Thraxas - The Complete Series (192 page)

“I brought it down in a wagon. She said to tell you it was for saving her life.”

I pause.

“Possibly I spoke harshly. What is it?”

Makri shrugs.

“I lost interest a while ago.”

I’m deflated. I wasn’t ready to stop complaining yet.

“This doesn’t excuse her getting me involved with Herminis.”

Makri curses me for a fool, yawns, and departs to her room. I hurry downstairs to take a look at my gift. I can’t remember when anyone last sent me a present. Maybe my wife, on my wedding day. That was more years ago than I care to remember. My wife, wherever she is now, probably wouldn’t want to remember it either.

The tavern is full of drinkers. There’s a very large crate behind the bar. Gurd is curious as to the contents, as are Viriggax and his squadron of northern mercenaries. I ignore them all and drag the box upstairs. If Lisutaris has sent me anything good, I’m not going to share it with a bunch of drunken mercenaries.

I wrench the lid off, drag out some padding, then start emptying the contents on to the table. There’s a layer of bottles, and the very first one I take out makes me stop and stare. It’s a bottle of klee with three golden moons painted on the side. I know what that means. It’s the Abbot’s Special Distillation, a brand of klee so rare and fine as to never be seen in Turai outside the Imperial Palace and a few exclusive residences in Thamlin. Compared to the klee I normally drink it’s like … like … well, there’s no comparison. The only time in my life I drank this was at a banquet at the Palace, and even then I had to sneak it off the Consul’s table. I place the bottle reverently on my table and find there are three more in the box. Four bottles of the Abbot’s Special Distillation, made with love and care by the most talented monks in the mountains. Already I can feel my worries fading away.

I burrow further into the box and drag out another bottle, this one being thicker, of brown glass, with fancy calligraphy on the label. As I recognise what it is, my legs go slightly weak. The Grand Abbot’s Dark Ale, a brew so precious, so fine in every way, as to be the only beer ever deemed fit for the King. Beer is not normally imbibed by the city’s wine-quaffing elite, but an exception is made for the Grand Abbot’s Dark Ale. I doubt if the monastery that produces it brews more than fifty barrels a year, and every one of them goes to the Palace. So famous is the Grand Abbot’s Dark Ale that a barrel of it was once used as part of a treaty with the Simnians. This beer is the finest beverage in the known world, and I haven’t had a drop for more than ten years. Lisutaris, a woman I have always held in the highest regard, has sent me eight bottles. I dab a little moisture from my eyes. Beer like this just doesn’t come to a man more than once in a lifetime.

Underneath the beer is a small sack of thazis, but not the dried brown leaves we normally have to put up with in Twelve Seas. This is moist, green, and pungent. Thazis grown by Lisutaris herself. Again, I’m amazed. The sorceress is devoted to thazis. Not only does she have a house in her garden with walls made of glass, specially for growing the plants—an unheard-of extravagance—she has actually developed a spell for making the plants grow faster. There is no finer thazis anywhere, and she’s sent me enough to get through the winter, and more.

Underneath the thazis are six bottles of Elvish wine. I’m not a connoisseur of wine but I know, from the standard of the other goods, that this will be from the finest vineyard on the finest grape-growing Elvish isle. At the bottom of the box is an enormous joint of venison, wrapped in an unusual fold of muslin. It doesn’t seem to be dried, or salted, as venison usually is in winter. There’s a note pinned to it.

From the King’s own forest. Will stay fresh till you want to eat it
.

My senses pick up the tiniest flicker of sorcery. The joint is magically protected against ageing. I place it with the other goods on my table then sit down to stare in wonder. Four bottles of klee, eight bottles of ale, six bottles of wine, a bag of thazis and a joint of venison. All of a quality never seen in this part of town. It’s an outstanding gift. I’m man enough to admit that I was wrong about the Mistress of the Sky. She’s a fine woman and a credit to the city. A powerful Sorcerer and sharp as an Elf’s ear. I’ve always said so. Long may she lead the Sorcerers Guild to greater glory.

Before retiring for the night I carefully place locking spells on both my doors. No disreputable inhabitant of Twelve Seas is going to get his hands on my excellent present.

N
ext morning I wake feeling more cheerful than I have for weeks. Even the prospect of food shortages can’t dim the enthusiasm of a man who’s got eight bottles of the Grand Abbot’s Dark Ale waiting for his attention. I’m tempted to open one for breakfast but I restrain myself, with an effort. I should wait till I return from guard duty and savour the brew when I’m warm and comfortable. I decide to make do with a little of Lisutaris’s thazis instead, and construct a stick of modest size. As I inhale, the world, already not looking so bad, improves considerably.

There are some strange noises outside my inner door, the one that leads down to the bar. Normally I’d be annoyed at such an early interruption to my day but I wander over genially and drag the door open. Out in the corridor I find Palax and Kaby, two young street musicians. There was a time when I’d have been displeased to see them because the young couple are not what you’d call your standard citizens of Turai. They affect the strangest clothes and hairstyles and have facial piercings never seen before in the city, and they live in a caravan which they park behind the tavern. Not the sort of behaviour to endear themselves to the average Turanian, including me. However, I’ve grown used to them these days, and I’ve enjoyed some good nights in the Avenging Axe when they’ve been playing their lute and fiddle.

“We need help,” says Palax, anxiously. I notice that Kaby is trembling. I scowl at them.

“Didn’t I tell you dwa would kill you?”

Dwa, a powerful drug, has been the bane of the city in recent years.

“She hasn’t take dwa. She’s sick.”

I look more closely at the girl. Her face is red, she’s shivering, and sweat is glistening on her forehead. It’s obvious what’s wrong. I’d have noticed right away had it not been for the unusual potency of Lisutaris’s green thazis.

