Thraxas - The Complete Series (74 page)

“Where did you get the extra twenty-five?” she asks suspiciously.

“I pawned my illuminated staff. Still not much of a stake, but I’ll soon build it up. Follow me, and you won’t go wrong. I’m going to make these bookmakers wish they’d joined the Army.”

Makri wonders if anyone will try to sabotage the Orcish chariot again.

“I doubt it. It’s too late. The Consul has Guards everywhere and Old Hasius the Brilliant is watching out in case the Thunderer shows his face again.”

For the first time in a month I don’t bother putting the dry spell on my cloak. Instead I use my magical capacity to load up with the sleep spell. I’m not expecting any more trouble but it’s best to be prepared. I’m in a notably good mood.

“It’s amazing how the prospect of gambling cheers you up, Thraxas. Only yesterday you were complaining that everything was a disaster. You said your reputation was in shreds because everyone was calling you an Orc friend and what’s more you hadn’t found Mursius’s killer.”

I wave this away. “Minor problems, Makri. I found the artwork, didn’t I? I’ll track down the killer soon enough. If some high-class Sorcerer at the Abode of Justice can find a link between the stolen goods and Glixius it’ll be enough to take him to court. If not, I’ll just have to do a little more leg work. Either way, I’ll sort it out after the races.”

Kemlath Orc Slayer compliments me on my perseverance. “You’re right, Thraxas, you are a hard man to shake off. Glixius should have known better than to tangle with you.”

Kemlath is travelling with us up to the Stadium, where he’s planning to meet Sarija and lend her support for the chariot she’s entering in the big race.

Mursius’s stuff is still in my room: fancy cups, statues, and the painting of him as a young man after the Orc wars.

“How come you weren’t in the painting?” asks Makri.

“I was a common soldier. They only painted the officers and Sorcerers.”

“It’s a lousy painting,“ says Makri, who, along with everything else, is now an art critic. I wouldn’t know. At least you can recognise the people in it. I always think a painting can’t be that bad if you can recognise the people. It was this item which Mursius particularly wanted to recover. I stare at it. Mursius, Kemlath, a few other officers I recall. I have memories of the war again, but banish them, and we continue with the business of the day. Tanrose is bustling about merrily, packing food for the trip.

“I really thought the race would be cancelled.”

“I just said a prayer and the rain stopped,” says Makri. I have a bag of thazis sticks, a few beers and fifty gurans. It’s time to go racing.

T
he Stadium Superbius is an enormous stone amphitheatre built by King Varquius a hundred years ago. It’s the setting for circuses, theatrical performances, religious ceremonies, gladiatorial shows and, best of all, the chariot races. During the racing season the amphitheatre is packed full of racegoers from every stratum of Turanian society. Praetors, Prefects, Senators, priests, society ladies, Sorcerers and high-ranking Guild officials all mingle with the huge mass of proletarian Turanians out to enjoy themselves for the day, and maybe pick up a little money on the side. Today, for the Turas Memorial Race, the place will be bursting at the seams.

The gloom that has recently enveloped the city disappears with the rain. Being able to walk around without getting wet is enough to make most people cheerful and the prospect of the race definitely taking place brings a smile to the faces of even those who only yesterday were confidently predicting that we were all cursed by the gods. The relief is so great that anger about the Orcs is largely replaced with anticipation to see the race between them and the Elves. The Elf is a strong favourite. Few Turanians will bet money on the Orcs, even if some do suspect that they might have a chance of victory. Sarija has entered Storm the Citadel, and although I personally think it has no chance of winning it’s the best of the Human entrants and will also gather a large amount of popular support.

Entering the Stadium is tough. I have to use my weight to force my way through, with Makri bringing up the rear.

“I admit your bulk does have some advantages,” she says, as I forcefully negotiate a path for us through a large group of schoolchildren who are far too tardy in finding their seats. We settle down in a good position near to the track, with easy access to both the bookmakers and a beer tent. All Turai is here. Tumblers and jugglers cavort before the crowds. The great mass of the people sits in the huge banks of terraces that run round the banks of the Stadium, and the Senators and other important people are up in the reserved galleries. I catch sight of a few green Elvish hoods up there and possibly a black Orcish one well back from public view.

