Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  I’m expecting Cicerius to chew me out over this one, but the Deputy Consul for once seems to perceive that I was in an impossible position.

  “It was clever of Senator Lodius to spot that you could aid him in this matter. It did not occur to me when I nominated you as Tribune of the People that this might happen. I regret that it has granted the Populares party a small victory. However, in the scheme of things it does not matter too much. But whatever happens, do not be drawn into further such actions.”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  Tilupasis joins us, neatly sidestepping a levitated goblet. In the midst of the uproar she remains unruffled. She gives a brief report to the Deputy Consul. Two days away from the vote, things are looking reasonably good, but she’s worried about the growing support for Almalas.

  “Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain seems quite taken with him. God knows why.”

  Cicerius is perturbed. Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain is head of the Sorcerers Guild in Mattesh, our southern neighbour.

  “They have a lot of influence in the League of City States. Sareepa probably controls twelve votes. We can’t let them go to Nioj.”

  “Didn’t we already pay Sareepa?”

  “She gave the gold back,” explains Tilupasis. After listening to Almalas talking about a Sorcerer’s duty to God and state, she says she regrets even considering taking an immoral bribe.”

  Tilupasis spreads her arms in despair.

  “What am I meant to do with a senior Sorcerer who suddenly gets religion?”

  “Increase the bribe?”

  “It won’t work.”

  “Send a young Tribune to her private chambers.”

  “I already tried. She sent him away. And she instructed her delegation that thazis and dwa would no longer be tolerated. The woman’s gone mad with moral behaviour. Damn that priest Sorcerer.”

  Tilupasis lays her hand on my shoulder.

  “Thraxas, didn’t you know Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain when you were an apprentice?”

  “Sure. She used to distil klee in a cauldron and invite young mercenaries to sample it, as I recall. The woman was never more than one step away from being slung out of the apprentices’ college. Weird that she should suddenly become respectable.”

  “You have to change her back.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Get her drinking again. Once she’s got some klee inside her she’ll forget this Niojan ethical nonsense and take the bribe.”

  I point out that I’m already busy doing various other vital tasks, and besides, I’m not what you’d call a skilful diplomat.

  “No one’s going to vote for Turai on my recommendation.”

  “How important are Sareepa’s votes?” Cicerius asks Tilupasis.

  “Absolutely vital.”

  Cicerius draws himself up to his full height, adjusts his toga, and turns to me.

  “I’m ordering you to get her drunk,” he says. “Don’t argue. You’re the man for the job.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Irith Victorious is lying belly-up on the floor of the drinking area. His companions are laid out beside him on a bed of tangled rainbow cloaks. Tilupasis ordered the closure of a busy local tavern in order to divert its entire supply of ale to the Juvalian Sorcerers. When that proved insufficient she ordered the next tavern to close, bringing in its beer and klee as reinforcements. Finally overwhelmed by the flood of free alcohol, the Juvalians are now rarely conscious and spend their days in a stupor, awakening only to drink. They’ve promised to cast their votes for Lisutaris.

  Not far away, the five members of the Misan delegation lie dwa’d out of their heads, courtesy of Tilupasis. She had the drug brought in from the confiscated supplies stored at the Abode of Justice. Officially these mounds of dwa should have been destroyed, but Tilupasis seems to have the authority to do just about anything.

  Four Sorcerers from the far western state of Kamara who once strode confidently into the Royal Hall are now unfit to leave their private quarters after a forty-eight-hour orgy of unprecedented degeneracy. Some of the Kamaran tastes were, strictly speaking, illegal in Turai, but not beyond the organisational powers of Tilupasis and the city’s efficient brothel keepers. The Kamarans have promised that when they recover, they’ll be sure to vote for Lisutaris.

  What Sunstorm Ramius makes of all this I don’t know. I’m certain his Simnian delegation has also been indulging in bribery but I can’t imagine it’s on anything like the vast scale of corruption wrought by Tilupasis on behalf of our city. Thanks to us, the Sorcerers Assemblage has descended into an unparalleled orgy of illicit gold, extravagant drunkenness, wanton sex and extreme drug abuse. It makes a man proud to be Turanian.

