz’s eyes light up. He takes the prayer mat with every sign of pleasure, and then holds out his hands in a gesture that encompasses both myself and Makri.

  “This is excellent! Now the race can go ahead. I am indebted to you both. I proclaim you friends of the Orcish nation of Soraz!”

  He walks off with the mat in his hands, talking animatedly with his attendants. I notice that everyone seems to be looking at me. I’m not sure if my social status just went up or down. A friend of the Orc nations is not necessarily such a good thing to be.

  “I can’t take much more of this,” says Makri. “Did that servant bring you any beer? Pass it over.” She downs a large gulp from my goblet. “What were the Orcs doing there anyway?”

  No one has provided an official explanation as yet, but I’m fairly sure I know.

  “I think they were agents of Prince Kalazar, Rezaz’s rival for the throne of Soraz. They were here to kill Lord Rezaz. We just helped save the life of an Orcish monarch. You ought to be proud, Makri. I know I am.”

  “Is that a joke?”

  “Yes.”

  We depart. It’s still raining.

  “Will the races go ahead now?” asks Makri.

  “Not if this doesn’t stop.”

  Makri is perturbed. “Stupid place to build a city,” she says, not for the first time.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I wake up early. It’s the day of the Turas Memorial Race. The rain is still beating down. For the first time ever, the race looks like it might be cancelled.

  A faint tap comes at my door. It’s Casax, with a huge cape protecting him from the elements. It’s unusual for the Brotherhood Boss to go anywhere without a few strong-arm men to protect him. Normally such a visit would be cause for concern but right now we seem to be cooperating.

  “I thought I’d fill you in on a few details, Investigator. This is private. As far as anyone else is concerned, you heard nothing from me.”

  I nod.

  “I found out some more from Axilan, this guy we picked up last night, who was trying to sell us some information. You were right about the warehouse. The Society of Friends was using it. They had men hiding there, waiting to drug the Elvish horses with that coix plant from the far west. But it seems they were taken by surprise when they were offered some works of art for sale.”

  “You mean Mursius’s art?”

  “That’s right.” Casax glances at the pile of artefacts in the corner. “I see you’ve recovered the junk.”

  “Some of it’s quite valuable.”

  “I never was an art lover. According to Axilan they were hiding out when suddenly this Sorcerer appeared.”

  “What Sorcerer? Glixius?”

  “That’s right. And he tells them to use their contacts to sell the goods. They were surprised, but they knew Glixius was well connected to the Society of Friends and was part of the doping operation. So they dumped the stuff upstairs, planning to remove it when it was all over. They couldn’t work out why Glixius didn’t dispose of the goods in the north of the city, where he had plenty of contacts, but he was too scary to argue with. Anyway, it was valuable stuff and they stood to make a good profit.

  “So Axilan carries on waiting for the Elves to arrive when one day he hears a terrible argument upstairs, which surprises him as he didn’t know there was anyone up there. He goes upstairs afterwards and finds Senator Mursius dead. I figure the story is true so far, because he says he saw you come into the warehouse, which you did around that time.”

  “What happened next?”

  “The Society men panicked. They didn’t want to be found in the warehouse with Mursius dead upstairs, so they grabbed a few valuables and ran. They sold them as soon as they could to raise a stake to get out of the city. They didn’t want to go back north after bungling the operation. That’s why you found a few pieces in the local shops.”

  I tell Casax that the goods they left behind were later removed by sorcery. “I found them in another warehouse close by.”

  “I heard,” says Casax. “When you were being a hero, fighting Orcs. Were they in on the theft?”

  “No. Just a coincidence that the rest of the art ended up there. It was the nearest empty warehouse.”

  I ask if I can speak to Axilan. Casax shakes his head. “He doesn’t seem to be around any more.”

  “You mean he’s floating in the harbour?”

  “No idea. But he did say he wanted to leave the city quickly.”

  I thank Casax for the information.

  “No racing in this rain. Must be bad for your business.”

  Casax shrugs. “If people aren’t gambling at the Stadium they’ll be drinking in our taverns or visiting our whores.”

  He departs. I light another thazis stick, and think about Glixius. How did he get hold of Mursius’s belongings? I wonder if Sarija sold them directly to him. She used to be a dancer at the Mermaid. Who knows what contacts she might still have in the city. But why did Glixius take them to the warehouse in Twelve Seas? There must have been plenty of other places where he could have disposed of them. It doesn’t make much sense. But it does more or less confirm that he killed Mursius.

  Glixius Dragon Killer. He’s been sending me death threats, interfering with the races, stealing valuables, and murdering a Turanian hero. And putting my aura on the knife that did it, if I’m not mistaken. The man is a plague. I resolve that he is not going to get away with it. I’ll see Glixius in court if it’s the last thing I do.

