Thraxas - The Complete Series (36 page)

“Tresius said he commissioned his own statue from Drantaax. Ixial could have murdered Drantaax to prevent him from finishing the statue—or to steal it for himself.”

I’d forgotten that. Still sounds dubious though. “I guess it might be true. But the Venerable Tresius lied about not meeting any other monks in the city. What if he’s really after the statue for his own temple and is using me to locate it for him? Wouldn’t be the first time some criminal tried to use me as a means of finding something. Wouldn’t be the tenth time in fact.”

“That’s what you get for being good at finding things. Still, you have the statue so I don’t have to worry too much about the details. Just make sure Tresius doesn’t steal it. What are you doing about Grosex? I hear the trial starts in two days’ time.”

This makes me frown. I suddenly notice the heat again, and the dry, choking air. Every summer this damned city is like this. You think it can’t possibly get any hotter, then it does. Two stals flop down on the window sill outside, too exhausted to fly any further. I glare at them moodily. I’m not fond of them.

“I was hoping Astrath could pick up the killer’s aura if I found the statue but now it’s been in the magic space that won’t work. Which brings me back to the mundane matter of looking for witnesses. I need to speak to Drantaax’s wife. Whatever she knows might be enough to fit together with what Tresius says and provide evidence against Ixial the Seer.”

It’s puzzling that Calia hasn’t appeared yet. It’s not so easy for a person to hide in this city unless they are well versed in covering their tracks. I can’t imagine that she would be. But with no relatives apart from her brother and no friends that anyone knows of, where would she go? Lodging houses cost money. Anyway, the Guards have been checking them.

“I must speak to her. Maybe she knows who the murderer was and she’s scared to come forward.”

“Maybe she knows who the murderer was so the murderer thought he’d better kill her as well,” suggests Makri, which, I have to admit, is a possibility. But the picture in the kuriya pool gave me the impression she was alive. Alive in a white villa. There are a lot of white villas in Thamlin.

Whoever murdered Drantaax must have had the magic purse ready to put the statue in, which does make it fairly certain that they murdered Thalius first. My head starts to swim. I can feel myself getting involved in too many cases at once, a bad habit of mine.

“So don’t ask me about the dolphins. I don’t have time to even think about them. And keep Quen out of my sight. The Brotherhood are stepping up their search. We better just hope Astrath Triple Moon really can boost the bafflement spell and keep her hidden. We might be able to move her in a day or two when the heat’s off.”

Makri has heard that the Innkeepers Guild has been complaining in high places about the Guards’ failure to locate the killer of the landlord.

“They’re demanding that the Abode of Justice assigns a higher-grade Sorcerer to the case.”

“Great. Where did you hear that?”

“Association of Gentlewomen. We have a member who works as a cook in the Abode of Justice.”

I growl. Innkeepers don’t have a particularly high social status in Turai but their guild is surprisingly well connected. Not so surprising, I guess. Even Praetors and Senators like to go out for a drink every now and then. And as the Innkeepers Guild shares various business interests with the Brotherhood and the Society of Friends, it’s not really safe to meddle with them. If the Civil Guard gets going on this as well I’m in deep trouble.

Then there’s the monks. Maybe Sarin the Merciless too. A lesser man might go to pieces. I go downstairs for a helping of Tanrose’s stew and some more beer. If I’m going to find Drantaax’s wife, I’ll need plenty of energy.

Makri isn’t due to work till this evening. She was planning to spend the afternoon practising a speech for her rhetoric class. This has been causing some mirth around the Avenging Axe, with heartless individuals, like me for instance, pointing out that while Makri’s voice might be excellent for bellowing death threats across a gladiatorial arena, it doesn’t seem all that suitable for the fine art of oratory. Makri ignores the mockery, but agrees to postpone her practice and come out with me, saying that she’s been short of activity of late, and saving me from a band of deadly warrior monks might be good exercise.

I strap on my sword and stick a knife in the small scabbard concealed at the back of my waistband. Makri wears both her swords, more or less hidden under her cloak, and slips a long knife into each of her boots. As usual, she is not entirely comfortable without her axe, but it’s too conspicuous. There is no legal reason why a woman can’t walk around Turai carrying an axe, but it isn’t exactly an everyday sight. A fully armed Makri—lithe, strong, and a blade sticking out in every direction—presents a very worrying sight for the Civil Guard. She tends to get stopped and questioned, which is inconvenient when we’re on a case. Also, we get refused entry to high-class establishments.

She’s still grumbling as we head out through the potholes, fish heads and assorted debris of Quintessence Street.

“You never know when you’ll need your axe. Once, in the slave pits, I was fighting four Orcs and my first sword broke and then my other sword got stuck in the second Orc’s rib cage. I had to finish off the other two with my knife and when I stabbed the last one my knife blade broke as well. I mean, bad luck, or what? Actually, it might have been sorcery because by this time I was supreme champion and some of the Orc Lords were getting jealous of my success and the way I kept killing their gladiators. So, right then, just when I didn’t have a weapon, they threw in this enormous Troll carrying a nine-foot spear and a club the size of a Human. So that just goes to show.”

“Goes to show what?”

“That you should never be without your axe.”

“We’ll just have to hope we don’t meet a giant Troll at the end of Quintessence Street. What happened? Did you kill the Troll with your bare hands?”

“No. Trolls are too strong for that. I vaulted up the wall to the Orc Lord’s gallery. His chief bodyguard ran in front of me so I took his sword off him, stabbed him with it, and leaped back into the arena. After all this the Troll was confused and I was able to hack him to pieces. By now the Orc Lord was angry I’d killed his chief bodyguard, so all the rest of his bodyguards started leaping down into the arena, eight of them, all in chainmail. It was a pretty close thing for a while, what with eight of them chasing me around and me with only one sword to defend myself. But after I disposed of a couple I managed to pick up another sword and once I had one in each hand I just mowed them down. Should have seen the crowd. They were going completely berserk. I had the longest standing ovation ever granted to a gladiator.”

