Thraxas - The Complete Series (105 page)

“Which makes Elith innocent of all crimes. I admit she might be held to have attempted to murder someone, but that someone was dead long before she got there. Lasas, however, is about as guilty as an Elf can get. He damaged the Tree to discredit his brother and then he killed his brother through rage and jealousy and tried to pin the crime on the woman who had spurned him. I suggest you lock him up as soon as possible.”

Lord Kalith is doubtful.

“I believe it to be true,” says Gorith-ar-Del, stepping forward. “At the very least, we should subject Lasas-ar-Thetos to some stringent interrogation and have our Sorcerers investigate him in the greatest detail.”

“Are you telling me that my new Tree Priest is the one behind all my recent troubles? Did he initiate the importing of dwa on to Avula?”

“Interestingly enough, he didn’t,” I reply. “While he was busy trying to discredit his brother, the rival branch of the Tree Priest’s family was trying to discredit them both. They brought it in to start a scandal around the Hesuni Tree. I imagine they hoped that once it was known that Gulas couldn’t prevent the sacred Tree from being besmirched and abused, their claim to the Priesthood would be taken more seriously.”

“Do you have any proof of this allegation?”

“Not exactly. But ever since I started digging into the affair I’ve been under attack from various persons. Some of them were Human, probably sailors who’ve called here on the pretext of trade, but one of them was a very fine Elvish swordsman. Best swordsman on Avula in fact. Yulis-ar-Key. He was masked, but Makri recognises his style.”

Makri, quiet up till this moment, confirms this. Kalith considers my words.

“Yulis is head of the branch of the family who contest the Tree Priesthood,” I point out. “I think you’ll find it all adds up.”

“Have them brought to me—” commands Kalith, but that’s as far as he gets. No one has noticed the appearance of Yulis-ar-Key on the balcony. We soon notice that, while we are all without weapons, Yulis has somehow managed to procure two fine swords, which he brandishes menacingly.

“I will not be subjected to sorcerous examination like a common criminal,” he snarls.

“Why not?” I retort. “It would be entirely fitting.”

Yulis rushes at us. Things look bad till Makri steps into his path. Yulis brings each sword down at her. Almost quicker than the eye can see, Makri raises her arms, deflecting each blade with her metal wristbands. She then steps in and butts Yulis with her head. Yulis howls and drops his swords. As he goes down he grabs Makri by the leg and they crash through the thin fence at the edge of the balcony. They plunge over the edge into the pool, far below.

We stare over the edge. Elves are already running from all directions towards the water.

“She can’t swim,” I yell. There are some tense moments before Makri is hauled out by her rescuers. Moments later, Yulis struggles out of the pool and is immediately apprehended.

Lord Kalith looks down at the scene below. He frowns, and utters an Elvish oath.

“Did she have to fall right into the sacred pool?” he says. “I just had it ritually cleansed.”

Two days later I’m lounging on the grass in the large clearing, feeling satisfied. The plays have commenced. As I expected, I’m finding them a little highbrow for my tastes but I’ve a plentiful supply of beer and a fine reputation as an Investigator. Number one chariot, and no one can deny it. Elith is out of jail. It couldn’t be said that her name is exactly cleared. After all, she did go wild under the influence of dwa, and she did make an attempt on the life of an Elf she believed to be Gulas. But there are plenty of mitigating circumstances. Besides, whatever she might have meant to do, she didn’t actually kill anyone, and is innocent in the eyes of the law. Vas-ar-Methet has taken her home and has high hopes of rehabilitating her with his healing powers and the love of his family.

Yulis and Lasas are in prison. Both branches of the priestly family are now in disgrace. Lord Kalith will have some serious thinking to do before he makes a new appointment, but it can wait till after the festival, when the island is empty of visitors. Cicerius has expressed his satisfaction at the services I’ve performed on the island, and Kalith is too fair-minded not to be grateful.

Makri is now something of an Avulan hero, and not only for her amazing results with Isuas. The story of how she defeated the finest swordsman on the island without the aid of a weapon has been the talk of the festival. Isuas wishes to learn how to head-butt her opponents, and Droo has already composed several poems about the affair. She has also composed one about my investigating triumph, which she brought to my house.

“Droo likes you,” says Makri. “Strange, I never saw you as a father figure to disaffected young Elves.”

“Very funny. Is anything ever going to happen in this play?”

