Thraxas - The Complete Series (55 page)

You’ll never make it past the Hot Rainy Season
, says the message.

“Another death threat?”

I nod. I should have killed Glixius Dragon Killer when I had the chance.

Outside it’s still hot. The rain has intensified and my old cloak keeps me dry for about thirty seconds. Meanwhile Makri is comfortably wrapped up in the magic dry cloak.

“The rain doesn’t seem so bad when you get used to it,” she says. “Where are we going?”

“Ferias. An exclusive little resort further down the coast.”

“Then why aren’t we heading for the west gate?”

“I’m calling in at Mox’s. I have a hot tip.”

Makri nods. She might not approve of betting but she was impressed when she saw me come home with a twenty-guran profit.

Mox’s small, dingy premises is full of punters in the damp and grubby tunics and cloaks worn by the common Turanian masses. Most of the lower classes, including myself, wear grey. A few of the more adventurous youngsters might burst into colour occasionally but exotic clothes are beyond the budget of most people. Only the upper classes wear white.

A messenger arrives every now and then with the latest news from the Sorcerer at the track, hundreds of miles away in Juval. I’m here to bet on the first race tomorrow, just in case I don’t make it back to the city tonight. Though I’m careful not to reveal anything I’m practically beside myself with glee. I’ve been looking forward to this race for a long time. It’s my insurance policy.

The odds on the four chariots in the race are even money, six to four, six to one and eight to one. As a serious gambler I am not a man to throw away his cash on outsiders but I happen to know that Troll Mangler at six to one has a particularly good chance in this race. I whisper in Makri’s ear.

“I know the owner, I was drinking with him just before he went south. He’s been keeping this chariot in reserve, well out of sight. He told me he’s never trained a better team of horses. That’s why he’s gone down to Juval, where he isn’t known. He’s going to make a bundle at six to one, and so am I.”

Mox is slightly surprised when I confidently place forty gurans on Troll Mangler. Outside I do a little jig in the rain.

“Two hundred and forty gurans to Thraxas, thank you very much.”

“What if it loses?” says Makri as she swings herself on to her horse.

“No chance. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

The thunderstorm has passed but there will be plenty more of them in the month to come. It’s a two-hour ride down the coast to Ferias. By the time we reach the city walls my good humour at placing the bet has disappeared and I’m starting to regret taking this case. When we’re halfway there I seriously consider turning back.

“This is grim,” I splutter. “I’m about as miserable as a Niojan whore. I haven’t been this wet since Gurd and I swam underneath an enemy raft in the war against the Niojans and attacked them by surprise. And I was a lot younger then.”

We stop for something to eat, sheltering under a tree. Makri looks around for some interesting plant life.

“I have to turn up with something really special. All I can see here is grass and bushes.”

“They’ll probably have some unusual plants in the grounds at Mursius’s villa. Steal one of them.”

We ride on.

“What are you meant to do when you get there? Isn’t his wife going to find it rather offensive if you just march in and demand to know what she did with the loot?”

I look at Makri with interest. When she arrived in Turai I don’t think she understood the concept of being offensive. The classes must be civilising her.

“Maybe. But Mursius doesn’t care. Their relationship has passed the point of being polite. He just wants his paintings back.”

The rain lashes down. I swear a few curses at Rittius. If he hadn’t dragged me through the courts I wouldn’t have to be doing this. Thank God he’s not Deputy Consul any more. That post is now occupied by Cicerius, who belongs to the Traditionals, the party that supports the King. They’d been losing ground to the opposition Populares but Cicerius’s victory stemmed the tide. I had a hand in the victory. Thanks to some smart work on my part Cicerius avoided losing his reputation. Not that I particularly support the Traditionals. The Populares have some things in their favour. The common people could do with a little more of the city’s wealth. Unfortunately the Populares are led by Senator Lodius, as nakedly ambitious a tyrant as ever put on a toga.

