Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  “So we came here instead,” adds Makri.

  “Why my office? What’s wrong with your room?”

  “It’s too small.”

  I’m not pleased. No Investigator would be. A man’s office is for working, drinking and sleeping on the couch. Maybe for thinking about an investigation. Not for reading classes taught by Makri. I’m about to speak a few harsh words when I remember how much the bakery means to me. Morixa might not have her mother’s touch but she’s making progress.

  “Is this going to happen again?” I demand.

  Makri shakes her head.

  “We’re just finishing. We’ll be back in the bakery next time.”

  I decide to let it pass. No sense outraging the baker for no reason. The women, all inhabitants of Twelve Seas by their dress, thank Makri and file out of my office. I look at Makri. She looks at me.

  “Don’t start,” says Makri.

  “Start what?”

  “Criticising and complaining.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. After all, what can a man expect once the Association of Gentlewomen put their hands to anything? Chaos is bound to follow. If that’s the worst I have to suffer I’ll be getting off lightly. How are the classes going?”

  “Okay,” says Makri, but doesn’t elaborate. “How are the war preparations?”

  I’ve informed both Makri and Gurd about the impending arrival of the Orcs. Gurd took the news philosophically. He’s sharpened his weapons and is ready to fight whenever required. As a resident alien in the city, he’ll be called into the army. Makri won’t. Already she’s annoyed.

  “You think I’m going to sit here while an Orc army marches up? Forget it. I’m joining up.”

  “Women can’t join the army.”

  “Then I’ll just have to tag along.”

  I know that Makri will join in the fighting. It would be pointless for anyone to try and dissuade her. She detests Orcs. She likes fighting. Nothing will keep her from the fray. However, I do point out to her that what we’re about to face is unlike anything in her experience.

  “You can beat just about anyone in close combat, Makri. I’ve seen you do it. But a battlefield isn’t like the gladiatorial arena and it’s not like fighting in the street either. There’s no space to move, nowhere to go. You just stand there in a phalanx with a long spear in your hand, and the enemy phalanx charges towards you, and the strongest phalanx forces the other one back. You get trampled to death or stabbed by a spear held by someone you can’t even get near. Fancy sword-play doesn’t come into it, believe me. Most times you don’t even get your sword out till the battle’s half over.”

  Makri informs me testily that she is well aware of battle tactics, having read everything the Imperial Library has to offer on the subject. I wave this away.

  “Books and scrolls can’t tell you what it’s like. I can tell you more than any military historian. I’ve been in the phalanx. I’ve mown down enemy divisions and I’ve run for my life after my own phalanx was broken. Back in the war with—”

  I stop myself. Now that the Orcs are on their way I don’t like my own war stories as much as I used to. Makri gathers up her scrolls and picks up a hefty-looking book.

  “What’s that?”

  “Architecture. Advances in vaulted-arch construction in the last century. I’m learning it at college.”

  “What for?”

  “What do you mean, what for?”

  “Seems like a reasonable question, with the city about to be attacked by a vast Orcish horde. Who cares about vaulted-arch construction?”

  “I do,” says Makri. “And if the city gets destroyed and needs some new vaulted arches built, I’ll be in a good position to help.”

  We head downstairs, me for some ale and Makri for her shift as barmaid. We’re immediately confronted by Dandelion, who hurries out from behind the bar. She advances towards Makri, something which causes Makri to flinch, possibly fearing that she’s about to be told all about today’s encounter with the dolphins. Dandelion wears a long skirt embroidered with signs of the zodiac, and wanders around in bare feet. Possibly as a result of this, she seems unable to talk about anything sensible. To be fair to the young woman, she has, after a struggle, learned how to operate the beer taps. Apart from that, she’s as bad as ever. It’s largely Makri’s fault that she’s here. Any reasonable person would have thrown Dandelion out on her ear shortly after she arrived but Makri, showing a hitherto unsuspected soft streak, let her hang around till she became something of a fixture in the tavern, ending up eventually as a waitress and barmaid.

