Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  “He might.”

  “You want that I should use a little influence? Old Toarius will back down quick enough if he finds his staff are about to withdraw their labour. Or maybe not turning up to work at all due to some mysterious warnings.”

  The Brotherhood could certainly close the College if they wanted to. No porter or delivery man is going to go against an instruction from their guild not to work, and the Brotherhood has great influence in the guilds.

  “I’ll sort it out. Why would you want to help anyway?”

  Casax shrugs.

  “Like I said, I don’t mind doing you a favour, Investigator. Providing you tell me about the jewel. Who are you trying to recover it for?”

  “That would be none of your business.”

  “Not something I ever like to hear,” counters Casax. “Everything in Twelve Seas is my business.”

  “Nothing I do is your business, Casax. You might have the local guilds in awe of you but you don’t scare me. So why don’t you take a walk?”

  “I’d say if Lisutaris hired you to find a jewel it must be a valuable item. Sorcerous probably.”

  He knows about Lisutaris. I try not to look surprised.

  “I read the message on your desk, Investigator,” says Casax. I look foolishly at my desk, where Lisutaris’s message to me is lying in plain view. And now Casax has read it. I can’t believe I’ve been so careless. He rises to leave.

  “You know, I feel sort of sorry for that Orc girl. Working here all day and all night to pay for her classes. Especially as she’s so good with a sword. She ought to work for me. Let me know if you need some help at the College. Be a lot easier than using your Tribune’s powers. That’s going to get you into big trouble.”

  Casax departs. I stare at the message on my desk. Thraxas, number one chariot when it comes to investigating, as I’ve been known to say. But not so good at keeping my business private. I curse. Now the Brotherhood know I’m looking for some important item for Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, head of the Sorcerers Guild, there’s no telling what’s going to happen.

  Makri appears in my room without knocking. She asks how things are with the Lisutaris inquiry. I told her most of the details yesterday. A few months ago I realised to my surprise that I now tell Makri most of my business. There’s no reason not to, but it breaks a long-term habit of complete privacy.

  “It’s all getting worse. I’d guess that whoever set this thing in motion hasn’t been discreet about it. Either the original thief, or the person who gave him the information, seems to have let half the city know how important that pendant is. Now Casax is on the trail.”

  “How did he find out?”

  “The Brotherhood have spies everywhere.”

  Makri wonders how many people could know of the pendant.

  “Very few, according to Lisutaris. The King, the Consul, the Deputy Consul, maybe a couple of senior Sorcerers. None of them liable to open their mouths, but who knows who else might’ve got hold of some information and passed it on. All of these people have staff, and staff can be bribed. Lisutaris’s secretary knew about the jewel’s powers. I’d like to question her but Lisutaris forbids it for some reason.”

  “She’s very protective towards her secretary,” says Makri.

  “How do you know that?”

  “She told me at the Sorcerers Assemblage. While we were sharing a thazis stick. Some sort of young relation, I seem to remember. Niece or something.”

  “You’re getting very intimate with our Chief Sorcerer.”

  “You know she invited me to her masked ball?” says Makri, brightly.

  “Really?”

  “What costume should I wear?”

  “Why would I want to discuss costumes with you? I’m still angry that you’ve been placing bets on my work.”

  “I didn’t start it,” says Makri. “I just joined in after Moxalan started taking bets. Hey, when I arrived in Turai I didn’t even know how to gamble. You encouraged me.”

  She has a point there.

  “I didn’t encourage you to gamble on things like this.”

  “Didn’t you tell me that you and Gurd once put a bet on how long it would take your commanding officer to die after he caught the plague?”

  “That was different. It was in wartime. And no one liked that commanding officer.”

  “You’re just annoyed because you weren’t in on it from the beginning,” says Makri, quite shrewdly. “If you’d thought of it first you’d have been sending me out to make anonymous bets on your behalf.”

  “That’s not true. We’re talking about my work here. I have a huge responsibility to my clients. How do you think Lisutaris is going to feel if she learns that the degenerates at the Avenging Axe are taking odds on how many people are going to be handing in their togas before the case closes?”

