Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  “Better get going. You just used up the last of my patience. Attack me again and I’ll kill you.”

  They’re petty thugs. Not good for much but just smart enough to know when they’re about to die. They scramble to their feet and without so much as glancing at Rezox stumble off into the darkness. I place the point of my sword at Rezox’s throat.

  “Let’s go.”

  I lead him off to the next warehouse, where I’ve left a small wagon and a horse. The horse is none too pleased about being left in the cold space, and snorts angrily as we arrive.

  “I’ll split the dragon scales with you,” says Rezox as I load him into the cart. I don’t reply. We set off. Technically it’s illegal to ride horses or wagons in the city at night, but on a night like this there won’t be any civil guards around, and I’ve no intention of struggling on foot to the Transport Guild’s headquarters.

  “You’re a fool,” he sneers. “You’re too stupid to know what you’re doing. What does the Guild mean to you? They’re just as corrupt as everyone else.”

  “Maybe. But they hired me to arrest the thief. And you’re the thief. So here we are.”

  Rezox can’t understand why I care. Neither can I.

  “I’ll hire a lawyer and beat the charge in court.”

  I shrug. He probably will. Turai is a corrupt city. There are plenty of clever lawyers always ready to represent men like Rezox.

  The warming spell has completely worn off and my cloak offers me no protection from the elements. I’m numb with cold. Rezox still looks comfortable in his luxurious fur. He should have tried to bribe me with that.

  Chapter Two

  Next morning I sleep late. I’d sleep later if Makri didn’t barge into my room complaining about the weather.

  “Is this stupid winter ever going to end?” she demands.

  Makri is young and she hasn’t been in the city that long. She isn’t used to our climate yet. The seasons in Turai may be grim, but they’re very regular.

  “Sure it’ll end. In two or three weeks. And how many times have I told you not to barge into my room in the morning?”

  Makri shrugs.

  “I don’t know. Ninety, a hundred, something like that. Will it get hot in two weeks?”

  “No. After winter we get the cold, rainy season. Which is also terrible.”

  “I hate this place,” declares Makri, with feeling. “The summer’s too hot, the autumn’s too wet and the winter’s too cold. Who’d build a city here? It just goes to show that Humans are foolish.”

  Makri is actually half Human herself, along with one quarter Orc and one quarter Elf. Which race she chooses to criticise depends on the circumstances.

  By this time I’ve dragged myself out of bed and opened my first beer of the day. My rooms are freezing and I throw some wood on the fire, which is still smouldering from the night before.

  “At least the Elves have the good sense to live in the Southern Isles where it’s hot. And I still don’t see why we had to come back so quick.”

  I’m in agreement with Makri about this. Just six weeks ago we were far south on Avula, one of the largest Elvish islands. After some initial unpleasantness—the Elves panicking about Makri’s Orcish blood, me being slung into prison, the usual sort of thing—life smoothed itself out and we were settling down for a pleasant vacation, more or less welcomed by all. Unfortunately Deputy Consul Cicerius and Prince Dees-Akan, also members of the Turanian visiting delegation, wouldn’t let us stay, claiming that they were needed back in Turai for important official business. This led to all Turanians being obliged to board ship and set off homewards in some of the worst weather I’ve ever voyaged in, and I’ve sailed through a lot of bad weather. Makri, a very poor sailor, set some kind of record for sea sickness. She swore on more than one occasion she was going to kill Cicerius for making her endure such a journey. When we put in at Turai and found ourselves deep in the middle of such a fierce winter, I was tempted to agree with her.

  I tell Makri to stop prowling around.

  “If you have to infest my rooms at this time in the morning, at least sit down.”

  “I can’t sit down. I’ve got too much energy. I want to go to college. Why do they shut it in winter?”

  “Because most students wouldn’t want to fight their way through snowdrifts to get there. And neither would the professors.”

  The twenty-one-year-old ex-gladiator is a very keen student and finds this interruption to her studies extremely frustrating. Yesterday she struggled all the way up town to the Imperial Library, only to find that it too was closed.

