Thraxas - The Complete Series (176 page)

My sword is in my right hand and my dagger in my left. Street toughs in Turai generally aren’t experts with their weapons. Even so, faced by six men with nowhere to retreat I’m unlikely to survive. Someone is going to get their sword through my guard.

“One step closer and I’ll roast you with a spell,” I say.

My assailants’ eyes flicker towards their two comrades lying on the frozen dirt. They’re wondering if I could really do it. One of them—large, red-haired, seems to be their leader—sneers at me.

“We heard you only carry one spell these days, Investigator.”

With that he urges his men forward and I’m immediately engulfed in a furious battle for survival. I kill the man on my right with a well-placed thrust to the throat and fend off both blades that flicker towards me from my left. The man directly ahead of me lunges in but I sidestep sharply and his blade sinks into the soft plaster of the old alleyway wall. Before he can retrieve it I slash at his arm and he goes down howling. I’m working my defence furiously, keeping off four blades. In my younger days I was a champion sword fighter and since then I’ve had a lot of experience. Enough experience to know that these men are not rank amateurs. I can’t defeat them all. I slash at the groin of one opponent, missing but forcing him back. He nudges into his companion and in the tiny fraction of a second he’s distracted I stick my sword in his chest. He’s wearing a thick leather breastplate and it doesn’t penetrate. I wrench my sword free to parry the next blade that comes at me, simultaneously parrying another sword with my dagger. In doing so I leave my left shoulder exposed and suffer a painful cut. Blood seeps down my tunic. I can’t keep this up. I’ll tire long before they do. Worse, the two victims of my sleep spell are starting to come round. Though I’ve sent three of my attackers to the ground I’m still faced with five men.

Suddenly there’s a roar like an angry dragon from further down the alley. I recognise that roar. Once you’ve heard Viriggax going into battle, you don’t forget the sound. My five assailants find themselves attacked from behind by one of the largest axes in the western world. One of them collapses, his head nearly hewn from his body, and another falls to the axe almost immediately after. I take advantage of their confusion to ram my dagger into the back of yet another and he collapses at my feet. The remaining assailants, including the man with red hair, finding the odds not so much to their liking, run for their lives. They disappear down Saint Rominius’s Lane at a rate I could never match, even if I wasn’t bleeding and gasping for breath.

Viriggax watches them go, then glances down at the bodies on the ground.

“Good to see you haven’t forgotten how to fight, Thraxas,” he roars. He peers at my wound. “A bit of a scratch. Nothing to worry about. Time to celebrate victory!”

Viriggax thumps me heartily on the back and we walk down to Quintessence Street. I don’t thank him for his help. If I did I know he’d be insulted, almost as if I’d implied there was some possibility of him not coming to my aid. When Viriggax comes upon a comrade in trouble, he doesn’t need to be asked for help and he doesn’t expect to be thanked.

At the Avenging Axe Tanrose fusses over my wound. Not wishing to appear weak in front of the mercenaries I tell her it’s nothing, but I’m not displeased when she sends for Chiaraxi, the local healer. Chiaraxi dresses the wound and tell me I’ll live, unless I’m foolish enough to make a habit of taking on eight opponents at once.

I shrug, making light of the affair.

“I was cursing Viriggax for butting in and spoiling things,” I say, lifting a jar of ale to my lips. “If he’d had any sense he’d have stayed out of it. It’s not like eight attackers were going to bother me.”

Viriggax laughs.

“Only eight? I thought there were more, else I’d have left you to it!”

A
few beers later it’s time to head up to my office. The fight took it out of me and I could do with some sleep. Dandelion is collecting tankards from the tables.

“I heard some people in your office,” she says.

Viriggax glances over.

“Are you expecting anyone?”

I shake my head.

Viriggax rises to his feet and motions to a few of his men. I don’t protest. After being assaulted by eight armed thugs I don’t mind an escort. If anyone is lying in wait for me they’re in for an unpleasant shock.