  “Moxalan is offering fifty to one for the exact total,” says Makri.

  “Really? Fifty to one?”

  “And twenty to one for a guess to within three of the total.”

  “I am not interested in any odds,” I say, quite sternly.

  “Of course not,” agrees Makri. “It would be quite unethical. Even though you are a man with plenty of inside information and would have a huge advantage when it comes to placing a bet at the very attractive odds of fifty to one…”

  I shake my head.

  “No one has ever accused me of unethical behaviour.”

  “That’s just ridiculous,” says Makri. “People accuse you of unethical behaviour all the time. No one in Turai gets accused of being unethical more often than you. Just last week—”

  “That’s quite enough,” I say, interrupting before Makri can complete whatever damaging story she has in mind. I change the subject and ask if Gurd and Tanrose are showing any signs of making up.

  “No. Still arguing.”

  It’s a worry. If things came to a crisis and Tanrose left the tavern I’d miss her cooking desperately. I’m still reeling from the blow of Minarixa the baker’s death last year. Her daughter has taken over the bakery but it’s never been the same. Minarixa really understood pastry. It was a rare gift.

  Makri looks thoughtful.

  “I was champion gladiator. And I taught a puny young Elf to be a champion fighter. And I’m top of the class in every subject.”

  “So?”

  “So I have natural talents. I’ve never thought of applying them to other people’s problems, but probably if I put my mind to it I could help.”

  “You do that, Makri.”

  The thought of Makri as some kind of relationship counsellor makes me shudder. I’m still shuddering as I leave the tavern and make my way past the arguing vendors. If Makri puts her mind to fixing the rift between Gurd and Tanrose, God alone knows what disaster will result.

  Chapter Seven

  Kushni, in the centre of the city, is one of the worst parts of town. Bad things happen here. As I’m stepping over the drunken bodies on the pavement I wonder, as I occasionally do, how exactly I ended up being the person who tries to fix the bad things. There are plenty of other ways of making a living. Dandelion sits on the beach and talks to dolphins. She seems to manage okay.

  I check my sword is loose in its sheath, allow a scowl to settle on my features—which it does quite easily—and step into the Blind Horse, home to dwa dealers, gamblers, robbers and murderers. Whores with red ribbons in their hair mingle with intoxicated sailors looking for an opportunity to spend the money they risked their lives to earn. At the bar two Barbarians are arm-wrestling while their companions shout drunken encouragement. I bump into a man I haven’t seen for five years but used to know quite well.

  “Demanius.”

  “Thraxas.”

  Demanius is around the same age as me. A lot thinner, and his hair has gone completely grey. Still a tough-looking character, though. We were in the army together. The last time I saw him he was working for the Venarius Investigation Agency, a very respectable organisation, well liked
by the authorities. When I was in Palace Security we’d often find ourselves working alongside Venarius’s agents. I ask what brings him to the Blind Horse.

  “I felt like a drink,” he replies, not feeling the inclination to tell me his business.

  “So did I.”

  We make our way to the bar, carefully avoiding the noisy Barbarians. The air is thick with thazis smoke and the aroma of burning dwa drifts down from the rooms upstairs. You’d be surprised who you might find upstairs in a tavern like this, partaking of illegal narcotics. Members of Turai’s upper classes, not wishing to be found using the substance in their homes, are not above visiting dubious establishments to feed their habit.

  The Venarius agency has plenty of money. I let Demanius pay for the beer.

  “How’s life in Thamlin?” I ask.

  The agency headquarters is up close to Thamlin, where the Senators live.

  “Very peaceful. But they keep sending me here.”

  I’m feeling uneasy. So is Demanius. Meeting another Investigator while out on a case is rare. When it happens I never know quite what to do. If Demanius is working on the same case as me it won’t do me any good to have him solve it before me. Bad for my reputation and bad for my income. I drink my beer quickly and then tell Demanius that I’m due upstairs for a private appointment.

