Thraxas - The Complete Series (177 page)

Viriggax and his men are drinking heartily in the corner. They have no memory of the incident. Lisutaris has erased it. I march angrily to the bar, glare at Dandelion and in my roughest voice demand a beer. Dandelion, fool that she is, isn’t aware that I’m angry and hands it over with a smile. Realising there’s no point in trying to annoy her, I move along the bar to where Tanrose is ladling out the stew.

“Tanrose, do I look like a man with progressive political views?”

“No,” replies Tanrose. “You don’t.”

“Not the sort of man to encourage new ways of thinking in western society?”

“Definitely not.”

“I didn’t think so. So why does Makri think it’s okay to bring her foul Association of Gentlewomen friends into my office? Don’t they have houses of their own?”

“It’s always awkward for them to find a meeting place,” says Tanrose. “The Senators don’t like it, Morixa’s staff at the bakery get in the way, that sort of thing.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

Tanrose shrugs.

“I expect Makri’s room was just the most convenient place they could find in a hurry.”

“They’re not in Makri’s room. They’re in my office.”

“Well, Makri’s room is very small,” points out Tanrose. “I suppose they needed more space.”

I seem to have been in this conversation before. Realising that the city is descending into pre-war madness and there’s probably nothing I can do about it except go down fighting, I take my beer to a table in front of the fire and look forward to the arrival of the Orcs. At least a man knows where he is when the dragons are swooping from the skies.

Outside the temperature is falling. Soon the whole city will be as cold as the Ice Queen’s grave. At least the grim weather will suppress the panic that’s been simmering since news of the invasion broke. Come the first day of spring, there will be a long trail of fainthearted citizens leaving the city by the Western Gate, but in the mean time we’re all stuck here and have to make the best of it. Making the best of it won’t be easy, because there are bound to be shortages. Supplies are always scarce in winter and this year it will be far harder because the population, fearing the worst from the war, have bought up everything that can be bought and the warehouses are empty. Stockpiling supplies is standard practice in war, no matter how the authorities try to prevent it.

Further military drill has been scheduled but I’m not certain how much of it will take place, given the bad weather. We’ll have to try. At least the King had the foresight to hire a good number of mercenaries, most of them reliable troops like Viriggax. They won’t go down without a fight. And then there’re our Sorcerers, something with which Turai has always been well supplied. It’s unfortunate that we’ve lost a few powerful members of the Guild in recent years—Tas of the Eastern Lightning would have been a good man to have on the battlefield, but he handed in his toga a couple of years ago—but we still have more than our share.

Weighing things up, I’d say it’s going to be a close thing. Depends on what sort of army Prince Amrag brings over. Our Sorcerers should be able to give us plenty of advance warning about its size, but until we confront it we won’t know how well disciplined it is. Equally, it depends on how our allies respond. Things still look reasonably good on this front. The Human armies are gathering and the Elves will be ready to sail with the first calm weather.

I wonder what Queen Direeva, ruler of the Southern Hills, will do. Probably remain tucked up safely in her kingdom. She’s not a friend of the Orcs, but the Southern Hills is close to the Orcish Lands and she won’t want to become embroiled in the war if she can avoid it. Who knows what’s going to happen? We’ve beaten the Orcs before. I might yet survive into my forty-fourth year.

