Thraxas - The Complete Series (20 page)

In front of us is the large and imposing Church of Saint Volinius, the only richly decorated building in Twelve Seas. So far the dwa addicts haven’t started robbing the churches. It’s only a matter of time. No lights show though a lamp is visible in the window of the small house in the grounds where the Pontifex lives. We hurry to the back of the church. I hesitate. I’ve never broken into a church before and I don’t relish the prospect. Just because I can’t be bothered praying doesn’t mean I relish offending the Divinity. Makri sees my hesitation.

“If someone finds us here and I cut their head off the Divinity will be far more offended,” she says, encouragingly.

I mutter the opening incantation. Nothing happens. Not surprising. You’d expect a Pontifex like Derlex to know the common minor incantations, even if the Church does disapprove of magic.

“Locking spell,” I mutter, and get to work. It doesn’t take long. I was picking locks as soon as I could walk. I have a natural talent for it. We hurry inside. Makri takes one of the huge candles off the altar and lights it from her tinderbox. I get the impression she’s enjoying this sacrilegious behaviour but it’s making me uneasy. Shadows from the statues around us loom out eerily as we pass and I half expect some ancient saint to step out from an alcove and reprimand me for desecrating church property.

We start to hunt, lifting up the altar cloth, peering under the pews, poking around in all the nooks and crannies of the church. We haven’t got very far when we are interrupted by a faint noise from the door we came in. Makri swiftly blows out the candle and we disappear silently under a pew. A tiny glimmer of light flickers into view. I risk a quick glance, then put my mouth to Makri’s ear.

“Glixius,” I whisper. “And three others.”

Concealed under the bench, we wait as the Sorcerer and the Society of Friends search the church. Obviously I am not the only person who suspects the True Church of the theft.

Again noises come from the door. Glixius’s illuminated staff is extinguished and the four men conceal themselves somewhere in the far side of the church. I peek out from my hiding place. Entering the building, sword in hand, is Hanama. Watching her creep silently towards the altar I am again mystified by the Assassins’ interest in the Cloth.

Hanama has even less time to search than Glixius. She is interrupted almost immediately by the sound of yet another party entering, and swiftly conceals herself behind the altar, disappearing only seconds before Yubaxas and five Brotherhood men steal silently into the church.

“I think I’m going to laugh,” whispers Makri.

I shoot her a warning glance, though I have to admit it is funny in a grim sort of way. With us, the Society of Friends and an Assassin all hiding under chairs and suchlike, it’s starting to remind me of one of the sillier comedies at the theatre.

When sounds of entry force Yubaxas and his companions to scurry for cover, Makri actually does giggle, though this is fortunately covered up by the voices of the new arrivals who are making no effort to be silent. A quick glance reveals Bishop Gzekius and four Curates with lanterns, led in by Pontifex Derlex.

“Where is it?” demands Gzekius, his voice booming through the church.

Derlex unlocks a side room. They enter, and emerge quickly with a large piece of folded Red Cloth.

“Excellent,” says the Bishop.

I wait tensely. Are any of the people hiding here about to rob the Bishop? I certainly do not intend to, not even to clear the Princess’s name and claim the huge reward. I’d be in endless trouble afterwards. It’s disappointing that so many others worked out where the Red Elvish Cloth was, but I can live with the disappointment. It’s better than being hauled up in court for burglary, and probably heresy and treason as well.

The back door flies open. Shockingly, four Orcs stride in. The Bishop cries out in horror. Orcs are quite definitely not allowed in a true church. I groan. I know what’s going to happen now, but I’m powerless to prevent it. Makri leaps from under the pew and hurtles towards the Orcs, a sword in each hand and murder in her eyes. I drag myself to my feet and run after her. I can’t let her fight four Orcs on her own.

“Thraxas!” yells Pontifex Derlex.

“Orcs!” screams Yubaxas, as the Brotherhood reveal themselves.

It goes badly for the Orcs. Makri and I engage with them while the Brotherhood and Hanama outflank them. Even the Curates lend a hand. The Orcs are quickly cut down.

“Orcish scum,” spits Makri, and kicks one of the bodies.

“What are you doing here?” screams Bishop Gzekius.

