Thraxas - The Complete Series (38 page)

“Monks,” whispers Makri.

She’s right. Monks with shaved heads. I can’t distinguish the colour of their cloaks. They approach. The figure they’re carrying starts to show signs of life as the monks carefully lower him on to the ground where he kneels as if in meditation. Eventually the other monks kneel in front of the figure they have deposited, and stare at him by the dim candlelight. From their reverential attitude I guess that this must be Ixial the Seer.

My eyes start to adjust. There is someone else beside him. Not a monk. Too much hair. It’s a young woman. Calia, I presume.

Ixial holds up his hand and seems about to speak. Something catches his attention and he pauses. He swivels his head towards us.

“Who is there?” he demands.

We freeze. I’d swear he couldn’t see us here in the bushes, in the darkness.

“Come out,” he orders. “You cannot hide from Ixial the Seer.”

“Fine,” I say, stepping out into the open. “It was getting cramped in there anyway. You’ve got sharp eyes. But then I guess you would have, Ixial the Seer.”

The four attendant monks rise swiftly to stand between me and their leader.

“What do you want?” demands Ixial. “And what is the meaning of entering into this garden uninvited?”

There’s something odd about the way he’s sitting. It’s almost as if the woman beside him is actually supporting him. My first thought is that he is yet another dwa enthusiast but his voice seems too clear and firm.

“What do I want? Some conversation with the lady, mainly. About Grosex. One-time apprentice to the lady’s recently departed husband Drantaax, and now languishing in prison awaiting a swift trial and execution. And after that I might like a few words with you about why your monks have been following me around the city, burgling my rooms and attacking me in alleyways.”

Several more monks emerge from the house and advance in the gloom to stand close behind Ixial. I wonder how many are in the house. I’ve used up the sleep spell and I’m not sure how many warrior monks Makri and I can handle at once.

Ixial starts to speak but halts, giving the faintest of groans. His face contorts. He is obviously in some pain and is fighting to control it. His followers turn their heads in concern. This is one sick Abbot. As Ixial slumps forward, Calia takes a small bottle from her bag and starts dabbing his lips and forehead with some liquid. None of the monks seems to have any idea what to do. They are all young, and I sense that they’re frightened by their leader’s distress. I step forward, brushing the monks aside.

“What’s the matter with him?”

Calia looks up at me with despair in her eyes. No one tries to prevent me as I take a candle and reach down to move the blanket which covers his legs. His legs are a mess, twisted and broken. Each is protected by splints and bandages but blood oozes out from gaps everywhere and where the skin shows through it is black and putrid. If gangrene hasn’t set in already, it isn’t far away. I’d say that Ixial the Seer has about twenty-four hours to live, maybe less.

“W
e’re waiting for the healers to arrive,” says Calia. Her voice is desperate, almost without hope. No healer is gong to save Ixial. So twisted and broken are his legs that I assume only his willpower and rigorous training have kept him alive this long. With injuries like that most people would have given up and died by now.

“What happened?”

Calia doesn’t answer. I look down at Ixial. He opens his eyes for a moment. He struggles briefly with the pain then his head lolls forward as he loses consciousness.

More lights appear in the house as the healers arrive. Two women, each with the green canvas bags commonly used for carrying medicine, are led into the gardens, along with a man in a flowing robe. An apothecary, a herbalist and a healer. Good luck to them.

I withdraw to Makri’s hiding place in the shadows. The monks are gathered in a circle around their leader as the doctors examine him.

“No chance,” I mutter. “They should have brought an undertaker. It would have saved time.”

Makri is wary of the monks. Only hours ago they were trailing us through the city. Now they seem too concerned with their leader’s plight to bother about us.

“I need to speak to Calia. Dying Abbot or not, I’m here to clear Grosex.”

Oil lamps have been lit for the healers. While they go about their business Calia stands to one side in the shadows, ignored by the monks.