“How come Cicerius didn’t use his influence to protect you in court?” asks Makri. “After all, he’s Deputy Consul now, and he owes you a favour.”

That’s a very sore point. First thing I did when the trouble arose was visit Cicerius but he would have to be the one man in Turai who is both absolutely incorruptible and a sworn upholder of the law. He expressed sympathy for my plight, but refused to use his influence to get the charges thrown out. Because, as he pointed out in his beautifully modulated orator’s voice, I was actually guilty. I had dragged the King’s representative from his landus and bludgeoned him to the ground. The fact that I needed the vehicle urgently was not, in Cicerius’s considered legal opinion, a valid defence for roughing up a fellow citizen.

“Trust you to gain influence with the one official too honest to bend the rules in your favour.”

We’re now approaching the loose collection of large country dwellings that make up Ferias. Progress is slow. The ground is churned up and muddy and several streams have swollen, so it’s difficult to get across. It’s a long time since I’ve been here. When I was Senior Investigator at the Palace I visited regularly as the guest of various Senators, Praetors and wealthy Sorcerers. Now I’m about as welcome as an Orc at an Elvish wedding.

It’s now well into the afternoon. My mood gets worse. The rain comes down in huge drops. After two hours it feels like rocks pounding on my head. I tell Makri it’s my turn for the cloak and we swap over.

“If you were any good as a Sorcerer you could make two of them.”

“If I was any good as a Sorcerer I wouldn’t be here. I’d be safe in a big villa in Thamlin casting horoscopes for Princesses and courtiers and generally having an easy time of it. I should have studied more when I was an Apprentice.”

We mount a small hill and there in the distance is Mursius’s villa. Suddenly my horse whinnies and rears up. I struggle to regain control but the wet reins fly from my hands and I plunge to the ground. I struggle to my feet, sliding in the mud and cursing freely at the ignorant beast. Without warning three large Orcs with swords step out from behind the nearest tree.

T
his doesn’t make sense. You don’t find Orcs in the Human Lands. Especially not in the excessively wealthy settlement of Ferias.

Orcs are larger than Humans, and generally a little stronger. I never met one that wasn’t fierce, though as I’ve only met them on the battlefield, I suppose some might not be. Maybe the Orc poets all stay at home. I doubt it. Most Humans regard them as dumb animals but I haven’t found that to be true. Their Ambassadors, for instance, have often proved to be shrewd negotiators, and Bhergaz the Fierce, the Great Orc leader of fifteen years ago who united all the Orcish nations and led them into the west, was a brilliant general. Only through a combination of luck, sorcery and desperation were the combined forces of Elves and Humans able to defeat him.

Makri hates them more fiercely than anyone. Despite this she refuses to acknowledge that Human civilisation is more advanced. She claims that contrary to what is believed in the west, Orcs do have music, literature and even a theatre of sorts, with extended performances of various religious rituals. If this is true, it’s completely unknown to us, apart from the savage martial tunes they play when advancing into battle and the weird, shrieking pipe music they play from the backs of their dragons. Orcs can breed and control dragons, Humans can’t. They’re dark-skinned and wear their hair long, a style favoured by only the lower classes in Turai, and they dress in shaggy, tasselled black clothes. They’re fond of silver jewellery. They make good weapons. They hate all Humans. And they can fight. So can I, which is fortunate as I’m not carrying any spells. I whip out my sword and my dagger and sink into my fighting stance.

The three Orcs are in the garb of young warriors, with black helmets and tunics and weapons at their hips. But they haven’t attacked us yet. Strange. Orcs and Humans are implacable enemies. We waste no time when we meet. We just kill each other. I wonder if it might be worth asking them what they’re doing here.

I don’t get the chance. Makri’s hatred of Orcs doesn’t allow for conversation. With a decisive movement she rides one of them down and leaps off her horse to confront the others. Her axe and her sword are in her hands as she hits the ground and the first Orc’s head flies from his shoulders before he has time to move. The second tries to draw his sword but Makri guts him and he slumps dead to the ground. I’m not the sort of man to let my companion fight on her own but I don’t have the chance to join in. As the third Orc climbs to his feet Makri whips out a throwing star from her bag and tosses it with deadly accuracy right into his throat.

