Thraxas - The Complete Series (107 page)

“I hate the cold. I have to wear too many clothes. It doesn’t feel right. Why won’t they open the library? How am I meant to practise with my axe when it’s too cold to go outside? You know Gurd warned me for taking some thazis from behind the bar? As if he can’t spare it. I hate working here. I hate Turai. I hate Twelve Seas worse. Why is it so cold? At least in the gladiator slave pits no one froze to death. What’s the point of living in a place like this? Nothing ever happens. I loathe it. I need a new nose stud, I’m bored with this one. You know that young guy that comes in the tavern, he works at the tannery? He had the nerve to ask me out, and only last month I heard him saying how anyone with Orcish blood should be run out the city. I was going to punch him but Gurd always complains if I hit the customers. It gets me down. Don’t you ever tidy your room?”

“Makri, would you get the hell out of here? It’s bad enough you wake me up without standing around complaining about everything and generally being as miserable as a Niojan whore. Here. Take this thazis stick. Maybe smoking it will improve your mood. Now leave me alone. You know I like to enjoy my first beer of the day in peace.”

“Are you still annoyed about the Sorcerers Assemblage?” asks Makri.

“Of course I’m still annoyed. All the world’s top Sorcerers are arriving in Turai and there’s nothing I like better than being reminded that I’m a washout when it comes to sorcery.”

I studied magic when I was young but I never completed my apprenticeship. I only ever learned the basics and I was never good enough to join the Sorcerers Guild. Since when, I’ve struggled my way round the world as a soldier, a mercenary and finally an Investigator. Which has been tough, and since I passed forty, somewhat tougher. There are a lot cushier ways of growing old than pursuing criminals round Twelve Seas, the rough part of a rough city.

“You wouldn’t have been happy as a Sorcerer,” says Makri. “I can’t see you sitting round the Palace casting horoscopes.”

I shrug. It doesn’t sound too bad. It’s very comfortable at the Palace. I know, I used to be a Senior Investigator for Palace Security. They got rid of me some time ago. I drank too much. Now I drink more but I’m my own man.

Makri and I both live in rooms above the Avenging Axe, one of Twelve Seas’ more convivial taverns. Makri earns her living working as a barmaid, which she doesn’t particularly enjoy, but it pays for her studies and the occasional new weapon. She glances out of the window.

“Still snowing. Well, I’m not hanging round in here. I’m going out to see Samanatius.”

“Samanatius? The quack philosopher?”

“He’s not a quack. Samanatius is sharp as an Elf’s ear and the most brilliant thinker in the west.”

I snort in derision.

“All he does is sit around talking about the mysteries of the universe.”

“He does not. He talks about ethics, morals, all sorts of things.”

“Great. See if he can teach you anything useful. Like how to earn money, for instance.”

“Samanatius is not interested in money,” says Makri, defensively.

“Everyone is interested in money.”

“Well, he isn’t. He doesn’t even charge for his classes.”

“So the man is an idiot,” I say. “How good can a philosopher be if he doesn’t charge anything? If he had any talent he’d be raking it in. Anyone who does anything for free in this city has to have something wrong with them.”

Makri shakes her head.

“Sometimes your stupidity baffles me, Thraxas.”

“Thanks for waking me up to tell me that.”

Makri asks if she can borrow the magic warm cloak.

“Okay. I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

I hand it over.

“Don’t give it to that cheap philosopher.”

“Samanatius is indifferent to the climactic conditions.”

“He would be.”

Makri wraps herself in the cloak.

“This feels better. I hate this city. Who would live here?”

She departs, still cursing the weather. I shake my head. Her moods are definitely getting worse.

I finish my first beer and move on swiftly to a second. The Sorcerers Assemblage is depressing me. It’s many years since it’s been held in Turai and it’s quite a big deal for the city, with so many powerful Sorcerers from all over the west heading our way. They’re due to elect a new head of the Guild, and that’s always a major event. Despite the predilection of Sorcerers for sitting around palaces having an easy time of it, they are of great importance to every state because without them we’d be doomed in the event of war with the Orcs. The Orcs outnumber us, and last time they marched over from the east it was only the power of our Human Sorcerers which held them off long enough for the Elves to come to our rescue.

