Thraxas - The Complete Series (63 page)

A young lad at the next corner is selling
The Renowned and Truthful Chronicle of All the World’s Events
. As ever, it is written hastily by a scribe and then turned into thousands of copies by their Sorcerer. It purports to cover all important events in the city but in reality it concentrates mainly on scandalous matters, detailed accounts of clandestine meetings between Senators’ sons and notorious actresses and such like. I notice that the vendor is looking as happy as an Elf in a tree as he sets out his papers in his stall.

He tilts back his head and lets out a cry. “Orcs coming to Turai! Orcish chariot due to race in the Turas Memorial!”

Rarely can a newsboy’s cry have had such a dramatic effect. Even when the
Chronicle
mistakenly announced that Prince Frisen-Akan was dead from a dwa overdose I didn’t see people running through the rain to get their hands on a copy. No wonder the vendor is happy.

When word starts to spread that Rezaz the Butcher is really entering an Orcish chariot in the race there’s immediate uproar. Ignoring the rain, people pour out of their homes and workplaces to vent their anger. Soon an angry mob is gathering and voices are raised in furious protest. Among the crowd are the usual collection of troublemakers and criminals but alongside them are many honest citizens, outraged by the shocking news. With the single exception of the Ambassadors secreted away in the grounds of the Imperial Palace, no Orc has ever entered Turai.

“Death to the Orcs!”

“Kill them!”

“No Orcs in Turai!”

“The city will be cursed!”

The most obvious representative of the King in Twelve Seas is Prefect Drinius. His house is close to the Civil Guard station down Tranquillity Lane and people start marching in that direction. I presume this news has leaked out without the knowledge of the authorities because the Guards seem unprepared for trouble and are slow to react.

The poor of Turai are not averse to rioting but it’s not easy to get one going in the downpour. When the Civil Guards finally realise the extent of the problem and start flooding into the area at least there are no burning buildings to hinder them.

I’m as interested in a good riot as the next man but I probably should get on with my investigation. If the Guards seal off the area I’ll be stuck in Twelve Seas, and I have to make my way to the rich part of town if I want to find Carilis. I start muscling my way through the crowd. My weight gives me a decided advantage and I barge through the mob. I’m used to this sort of thing. Only this summer there was a massive citywide riot after Horm the Dead, a particularly malignant Half-Orc Sorcerer, unleashed his Eight-Mile Terror Spell on the city. Even now the damage has not been fully repaired. The workmen will be back at their tasks after the rain stops.

What troubles me is the thought that if the Consul’s plans to allow an Orc chariot to race in Turai have leaked out already, then my part in the affair might become public knowledge sooner than expected. It’s going to make looking for this prayer mat much harder. I’d better ask Astrath Triple Moon if he can help me with a decent spell for protecting the Avenging Axe from being burned to the ground by an angry mob.

Bricks start to fly. The crowd is turning nastier and the noise of their anger is loud enough to wake Old King Kiben. Finally I make it through Quintessence Street and turn right up Moon and Stars Boulevard. This takes me into Pashish, which, though poor, is generally a quieter part of town. But even here angry crowds are on the streets and squadrons of Civil Guards are out with their shields, spears extending from the front of their ranks to keep back the mob. Kalius the Consul is the subject of vociferous criticism for allowing such a thing to happen. Some voices even berate the King which makes me wonder about the wisdom of this whole policy. I suppose he needs the copper, but this can only bring more support to the Populares, who want to get rid of the monarchy. I find myself next to Derlex, the young Pontifex in charge of the local church. He’s not rioting, being a Pontifex, but he’s certainly outraged by the news.

“A shameful thing!” he thunders.

“Absolutely.” I agree. “Orcs in the city—disgraceful. I imagine the True Church will not be pleased?”

“Of course not! We will drive them out.”

“And yet,” I add, “who knows? Might they pray to the same God as us?”

The Pontifex gasps with horror at this terrible blasphemy. He screams at me that Orcs don’t pray to any God that he knows of.

