Thraxas - The Complete Series (67 page)

“I’ve tramped over half this city looking for that damned prayer mat,” I tell Makri. “It’s one of the most frustrating cases I’ve ever come across.”

“What about Mursius’s murder?”

“That’s one of the most frustrating cases I’ve ever come across as well. Do you know—”

“Yes, fine,” interrupts Makri. “So, who are we betting on in the first race at Simnia?”

“Thank you for your support. Okay, the first race in Simnia. I reckon the second favourite in the first race is a reasonable bet.”

“Only a reasonable bet? I’m running out of excuses for Minarixa. Everyone was looking at me at last night’s meeting. Do you think they know I gambled the money away?”

“I doubt it. Who would suspect you, an escaped slave gladiator with Orcish blood in her veins, of acting with anything except impeccable honesty?”

We leave for Mox’s.

“You might lend me the magic dry cloak.”

“No. It’s mine. Who is it has to say a spell over it every day?”

I have my own reasons for needing a win at the races. I’m running severely short of money and soon won’t have enough for my daily supply of beer.

“I can’t function without beer.”

“Aren’t you the person who always ridicules these dwa addicts for wasting their lives on a stupid drug?”

“That’s not the same thing at all,” I inform my smart young companion. “Beer is a normal healthy part of any man’s diet, particularly a vigorous man like myself. It’s part of our culture and heritage. Dwa is for degenerates. Let’s go.”

We walk out into the swamp that used to be Quintessence Street. A gale is blowing the storm in from the sea. The rain lashes into my face and the lightning splits the sky above. I grit my teeth and struggle on. Mox’s is close to the harbour, right next to Prisox’s pawn shop, another establishment with which I am very familiar. Despite the adverse weather, it will be business as usual there. Prisox always has a healthy supply of sad customers trying to raise a little cash for life’s necessities.

Makri, after her initial inclination to splash out on wild bets on chariots with long odds, has settled into a careful strategy and is content to go along with my suggestion of a modest gamble on Bear Baiter. She bets fifteen of her thirty-five gurans. As Bear Baiter is quoted at evens, she stands to win fifteen gurans, which will bring her close to her target. I bet a similar amount.

As we leave we run into a throng of people. The crowd seems quite cheerful, or as cheerful as it’s possible to be when lightning is searing the rooftops and wind and rain are pinning you to the walls.

“What’s happening?” I yell to the nearest passer-by.

“Elves are coming in,” he roars back, above the din.

Of course. The Elvish chariot is due to land at the docks today. Everyone is heading for the harbour. I can’t miss this. Like any true gambler I want to see the Elvish chariot and horses in order to form some opinions of their chances in the race. And it’s not just gambling that brings people here. Everyone likes Elves and Lord Lisith-ar-Moh is still a hero in Turai.

At the harbour crowds of people are straining their eyes for the first sight of the Elvish ship, and a podium has been set up for welcoming speeches. No one seems worried that the Elves might not arrive on schedule. They’re renowned for their sailing skills, and have probably used sorcery to calm the waters on the way. Sure enough, a cry goes up that there’s a sail on the horizon. A pleasant ripple of anticipation runs through the crowd. Everyone forgets their rain-soaked misery as the green sails gradually grow in size as the Elvish ship approaches the harbour.

Cheers go up as the Elves take down the sails and manoeuvre into the harbour. A bigger cheer goes up when Lord Lisith-ar-Moh himself is spotted on deck. He has a silver band around his brow, and his green cloak flaps in the wind. Around him are various attendants, all tall and fair. As the ship draws into the pier Elvish sailors wave to the crowd.

Elves are always tall, fair and golden-eyed. They generally wear green. Their ears are slightly pointed at the top. It’s never difficult to recognise an Elf. It cheers me to see them. It cheers me further to think that if the Orcish chariot is given any chance by the bookmakers, the odds on the Elves might just stretch out far enough to be worth a bet.