“I thought you might have gone soft in the city, Thraxas. But I see you still get in plenty of trouble!”

I draw my sword as I put my ear to my office door. Inside I can hear faint noises. Dandelion was right. Uninvited visitors. I kick the door open and charge into the room, sword raised. Viriggax and his men follow with their axes aloft, ready to meet any danger. In my time as an Investigator I’ve confronted assassins, dragons and the worst scum the streets have to offer, so I’m prepared for anything. Even so, I have to admit I’m surprised to find that my office is full of women, who’ve tidied the place up and put a nice rug on the floor. There are flowers on the windowsill and sweet-smelling incense hangs in the air. A pot of deat, a herbal drink, is brewing gently in front of the fire.

“Thraxas,” says Makri, rising from the couch. “What are you doing here? You’re meant to be investigating.”

I’m speechless. I look round at the twelve or so women gathered here. The powerful Sorcerers Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, and Melus the Fair sit next to Ginixa, manager of the local public baths, and Morixa, the young baker. Two women in the robes of the senatorial class, one grey-haired and the other much younger, are perched on the arms of a chair. Next to them are a few other market workers and another woman who I think I’ve seen driving a wagon down by the docks. Sitting in the far corner is Hanama, Assassin.

I regain my voice.

“What the hell is going on here?”

“We’re having a meeting,” says Makri.

I find myself blinking in bewilderment.

“A meeting?”

Viriggax lowers his axe and gives me an odd look.

“You have women’s meetings in your room?”

“No!”

“I’m sorry about this,” says Makri, to her companions. “I thought we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

“It’s all right,” replies Lisutaris. “I’m sure Thraxas won’t mind leaving us in peace for a little longer.”

I glare at the head of the Sorcerers Guild.

“Is that so? Well, I’m not sure about that at all. Since when did my office become a meeting place for … for…” I struggle to find the word. “For women,” I conclude, lamely. And what are you doing here anyway?”

“Reading group.”

“Reading group? Are you telling me that Melus the Fair doesn’t know how to read?”

“We were discussing ways of broadening the programme,” says Melus. “Many women around the Stadium Superbius wish to join.”

“Then go to the stadium and recruit them,” I counter.

“We did,” says Lisutaris. “But you interrupted us in Samilius’s carriage.”

“I still don’t see why you’re all gathering in Twelve Seas. What is it about my office that’s so attractive?”

“I invited them to my room,” explains Makri. “But it was too small.”

“You didn’t think of that earlier?”

“Could these people leave and let us go about our business?” says the wagon driver.

Throughout all this I’m distracted by the amused looks on the faces of Viriggax’s mercenaries, who, I can tell, are rapidly revising their opinion of Thraxas, legendary warrior. Trying to prevent my status from plummeting further, I demand that everyone leaves.

“Really, Thraxas,” drawls Lisutaris, her voice suggesting that she’s well up on her intake of thazis. “Didn’t you invade my house recently? Uninvited, as I recall. And don’t you frequent the Stadium, as protected by my good friend Melus?”

“You eat at my bakery every day,” says Morixa.

“And he sometimes visits Ginixa’s public baths,” adds Makri, helpfully. “Maybe not that often.”

“So really, you can lend us your office for a little while longer.”

“But it’s my office! It’s not a meeting place for—” I break off before finishing the sentence, too ashamed to pronounce the words “Association of Gentlewomen” in front of Viriggax.

“This wouldn’t have happened if Makri had a bigger room,” points out Lisutaris.

“Don’t you think she should have a larger living space?” says Ginixa.

“Well, possibly, but—that’s not the point! The point is—”

“I have to work long shifts every day serving beer in a chainmail bikini and then study at college in my spare time,” says Makri, pathetically. Everyone looks sympathetically at her before turning their gazes accusingly on me.

“You make her wear a chainmail bikini?” says one of the Senator’s wives, sounding quite outraged.

