Thraxas - The Complete Series (172 page)

With so many mercenaries in the city, Makri is permanently busy at the tables, which prevents her from complaining too much about her college being closed for winter. Instead she complains about the mercenaries’ manners. After a few early skirmishes, they’ve now learned to respect her. The Avenging Axe is doing a fine trade. This pleases Gurd, as do his frequent encounters with old companions he’s fought with in the past. When they recognise their former comrade now employed as a landlord, they laugh, bang their fists on the tables and demand to know what an old soldier is doing serving beer for a living.

“Doing well, you dogs,” bellows Gurd. “And don’t worry about me, when the Orcs arrive I’ll be cutting them down while you weaklings are still in your beds.”

Gurd picks up his axe from behind the bar and brandishes it to show he’s lost none of his prowess. The mercenaries roar with laughter, drink heavily, and ogle Makri. Makri has a purse slung round her neck in which she puts her tips, and I’d say she was doing better than she has for a while. The war is good business, at least for the taverns and the brothels.

Tanrose and Gurd seem to be reconciled. Maybe not in immediate danger of getting married but at least friendly again. As a result of this—and the upturn in business—Gurd ceases to be as miserable as a Niojan whore and once more becomes the cheerful Barbarian with whom I marched all over the world. It’s a welcome change. As is the return of Tanrose to the kitchen. For the first time in months I’m well fed. Facing extra demands for food, Tanrose has retained the services of Elsior and is teaching her the proper art of cooking. A commendable idea, as I point out to Makri. If Tanrose gets killed in the war I’ll still be able to get a decent plate of stew.

“Are you going to be a troop commander or anything?” Makri enquires.

“A commander? Me? I doubt it.”

“But you’re a Tribune. You’re on the Lesser War Council. And you’ve got wartime experience.”

“All good points,” I agree. “Except I got thrown off the Council. And the rest doesn’t count for much in this city. All the commanders come from the senatorial class. No one with ‘ax’ or ‘ox’ in his name ever got promoted in the Turanian army. Anyway, since I took on the defence of Senator Lodius I’ve been frozen out. I’m about as welcome as an Orc at an Elvish wedding up in Thamlin. I’ve spent three weeks investigating the case, and I’ve hardly learned a thing.”

“Why are you still on the case? Lodius doesn’t want you.”

“I was hired by his wife. I took her money. Lodius is my client whether he likes it or not.”

That’s the theory anyway. In practice I’m making little progress. My investigation has been blocked on all sides. Any official I want to talk to is either busy or not available. The city authorities are keen to pin the murder on Lodius and it’s not hard to see why. Lodius has so much support from all parts of the disaffected population that they haven’t dared to move against him before. Now, with the Orcs practically at the gates and the population rallying round the flag, it’s the one really good opportunity the King and his party will get to put Lodius away. If the Traditionals had tried to pin a murder on Lodius at any other time, the city would’ve been torn apart by rioting. But now, they might just get away with it.

“So let him hang,” says Makri.

“I can’t. Not if he’s innocent.”

Makri shrugs. Any time Makri suspects I might be following some sort of ethical code she laughs, and points out the numerous occasions on which I’ve acted with a notable lack of ethics. I don’t know if she means it. She’s an ethical woman herself, in her way.

“You’re not really so bothered by that, are you? I mean, whether he’s innocent or not? You just hate to give up on a client.”

“Maybe.”

“I can understand that,” says Makri. “Sometimes in the arena they sent me in with a partner. I never liked it when they got killed. I used to protect them. Kill their opponents for them. Sometimes, anyway. But maybe that was just because I liked killing.”

“You liked killing?”

“Of course.”

“You must be looking forward to the war.”

“I am.”

“We’re quite likely to get killed ourselves,” I point out.

Makri shrugs. She doesn’t care about dying, as long as she has the opportunity to kill a lot of Orcs. Makri’s hatred for Orcs is very intense.

I’m pondering my next step in the investigation. Thanks to Astrath Triple Moon, I’ve seen the best pictures available to the Sorcerers Guild when they tried looking into the past. We didn’t fare much better than Old Hasius the Brilliant. There are too many people around and nothing is really clear. Astrath is slightly puzzled. By his calculations, the alignments of the moons at the time of the crime should allow for better sorcerous examination.

