Thraxas Read online

  I walk down Moon and Stars Boulevard till I reach the centre of town then take a shortcut through the ruined temple of Saint Isinius. I'm passing a broken-down column when all of a sudden something smacks into the marble in front of me, sending splinters cascading around my head. I drop into a fighting crouch and spin round, sword in hand. No one's in sight. I pad softly round the column, then through the archway in front of me. Still no one. Not even a footprint in this dried-out ground. The ruins are silent and when I sniff the air I can't sense anything. Very carefully, I go back to the column. I have a shrewd idea what struck it.

  Lying on the ground is a crossbow bolt, nine inches long. I stare at it, and I don't like it one bit. The crossbow is a lethal weapon, extremely powerful. It can send a bolt through solid armour, take a knight off his horse at a hundred yards. I finger the bolt uneasily, wondering who fired it. I've never heard of the Assassins using such a weapon. Nor the Society of Friends. Very strange. I place the bolt in my bag and hurry on, sword still in hand, which earns me a few funny looks when I pass out of the ruins and back into the main street beyond.

  Back at the Avenging Axe, Gurd, a slow reader, is ponderously working his way through The Renowned and Truthful Chronicle.

  "Bad weapons," he says.

  "Huh?"

  "Crossbow. Brotherhood boss got killed up in Kushni yesterday. Crossbow bolt through the neck."

  I read the report. Apparently that was the second important Brotherhood man to be killed in two days, both by crossbow. It seems like the Society of Friends might be getting the upper hand in the drug war. Aided by the mysterious crossbow wielder. It has to be the same person who shot at me. The crossbow is a specialised art. You need a serious amount of training before you can start firing bolts through people's necks from a distance.

  Later Makri wonders why the Society of Friends should be firing at me. It's not like I'm on the best of terms with the Brotherhood. I can't think of an explanation. If the Society still think I've got the Red Elvish Cloth, killing me outright isn't going to get it back for them. Maybe I'm just good for some target practice.

  My rooms are back in some sort of order. Time I think for a little sorcery.

  Chapter Twenty

  I stare at the kuriya pool with fury. I'm looking at a picture of the Fairy Glade. I presume the magic pool is once more making a fool of me. Having spent a considerable time working myself into a trance looking for information all I get is a picture of the place where my ex-wife had her assignations with the young Sorcerer. I thought it was all in the past but it must still be troubling me to interfere with the kuriya like this. Any strong image in your own mind can cause interference. Sorcerer's Apprentices often get pictures of their favourite actresses. So do Sorcerers.

  This is the last of my kuriya. A waste of money. I'm about to give up in disgust when the pleasant vision of grass and flowers suddenly darkens and a malevolent face begins to take shape. I try to break the connection but it's too late, I'm trapped and I lack the power to pull away.

  "Bad mistake, Thraxas," growls the malevolent image. "You should know better than to meddle with me."

  "And who the hell are you?" I demand.

  "I am Horm the Dead."

  I cringe. My skin crawls. I'm scared. I try not to show it. "Well, nice to meet you, Horm. But I've a few things to be getting on with—"

  Horm rasps out some evil spell and my room seems to explode. I'm blinded by a searing light and flung against the wall. My desk bounces on to my chest and shards of broken glass rain down on my head as I crumple to the floor. Makri hears the noise and rushes in to find me lying hurt and confused with most of my furniture piled on top of me. She hauls the desk off me then helps me to my feet.

  "What happened?"

  It takes me a while to get my breath. "A message from Horm the Dead," I gasp, eventually.

  Makri unsheathes her sword and whirls round.

  "Not here. In the pool. He sent a spell through."

  "Can you do that?"

  "No," I reply. "Well, not according to what I learned anyway. I guess Horm the Dead might have some tricks we don't know in the west."

  Makri bursts out laughing.

  "What's funny?"

  "You're covered in ink."

  "Makri, I just suffered an attack from one of the world's most deadly Sorcerers. I don't see anything funny in that."

  This makes Makri laugh some more. "You shouldn't have pawned your protection charm. Why is Horm trying to kill you?"

  I really can't say. Just something I've blundered into as usual. But if Horm has been wrecking my room, I must have got closer to his business than he'd like.

  Even Makri has heard tales of the malevolent power of Horm the Dead. "Didn't I hear you say one time that you'd never go up against him?"

  I shrug, pretending to be unconcerned. Makri is not fooled. She lectures me on the stupidity of getting involved in too many cases at once.

  "You don't even know why people are trying to kill you any more."

  "I keep telling you I need the money."

  "You shouldn't have got in debt to the Brotherhood."

  "You think I don't know that? Can't you do something useful instead of lecturing me all the time?"

  I hate it when I find myself involved with powerful Sorcerers. I should stick to divorce work.

  Gurd is furious about the room. Destroyed three times in three days. A new record. He mutters darkly about looking for a tenant who won't keep ruining his furniture, and I have to divert him by steering the conversation round towards Tanrose, which I don't really have time for.

