Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  I make my way over to greet them. Lisutaris is already surrounded by Sorcerers and, not for the first time, Makri also finds herself the object of some interest. Makri’s reddish skin tone gives away her Orcish blood—any Sorcerer would sense it anyway—and I can see that people are already wondering who this exotic creature is that walks behind Lisutaris wearing Orcish armour with the gait of a warrior.

  “Nice entrance.”

  “You think so?” says Makri. “I was worried about the armour. But Lisutaris wanted her bodyguard to look businesslike.”

  “Probably a wise move. Why are you late? The water pipe?”

  “Only partly,” says Makri. “Lisutaris was having her hair done by Copro.”

  “I guess that explains it. How did you like our finest beautician?”

  “He’s okay,” says Makri, noncommittally. “He offered to show me his new range of make-up from Samsarina. I told him I didn’t need it.”

  After her tough upbringing in the gladiator pits Makri still professes some contempt for the softness of our Turanian aristocracy, though in recent months she’s moderated her hostility towards make-up, particularly in the field of colouring her nails.

  “Does Lisutaris have your swords?”

  Makri shakes her head.

  “I’ve got them in my pocket. She lent me a magic purse.” She pats her hip. “I’ve got two swords, three knives and an axe in here.”

  A magic purse is a container of the magic space. You can put anything in there and it loses all mass and volume, which is very handy for carrying hidden weapons. It’s a small manifestation of the magic space in which some of the sorcerous tests will later be carried out. Normally it’s illegal to walk around Turai with a magic purse, but the Consul has suspended this law for the duration of the Assemblage.

  Two young Sorcerers—Samsarinan, from their clothes—are attempting to edge their way past me to greet Lisutaris. Or possibly to introduce themselves to Makri. I leave them to it. Maybe if Makri gets involved with someone else she’ll stop being miserable about the Elf.

  I’m picking up a beer when a heavy hand pounds me on the back.

  “Thraxas? Is that you?”

  I turn round to find a large Sorcerer with a red face and a bushy grey beard smiling at me. I don’t recognise him.

  “It’s me. Irith.”

  “Irith Victorious?”

  “The same! You’ve put on weight!”

  “So have you.”

  I slap him on the back enthusiastically. I haven’t seen Irith Victorious for more than twenty years. When I was a mercenary down in Juval, Irith was a hired Sorcerer in the same army. It was the first time I met Gurd, the war was messy and confused and just about the only good things were the klee, provisions and occasional good times supplied by Irith Victorious. He was a slim youth in those days, but from the size of his waistline I’d say he’d carried on with the good times.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “I made good. King’s Chief Sorcerer in Juval. You wouldn’t have thought that was going to happen when the Abelasians were chasing us through the jungle! What are you doing here?”

  Irith knows I never made it as a Sorcerer. When he learns I’m working for the Deputy Consul he roars with laughter. I find myself roaring with laughter too. I always liked Irith.

  “There’s six Sorcerers from Juval here and we’re looking for a good time. Come and meet them!”

  I go to meet them. They turn out to be six of the largest, most jovial Sorcerers ever made, each with a loud voice, a large belly and a mission in life to get as much ale inside him as possible, all the while shouting in a loud voice for more beer, more stories about the old days and more serving girls to sit on his knee.

  “The election?” yells one of them, who’s drinking a huge flagon of ale while another hovers at his side. “Who cares? Hey, can anyone else do this?”

  He mutters a word and the floating tankard rises and starts emptying beer into his mouth. I’m extremely impressed. It’s one of the finest spells I’ve ever seen. His companions bellow with laughter and start trying to emulate the feat. Soon beer is flowing in all directions. Waitresses are scurrying this way and that with fresh supplies and Irith Victorious is claiming in the loudest of voices that he doesn’t care what anyone says, he was the real champion at the last Juvalian Sorcerers’ drinking contest and anyone who says otherwise is an Orc-lover.

  “The Juvalian drinking contest is as nothing compared to the feats of Thraxas of Turai!” I bawl, and start on a fresh tankard.

