Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  The tiniest hint of colour touches Hanama’s cheeks for a second or two. I think I might actually have embarrassed her.

  “Don’t feel bad. Investigating’s my business. No one else knows you’ve been sending messages.”

  If Hanama’s Guild knew she had she’d be in trouble. The Assassins generally strive to avoid becoming embroiled in the world of politics. Neither would Hanama’s companions be pleased to know of her involvement in the Association of Gentlewomen.

  “I’m presuming you warned Lisutaris because of that Association?”

  Hanama remains silent. I point out that as I’m responsible for Lisutaris’s well-being, along with Makri, it would make a lot more sense to tell me what she knows. Hanama considers it while I calculate the chances of leaving the tavern alive if I’m forced to blackmail her.

  “You know your buddy Lisutaris is quite likely to end up dead at the hands of Covinius?”

  This seems to sway her.

  “An informant who works for my organisation was fatally wounded last week. Before dying he informed us that Covinius the Simnian was heading to Turai. He had encountered him in the course of his work. The nature of this informant’s mission is secret, and unconnected with either Lisutaris or the Sorcerers Assemblage, so I am unable to tell you any more. But it did occur to me that if Simnia were bringing an Assassin with them, Lisutaris would be the likely target. She is Ramius’s main rival.”

  I’m dissatisfied with this. Other than confirming that Covinius is in town, Hanama hasn’t really told me anything.

  “There is nothing more to tell. I do not discuss our private affairs with anyone. Sending the message was the most I could do.”

  Hanama stands up and leaves swiftly. I toss some money on the table for my beer, and depart, angry. Talking to Assassins always bothers me.

  It’s not far to the Imperial Library. This is a magnificent piece of architecture but it’s a place I rarely visit. All those scrolls make me feel inadequate. And I don’t like the way the assistants walk around so quietly in their togas. They make a man feel like he doesn’t belong.

  There’s a whole room devoted to sorcerous learning but that’s as far as I get. When I start trying to work out the catalogue I develop a serious mental block and am obliged to wait till Makri shows up, which takes a while. When she finally waltzes in I’m annoyed to see the staff greet her in a friendly manner. She grew up in an Orcish slave pit. I’m a native-born citizen of Turai. They ought to show me more respect.

  “What do you expect?” whispers Makri. “You once spilled beer over a manuscript.”

  “Not much beer. You think they’d have forgotten by now. How’s Lisutaris?”

  “Glued to the water pipe. She’s taking it all badly. You know, I’m starting to think she might not be such a great candidate for head of the Sorcerers Guild. I like her a lot but I can’t see her spending much time looking after Guild affairs.”

  “You just realised that?”

  “Well, you’re the one who betted on her,” Makri points out.

  “That was before I realised that helping her election would mean covering up a murder. I’m going to have to work hard to pick up my winnings.”

  “Is that why you took her as a client?”

  “It tipped the balance. Did you leave her safe?”

  Makri thinks so. Lisutaris’s house is full of servants and attendants and Makri left instructions that they should be wary of strangers.

  “Not that that’s going to help much if the great Assassin Covinius decides to pay a visit. I’ve seen Hanama. She didn’t tell me much. But Covinius is definitely in town.”

  “Did he kill Darius Cloud Walker?”

  “Who knows? I’ll have to try and find out more, which isn’t going to be easy.”

  A passing library assistant frowns at me. I lower my voice. “I need to find out what kind of spell could possibly make it appear as if Lisutaris killed Darius. I’ve been racking my brains and I looked all through my own grimoire, but I can’t think of anything. Neither can Astrath.”

  Makri seems distracted. I study my companion suspiciously.

  “Did you take a turn on the water pipe?”

  “Of course not. Stop treating me like I’m Turai’s biggest drug abuser. There were special circumstances. I was depressed. Did you know that Jir-ar-Eth the Avulan Sorcerer is here?”

  “What about it?”

  “You told me no one could travel from the Elvish Isles to Turai in winter.”