  Later I tell Makri about the latest developments with Cerius, and the crossbow attack.

  "I used the last of my kuriya looking for some clues but all I got was a vision of the Fairy Glade."

  "What's it like?"

  "Like a puddle of black ink."

  "Not the kuriya, idiot. The Fairy Glade."

  "Oh. Well, it's idyllic, during the days. Fairies flying around, unicorns wandering through the trees, Nymphs and Dryads playing music, beautiful flowers, sparkling streams. You should go, Makri, you'd like it."

  "Maybe. I could use a bit of peace after living in this stinking city for a year. But Gurd says no one with Orcish blood can get in."

  This is true. The Fairy Glade is deep in the woods, a long way from the city, and it's protected from harm by various natural magics, one of which does not allow an Orc to enter.

  "You're only one quarter Orc. And you're one quarter Elf. The Fairies are big on Elves. They might take to you."

  Makri says she has had quite enough rejection from Humans to risk more at the hands of Fairies, Nymphs and Dryads.

  I wonder where my wife and the young Sorcerer went after running off to the Glade all those years ago. They couldn't have stayed there long. No Human can spend a night there. Sleep comes on even if you fight it, and then the dreams drive you mad. Literally mad. Every year a few romantic or foolhardy young souls try it, and the result is always the same; they wander off to perish somewhere in the wilds or end up back in Turai begging aimlessly on street corners. The Fairy Glade is strictly for daytime visits only.

  Makri says she keeps passing meetings with orators haranguing crowds in the streets, and earlier in the day she'd seen one meeting disrupted by a group of armed men.

  "Election. Deputy Consul's post's coming up for grabs."

  "Why?"

  "Don't you know anything about the city you live in?"

  "No."

  I remember Makri hasn't been in Turai long enough to have seen an election, so I explain to her that the Deputy Consul is second only to the Consul, who's second only to the King, and that the post comes up for grabs every two years.

  "The Traditionals, who support the King, always held the post but last time Rittius won it for the Populares. Since then Lodius's party has been gaining power. Something to do with the Royal Family bleeding the city dry, no doubt. Cicerius is trying to win it back for the Traditionals."r />
  "So why all the fighting?" asks Makri.

  "Politics is like that in Turai. No one wins an election without bribing some voters and frightening others. The Traditionals generally employ the Brotherhood as their strong-arm men and the Populares use the Society of Friends."

  Makri asks if she's entitled to vote and I tell her no, women aren't allowed, which puts her in a bad mood, even when I point out that no one is worth voting for.

  "Not even the Populares? Wouldn't some democracy be a good thing?"

  "It might be," I admit. "But we won't get it from any party with Lodius as its leader. The man's nakedly ambitious and cold as an Orc's heart into the bargain. And he's going to make a bid for power one day, whether his party wins the election or not. The King should have had him assassinated years ago."

  "Why hasn't he?"

  "He left it too late and now he's scared. Lodius has powerful backing these days—rich merchants, disaf-fected aristocrats, ambitious generals and so on. I tell you, Makri, it's not worth getting involved."

  We play a game of niarit. I win. Makri is displeased.

  "What's this?" she says, picking up a scrap of paper.

  "It's a bag of grapes. Minus the grapes."

  "But it's written on."

  "Written on?" I say, studying the meaningless scribbles.

  "Don't you recognise Low Orcish when you see it?"

  "No. What is it?"

  "The language of the Orcish underclass. Not the common Orcish tongue, or any of their national languages, but a sort of pidgin Orcish they use in the Wastelands where there are Orcs, Humans and a lot in between. They speak it in gladiator pits."

  I have to hand this one to Makri. I would've recognised standard Orcish characters but I had no idea there was a written form of pidgin Orcish.

  "What's it say?"

  "Load, or consignment . . . in spirit grass place. Spirit Grass Place? I don't know what that means."

  I sigh. I realise immediately what it means. "I imagine that Spirit Grass Place is Low Orcish for the Fairy Glade, Makri. You might be getting to see it sooner than you think."

  Makri wonders out loud why Cerius, a Praetor's son, would carry around a message written in Orcish.

  "I was wondering the same thing. If the Prince and Cerius are really importing dwa like Kerk says, I can't see them being involved with Orcs. Unless it's coming from Horm . . . which would explain the warning he sent me. If Cerius has got mixed up with Horm the Dead it's no wonder he's terrified. He terrifies me."

  "Is Horm a dwa dealer?"

  "He could be, He uses it himself, and it's profitable enough to interest him."

  "There are two letters at the end of the message," continues Makri. "S and M, I think. Mean anything to you?"

  I shake my head. Makri has the afternoon off from work and is due to attend a lecture on Theological Philosophy by Samanatius, one of Turai's leading thinkers. Much the same as myself, I reflect, downstairs in the bar, as I down a few beers and do some serious thinking.

  A messenger from the Brotherhood arrives. "Yubaxas is getting impatient," he says.