  “Turai?” screams the Juvalian. “No one can drink in this city. Too cold! I’ve been as cold as a frozen pixie since I got here. Southern heat, that’s what makes a drinker!”

  “Southern heat? I’ve seen a two-fingered troll drink more than a Juvalian Sorcerer. Haven’t you finished that tankard yet?”

  I call for more beer.

  “And charge it to Cicerius!”

  We toast the Deputy Consul, and then the Deputy Consul in Juval, or some such official. I don’t quite catch the title.

  “Anyone betting on the election?” I enquire, some time later.

  Irith is a gambler but he’s not as enthusiastic about betting on the contest as I thought he might be. He knows—as does any Sorcerer who’s interested—there’s a woman working in the kitchens as a cook whose actual purpose is to act as a runner, taking bets to a bookmaker, but he doesn’t fancy the odds.

  “Sunstorm Ramius is the strong favourite and they’re only offering two to one on. Hardly seems worth it. I can never get excited about an odds-on bet.”

  I nod. Risking a stake of twenty gurans to win only ten isn’t that attractive a prospect to a fun-loving Sorcerer like Irith. Myself, I might go for it at the chariot races if I was certain I was backing the winner. Here at the Assemblage, I’m not so sure. Having seen Tilupasis swinging into action, it doesn’t seem impossible that Lisutaris might win. I heard Tilupasis telling young Visus in strong terms that she didn’t care how old the Chief Sorcerer from Misan was, it was his duty to show her round the city and make sure she was having a good time. As the elderly Sorcerer departed on Visus’s arm she looked pretty happy, so that’s probably a few more votes for Turai. Furthermore, I’m on Lisutaris’s side and I have a lot of confidence in my abilities.

  “Number one chariot,” I tell Irith.

  “What at?”

  “Investigating. Drinking. Fighting. Getting votes. Lots of things. Sharp as an Elf’s ear. Where’s the beer?”

  Providing Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, can avoid appearing in public looking like she’s just unwillingly detached herself from her water pipe and is having trouble putting one foot in front of the other, I reckon she’s in with a chance. Most people like her, she’s maintained her good reputation and she can muster a lot of charm when she has to. A few beers later it’s as clear as day that I should be placing a hefty bet on the Mistress of the Sky, so I head for the kitchens to do just that, picking up a plate of venison and a huge peach pie on the way back. I get back to drinking with the Juvalians, and entertain one and all with a fine story of my exploits in the war between Juval, Abelasi and Pargada, twenty-four years ago.

  “It was the first time I met Gurd, and we gave the Pargadans hell, I can tell you.”

  Some hours later a tired-looking attendant suggests to us that as the Royal Hall has now completely emptied of Sorcerers, it may be time for us to go home. I clamber to my feet, bid farewell to Irith and his companions, step lightly over the one or two Juvalian Sorcerers now lying prostrate on the floor, and stumble out the building. I’d say the Assemblage has gone well so far. Far more enjoyable than I anticipated. I wonder what happened to Lisutaris and Makri. I shrug. Powerful Sorcerer and ferocious warrior. They can look after themselves.

  At the door I run into Tilupasis. She looks as fresh and elegant as she did at the start of the day.

  “Get many votes?” I ask.

  “I believe so. And you?”

  “I may
have secured the support of the Juvalians.”

  “You mean you out-drank them?”

  “I did. It was a close-run thing, but I was drinking for Turai.”

  Tilupasis laughs, quite elegantly.

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  I was hoping she’d be annoyed. It still bothers me that I’m obliged to be here working for the government.

  “I have Visus and Sulinius to charm those who need to be charmed. But for those who need to be drunk into submission, I have you. I told Cicerius you would be a good man to have on our side.”

  Tilupasis departs. Going to snuggle up with the Consul maybe. I have a peculiar feeling I’ve been outsmarted somehow. To hell with them.

  Outside, the only landus I can find doesn’t want to take me south of the river. I’m obliged to raise my fist and inform the driver that his landus is going south, with or without him. We set off through the snow. The streets are quiet. I’m cold. It wasn’t such a bad day.