  “Jir-ar-Eth set off early, shortly after we left.”

  “Then why didn’t See-ath send me a message with him?”

  “Possibly Lord Kalith’s Chief Sorcerer felt he had more important things to do than carry love letters. Do you have to go on about See-ath all the time?”

  “It’s important,” says Makri.

  I shake my head helplessly.

  “Try and concentrate, we’ve got work to do.”

  I describe to Makri what I’m after and we get busy at the catalogue, looking for a spell. Two spells probably, one to hide the real events and one to create the false ones. It’s sounding more and more unlikely. The pictures of Lisutaris killing Darius were very clear. Just because I can’t think of a motive doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I’ve come across stranger things. Perhaps the thazis is driving her mad. At such extreme levels, who knows what it might do?

  “Did Lisutaris share your dwa?”

  “Stop going on about dwa,” hisses Makri. “I said I was sorry.”

  We struggle through tome after tome, scroll after scroll. Faced with this task I quickly tire. I hate this catalogue. I’d rather be on a stake-out in a freezing alleyway.

  “Can’t they organise it in a way a man can understand?”

  “It’s perfectly logical.”

  “What do these numbers mean? I can’t make any sense of it.”

  “It’s the classification system,” explains Makri. “It tells you where to find things.”

  “Why isn’t it clearer?”

  “It’s very clear. You just don’t understand it.”

  I struggle on, working my way through books listing spells for every conceivable occasion. If I wanted to learn how to attack a Troll, I’d be fine. If I needed to know how to tell what the weather is like two hundred miles away, I could locate the right incantation. I even come across a spell for testing the strength of beer, and that’s something I’d be interested in. But for what I’m looking for, there’s nothing.

  “This is hopeless. I’ve said all along it couldn’t be done. Okay, I might be about the worst magic user in Turai. I can’t do much more than heat up a cloak or send an opponent to sleep. But I understand the principles of sorcery, and its limitations. I think we’re going to have to face it. Lisutaris is guilty.”

  “You don’t really believe that,” protests Makri. “You just can’t stand being in the library any longer. You can’t send a woman to the gallows just because you don’t understand the classification system.”

  “Don’t bet on it. Anyway, I can’t concentrate any more. If I don’t eat soon I’m going to expire. I suggest we go to the hostelry across the road, and try again later.”

  Makri isn’t hungry.

  “And I don’t like giving up on research. I want to go all through the catalogue.”

  I’m forced to admire her persistence, but I can’t carry on myself.

  “Meet me in the tavern when you’ve run out of energy. Maybe once my belly’s full I’ll come up with an idea.”

  The Imperial Library stands in a magnificent square, flanked by an enormous church and the Honourable Merchants Association’s building. All these workers need refreshment and there are several small taverns tucked away round the corner. I choose The Scholar, which, despite its name, seems a welcoming enough establishment. The short walk from the library to the tavern is an ordeal. The wind slices through me and snow whips into my face. By the time I arrive my cloak is encrusted with tiny particles of ice and I hang it close to t
he fire to dry. At this time in the afternoon the tavern is empty, save for two young men, probably students, who sit at a table with two small jars of ale, studying a scroll. I order the special haunch of salted beef, then take my beer and sit in a prime spot in front of the fire to thaw out.

  Another few winters like this will finish me off. Fleeing south towards the sun might not be such a bad idea. I’m in a tough spot. Already the most powerful Sorcerers will be turning their attention to the matter of Darius. They’ll find their way blocked by Lisutaris’s spell, but for how long? What if Lisutaris was too addled by thazis to cast it properly? The Civil Guard might be looking for me at this very moment. For the first time in my career I start to think I may be in over my head. I can’t fight the Sorcerers Guild. I was foolish to try. I pick at my salt beef without much enthusiasm, finishing it only with the aid of an extra portion of sauce and another beer.

  The door slams, an icy gust rushes into the tavern and Makri staggers in.

  “Move over from that fire, Thraxas, I’m as cold as the ice queen’s grave.”