Right at the front of this gallery, very visible to the public, is Melus the Fair in her rainbow cloak. The sight gives everyone confidence. Melus the Fair, bless her name, will protect us gamblers from unwanted outside interference.

I have fifty gurans. Makri has twenty-five. I’m surprised that the normally cautious Makri has brought all her money with her. I would’ve expected her to put some aside for necessities.

“I’m feeling confident,” she says. “I think I have the hang of this now.”

Makri is happy. Here in the Stadium everyone is too busy with the racing to bother about minor distractions such as a young woman with one-quarter Orc blood wearing a man’s tunic and carrying two swords. At times like this such things fade into insignificance. The whole place is still damp and steam rises in the midday heat, but the track is in reasonable condition. It is wide enough to allow eight chariots to run at once, which makes for an exciting spectacle. We settle down with some beers.

“I’m feeling sharp as an Elf’s ear today,” I say, and get down to studying the form sheet.

The favourite is Glorious North Wind at six to five on.

“Glorious North Wind for the first race. Certain winner.”

“I don’t fancy it,” replies Makri, surprising me. “I like the look of Eastern Beauty.”

Eastern Beauty is the close second favourite in the race, quoted at evens by the bookmakers. It’s not a bad bet, actually, though I prefer the favourite. When I ask Makri why she prefers Eastern Beauty she says she likes the name.

“You can’t just bet on a chariot because you like the name.”

Makri won’t be swayed. Obviously she wishes to demonstrate that she can make up her own mind and, as I say, Eastern Beauty isn’t such a bad prospect. There’s nothing else in the race worth backing. None of the other chariots are fancied any better than sixteen to one and I’m in no mood for incautious speculation. Honest Mox has set up a stall in the stadium, manned by his son, and we make our way over to place our bets. I bet five of my fifty and Makri bets four of her twenty-five, then we settle down in the sunshine to watch.

After a fanfare of trumpets and a speech from the Consul the chariots make their way out from the stables. It’s one of my favourite sights. Eight chariots, eight riders, thirty-two horses, poised to do four laps of the track. Terrific.

The starter drops a flag, the chariots set off, and the crowd erupts with a mighty roar. Glorious North Wind takes an early lead and by the end of the first lap is in a commanding position. The charioteers flog the beasts mercilessly as they thunder around the track. There’s an early collision as three chariots get tangled up in each other’s wheels and crash out of the race. A team of amphitheatre officials rushes on to clear the wreckage before the others come round again.

At the end of the third lap Glorious North Wind has a substantial lead with the other four disputing second place. Eastern Beauty, Makri’s choice, is not making much of a showing. I’m on my feet along with everyone else, screaming encouragement at the favourite.

I have often thought that the gods are displeased with me. Perhaps it’s the way I keep missing prayers. With half a lap to go and a clear run to the finish, Glorious North Wind loses a wheel and skids to a messy halt in the centre of the track. Three of the pursuing chariots crash into the wreckage, spilling their unfortunate charioteers heavily on to the ground. Eastern Beauty, currently in last place, swerves to avoid the pile-up and trots home an easy winner. There’s a great groan from the crowd. Makri is still on her feet, however, shouting and yelling, and she practically tramples her neighbours to death in her eagerness to collect her winnings. She arrives back brandishing a fist full of coins.

“I won four gurans!”

I manage a grin. I’m not very pleased but I can’t begrudge my companion a bit of good fortune, so long as it doesn’t happen too often.

“What’re you betting on next, Thraxas?”

I study the sheet. “Dragon’s Breath,” I announce finally.

Makri makes a face. “Don’t like the sound of that. I’m going for Lilac Paradise.”

“Lilac Paradise? What sort of a name is that for a chariot?”

