Death and Thraxas Page 2

  He knows all about my fall from grace. He's not unsympathetic. As a soldier he has little time for Palace politics.

  "A vipers' nest, the Palace. You should never have taken a job there in the first place. Why did you do it?"

  "The pay was good."

  "Look where it got you."

  He looks around my shabby room. "Did Rittius clean you out in court?"

  I nod.

  "Rittius is a snake. Never did a day's fighting in his life. That's the sort of person who's running Turai these days. I take it you are looking for work?"

  I nod again.

  "I need the services of an Investigator. Nothing too complicated, or so I believe. I'd normally have hired a man closer to home, but I thought you might be in need of employment."

  I ask him why exactly he thought that and he replies that he keeps an eye on most of the men who fought under him.

  "You weren't too bad that day at the walls, Thraxas. I'd be sorry to see you starve. Though I see that would take a while. I hear you have a reputation as a good Investigator. When you can stay sober. How often can you stay sober?"

  "Practically all the time if the case really calls for it."

  A knock comes on the inner door that leads downstairs into the tavern. It opens before I get the chance to answer it. Makri has little concept of personal privacy. You have to make allowances for her. She grew up in a slave pit, after all.

  For the first time Mursius shows some surprise. Makri can be a surprising sight if you're not prepared for it. Though only slightly taller than your average Turanian woman, she carries herself erect like a warrior, lithe and strong like a fierce chagra cat from the Simnian jungle. She has large dark eyes, almost black, a huge mane of dark hair and strikingly attractive features, but what usually impresses anyone visiting the Avenging Axe for the first time is Makri's shape. Makri has plenty of shape—and her shape is difficult to miss given the tiny chainmail bikini she wears while working as a barmaid. The purpose of this of course is to earn tips from the dockers, sailors and mercenaries who make up most of Gurd's clientele.

  The next thing people generally notice about Makri is the reddish, slightly dark hue of her skin. Makri is one quarter Orc, and that means trouble. She's quarter Elf as well, which is fine in Turai, where everyone likes Elves, but the Orc blood leads to all sorts of difficulties. Everyone in Turai hates the Orcs. Though we are technically at peace with them now and have even signed a treaty and swapped Ambassadors, you don't need too long a memory to recall the days when they were besieging the city.

  All of which means that Makri's Orc blood is bad news in Turai. The drinkers in the tavern are fairly used to it but Makri still wouldn't be allowed into a high-class tavern uptown, or various official buildings. She is often insulted in the street. I'd worry about her more if it wasn't for the fact that she's probably the most lethal fighter in Turai, if not the entire west. I've spent most of my life fighting, and I can't recall ever meeting anyone more deadly with a sword, an axe, or anything that comes to hand.

  Senator Mursius stares at her in surprise. There is an awkward silence.

  "I've got pointed ears as well," says Makri, which is true, though they're usually hidden beneath her huge mass of hair.

  "Excuse me," says the Senator apologetically. He glances at the sword at her hip. "An Orc blade?"

  Makri nods. "I brought it with me."

  Mursius looks at it with interest. As a professional soldier he always was interested in weaponry.

  "Fine work," he says with approval. "The Orcs are excellent armourers, whatever people say. Quite as good as the best Human smiths. You say you brought it with you?"

  "From the Orc gladiator pits. I used to fight there. Before I killed the Orc Lord who owned me, slaughtered his entourage, escaped down a sheer cliff face and took a job as a barmaid instead."

  "Interesting. Your attire seems hardly suitable for fighting, however."

  "You're right," agrees Makri. "Only a fool would go fighting in a bikini. But it gets me tips. When I'm on duty I hide the sword behind the bar." She departs downstairs.

  "A very interesting woman," says Mursius. "Half Orc?"

  "A quarter. Quarter Elf as well. And half Human, though that doesn't make her act like one."