  “I was furious. Don’t librarians have some sort of duty to the public?”

  “It’ll be open again soon, when the Sorcerers arrive in town.”

  “I can’t wait. I can’t stand doing nothing. Are you tracking anyone violent just now? Do you need me to kill them?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Makri continues to pace up and down. She’s been in an odd mood since we got back from Avula and I’m not sure why. I wouldn’t care, if it wasn’t for the fact that she keeps waking me up in the mornings, and I’m finding it wearying. Fifteen years ago I could march all night and fight all day. These days I need my sleep. She asks me how I got on last night and I tell her that everything went fine.

  “Just hung around outside the warehouse till Rezox showed up. Nothing to it really, he had two thugs along but they weren’t what you’d call fighters. I chased them off, Rezox tried to bribe me, I refused and now he’s in the custody of the civil guards, charged with stealing dragon scales.”

  “Who wants dragon scales?”

  “Elegant women.”

  “What for?”

  “Jewellery.”

  “Aren’t dragon scales too big for jewellery?”

  “The jewellers cut them to size. Then they sell them to rich women who want to sparkle. Costs a lot for a pair of dragon-scale earrings.”

  “Did the Transport Guild pay you well?”

  “Standard thirty gurans a day. I thought I wouldn’t have to work all winter with the money we won on Avula.”

  Whilst there, Makri trained a young Elf to fight. She did this so effectively that the young Elf won the junior tournament. As this Elf was previously the weakest, most pathetic Elf on the island, I was able to pick up a bundle by shrewdly backing her at long odds. It was a gambling triumph, one which was rather marred by a run of bad luck at the card table on the journey home.

  “It was dumb to lose your money.”

  “What else was I meant to do on the ship? At least I enjoyed my share. What did you do with yours?”

  Makri doesn’t answer. In all probability she gave it to the Association of Gentlewomen. More fool her. There are plenty of rich women in the Association, but Makri says she has to do her bit. She gets back to complaining about the weather.

  “I hate the cold. I have to wear too many clothes. It doesn’t feel right. Why won’t they open the library? How am I meant to practise with my axe when it’s too cold to go outside? You know Gurd warned me for taking some thazis from behind the bar? As if he can’t spare it. I hate working here. I hate Turai. I hate Twelve Seas worse. Why is it so cold? At least in the gladiator slave pits no one froze to death. What’s the point of living in a place like this? Nothing ever happens. I loathe it. I need a new nose stud, I’m bored with this one. You know that young guy that comes in the tavern, he works at the tannery? He had the nerve to ask me out, and only last month I heard him saying how anyone with Orcish blood should be run out the city. I was going to punch him but Gurd always complains if I hit the customers. It gets me down. Don’t you ever tidy your room?”

  “Makri, would you get the hell out of here? It’s bad enough you wake me up without standing around complaining about everything and generally being as miserable as a Niojan whore. Here. Take this thazis stick. Maybe smoking it will improve your mood. Now leave me alone. You know I like to enjoy my first beer of the day in peace.”

 
“Are you still annoyed about the Sorcerers Assemblage?” asks Makri.

  “Of course I’m still annoyed. All the world’s top Sorcerers are arriving in Turai and there’s nothing I like better than being reminded that I’m a washout when it comes to sorcery.”

  I studied magic when I was young but I never completed my apprenticeship. I only ever learned the basics and I was never good enough to join the Sorcerers Guild. Since when, I’ve struggled my way round the world as a soldier, a mercenary and finally an Investigator. Which has been tough, and since I passed forty, somewhat tougher. There are a lot cushier ways of growing old than pursuing criminals round Twelve Seas, the rough part of a rough city.

  “You wouldn’t have been happy as a Sorcerer,” says Makri. “I can’t see you sitting round the Palace casting horoscopes.”

  I shrug. It doesn’t sound too bad. It’s very comfortable at the Palace. I know, I used to be a Senior Investigator for Palace Security. They got rid of me some time ago. I drank too much. Now I drink more but I’m my own man.