  “You’ve got flowers!” blurts Dandelion, merrily. “I put them in water. Look, they’re behind the bar!”

  There are indeed flowers behind the bar. A very large bunch, well presented in a blue vase. I glance at Makri’s face and I can tell she’s thinking that perhaps her Elf has finally got in touch. Pretending not to care, she strolls casually over.

  “There’s a card,” says Dandelion. “But I can’t read it. It must be Elvish!”

  Makri almost smiles. She picks up the card and the moment she reads it her expression hardens.

  “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?” she snarls, looking round angrily.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This isn’t Elvish. It’s Orcish.”

  I hurry over to look.

  “Orcish?”

  Very few people in Turai speak any Orcish and even fewer can read it. Both Makri and I are fluent in the common Orc tongue. I gaze at the neatly written card.

  “To Turai’s finest flower. From Horm, Ruler of the Kingdom of Yal.”

  Makri looks baffled. I look baffled.

  “Horm the Dead sent you flowers?”

  “So it seems.”

  “Filthy Orc lord,” snarls Makri, and sweeps the flowers on to the floor, vase and all.

  “But they were nice,” protests Dandelion.

  “I don’t take gifts from Orcs,” says Makri, and storms off.

  Horm, Lord of the Kingdom of Yal, or Horm the Dead as he’s more commonly known, is actually half Orc, half Human, as far as I know. But he’s an Orc lord all the same, as well as a fairly insane Sorcerer who’s rumoured to have brought himself back from the dead in some ghastly ritual, thereby increasing his powers. A few months back he appeared in Turai, trying to steal a valuable item from Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky. On encountering Makri, he was frankly impressed. Impressed enough to offer to save her life if Orcish troops happened to be sacking the city any time in the near future. Makri punched him in the face, which was quite a sight, and something that was long overdue. Horm has tried to destroy Turai and deserves a lot worse. He hates us bitterly. Why he was so attracted to Makri I couldn’t quite fathom.

  I’m glad his flowers met with a poor reception. For a fraction of a second I was worried Makri might have been pleased, because although few people would guess it, she is peculiarly susceptible to small gifts, particularly flowers. At various times in the past I’ve smoothed over some difficulties with a similar gift. Not something I’d have thought of myself of course, Makri being the mad axe-woman she is, and me not being the sort of man who goes around buying flowers, but Tanrose suggested it, and it worked well. Something to do with Makri growing up in a gladiator slave pit, and never getting any presents, or so Tanrose believes.

  Thinking of Tanrose brings the painful realisation that I haven’t eaten for hours. I purchase a large bowl of stew, which is again really not up to standard. This has gone on long enough. If I’m to fall on the battlefield I don’t intend to meet my death looking like a man who hasn’t had a proper meal for months. I rise to my feet.

  “It’s time to bring Tanrose back, and I’m not taking no for an answer!” I declare. “I’m practically skin and bone.”

  “You’re slightly smaller than an elephant,” says Makri.

  “Exactly. I’m fading away. I’m getting Tanrose.”

  As I leave the tavern, I run into a small figure, dark-haired, pale-skinn
ed, clad in the common grey garb of a market trader. It’s Hanama, third in command of the Assassins Guild. A loathsome woman with a loathsome trade. I step back sharply, hand already on the hilt of my sword.

  “What do you want?” I demand.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” replies Hanama.

  As always, I find it hard to believe that this small, innocent and youthful-looking woman is such a notoriously efficient Assassin. She looks like she should be in school, not out killing people. But killing people she does, for the highest bidder. Even though I fought beside her on one occasion, she’s not a person I’m ever pleased to see.

  “Everything around here concerns me. I’m the local Tribune.”

  Hanama almost smiles, though her eyes remain cold.

  “An honorary appointment, I understand. And not one that ever had the power of preventing a free citizen from going about their business. Step aside. I’m here to visit Makri.”

  Makri does have some sort of friendship with this unpleasant woman. I scowl at her and walk on by, shaking my head at the deplorable state of affairs in the Avenging Axe these days,. Time was when it was an honest tavern where a hardworking man like myself could drink beer without interruption from undesirables. Look at it now. Makri, Dandelion, Hanama. A collection of women from hell. They should all go and live with Horm the Dead and pick flowers together.

