Thraxas - The Complete Series (19 page)

Makri raises her eyebrows. Sweat is running down her body, making her muscles glisten. She’s been listening, but still refuses to acknowledge me.

I wonder why the Church would want the Elvish Cloth. There could be any number of reasons. Maybe just to sell it. Or perhaps the Bishop needs to do some secret planning without getting spied on by the other Bishops. Gzekius is an ambitious man, it’s about time he made a try for the Archbishopric. It seems to fit together well enough. And if I’m right, then the Red Elvish Cloth should be somewhere in the Church’s possession right now.

“It might even be in Derlex’s church. And if it is, I’m going to find it! Are you free tonight?”

Makri glowers at me. “No. I’m studying. You’re on your own.”

She grabs a tablecloth, savagely wipes a few tables, then stalks off through the back to bring in a box of tankards. Tanrose appears carrying a large chunk of beef for the lunchtime stew. I buy a pastry and tell her about Makri being mad at me. Tanrose already knows all about it.

“She’s angrier than a Troll with a toothache,” says Tanrose. “But she’ll get over it.”

“I need her help tonight. Any suggestions for helping her get over it quickly?”

“Bring her some flowers,” says the cook.

The suggestion is so strange that at first I fail to grasp what she means. “Flowers? What for?”

“To say sorry of course.”

“Say sorry with flowers? To Makri? You mean go out and buy some flowers and give them to Makri as a present? As a way of saying sorry? Flowers?”

“That’s right.”

“Are we talking about the same Makri here? Makri the axe woman?”

“Just because a woman wields an axe doesn’t mean she wouldn’t appreciate a bunch of flowers.”

“She’d probably attack me with them.”

“You’d be surprised,” says Tanrose, and gets on with hacking up the lump of beef.

Tanrose must be losing her mind. Flowers for Makri, indeed! The idea makes my head hurt. Right then Praetor Cicerius walks in, accompanied by the Consul himself. Well, well. I certainly get a higher class of visitor these days.

Cicerius tersely relates that the city is fast degenerating into chaos. The fighting between the Brotherhood and the Society of Friends has reached new heights and the Civil Guard is losing control.

“I’ve advised the King to suspend the constitution,” says Consul Kalius, “and send in the Army.”

I imagine the King will be hesitant to do this. The Populares might come out in open revolution. Various generals are suspected of being supporters of Senator Lodius, and there’s no knowing how obedient the Army would be.

“We’re facing complete anarchy,” complains Cicerius. “The Traditionals must retain power if the city is to survive. Did you get the letter?”

I admit that I didn’t. This doesn’t go down too well. I relate the events of the previous day, more or less. I don’t explain exactly how Sarin the Merciless ended up with the dwa and the letter. Cicerius and Kalius are aghast and berate me for my failure. The Consul openly implies that I’m fabricating the whole story about the dragon in the Fairy Glade just to make my failure look better, and wonders out loud if I might not have sold the dwa for myself.

I haven’t had enough sleep. I never get enough sleep. It’s hot as Orcish hell in here. My head is pounding. I can’t take much more of this. I point to the door and order them to leave. The Consul is shocked. As Turai’s most powerful administrator, he’s not used to being shown the door.

“How dare you!” he rages.

“Why not? I’m a free man. I don’t have to listen to anyone calling me a liar, even the Consul. Especially when I’ve got a headache. I did my best. If that best isn’t good enough, then tough. Now leave.”

Cicerius waves this away. “This is no time for squabbling,” he states. “If the Society of Friends obtains—”

I wave him quiet. I’m in no mood for speeches. “I know. Prince disgraced, your son disgraced. Traditionals disgraced, you lose election, Populares win, Lodius marches to power. That’s the scenario according to you. I’ve heard it before. What do you expect me to do?”

“Find the letter,” says the Praetor.

“I already failed.”

“Then you must try again. Don’t forget, my son Cerius is your client. The letter will send him to prison.”

I frown. I hate the way Cicerius keeps pulling the “can’t desert a client” routine. I wish I’d never heard of the damn client. It’s too hot to think clearly. What will Sarin the Merciless do with the damning letter of credit? She won’t have any interest in using it for political means but she’ll certainly know how valuable it is to the King’s opponents. The Populares are the obvious people to sell it to, and easy for her to reach, because Senator Lodius is supported by the Society of Friends, and Sarin’s associate Glixius is himself associated with the Society. I don’t even know if they are still working together. It seems like Sarin might have gone off on her own. Double-crossing your associates is standard behaviour in the Turanian underworld.

“We still might be able to buy it back, but it would cost you plenty to outbid the Society. Be better if we could just steal it. Haven’t your Sorcerers been able to locate her? She’s carrying six bags of dwa. Someone should be able to pick up the aura.”

“Tas of the Eastern Lightning has scanned the city without finding anything.”

Tas of the Eastern Lightning has taken over from the murdered Mirius Eagle Rider as the Chief Sorcerer at Palace Security. He’s powerful enough. If he can’t find it by magic, probably no one can.

The call for morning prayers resonates through the city. The Consul and the Praetor are less than pleased to be obliged to kneel and pray in a tavern, but there’s no getting out of it. I find myself kneeling in prayer beside a blue-edged toga and a gold-edged one. I notice my own tunic is frayed. I wonder if my prayers will have some extra effect, seeing as they’re being offered up in such high-powered company. Afterwards we discuss things for a while and I agree to do my utmost to locate Sarin. They depart, still brushing the dust from their knees.