  “You Turanians are a filthy, degenerate nation,” says Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain.

  I’ve sought her out to say a friendly hello. So far it’s not going well.

  “I cannot believe the way the Sorcerers are behaving. I blame Turai, the entire city is corrupt.”

  “It’s really not so bad…”

  “It is vile,” insists Sareepa. “Thank God for Almalas. He is a beacon of light in this foul den of corruption.”

  Is this really the same Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain I used to know? When we were fifteen she’d already worked her way through the male population of the district and was looking to neighbouring towns for new lovers.

  “Why are prayer calls ignored at this Assemblage?” she demands.

  “A little laxity is common at such events.”

  “A little laxity? Not for the Niojans. They pray six times a day. Would that others would follow their example. Thraxas, you must escape from this iniquity. I will introduce you to Almalas.”

  “Could we perhaps discuss this over a bottle of wine?” I venture, remembering my mission.

  Sareepa looks as if she’s about to explode.

  “Wine? Do you realise—”

  At this moment some Sorcerers stumble between us in drunken pursuit of a levitated beer barrel.

  “A flagon of klee to the man who brings it down,” shouts one of their number, and starts firing bolts of light from his staff.

  Sareepa is rendered temporarily speechless. Realising that alcohol is not the best subject to be discussing, I turn the conversation to Darius’s apprentice.

  “Left Abelesi with a powerful hatred for Darius. Settled in Mattesh, I believe?”

  Sareepa knows the apprentice in question.

  “Quite a powerful Sorcerer these days. He’s here with us.”

  “With you? How?”

  It turns out that said apprentice finished his studies, took up Matteshan citizenship, and is now a fully fledged Sorcerer in attendance with the rest of the delegation.

  “He still hated Darius,” agrees Sareepa. “But don’t go suspecting him of murder. My delegation is firmly under my control.”

  I ask for an introduction anyway, which Sareepa agrees to make, providing I’m sober. The woman really hates alcohol. It’s a sad state of affairs.

  “Have you ever come across a spell for making a new version of reality and sending it back in time?” I ask.

  “There’s no such spell,” replies Sareepa. “No one could do that.”

  Moments later I’m apprehended by a furious Makri.

  “You know what happened? I was just telling Direeva how I once killed three Trolls with my bare hands in the arena, and that creepy Troverus smiled in this really annoying manner and said he’d come to the Assemblage to forget about unpleasant things like fighting and then whisked Direeva off for dinner!”

  “Couldn’t you have stopped them?”

  “I was too taken aback by anyone wanting to forget about fighting,” complains Makri. “By the time I recovered, they were gone. Damn that Troverus. I don’t trust him at all. Right this moment he’s charming Direeva over a bottle of wine, and who knows what’ll happen after that? And he’s not that handsome anyway. See-ath was a lot better-looking and he
never said he was bored with my fighting stories. I hate these smooth-talking Simnians. What am I meant to do now?”

  “I’ve no idea. Ask Tilupasis, she’s the expert.”

  “Come and help. You could detain Troverus with some tedious war story while I charm Direeva.”

  “Can’t do it. I need to go out and investigate.”

  As I leave the hall I pass a tall man with a long beard who’s wearing the most sober rainbow cloak ever woven. It’s hard to imagine a rainbow cloak could be so dull. He’s talking in a deep voice to a large crowd of younger Sorcerers who appear to be hanging on his every word, which is some achievement, with the uproar on all sides. Almalas, I presume. Niojan Sorcerers never take on fancy names. I listen to him for a while, but as he seems to be talking about honour, duty and such like, I quickly lose interest.

  The rest of the afternoon is spent travelling round the frozen city, checking out people who bought dragon scales from Coralex. It gets me nowhere. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. Someone who’s been buying scales but doesn’t look like they’d wear them in their hair. Someone who looks like they could work an erasure spell never before used in Turai. No one I visit fits the bill. Just a lot of aristocratic women with plenty of jewellery. Or merchants’ wives on the way up, also with plenty of jewellery. Even a Captain of the Guards, who’s buying jewels for a girl he’ll never be rich enough to marry.