I’m bored with the drama. The Avulan version of the tale of Queen Leeuven is not stirring. Makri tells me that I’m missing the finer artistic points, but I long for something exciting to happen. I’m starting to agree with the Elves who regarded Sofius-ar-Eth as a poor choice of director.

“I’m puzzled about something,” says Makri, sipping beer. “Who were those masked Elves who kept chasing us round?”

“I don’t know. I’m puzzled myself. Part of the gang, I suppose, though they don’t seem to fit in.”

In front of us, Queen Leeuven is rallying her army. Suddenly, from nowhere, a huge crowd of spear-wielding villains appear on stage, march around for a few seconds, then disappear again. The crowd gasps. The masked Elves appear again and there is some frantic dramatic fighting as Queen Leeuven’s supporters battle with the spearmen, who magically vanish, only to reappear at the other side of the stage.

The crowd go wild, clapping and cheering at this new dramatic innovation.

“Right,” says Makri.

“Indeed. They were part of the play.”

“That must be why Kalith appointed a Sorcerer as his director.”

“He was trying to beef up the production.”

We stare at proceedings. I’m feeling a little foolish. All the time I thought they were after us they were just rehearsing for the festival.

“It’s low culture,” objects Makri. “Cheap stage effects detract from the drama.”

“I like it. But when I get back to Turai, I’m leaving this bit out of the story.”

T
HRAXAS AND THE
S
ORCERERS

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2001 by Martin Scott. Published by permission of Little, Brown, and Company (UK).

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

A Baen Book

Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-9908-5

Cover art by Tom Kidd

First U.S. printing, June 2005

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Scott, Martin, 1956-
  Thraxas and the sorcerers / Martin Scott.
    p. cm.
  ISBN 0-7434-9908-5 (hc)
  1. Private investigators--Fiction. 2. Conventions--Fiction. 3. Magicians--Fiction. I. Title.
  PR6063.134T48 2005
  823:92--dc22                 2005005211
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020

Production & design by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH (www.windhaven.com)
Printed in the United States of America

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Chapter
One
Chapter
Two
Chapter
Three
Chapter
Four
Chapter
Five
Chapter
Six
Chapter
Seven
Chapter
Eight
Chapter
Nine
Chapter
Ten
Chapter
Eleven
Chapter
Twelve
Chapter
Thirteen
Chapter
Fourteen
Chapter
Fifteen
Chapter
Sixteen
Chapter
Seventeen
Chapter
Eighteen
Chapter
Nineteen
Chapter
Twenty
Chapter
Twenty-One
Chapter
Twenty-Two

Thraxas may not look the part, being overweight and overbrained, and more interested in his next glass of beer than justice, but if you’re in trouble in Turai this portly private eye is your only hope.

Winter has come to Turai, and Thraxas is discontented. He’d rather be indoors sipping beer by a roaring fire, but, having once again gambled away his last fat fee, financial necessity has him walking those mean (and snowbound) streets for a measly thirty gurans a day. Then Cicerius, the city’s Deputy Consul and possibly the only honest (though conceited) politician in Turai, wants Thraxas to be an undercover agent, working behind the scenery at the upcoming Assemblage of the Sorcerers Guild. The Guild is meeting to elect a new head sorcerer, and Cicerius and other prominent officials are determined that the new head of the Guild will be a Turanian.

Thraxas would rather be anywhere than among that Assemblage of Sorcerers from all the civilized lands—he once failed the exams to become a sorcerer, and that embarrassment still rankles. And Turai is presently a bit short of world-class sorcerers, so the city’s candidate is Lisutaris. She is undeniably powerful but also is hopelessly addicted to smoking thazis weed. Finally, only members of the Sorcerers Guild and Turanian officials will be admitted to the gathering. So Cicerius proposes to revive the long-defunct post of Tribune of the People and the first Tribune in more than a century will be Thraxas, who long ago decided to have nothing to do with politics.

But the perpetually indigent private eye needs the fee. And it is not wise to say “no” to Cicerius. Not that Thraxas won’t soon have reasons to regret taking the case: when he learns that the most deadly assassin in the Assassin Guild is coming to town, reportedly to eliminate Lisutaris; when the sorcerer most favored to win the election is murdered and Lisutaris is the prime suspect; and when it begins to seem very unlikely that Thraxas will live to collect his fee.

And if Thraxas does survive, can Turai itself survive having a loose cannon like Thraxas as a government official?