  The Senator studies me with interest. He's wondering if he wants to hire an Investigator who's having a relationship with a quarter Orc. He needn't worry. I'm not having a relationship with Makri, or anyone else for that matter. Haven't had one for a long time. I went off women when my wife left me for a young Sorcerer's Apprentice some years ago. I took to drink instead. Actually I had taken to drink some time before she left, but afterwards I had much more time for it.

  "So, how can I help you?"

  The Senator tells me that he has suffered from a theft at his country house further down the coast, near to Ferai. Like any wealthy citizen, the Senator keeps a house in town and another in the country for retiring to when the weather gets too intense.

  "My losses are not great. There wasn't much money at the villa, but various works of art have gone missing and I'd like them recovered. In particular I'd like you to find a painting which I hold very dear."

  Remembering Mursius in his younger days, storming the Orc lines with a bloody sword in his hand, I never figured him as an art lover. You can never tell with these aristocrats, though. Men of Mursius's generation went naturally into war and fought bravely, but they learned their share of social graces as well. There used to be a theory among the aristocratic class that it was important to enrich every aspect of one's personality. But Turai was different in those days. Since the gold mines in the north started producing wealth and the drug trade brought dwa in from the south, the city is both much richer and much more corrupt. Today's young aristocrats spend their time in debauchery and bribe their way out of military service.

  "What have the Civil Guards done about it?"

  "I have not informed them."

  I raise one eyebrow. Calling in the Guards would be the normal thing to do, unless there was some delicate aspect Mursius would rather not reveal in public. I was half expecting something like this. People do tend to come to me only in desperate circumstances.

  "I have not informed them," continues Mursius, "because I strongly suspect that my wife was behind the theft."

  "Your wife?"

  The Senator expresses some anxiety about the private nature of his disclosures. I reassure him of my discretion. I have plenty of faults but I never blab about a client, even if it gets me thrown in jail. Which it does, often enough.

  Outside the rain beats against the shutters, drowning out the other noise from the street. That's the only good thing about the Hot Rainy Season. It keeps most of the squealing brats that infest the area indoors.

  "We have been estranged for some time. We stay together because it suits us not to part. I'm sure you understand."

  I do. For a city as immoral as Turai, where almost everyone can be bought, the public still places a surprisingly high value on the morality of our public figures. If a Senator finds himself involved in a messy divorce case it can do great damage to his career and completely end his chances of advancing up the ladder of Prefect, Praetor, Deputy Consul and Consul. They tend to keep their problems hushed up and well away from the scandal sheets. Their wives generally go along with it. It suits them better to remain married and keep their wealth and social standing rather than risk finding themselves out on the market again.

  "So, why would she rob you?"

  "My wife is often desperate for money."

  "You don't give her an allowance?"

  "Not for dwa, no."

  Right. Not for dwa. That makes sense. Since the southern trade routes were opened up, this powerful narcotic has flooded into the city. The effect on the population has been dramatic. Beggars, sailors, youthful apprentices, whores, itinerants, rich young things: all manner of people once content to alleviate their sufferings with ale and occasional doses of the much mild
er drug thazis now spend their days lost in the powerful dreams of dwa. Unfortunately dwa is both expensive and addictive. Once you take your dose you're as happy as an Elf in a tree, but when you come down you feel bad. Regular users who spend part of their lives lost in its pleasant grip are obliged to spend the other part raising money for more.

  Since dwa swept Turai, crime has accelerated out of control. In many parts of Turai it's not safe to walk the streets at night for fear of violent robbery. The city is rotting. The poor are despairing and the rich are decadent. One day King Lamachus of Nioj will come down from the north and sweep us away.

  "Is she a serious addict?"

  "Very serious. She's tried to stop but—"

  He holds his hands out in a hopeless gesture.

  "For the past six months she's been down at the villa. It was her idea. Said it would help her to get straight. From what the servants tell me, it hasn't worked out. I've tried doctors, Sorcerers, herbalists, everything. Nothing does any good. She always comes back to dwa. Eventually I tried cutting off her money, just sending down a servant with supplies."

  "As a result of which your wife sold some of the family treasures to feed her habit?"

