Thraxas - The Complete Series (185 page)

“I can make out some of it. But there are words I’ve never seen before. I can probably work it out given time; it looks like some old form of the dialect they speak in Gzak. Like the Orcish their Sorcerers use, I think.”

“Okay. But what about the bits you can read? Does the heading say something about feeding dragons?”

“Not feeding,” says Makri. “Transporting.”

“Transporting?”

With an Orcish army on the way, anything about transporting dragons can’t be good news.

“Where did this come from?”

I tell Makri about Bevarius. Makri asks if the Consul’s assistant was working alone. I admit I’m not sure.

“Someone killed him before I could finish my interrogation.”

I examine the betting slip. Not an official slip from one of Turai’s bookmakers but the sort of note a man might make to record some bet between friends, or maybe a note to remind him who was gambling on what when he went to place the bet. Might not be important. All classes in Turai place bets on the races.

“You were right about the poison. It wasn’t carasin. Something similar, but slower working. Bevarius poisoned the pastry in—”

I stop. Where did Bevarius poison the pastry? Not in the kitchen. The cook said no one entered the kitchen. In the corridor? Maybe. But if he did, it didn’t show up in Lisutaris’s sorcerous reconstruction of the scene, even with her improved pictures. Maybe the Consul did it. He was definitely around the food trolleys. But somehow I can’t see Kalius injecting poison into a pastry in the corridor, not when he was due to negotiate a loan from a moneylender. Kalius isn’t cool-headed enough to do all that. Everything seems to be pointing towards the Consul but I’m hesitant. I just don’t see him as a murderer. Incompetent, yes. Greedy, to an extent. But not murderous. The whole affair sounds much more like the work of a ruthless man like Rittius. There’s a man who’d have no qualms about organising a few deaths. And I could easily see him betraying the city for money.

Unfortunately nothing points in his direction, and he was never in a position to poison the pastry. Now I think about it, he was alone in the corridor with Bevarius for a while. Neither of them was near the food though. Bevarius’s partner in crime has to be someone else.

I ask Makri where Herminis is and she says they’ve moved her to a secret location.

“Is that secret location my office?”

“No.”

I leave her to translate the Orcish paper while I go downstairs and get myself outside a substantial helping of everything on the menu. It takes more than a brush with death to affect my appetite. Viriggax and his mercenaries are drinking steadily at a table nearby. Young Toraggax is pouring a huge flagon of ale down his throat, urged on by his companions. Being new to the brigade, he doesn’t want to lag behind in the drinking, but he’s looking a little the worse for wear. As he finishes the tankard, Viriggax claps him heartily on the back and pushes another one into his hand.

I find myself nodding off in the chair, so I take myself off to my room, drink a last beer, then fall asleep.

Deep into the night I’m woken by noises outside. Someone is clumping around in the corridor. It’s long past the hour when anyone in the tavern should be awake. I throw on a tunic, grab my sword and whisper a word to my illuminated staff, bringing forth a dim light, I open my door carefully, wary of attackers. Some way along the corridor I find Makri in the process of hauling an unconscious Toraggax out of her room. Makri’s a lot stronger than she looks but she’s having some difficulty in moving the huge mercenary.

“Need a hand?”

Makri spins round and looks guilty.

“No,” she replies.

I look down at the unconscious man.

“What happened? You slug him when he tried to sneak into your room?”

“He didn’t sneak in. He knocked on the door and I let him in.”

“And you slugged him when he started getting amorous?”

“I didn’t slug him at all,” replies Makri. “He just fell over drunk.”

I nod.

“Too much beer. He was trying to keep up with Viriggax.”

I’m puzzled.

“Why did you let a drunken mercenary into your room without punching him?”

Makri shrugs.

“No reason.”

“So what happened?”

“What do you mean, what happened? He came in, then he fell over unconscious. What’s it got to do with you anyway?”

“Nothing. If you want to start inviting mercenaries into your bedroom it’s your affair.”

