Thraxas - The Complete Series Read online

  “How dare you!” he rages.

  “Why not? I’m a free man. I don’t have to listen to anyone calling me a liar, even the Consul. Especially when I’ve got a headache. I did my best. If that best isn’t good enough, then tough. Now leave.”

  Cicerius waves this away. “This is no time for squabbling,” he states. “If the Society of Friends obtains—”

  I wave him quiet. I’m in no mood for speeches. “I know. Prince disgraced, your son disgraced. Traditionals disgraced, you lose election, Populares win, Lodius marches to power. That’s the scenario according to you. I’ve heard it before. What do you expect me to do?”

  “Find the letter,” says the Praetor.

  “I already failed.”

  “Then you must try again. Don’t forget, my son Cerius is your client. The letter will send him to prison.”

  I frown. I hate the way Cicerius keeps pulling the “can’t desert a client” routine. I wish I’d never heard of the damn client. It’s too hot to think clearly. What will Sarin the Merciless do with the damning letter of credit? She won’t have any interest in using it for political means but she’ll certainly know how valuable it is to the King’s opponents. The Populares are the obvious people to sell it to, and easy for her to reach, because Senator Lodius is supported by the Society of Friends, and Sarin’s associate Glixius is himself associated with the Society. I don’t even know if they are still working together. It seems like Sarin might have gone off on her own. Double-crossing your associates is standard behaviour in the Turanian underworld.

  “We still might be able to buy it back, but it would cost you plenty to outbid the Society. Be better if we could just steal it. Haven’t your Sorcerers been able to locate her? She’s carrying six bags of dwa. Someone should be able to pick up the aura.”

  “Tas of the Eastern Lightning has scanned the city without finding anything.”

  Tas of the Eastern Lightning has taken over from the murdered Mirius Eagle Rider as the Chief Sorcerer at Palace Security. He’s powerful enough. If he can’t find it by magic, probably no one can.

  The call for morning prayers resonates through the city. The Consul and the Praetor are less than pleased to be obliged to kneel and pray in a tavern, but there’s no getting out of it. I find myself kneeling in prayer beside a blue-edged toga and a gold-edged one. I notice my own tunic is frayed. I wonder if my prayers will have some extra effect, seeing as they’re being offered up in such high-powered company. Afterwards we discuss things for a while and I agree to do my utmost to locate Sarin. They depart, still brushing the dust from their knees.

  Makri reappears and starts cleaning the debris off the floor. I appeal to her better nature and tell her I could really do with some help tonight. She refuses to talk, and practically sweeps me up with the rubbish. I catch Tanrose looking at me from behind a vast cauldron of beef stew.

  “To hell with this,” I grunt, and storm out the front entrance. Baxos the flower seller has plied his trade on the corner of Quintessence Street for thirty years. I estimate it is twenty years at least since I availed myself of his services. He practically falls over in surprise when I march up and demand a bunch of flowers.

  “Hey Rox,” he calls over to a fish vendor on the other side of the road. “Thraxas is buying some flowers.”

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

  “Time you were courting again, Thraxas!” screams Birix, one of Twelve Seas’ busier prostitutes. The cry is taken up enthusiastically by her companions.

  I grab a bunch of flowers, toss some pennies at Rox and march off hastily, pursued by a great deal of ribald witticisms. I am in the foulest of tempers and will have more than a few harsh words to say to that idiot Tanrose.

  Back at the Avenging Axe I practically crash into Makri and her mop. I thrust the flowers into her hand, figuring it’s best to get it over with quickly.

  “I’m sorry I put you to sleep in front of an opponent,” I say. “Here are some flowers.”

  Makri gawps in amazement while I march swiftly onwards to the bar for a much needed flagon of ale.

  Almost immediately I am tapped on the shoulder. It’s Makri, who then proceeds to do a number of strange things. First she embraces me, then she burst into tears, and runs out of the room.

  I’m bewildered. “What’s happening?”

  “The apology worked,” replies Tanrose, in a satisfied manner.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “It all seems very strange to me, Tanrose.”

