Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  The gloom that has recently enveloped the city disappears with the rain. Being able to walk around without getting wet is enough to make most people cheerful and the prospect of the race definitely taking place brings a smile to the faces of even those who only yesterday were confidently predicting that we were all cursed by the gods. The relief is so great that anger about the Orcs is largely replaced with anticipation to see the race between them and the Elves. The Elf is a strong favourite. Few Turanians will bet money on the Orcs, even if some do suspect that they might have a chance of victory. Sarija has entered Storm the Citadel, and although I personally think it has no chance of winning it’s the best of the Human entrants and will also gather a large amount of popular support.

  Entering the Stadium is tough. I have to use my weight to force my way through, with Makri bringing up the rear.

  “I admit your bulk does have some advantages,” she says, as I forcefully negotiate a path for us through a large group of schoolchildren who are far too tardy in finding their seats. We settle down in a good position near to the track, with easy access to both the bookmakers and a beer tent. All Turai is here. Tumblers and jugglers cavort before the crowds. The great mass of the people sits in the huge banks of terraces that run round the banks of the Stadium, and the Senators and other important people are up in the reserved galleries. I catch sight of a few green Elvish hoods up there and possibly a black Orcish one well back from public view.

  Right at the front of this gallery, very visible to the public, is Melus the Fair in her rainbow cloak. The sight gives everyone confidence. Melus the Fair, bless her name, will protect us gamblers from unwanted outside interference.

  I have fifty gurans. Makri has twenty-five. I’m surprised that the normally cautious Makri has brought all her money with her. I would’ve expected her to put some aside for necessities.

  “I’m feeling confident,” she says. “I think I have the hang of this now.”

  Makri is happy. Here in the Stadium everyone is too busy with the racing to bother about minor distractions such as a young woman with one-quarter Orc blood wearing a man’s tunic and carrying two swords. At times like this such things fade into insignificance. The whole place is still damp and steam rises in the midday heat, but the track is in reasonable condition. It is wide enough to allow eight chariots to run at once, which makes for an exciting spectacle. We settle down with some beers.

  “I’m feeling sharp as an Elf’s ear today,” I say, and get down to studying the form sheet.

  The favourite is Glorious North Wind at six to five on.

  “Glorious North Wind for the first race. Certain winner.”

  “I don’t fancy it,” replies Makri, surprising me. “I like the look of Eastern Beauty.”

  Eastern Beauty is the close second favourite in the race, quoted at evens by the bookmakers. It’s not a bad bet, actually, though I prefer the favourite. When I ask Makri why she prefers Eastern Beauty she says she likes the name.

  “You can’t just bet on a chariot because you like the name.”

  Makri won’t be swayed. Obviously she wishes to demonstrate that she can make up her own mind and, as I say, Eastern Beauty isn’t such a bad prospect. There’s nothing else in the race worth backing. None of the other chariots are fancied any better than sixteen to one and I’m in no mood for incautious speculation. Honest Mox has set up a stall in the stadium, manned by his son, and we make our way over to place our bets. I bet five of my fifty and Makri bets four of her twenty-five, then we settle down in the sunshine to watch.

  After a fanfare of trumpets and a speech from the Consul the chariots make their way out from the stables. It’s one of my favourite sights. Eight chariots, eight riders, thirty-two horses, poised to do four laps of the track. Terrific.

  The starter drops a flag, the chariots set off, and the crowd erupts with a mighty roar. Glorious North Wind takes an early lead and by the end of the first lap is in a commanding position. The charioteers flog the beasts mercilessly as they thunder around the track. There’s an early collision as three chariots get tangled up in each other’s wheels and crash out of the race. A team of amphitheatre officials rushes on to clear the wreckage before the others come round again.

  At the end of the third lap Glorious North Wind has a substantial lead with the other four disputing second place. Eastern Beauty, Makri’s choice, is not making much of a showing. I’m on my feet along with everyone else, screaming encouragement at the favourite.