  "So it would seem."

  I lean back in my chair and take a thazis stick from my drawer. I offer one to the Senator, but he declines. It's still technically illegal but since the arrival of dwa swept the city no one much cares about that. I light it up and inhale the smoke.

  "What exactly do you want me to do?"

  "Find my belongings. Particularly the painting. Without involving the Guard or the scandal sheets."

  The Senator tells me in a frank, man-to-man sort of way that he's being pressed by the Traditionals to stand for the post of Prefect next year. He's fifty years old so it's about time for his political career to get started. As a war hero and a popular man with both the mob and the King, he's almost certain to get elected. Unless, of course, his name is blackened by scandal. The Populares, the powerful opposition party led by Senator Lodius, never hesitate to use any available dirt against their opponents.

  I mull it over. It means travelling out of the city in the rain, which is a fairly unpleasant prospect with the country turning into swampland, but apart from that it sounds straightforward enough. No powerful criminal gangs involved. No mad Sorcerers out to get me. Just find out what she did with the goods and get them back. I can do that. I need the money. I take the case.

  The Senator fills me in on the rest of the details and rises from his chair. He pauses at the door and glances round the room. "I hear you lost a great deal of money at the out-of-town chariot meeting."

  I frown. I knew the Senator would have checked me out but a man never likes his gambling losses being made too public.

  "I'll give you a good tip for the Turas Memorial Race."

  I lean forward, suddenly eager.

  "I'm entering a chariot in the Turas Memorial," says the Senator. "It's called Storm the Citadel. Back it. It's going to win."

  I sit back, disappointed. I'm not too keen on this tip.

  "Your chariot is going to win the Turas Memorial Race? Excuse me, Senator, you've had some good horse teams in the past, but there's an Elvish entrant in the Turas this year. Everyone knows Moonlit River is going to win. You can't even get a bet down on it any more."

  The Senator treads softly back to my desk. "Storm the Citadel will win," he says, quite emphatically. "If you want to make up your losses, back it with everything you have."

  With that he departs. I pick up a guran from the retainer he left me and head downstairs to the bar where I buy a flagon of Gurd's finest ale and muse about Senators' wives and the powerful addictive qualities of dwa. I tried it when I was younger, but it didn't do much for me. I guess I'm just not that sort of character. I finish my beer quickly, drink down another, and take a third flagon back up to my office.

  There's a message on my desk. Odd. I break the seal and open it. It reads: Thraxas, your death is near.

  I stare at it. I'm used to death threats but that doesn't mean I enjoy them. I check the outside door. It's locked. I'm sure no one came up the connecting stairs while I was at the bar. I put the letter under my nose, sensing around for any signs of sorcery. Is there a faint trace? Possibly.

  My hand goes automatically to the spell protection charm at my throat. It's new. I hope it works.

  I'm wary as I travel out to Mox's, but when I find that my chariot won and I pick up my twenty gurans winnings, I forget about the death threat. Afterwards I gloat to Makri.

  "Yes, a man may have a few losses every now and then, but class will tell in the end. When it comes to picking winners I'm number one chariot around here. And I've a hot tip for tomorrow. You ought to join in and win a little money, Makri. Easier than working as a waitress."

  Chapter Three

  "What do you think of Storm the Citadel's chances in the Turas Memorial Race?" I ask Gurd as he hands me another beer. His biceps bulge as he passes it over the bar. His long hair is almost completely grey now but he's still as strong as a team of oxen.

  "No chance," he says. "The Elves don't send a chariot all the way up from the Southern Islands unless they know it'll win."

  I nod. That's what everyone in Turai thinks. Senator Mursius has produced some fine chariots in his time, but he's never going to beat the Elves.

  Everyone is looking forward to the chariot races in the dry week after the rains stop, when the Turas Festival is held. Turas was the legendary founder of Turai, building a city after defeating several savage tribes and performing various heroic acts. It's always a good time for Turai. It cheers up the citizens before the onset of the bitter winter. This year the festivities will take on a larger scale than usual because they come at the time of the Triple-Moon conjunction festival, which only happens every fifteen years or so.