“She doesn’t look in a mood to talk,” says Makri.

“I never let that bother me.”

“You want me to come?”

“Yes. She might feel better with another woman around.”

“Even an Orc with pointed ears?”

“I’m sure I never called you that.”

We circumnavigate the healers and the monks.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Not now,” says Calia.

I can see that she deserved her reputation as a Twelve Seas beauty but I can also see that she’s been under immense strain. Her husband was killed only a few days ago. But I get the impression that he isn’t uppermost in her mind.

“It has to be now. Unless you want Grosex to hang.”

She looks up sharply. “Grosex? Hang? Why?”

“For murdering Drantaax, of course.”

“That’s ridiculous. He wouldn’t have killed Drantaax.”

“That’s not what you said when you found Grosex standing over the body. I heard you were screaming out he’d stabbed him.”

Calia brushes this off. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. Who would be? I don’t know who killed my husband, but I’m sure it wasn’t the apprentice. He was far too loyal.”

“It was his knife.”

“Someone else must have used it.”

“The Guards don’t think so.” I ask her who did and she says she doesn’t know. I don’t think I believe her.

“Tell me what’s going on. What happened at the workshop? And why did you run here? What’s your connection with Ixial?”

This gets no response.

“You’ll feel better if you talk about it,” I add. I often find this a useful line, but it doesn’t work for Calia. I change tack.

“What happened to Ixial?”

“They attacked while he was meditating.”

“Who did?”

“Tresius. The Cloud Temple. They sneaked up on him while he was praying and threw him from the walls.”

“What happened to his seeing powers?”

“Ixial is a religious man,” retorts Calia. “He does not distract himself with seeing while he is praying.”

I see. That’s not the way Tresius told it. According to Calia, Tresius and his followers had been apprehended trying to steal the monastery’s statue before they departed in disgrace. The statue had tumbled to its destruction from the walls. But Tresius had later returned with the intention of killing Ixial and stealing his followers. During this altercation the Cloud Temple was repulsed but Ixial, taken by surprise, was himself tumbled from the walls, suffering the terrible injuries he now has.

“The monks brought him to the city to try and save his life.”

The despair on her face shows quite clearly she knows it’s hopeless. Any normal man would have died by now. Every healer, herbalist and apothecary in Turai isn’t going to be able to put Ixial’s twisted and broken legs back together. Nor could they cure the gangrene that’ll kill him if loss of blood doesn’t do so first. Even Sorcerers are powerless against gangrene.

Calia is more forthcoming. She tells us that she’d been involved with Ixial a decade ago when he was nothing more than a poor young student living in a garret in Twelve Seas, reading scrolls of philosophy by candlelight. She was in love with him then, and still is. When he went off into the wilderness to take up the life of a monk, she’d despaired of ever being happy again. Eventually she ended up marrying Drantaax, having no better prospects and parents keen to get their hands on the dowry from a famous and wealthy sculptor.

She tells me she spent ten years with Drantaax during which time her life was comfortable but desperately dull. And so it might have remained, had she not received a message from Ixial the Seer asking her to meet him at a villa in Thamlin.

She went to meet him. And started an affair, I imagine, though she doesn’t come right out and say it.

This all raises some interesting questions. How did an Abbot of a mountain monastery find the money to buy a large villa in Thamlin, for instance? And what was he doing with it anyway? Warrior monks live in harsh conditions, training their minds and bodies with rigorous exercise. I don’t think they make exceptions for their Abbots. They’re not meant to adopt false names, pretend to be aristocrats and hang around in villas in wealthy parts of town. I don’t think they’re meant to have affairs with married ex-lovers either, although different sects adopt different views on celibacy and such like. But I have to leave these questions for now, and concentrate on Grosex. Now that Calia has opened up a little, she tells me what she knows. Simply put, she arrived in the workshop to find Grosex standing over Drantaax’s body and the statue gone.