“She doesn’t have to wear anything!”

There’s a shocked intake of breath from the assembled harridans.

“You would prefer her to be naked?” asks Melus, incredulously.

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Things are worse than we feared,” says the Senator’s wife. “Even from a man like this I did not expect to hear such a thing.”

Viriggax, probably imagining he’s making a quiet comment to his comrades, loudly informs the entire room that he does recall that “the old dog Thraxas was always keen on the dancing girls.”

“Paid a lot of money to that red-haired wench down in Juval. I remember the way she used to take off—”

I interrupt him hastily.

“Could we stick to the subject? My office has been invaded by Sorcerers, Assassins, and assorted women from hell and I’d like it back. Makri, get rid of these people. And also the rug. Why is there a new rug?”

“I just made the place look a bit better.”

“You used my flowers,” says a large young mercenary, Toraggax, Viriggax’s nephew.

“They lend a nice splash of colour,” says Makri.

Toraggax looks pleased.

“I could bring more.”

“Everybody get out of my office!” I roar.

“My poor Makri,” says Lisutaris, and pats her on the arm. “I never fully appreciated how unpleasant your life here must be.”

Before I can fire off an angry retort there’s a knock on my outside door. I march over and haul it open, expecting it to be some latecomer to the meeting who I fully intend to send away with a stinging reminder that this is a private place of work, not a gathering point for the city’s female malcontents. Unfortunately I find Captain Rallee on the doorstep.

“I need to talk to—” he begins, then halts as he catches sight of the assortment of women in my office.

“What’s going on here?”

I’m stuck for a good reply. The Captain steps past me into my office.

“Association of Gentlewomen? Here?”

Captain Rallee sounds very suspicious. The association is a legal body but not one that’s popular with the city authorities. He turns towards Lisutaris.

“What’s this about?”

“It does not concern you, Captain Rallee.”

“This is my beat. Everything that goes on here concerns me.”

“No,“ repeats Lisutaris. “It does not concern you.”

Lisutaris is using a spell. It’s probably not noticeable to anyone else except Melus the Fair, but with my sorcerous background I can sense it. Captain Rallee appears momentarily confused.

“You’re right. It doesn’t concern me.”

“And you will forget all about it,” says Lisutaris.

“I’ll forget all about it,” repeats the Captain.

He withdraws, closing the door behind him.

“Well that’s fantastic,” I growl. “Now you’ve used sorcery on a Captain of the Civil Guards right here in my office. That’s illegal. If the authorities hear about this they’ll be down on me like a bad spell.”

“But they won’t get to hear of it,” says Lisutaris.

“Don’t try using a spell on me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” says Lisutaris. “After all, we are using your office. But we would appreciate it if you would keep this quiet, and leave us alone for a little while longer.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” says Viriggax, in an unusually soft voice. He leads his men out of the room.

“Did you use a spell on them?” I demand. “You can’t just come into my office and start throwing spells around.”

“Thraxas,” says Makri. “Could you just stop asking questions and get the hell out of here? I’ve saved your damned life enough times that you can do me one small favour.”

“One small favour? I can’t move in this city without trampling over you and your friends. How many times is this going to happen?”

“Even the northern mercenaries treat her better,” says the wagon driver to Hanama. “They brought her flowers.”

“He has a very violent temper,” replies Hanama. “Any act of kindness would be quite beyond him.”

I find myself again confronted by twelve sets of accusing eyes. Suddenly feeling very isolated, I back towards the inner door.

“Fine. But you haven’t heard the last of this. And stay away from my klee.”

“We already drank it,” says Makri, who never knows when it’s a good time not to tell the truth.

“We’ll buy you another bottle,” adds Melus the Fair.

An angry rejoinder springs readily to mind. But somehow, with so many women staring at me, my spirit seems to quail. There’s something unnerving about it. Maybe it’s the new rug. It’s very disconcerting. I withdraw with what dignity I can muster and head downstairs for the bar.