Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  Perhaps the saint is offended by my complaints. One hour and a series of bad cards later, I’m down to 300 gurans and things are not looking good.

  Praetor Capatius wonders out loud if there’s any food on offer. The praetor is a man with a healthy appetite and probably gets well fed when he’s playing cards up at Senator Kevarius’s house. Dandelion informs everyone that our temporary cook has just finished preparing the famous Avenging Axe stew, and while Capatius isn’t exactly enthralled at the prospect—being used to better things, no doubt—he’s willing to try it. Cicerius takes the opportunity to suggest that all the players take another break to refresh themselves. Some head for the bar for food and drink and some wait at the table, probably annoyed at the interruption. As for me, the moment I leave the table I’m besieged by an angry mob.

  “What the hell are you doing?” demands Lisutaris. “Do you want Makri to get carted off to Yall?”

  “Have you forgotten how important this game is?” demands Cicerius. “I’ve never seen anyone throw their money away in such a wanton manner.”

  “How did you get a reputation as a good card player?” says Hanama. “It seems to be completely undeserved.”

  “A good card player?” sneers Coranius. “We might as well hand the Ocean Storm over to the Orcs and have done with it.”

  Lisutaris hasn’t yet come up with any sort of spell for removing the Ocean Storm from Horm’s grasp.

  “You were meant to be buying me some time, not surrendering at the first opportunity,” she says, quite angrily.

  I hold my hands up.

  “Will you all get out of my face? I’m doing my best.”

  “Your best?” says Lisutaris. “Is that why you’re almost broke and Horm is piling up the money?”

  “I’ve been unlucky with the cards. Are you sure that woman Moolifi is on the level? I think there’s something odd about her.”

  “The only odd thing is that we have entrusted you with the welfare of Turai,” says Cicerius. “I blame myself. I’ve failed the city.”

  Makri walks past with a tray of beer.

  “Take two,” she says to me. “You might as well enjoy yourself. Be sure to visit me in Yall.”

  “You’re not going to Yall. I’m just getting into my stride.”

  I’ve rarely seen so many people looking unconvinced. At this moment, belief in Thraxas’s gambling powers has hit an all-time low among the leading citizens of Turai. Even the perennially cheerful Dandelion can’t help frowning as she ladles out a bowl of stew.

  “Please don’t make Makri marry Horm the Dead,” she says.

  “Makri is not going to marry anyone,” I declare, quite forcefully.

  “Makri, you have to flee,” says Hanama. “Get your swords and we’ll fight our way out.”

  I notice some unfamiliar objects lurking on top of the food counter.

  “Yams? Where did they come from?”

  “Last consignment at the market,” says Dandelion. “The new cook brought them down from Pashish.”

  I grab four large yams and retreat, clutching my stew. And as stew goes, it’s not bad. I’ve tasted far worse. The temporary cook isn’t such an incompetent as I feared. Managed to snare us some yams as well. I ignore all distractions, concentrating on getting the food inside me. It does me a power of good. It strikes me that it’s little wonder my endeavours have been so ineffectual recently. I’ve not been eating well enough. It’s quite understandable. You can’t expect a man to go around solving crimes, finding treasure and beating everyone at cards if you’re starving him at the same time. No one could stand it. With the stew, the yams and another beer inside me I start to feel a lot better. I feel so much better that I suddenly have a very good idea where Tanrose’s mother’s gold might be.

  I take my empty plate back to the bar, ignoring all interruptions from discontented Turanians, and drag Makri to one side.

  “Makri, I’m running out of money. I need more, and quickly. I just realised where the gold is and I’m going to get it. Take my place at the table for a little while.”

  Makri looks startled.

  “I barely know how to play the game.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just put in your guran stake every time and don’t get involved in any gambling. You can buy me enough time and I’ll be back soon.”

  “Okay,” says Makri. “I can do that.”

  She frowns.

  “You’re not about to flee the city in shame, are you?”

  “Are you crazy? I’ve been in much more shameful situations than this and I never fled the city before.”

  “Yes you did.”