Consul Kalius, Turai’s most important official, is here to welcome the Elves on behalf of the King. He’s standing on a podium with an attendant holding an umbrella over his head, but with the storm still raging he cuts his speech short, simply welcoming the Elves to the city, thanking them for their help in the past, wishing them good luck in the race, then departing with Lord Lisith in a convoy of official carriages. The crowd applaud, and crane their necks to see the chariot being unloaded. The horses snort apprehensively as they are lowered in harnesses from the ship to the pier, but their Elvish grooms call to them, calming them down, before leading them off to the shelter of a nearby warehouse. I note with interest that this is the same warehouse in which Senator Mursius was murdered.

Do the Elves who have just arrived know they’re going to be up against an Orc?
I wonder. I follow as young Elves wheel their chariot into the warehouse. They’re lithe and strong and show no ill effects from their long voyage through rough seas from the Southern Islands to Turai.

Makri has remained silent throughout all this activity. When it comes to Elves she has mixed emotions. She’s always attracted to Elves, partly because she is quarter Elf herself and partly because she thinks that the men in Turai are such scum. On the other hand, Elves annoy the hell out of her because they always react badly to her quarter-Orc blood.

The chariot is loaded safely into the warehouse. I’m right up at the doors, peering in past the attendants. I slip past an Elf distracted by the sight of Makri and poke my head in the door. I can’t believe it’s a coincidence that the Elf chariot is being stored in the same place that Mursius was murdered.

Civil Guards are in attendance to keep order and to prevent anyone from touching the chariot. One of them spots me, and calls to me to get out.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Nothing,” I grunt, though this is not quite true. In reality I’m staring at the wall of the warehouse where I’ve just noticed, scratched in tiny letters close to the floor, a pair of clasped hands, very crudely drawn. Just a piece of graffiti, a common enough sight in the city.

But not that particular sign, I muse, as the Guards eject me and the rest of the overly curious crowd. Two clasped hands is the sign of the Society of Friends, who don’t hang around in Twelve Seas, which is controlled by the Brotherhood, their deadly enemies. Any known Society man wandering around in Twelve Seas would soon end up dead. But who else other than a Society of Friends man would make such a mark? With the Brotherhood being so powerful in the south of the city, it’s not the sort of thing that even a bored youth would do. Scrawling Society of Friends graffiti is liable to earn you a good beating, or worse.

Outside Makri is talking to a young Elf in Elvish. The heavy rain has flattened her hair so her pointed ears show through. The Elf looks intrigued but troubled. Soon an Elf commander calls to him and he hurries away.

I tell Makri about the Society of Friends graffiti. Has the Society been in the warehouse in which Mursius was murdered? The same place in which the Elvish horses and chariot are now being stored prior to removal to the stables at the Stadium?

“Are you coming home, or do you want to hang around waiting for more Elves to appear?”

“Stupid Elves,” says Makri, walking rapidly away. The crowd make optimistic noises about the Orc curse being lifted now that Lord Lisith has arrived. I catch up with Makri. She’s in a bad mood after meeting the Elves. Poor Makri. They’re never going to welcome her like a long-lost sister.

At the end of Quintessence Street I sense magic close by and spin around in case I’m under attack. Right behind me a tall man in a grey cloak is approaching through the rain. His face looks down towards the ground but I recognise him anyway. It’s Glixius Dragon Killer. I grab him as he passes, which is rash, given Glixius’s power, but I’m still annoyed at the damage to my own personal tankard. He looks up in surprise.

“Leave your rainbow cloak at home, did you?”

“Thraxas! How dare you lay a hand on me. Do you wish to be blasted into the next world?”

“How dare you send me sorcerous warnings!” I counter. “That tankard was very dear to me. And I don’t appreciate you writing all over my racing form either.”

“Have you gone insane?” roars the Sorcerer. “I have no time for your petty stupidities. Be gone!”