  “As am I,” says Demanius.

  I’m lying. I don’t know if he is. As Investigators go, I wouldn’t class Demanius as sharp as an Elf’s ear. There again, he’s not dumb as an Orc either. If he’s here fishing for information he’s not getting anything from me. We cross the room, wary of each other, hardly noticing the whores who flop around the tables, or the Barbarians, who are now throwing knives at a target on the wall. The stairs are dark and narrow with a flickering torch providing insufficient light. We’re almost at the top when a door opens and a woman emerges. She’s wearing the garb of a common market trader and looks out of place. There’s a strange expression on her face but when she recognises Demanius she starts to speak.

  “The pendant,” she says.

  I might be getting somewhere at last. She opens her mouth again. Then she falls down dead. So no real progress.

  Demanius sprints up the last few stairs. I sprint after him. He bends down to examine the body. There’s a great wound in the woman’s back, still pumping blood. Demanius draws his sword and charges into the room she came out of. I’m at his heels. Inside we find a man sitting on a chair, staring into space.

  Demanius starts barking out questions. I hold up my hand.

  “He’s trying to speak.”

  The man’s voice comes slowly, from a long way away.

  “I’m King of Turai,” he says. Then he slumps forward. It’s an odd thing to say. Whoever he is, he isn’t the King. I feel for the pulse on his neck. There isn’t one. He’s dead. There are no wounds on his body. Really he looks tolerably healthy. But he’s still dead.

  I’m becoming very familiar with this scene. More deaths and the pendant still missing. Demanius, lither than me, hauls himself out of the window and drops into the alley below. I don’t follow him. Whoever is responsible for this latest outrage is probably long gone. Besides, with my weight I don’t fancy the drop. A man doesn’t want to break his ankle in this place.

  I stare at the body still slumped on the chair, trying to figure out the cause of death. I don’t believe it was from natural causes. Doesn’t look like poison. Is there sorcery in the air? I look around, trying to sense it. With my own sorcerous background I can usually tell if magic has been used recently, but I can’t say for sure. Maybe, faintly.

  Outside, a few customers have gathered to look at the dead woman, whose blood still seeps on to the floorboards. They don’t appear too interested and no one protests as I quickly search the pocket on her market worker’s apron. I find nothing, but I notice a tattoo on her arm. Two clasped hands. The mark of the Society of Friends. The Society is a criminal gang, based in the north of the city. They’re bitter rivals with the Brotherhood. Last year there was a murderous war over territory and the feud is still smouldering. Whoever this woman is, I doubt she’s the market worker she pretends to be. Or pretended to be.

  Someone has finally summoned the landlord. He puffs his way up the stairs with a couple of henchmen, complaining about the inconvenience of always having to carry bodies out of his tavern.

  “You could open an establishment in a better part of town,” I suggest. “But you’d probably miss the excitement. You know who this woman is?”

  “Never seen her before. Who are you?”

  “Thraxas. Investigator.”

  The landlord spits on the floor.

  “That’s what I think of Investigators.”

  His henchmen get ready to run me off the premises. I save them the trouble by leaving. There’s not a lot of point in sticking around. No one in this place is going to answer questions. I’m not certain I could muster any questions. A peculiar feeling of gloom is settling over me. It’s starting to seem like I’m never going to find this pendant. Every time I get close all I find is more dead bodies. A man can only take so many dead bodies, even a man who’s used to them.

  Walking back through Kushni, I try to review the situation, but I have no real idea what’s going on. I’m particularly troubled by the death of the man in the chair. Sword wounds are one thing but a death you can’t explain always spells trouble. When I reach Moon and Stars Boulevard I’m uncertain even which way to turn. Should I go back to the Avenging Axe? Possibly I should head north to Truth is Beauty Lane, home of the Sorcerers, and report to Lisutaris. But what’s the point? She’ll only send me out to some other godforsaken tavern where I’ll find a pile of dead bodies.