Downstairs in the tavern, Tanrose is making food, ready for the lunchtime drinkers. Despite the fierceness of the winter, trade here is not too bad. Even the biting snow can’t keep the population of Twelve Seas away from Gurd’s ale. Gurd, a northern Barbarian, knows how to serve his ale. Tanrose greets me jovially. We get on well, partly because of my frank admiration for her excellent cooking. Even in the depths of winter, when fresh meat is impossible to come by, Tanrose manages to make salted venison into an admirable pie. I take a large portion and sit at the bar with another tankard.

“Have you seen Makri today?” asks Tanrose.

I nod.

“She woke me up. Felt the need to complain about a few things.”

“Have you noticed that she’s been in an odd mood since coming back from Avula?”

“Yes. But Makri’s often in funny moods, I try to ignore them.”

To my surprise this brings a hostile response from the cook.

“What do you mean, you try to ignore them? That’s not very nice.”

“Nice? What do you expect? I’m an Investigator. I track down criminals. If the criminals protest too much I kill them. I like Makri well enough, but I’m not the sort of man to help her with her problems.”

Tanrose looks annoyed.

“Don’t you realise how much Makri relies on you?”

“No.”

“Well you should.”

Not liking the way this conversation is going, I try concentrating on my venison pie. Tanrose won’t let it drop.

“Makri grew up in a gladiator slave pit. Since she arrived in Turai she’s had a hard time. You’re probably her best friend. You should listen to her more.”

I choke back my angry response. As always, Tanrose, as the maker of the best venison pies in the city, has me at a disadvantage. I can’t afford to offend her.

“Come on, Tanrose. You know I’m a wash-out when it comes to personal problems. Why do you think my wife left me? Makri’s twenty-two years younger than me. I don’t know what the hell her worries are.”

“Yes you do. She tells you. You just refuse to listen. Do you know she had her first romantic experiences on Avula?”

I down my beer and ask for another. This is really too much for me at this time of day.

“Yeah, I had some idea…”

“So now she’s confused.”

“Can’t you sort her out?”

Tanrose smiles, fairly grimly.

“Not as well as you, Thraxas. She trusts you. God knows why. Probably because you’re good with a sword. It always impresses her.”

I’m starting to feel trapped. There’s nothing I want to discuss less than Makri’s first romantic involvements. Tanrose dangles another slice of venison pie in front of me.

“Well, all right, goddammit. I’ll listen if she brings up the subject. But only under extreme protest. I haven’t had a romance for fifteen years. Longer maybe. I’ve forgotten what it’s like. When it comes to love I’m about as much use as a one-legged gladiator. I don’t want to hear about her encounters with a young Elf.”

“I think it left her rather depressed.”

“She’s always depressed.”

“No she isn’t.”

“Well, there’s always something wrong. She’s a quarter Orc and a quarter Elf. That’s bound to lead to problems. What makes you think I can help?”

“Have another slice of pie,” says Tanrose.

I take the venison pie and another beer back upstairs to my rooms. I look out of the window and all I can see is snow. My fire has gone out. I try lighting it with a simple spell. It doesn’t work. It’s a poor start to the day. I curse. Life in Turai is bad enough without having to act as nursemaid to Makri.

D
espite the ice, snow and general misery, many Turanians are still working hard. The Transport Guild rides wagons over almost impassable roads, distributing food and supplies around the city. The blacksmiths in their forges hammer out iron wheel rims to keep the wagons going. Whores wrap up as warmly as they can and walk the streets gamely. The Civil Guard still patrol, or at least the lower ranks do, while their officers remain comfortable in their stations. And the Messengers Guild count it as a point of honour to always make it to their destination.