  Before she has time to even sit down, the landlord appears and brusquely informs her that women are not permitted in this establishment. Makri gapes.

  “Are you serious?”

  He’s completely serious. It’s their regular policy. In truth, it’s not that unusual in some of the more respectable sections of the city.

  Makri has not been herself recently. With the emotional upset over See-ath and the overindulgence in substances—for which I blame Lisutaris—she’s not really been exhibiting the hard edge I’ve come to expect. In some ways that’s not such a bad thing. Makri continually getting into fights can be wearing on a man. On the other hand, Makri being emotional is pretty wearing as well. As the landlord asks her to leave she snaps right back into character and places her face as close to his as she can get, which is close enough, though he’s a large man and quite a lot taller than her.

  “I just struggled through the snow to get here. I’m not planning on leaving right now.”

  The landlord makes the unforgivable mistake of laying his hand on her shoulder to lead her out. Makri immediately lands him such a fearsome kick in the groin that the students at the far end of the tavern shrink back in terror. The landlord collapses to the floor. Makri grabs a table and hurls it on top of him. She glares down at his prostrate body.

  “I will be taking this matter up with the Association of Gentlewomen,” she says.

  Outside the snow is falling faster and heavier.

  “Can you believe that?” yells Makri, over the howling wind.

  We struggle down the street till we reach another tavern, The Diligent Apprentice. Makri marches in. I follow with my hand on the hilt of my sword, ready for trouble. A friendly-looking landlady greets us as we enter. Makri seems almost disappointed.

  “Are you going to complain about me hitting the landlord?” she demands, as we sit down with two beers and two glasses of klee.

  “No. I didn’t like the tavern much anyway.”

  A year ago I’d have objected plenty. Now, I’m more sympathetic. Or maybe I’m just used to it.

  “Did they really not serve women? Or just women with Orcish blood?”

  “I don’t know. Probably both. It wasn’t much of a place. Their haunch of beef was adequate at best. I think I’ll pick up another meal while I’m here.”

  Makri grins.

  “I always get depressed when life is too peaceful. All those years being a gladiator, I suppose. I need to fight every now and then, and it’s been a long time since I was in a fight.”

  I point out to her that only a few days ago she killed a dwa dealer.

  “Right. I forgot about that. Well, it wasn’t really what you’d call a fight.”

  “And soon after that you got in a brawl with those three dock workers.”

  “What are you doing, keeping records?”

  “How are you ever going to manage if you get to the Imperial University? They frown on violence.”

  “I can probably wean myself off it.”

  Makri drinks heartily of her ale.

  “Don’t get too cheerful, Makri, we’re still in a hell of a situation. The Sorcerers Guild could be looking at pictures of our involvement in a murder right now.”

  Makri slaps the table.

  “I almost forgot. I found a spell!”

  “You did?”

  Makri brings out a sheet of paper and reads from it.

  “ ‘A spell for wiping out events in the past. With this incantation an experienced practitioner can erase all traces of events, so that they can never be seen, even by sorcerous enquiry.’ ”

  Makri looks up from her notes.

  “You wouldn’t believe the obscure place I found this in. I swear no one else could have located it. It wasn’t in the main sorcery collection, it was hidden away in—”

  “Yes, Makri, I already know you’re number one chariot in the library. Let me see the spell.”

  I study Makri’s copy. It’s very interesting, a spell the like of which I’ve never encountered. It claims that if worked properly it can erase almost a full hour.

  “I’m certain no one in Turai has ever worked this. Where did it originate?”

  “Developed in the Wastelands, according to the catalogue. The Southern Hills.”

  I raise my eyebrows. Princess Direeva lives in the Southern Hills.

  “We might be on to something. But this doesn’t account for everything. It might work for erasing events but it’s not a spell for creating new ones.”

  “I’m sure it’s relevant,” says Makri. “You know how when things happen during an investigation and it seems like a coincidence, you generally get suspicious? Well, take a look at the ingredients for the spell.”

  She hands over another sheet of paper. The spell requires a healthy dose of dragon scales.