  “Well, not often.”

  “Doesn’t this go against your agreement with Horm?” asks Makri. “You weren’t meant to get any more money.”

  “No. No one was meant to give me any more money. Finding more money myself wasn’t mentioned. If I happen across fourteen thousand gurans that’s just his bad luck. Look after my place at the table and don’t do anything crazy.”

  And with that, I depart, as swiftly as I can.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Church of St Volinius is by far the most imposing building in Twelve Seas. It’s solid rather than elegant, but it’s richly decorated, the beneficiary of numerous bequests from the local merchants. If you want to get ahead in Turai, it’s a good idea to keep in with the True Church.

  I’ve had a few encounters with Derlex, the local pontifex, and his superior, Bishop Gzekius. They wouldn’t regard me as a friend of the Church; in fact I’ve been denounced from the pulpit on more than one occasion.

  The church is closed. Having no time to waste, I walk boldly up to the front entrance and mutter the opening spell, one of the few incantations I can use with any confidence. The door creaks open and I walk in, muttering another word to light up my illuminated staff. I glance at the walls. At the far end of the church, to the right of the altar where the pontifex gives his sermons, there’s a picture of St Quatinius and the whale. I’ve seen it before. I saw it briefly when I was talking to Nerinax the beggar and Pontifex Derlex came out of the church, but it didn’t register properly then. Not till I was full of yams and stew did I remember that the painting was here.

  On the floor underneath it there’s a grating, and a small brass plaque: Demetrius, first Prefect of Twelve Seas.

  In the vault beneath the grating lie the bones of one of the city’s ancient notables. Untouched for centuries, apart, perhaps, from when Captain Maxius hid his gold here. I speak my opening spell again and the grating creaks open. So far so good. Underneath the grating is a large marble slab. I hesitate for a moment. I’m about to open a tomb. Some people might look on this unsympathetically.

  “But it’s for the good of the city,” I mutter. “No one could hold it against me.”

  I use my opening spell again. The slab groans. It’s a weightier item than I’m used to shifting. For a moment I think it’s not going to work. I reach down and start hauling at it, adding my own strength to the strength of the spell. Finally the slab moves over a foot or so. I wipe the sweat from my forehead. That was an effort. Without the desperate circumstances I’d never have pulled it off. I reach down into the coffin below, and at that moment the front door flies open and Bishop Gzekius and Pontifex Derlex stride into the church. I have rarely seen two men look more surprised.

  “What is going on!” roars the Bishop.

  “It’s Thraxas,” cries Derlex. “He’s robbing a grave!”

  “Send for the Civil Guards,” roars the Bishop. “He’ll hang for this!”

  Pontifex Derlex is aghast.

  “Thraxas!” he cries. “Even from you, I never expected this.”

  He turns to go, to summon the Guards.

  “It’s for the good of the city…” I begin, but abandon the effort. There’s no way of convincing them, and time is short. Though I’m not used to casting two spells in quick succession, I can still do it, just about. I mutter the words of my sleep spell and the Bishop
and Derlex both tumble gracefully to the ground. Then I have to sit down. The effort has drained me completely. It’ll be a week before I can use a spell again. I have to force myself to move, shaking my head and reaching down into the marble coffin. The first thing I touch is a wooden box, something of a relief as I wasn’t looking forward to dragging up a lot of bones. I take it out of the grave. It’s sealed and there’s a small metal nameplate on it. Captain Maxius.

  So there it is. The Captain’s treasure. Buried under a whale, more or less. I tuck it under my arm, pick up my illuminated staff and hurry from the church. For a first attempt at grave robbing, it’s gone rather well. With any luck the Deputy Consul can explain things to the Bishop, thereby preventing any rash attempt to hang me for my crimes.

  Outside the church I’m about to climb back on my horse when a hand grabs me by the shoulder and yanks me backwards. I tumble to the ground and find myself looking at a fancy pair of black boots and the fringes of a rainbow cloak. It’s Glixius.

  “Stealing from the church?” he booms. “Just what I’d expect of you, Thraxas. Hand it over!”