  I'll be betting at the meeting, naturally, but I hadn't planned putting anything on the last and most prestigious event, the Turas Memorial Race. Not with the Elves entering Moonlit River. It's practically a shoo-in. The chariot belongs to Lisith-ar-Moh, a great Elvish Lord and a particular friend of Turai. Fifteen years ago Lisith-ar-Moh led a regiment of Elvish warriors through the Orc lines to the relief of Turai, arriving just as the Orcs breached our walls and various desperate Turanian soldiers, including myself, were trying to hold them back. He saved the city that day and we have never forgotten it. He's visited several times since, as guest of honour to our King, and it's because of his ties with the city that he's entered a chariot in the Turas Memorial Race.

  Everyone is pleased about that. We all like Elves here. The only thing wrong is that the Elvish chariot has more or less finished the Turas Memorial as a serious competition. We don't breed horses up here the way the Elves do in the Southern Islands.

  And yet . . . like any gambler I'm always interested when someone gives me a tip. I stood beside Senator Mursius when the east wall of the city was breached and watched him fight hand to hand with the savage Orcish force swarming over the debris and into the city. If Mursius hadn't been there to lead us we'd never have held out till the Elves arrived.

  "He's not the sort of man to place his faith in a no-hoper," I point out to Gurd, who was there that day as well.

  "True. But chariot-owners always think they're going to win," replies Gurd. "You've lost plenty at the races already. No point throwing more away."

  Gurd and I reminisce about the war. We've done that often recently. The imminent arrival of Lord Lisith has certainly stirred up the memories. Orcs, dragons, walls tumbling to the ground under sorcerous attack, buildings on fire, the desperate battle, the sound of trumpets and the sudden unexpected arrival of the Elves. Even when they arrived it was no easy matter to defeat the Orcs. The fight continued all day and all night and all of the next day as well. It was quite an experience. So I figure Gurd and I are fully justified in bragging about our part in it, no matter what anyone might say when we wheel out our war stories for another airing.


  Gurd is right about the race of course. And yet . . . Mursius is sharp as an Elf's ear when it comes to chariot racing. He's had a lot of success. I can feel myself being tempted. I banish it from my mind and get back to the task in hand, namely recovering Senator Mursius's lost works of art. Gurd has a couple of good horses out the back and I ask the stable lad to saddle one of them up for me while Tanrose, the tavern cook and object of Gurd's Barbarian affections, fills me a basket of provisions for the journey. I tie back my long hair and tuck it inside my tunic, then wrap myself in my cloak.

  Just as I'm leaving Makri enters the tavern.

  "I'm wet as a Mermaid's blanket," she states. "What a stupid climate this city has. If it isn't too hot, it's too wet. Now it's both."

  I have to agree. The weather in Turai is often unpleasant. We have four months of blazing sun, one month of hot rain, about one month of a fairly temperate autumn, then four months of extreme, biting cold. After that there's another rainy season, cold this time, lasting a month, before the month-long spring, which is pleasant.

  "Which makes only two reasonable months a year," growls Makri.

  "At least it's regular."

  "Why the hell did anyone ever build a city here?"

  "Good harbour. And we're on the main trade routes."

  Makri curses in archaic Elvish. She's been learning the Royal Elvish language at her Guild classes and wants to practise.

  "Not that the Elves ever curse the rain, or so I'm told," continues Makri. Apparently they all sit around in their trees thinking it's yet another fine part of nature. Stupid Elves."

  Makri was already fluent in Common Elvish when she arrived in Turai. Presumably that was from her Elvish grandparent, but who that was I've never asked, and Makri has never exactly explained. Nor has she talked about her Orcish grandparent. I wouldn't dare ask. Anyway, both my Elvish and Orcish have improved a lot since she's been around.

  I ask her what she was doing wandering around in the rain. She tells me she was looking for plants.