It’s all over in seconds. Three dead Orcs lie sprawled at our feet. Seven years in the Orc gladiator pits, five of them as Supreme Champion, make a woman hard to beat.

Makri stalks around suspiciously, peering through the rain and sniffing the air for other Orcs.

There don’t seem to be any more. There shouldn’t have been any here in the first place. The Orcish nations are far away to the east. They don’t wander around at will in the Human Lands. Any movement by a force of Orcs across the Wastelands that separate us would be detected by Human Sorcerers who scan continuously for just this sort of thing.

I wonder what they were doing here. There was something odd about their behaviour. We mount up and hurry on. A long white wall surrounds Mursius’s villa. A heavy iron gate guards the front, behind which sits a bored-looking member of the Securitus Guild. I tell him my name and he nods as if expecting me. He opens the gate, and we ride in. When I tell him about the Orcs he looks at me with utter disbelief. I assure him it’s true.

“Three warrior Orcs. Just up the hill. We dispatched them. You’d better have the local militia scour the area in case there’s more.”

Realising that I’m serious, he hurries away to raise the alarm while Makri and myself head towards the house. The villa’s extensive gardens are partially submerged after the weeks of rain. Two servants take our mounts off to the stables.

The experience with the Orcs hasn’t put me off my mission. I have a living to earn. My instructions from Mursius are to talk to his wife and find out what she did with the works of art she sold. He didn’t require me to be subtle about it, and I’m not planning to be. Just a few quick questions, find out where the loot is, then recover it.

My plan for a few quick questions goes wrong right away when a well-spoken young woman informs me that Sarija, Mursius’s wife, can’t see anybody just now.

I wave this away.

“Mursius sent me.”

“I know,” she replies. “But you can’t see her.”

“Why not?”

“She’s unconscious from dwa.”

I stare at the young woman in surprise. One might have expected something more subtle.

She shrugs. “It’s the truth. I’m only paid to look after her, not tell lies.”

I get the strong impression that she’s had more than enough of taking care of Sarija.

“If you want to wait she’ll probably recover in a few hours. You can dry yourself in the guest rooms. I’ll have a servant bring you some refreshment.”

The young woman’s name is Carilis. She is pretty, in a bland sort of way. She speaks with the cultured voice of Turai’s elite and is rather expensively dressed in one of these long white gowns they charge a fortune for in the market. She was obviously disconcerted by Makri’s appearance. I wonder why she’s playing nursemaid to a Senator’s wife.

Shortly afterwards I’m drying myself in front of a fire as Makri roots around in the extensive window boxes decorating the large bay window. There’s a tray of food in front of us and a flagon of wine on the table. We wait for a while, which is okay with me. I charge by the hour and if a few of these hours involve sitting around eating and drinking I’m not going to complain. I’ve just begun to feel comfortable when the door opens and a woman walks in. She is as white as a ghost and just about as healthy-looking.

“I’m Sarija,” she says. “And it’s time for you to get the hell out of my house.”

She picks up the flagon of wine. For a second I think she’s about to throw it at me—Senators’ wives are notoriously bad-tempered—but instead she puts it to her lips and pours a healthy slug down her throat. She coughs violently, throws up on a very expensive-looking rug then keels over unconscious.

We stare at her body, prostrate on the floor in a pool of wine, vomit and broken glass.

“I’ll never really fit in with polite society,” says Makri.

I shake my head. “Senators’ wives. They get worse every year.”

I think about helping her up but I’m not really in the mood. I stride out into the corridor and holler for someone to come and help. Round the corner marches an Army Captain with eight armed men at his back. That’s more help than I was really expecting. They’re accompanied by the gatekeeper.