The young messenger who climbs the stairs to my outside door looks as though he’s had a difficult journey. His cloak is caked with snow and his face is blue with the cold. I rip open the scroll and read the message. It’s from Cicerius, Turai’s Deputy Consul. That’s a bad start. Cicerius wants me to visit him immediately. That’s worse.

I can’t work up any enthusiasm for visiting Cicerius. I’ve had a lot of dealings with the Deputy Consul recently. On the whole these have worked out well enough, but he’s never an easy man to work for. He’s Turai’s most honest politician—possibly Turai’s only honest politician—and the city’s most brilliant lawyer, but he’s also cold, austere and utterly unsympathetic to any Private Investigator who feels the need to interrupt his work to take in the occasional beer. On more than one occasion Cicerius, on finding me drunk in pursuit of a criminal, has delivered the sort of stinging reprimand that makes him such a feared opponent in the law courts or the Senate. I can only take so much of this. Furthermore, while there’s no denying he is a fair man, he’s never found it necessary to bump up my fee, even when I’ve done him sterling service. He comes from the traditional line of aristocrats who think that the lower classes should be satisfied with a reasonable rate of pay for a fair day’s work. In view of some of the dangers I’ve faced on his behalf, I’d be inclined to interpret ‘reasonable’ a good deal more generously than Cicerius.

I can’t ignore the summons. I’m desperate to make it out of Twelve Seas and back into the wealthier parts of town. I’m never going to do that unless I make some inroads into Turai’s aristocracy. Since I was thrown out of my job at the Palace I’ve hardly had a client who wasn’t a lowlife. It’s never going to earn me enough to pay the rent in Thamlin, home of the upper classes. And home of a few rather select and expensive Investigators, I reflect, as I make ready to leave. You wouldn’t catch anyone from the Venarius Investigation Agency freezing to death on the docks in mid-winter.

I suddenly remember that Makri has borrowed my magic warm cloak.

“Damn the woman!” I roar. I can’t believe I have to venture out in these freezing temperatures without the warm cloak. How could I be so foolish? Now Makri gets to stay nice and comfy while listening to that fraud of a philosopher Samanatius. Meanwhile Thraxas, on his way to do a proper man’s job, has to freeze to death. Damn it.

I rummage around in the chest in the corner of my bedroom and drag out a couple of old cloaks and tunics. I try putting on an extra layer of clothes but it’s difficult, because my waistline has expanded dramatically in the past few years and nothing seems to fit. Finally I just have to wrap an ancient cloak over my normal attire, cram on a fur hat I once took from a deceased Orc and venture out. The wind goes straight through me. By the time I’m halfway along Quintessence Street I’m as cold as the ice queen’s grave, and getting colder.

The city’s Prefects have been doing their best to keep the main roads passable. If I can make it to Moon and Stars Boulevard I should be able to catch a landus up town, but getting there through the side roads is almost impossible. The streets are already treacherous with ice, and fresh snow is falling all the time. I haven’t been out in weather like this since my regiment fought in the far north, and that was a long time ago, when I was a lot lighter and nimbler of foot. By the time I make it to the Boulevard I’m wet, shivering and cursing Makri for tricking me into giving her the warm cloak.

I have a stroke of good fortune when a one-horse cab drops a merchant off right in front of me. I climb in and tell the driver to take me to the Thamlin. The landus crawls up the Boulevard, through Pashish and over the river. Here the streets are a little clearer, but the large gardens are all snow-bound and the fountains are frozen over. The summons was to Cicerius’s home rather than the Imperial Palace, and the driver, on hearing the address, gives me his opinions on Cicerius, which aren’t very high.

“Okay, the guy is famous for his honesty,” says the driver. “But so what? He commissions a new statue of himself every year. That’s vanity on a big scale. Anyway, he’s a Traditional and they’re as corrupt as they come. I tell you, the way the rich are bleeding this city I’ll be pleased if Lodius and the Populares party throw them all out. How’s a landus driver meant to make a living the way they keep piling on the taxes? You know how much horse feed has gone up in the last year?”