Thraxas - The Complete Series (78 page)

It’s too late to reach another armourer. It’ll have to wait till tomorrow. I make my way back into Quintessence Street. I buy a pastry from the bakery. Minarixa is less friendly than usual. Probably Makri has been spreading bad stories about me.

I stop in the street to eat.

“Come for some flowers?” says Baxos the flower seller.

“Hey, Rox,” he calls over to the fish vendor. “Thraxas is buying flowers again.”

“Still got his lady friend, has he?” yells back Rox, loud enough for the entire street to hear.

“You treat her nicely, Thraxas!” screams Birix, one of Twelve Seas’ busiest prostitutes.

I glare at Baxos and toss him a coin just to get away. I arrive back in the Avenging Axe holding a large bunch of flowers.

“I thought you were buying an axe?”

“The axe shop was shut.”

It sounds a bit lame. I thrust the flowers into Makri’s hand. My hand strays to my sword, just in case she gets violent.

Makri raises the flowers to dash them to the ground. Suddenly a tear trickles from her eye. She refrains from dashing them to the ground and instead rushes forward, embraces me then runs out of the room in tears. I’m unsure of what this means.

“Did it work again?”

“Of course,” says Tanrose.

I can’t understand it. Neither can Gurd.

“This is a woman who once fought a dragon. She killed a nine-foot Troll when she was thirteen.”

Tanrose shrugs. “I imagine it was really grim growing up where she did. There’s obviously a lot of mileage left in small presents where Makri is concerned.”

Gurd snorts. “The women in my village were not like that. It took at least a new plough to impress them.”

“That must be why you never married,” says Tanrose. “You should have ignored the ploughs and tried flowers.”

She looks rather pointedly at Gurd. He seems embarrassed. He’s been attracted to Tanrose for a long time, but any mention of the subject makes him uneasy. These northern Barbarians. No romance. I leave them to it.

Upstairs I check on my supplies. I need plenty of klee and thazis to get me through the winter. And maybe some new blankets. I have nine hundred gurans. Enough for plenty of thick blankets. I might even buy one for Makri. She doesn’t have much money and she handed over all her winnings to the A.G. Foolish behaviour, it seemed to me, but that’s the problem with being idealistic. It makes you do foolish things. Personally, I’d have kept every guran.

Chapter
One
Chapter
Two
Chapter
Three
Chapter
Four
Chapter
Five
Chapter
Six
Chapter
Seven
Chapter
Eight
Chapter
Nine
Chapter
Ten
Chapter
Eleven
Chapter
Twelve
Chapter
Thirteen
Chapter
Fourteen
Chapter
Fifteen
Chapter
Sixteen
Chapter
Seventeen
Chapter
Eighteen
Chapter
Nineteen
Chapter
Twenty

I
t’s well past midnight and the air in the tavern is thick with thazis smoke. In front of me the table is groaning from the weight of money in the pot. Every week the Avenging Axe plays host to a game of rak, but there’s rarely been this much money riding on a single hand. There are six of us left in and Captain Rallee is next to bet. He stares at his cards for a long time.

“I reckon Thraxas is bluffing,” he says, and pushes forward his fifty gurans.

Next to him is Old Grax the wine merchant. Grax is a wily card player. He once won a thousand gurans off General Acarius, and General Acarius is universally acknowledged to be the finest gambler in the Turanian army. It’s never easy to read Old Grax’s intentions. From the confident way he slides his money into the centre of the table you might think he’s got one hell of a hand. I’m not so sure. I’m guessing he hasn’t.

Outside the streets are dark and silent. The front door of the Avenging Axe is locked. Light from the fire and the torches on the walls flickers over the faces of the dozen or so spectators. They nurse their drinks in silence, caught up in the tension as the game nears its climax.

“I’m out,” says Ravenius, a young guy from uptown who joins us most weeks. He’s a big loser on the night and looks disappointed, but he’s the son of a wealthy Senator so he’ll be back next week with another bag of money.

Gurd the landlord is still in the game, and next to bet. The heat from the fire brings sweat to his brow. He pushes back some strands of grey hair from his face and stares at his cards, which are dwarfed by his great hands. Gurd is a Barbarian from the north. In our younger days we fought all over the world together as mercenaries. We also played rak. Gurd’s a shrewd gambler. He thinks he knows everything there is to know about my technique at the card table. He doesn’t.

“I’m in,” he grunts, pushing his money forward with his brawny arm.

Captain Rallee raises his flagon and sips his ale. Two of his men, Civil Guards still in uniform with their swords at their hips, sit close to him, their interest fixed on the game. Tanrose, the tavern’s cook, has abandoned her position at the bar and edges closer to peer at the players.