  “I wasn’t surprised your marriage broke up, Thraxas,” says Tanrose, as she shovels some stew on to a plate for me.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I spend the afternoon drinking a few beers, thinking things over, and swapping tales with a mercenary from the far north. He passed through Nioj on his way to Turai and from his account it sounds as if the Niojans are preparing for war.

  “They say they heard some rumours that some Orcs were marauding on the borders.”

  It could be true. Or it could be a story put about to deceive our King into thinking they weren’t about to attack us. It’s bound to happen some time, and they still have the excuse of their murdered diplomat. Cities have fallen on flimsier excuses than that.

  Could the Church have murdered him? Would Bishop Gzekius go that far? Maybe. I have no other candidates in mind.

  Makri returns from her lunchtime logic class. She does appear to have been pacified by the flowers. Apparently no one ever gave her flowers before. Smart idea from Tanrose, I must admit, though Makri is embarrassed at bursting into tears and instructs myself and Tanrose never to mention it to anyone.

  Makri reports that things are pretty grim outside. She had to fight her way through three street brawls on the way to the Guild College.

  “I have a lecture in mathematics this afternoon,” she says. “I’d better sharpen my axe before I go. Incidentally, Sarin the Merciless didn’t seem quite so useless as you made her out to be.”

  “She got lucky. She’s learned how to use a crossbow. Big deal. Just wait till I meet her again. I suppose I will, now the Consul wants me to find her. But it’s going to have to wait because I’m going looking for the Red Elvish Cloth. Which is just as well maybe, because I’ve no idea where Sarin is. If Tas of the Eastern Lightning can’t find her, how do they expect me to? I wonder if Rittius is really planning to take away my licence. Cicerius might just be saying that to scare me. You know it’s rumoured Rittius is going to introduce a bill banning the Association of Gentlewomen?”

  Makri nods. She attended an A.G. meeting last night and as a consequence has now gathered further knowledge of Turanian politics.

  “It’s confusing,” she admits. “Some powerful women in the city are already campaigning behind the scenes against Rittius because he’s against the Association. But a lot of the Association of Gentlewomen still support the Populares because they’d like to see some reform. The meeting ended with everyone arguing.”

  “I’m not surprised. No one in Turai can ever agree about politics. I’d like to take a holiday till it’s all over.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere I’m not wanted by the law. Which does limit the choice, now I think about it. I’ve violated statutes in every neighbouring state. Maybe I could travel to the furthest west and see what Kamara is like.”

  “It’s not like you to admit defeat, Thraxas.”

  “I know. But I really can’t think how to find Sarin. If Tas can’t find her, then no magic of mine or even Astrath’s is going to be any good. And I’ve got no influence in the north of the City. If she’s with the Society, I’ll never reach her.”

  A messenger arrives for me, bearing a brief note: “Come alone to the Stadium Superbius at midnight if you want to bid for the letter,” it says. It’s signed by Sarin the Merciless.

  “I suppose that simplifies things,” I admit. “Might end up a good day
after all. Burgle Derlex’s church tonight and pick up the Cloth, then move on and buy the letter from Sarin. With any luck I’ll be paying off the Brotherhood tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Feel like going to church, Makri?”

  “If we must.”

  The streets are quiet, barely illuminated by the oil lamps on each corner. The whores have all gone home, and the only people in sight are the homeless beggars who sleep in doorways.

  We make our way down to the end of Saint Volinius’s Street, right by the docks. Behind us the huge hulks of triremes and quinquiremes float high in the water, ready to take on cargo tomorrow. The sight makes me pause. I saw a fair amount of the known world in my younger days, but it’s been a good many years since I’ve travelled far from Turai. What would it be like, I wonder, to get on a ship and sail to Samsarina or Simnia in the west? Or further, to the distant, barely explored shores of Kastlin? South perhaps, to the Elvish Islands, where the sun shines on perfect white beaches and music floats through the trees? I shake my head. I’m too old to go travelling again. I guess I’ll be stuck in this city for the rest of my life.