He raises his arm to cast some spell at me. I brace myself, hoping that my spell protection charm is in good working order. I don’t get to find out because before Glixius can utter a word Makri slugs him on the back of his head with the pommel of her sword. He slumps unconscious to the ground.

“Nice work, Makri.”

“I needed that,” she says, and looks a little more cheerful. We leave Glixius lying in the mud.

“That’ll teach him to meddle with me.”

At the Avenging Axe four Civil Guards and a Praetor’s assistant are waiting for me. The official hands me a paper and informs me I’m due in court the day after the Triple-Moon Conjunction festival ends.

“Care to buy me a beer to celebrate?” I ask the Praetor’s assistant.

He doesn’t care. They depart.

“Have they charged you with the murder?” enquires Makri.

“Not exactly. Cicerius managed to have that delayed. I have to go before the examining magistrate, who looks at the evidence.”

“What happens then?”

“Then he charges me with murder.”

Later in the day I receive the news that Bear Baiter romped home a clear winner, which gives me enough money for a few beers and Makri another fifteen gurans to add to her total. She now has fifty and needs only ten more.

“Stop sitting around drinking beer,” says Makri, interrupting my late-night relaxation. “Start studying the form sheet.”

I sigh. Life was easier when Makri disapproved of gambling. Cicerius’s Aedile, or Assistant, arrives on horseback looking for news. The Deputy Consul is extremely agitated at my lack of progress in locating the prayer mat. Lord Rezaz Caseg is increasingly unhappy at his charioteer’s loss and may quit the city any day. I tell the Aedile I’m doing everything I can. I have a beer in one hand and the racing sheet in the other which might give him the wrong impression. He doesn’t look too impressed when he rides away.

I
make no progress in the next few days. I’m sitting gloomily at my desk, beer in hand, when I hear voices in the corridor outside. Makri’s voice and another one, softer. I creep over and place my ear to the door. The other voice belongs to Hanama. Another social call from the Assassin?

“I won fifteen gurans on Bear Baiter,” Makri is telling her. “Evens favourite at Simnia. He won by three lengths after a slow start. But Bear Baiter always starts slowly. I wasn’t worried.”

“I didn’t know you were so informed about betting,” says Hanama, sounding impressed.

“I picked it up here and there,” replies Makri. “If you come to the Turas Memorial I’ll show you how it’s done.”

I wrench open the door. “Will you stop discussing gambling with Assassins outside my room? I’m trying to work in here.”

“So, what’s eating you?” asks Makri.

“Her,” I retort, indicating Hanama. “You might be buddies, but she still gives me the creeps. Since when have Assassins placed bets? Shouldn’t you be out murdering people?”

Hanama eyes me calmly and retreats down the corridor without comment, followed by Makri. Damned Assassins. How come she’s so friendly with Makri recently?

“And it was me that picked Bear Baiter,” I yell after them.

I get out the magic dry cloak. It’s time to visit the Brotherhood. They are very powerful in Turai. They started off as a bunch of small-time crooks operating round the harbour about two hundred years ago. Now they’re one of the most powerful groups in the whole city-state. Since dwa started flooding into the city, bringing with it vast profits and a whole new class of people dependent on crime, their influence has grown alarmingly. They’re behind most criminal activity in the south of the city, but they also have their fingers in various legitimate businesses. Many of our banking houses, for instance, are now suspected of using dwa money to fund their enterprises, and when a Senator makes a speech in favour of some particular venture you can never be sure if he isn’t being heavily influenced by the vast wealth and influence of the Brotherhood.

While I am too small-time to really irritate the Brotherhood, I couldn’t claim that they like me. Casax, their boss in Twelve Seas, was particularly displeased with me when I prevented him from making off with the King’s gold which had originally been stolen by Galwinius, our ex-Prefect. He warned me then to stay well out of his way. So some might say it is unwise of me to walk into the Mermaid, Twelve Seas’ most dangerous tavern and local Brotherhood headquarters, and demand to see him.