  Chapter Seven

  Astrath Triple Moon sends me a message apologising for his non-appearance at the Assemblage, claiming illness. The message ends with the brief sentence, Paper came from Hanama.

  I mull this over with my morning beer. Astrath has good powers of sorcerous investigation and his results can generally be trusted. My hunch was correct. It was Hanama who warned Lisutaris about Covinius. This means I’ll have to talk to her. Talking to Assassins is never something I enjoy doing.

  I finish my beer, warm up my cloak and set off through the snow for the Assemblage. Once there I nose around for a while, check that Makri is looking after Lisutaris’s back, then get round to drinking with Irith and his companions. In the rooms and corridors of the Royal Hall, the electioneering is gathering pace. So far I’ve had little involvement in the machinations of Tilupasis, although she does ask me to escort young Sulinius to a secluded location behind the hall.

  “He’s carrying a lot of gold and I don’t want him to get robbed.”

  The gold buys the votes of four Sorcerers from Carsan. Tilupasis is well satisfied.

  “Let the Simnians try to match that.”

  “Are they busy with bribery as well?”

  “Of course. So are the Abelasians. But they lack the advantage of being at home. I have access to the King’s vaults. We can out-spend them.”

  The only other task I’m given is to call in at a local Civil Guard station to bail out two Samsarinans who found themselves in some trouble after an argument at the card table in a tavern. Tilupasis refunds their losses, promises to show them a more hospitable venue for gambling the next night and charms them sufficiently to make some inroads on the Samsarinan delegation. Samsarina have their own candidate, Rokim the Bright, but Tilupasis hopes to persuade them to switch their eighteen votes to Lisutaris if things seem hopeless for their candidate.

  “Eighteen second-choice votes,” she says. “At present they’re attached to the Simnian, but I’m hoping we can sway them.”

  Tilupasis is proving to be a highly efficient organiser and has boundless energy. Her main worry is Princess Direeva. In a tight contest the thirty Sorcerers under her influence are looking more important than ever, but they’re intending to vote for Darius Cloud Walker, the Abelasian. Direeva has known him for a long time, and trusts him.

  “I can’t seem to get to Direeva. Her representative rebuffed a very generous offer. She doesn’t appear to want for anything. She wasn’t interested in gold and she didn’t seem to take to either Visus or Sulinius.”

  At least Lisutaris is holding up, just about. Accompanied by Makri, she greets her fellow Sorcerers, quite charmingly from what I can tell, disappearing only occasionally to indulge her need for thazis. So far she has not disgraced Turai by falling over in public. I’ve informed Tilupasis and Cicerius about the possible involvement of a Simnian Assassin. Cicerius is sceptical.

  “Palace Security would have notified me if Covinius had entered Turai,” says the Deputy Consul. “I can’t believe that Lisutaris is in danger of being assassinated. The Sorcerers’ election is keenly contested but there has never been an assassination. Who is meant to have hired him?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll check it out as soon as I can.”

  Tilupasis promises to discreetly inform the other Turanian Sorcerers of the warning so they can watch out for Lisutaris, just in case the threat turns out to be real. Which, along with Makri, gives her quite a lot of protection. I’ve sent a message to Hanama requesting a meeting, but have had no reply as yet.

  I excuse myself from Tilupasis as it seems like a long time since I had a beer. Close to the Room of Saints, I bump into Makri.

  “Any trouble?”

  Makri shakes her head.

  “No trouble.”

  At this moment Princess Direeva appears at our side. Ignoring me, she introduces herself to Makri.

  “I am Princess Direeva,” she says. “And you are?”

  “Makri.”

  The Princess nods.

  “I thought so. Champion gladiator of all the Orc lands, I believe?”

  Princess Direeva is apparently impressed.

  “I understand you were undefeated for five years?”

  “Six,” says Makri.

  “Really? And you once fought a dragon in the arena?”

  “I did.”