  Makri and I both live in rooms above the Avenging Axe, one of Twelve Seas’ more convivial taverns. Makri earns her living working as a barmaid, which she doesn’t particularly enjoy, but it pays for her studies and the occasional new weapon. She glances out of the window.

  “Still snowing. Well, I’m not hanging round in here. I’m going out to see Samanatius.”

  “Samanatius? The quack philosopher?”

  “He’s not a quack. Samanatius is sharp as an Elf’s ear and the most brilliant thinker in the west.”

  I snort in derision.

  “All he does is sit around talking about the mysteries of the universe.”

  “He does not. He talks about ethics, morals, all sorts of things.”

  “Great. See if he can teach you anything useful. Like how to earn money, for instance.”

  “Samanatius is not interested in money,” says Makri, defensively.

  “Everyone is interested in money.”

  “Well, he isn’t. He doesn’t even charge for his classes.”

  “So the man is an idiot,” I say. “How good can a philosopher be if he doesn’t charge anything? If he had any talent he’d be raking it in. Anyone who does anything for free in this city has to have something wrong with them.”

  Makri shakes her head.

  “Sometimes your stupidity baffles me, Thraxas.”

  “Thanks for waking me up to tell me that.”

  Makri asks if she can borrow the magic warm cloak.

  “Okay. I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

  I hand it over.

  “Don’t give it to that cheap philosopher.”

  “Samanatius is indifferent to the climactic conditions.”

  “He would be.”

  Makri wraps herself in the cloak.

  “This feels better. I hate this city. Who would live here?”

  She departs, still cursing the weather. I shake my head. Her moods are definitely getting worse.

  I finish my first beer and move on swiftly to a second. The Sorcerers Assemblage is depressing me. It’s many years since it’s been held in Turai and it’s quite a big deal for the city, with so many powerful Sorcerers from all over the west heading our way. They’re due to elect a new head of the Guild, and that’s always a major event. Despite the predilection of Sorcerers for sitting around palaces having an easy time of it, they are of great importance to every state because without them we’d be doomed in the event of war with the Orcs. The Orcs outnumber us, and last time they marched over from the east it was only the power of our Human Sorcerers which held them off long enough for the Elves to come to our rescue.

  Downstairs in the tavern, Tanrose is making food, ready for the lunchtime drinkers. Despite the fierceness of the winter, trade here is not too bad. Even the biting snow can’t keep the population of Twelve Seas away from Gurd’s ale. Gurd, a northern Barbarian, knows how to serve his ale. Tanrose greets me jovially. We get on well, partly because of my frank admiration for her excellent cooking. Even in the depths of winter, when fresh meat is impossible to come by, Tanrose manages to make salted venison into an admirable pie. I take a large portion and sit at the bar with another tankard.

  “Have you seen Makri today?” asks Tanrose.

  I nod.

  “She woke me up. Felt the need to complain about a few things.”

  “Have you noticed that she’s been in an odd mood since coming back from Avula?”

  “Yes. But Makri’s often in funny moods, I try to ignore them.”

  To my surprise this brings a hostile response from the cook.

  “What do you mean, you try to ignore them? That’s not very nice.”

  “Nice? What do you expect? I’m an Investigator. I track down criminals. If the criminals protest too much I kill them. I like Makri well enough, but I’m not the sort of man to help her with her problems.”

  Tanrose looks annoyed.

  “Don’t you realise how much Makri relies on you?”

  “No.”

  “Well you should.”

  Not liking the way this conversation is going, I try concentrating on my venison pie. Tanrose won’t let it drop.

  “Makri grew up in a gladiator slave pit. Since she arrived in Turai she’s had a hard time. You’re probably her best friend. You should listen to her more.”

  I choke back my angry response. As always, Tanrose, as the maker of the best venison pies in the city, has me at a disadvantage. I can’t afford to offend her.

  “Come on, Tanrose. You know I’m a wash-out when it comes to personal problems. Why do you think my wife left me? Makri’s twenty-two years younger than me. I don’t know what the hell her worries are.”

  “Yes you do. She tells you. You just refuse to listen. Do you know she had her first romantic experiences on Avula?”

