Thraxas - The Complete Series (26 page)

“I guess if you’ve extorted ten thousand gurans, it’s better not to have to share it,” said Makri when she hears the news. “Are you still keen to meet her again?”

“Absolutely. The sooner Sarin comes back to Turai the better. I could do with some reward money. I’ll soon show her who’s number one chariot around here.”

The Avenging Axe is being knocked back into shape. Here, as in the rest of Twelve Seas, architects and builders are engaged round the clock to put things right. Workmen are busy everywhere, sweating in the heat. Flocks of stals, displaced by fire from their old perches, fight for nesting space on the roofs of the new buildings. The King opens the royal vaults to pay for much of the work, which is very generous of him, although cynics might say he was merely buying his supporters’ victory in the elections.

Personally, I’m in good shape. A fat payment from Cicerius and an extra bonus from the Princess, not to mention the valuable double unicorn the Elves gave me as a retainer. Plus a solid reputation as a man who gets things done.

“So, are you moving back to Thamlin?” asks Makri, who is busier than ever, with thirsty bricklayers, roofers, glaziers and architects clamouring for drinks all day.

“Not yet, Makri. The Traditionals might think I’m a good Investigator but they don’t want me as a next-door neighbour. It’ll be a while yet before I’m invited back to the Palace.”

“Who’s going to win the election?”

“Probably Cicerius. Which is good for me. Except Senator Lodius and the Populares now really dislike me. Which is bad for me. I never have any problem making new enemies.”

In between shifts Makri has been studying hard and spends long hours in her room with her books and scrolls. Undeterred by her experience in the Fairy Glade, she’s had her nose pierced again by Kaby. It keeps her happy.

I take out two necklaces, and hand one to her. She stares at it suspiciously.

“It’s the Red Elvish Cloth we wrapped round our necks on the night of the Eight-Mile Terror. It worked pretty well then, so I asked Astrath Triple Moon to treat it with a spell which means we now have strong protection against sorcerous attacks. It’s illegal to keep it, but now it’s woven into these necklaces no one’s going to know.

Makri puts it on. “Not that I need it,” she says. “I’ll trust my swords against magic any day. But you could do with it. Try not to pawn it this time.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Kaby and Palax wander in looking tired. They’re busking on the streets again. I don’t envy them. It’s too hot to work. Fortunately, I don’t have to. Not for a while anyway.

“Another ‘Happy Guildsman,’ if you please, Gurd.”

He passes over a tankard but I notice he’s looking glum. “Tanrose is annoyed with me,” he complains. “She says I never pay her any attention. What can I do?”

“For God’s sake, Gurd, don’t you even know the basics? Take her some flowers.”

The ageing Barbarian looks puzzled.

“Flowers? Will that help?”

“Of course it will,” I state with confidence.

And it does.

Chapter
One
Chapter
Two
Chapter
Three
Chapter
Four
Chapter
Five
Chapter
Six
Chapter
Seven
Chapter
Eight
Chapter
Nine
Chapter
Ten
Chapter
Eleven
Chapter
Twelve
Chapter
Thirteen
Chapter
Fourteen
Chapter
Fifteen
Chapter
Sixteen
Chapter
Seventeen
Chapter
Eighteen
Chapter
Nineteen

M
akri steps into the Avenging Axe, her sword at her hip and her philosophy notes in her hand. Perspiration runs down her neck.

“It’s hotter than Orcish hell out there,” she complains.

I grunt in agreement. I don’t have the energy to do much more. It’s hotter than Orcish hell in here too. It’s as much as I can do to get my beer up to my mouth.

Makri is due to start her shift as barmaid. She takes off the man’s tunic she wears outdoors and tosses it behind the bar, then sluices some water from the pitcher over her face and neck. It runs down over her tiny chainmail bikini, a garment that displays almost all of her physique and guarantees a healthy flow of tips from the dockers, sailors, Barbarian mercenaries and other low-life who drink in this tavern.

Makri lives in a small room upstairs. I also live here, in a couple of rooms further down the corridor. My name is Thraxas, and when the heat isn’t so fierce that it’s impossible to move, I work for a living as a Private Investigator.

Finest Sorcerous Investigator in the City of Turai
says the sign on my outside door. Okay, I admit my sorcerous powers are now limited and diminishing all the time, but while I might not be able to perform like a high-class Palace Sorcerer I still know a spell or two. I still have the finely tuned senses you develop when you study magic. And I’m a determined man when I’m on a case. So I figure the sign is accurate enough.

I don’t bother mentioning that I charge cheap rates. Everyone knows that already. Since I lost my job at the Palace I wouldn’t say my life has worked out especially well.