Personally I’m stuck for an answer. The awkward silence doesn’t last long. There’s a huge thunder flash and everyone except me is flung to the floor. I remain upright, if shaky. One advantage of carrying a lot of weight—good centre of balance. Glixius Dragon Killer has emerged to enter the fray. He makes straight for the Cloth.

“I notice you didn’t come out to fight the Orcs,” I say as he advances, and grab the Red Elvish Cloth from the floor.

“Allies come and allies go. Now give me that!” he shouts.

“Blasphemers!” yells Bishop Gzekius. “You’ll all pay for this! Get out of my church!”

Glixius lunges at me. Makri sticks out her leg and he crashes to the floor. I take the Bishop’s advice, and flee with the Cloth.

By the time I reach the alley outside Makri is at my shoulder and we’re about fifteen seconds in front of Glixius and the Society of Friends.

“Look!” gasps Makri. At the far end of the dark alley are eight armed men.

Makri’s swords appear in her hands.

“We’re trapped,” I groan.

Bizarrely, a manhole cover opens in front of us.

“In here!” hisses a voice.

It’s Hanama. Typically, she slipped out of the Church unnoticed.

I hesitate. Meeting Assassins in sewers isn’t all that attractive a prospect. And I haven’t forgotten the alligator. Suddenly my senses go crazy. Glixius Dragon Killer has rounded the corner and is about to unleash a ferocious spell. I unfurl the roll of Cloth in an instant and hurl it over myself and Makri. The spell bounces harmlessly off us but Makri, taken by surprise by my unexpected manoeuvre, stumbles backwards into me and we both fall through the manhole into the stinking darkness below.

“Not again,” I groan as I struggle to my feet in the filth. Two visits to the sewers on one case seems excessive.

“Let’s go.”

I bundle up the Cloth as quickly as I can and we head off, while up above there is shouting and confusion.

I don’t know where we are. I’ve never been in this part of the sewers before, so I let Hanama lead. She carries a small lantern of cunning design which lights our way.

I’m not sure why I’m following her. I don’t think we’re allies. At least she’s taking me away from Glixius. I solemnly swear to myself that if I survive this night then I will make every sacrifice, including beer, to buy myself a new spell protection charm. They’re hideously expensive but I can’t go running scared from Sorcerers all the time, not in my line of work.

“Where are we going?”

“Exit on the shore,” replies Hanama, who seems entirely at home down in the sewers.

“Keep a look out for alligators,” I pant to Makri.

“I will,” she replies, and even she seems slightly worried by the prospect. We make good time. The level of sewage is low due to the long spell of hot weather. Water in Turai’s aqueducts has already started to run short. Hanama suddenly comes to a halt.

“We’re close to the exit.”

With that she abruptly douses her lamp. Before I realise what she’s up to she grabs the Cloth and tries to yank it from me. I hold on grimly and in consequence we both fall over and start rolling around in the filth, struggling for the Cloth. I’d say she was a more skilful close-combat fighter, but I have a weight advantage.

“Let go!” hisses Hanama. We struggle some more, till my senses again pick up an ominous warning.

“Glixius,” I yell. “Magic coming.”

“What’s that noise?” calls Makri, as a huge roaring starts reverberating through the tunnels.

“It sounds like a flood.”

“It can’t be, it’s summer.”

Suddenly and terrifyingly a huge wave of water surges through the tunnel, carrying us off with it. I’m buffeted and dragged along, unable to breath as the flood water carries us before it like rats. My last conscious thought is to curse Glixius Dragon Killer for unleashing such a thing. The man is completely heartless. I didn’t even know there was a flood water spell. Eventually I pass out, with visions of my past life flickering before my eyes.

I drift back to consciousness somewhere on the sea shore, beached like a whale. I cough and retch about ten gallons of water out of my lungs and rise unsteadily to my knees. It’s very dark and I can just make out the figure of Makri lying close by. As I struggle towards her she opens her eyes and turns on her side to spew out the water she’s swallowed.

“Still alive?”

“Just about,” mutters Makri, clambering to her feet. She’s relieved to find she still has both her swords. She brought them with her from the Orcish gladiator pits, and they’re fine weapons. Orcs might be hated the world over, but they make a fine blade. Then I notice something wrapped around my fingers. A strip of Red Cloth, ripped from the main roll. I stare at it glumly. I doubt if anyone will pay me a reward of six hundred gurans for this miserable fragment. I curse, and stuff it in my pocket. Hanama must have kept hold of the rest. As usual, she has now disappeared. With the Cloth. I curse.