  Since leaving the Avenging Axe, Tanrose has been living with her elderly mother in a tenement in Pashish, just north of Twelve Seas. I make my way through the busy streets, then climb the stairs with a determined look on my face. Tanrose herself opens the door. She’s pleased to see me and welcomes me in. Her mother doesn’t seem to be around, so I get straight down to business.

  “Tanrose, you have to—”

  “Would you like something to eat?” says the kindly woman.

  I nod eagerly. Business can wait. Tanrose leaves the room and bustles around in the kitchen for a while before returning with a large tray of food. After the unsatisfactory fare at the Avenging Axe, I attack the venison pie, yams and assorted vegetables like a dragon descending on a juicy flock of sheep.

  “Would you like—”

  I nod vigorously. Whatever it is, I want it. Tanrose brings me a second helping. When I’m finished I sigh with contentment. I feel ready for action. I haven’t felt this good for months.

  “Tanrose, you have to come back to the Avenging Axe. I know things are awkward between you and Gurd, but maybe you can sort it out, and if you can’t sort it out, what the hell, you can just be mad at each other, I mean, who really cares? There are more important things in life. Should some slight personal difficulties keep you from your rightful place? You belong in the Avenging Axe. Personally I’m prepared to put up with any amount of bad feeling as long as you’re back where you belong, dishing up the stew.”

  Tanrose frowns.

  “Thraxas, is your stomach more important than my peace of mind?”

  “Define more important.”

  “I really can’t come back. Not while things are still awkward.”

  I rise to my feet in frustration.

  “Please come back. I’m begging you.”

  “Sorry, I can’t.”

  “I’m still a Tribune, you know. I order you to return.”

  Tanrose laughs.

  “Thraxas. It’s gratifying the way you miss me so much. Or at least miss my cooking. But really, you know I can’t just walk back in without a lot of talking to Gurd first.”

  I slump into my chair, defeat staring me in the face. Things haven’t looked so bleak since Gurd and I, employed as mercenaries in the Juvalian jungle, accidentally stumbled into the wrong camp after a night’s drinking. I can still remember the look on the enemy commander’s face as I clapped him heartily on the back and offered him a swig from my flagon. Fortunately, at that moment, the camp came under attack from the third army involved in the rather complicated war and Gurd and I made our escape in the confusion.

  This time, however, there seems to be no escape. I’m trapped for ever with Elsior’s inferior cooking. When the Orcs arrive I’ll be lucky if I have the strength to pick up a sword. Suddenly inspiration strikes. Trying to inject some sincerity into my voice, I inform Tanrose that if she doesn’t come back now she might never get the chance.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Orcs are going to attack as soon as winter is over.”

  “Is this true?”

  “It is. It’s a state secret and I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but it’ll be common knowledge soon enough. So if you want to sort things out with Gurd—and maybe cook a few pies and stews in the mean time—this might be your last chance.”

  Tanrose looks serious.

  “Will we defeat the Orcs?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “And it’s possible we won’t?”

  I nod. Tanrose needs only a few moments to make her decision.

  “In that case, Thraxas, you’re right. I’d better come back.”

  I leap to my feet in triumph. With the prospect of our treasured cook returning to the tavern, I’m now as happy as an Elf in a tree.

  “You wouldn’t believe how bad the tavern has become. Dandelion being insane, Makri being insane. Horm sending flowers.”

  “What?”

  I inform Tanrose about the flower incident.

  “Which was worrying, of course. You know what a sucker Makri is for flowers.”

  “So how did she take it?” asks Tanrose.

  “Swept them to the floor with disgust. Quite right. The nerve of that Horm. What did he think he was going to achieve? Just because I can produce spectacular effects with flowers on the axe-wielding mistress of the bad temper doesn’t mean he can. You know, the more I think about it the more convinced I am he stole the idea from me. Probably he was spying when I arrived home from the flower seller’s. It’s not the sort of thing Horm could ever have thought of himself.”