Makri reappears and starts cleaning the debris off the floor. I appeal to her better nature and tell her I could really do with some help tonight. She refuses to talk, and practically sweeps me up with the rubbish. I catch Tanrose looking at me from behind a vast cauldron of beef stew.

“To hell with this,” I grunt, and storm out the front entrance. Baxos the flower seller has plied his trade on the corner of Quintessence Street for thirty years. I estimate it is twenty years at least since I availed myself of his services. He practically falls over in surprise when I march up and demand a bunch of flowers.

“Hey Rox,” he calls over to a fish vendor on the other side of the road. “Thraxas is buying some flowers.”

“Got a lady friend, has he?” yells back Rox, loud enough for the entire street to hear.

“Time you were courting again, Thraxas!” screams Birix, one of Twelve Seas’ busier prostitutes. The cry is taken up enthusiastically by her companions.

I grab a bunch of flowers, toss some pennies at Rox and march off hastily, pursued by a great deal of ribald witticisms. I am in the foulest of tempers and will have more than a few harsh words to say to that idiot Tanrose.

Back at the Avenging Axe I practically crash into Makri and her mop. I thrust the flowers into her hand, figuring it’s best to get it over with quickly.

“I’m sorry I put you to sleep in front of an opponent,” I say. “Here are some flowers.”

Makri gawps in amazement while I march swiftly onwards to the bar for a much needed flagon of ale.

Almost immediately I am tapped on the shoulder. It’s Makri, who then proceeds to do a number of strange things. First she embraces me, then she burst into tears, and runs out of the room.

I’m bewildered. “What’s happening?”

“The apology worked,” replies Tanrose, in a satisfied manner.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“It all seems very strange to me, Tanrose.”

“I wasn’t surprised your marriage broke up, Thraxas,” says Tanrose, as she shovels some stew on to a plate for me.

I
spend the afternoon drinking a few beers, thinking things over, and swapping tales with a mercenary from the far north. He passed through Nioj on his way to Turai and from his account it sounds as if the Niojans are preparing for war.

“They say they heard some rumours that some Orcs were marauding on the borders.”

It could be true. Or it could be a story put about to deceive our King into thinking they weren’t about to attack us. It’s bound to happen some time, and they still have the excuse of their murdered diplomat. Cities have fallen on flimsier excuses than that.

Could the Church have murdered him? Would Bishop Gzekius go that far? Maybe. I have no other candidates in mind.

Makri returns from her lunchtime logic class. She does appear to have been pacified by the flowers. Apparently no one ever gave her flowers before. Smart idea from Tanrose, I must admit, though Makri is embarrassed at bursting into tears and instructs myself and Tanrose never to mention it to anyone.

Makri reports that things are pretty grim outside. She had to fight her way through three street brawls on the way to the Guild College.

“I have a lecture in mathematics this afternoon,” she says. “I’d better sharpen my axe before I go. Incidentally, Sarin the Merciless didn’t seem quite so useless as you made her out to be.”

“She got lucky. She’s learned how to use a crossbow. Big deal. Just wait till I meet her again. I suppose I will, now the Consul wants me to find her. But it’s going to have to wait because I’m going looking for the Red Elvish Cloth. Which is just as well maybe, because I’ve no idea where Sarin is. If Tas of the Eastern Lightning can’t find her, how do they expect me to? I wonder if Rittius is really planning to take away my licence. Cicerius might just be saying that to scare me. You know it’s rumoured Rittius is going to introduce a bill banning the Association of Gentlewomen?”

Makri nods. She attended an A.G. meeting last night and as a consequence has now gathered further knowledge of Turanian politics.

“It’s confusing,” she admits. “Some powerful women in the city are already campaigning behind the scenes against Rittius because he’s against the Association. But a lot of the Association of Gentlewomen still support the Populares because they’d like to see some reform. The meeting ended with everyone arguing.”

“I’m not surprised. No one in Turai can ever agree about politics. I’d like to take a holiday till it’s all over.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere I’m not wanted by the law. Which does limit the choice, now I think about it. I’ve violated statutes in every neighbouring state. Maybe I could travel to the furthest west and see what Kamara is like.”

“It’s not like you to admit defeat, Thraxas.”

“I know. But I really can’t think how to find Sarin. If Tas can’t find her, then no magic of mine or even Astrath’s is going to be any good. And I’ve got no influence in the north of the City. If she’s with the Society, I’ll never reach her.”

A messenger arrives for me, bearing a brief note: “
Come alone to the Stadium Superbius at midnight if you want to bid for the letter
,” it says. It’s signed by Sarin the Merciless.

“I suppose that simplifies things,” I admit. “Might end up a good day after all. Burgle Derlex’s church tonight and pick up the Cloth, then move on and buy the letter from Sarin. With any luck I’ll be paying off the Brotherhood tomorrow.”

“F
eel like going to church, Makri?”

“If we must.”

The streets are quiet, barely illuminated by the oil lamps on each corner. The whores have all gone home, and the only people in sight are the homeless beggars who sleep in doorways.

We make our way down to the end of Saint Volinius’s Street, right by the docks. Behind us the huge hulks of triremes and quinquiremes float high in the water, ready to take on cargo tomorrow. The sight makes me pause. I saw a fair amount of the known world in my younger days, but it’s been a good many years since I’ve travelled far from Turai. What would it be like, I wonder, to get on a ship and sail to Samsarina or Simnia in the west? Or further, to the distant, barely explored shores of Kastlin? South perhaps, to the Elvish Islands, where the sun shines on perfect white beaches and music floats through the trees? I shake my head. I’m too old to go travelling again. I guess I’ll be stuck in this city for the rest of my life.