Which brings me back to my investigation. If I do survive the war I’m gong to be plenty annoyed if Lodius is hanged for a murder he didn’t commit. I stare into the fire and mull over the case, trying to find some angle I haven’t yet considered. I was there when the murder happened. I’m a trained observer, or meant to be. Have I missed anything? I reconstruct events in my mind, as I’ve done many times over the past weeks. Try as I might, nothing new springs to mind. If there was a vital clue, it passed me by. All I can remember is the excellence of the pastries on offer. Worth attending the meeting for. A vague thought of something unconnected to pastries floats by. I can’t identify it. Why was Galwinius murdered right then? Why not later, when there were fewer people around? Surely that would have been safer. Those pastries were really excellent. Although, as I recall, one of them was slightly undercooked. There’s something else I should be remembering. I try and clear my mind of all thoughts of pastries. There was a scroll. Is that right? I strain to remember. Galwinius had a scroll. And after the murder was committed I didn’t see any scroll. Might that be significant? Maybe he just fell on top of it, thought I don’t think so. Possibly it just disappeared among the crowd in the confusion. I make a mental note to see if anyone can tell me anything about the scroll. I get to wondering about the Society of Friends. As always, when that organisation is involved in some affair I’m investigating, I’m hampered by a lack of contacts. The Society works in the north of the city and that’s not my territory. I can sometimes pick up information about them in Kushni, but I’ve no informant who can really be relied on. I could do with learning a little more about their recent activities. Captain Rallee might have heard something. I should visit the Captain, find out what he wanted from me before Lisutaris send him away confused and forgetful.

My magic warm cloak is in my room. I don’t want to go upstairs while all those women are still there. Cursing them for making me venture out into the grim winter evening without the benefit of my cloak, I head out into Quintessence Street. The first people I bump into are Palax and Kaby, a young pair of buskers who earn their living by singing and performing acrobatics on street corners. Generally domiciled in a caravan behind the Avenging Axe, they’ve been out of the city for a while, plying their trade in foreign parts. They’ve now returned to spend the winter in Turai. A poor choice, given what’s coming.

I used to be suspicious of the young couple, primarily because of their unheard-of sartorial outrages—Palax has parts of his hair dyed green, and Kaby has piercings through her lips and eyebrow, things which would cause any normal citizen to be stoned in the streets and maybe thrown from the city walls, but as travelling musicians, they seem to get away with it. These days I’m used to them, and greet them politely enough.

“Just made it back in time. The roads are almost impassable. We thought we were going to get stuck.”

“You might wish you had, if you’re still here in the spring.”

I notice Kaby is carrying a bundle wrapped in paper.

“What’s that?”

“Flowers,” says Kaby.

“We brought them for Makri,” says Palax.

“We know how much she likes them.”

I bid them a stiff goodbye and depart along the frozen stretch of Quintessence Street. I’m really sick of this city. A man can’t live an honest life here any more. The whole place is degenerate. If the Orcs burn the place down they’ll be doing us all a favour.

There are few people about on Quintessence Street. I realise I’m not carrying my sleep spell or any other form of sorcerous protection. I’d have to look at the written spell in my grimoire to learn it again. Which of course would mean going to my office. Another reason to curse Makri and her friends. Only a few hours ago I was attacked in the street. For all I know, another band of assailants could be on their way at this moment. I wonder who they were and who sent them. If anyone in the city is feeling nervous because of my current investigation, they must imagine I’ve made a lot more progress than I actually have.

A voice from a doorway calls out my name. A ragged figure, shivering in the cold. It’s Kerk. An informer of mine, or used to be. These days he’s so deep in his dwa addiction he’s not much use for anything, except begging.

“I’ve got something for you,” he says, eagerly.

“What?”

Kerk holds out his hand for money.

“It’s a long time since you gave me any useful information.”

Kerk is in a bad way. He’s little more than skin and bones. Doesn’t look like he’s eaten for weeks. Whatever small amounts of money he can raise are spent on dwa.

From the look of him I’d say he was unlikely to make it through the winter. I take out a few coins and hand them over, more from memory of service he’s given me in the past than any expectation that he might know anything useful.

“So what have you got?”

“You’re investigating Galwinius, right?”

“Right.”

“The same day that Galwinius was murdered, the Guards found another body in Thamlin. Oraxin. He was a dwa dealer. Small time.”

“So?”

“Oraxin did some work for Galwinius.”

“What sort of work?”

“Informing.”

According to Kerk, Oraxin enhanced his income by taking any useful information he came across to Prefect Galwinius. As a dealer in dwa, Oraxin might occasionally have learned something that would interest the Prefect.