  Direeva seems intrigued. Her extraordinary hair sways gently as she talks, making the gold streaks and glittering beads sparkle in the light. There may be a touch of Orcish blood about the Princess herself. Though only Human Sorcerers can stand for the post of Guild leader, there are various Sorcerers in attendance with Elvish blood in their veins, so I suppose a little Orc isn’t such a surprise. The Sorcerers are not so formal as many of the city’s Guilds. Makri would be bounced right out of a meeting of the goldsmiths, but goldsmiths are always very concerned about etiquette.

  I’ve heard Makri bragging about her accomplishments in the arena enough times already, and Princess Direeva shows no interest in talking to me, so I slip off. In the Room of Saints Tilupasis is encouraging some Pargadans to drink more wine. She asks me what Princess Direeva wanted with Makri.

  “A friendly chat.”

  “Really?”

  Tilupasis’s eyes light up.

  “Excellent. We may have found something the Princess is interested in.”

  I spend the rest of the day drinking with Irith Victorious. He asks me how I’m coping with my official duties.

  “It’s all right. Better than rowing a slave galley. It wasn’t like I had anything else planned for the winter.”

  One of Irith’s companions teaches me an improved warming spell for my cloak. So now I’m warm and I have plenty of free beer. I’m starting to enjoy this assignment.

  The light fades early and I arrive home in darkness. I take care climbing the stairs to my office. I may be full of beer but Thraxas, number one chariot among Turai’s Investigators, has never been known to fall off his own staircase. I’m nearly as happy as a drunken mercenary. These Sorcerers from Juval know how to enjoy themselves. Maybe I should move down there. Be better than this lousy city.

  “Better than this lousy city!” I yell into the darkness. There’s no one around and I take the opportunity to bellow the last verse of an old army drinking song before entering my office in a cheerful manner and finding Makri, Lisutaris and Princess Direeva all unconscious on the floor. Darius Cloud Walker is lying dead beside them with a knife in his back. I blink. It isn’t a sight I was expecting.

  The sheer awfulness of the situation almost paralyses me. The room stinks of dwa and thazis. I’m full of beer. I can’t cope with a dead Sorcerer. I’m still trying to take it in when there’s a knock on the door and a voice I recognise shouts my name.

  “Thraxas. We want to talk to you.”

  It’s Karlox, an enforcer for the Brotherhood. I mutter a foul curse at Makri for landing me in this situation. From the look of her face I’d say she’s been indulging in more dwa than s
he can handle. If the overdose doesn’t kill her I swear I’ll do it myself.

  My first thought is to kill Karlox, get on a horse, ride out of town and keep going. The situation is so grim as to defy description. When Cicerius hired me to help Lisutaris he wasn’t expecting me to lure her rivals to my office and have them murdered, which is what this is going to look like. I’m heading for the scaffold in the exotic company of Makri, Lisutaris and Princess Direeva, and that’s going to make a fine story for The Renowned and Truthful Chronicle.

  “Open up, Thraxas,” shouts Karlox. “I know you’re in there.”

  Karlox may be dumb as an Orc but he’s a loyal member of the Brotherhood, not the sort of man to give in easily. I’ve a shrewd idea he’s here investigating the recent death of their dwa dealer, and that’s a big enough problem in itself. Makri killed him and at this moment she’s unconscious at my feet and there’s an important Sorcerer dead on the floor. It would be easy to panic.

  I’m not a man to panic. I remain silent and quickly weigh up the situation. I doubt that Karlox is here alone. He knows he couldn’t get the better of me without help. If he’s here with a gang, he’ll be able to break down the door, minor locking spell or not. The one thing I can’t afford to happen is for any witnesses to see Darius lying alongside Makri. Particularly as it’s Makri’s knife that’s sticking in his back.

  If I move the body I’ll be in endless difficulties later. If I don’t move it I’ll be in endless difficulties right now. Karlox beats on the door and I can hear him giving orders to start breaking it down. I hoist the unfortunate Darius over my shoulder and stagger to the inner door. Darius doesn’t weigh that much. The shock of these events has sobered me up just enough not to fall and break my neck as I make my way down the stairs and through to the back of the tavern. To my surprise, Gurd and Tanrose are still about, making preparations for tomorrow’s food.