Last person to bet is Casax, head of the local chapter of the Brotherhood, the powerful criminal gang that runs the southern half of the city of Turai. It’s not often you’ll see Captain Rallee at the same table as a Brotherhood boss. Unlike most of our city officials, the Captain is way too honest to socialise with figures from the underworld. But the Captain loves to gamble at rak so he makes an exception for our weekly meeting.

Nor would Casax normally be sitting down with me. Brotherhood bosses don’t take kindly to Private Investigators. More than once Casax has threatened to have me killed. Karlox, his oxlike henchman, who sits by his shoulder, would like nothing better than to gut me with his sword. He’ll have to wait. There is never any violence at this table, which is why it attracts such diverse people as rich wine merchants and Senators’ sons down to Twelve Seas, a rough part of town they’d normally work hard to avoid.

Casax glares round at us. He tugs at his earrings. Might be a sign of tension. Might not be. Casax is a very hard man to read. We wait for him to make his move. We wait a long time, in silence.

“I’ll cover,” he grunts, eventually. “And raise.”

Casax reaches out a hand and Karlox drops a fat purse into his palm. Casax rips it open and counts rapidly.

“Your fifty gurans and another two hundred.”

The onlookers whisper in excitement. Two hundred gurans. It takes an honest citizen a long time to earn that amount. It takes me a long time to earn it, and I’m not that honest.

Makri appears with a tray of drinks. Ravenius studies her with interest. She’s worth studying if you’re a young man with the energy for that sort of thing. Strong, beautiful, and possibly the only person in the West to have Orc, Elf and Human blood in her veins, Makri is quite a sight. She wears a tiny chainmail bikini at work for the sole purpose of earning tips and as Makri has the sort of figure men dream about when they’re far from home, and maybe dream about even more when they’re actually at home, she earns a lot of tips.

My five cards lie face down on the table in front of me. I don’t bother looking at them again. I don’t react to Casax’s raise too slowly or too quickly. Two hundred gurans on a single hand might be getting out of my league in the normal course of things, but last month I walked out of the Turas Memorial Chariot Race with an extremely handsome profit, thanks to some very astute gambling on my part. I still have most of my winnings. I can cover Casax’s bet. I take a beer from Makri’s tray and edge my chair back an inch to give my belly a little more room. I take my purse from my lap and count out two hundred gurans and I push it into the centre of the table.

The tavern is completely silent apart from the spitting of the fire. Makri stares at me. She’s one of my very few friends in the city. I can tell from her expression she thinks I’m a fool who’s about to be parted from his money.

The betting has gone too far for Captain Rallee. That’ll teach him to be honest. To compete at this level he ought to be taking a bribe every now and then. He hands in his cards with a look of disgust.

Old Grax is next. Despite the heat he’s still wearing the dark green cloak with the fur collar that denotes his high ranking in the Honourable Association of Merchants. He’s a wealthy man—he should be, with the amount of wine drunk in Turai—but he doesn’t seem so keen on risking two hundred gurans on the card he holds.

I guessed right. He folds, his face betraying neither anger nor disappointment. He motions to Makri for some wine. I motion for another beer. I’m not the sort of man who needs to stay entirely sober at the card table. So I like to believe anyway.

Gurd sighs deeply. He’s already a loser on the night and another two hundred gurans would make a substantial hole in his tavern’s profits. Gurd had a lot of expense rebuilding after the city-wide riots last year and maybe this influences him. He hands in his cards, reluctantly. I notice Tanrose smiling. She doesn’t like to see him lose. Tanrose is sweet on the old Barbarian. Also, he pays her wages.

Makri hands me my beer and stands next to me. Here in the Avenging Axe everyone is more or less used to her by now, but in much of the city her appearance still draws a lot of attention. It’s not just her looks and figure. The reddish hue of her skin and her pointed ears reveal her Orc blood and anyone with Orc blood is regarded as cursed, a social outcast, and totally unwelcome in Turai. Everyone hates Orcs, even though we’re at peace with them just now. Makri’s only a quarter Orc, but that’s more than enough to get you into trouble in many places.

Casax has a glass of water in front of him. No alcohol has passed his lips since he sat down at the table almost six hours ago. His eyes are deepest black and in the torchlight they shine with malevolent intelligence. He snaps his fingers. Karlox the enforcer digs deep into his robe, producing a larger bag of money.

“Count me out a thousand,” says Casax, casually, as if betting a thousand gurans on a hand of cards is an everyday occurrence.