“How did he die?”

“Stab wounds. They haven’t arrested anyone.”

I give Kerk another coin and walk off. Might be useful. An informant working for Galwinius, murdered on the same day. It could be connected. More likely Oraxin was murdered over dwa, a common fate for a small-time dealer.

At the Guards station the Captain is as pleased to see me as ever, which is to say, not at all. We go back a long way, the Captain and I. We fought together. And we worked together for a while, when I was employed by Palace Security and the Captain had a better job up town.

Since I left the Palace and set up on my own, the Captain hasn’t been so friendly. The Guards don’t have a lot of time for private Investigators. And since the Captain was manoeuvred out of his comfy job and sent to pound the streets in Twelve Seas, he’s not exactly been friendly with anyone. I sympathise with Rallee, more or less. He’s an honest man in a city where it doesn’t pay to be honest. He’s a large man, long fair hair tied back, still handsome in his black uniform, better preserved than me. “How’s life in the Guards?”

“Better than rowing a slave galley,” growls the Captain. “What do you want?”

“I had a hunch you might want to see me.”

Captain Rallee looks confused. Lisutaris’s spell of bafflement has wiped a small part of his memory. For a day or two, he’ll have a feeling that something happened, something he can’t quite remember. After that he’ll forget all about it. Lisutaris is a powerful woman, no doubt about it.

“I did want to see you, now you mention it. About a pile of bodies in Saint Rominius’s Lane. Not far from the Avenging Axe. You know anything about it?”

“Nothing at all. Probably some dwa-related violence.”

It might have been wiser to tell the Captain about the attack, but it just comes naturally to deny everything to the Guards. Unusually, the Captain lets it pass without probing further.

“Dwa-related violence? Maybe. Wasn’t anyone we recognised from the trade, though. Not that I care much right now. If you’ve got some gang on your tail you can sort it out yourself. I’m busy with more important things.”

“Like what?”

“Like espionage. We got word there’s some spying going on in the city. All guards to be on the lookout for strangers, unexplained events, that sort of thing. I just wanted to let you know. You’re still a Tribune for a few more weeks—God help the city—so I had to notify you. But if you come across anything strange, make sure you report it to me.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Strange things happen to me all the time, Captain. But I generally don’t go running to the Civil Guards.”

“Forget the attitude,” snaps the Captain. “This is war, not one of your petty cases. If you get wind of anything strange going on, you tell me about it. Or Prefect Drinius, if you prefer. Though I doubt he’ll be that keen on meeting you, seeing as you’re trying to protect the man who murdered his fellow Prefect.”

“Which brings me nicely to the reason for my visit, Captain. I can’t get an angle on the case.”

“And?”

“And I was wondering what you might have heard.”

The Captain stares at me for a long time.

“I am talking to Thraxas the Investigator, right?”

“I believe so.”

“Would that be the same Thraxas who sent me to sleep with a spell last summer?” he demands.

“I was engaged in vital government work, Captain. You know they exonerated me.”

“I know Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, got the charges dropped,” says the Captain. “I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now. I gave up helping you a long time ago, Thraxas. Take a walk.”

M
y office desk is an old piece of furniture, stained almost black with beer, smoke and the sweat of vain endeavour. It’s large and ugly. Not easy on the eye. Something that could also be said about me. I’m sitting in front of said desk staring at a list of names. Names of people I’ve asked about the scroll Galwinius was carrying when he died. Twenty people or so, mostly Senators and government officials. Tracking them down and questioning them hasn’t been easy. Nor has it been productive. Most of them don’t even remember that Galwinius was carrying anything. Or so they claim. Even those Senators who were previously supporters of Lodius seem to be uncooperative. Rittius isn’t the only one deserting his leader. It is a good time for Consul Kalius to press his attack against Senator Lodius. With the war approaching, no one wants to be seen as disloyal.