  The last name on my list is Rixad, the merchant whose wife I was recently tailing. He isn’t pleased to see me. People who once hired me often aren’t, even when I’ve done a good job for them. The results are the same as everywhere else. Rixad bought the scales for his wife. His wife likes plenty of decoration. Rixad makes it clear he’s not keen for me to hang around. Now he trusts his wife again he doesn’t want her finding out he was checking up on her.

  He’ll always be checking up on her. He should have married someone less demanding. She should have carried on as an actress till someone better came along.

  Outside the snow is still falling. As I walk through the northern outskirts of Pashish I notice two legs protruding stiffly from a snowdrift. A beggar, frozen to death. And it’s not even a bad part of town. Thinking of the wealth that’s pouring into the Assemblage, I get annoyed. A little of that money could have housed a beggar for the winter instead of disappearing down the throat of some corpulent freeloader. Like Irith. Like me. I stop feeling annoyed and start feeling depressed. I want to go home but I have to call back to the Assemblage to check up on Lisutaris and report to Cicerius. I shiver. I’ve learned two new spells for warming my cloak but it never seems to keep out the cold.

  I make my report to Cicerius, including my failure with Sareepa Lightning-Strikes-the-Mountain.

  “You must try again.”

  “Okay, I’ll try again. Where’s Lisutaris?”

  “Unconscious. Sulinius and Visus took her to my private room.”

  “Is she losing votes, being so stoned?”

  Cicerius no longer knows. With half the Assemblage now permanently under the influence of dwa or thazis, it might even be in her favour.

  “And we’ve spread plenty of gold around.”

  The Deputy Consul nods. He doesn’t look that happy about it.

  “You wish you had a nice clean candidate like Almalas?”

  “Yes. But I don’t.”

  “Don’t worry, Cicerius. If Lisutaris is elected, you’ll get plenty of credit.”

  Cicerius nods. He’ll enjoy getting the credit. He’s not enjoying the process.

  At this moment Makri and Lisutaris wander past. Makri has discarded her body armour and is wearing only her chainmail bikini. It’s the smallest bikini ever seen in the west. It’s not even on properly. Lisutaris is fully dressed but completely drenched, possibly from an unsuccessful experiment with beer levitation. Both have huge thazis sticks hanging from their lips, creating a mushroom-shaped cloud of smoke above their heads.

  Cicerius looks at them with horror.

  “Were Visus and Sulinius not—”

  “I broke out,” says Lisutaris, her speech slurred. “Had to console Makri.”

  “Failed with Direeva,” says Makri. “Sorry about that. Simnian outmanoeuvred me. Tell Tilupasis she should have him killed.”

  “Thraxas has to charm Sareepa,” says Lisutaris.

  “Tough assignment,” says Makri. She laughs. Her thazis stick falls from her lips and is extinguished by the beer that drips from Lisutaris’s cloak. Lisutaris mutters a word and the thazis flies from the floor into Makri’s hand, and relights itself. At least the Mistress of the Sky hasn’t completely forgotten how to work magic.

  It’s fortunate that entry into the Assemblage is so closely regulated. Were the ordinary citizens of Turai to see their leaders freely distributing illegal substances, there would be consternation. Or jealousy, maybe.

  “You’re looking as miserable as a Niojan whore,” says Lisutaris. “Have some thazis.”

  “Please take them home,” says Cicerius, sounding as close to desperate as I’ve ever heard him.

  They want to go to Twelve Seas rather than Thamlin. I don’t argue. It’s as well for me to be close to Lisutaris. Makri isn’t in a state to do much in the way of guarding her. I sneak them out a side door and into an official carriage. On the journey back to Twelve Seas, Makri wakes up.

  “Did you bring my armour?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep it safe,” says Makri, and goes back to sleep. She’s clutching her armour. I’ve wrapped my cloak around her to stop her freezing. The carriage takes a long, long time to make the journey. The streets are next to impassable and the driver has to coax the horses through the falling snow. I’m cold as the ice queen’s grave. I’ve been cold for weeks. I’m sick of it.