  In front of us is the large and imposing Church of Saint Volinius, the only richly decorated building in Twelve Seas. So far the dwa addicts haven’t started robbing the churches. It’s only a matter of time. No lights show though a lamp is visible in the window of the small house in the grounds where the Pontifex lives. We hurry to the back of the church. I hesitate. I’ve never broken into a church before and I don’t relish the prospect. Just because I can’t be bothered praying doesn’t mean I relish offending the Divinity. Makri sees my hesitation.

  “If someone finds us here and I cut their head off the Divinity will be far more offended,” she says, encouragingly.

  I mutter the opening incantation. Nothing happens. Not surprising. You’d expect a Pontifex like Derlex to know the common minor incantations, even if the Church does disapprove of magic.

  “Locking spell,” I mutter, and get to work. It doesn’t take long. I was picking locks as soon as I could walk. I have a natural talent for it. We hurry inside. Makri takes one of the huge candles off the altar and lights it from her tinderbox. I get the impression she’s enjoying this sacrilegious behaviour but it’s making me uneasy. Shadows from the statues around us loom out eerily as we pass and I half expect some ancient saint to step out from an alcove and reprimand me for desecrating church property.

  We start to hunt, lifting up the altar cloth, peering under the pews, poking around in all the nooks and crannies of the church. We haven’t got very far when we are interrupted by a faint noise from the door we came in. Makri swiftly blows out the candle and we disappear silently under a pew. A tiny glimmer of light flickers into view. I risk a quick glance, then put my mouth to Makri’s ear.

  “Glixius,” I whisper. “And three others.”

  Concealed under the bench, we wait as the Sorcerer and the Society of Friends search the church. Obviously I am not the only person who suspects the True Church of the theft.

  Again noises come from the door. Glixius’s illuminated staff is extinguished and the four men conceal themselves somewhere in the far side of the church. I peek out from my hiding place. Entering the building, sword in hand, is Hanama. Watching her creep silently towards the altar I am again mystified by the Assassins’ interest in the Cloth.

  Hanama has even less time to search than Glixius. She is interrupted almost immediately by the sound of yet another party entering, and swiftly conceals herself behind the altar, disappearing only seconds before Yubaxas and five Brotherhood men steal silently into the church.

  “I think I’m going to laugh,” whispers Makri.

  I shoot her a warning glance, though I have to admit it is funny in a grim sort of way. With us, the Society of Friends and an Assassin all hiding under chairs and suchlike, it’s starting to remind me of one of the sillier comedies at the theatre.

  When sounds of entry force Yubaxas and his companions to scurry for cover, Makri actually does giggle, though this is fortunately covered up by the voices of the new arrivals who are making no effort to be silent. A quick glance reveals Bishop Gzekius and four Curates with lanterns, led in by Pontifex Derlex.

  “Where is it?” demands Gzekius, his voice booming through the church.

  Derlex unlocks a side room. They enter, and emerge quickly with a large piece of folded Red Cloth.

  “Excellent,” says the Bishop.

  I wait tensely. Are any of the people hiding here about to rob the Bishop? I certainly do not intend to, not even to clear the Princess’s name and claim the huge reward. I’d be in endless trouble afterwards. It’s disappointing that so many others worked out where the Red Elvish Cloth was, but I can live with the disappointment. It’s better than being hauled up in court for burglary, and probably heresy and treason as well.

  The back door flies open. Shockingly, four Orcs stride in. The Bishop cries out in horror. Orcs are quite definitely not allowed in a true church. I groan. I know what’s going to happen now, but I’m powerless to prevent it. Makri leaps from under the pew and hurtles towards the Orcs, a sword in each hand and murder in her eyes. I drag myself to my feet and run after her. I can’t let her fight four Orcs on her own.

  “Thraxas!” yells Pontifex Derlex.

  “Orcs!” screams Yubaxas, as the Brotherhood reveal themselves.

  It goes badly for the Orcs. Makri and I engage with them while the Brotherhood and Hanama outflank them. Even the Curates lend a hand. The Orcs are quickly cut down.

  “Orcish scum,” spits Makri, and kicks one of the bodies.