  It’s hot as Orcish hell. I’ve been in cooler deserts. My head hurts. Maybe a beer will help. It often does. I look around for a tavern, somewhere where there’s unlikely to be anyone being murdered, at least not until I’ve had a drink. I’ve just spotted a reasonable-looking establishment across the road when a carriage pulls up in front of me. An official carriage, with a driver in uniform and the livery of the Imperial Palace. The door opens and a toga-clad figure leans out.

  “Thraxas. How fortunate. I was on my way to visit you.”

  It’s Hansius, assistant to Deputy Consul Cicerius. He’s a smart, handsome young man, son of a Senator, on his way up the ladder in public life. So far he’s doing well. Hasn’t been involved in anything scandalous and even stayed sober at the Sorcerers Assemblage, an event notable for its drunkenness and degeneracy.

  “Cicerius wants you to visit him right away.”

  I’m still looking at the inviting tavern across the road.

  “Tell him I’m busy.”

  “It’s an official summons.”

  “I’m still busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  My head hurts more.

  “Do I accost you in the street and ask you your business? I’m busy. Tell Cicerius I’ll come later.”

  “If you require beer I am sure the Deputy Consul can provide it,” says Hansius, which is perceptive of him.

  “The Deputy Consul serves wine, as I recall. And he’s miserly with it.”

  Hansius looks stern.

  “Official summons.”

  I climb into the carriage. We ride slowly north towards the Palace. Our official vehicle has right of way but the streets are so crowded it’s still a slow journey. Since our King’s diplomacy opened up the southern trade routes a few years ago, commerce in Turai has mushroomed and trade wagons roll in all day. At the corner of the street that leads to Truth is Beauty Lane we’re held up for a long time by a huge wagon that’s trying to manoeuvre its way round a corner it wasn’t designed to turn. The driver curses, and shouts at his four horses.

  “Big delivery.”

  “On its way to Lisutaris’s villa, I believe,” Hansius informs me. “They’re building a theatre in the grounds for the performers to use at the ball.”

  This worsens my mood. I ask
Hansius if he’s going. He is, of course.

  “I accompany the Deputy Consul to all such events.”

  Having learned to be tactful as a young man in public service, Hansius doesn’t ask me if I’m invited. He knows very well that since being sacked from my job at the Palace I’m not on the guest list for smart parties. To hell with them. Who wants to go to a masked ball anyway? I can just imagine Deputy Consul Cicerius prancing round in a costume. It’s unbecoming. I wouldn’t offend my dignity.

  At the Palace grounds I’m searched for weapons, and before entering the outlying building that houses Cicerius’s offices I’m examined by a government Sorcerer, checking to see if I might be carrying any dangerous spells or aggressive sorcerous items.

  “You can’t see the Deputy Consul while carrying a sleep spell.”

  I turn to Hansius to protest.

  “You expect me to give up my spells? I didn’t ask to visit.”

  There’s no use protesting. Palace Security is very sensitive about anyone who isn’t a member of the Sorcerers Guild bringing usable spells anywhere near the King. The official Sorcerer holds out a magically charged crystal which I unwillingly take hold of. I feel the sleep spell draining away through my fingers.

  “It takes a lot of work to learn these things, you know. Is anyone going to compensate me for my wasted effort?”

  Hansius leads me through the marble corridors towards Cicerius’s office. Everything here is elegant—pale yellow tiled floors. Elvish tapestries on the walls, each window, no matter how small, decorated with artfully stained glass—and I get a pang of regret for the fine office in a fine building I used to inhabit when I was an investigating Sorcerer at the Palace. The King’s residence is one of the finest buildings in the west, full of artwork to rival that of many larger states, and the buildings of his senior officials are likewise well appointed. While I’m not a man who’s too concerned with works of art, I can’t help feeling a twinge of grief as I realise that everywhere I look there’s a bust or statue that would cost more than I’ll earn in a year. Even the clerks’ desks are made of dark wood imported from the Elvish Isles.