I glance sideways at Makri. When she arrived in Turai about a year ago one of her notable features was her inability to lie. But she’s been learning recently, mainly from me.

“Is that story true? Or are you just practising for your speech at the rhetoric class?”

“Of course it’s true. Why wouldn’t it be? You think I can’t defeat thirteen Orcs and a Troll? Now you mention it, though, it would make a good speech.”

“What subject are you meant to be talking about?”

“Living peacefully in a violent world.”

“Best of luck.”

“I’ll need it. Last rhetoric exam, I didn’t do very well at all.”

We take a landus up through town. The streets are hot as Orcish hell and as the day wears on it doesn’t get any cooler. I call in on the small room in a tenement where Grosex lived on his own. No one in the building seems to know anything about him. The neighbours hardly saw him and don’t think he’s got any relations anywhere. The neighbours also hope that he’ll be hanged. After all, he’s just murdered our most famous artist.

I search his room, with no results. Nothing of interest, criminal or otherwise. Just a shabby little room for an apprentice who can’t afford anything better. The floor boards are bare. The walls are stained with candle smoke. From upstairs come the screams of a misbehaving child and the hopeless shrieks of an enraged mother. I shudder.

“Lets get out of here. It’s depressing me.”

Poor Grosex. No friends or relations. Living in that miserable little room on his own. I can see he might have enjoyed some diversion in the shape of Drantaax’s wife.

We head north. We’re on our way to see Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky. Lisutaris is a powerful Sorcerer, and unconnected with any of the official bodies in Turai. She has a large independent income so she doesn’t have to work at the Abode of Justice or the Palace, or draw up horoscopes and lucky charms for private citizens. This is just as well, as Lisutaris smokes raw thazis through a waterpipe all day and is permanently stoned.

I helped her out a few months ago so she might be willing to help me now though I’m not counting on it. Makri is more hopeful. They’ve met at a few Association of Gentlewomen meetings and the Sorcerer has appeared friendly enough, unlike some other well-born women Makri could name. Even the Association of Gentlewomen is not without its share of prejudice against anyone with Orc blood. Several Senator’s wives have refused to sit in the same room as her.

Our landus comes to a halt in a narrow street as a large cart full of vegetables stops in front of us. Our driver shouts some abuse to no effect. The other driver seems to have disappeared and the vegetable cart stays where it is. We look round as our driver considers the tricky option of reversing his horse and cart down the narrow street. Standing behind us are five red-robed monks who by this simple manoeuvre have now cornered us. They stare at us quite calmly. The one in front, a small individual with boyish features, waves his hand in greeting. Makri and I leap down from the landus to confront them.

“What do you want?” I demand.

“The statue of Saint Quatinius,” says the small monk, quite placidly. I notice that he is not sweating in the heat, like the rest of the population.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“We know that you have it.”

My temper starts to boil. Who does he think he is, hijacking my landus when I’m out on a case? I tell him to go to hell. He doesn’t. Instead he just stands there placidly, which annoys me more than ever. I try and shove him out of the way but he somehow avoids my push. I lose my temper completely and throw a punch at his annoyingly peaceful face.

He dodges it. And then throws a punch, not at me, but at the thick plank of wood at the rear of the landus. To my astonishment the small man’s fist snaps it in two, sending splinters into the air.

“Where is the statue?” he repeats.

I try to draw my sword but before it’s out of its scabbard he hits me and I fly backwards into the landus. A spar catches me in the ribs and I tumble on to the ground, gasping for breath.

Makri figures this is enough provocation for anyone and draws her swords. The monks take out some curiously shaped knives, each with long guards curving out from their handles, which they use to deflect Makri’s blade. And they do indeed block her blade, something I’ve never seen before. They move with lightning speed, so that Makri is quickly encircled. Despite landing a cut on one opponent’s shoulder, she is brought down by a kick from behind that she has no room to avoid. She’s on her feet in an instant, landing a good kick of her own before thrusting herself against the nearest wall so they can’t get behind her. Standing with her twin swords forming an impenetrable guard, she waits for them to come on to her.

I raise myself off the ground and walk a few yards so Makri is not in my way. I have my own sword in my hand and for all their fighting skill I’ll fight five people with Makri at my side any day. But right now I don’t have the time and it’s too hot. So I let go with the sleep spell. The five monks crumple instantly to the floor.

Makri looks round angrily at me—I know she will regard this magic as a dishonourable way of dealing with opponents—but she doesn’t protest. She’s not used to meeting anyone who can land a kick on her and is looking puzzled.

Our landus driver is looking more than puzzled. He’s quaking in his seat.

I ask him if he can clear the vegetable wagon from in front of us. He does this readily enough, leaping on the horse and taking the reins while I search the monks. I don’t find a thing. They don’t even have any pockets and none of them is carrying a bag. Just their curious knives. Makri takes all five for her collection.

The way is now clear. There are only a few minutes left till the warrior monks wake up. Less, if they have strong constitutions, which they probably do. We set off with as much speed as is possible through the crowded streets.

Makri’s face is dark with fury.

“You annoyed because I put them to sleep?”

She shakes her head.

“No. I’m annoyed that I underestimated them. I can’t believe I let someone kick me from behind.”

She lapses into gloomy silence for the rest of the journey.

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “No doubt you’ll get to meet them again soon. There’ll be plenty of opportunity to kick them back.”