  The prospect of no race meeting robs me of my appetite for breakfast. I drag out a bottle of beer and drink it while staring gloomily out at the rain. Makri arrives in my room.

  “How’s life?” she asks.

  “Better than rowing a slave galley. No, I take that back. It isn’t.”
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br />   “Can’t the chariots run in the rain?”

  “Not if the track’s waterlogged.”

  Makri scowls. She was looking forward to the races, even if she has no money to gamble with. I told her to keep a little back from the money she promised the A.G. but she wouldn’t.

  “I can’t do that. It’s stealing.”

  “What about burrowing under my couch looking for my emergency reserve?”

  “That’s different.”

  A carriage pulls up outside and the Deputy Consul alights to wade through the mud. He walks in with his toga still gleaming white, if somewhat damp.

  “Important news,” he says.

  “The races are on?”

  Cicerius shakes his head. “No. It is unfortunate. It does rather negate the effort we put in to ensuring that the Orcish chariot could compete. Lord Rezaz has no complaint against us however, and the agreement will be honoured. The King is very pleased, Thraxas, and the government fully appreciates the part you played in the recovery of the prayer mat.”

  He turns to Makri and thanks her as well. He seems surprised that neither of us leaps around with glee. He notices the collection of fine art I now have dumped in a corner.

  “Belonging to the late Senator Mursius? Have you found the killer yet?”

  “I’m close. Though I guess I’m still the Guard’s main suspect.”

  “The Guard doesn’t really suspect you, Thraxas,” says Cicerius.

  “They give a good impression of it. Or was that just to put pressure on me so I’d agree to protect the Orcs?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” replies Cicerius. “After all, there is evidence against you. Your aura really was on the knife, and that circumstance has still to be explained. But I doubt if charges would have been brought.”

  He takes out a purse and hands it to me. Reward for services to the city.

  “Enough for a few good bets,” I say. “If there was anything to bet on. Was I right about the Orcs being in the pay of Prince Kalazar?”

  “You were. They were transported here by his chief Sorcerer, Makeza the Thunderer, for the purpose of assassinating Lord Rezaz. It was a clever plot. Lord Rezaz’s security in his homeland was too thorough to allow his assassination, but there seemed every likelihood that it could be achieved in Turai where he would have only a few attendants with him. Furthermore, while our own Sorcerers would normally detect the arrival of any Orcs in the west, Makeza the Thunderer was able to disguise the presence of Kalazar’s Orcs by mixing their aura with that of Rezaz and his attendants. Makeza is a dangerous opponent.”

  “Did the Guards pick him up at the warehouse?”

  “No, he was long gone by then. Back to the safety of the Wastelands, I imagine.”

  “Why did the Orcs steal the prayer mat from Pontifex Derlex?” enquires Makri.

  The Deputy Consul smiles. “To return it, strangely enough. Their assassination was planned for the Stadium Superbius. It was vital for them that Lord Rezaz did not leave the city before it occurred. Makeza the Thunderer learned of its theft through his sorcerous probing, then located it and sent his Orcs to recover it. Pontifex Derlex can count himself extremely fortunate to be alive. The Orcs planned to return it anonymously. Then they would mingle with Rezaz’s entourage and murder him on the way to the Stadium.”

  “Is there no chance of the race meeting going ahead?” I ask.

  Cicerius looks irritated. “I am told that it cannot go ahead in these conditions. But surely that is of only marginal importance. I never cared much for chariot racing myself,” he says.

  “You should take it up,” I tell him. “Give your image a boost in time for the next election.”

  Cicerius is not the sort of man to give his image a boost in this manner. He relies on honesty and integrity. He’ll never make Consul. Outside his driver is having problems. The carriage is stuck in the mud. Thus it is that I find myself out in the rain trying to pull Cicerius’s official carriage free while the local street vendors look on with amusement. The combined force of two horses, two attendants, two Guards, Makri and myself fails to budge it.

  “Can’t we just leave him?” says Makri.

  “Not if you want Professor Toarius to pass your work at college.”

  It’s useless. The carriage won’t move. Cicerius himself gets out and lends a hand, making a fairly amusing sight in his white toga. Its green edges are soon coated in filth. While we’re pushing, the call for morning prayers, Sabam, sounds around the city. I’m appalled. How could I be so careless? Makri lets out a despairing groan.

  “I’m already as wet as a Mermaid’s blanket. You expect me to kneel down in this?”

  With Guards, attendants and the Deputy Consul right beside us, there is no escaping it. Even the Deputy Consul, a pious man, does not look particularly pleased to kneel down in the mud and the rain to pray. I whisper to Makri to stop grumbling.

  “Pray for the rain to stop and we might get to the races.”