I apologise for my stupidity. The Pontifex moves away. Now there’s a man who obviously knows nothing about Orc prayer mats.

I struggle on. When I reach the business and market districts the violence fades away, but even here the atmosphere is tense and angry. The news has spread all over the city and the rich merchants don’t like it any better than the poor workers. Everyone hates Orcs here.

The heat that has been building up over the past few days now erupts into an enormous thunderstorm. The sky explodes in flash after flash of lightning and the thunder booms over the city. The rain comes down in such sheets that it’s impossible to see where I’m going and I’m driven into a doorway for shelter.

I find myself next to a well-dressed man, a lawyer from the cut of his cloak and tunic.

“We’re cursed,” he says, shaking his head, as the storm rages above us. “You can’t invite Orcs into the city and expect nothing bad to happen.”

“Perhaps the King has good reasons for it?” I venture.

The lawyer looks at me furiously. “Orc lover,” he spits, and strides out into the rain, preferring the torrential downpour to the company of a man who doesn’t mind a few Orcs coming for a visit.

I stare out gloomily at the rain. I can see these next few weeks are going to be tough.

C
arilis is back at Mursius’s villa up in Thamlin, close to the Palace. I used to live around here. My old house is occupied by a Palace Sorcerer now. He’s a dwa addict, but he keeps it quiet. He makes a healthy living from drawing up horoscopes for ambitious courtiers. Many of Turai’s Sorcerers are independently wealthy. Those that have to work earn their money from generally useless tasks, pandering to the rich. Comparatively few do any good for the city, other than Old Hasius the Brilliant, chief Investigating Sorcerer at the Abode of Justice, or Melus the Fair, resident Sorcerer at the Stadium Superbius.

The servants show me in. Carilis laughs when she sees me.

“What’s funny?”

“You. You’re so fat and your feet are wet.”

“Maybe you can help me with some things I don’t already know.”

“Like what?”

No servant has come to offer me wine, or even take my cloak. I dump it on a chair. It’s still dry. Good spell.

“Like who killed Mursius?”

“I understand you’re a prime suspect.”

“Only in the eyes of the law. So who really did it?”

Carilis doesn’t know and she says she’s too upset to talk about it. Whether that’s because she’s lost her lover or her meal ticket, I can’t tell.

“How did you know Mursius’s artwork was at the warehouse?”

She won’t say.

“Were you having an affair with Senator Mursius?” I demand, just to shake her up a bit.

“No,” she replies, and doesn’t look shaken.

“Sarija thinks you were.”

“What would that dwa-riddled fool know about anything?”

“That’s no way to talk about your employer.”

“Sarija didn’t employ me. Mursius did. And I didn’t enjoy having to look after his wife.”

I bet she didn’t. No young aristocratic woman would enjoy being reduced to the role of servant. That’s a terrible loss of status, and status is very important to these people.

“If you want to find out who killed Mursius you’d be better off coming clean. The Guards won’t find out anything.”

“I somehow can’t imagine that you will either, fat man.”

For an elegant young lady she has very bad manners. I tell her I’m suspicious she set me up for the murder. This infuriates her.

“Are you saying I was involved? I was trying to help Mursius. If you’d done your job he’d still be alive.”

She turns on her heel and walks out of the room. The interview is over. On the way out I pick up a peach from a bowl of fruit and cram it in my mouth. No sense in letting the visit be a complete waste of time. I haven’t learned much apart from the fact that Carilis is still living at Mursius’s house, though with her employer dead, it surely won’t be long before Sarija slings her out.

The thunderstorm has abated, but the rain hasn’t let up. Here in Thamlin the effect isn’t so bad. Most of the water flows off the tiled roads and pavements into the sewers. The houses round here won’t be collapsing when the ground gives way beneath them, as happens every year in Twelve Seas.