  I throw him out of the bar. "I have two days left. Tell Yubaxas he'll get his money."

  Spurred on to action I return to my musings about the Cloth. I figure that I'm close somehow, and what's more, when I find it, I'm sure I'll be able to clear the Princess.

  Praetor Cicerius walks into the bar in his blue-edged toga, to the general consternation of the assembled drinkers. They gape in amazement as he crosses over and greets me. Not bad, I reflect, having the Praetor himself call on me. Might earn me a little respect round here.

  Upstairs in my rooms he has some grave news. "The Investigator Tuparius has learned that Prince Frisen-Akan is paying Horm the Dead to bring dwa into Turai. Furthermore the Prince has sent a letter of credit to cover the payment. If this becomes known to the public, the government will fall." The Praetor shakes his head sadly. "My son is involved in passing drugs from that renegade half-Orc Sorcerer to Prince Frisen-Akan. This is worse than anything I could have imagined. How can I explain this to Consul Kalius? Think of the terrible repercussions if word got out! It was bad enough before, when the Populares merely sought to discredit me. If the Prince is dragged into the affair, what chance do the Traditionals have in the election?"

  Cicerius insists that he does not care about winning the post of Deputy Consul for himself, but only about the good of the city. Strangely enough, I believe him. He demands to know what I'm going to do.

  "What's Tuparius going to do?" I ask.

  "Nothing. After relating this information to me he was murdered on his way home. A crossbow bolt through the neck."

  "You're not making this investigation sound too attractive, Praetor. How about calling in the Civil Guard?"

  "That is not possible. Many of the Guards owe allegiance to Rittius. We can't risk this scandal getting out. You will have to retrieve the letter of credit and see that the Prince's name is kept out of the affair."

  Cicerius notes my lack of enthusiasm and enquires in an acidic tone what the matter is. I point out that every man has his limits. Even me.

  "If the case involves Horm the Dead, Glixius Dragon Killer and Prince Frisen-Akan, no wonder your son is scared. They scare the hell out of me. Look what happened to Tuparius. Anyway, what do you expect of me? The state should be handling the job, and is it? No, it's not, because half the forces of the state are in the pay of these people. If you want to stop Glixius Dragon Killer importing dwa from Horm the Dead, get someone else to do it."

  "I am not asking you to do any such thing." retorts Cicerius. "But my son must not be convicted of these charges. And Prince Frisen-Akan must not be implicated."

  "That's going to be difficult, seeing as the only way for your son to get off is by naming the Prince."

  Cicerius fixes me with his steely gaze, and demands to know if I am aware of the importance of the affair.

  "Yes. I'll probably get killed."

  "There are things more important to this city than your life, or mine," he replies. "If Deputy Consul Rittius succeeds in prosecuting Cerius, and disgracing the name of the Royal Family, he will win the election. If Rittius is re-elected, more Senators will move over to Lodius's party. The Populares may gain control of the Senate. Turai will be torn apart. Lodius seeks nothing less than the overthrow of the monarchy, and he will stop at nothing to procure it. He has succeeded in gathering support for his party by promising democratic reforms, but his real aim is to seize power."

  As I said, I take little interest in Turai's politics but I'm aware that Cicerius is putting forward a very one-sided view of things. Plenty of people support Senator Lodius's Populares for good reasons. The massed poor of the city have no representation in the Senate at all. The aristocrats are heavily taxed to pay for the Royal Family's luxury. Our merchants, some of whom have amassed vast wealth, are even more heavily taxed, and also have little representation, being allowed only observer status in the Senate. Among the Honourable Association of Merchants there can now be heard mutterings that, as they contribute so much in taxes to the state, they should have some say in how it's governed. This has spread to lesser guilds once renowned for fierce loyalty to the King. So the King faces an alliance of disaffected aristocrats, powerful merchants, and city artisans. He can't give in to this alliance but it's too strong for him to sweep away. Lodius has artfully harnessed these disaffections. Were I to give the matter much thought, I might well find myself in sympathy with him. After all, Turai has certainly deteriorated in the past twenty years. Unfortunately Cicerius has a trump card to play.

  "Do you know that at this moment Deputy Consul Rittius is preparing a list of men who will no longer be allowed to trade in the city? Your name is on that list, Thraxas. If he is re-elected, your Investigator's licence will be withdrawn."

  I'm not sure if Cicerius is telling the truth. He might be. "Okay, Praetor Cicerius, I'll see what I can do. You better write me an introduction."

&nb
sp; "An introduction?"

  "To Prince Frisen-Akan. I'll have to speak to him. Don't look so appalled, Praetor. I promise I'll be polite."

  I down a few beers and head out, looking for Captain Rallee. I find him easily enough, directing the removal of a load of dead bodies from the corner of the street. Stals are fluttering around looking interested in the prospect of some profitable scavenging.

  "Another attack by the Society?"

  He nods. They are getting the upper hand in their war with the Brotherhood.

  "It's that damned crossbow killer. He's now killed four Brotherhood bosses in the past two days."