“I like it,” insists Makri.

“It’s got no form whatsoever.”

I stare suspiciously at my companion. This seems like a very rash bet by Makri’s standards. Lilac Paradise is a rank outsider at twenty to one. It’s one of the chariots owned by Magadis, a very rich aristocratic widow. She’s a racing enthusiast and has been training chariots for years, but she’s not one of our more successful racers. Lilac Paradise is a poor chariot, even by her standards.

“I still like it,” says Makri.

“Five gurans on Lilac Paradise,” says Makri, handing over her money to Mox’s son

Dragon’s Breath is second favourite at three to one. I place a modest three gurans on it, which is just as well because on the first corner the chariot is involved in an ugly collision and crashes out of the race. Several more collisions follow and to the amazement of the crowd Lilac Paradise wins by half a lap.

There is a great deal of grumbling in the crowd, much of it from me.

“How is a man meant to make a bet when the wheels fall off his chariot at the first corner?” I complain, and stand up to hurl abuse at the charioteer as he is carried off on a stretcher.

“Orc lover!” I yell. “Who told you you could ride a chariot?”

My fifty gurans has now shrunk to forty-two. Makri, having picked up an astonishing hundred gurans on Lilac Paradise, now has one hundred and twenty-nine. Rarely have I seen a bookmaker so unwilling to hand over one hundred gurans.

The owner of Dragon’s Breath appears on the track, supervising the removal of his mangled chariot.

“Come over here and I’ll mangle you as well!” I scream at him.

“Cheating dog!” roars a woman behind me, brandishing a tankard. She has to be restrained by her companions from invading the arena and assaulting the owner.

“The population of Turai doesn’t like losing,” observes Makri.

“Damn right we don’t,” I grunt.

I’m in no mood for Makri’s philosophical observations. I muscle my way to the beer stall and buy a drink. I don’t get one for Makri. She’s just won a hundred gurans. She can buy her own.

“I like it here,” says Makri, as I return. “Who do you fancy in the next race?”

The sun beats down. The Stadium is now as hot as Orcish hell and the crowd is restive. What we need here is a popular favourite romping home an easy winner, not a load of outsiders carrying off the prizes. The woman behind me is particularly virulent. I nod in agreement as she roundly lambasts the chariot owners for carving it all up among themselves, cheating the honest punters out of their hard-earned money. I think I recognise her from Twelve Seas and I chat with her about the iniquities of chariot owners while we wait for the next race to get under way.

I note with relief that Warrior Chief, one of the finest chariots in Turai, is due to run. Okay, he’s odds-on favourite and I’m not going to win much, but it’ll get me back on course. Warrior Chief is an absolute certainty. I back him with twenty gurans at two to one on.

Makri plumps for Serenity of Love, a useless wreck of a chariot pulled by four crippled old horses and ridden by a man who last won a race some time during the Orc Wars. It’s another of Magadis’s chariots and is something of a joke. The bookies are offering sixteen to one and there are few takers even at that price, apart from Makri. She says she likes the name, and backs it to the tune of thirty gurans.

“You’re throwing your money away. Serenity of Love wouldn’t win a chariot race if all the other chariots were eaten by a dragon.”

When Warrior Chief fails to complete the race and Serenity of Love strolls in an easy winner I’m not the only one up on my feet baying my disapproval.

“Cheats! Fix!” cries the crowd, along with other things much ruder. Fists are waved angrily and cushions and ripped-up form sheets cascade on to the track. The Civil Guards on duty stand up and face the crowd, nervous about the possibility of a riot. There is massive discontent. The stadium is packed full of punters all seeing their hard-earned cash going down the drain as one unlikely chariot after another comes home a winner. I’ve rarely seen a race crowd look so ugly. It’s fortunate that Melus the Fair has such an impregnable reputation for incorruptibility, else there would be great suspicion that magic was involved. Even so, mistrustful glances are cast in her direction and some slanderous accusations are muttered by the more degenerate members of the lower classes, like myself, for instance.