“She’s got the winter malady,” I say.

“I know,” says Palax. “I think she’s going to die.”

Kaby suddenly sneezes. I step back quickly. The winter malady is not quite as deadly as the summer plague, but it’s bad enough. As the city is so crowded I wouldn’t be surprised if we were in for an epidemic. Kaby begins to shake, quite violently.

“Palax. Pick up Kaby and take her to the empty guest room at the end of the corridor. Keep her warm with a blanket and give her water and nothing else. Don’t leave the room and don’t let anyone else in. The malady spreads quickly and if anyone else comes near they’ll catch it.”

“Is she going to die?” asks Palax, looking quite desperate.

“No. She’s young and strong. She’ll be better in a few days. Now get her out of here and along to the guest room. I’ll get the healer.”

Palax does as I say. He has some difficulty carrying Kaby but I don’t offer to help. I’ve had the winter malady before and it’s commonly believed this makes a man less liable to get it again, but I don’t feel like taking the risk. The disease isn’t usually fatal but it’s unpredictable. There have been times when it’s struck with unusual ferocity. People can die from it. I drink some klee then go downstairs to tell Gurd the bad news in private. Gurd is alarmed.

“How bad is she?”

“Couldn’t tell. The malady always looks bad at the start.”

“What’ll I do?” asks Gurd.

I’m not certain. Any case of the winter malady breaking out in a public building should be reported to the local Prefect’s office. Unfortunately the Prefect can then impose a quarantine. If Gurd reports Kaby’s illness to Prefect Drinius he’s liable to see the Avenging Axe shut for at least a week, and that’s a lot of business to lose. He could just keep quiet about it, which is fine if Kaby recovers and no one learns of it. But if the Prefect discovers what’s happened, there’ll be trouble.

Gurd chews his lip.

“Three years ago that silversmith from Lorn took the malady. He just stayed in his room and he got better. I didn’t report it then…”

I remember. The incident passed off harmlessly enough. The winter malady often does. Some years very few people catch it, and it doesn’t seem virulent enough to kill. Unfortunately there have been years when it’s been a lot worse. My younger brother died of the winter malady, a long time ago. A lot of people died of it that year. Gurd decides to look in on Kaby, judge her condition, then visit Chiaraxi the healer in private. Chiaraxi is a friend, and won’t close him down if it doesn’t seem necessary. I watch him hurry upstairs then walk over to the counter for a beer. Makri is serving.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Have you heard of Moolifi?”

Makri shakes her head.

“She’s a singer up at the Golden Unicorn.”

Makri sneers. I raise my eyebrows.

“How did a barmaid who grew up in a gladiator slave pit become such a snob?”

“I am not a snob,” retorts Makri.

“Oh no? You sneer at anything that wasn’t written five hundred years ago by some obscure Elvish bard.”

“I sneer at anything which involves the performer taking her clothes off before the end of the first chorus.”

“Well it might brighten up some of these musty old Elvish plays. Besides, I hear Moolifi has a terrific voice.”

“From who?”

“From Captain Rallee. Who has apparently been stepping out with Moolifi for the past week.”

It’s an interesting snippet of news, even for Makri, who’s not normally one for gossip. Captain Rallee did use to be something of a lady’s man, but generally these days he’s too busy to pursue them. He’s in charge of one of the local Civil Guards posts, and with half his men absent on war duty, he’s even more overworked than usual.

“He’s as happy as an Elf in a tree. He’s been strutting round with her on his arm, making the locals jealous.”

I muse for a while on the Captain, and his new lady. I’ve never seen her perform.

“I haven’t been up to the Golden Unicorn for a while.”

“Are you feeling the need for some exotic dancers?”

“No. But there’s a big game of rak played there every week, lot of rich players. I’d like to sit down at a table with some of them.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Can’t afford it,” I admit. “A man needs a lot of money before he can play cards with Praetor Capatius and General Acarius.”

“You gamble too much,” says Makri.

I point out to Makri that she herself has not been averse to the odd wager since arriving in Turai.

“Only because of your bad influence.”

“Bad influence? I’d call it rounding out your personality. All you used to do was work and study. These days you’re slightly less unbearable.”

Tanrose is further along behind the bar, ladling out stew to Viriggax and a few of his mercenaries. When she’s filled their bowls she hurries over to me and leans across the bar, lowering her voice so as not to be heard by anyone else.

“Thraxas. I need to consult you.”

“You mean an investigation?”

Tanrose nods.

“I’m due for guard duty right now. Can it wait till I get back?”

Tanrose nods, and I tell her to come to my office when my shift at the walls ends. I’ve no idea what she might want me to investigate, but as she’s the finest cook ever seen at the Avenging Axe, I’m more than willing to give her whatever help she requires.

I
have two magic warm cloaks. The first one is a fairly inefficient garment. Keeps out the chill for a while but soon starts to lose its potency. I made it myself but my sorcerous powers just aren’t up to the task these days. The cloak which Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, made for me is much better. She put a spell on it which only needs a word from me to revitalise it each day. The cloak stays warm for a long time. I’ve done enough soldiering in freezing weather to appreciate the favour. Not that Lisutaris didn’t owe me a favour or two, as I pointed out to Makri, with some justice. As do various others, I reflect, during my long spell on the walls. I gaze out into the frozen waste below with a feeling of dissatisfaction. I’ve fought for this city. I’ve lived here, worked here, paid taxes. I’ve sorted out the problems of the rich and poor. My investigating talents have helped keep Lisutaris in her job and Deputy Consul Cicerius out of disgrace. And where has it got me? Two rooms above a tavern in the poorest part of town with little prospect of improvement.