  I have often thought that the gods are displeased with me. Perhaps it’s the way I keep missing prayers. With half a lap to go and a clear run to the finish, Glorious North Wind loses a wheel and skids to a messy halt in the centre of the track. Three of the pursuing chariots crash into the wreckage, spilling their unfortunate charioteers heavily on to the ground. Eastern Beauty, currently in last place, swerves to avoid the pile-up and trots home an easy winner. There’s a great groan from the crowd. Makri is still on her feet, however, shouting and yelling, and she practically tramples her neighbours to death in her eagerness to collect her winnings. She arrives back brandishing a fist full of coins.

  “I won four gurans!”

  I manage a grin. I’m not very pleased but I can’t begrudge my companion a bit of good fortune, so long as it doesn’t happen too often.

  “What’re you betting on next, Thraxas?”

  I study the sheet. “Dragon’s Breath,” I announce finally.

  Makri makes a face. “Don’t like the sound of that. I’m going for Lilac Paradise.”

  “Lilac Paradise? What sort of a name is that for a chariot?”

  “I like it,” insists Makri.

  “It’s got no form whatsoever.”

  I stare suspiciously at my companion. This seems like a very rash bet by Makri’s standards. Lilac Paradise is a rank outsider at twenty to one. It’s one of the chariots owned by Magadis, a very rich aristocratic widow. She’s a racing enthusiast and has been training chariots for years, but she’s not one of our more successful racers. Lilac Paradise is a poor chariot, even by her standards.

  “I still like it,” says Makri.

  “Five gurans on Lilac Paradise,” says Makri, handing over her money to Mox’s son

  Dragon’s Breath is second favourite at three to one. I place a modest three gurans on it, which is just as well because on the first corner the chariot is involved in an ugly collision and crashes out of the race. Several more collisions follow and to the amazement of the crowd Lilac Paradise wins by half a lap.

  There is a great deal of grumbling in the crowd, much of it from me.

  “How is a man meant to make a bet when the wheels fall off his chariot at the first corner?” I complain, and stand up to hurl abuse at the charioteer as he is carried off on a stretcher.

  “Orc lover!” I yell. “Who told you you could ride a chariot?”

  My fifty gurans has now shrunk to forty-two. Makri, having picked up an astonishing hundred gurans on Lilac Paradise, now has one hundred and twenty-nine. Rarely have I seen a bookmaker so unwilling to hand over one hundred gurans.

  The owner of Dragon’s Breath appears on the track, supervising the removal of his mangled chariot.

  “Come over here and I’ll mangle you as well!” I scream at him.

  “Cheating dog!” roars a woman behind me, brandishing a tankard. She has to be restrained by her companions from invading the arena and assaulting the owner.

  “The population of Turai doesn’t like losing,” observes Makri.

  “Damn right we don’t,” I grunt.

  I’m in no mood for Makri’s philosophical observations. I muscle my way to the beer stall and buy a drink. I don’t get one for Makri. She’s just won a hundred gurans. She can buy her own.

  “I like it here,” says Makri, as I return. “Who do you fancy in the next race?”

  The sun beats down. The Stadium is now as hot as Orcish hell and the crowd is restive. What we need here is a popular favourite romping home an
easy winner, not a load of outsiders carrying off the prizes. The woman behind me is particularly virulent. I nod in agreement as she roundly lambasts the chariot owners for carving it all up among themselves, cheating the honest punters out of their hard-earned money. I think I recognise her from Twelve Seas and I chat with her about the iniquities of chariot owners while we wait for the next race to get under way.

  I note with relief that Warrior Chief, one of the finest chariots in Turai, is due to run. Okay, he’s odds-on favourite and I’m not going to win much, but it’ll get me back on course. Warrior Chief is an absolute certainty. I back him with twenty gurans at two to one on.

  Makri plumps for Serenity of Love, a useless wreck of a chariot pulled by four crippled old horses and ridden by a man who last won a race some time during the Orc Wars. It’s another of Magadis’s chariots and is something of a joke. The bookies are offering sixteen to one and there are few takers even at that price, apart from Makri. She says she likes the name, and backs it to the tune of thirty gurans.