“I can’t shake that damned woman off. She’s sharp as an Elf’s ear at this investigating business. How the hell did she know to come to the church?”

I haul myself up the rocky beach. I come to a halt, surprised. Lying prostrate beside a pool is the small figure of Hanama. As we approach she rolls over and groans. Makri hurries and kneels down beside her.

“Someone’s slugged her.”

The Assassin has a nasty wound on the back of her head. She comes round at the sound of our voices. Makri cradles her head and drips a little water from her flask into her mouth.

“Thanks, Makri,” says the Assassin. She struggles to her feet.

“What happened?”

“Someone hit me from behind. I was still spewing up water from the flood—”

“So where’s the Cloth?” I demand.

Hanama stares coolly at me, and turns on her heel. She makes her way up the beach, unsteadily. I stare after her, but don’t bother pursuing her. She wouldn’t answer questions from me if her life depended on it.

Two of the three moons are visible in the sky. Light from them glimmers on a rock about the size of my fist. I reach down and find it is sticky with still damp blood. Whoever hit the Assassin didn’t bother with anything fancy. I slip the rock into my pocket.

Makri and I reach the patch of waste ground that leads into the warehouses beside the harbour. Steam rises from my clothes in the heat of the night. At least the flood water washed off the sewage. We walk past a warehouse and turn the corner and there, right in front of us, is Glixius Dragon Killer. He looks bedraggled, as if he might have been caught up in his own flood.

“You—” he begins, and starts to raise his voice for a spell.

Nothing happens. His spells have run out. I smile.

“Too bad, Glixius,” I say, and punch him in the face as hard as I can. It’s a good punch. There’s a lot of feeling behind it, and a lot of weight. He goes down in a heap and stays there.

“Nice punch,” says Makri, admiringly.

“Thank you.”

After all this magic, there’s something very pleasing about a good punch.

We walk on. Part one of tonight’s mission is a failure. Let’s hope the next part goes better. We have an appointment with Sarin the Merciless but we don’t get far. Before we reach Quintessence Street three landuses hurtle up and screech to a halt beside us. Pontifexes, twelve of them, leap out and surround us. At least, they’re wearing priestly garments, but as they’re carrying swords and look like they know how to use them, I guess they belong to a fairly specialised division of the Church.

“Bishop Gzekius would like to see you.”

Makri’s hands go to her swords. I shake my head.

“Fine. I’ll be delighted to see the Bishop.”

We climb in and the landuses take us off through the still dark streets of the city.

The Head of the Church in Turai is Archbishop Xerius, who has four equally ranked Bishops under him. Gzekius’s parish includes Twelve Seas but he doesn’t live there of course. He lives in a very large villa up in Thamlin, where he gets his relief from ministering to the poor by sitting by his swimming pool eating delicacies from his own private fish ponds.

Gzekius is a large, powerful man, around fifty with thick grey hair. Ambitious too, though he conceals it fairly well under his normally placid exterior. I say normally, because when we are led in he looks far from peaceful. In fact he’s close to exploding and wastes no time in threatening me with arrest, excommunication and a lengthy visit to the prison galleys.

I regard him coolly while he thunders on about the desecration of churches and the general disgraceful state of the citizenry in Turai, particularly me. “It’s all very well threatening me, Bishop,” I say, when I can get a word in. “But I wouldn’t say you’re in too strong a position yourself. I doubt that the King will be very amused to hear that you stole the Cloth in the first place. Illegal for anyone but the King to have it, remember. And of course there’s also the matter of Attilan. Your man stole the spell from the garden. Had he murdered the diplomat before I got there?”

“How dare you accuse the True Church of murder!” fumes the Bishop.

“Not forgetting stealing a spell, and putting the King’s dragon to sleep, then hacking it to death. I’d say you might be joining me on the prison ship.”

I’d hoped to shake the Bishop with this. He doesn’t look shaken, but he does calm down a little.

“Neither myself nor the Church had any involvement in the theft of the Cloth.” He claims that he has no idea how the Cloth came to be in Derlex’s church. “Do you seriously expect anyone to believe that one Pontifex stole a dragon sleep spell from a Niojan diplomat while another helped cut the cloth out of the dragon?”