My cloak is still dry but my shoes are wet through. I start to wince as the incessant rain pounds into my face. The cloying heat sends torrents of sweat running down my back. A wagon rumbles up, its wheels making a dull noise on the tiled road. Prefect Drinius emerges, followed by three Civil Guards.

“You’re under arrest,” he says.

“Fine,” I reply. “I was getting tired of the rain anyway. What’s the charge?”

“Murder. We found the knife that killed Senator Mursius. And guess whose aura is all over the handle?”

“Archbishop Xerius’s?”

“Wrong. It’s yours.”

The Guards throw me in the back of the carriage.

“Watch him closely. If he tries uttering a spell use your swords.”

Little do they know I’m using my entire magical capacity to keep dry. The Guards keep a careful eye on me as we ride west through Thamlin. The ground rises slowly, sloping up through the wooded area that leads to the Palace. The Abode of Justice, headquarters of the Civil Guards, is located just outside the Palace grounds.

I can make no sense of this development, so I don’t try to. I’m an important man in the city, at least for a few weeks. The Deputy Consul needs me to look after the Orcs. He’ll get me off from whatever phoney charge Drinius and Rittius have cooked up this time.

The Abode of Justice is a large building, fairly splendid I suppose, though you can’t see it in this rain. I used to know everyone here when I was Senior Investigator at the Palace, although Palace Security and the Civil Guards are rivals, and generally fail to co-operate on anything. It takes us a few minutes to enter. The Sorcerer who checks us in takes an age to utter the spells to open the doors and close them behind us. With the unrest in the city, they’ve stepped up security.

I often get thrown in the cells but twice in two days is excessive. I’ll never get anything done at this rate. Damn that Rittius, he’s really out to get me. It strikes me how much I want a beer, and how long it will be before I can get one. Once they put you in a cell, they never hurry to question you, the theory being that if they give you some time to worry about things you’ll be easier to break. Sound theory for most people, maybe, but I’ve been in far too many cells to let it bother me. And I get a good break because there’s someone in my cell already who turns out to be a big racing fan. When he informs me that Sword of Vengeance cruised home an easy winner I’m so pleased I almost forget I’m incarcerated. I matched Makri’s eighteen-guran bet at six to four which means we both won twenty-seven gurans. Makri is edging closer to the sixty she needs. Another couple of wins and she’ll be off my back. What’s more, I’ll have a reasonable stake for the Turas Memorial.

I’m soon deep in conversation about the upcoming race meeting with my cellmate, Drasius. He’s a banker by trade, who’s been having a little difficulty persuading his customers that his accounts are entirely honest. He’s just heard the news of the Orcish chariot coming to town and he’s of the opinion that it might give the Elves a good run for their money.

For the first time it strikes me that there is actually an interesting sporting contest coming up. I’ve been so appalled at my unwilling role in it that I haven’t considered this before. Moonlit River will certainly be a superb four-horse chariot. Lord Lisith-ar-Moh wouldn’t send it up from the Southern Islands if it wasn’t. I’ve seen many Elvish chariots and I’ve rarely seen one that couldn’t cruise past anything we Humans had to offer. It’s said that the Elvish horsemen can talk to the horses, which gives them an advantage. There again, what about the Orcish team? I hadn’t given them any chance, but Drasius the banker points out that Lord Rezaz Caseg wouldn’t send his chariot if it didn’t have a chance of winning.

“Why would he? The Orc wants revenge on the Elf Lord. He wouldn’t enter something that was guaranteed to lose. I figure it’s worth making a sizeable investment with the bookmakers on the Orcs.”

I can see why Drasius might be in trouble with his customers at the bank. But what he says makes sense. So far the only reaction I’ve encountered to the affair has been the outright hostility to Orcs shown by the rioting citizens. I’m a little surprised to find someone who’s more interested in the sporting aspect. It starts to make me feel interested too. Okay, the Orcs are hated enemies and the only good Orc is a dead Orc, but from another point of view, a chariot race is a chariot race and I love chariot races more than a Senator loves a bribe.