  I struggle to rise. It’s an effort. I’m still weak from casting the spells. I once knocked out Glixius with one punch but there’s no way I can do that just now.

  “I need this money,” I say.

  “So do I.”

  “What for?” I ask, trying to delay him while my strength returns.

  “Gambling debts,” says Glixius. “To the Brotherhood. Casax, in fact. He just learned that one of my credit notes from last month is bad. It could be awkward.”

  He raises one hand.

  “But killing you with a spell and taking the fourteen thousand gurans seems to be a solution to all my problems.”

  Glixius suddenly sags at the knees, and then pitches forward on to the ground. Makri has appeared silently round the corner and hit him with a small leather club. I look at her rather wildly.

  “Who’s looking after my cards?”

  “Aren’t you going to thank me for saving you?” says Makri.

  “Thanks for saving me. Who’s looking after my cards?”

  “I saw Glixius following you out so I followed him myself.”

  “Yes, it was brilliantly done. So who’s at the table?”

  “Dandelion.”

  “Aaarrggghhhh!”

  “Did you just scream?” says Makri.

  “Dandelion is looking after my cards? Of course I screamed.”

  I struggle to get on my horse, frantic at the thought of the barefoot idiot sitting in for me at the card table.

  “She’ll be fine,” says Makri. “I told her not to do anything rash.”

  “Are you insane, leaving her in charge? Do you want to marry Horm?”

  “Well you weren’t doing so well yourself,” says Makri. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to the Axe rather than standing here talking?”

  I mount my horse and spur it forward. It’s a risk riding at night in the city as it’s illegal, but there are so many people exempted from this law in Twelve Seas at the moment, with soldiers, Sorcerers and Civil Guards scurrying round shoring up the defences, that no one pays me much attention. Makri, an inexperienced rider, follows me at a distance.

  I stable the horse and rush back into the tavern. If Dandelion has blown my money then it’s all over. Once a player is out of funds he has to leave the table, and can’t return. I’ve a faint hope that Makri might have been joking about Dandelion. My heart sinks—even further—when I see that she wasn’t. Dandelion is sitting in my seat, with a suspiciously small pile of money in front of her. I glance round wildly at the onlookers, focusing finally on Lisutaris.

  “You allowed this to happen? Are you crazy?”

  Lisutaris shrugs.

  “Captain Rallee volunteered to take your hand. But Horm objected.”

  I turn to face Horm.

  “Since when can an Orc come in here and start objecting to people?”

  “There are limits to how many replacements a man can have,” says Horm, smoothly. “There was general agreement on the matter.”

  I glare at them all.

  “It’s all right, Thraxas,” says Dandelion, quite cheerfully. “I’m getting the hang of it now.”

  “How much of my money have you got left?”

  “Er … almost fifty gurans.”

  I drag the idiotic barmaid out of the way and retake my seat, not in the best of tempers. I scowl at the assembled players.

  “Most amusing. Dandelion filling in for me while you rob a man of his hard-earned money. Well I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  I slap the wooden chest down on the table.

  “That wasn’t the only money I have.”

  Now this isn’t such a strange thing to do, in normal circumstances. A player is quite entitled to bring in more funds. But given that Horm and I are meant to be playing with a stake of 1,000 gurans each, I’m expecting some argument, at least from him. When I stare him in the eye, however, he merely lifts an eyebrow, professing not to care.

  “I am already far ahead of you, Investigator. I have no objection to you squandering whatever else you have scraped together.”

  “Scraped together? Try this, you half-Orc excuse for a card player.”

  I open the chest and turn it upside down quite dramatically, expecting a shower of coins to cascade on to the table. Fourteen coins tumble out in front of me. Fourteen single gurans. I stare at them, and then shake the box, hoping for more. There is no more. Apparently the tale of the Captain’s treasure grew in the telling. All around the table there are guffaws of laughter.

  “Brought your life savings?” says Casax.