  “I remember you took a lot of persuading,” says Tanrose. “I wouldn’t worry. Makri is never going to fall for an Orc lord.”

  “Who’s worried? Makri can do what she likes. I just don’t like Horm stealing my ideas.”

  I leave the tenement, still as happy as an Elf in a tree. Okay, I had to tell Tanrose an important state secret to convince her to come back, but what the hell, it worked. Tanrose is very trustworthy. She won’t tell anyone.

  I pick up a landus in Pashish and instruct the driver to take me to Truth is Beauty Lane, home of Turai’s Sorcerers. As the carriage runs along Royal Way I rest my hands on my stomach, appetite fully satisfied for the first time in weeks. Let the Orcs come. When they find a well-fed Thraxas leading a phalanx against them, they’ll regret they ever made the journey.

  Chapter Five

  Successful Sorcerers in Turai usually become wealthy and their villas in Truth is Beauty Lane are luxurious dwellings with enough space for substantial gardens outside and a large contingent of household staff inside. There’s nothing to show that the villas are occupied by Sorcerers, rather than Senators. Sorcerers are as worried about their status as the rest of Turai’s upper classes, and it would be frowned upon to make any overt public display of their powers. While they might occasionally put on some fancy entertainment in their gardens, they wouldn’t dream of lighting up the front of their houses with spells, or making any other sort of vulgar show. The highest class of family in Turai rarely goes in for sorcery, deeming it to be beneath them. Keen not to lend weight to this notion, Sorcerers are generally careful not to do anything that might be construed as common.

  As I roll up to Lisutaris’s villa I find signs of some serious activity, namely every top Sorcerer in the city state emerging from her house and climbing into their private carriages. Harmon Half Elf, Old Hasius the Brilliant, Melus the Fair, Lanius Suncatcher, Tirini Snake Smiter. Even Coranus the Grinder—famed for both his power and his bad temper—is there, and he very rarely visits the city, preferring to stay all year in his villa by the
coast at Ferrias. As he strides to his four-horse carriage, younger Sorcerers like Capali Comet Rider and Anumaris Thunderbolt defer to him while lesser lights of the Sorcerers Guild such as Gorsius Starfinder and Patalix Rainmaker look on enviously.

  Last to leave is Ovinian the True, who’s helped into his guided carriage by a brace of liveried servants. Ovinian isn’t all that powerful but he’s Chief Sorcerous Adviser to the King, which gives him a lot of rank. In common with all Sorcerers in Turai, he’s wearing a rainbow cloak. His is particularly bright. Lisutaris’s cloak is rather more tasteful; well cut and more muted in colour. I’d say that the more powerful the Sorcerer, the more discreet is their cloak. Coranus’s is mostly grey, with the rainbow motif only just visible around the collar. Tirini Snake Smiter is something of an exception. She’s powerful, but not given to discretion in matters of fashion. She wears a very elegant cloak, silky and nearly transparent, to go with the elegant gown she wears under it, itself silky and close to transparent. Tirini is a great beauty, the most glamorous Sorcerer in the city state, and keen to never let anyone forget it. Her hair is dazzlingly blonde, and for a naturally dark-haired woman that takes a lot of herbal treatments and probably a spell or two. She caused a scandal last year by arriving at Princess Du-Akai’s birthday celebrations in a dress so clinging and diaphanous as to endanger the health of several elderly Senators who were present. Bishop Gzekius was so outraged he denounced her from the pulpit the very next day, much to the amusement of Tirini.

  I studied sorcery when I was a youth, but I failed my studies and never accumulated more than a fraction of the power of these people. I draw back from the gate, letting them make their exit before approaching the house. Not that I think any Sorcerer is better than me. I just don’t like to have my past failures pointed out.

  After they’ve all departed I walk up the long garden path through the bushes and shrubs and knock on the door. It’s answered by a servant who recognises me from my previous visits. She looks at me dubiously and informs me that the meeting has finished.