  “You’re throwing your money away. Serenity of Love wouldn’t win a chariot race if all the other chariots were eaten by a dragon.”

  When Warrior Chief fails to complete the race and Serenity of Love strolls in an easy winner I’m not the only one up on my feet baying my disapproval.

  “Cheats! Fix!” cries the crowd, along with other things much ruder. Fists are waved angrily and cushions and ripped-up form sheets cascade on to the track. The Civil Guards on duty stand up and face the crowd, nervous about the possibility of a riot. There is massive discontent. The stadium is packed full of punters all seeing their hard-earned cash going down the drain as one unlikely chariot after another comes home a winner. I’ve rarely seen a race crowd look so ugly. It’s fortunate that Melus the Fair has such an impregnable reputation for incorruptibility, else there would be great suspicion that magic was involved. Even so, mistrustful glances are cast in her direction and some slanderous accusations are muttered by the more degenerate members of the lower classes, like myself, for instance.

  “Damn that Melus, someone’s been bribing her.”

  “Nonsense,” replies Makri, cheerfully. “You said yourself she got the job because of her honesty.”

  “Well, you can’t tell me that wheel fell off by accident. Even the Sorcerers up in the royal box looked surprised.”

  “You’re a poor loser, Thraxas.”

  “You’re damn right I am.”

  Makri is now rolling in money, having picked up an astounding four hundred and eighty gurans on Serenity of Love.

  “I have six hundred and nine gurans,” she says.

  “I don’t remember asking you for an exact count.”

  I’m now down to twenty-two and facing the prospect of having nothing left for the final race. I remember that Makri owes me fifty—forty for her exam fees and ten that I lent her for betting.

  “Hand it over,” I demand.

  Makri repays me the fifty gurans with a bright smile, which puts me in a even worse mood. There are a couple of races to go before the big Turas Memorial and the trumpets sound for a break in the proceedings. Makri asks if I want to go with her to find something to eat, but I am in too bad a mood to accompany her.

  “I prefer to take luncheon on my own,” I say.

  I’m furious about the day’s events. There’s something strange going on here and I’m going to move heaven, earth and the three moons to get to the bottom of it. Leaving Makri to gloat over her winnings, I depart in the direction of the nearest food vendor.

  I’m musing over a large meat pie—one of the Superbius Specials—when I run into the woman from the seat behind me.

  “I haven’t seen such injustice since they cancelled the races during the Orc Wars,” she says.

  I recognise her now. She was the landlady at the Mermaid tavern back in those days. She served me many a drink when I was a thirsty young soldier. She tells me that she married a man with a good position in the Barrel-Makers Guild and moved up to Pashish.

  “How’s the barrel-making business?”

  “Good. It’ll have to be, after the amount I’ve dropped here today.”

  I wander away, going nowhere in particular. With the money that Makri repaid me I still have seventy-two gurans, but my confidence has been badly shaken. Near the Senators’ boxes I meet Kemlath Orc Slayer. He’s on his way down to the owners’ enclosure to wish good luck to Sarija, whose chariot will be competing soon.

  “I don’t suppose she has much chance against the Orcs and Elves,” he says, truthfully. “But you have to admire her for making the effort. She’s a fine woman, Sarija.”

  “I noticed you were getting to like her.”

  I complain to Kemlath about my bad luck so far.

  “You haven’t noticed any sorcery being used I don’t suppose?”

  “Sorcery?“ says Kemlath. “Certainly not. You know Melus wouldn’t allow it.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Incidentally,” says Kemlath. “I noticed Glixius Dragon Killer back there.”

  He waves his hand, indicating a throng of people. His large ring glints in the sunlight.

  “Glixius Dragon Killer. Really?”

  I’m reminded of the longstanding rumours about the Society of Friends and their purported betting coup at the races. Could these strange events be the result of that? Have the Society somehow been manipulating things in their favour? I decide to nose around.

  Kemlath warns me to be careful, reminding me of Glixius Dragon Killer’s sorcerous power.