  I send up a devoted prayer while sinking into the swamp. By the time the call for the end of prayers sounds I’m embedded about a foot deep and have some difficulty extracting myself. I’m covered in mud. With the mess, the rain, and the prospect of a cancelled race meeting, I am about as miserable as a Niojan whore and see no possibility of things improving.

  “The rain’s stopped,” says one of Cicerius’s attendants.

  We all look up. It’s true. The rain has stopped. Furthermore, blue sky is visible on the horizon.

  “The rain has stopped!”

  I practically dance for joy as the sun begins to shine. Word spreads and happy people start to appear on the streets.

  Kemlath Orc Slayer appears from the tavern.

  “Having some trouble?” he says, seeing Cicerius’s plight. He makes a motion with his hand and a little jolt runs through the carriage. The horses whinny and suddenly it’s free.

  “Nice spell, Kemlath. Pity you didn’t get here earlier.”

  I accost the Deputy Consul before he drives off. “How’s the drainage system at the Stadium? Well maintained?”

  “Certainly,” he replies. “I allocated the budget myself. And I’ll send over extra men to clear up.”

  “You think the race meeting will start on time?”

  “It will,” says Cicerius, whose political reputation might now take a knock if it doesn’t.

  We tell Gurd and Tanrose the good news.

  “I said a prayer and the rain stopped,” says Makri.

  There’s bustle and excitement as everyone prepares to travel up to the Stadium Superbius. Gurd will shut the tavern for the day and come along with Tanrose. Palax and Kaby are planning to busk to the crowds, and maybe place a few bets if they earn enough. Myself and Makri are in reasonable shape after the reward money from Cicerius. He gave me sixty gurans. I extract ten to repair the damage to my rooms inflicted by various sorcerous warning messages and such like, and split the rest with Makri, which gives her twenty-five gurans. I have fifty, which puzzles Makri.

  “Where did you get the extra twenty-five?” she asks suspiciously.

  “I pawned my illuminated staff. Still not much of a stake, but I’ll soon build it up. Follow me, and you won’t go wrong. I’m going to make these bookmakers wish they’d joined the Army.”

  Makri wonders if anyone will try to sabotage the Orcish chariot again.

  “I doubt it. It’s too late. The Consul has Guards everywhere and Old Hasius the Brilliant is watching out in case the Thunderer shows his face again.”

  For the first time in a month I don’t bother putting the dry spell on my cloak. Instead I use my magical capacity to load up with the sleep spell. I’m not expecting any more trouble but it’s best to be prepared. I’m in a notably good mood.

  “It’s amazing how the prospect of gambling cheers you up, Thraxas. Only yesterday you were complaining that everything was a disaster. You said your reputation was in shreds because everyone was calling you an Orc friend and what’s more you hadn’t
found Mursius’s killer.”

  I wave this away. “Minor problems, Makri. I found the artwork, didn’t I? I’ll track down the killer soon enough. If some high-class Sorcerer at the Abode of Justice can find a link between the stolen goods and Glixius it’ll be enough to take him to court. If not, I’ll just have to do a little more leg work. Either way, I’ll sort it out after the races.”

  Kemlath Orc Slayer compliments me on my perseverance. “You’re right, Thraxas, you are a hard man to shake off. Glixius should have known better than to tangle with you.”

  Kemlath is travelling with us up to the Stadium, where he’s planning to meet Sarija and lend her support for the chariot she’s entering in the big race.

  Mursius’s stuff is still in my room: fancy cups, statues, and the painting of him as a young man after the Orc wars.

  “How come you weren’t in the painting?” asks Makri.

  “I was a common soldier. They only painted the officers and Sorcerers.”

  “It’s a lousy painting,“ says Makri, who, along with everything else, is now an art critic. I wouldn’t know. At least you can recognise the people in it. I always think a painting can’t be that bad if you can recognise the people. It was this item which Mursius particularly wanted to recover. I stare at it. Mursius, Kemlath, a few other officers I recall. I have memories of the war again, but banish them, and we continue with the business of the day. Tanrose is bustling about merrily, packing food for the trip.

  “I really thought the race would be cancelled.”

  “I just said a prayer and the rain stopped,” says Makri. I have a bag of thazis sticks, a few beers and fifty gurans. It’s time to go racing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Stadium Superbius is an enormous stone amphitheatre built by King Varquius a hundred years ago. It’s the setting for circuses, theatrical performances, religious ceremonies, gladiatorial shows and, best of all, the chariot races. During the racing season the amphitheatre is packed full of racegoers from every stratum of Turanian society. Praetors, Prefects, Senators, priests, society ladies, Sorcerers and high-ranking Guild officials all mingle with the huge mass of proletarian Turanians out to enjoy themselves for the day, and maybe pick up a little money on the side. Today, for the Turas Memorial Race, the place will be bursting at the seams.