  Getting my companions up the stairs to my office is difficult. Before we’re more than halfway up, a large band of men emerge from the snowstorm.

  “Thraxas!” they call.

  I take out my sword. I don’t recognise them. Not the standard Brotherhood thugs of Twelve Seas. There must be thirty of them, all armed.

  “What?”

  “We’re here on business.”

  “Whose business?”

  “Praetor Capatius’s business.”

  Their leader steps forward.

  “The Praetor outranks you, Tribune. It wasn’t very bright to go against him.”

  “It wasn’t very bright of the Praetor to send you after me. I’m working for the Deputy Consul and he outranks the Praetor.”

  “Really?” says the leader. “How about that?”

  Thirty armed men advance towards me. Hearing the voices, Makri once more wakens. She sees the situation and quickly pulls a sword out of her magic pocket. As she raises it, it slips from her hand and clatters down the stairs.

  Makri has never dropped her sword before.

  “Damn,” she says, and pulls out another blade. She loses her footing on the icy stairs and tumbles down in a heap. The men laugh at the sight. Makri attempts to rise, but can’t make it to her feet. Capatius’s men advance.

  “Don’t you believe in the legal process?” I say, meanwhile descending the stairs to stand over Makri’s prone figure. Were I on my own I’d already be inside the tavern with a locking spell on the door, but I can’t leave my companions out here. Even without the threat of Capatius’s men, they’d freeze to death soon enough.

  The situation is hopeless. Faced with overwhelming odds, I’ve generally managed to overcome my opponents with a simple sleep spell. Due to the freezing weather, I’m not carrying any spells. Just a sword. Good as I am with a sword, I’m not going to be able to beat thirty men. Only Turai’s richest aristocrat would hire thirty men. It’s far too many, by any standards. I’m going to die as a result of my unwilling opposition to the eviction. I knew I should have stayed out of politics.

  The first man is no more than three feet away when a voice comes from behind me.

  “I’m cold.”

  It�
�s Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky. She’s cold.

  “What’s happening?”

  “We’re being attacked.”

  I raise my sword to parry the first blow. Suddenly the thirty men are tossed backwards like feathers in a storm. Seconds after preparing to meet my death I’m looking at a bundle of unconscious thugs. I glance round. Lisutaris, still unable to make it on to her feet, has raised herself to her knees with the aid of the railings.

  “Good spell,” I call.

  “You’re welcome,” replies Lisutaris. “I can’t get up. Help me inside.”

  I toss Makri over my shoulder and march upstairs.

  “At least you can still do sorcery,” I say as I take Lisutaris inside.

  “Of course I can still do sorcery. I’m number one chariot. Put some logs on the fire. It’s freezing in here.” I throw some logs on the fire. Lisutaris waves her hand and they burst into a roaring blaze. I wish I could do that. I should have studied more.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Next morning I’m sitting over a beer and a plate of stew at the bar with Gurd and Tanrose. Tanrose makes excellent stew, flavouring it with herbs she grows in the back yard. Gurd and I have cooked a lot of stew on our campaigns round the world but we never had any particular talent for it. For all that I detest Twelve Seas, it’s a comfort to be able to eat good meals made by Tanrose.

  The Avenging Axe is not yet open and would be quiet were it not for the furious sounds of combat emanating from the back yard.

  “Makri is madder than a mad dragon,” says Gurd.

  Fortunately Makri is not angry with me. Not even with the filthy city of Turai. She’s angry with herself. She is appalled to have fallen over in front of an opponent. Early in the morning Tanrose was surprised to discover a bleary-eyed but fully armed Makri preparing to do battle with the wooden targets in the yard. Since then she’s been practising her weaponry, oblivious to the biting cold.

  The noise of battle halts as Makri rushes in to pick up one of the long knives she keeps secreted behind the bar.

  “You haven’t eaten,” says Tanrose. “Have some stew.”