  “To hell with his sorcerous power. I’ll make him wish he took up basket-weaving instead.”

  I spot quite a few Sorcerers in their rainbow cloaks around the stadium but Glixius’s size makes him easily visible. I wade through the crowd towards him. When I reach him he has his back to me and is talking to a Senator.

  “I can’t understand it,” he’s saying. “Warrior Chief should have won. It was obviously the best chariot in the race. I’m down two hundred gurans today.”

  The Senator nods in sympathy; obviously he’s suffered heavy losses himself.

  “Don’t give me that,” I snarl, grabbing Glixius’s shoulder. “You and your Society friends are behind all this.”

  He whirls round, a look of contempt and fury on his face. “Must you harass me everywhere I go?” demands the Sorcerer. “Were we not in the stadium where sorcery is forbidden I would tear your heart from your chest and jump on it.”

  I repeat my accusation. The Senator looks interested. Glixius notices this and he becomes defensive.

  “You accuse me of fixing the races? Me? How dare you. I personally have suffered grievous losses.”

  “So? You could pretend to do that to throw suspicion off yourself.”

  Even as I’m saying this, I’m not entirely convinced. I have long, long experience of gamblers and their reactions to adversity. I hate to admit it, but Glixius Dragon Killer sounds more like a man genuinely aggrieved at his bad luck than a man who’s behind it all.

  “Do you have any evidence for these accusations?” demands the Senator.

  Do I? Not really. Glixius and the Society of Friends were certainly planning some doping, but I can’t prove it. I don’t even know if the operation carried on after they were interrupted by Mursius getting killed, or if it was cancelled. When it comes right down to it, I have no firm evidence against Glixius, and I don’t want to show my hand to him before I do. If I’m going to prove he killed Mursius I shouldn’t be giving him advance warning of what I already know. It was rash of me to approach him. My emotions got the better of me.

  “Anyone making such accusations without good grounds faces severe penalties in the courts,” says the Senator.

  I turn on my heel and march away, annoyed with myself. So far today, nothing is going very well.

  I find myself next to the Senators’ enclosure, which is protected by a low wall. Inside, Melus the Fair is in conversation with Cicerius. I walk up and demand ad
mittance. The Deputy Consul nods to the attendant to let me in.

  I march up to the pair of them. Cicerius looks glad to see me.

  “I’m pleased you’re taking your work seriously,” he says.

  “What work?”

  “Looking out for sabotage of the Orcish chariot, of course.”

  “Sabotage of the Orcish chariot? Sabotage of me, more like.” I turn to Melus the Fair. “What is going on here? Are you trying to tell me that Serenity of Love won that last race without magical help?”

  As I say this, various Senators and Praetors nod their heads in sympathy. It’s not only the poor who are suffering in the great gambling disaster that’s unfolding here.

  Melus smiles. “It has been a string of unexpected results, I grant you, Thraxas. But I have been monitoring everything very carefully. I can assure you that no sorcery has been used in the stadium. Nor has there been any attempt at doping.”

  The Senators all around sigh. It looks like we’re all just stuck with our losses.

  I’m flummoxed. If Melus says it, then it’s true. Besides, there are plenty of other Sorcerers here as spectators. They all specialise in different types of sorcery but surely one of them would notice if anything odd had been happening. I decide to go down to the chariot pen underground and see if I can find out anything there. Maybe someone has been sawing through a few axles.

  Cicerius draws me aside as I make to leave. “You are still in the employ of the city,” he hisses severely. “Rather than wasting time gambling, I expect you to keep a vigilant lookout for the welfare of the Orcs.”

  “To hell with the Orcs,” I hiss back. “I’ve more important things on my mind right now.”

  I storm off, having again caused my status to plummet in government circles. To hell with them all. I grab a beer and start shoving my way through the crowd again. It’s too hot. I wish I hadn’t broken my flask of klee. A blind beggar gets in my way. I push him to one side and he falls to the ground, protesting angrily. I ignore him. He was probably putting it on anyway. These beggars, you can never trust them.