  I’m still scrabbling around in the empty chest, looking for more money. I can’t believe I’ve gone to so much trouble for fourteen gurans. Damn that Tanrose and her lying family. Behind me Cicerius snorts in derision. Lisutaris and Hanama might well be about to join him but we’re interrupted by a very loud banging on the tavern door.

  “Open up in the name of the True Church. We demand the immediate arrest of the grave-robber Thraxas!”

  “What is this?” demands the Deputy Consul, startled by the clamour.

  “Ignore them,” I say. “The Church doesn’t have the authority to go around demanding things.”

  “This is Bishop Gzekius and I demand the arrest of Thraxas under the authority of the Church!”

  “It’s a moot point,” I say. “Anyway, you outrank the Bishop.”

  “What have you done?” demands the Deputy Consul.

  “Nothing.”

  “They’re saying you robbed a grave!”

  “A small misunderstanding when I dropped in to pray. Well, gentlemen, I’d say it was time to get the game underway again.”

  Cicerius goes off to the front door, hopefully to pacify the Bishop. He has to. They can’t drag me off for grave-robbing; the safety of the city rests in my hands. Me and my sixty-four gurans. It’s not going to be easy. I need more beer. I twist round in my chair to yell at Makri, who’s now returned to her post behind the bar.

  “Beer!”

  Makri looks at me strangely, clutches her brow, and falls to the floor.

  “She’s sick!” cries Dandelion. “She’s got the malady!”

  “But I want beer,” I say, and start to feel that the world really is against me. Captain Rallee goes to help Dandelion carry Makri into the store room along with the other casualties. I ignore the commotion, and focus on the task in front of me. At a rough guess I’d say that Horm the Dead has around 2,000 gurans in front of him, and that’s a lot of money to claw back. For most men, it would be an impossible task. Of course, most men haven’t roamed the world with a sword in their hands and only their native wit to protect them. Most men haven’t gambled their way around every card table in the west. You can’t compare Thraxas the Investigator to most men; it’s not a fair contest. I bang my fist on the table.

  “Are we going to play cards or not? Moolifi, start dealing. And Dandel
ion, bring me a beer. Goddammit, do you expect me to sit here parched with thirst all night?”

  The room goes quiet, Moolifi deals the cards, and I get on with the business of mounting one of the most heroic rearguard actions ever seen at the card table. With only sixty-four gurans to my name, I’m facing overwhelming odds, but I remain undismayed. Lisutaris needs more time to complete her spell. Fine. I’ll get her some more time. I sip beer, study my cards, play with the utmost caution, refuse to be drawn, and even pick up a small win with three 4s. As the night wears on, I start to show the assembled mockers and doubters what a real genius at rak can do when he’s backed into a corner. By the time Ravenius goes bust, unwisely believing that Casax is bluffing when he raises 500 gurans on one hand, I’ve built my stake up to ninety gurans and am exhibiting the sort of quiet determination that gets a man through a crisis when everyone around him is losing their heads.

  Three hours later I’m still in the game. I call loudly for more beer, curse Moolifi for the bad cards she’s been dealing me, and roar at Dandelion to bring me some more yams and make it quick.

  Horm the Dead laughs. He’s enjoying himself. He’s still well ahead of me and he’s no doubt expecting to be leaving the city with Makri in tow. I’ll show him. By three in the morning there are only four people left at the table—Praetor Capatius, Horm the Dead, Casax, and me. Each of them has several thousand gurans in front of them. I have 180. Horm decides that it’s time to force me off the table. When I raise a cautious ten gurans on a hand, he calmly looks over at the money in front of me, counts out 180 gurans, and pushes it into the centre of the table. If I cover his bet it will cost me everything I have, and I’ll be out of the game if I lose.

  I turn my head slightly, and notice Lisutaris shaking her head discreetly. A signal that she has not yet found a counter spell to attack Horm, and doesn’t want me to risk losing yet. I turn back to my cards, and push all my money into the centre of the table.

  “Let’s see what you have.”

  Horm turns over two dragons and two kings. I turn over three 10s. My hand is superior. I scoop in the money and now I’ve got 360 gurans in front of me.