“I didn’t invite him into my bedroom. He just arrived.”

Makri suddenly glances over my shoulder. I look round to find that Hanama has arrived on the scene, quite noiselessly. The Assassin looks slightly confused at the sight that greets her.

“What are you doing here?” I demand. “How did you get into the tavern?”

“I picked the lock. What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” says Makri.

“She’s just evicting a drunken mercenary,” I explain.

“Did he try to break into your room?”

“No,” I say. “She invited him in.”

Hanama frowns.

“You’re inviting mercenaries into your room? When did this start?”

“Nothing has started,” says Makri, raising her voice. “He just knocked on my door and I let him in. I don’t see anything strange in that.”

“I think it’s very strange,” says Hanama, who, for some reason, is not sounding at all pleased. “You’ve never done it before.”

“She’s right,” I agree. “It’s not like you at all. Usually you’d just punch the guy.”

“Or maybe kick him,” says Hanama.

“Or even stab him.”

“Shut up,” says Makri crossly. “It’s none of your business.”

I notice a few leaves projecting from Hanama’s winter cloak.

“Are those flowers?”

“No,” says Hanama.

“Yes they are.”

“Well so what if they are?”

Assassins are trained from a young age to hide their emotions. Even so, for the briefest of moments I’d swear a look of embarrassment flickers across Hanama’s face.

“Did you bring them for me?” asks Makri.

“No,” says Hanama. “I just had them on me.”

She pauses.

“Unless you want them. You can have them if you want.”

“Thank you,” says Makri.

“Of course,” says Hanama, “if you’re too busy with the mercenary…”

“I’m not busy with anything.”

Hanama suddenly looks cross.

“I do think it’s very strange that you’re suddenly inviting northern mercenaries into your room late at night. Did you really think about the consequences?”

“Goddammit,” explodes Makri. “I didn’t know I had to ask permission before I had visitors!”

Heavy footsteps on the stairs announce the arrival of Gurd. He walks up, torch in hand, wondering what all the noise is.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” says Makri.

“She has drunken mercenaries in her room,” says Hanama, quite sharply.

“Is this true?” demands Gurd.

“Only partially,” replies Makri.

Gurd looks down at the unconscious figure of Toraggax.

“Did you punch him?”

“What is this with me punching people?” demands Makri. “You all seem to think I spend my whole time punching everyone.”

“Well you do,” says Gurd.

“She didn’t have to punch him,” says Hanama. “She just invited him right into her room.”

“What for?”

“We’re not exactly clear about that,” I say.

There are some softer footsteps on the stairs. Tanrose has arrived. She’s clad in a very fancy robe, embroidered with yellow roses.

“What’s happening?”

“Makri punched a mercenary,” says Gurd, who hasn’t quite got the picture yet.

“I didn’t punch him,” protests Makri. “I invited him in.”

“So you just come right out and admit it?” says Hanama.

Gurd suddenly becomes suspicious, and looks at Makri and Hanama.

“Are you having a meeting? You know I told you you couldn’t have meetings of the Association of Gentlewomen in my tavern.”

“It’s not a meeting,” says Makri.

“Because I absolutely forbid it.”

“Yes, I heard you the first time,” says Makri, testily.

“Why can’t they have meetings?” says Tanrose.

“Why? You expect my tavern to become a meeting place for these appalling women with their constant complaints? I will not put up with women who hate men.”

“How can you say that Makri hates men?” objects Tanrose. “She’s just told us that she’s been inviting mercenaries to spend the night with her.”

“Has Makri been inviting mercenaries to spend the night with her?” says Dandelion, appearing in a nightrobe so bright it would serve as a beacon. She looks at Makri.

“Is that wise? Did you really think about the consequences?”

“That’s exactly what I said,” cries Hanama.

“Hello, Hanama,” says Dandelion. “Those are nice flowers. Did you bring them for Makri?”

“No,” says Hanama, sharply. “I just found them outside.”