“Is something blocking it?”

Astrath doesn’t think so.

“The pictures aren’t as clear as I’d expect, but sometimes that just happens. Sorcerers can’t explain everything.”

Astrath Triple Moon’s pictures do tell me more than Hansius did. Lodius spent some time hanging round in the corridor before the meeting, which looks bad for him. But there was plenty of movement in that corridor: Senators walking this way and that, engrossed in private discussions; Praetor Capatius engaged in some sort of debate with Prefect Drinius, and joined by Cicerius and Hansius; Consul Kalius and his assistant Bevarius talking to Rittius. There’s no sign of anything suspicious, however, and none of them entered the kitchen, as far as can be seen.

With official avenues blocked, I’ve been visiting supporters of Lodius, trying to make some sort of breakthrough from a different angle, but even that’s proving difficult. Lodius’s supporters are themselves suspicious of me. They know that the Senator doesn’t trust me.

I did manage to speak to the man responsible for cooking the pastry which killed Prefect Galwinius. And in some ways my visit to the consular kitchens was very rewarding. Erisox, the man in charge, is a master chef and not too stingy at dishing out samples. From the moment I first tasted his food I recognised him as great man and it was a pleasure to meet him. We talked of pastry, venison, fish, yams, and other items of interest. He enjoys all aspects of food, and just because he spends a lot of time making fancy little dishes for the Consul’s guests doesn’t mean he disregards the importance of a hearty bowl of stew in winter.

Unfortunately, great man or not, he couldn’t tell me anything about the murder. He swore that no stranger had entered his kitchen. I questioned him fairly intensely on the matter but he was adamant. No one had disturbed him as he prepared the food and he hadn’t left the kitchen for any reason.

I’m inclined to believe him. I trust a man with such a great talent for food preparation. But of course Erisox couldn’t see what happened to his pastries after they left the kitchen. The food was taken out on trolleys, some of which were left in the corridor for a space of time before being brought into the meeting room. I wish that Lodius hadn’t been hanging round in the corridor, without a good explanation for why he was there.

I tried following up the carasin angle, attempting to find out who else might have brought some of the poison into the city, but the trail led nowhere. I’ve learned quite a lot about the manufacture of vellum, but other than that, nothing. It’s the sort of task which really requires the services of a large body like the Civil Guard, but that’s not going to happen. Guardsman Jevox, one of my few contacts in the force, told me at once that I was wasting my time nosing round the Guards. No Civil Guard is helping me on this one.

The one aspect of the case I’ve made progress on is the matter of Galwinius’s law suit against Lodius over the matter of the forged will. Officials at the Abode of Justice weren’t shy about handing over details of that and it looks bad for Lodius. Statements taken in Abelasi and a Sorcerer’s report on the will both suggest that there was an attempt to defraud Galwinius. Given that the beneficiary of the fraud was Lodius, he would have had a hard time explaining the matter to a judge. But again, the Traditionals had it in for Lodius. Who’s to say Galwinius wasn’t participating in some plot cooked up in the Palace to discredit him? Till I’ve made more investigations, I’m keeping an open mind on the matter.

One straw I’ve succeeded in clutching is that there are several other people in Turai who might well have been pleased to see Prefect Galwinius dead. The Society of Friends, for instance. They control all organised crime in the north of the city and Galwinius had just closed down two houses of ill repute which bordered on Thamlin. It’s possible the Society might have taken revenge. Organised crime hasn’t previously dared to assassinate such a senior politician but as their wealth has grown, so has their ruthlessness. I don’t really think that they’d risk murdering a Prefect, but it’s a sign of the confusion in the city that there are people who are prepared to believe it might be true. Just like there are people prepared to believe that the Association of Gentlewoman organised Galwinius’s murder because he refused to commute Herminis’s death sentence…

Whilst mulling this over with a beer in one hand and a venison pie in the other, I’m suddenly struck on the back by a blow which sends me thudding into the bar and causes me to drop my pie. I turn round angrily with my hand on the hilt of my sword to find myself confronted by a huge man with long blond hair, a bushy grey beard and a scar on his face from temple to chin.

“Viriggax!”

“Thraxas, you dog! Come to sign up for the fight?”

“Worse. I live here.”

“You live here?”