  I down my beer and ask for another. This is really too much for me at this time of day.

  “Yeah, I had some idea…”

  “So now she’s confused.”

  “Can’t you sort her out?”

  Tanrose smiles, fairly grimly.

  “Not as well as you, Thraxas. She trusts you. God knows why. Probably because you’re good with a sword. It always impresses her.”

  I’m starting to feel trapped. There’s nothing I want to discuss less than Makri’s first romantic involvements. Tanrose dangles another slice of venison pie in front of me.

  “Well, all right, goddammit. I’ll listen if she brings up the subject. But only under extreme protest. I haven’t had a romance for fifteen years. Longer maybe. I’ve forgotten what it’s like. When it comes to love I’m about as much use as a one-legged gladiator. I don’t want to hear about her encounters with a young Elf.”

  “I think it left her rather depressed.”

  “She’s always depressed.”

  “No she isn’t.”

  “Well, there’s always something wrong. She’s a quarter Orc and a quarter Elf. That’s bound to lead to problems. What makes you think I can help?”

  “Have another slice of pie,” says Tanrose.

  I take the venison pie and another beer back upstairs to my rooms. I look out of the window and all I can see is snow. My fire has gone out. I try lighting it with a simple spell. It doesn’t work. It’s a poor start to the day. I curse. Life in Turai is bad enough without having to act as nursemaid to Makri.

  Chapter Three

  Despite the ice, snow and general misery, many Turanians are still working hard. The Transport Guild rides wagons over almost impassable roads, distributing food and supplies around the city. The blacksmiths in their forges hammer out iron wheel rims to keep the wagons going. Whores wrap up as warmly as they can and walk the streets gamely. The Civil Guard still patrol, or at least the lower ranks do, while their officers remain comfortable in their stations. And the Messengers Guild count it as a point of honour to always make it to their destination.

  The young messenger who climbs the stairs to my
outside door looks as though he’s had a difficult journey. His cloak is caked with snow and his face is blue with the cold. I rip open the scroll and read the message. It’s from Cicerius, Turai’s Deputy Consul. That’s a bad start. Cicerius wants me to visit him immediately. That’s worse.

  I can’t work up any enthusiasm for visiting Cicerius. I’ve had a lot of dealings with the Deputy Consul recently. On the whole these have worked out well enough, but he’s never an easy man to work for. He’s Turai’s most honest politician—possibly Turai’s only honest politician—and the city’s most brilliant lawyer, but he’s also cold, austere and utterly unsympathetic to any Private Investigator who feels the need to interrupt his work to take in the occasional beer. On more than one occasion Cicerius, on finding me drunk in pursuit of a criminal, has delivered the sort of stinging reprimand that makes him such a feared opponent in the law courts or the Senate. I can only take so much of this. Furthermore, while there’s no denying he is a fair man, he’s never found it necessary to bump up my fee, even when I’ve done him sterling service. He comes from the traditional line of aristocrats who think that the lower classes should be satisfied with a reasonable rate of pay for a fair day’s work. In view of some of the dangers I’ve faced on his behalf, I’d be inclined to interpret ‘reasonable’ a good deal more generously than Cicerius.

  I can’t ignore the summons. I’m desperate to make it out of Twelve Seas and back into the wealthier parts of town. I’m never going to do that unless I make some inroads into Turai’s aristocracy. Since I was thrown out of my job at the Palace I’ve hardly had a client who wasn’t a lowlife. It’s never going to earn me enough to pay the rent in Thamlin, home of the upper classes. And home of a few rather select and expensive Investigators, I reflect, as I make ready to leave. You wouldn’t catch anyone from the Venarius Investigation Agency freezing to death on the docks in mid-winter.

  I suddenly remember that Makri has borrowed my magic warm cloak.

  “Damn the woman!” I roar. I can’t believe I have to venture out in these freezing temperatures without the warm cloak. How could I be so foolish? Now Makri gets to stay nice and comfy while listening to that fraud of a philosopher Samanatius. Meanwhile Thraxas, on his way to do a proper man’s job, has to freeze to death. Damn it.