  “What are you doing here?” screams Bishop Gzekius.

  Personally I’m stuck for an answer. The awkward silence doesn’t last long. There’s a huge thunder flash and everyone except me is flung to the floor. I remain upright, if shaky. One advantage of carrying a lot of weight—good centre of balance. Glixius Dragon Killer has emerged to enter the fray. He makes straight for the Cloth.

  “I notice you didn’t come out to fight the Orcs,” I say as he advances, and grab the Red Elvish Cloth from the floor.

  “Allies come and allies go. Now give me that!” he shouts.

  “Blasphemers!” yells Bishop Gzekius. “You’ll all pay for this! Get out of my church!”

  Glixius lunges at me. Makri sticks out her leg and he crashes to the floor. I take the Bishop’s advice, and flee with the Cloth.

  By the time I reach the alley outside Makri is at my shoulder and we’re about fifteen seconds in front of Glixius and the Society of Friends.

  “Look!” gasps Makri. At the far end of the dark alley are eight armed men.

  Makri’s swords appear in her hands.

  “We’re trapped,” I groan.

  Bizarrely, a manhole cover opens in front of us.

  “In here!” hisses a voice.

  It’s Hanama. Typically, she slipped out of the Church unnoticed.

  I hesitate. Meeting Assassins in sewers isn’t all that attractive a prospect. And I haven’t forgotten the alligator. Suddenly my senses go crazy. Glixius Dragon Killer has rounded the corner and is about to unleash a ferocious spell. I unfurl the roll of Cloth in an instant and hurl it over myself and Makri. The spell bounces harmlessly off us but Makri, taken by surprise by my unexpected manoeuvre, stumbles backwards into me and we both fall through the manhole into the stinking darkness below.

  “Not again,” I groan as I struggle to my feet in the filth. Two visits to the sewers on one case seems excessive.

  “Let’s go.”

  I bundle up the Cloth as quickly as I can and we head off, while up above there is shouting and confusion.

  I don’t know where we are. I’ve never been in this part of the sewers before, so I let Hanama lead. She carries a small lantern of cunning design which lights our way.

  I’m not sure why I’m following her. I don’t think we’re allies. At least she’s taking me away from Glixius. I solemnly swear to m
yself that if I survive this night then I will make every sacrifice, including beer, to buy myself a new spell protection charm. They’re hideously expensive but I can’t go running scared from Sorcerers all the time, not in my line of work.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Exit on the shore,” replies Hanama, who seems entirely at home down in the sewers.

  “Keep a look out for alligators,” I pant to Makri.

  “I will,” she replies, and even she seems slightly worried by the prospect. We make good time. The level of sewage is low due to the long spell of hot weather. Water in Turai’s aqueducts has already started to run short. Hanama suddenly comes to a halt.

  “We’re close to the exit.”

  With that she abruptly douses her lamp. Before I realise what she’s up to she grabs the Cloth and tries to yank it from me. I hold on grimly and in consequence we both fall over and start rolling around in the filth, struggling for the Cloth. I’d say she was a more skilful close-combat fighter, but I have a weight advantage.

  “Let go!” hisses Hanama. We struggle some more, till my senses again pick up an ominous warning.

  “Glixius,” I yell. “Magic coming.”

  “What’s that noise?” calls Makri, as a huge roaring starts reverberating through the tunnels.

  “It sounds like a flood.”

  “It can’t be, it’s summer.”

  Suddenly and terrifyingly a huge wave of water surges through the tunnel, carrying us off with it. I’m buffeted and dragged along, unable to breath as the flood water carries us before it like rats. My last conscious thought is to curse Glixius Dragon Killer for unleashing such a thing. The man is completely heartless. I didn’t even know there was a flood water spell. Eventually I pass out, with visions of my past life flickering before my eyes.

  I drift back to consciousness somewhere on the sea shore, beached like a whale. I cough and retch about ten gallons of water out of my lungs and rise unsteadily to my knees. It’s very dark and I can just make out the figure of Makri lying close by. As I struggle towards her she opens her eyes and turns on her side to spew out the water she’s swallowed.