“That’s not all,” I add. “Gurd’s the landlord!”

“The landlord?”

Viriggax howls with laughter and pounds me another friendly blow on the shoulder. I pound him back.

“It’s good to see you!”

Viriggax is a mercenary from some godforsaken island in the frozen north. I’ve fought many a battle in his company. I haven’t seen him for twelve years or so but he doesn’t seem to have changed, apart from maybe growing a little in every direction. He’s got an axe strapped to his back that could chop a horse in half and a great iron shield slung casually over his shoulder. When he spots Gurd he lets out a roar that can be heard over the din in the tavern. Gurd looks round. His face breaks into a joyous, craggy smile and he hurries over.

“You run this hostelry?” demands Viriggax.

“I do,” replies Gurd.

“Then where’s the beer?” roars Viriggax, who, I remember, never likes to talk quietly.

Viriggax looks towards the bar. His brow wrinkles as he sights Dandelion, who today has chosen to weave a circlet of leaves in her hair, defying both fashion and common sense.

“What is that?”

“One of my barmaids,” admits Gurd, apologetically, and winces as Dandelion steps out from the bar, revealing her lack of foot attire. Before Viriggax can comment, Makri waltzes past in her tiny chainmail bikini with a tray of drinks on her arm. Viriggax’s jaw sags as he takes in her copper-coloured skin and pointed ears.

“Have the Orcs got here already?”

“Just another of my staff,” explains Gurd, uncomfortably.

“By the northern Gods, this is an odd place you have here, Gurd. Girls with no shoes and Orcs with no clothes!”

Viriggax slaps his thigh and laughs mightily.

“That’s what you get for living in the city! No life for a man! Now where’s the beer, I’ve got a powerful thirst from travelling!”

Gurd calls for beer from Dandelion, clears us a table and we sit down to talk about the war and catch up on old times. Three or four ales later we’re deep into a series of reminiscences.

“You remember those Juvalians who tried to cheat us at cards? We showed them a thing or two!”

“Or what about the time Thraxas fell into a ravine and we couldn’t find him for two days?”

“He didn’t want to shout for help because he had all the food with him. I swear he was happy to stay in that hole till the supplies ran out!”

“It was safer down there than up at the front with you! Viriggax, you’re lagging behind. You northerners never could hold your ale.”

“What?” bawls Viriggax, emptying his tankard and banging it down on the table. “I’ll show you how a northerner can drink! More ale!”

Some hours later I’ve forgotten all about Senator Lodius. In fact I’ve forgotten about most things and am as happy as an Elf in a tree. I launch into a powerful rendition of the Turanian bowmen’s drinking song—not that I was ever a bowman, but it’s a fine song with a strong melody, and a chorus that requires a lot of banging of tankards on tables. I’m just getting to the verse where the enemy dragons are brought crashing from the sky, cut down by our mighty arrows, when the door of the tavern swings open and a messenger enters with an even more extravagant bunch of flowers than was previously delivered.

“Makri? Delivery for Makri?”

Makri is at the bar getting her tray loaded up so Gurd calls the messenger over and takes the flowers on to our table, something which I can sense is a bad mistake.

Gurd has a lot of ale inside him and may not be thinking that clearly.

“What’s this?” demands Viriggax, who’s looking rather bloated around the face after consuming enough beer to float a trireme. He fingers the card that accompanies the enormous bunch of flowers.

“Orcish writing?”

“From Horm, I expect,” sighs Gurd.

Viriggax looks puzzled as he tries to work out exactly what this means. Makri, meanwhile, having been alerted by Dandelion, is hurrying over. She arrives just as it dawns on Viriggax who Makri is, and who Horm is.

“Your barmaid receives flowers from an Orc lord?” he cries, and stands up abruptly, pushing back his chair. “What sort of traitorous establishment are you running here?”

“Traitorous?” yells Gurd, and leaps to his feet, or tries to. Actually his legs get tangled under the table and he’s a little slow from alcohol so it takes him a while to get vertical. But once he’s up, he’s a formidable sight.

“That’s what I think of Orcish flowers!” bellows Viriggax, sweeping them on to the floor.

“Hey, those were mine!” yells Makri.

“How dare you abuse my barmaid’s flowers!” shouts Gurd.