Dandelion looks down at the prone figure of Toraggax.

“If you invited him to spend the night with you, why did you knock him unconscious?”

“I didn’t knock him unconscious,” says Makri.

Dandelion looks troubled.

“Did you stab him? Is he dead?”

“Could everybody just leave me alone?” demands Makri.

“Well of course,” says Hanama, icily. “I wouldn’t have visited if I’d known you were engaged in a secret rendezvous with the virile young Toraggax.”

“I was not engaged in anything!” roars Makri.

“Is this a meeting?” asks Dandelion, eagerly. “Will you let me join the Association of Gentlewomen now?”

It isn’t the most helpful thing Dandelion could have said. The corridor seems to erupt in a very loud series of accusations, counteraccusations and general bad temper. Gurd, Tanrose, Makri and Hanama yell at each other while Dandelion stands there grinning like an idiot. Realising that pre-war dementia has now set in and there’s nothing to be done about it, I retreat back to my rooms. At least no one seems to be yelling at me. Which should make me feel good, I suppose, though I don’t seem to be in the best of moods as I climb back into my bed.

T
he landus making its way slowly along Moon and Stars Boulevard contains three rather moody passengers. Gurd, Makri and I sit in silence as the driver negotiates his way through the icy streets. Our phalanxes are scheduled for practice. The weather is far too severe but the Consul has decreed that it must go ahead anyway. As for Makri, she’s on her way to Lisutaris’s villa. The Sorcerers Guild are due to appear on the field later today and Makri is required to take up her duties as bodyguard. She’s carrying her armour in a bag on her lap. Also in the bag is the paper I took from Bevarius. Makri has been unable to translate some of the Orcish sorcerous terminology but it seems to concern the magical transporting of dragons, so Lisutaris should examine it.

Gurd has hardly spoken a word since we climbed into the landus. I presume this is due to last night’s disagreement with Makri, though it’s unlike Gurd to bear a grudge. Our landus is halted by a road block. The Civil Guards are checking every carriage, looking for Herminis. A guard pokes his head inside, then waves us through. Though the city is already in crisis, the sensational prison breakout of the Senator’s wife has not failed to grip the public’s imagination. The
Chronicle
is reporting that an armed gang, aided by Sorcerers, freed the woman from her place of captivity and are currently being hunted by every Civil Guard in town.

“You’ve really landed me in it this time,” I mutter to Makri, softly, so that Gurd won’t hear.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” whispers Makri. “Lisutaris and Tirini have got everything hidden.”

“I’m not ready,” blurts out Gurd, unexpectedly.

“What?”

“I’m not ready to get married.”

Not feeling that it is quite the time to discuss this, I make no reply, but Gurd seems insistent. He grabs my arm.

“You saw how Tanrose took Makri’s side against me last night. How can we get married? Why did you talk me into it?”

“What?”

Gurd looks pained.

“Why did you insist that I married Tanrose? I’m not ready.”

“I didn’t—”

“I saved your life at the Battle of Ekinsbrog!” says Gurd. “And this is how you repay me!”

I shake my head. He’s a sorry sight.

“Don’t worry. We’ll all be dead before the ceremony.”

“What if we’re not?” says Gurd. “If I survive the war I’ll still have to get married.”

“Yes, no happy solution there,” says Makri, icily. “Maybe you should just ask Tanrose if she wouldn’t mind cooking and cleaning for you for the rest of your life and just forgetting the marriage bit.”

“Don’t you take that tone with me!” says Gurd, angrily. “And how dare you have these meetings in my tavern. And steal beer from the cellars!”

Makri looks accusingly at me.

“You told him about that?”

“He didn’t need to!” yells Gurd. “You think I didn’t notice?”

“If you’d pay me better I’d be able to buy my own beer,” says Makri.

“You’re fired!”

“Fine. I quit anyway. Remind me never to enter your disgusting tavern again.”

“You will never be allowed in my disgusting tavern again.”