That’s the same story as the Guards so far.

“Why did you flee?”

“I panicked. I knew there were stories about me having an affair. People thought I’d been seeing Grosex when really I had been seeing Ixial. I thought the Guards would accuse me of killing my husband so Grosex could have his business. So I fled. I didn’t know they’d suspect Grosex. I liked him. I didn’t mean to bring him any harm, but I had to get away.”

“Sounds like you were glad of the chance.”

“So what if I was?”

She puts a great deal of feeling into that. Maybe it’s unbearable being married to a busy sculptor.

“You don’t sound shattered with grief about his murder.”

“I’m sad. I’ve got other things to be sadder about.”

“What happened to the statue?”

She claims not to know. If she is aware of the goings-on with the magic purse, she’s not letting on. I point out to her that the statue thief must surely be the murderer, and Ixial and the Star Temple were currently minus one statue. Which does make them a strong suspect.

She shakes her head. “Ixial would not have harmed my husband. Why would he? And anyway, when Drantaax’s statue went missing Ixial was already close to death. It’s taken his monks four days to transport him from the mountains to the city.”

“Injured or not, he was still giving out orders, because his monks have been searching the city. Searching my rooms anyway.”

“I know nothing of that.”

Ixial calls out in pain. Calia hurries over to him. I look at the young monks, trying to gauge their reaction to her. Are they aware of her relationship with their leader, or has he deceived them with some story? I see no signs of disapproval on their faces.

I turn to Makri. “What do you make of it?”

“I’m completely confused,” she replies. “Who did kill Drantaax, then? And who stole the statue and put it in the magic purse?”

I admit that I don’t know.

“I don’t understand that woman,” continues Makri. “If she didn’t want to marry Drantaax, then why did she? She didn’t need a husband. She could’ve got a job in Minarixa’s bakery.”

“I don’t think Calia is the type to spend her days in a bakery.”

The healing goes on by the light of the lamps. Ixial drifts in and out of consciousness. Finally he lapses into a deep sleep, or maybe a deep coma. The healer, the herbalist and the apothecarist exchange glances, which are not hard to interpret. Ixial will be handing in his toga pretty soon. Several of the younger monks have tears in their eyes. If I was a man of sensitivity I’d leave them all to their grief. But I’m not. I grab the sleeve of one monk whom I think I recognise as one of the burglars at my office.

“Why did you think I had the statue?”

He yanks his sleeve away and hurries off to join his fellows. I question another with similar results.

“You’re not going to learn anything more here, Thraxas,” says Makri. “They’re all too worried about Ixial. I feel kind of annoyed really. They owe me a fight.”

As if on cue the silent garden suddenly erupts. Yellow-clad monks pour over the walls, and they haven’t come to talk about consubstantiality. They charge towards the monks of the Star Temple yelling war cries and waving short sticks and curious knives. The Star Temple monks react quickly, forming a human shield around Ixial. More of their brothers hear the uproar and rush from the house. Soon eighty or so monks are battling away in the garden, punching, kicking, and flying through the air in their now familiar acrobatic manner. It’s quite a sight. Makri and I withdraw to the bushes to watch, slightly bewildered by this turn of events. I start to suspect that there may be no more reason behind any of this apart from the two Temples’ hatred of each other. Maybe they just fight all the time anyway, and the statue is no more than a side issue.

“Interesting religious dispute,” I mutter to Makri as a monk bounces off a tree and crashes into the bush beside us. “They should try it in the True Church. Certainly liven things up a bit.”

It’s hard to be sure in the dim light, but I think I can see the Venerable Tresius in the thick of things. If it is him he’s even better preserved for his age than I thought. I swear he leaps eight feet from the ground to hurtle over an opponent, kicking him as he does so, and lands behind another one whom he scythes to the ground with another kick to the legs. He finds himself surrounded by a group of red monks but leaps clear after sending two of them hurtling backwards into the pond.