I raise my hand limply, motioning for another beer from Gurd, ageing northern Barbarian and owner of the Avenging Axe.

“No intention of doing any work, then?” enquires Makri.

I wave my hand dismissively. “Still going strong on the last fee.”

Six weeks ago I helped out Praetor Cicerius, and Cicerius is an important man in this city. More important than a Senator. More important than a Praetor now in fact, because he just won the election for the post of Deputy Consul, which makes him the second most senior government official after Consul Kalius, who answers only to the King.

“Yes,” I reflect, raising my beer. “Old Cicerius was pretty generous with his money, I have to admit. As he should’ve been, of course. He wouldn’t have won the election if I hadn’t saved his reputation.”

Makri scoffs. Makri scoffs at a lot of what I say. I don’t mind, usually. For one thing, she’s one of the few friends I have in this filthy city. For another thing she often helps me out in my work. Not with the investigating exactly. More with the fighting. Here in Twelve Seas, the poor and crime-ridden dockland neighbourhood, people generally don’t like being investigated. Most times I’m on a case I figure I’m going to have to use my sword at some point or other. Which is okay. I’m pretty good with it. But Makri is an escapee from the Orcish gladiator pits and consequently one of the most lethal swordswomen ever to walk the earth. I don’t exaggerate. Makri may be only twenty-one and working as a barmaid to put a little food in her mouth and pay for her classes at the Guild College, but place her sword in one hand, her axe in the other and a row of enemies in front of her and the carnage can be quite incredible.

For seven years she fought in the Orc slave pits. As well as honing her fighting technique to near perfection, this has also given her powerful hatred of Orcs. Of course all humans hate Orcs, despite the peace treaty in force just now. But Makri’s hatred is particularly fierce. Which makes the fact that she actually has some Orc blood in her veins all the more difficult for her. As well as some Elf blood. She’s certainly an unusual mixture, unusual enough to take considerable abuse for it, although when she’s serving drinks with her long dark hair swinging round her bronze shoulders and her small metal bikini clinging to her perfect figure, I notice the drinkers tend to forget their prejudices.

“You’ll put on weight,” says Makri.

I pat my large belly in a satisfied manner.

“Let him be,” says Gurd, grinning, as he pulls me another flagon. “Thraxas doesn’t like to work too hard when it’s hot. I remember, back in the Orc Wars, we could never get him to do a decent day’s fighting when the sun shone.”

I ignore this quite untruthful slur on my reputation. Back in the Orc Wars I fought damned hard, I can tell you. Let them mock. I deserve a rest. This time last year I was pounding the docks looking for a crazed Half-Orc who had killed eight men and damn near made me the ninth. Now, with a fat payment from Cicerius and no need to work through the rest of the burning hot summer, I’m as happy as an Elf in a tree.

“Another beer, if you please, Gurd.”

Gurd is about fifty. His face is weather-beaten and his long hair is completely grey, but his muscles are undiminished with age. They bulge as he pours the drink and passes it over the bar.

“Not tempted to get involved in this?” he asks, pointing to an article in
The Renowned and Truthful Chronicle of All the World’s Events
, the thin, badly printed news-sheet that specialises in reporting all of the many crimes and scandals that infest Turai. I glance at it.

“Death of a Sorcerer? No, I can live without it. He was only a minor Sorcerer, anyway.”

The
Chronicle
reports that the said Sorcerer, Thalius Green Eye, was found dead yesterday at his house in Thamlin. Poison is suspected and his household servants have been taken into custody. I remember Thalius from my days at the Palace. He was a fairly unimportant figure, more interested in casting horoscopes for young aristocrats than practising any serious magic. Which isn’t to say his death will be treated lightly. Being a Sorcerer has proved to be unusually hazardous in Turai recently. Only last month Tas of the Eastern Lightning was killed along with Mirius Eagle Rider, both of them connected with the case I was working on. As Sorcerers are important to any state, particularly a small one like Turai, and as they’re not in endless supply, I imagine the Guards will be working away busily on the case. Let them. If old Thalius annoyed his servants enough that they went and poisoned him, he probably got what he deserved. Degenerate, these Palace Sorcerers. Dwa addicts, most of them. Or drunks. Or both.

“Another beer, please, Gurd.”

I read the rest of the
Chronicle
. There’s enough crime, but that’s always the case in Turai. A Praetor’s been indicted for smuggling dwa into the city, a wagonload of gold from the mines in the far north has been hijacked on its way to the King’s treasury and the house of the Simnian Ambassador has been burgled.