  “And only recently you were hunting for a dragon-scale thief.”

  It is a coincidence. And Makri’s correct. In my line of work, coincidences always make me suspicious.

  Chapter Eleven

  The landus driver doesn’t want to take us to Twelve Seas. These uptown drivers hate to go south of the river.

  “I’m a Tribune of the People.”

  “Never heard of you.”

  It takes a lot of argument to persuade him. I’m deep in thought as we travel down Moon and Stars Boulevard. I want to follow up the dragon scales, which means I have to talk to Rezox. As I just put him in prison he isn’t going to be keen to talk to me. Not in a friendly manner anyhow. Some abuse, possibly. I tell the landus to stop, and then hurry into a small way-station which acts as a forwarding post for the Messengers Guild where I quickly scribble a message to the Deputy Consul.

  We travel on our way. The driver complains about the cold. Makri complains about the cold. She ought to put on a little weight.

  “If you weren’t so scrawny you wouldn’t feel it so much.”

  “Princess Direeva said I had a perfect figure.”

  “I bet she did. Keep working your charms, you’ll get her votes.”

  “I don’t want to charm anyone into voting for Lisutaris,” says Makri. “The whole thing is corrupt and I don’t approve.” She shivers. “Are you claiming you don’t feel the cold?”

  I scoff at the suggestion.

  “You call this cold? It doesn’t compare to the conditions I experienced up in Nioj. I’ve camped out for a month in weather worse than this.”

  “You’re a liar,” says Makri, still quite cheerful after her fight.

  There is great confusion at the corner of Quintessence Street where the aqueduct has collapsed. Workmen are still struggling to clear the area but there seems to be some other sort of activity going on. A gaggle of citizens are arguing furiously and Civil Guards are arriving on the scene. I urge the driver to edge his way past but Makri calls for him to halt.

  “What’s happening here? These men are standing in front of Samanatius’s academy.”
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  Samanatius’s so-called academy is a miserable hall surrounded by equally miserable slums. Makri insists that she’s going to take a look.

  “Fine, you can walk the rest of the way.”

  Makri departs and the landus driver manoeuvres his way into Quintessence Street and along to the Avenging Axe. Inside the tavern I fill up with food and beer and enquire of Gurd if anyone has been here asking questions. No one has, which means that Lisutaris’s hiding spell is working for now. I’d like to spend a few hours in front of the fire but I can’t stay for long, though I refuse to leave the tavern till I’ve recharged my magic warm cloak. I can’t stand more outdoor work without some protection, no matter how much I brag to Makri about the weather not affecting me.

  In my office I find Casax waiting, along with Orius Fire Tamer. Casax is head of the local chapter of the Brotherhood. A very important man in Twelve Seas. All crime is controlled by the Brotherhood. Since Casax took over, crime has been doing very well. Orius Fire Tamer is a young and recently qualified Sorcerer who seems to have hooked up with the Brotherhood.

  “Don’t you know how to knock and wait politely?” I demand.

  “Never learned that,” answers Casax.

  He’s wrapped in an enormous fur. He doesn’t look cold. I notice he’s grown his hair a little longer, and tied it at the back. Casax has a fair complexion, but he’s weatherbeaten, a man who started out at the docks a long time ago and worked his way up. A calm, strong, intelligent man, and very dangerous.

  “Having a good time at the Assemblage?”

  “The time of my life.”

  “Orius tells me you’ve been enjoying yourself,” says Casax.

  I’m uncomfortable. A Brotherhood boss doesn’t pay social visits for no reason.

  “You’ve been enjoying yourself a lot recently. Rolling around with Lisutaris and Princess Direeva, from what I hear.”

  “You’ve been hearing things that are none of your business.”

  Casax raises his eyebrows a fraction. Last year I found myself more or less on the same side as Casax in a case involving the chariot races. A fortunate occurrence, and since then the Brotherhood have left me alone. It doesn’t mean much. The Brotherhood are never well disposed towards Investigators.