Thraxas - The Complete Series Page 28

  “No chance,” I mutter. “They should have brought an undertaker. It would have saved time.”

  Makri is wary of the monks. Only hours ago they were trailing us through the city. Now they seem too concerned with their leader’s plight to bother about us.

  “I need to speak to Calia. Dying Abbot or not, I’m here to clear Grosex.”

  Oil lamps have been lit for the healers. While they go about their business Calia stands to one side in the shadows, ignored by the monks.

  “She doesn’t look in a mood to talk,” says Makri.

  “I never let that bother me.”

  “You want me to come?”

  “Yes. She might feel better with another woman around.”

  “Even an Orc with pointed ears?”

  “I’m sure I never called you that.”

  We circumnavigate the healers and the monks.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Not now,” says Calia.

  I can see that she deserved her reputation as a Twelve Seas beauty but I can also see that she’s been under immense strain. Her husband was killed only a few days ago. But I get the impression that he isn’t uppermost in her mind.

  “It has to be now. Unless you want Grosex to hang.”

  She looks up sharply. “Grosex? Hang? Why?”

  “For murdering Drantaax, of course.”

  “That’s ridiculous. He wouldn’t have killed Drantaax.”

  “That’s not what you said when you found Grosex standing over the body. I heard you were screaming out he’d stabbed him.”

  Calia brushes this off. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. Who would be? I don’t know who killed my husband, but I’m sure it wasn’t the apprentice. He was far too loyal.”

  “It was his knife.”

  “Someone else must have used it.”

  “The Guards don’t think so.” I ask her who did and she says she doesn’t know. I don’t think I believe her.

  “Tell me what’s going on. What happened at the workshop? And why did you run here? What’s your connection with Ixial?”

  This gets no response.

  “You’ll feel better if you talk about it,” I add. I often find this a useful line, but it doesn’t work for Calia. I change tack.

  “What happened to Ixial?”

  “They attacked while he was meditating.”

  “Who did?”

  “Tresius. The Cloud Temple. They sneaked up on him while he was praying and threw him from the walls.”

  “What happened to his seeing powers?”

  “Ixial is a religious man,” retorts Calia. “He does not distract himself with seeing while he is praying.”

  I see. That’s not the way Tresius told it. According to Calia, Tresius and his followers had been apprehended trying to steal the monastery’s statue before they departed in disgrace. The statue had tumbled to its destruction from the walls. But Tresius had later returned with the intention of killing Ixial and stealing his followers. During this altercation the Cloud Temple was repulsed but Ixial, taken by surprise, was himself tumbled from the walls, suffering the terrible injuries he now has.

  “The monks brought him to the city to try and save his life.”

  The despair on her face shows quite clearly she knows it’s hopeless. Any normal man would have died by now. Every healer, herbalist and apothecary in Turai isn’t going to be able to put Ixial’s twisted and broken legs back together. Nor could they cure the gangrene that’ll kill him if loss of blood doesn’t do so first. Even Sorcerers are powerless against gangrene.

  Calia is more forthcoming. She tells us that she’d been involved with Ixial a decade ago when he was nothing more than a poor young student living in a garret in Twelve Seas, reading scrolls of philosophy by candlelight. She was in love with him then, and still is. When he went off into the wilderness to take up the life of a monk, she’d despaired of ever being happy again. Eventually she ended up marrying Drantaax, having no better prospects and parents keen to get their hands on the dowry from a famous and wealthy sculptor.

  She tells me she spent ten years with Drantaax during which time her life was comfortable but desperately dull. And so it might have remained, had she not received a message from Ixial the Seer asking her to meet him at a villa in Thamlin.

  She went to meet him. And started an affair, I imagine, though she doesn’t come right out and say it.

  This all raises some interesting questions. How did an Abbot of a mountain monastery find the money to buy a large villa in Thamlin, for instance? And what was he doing with it anyway? Warrior monks live in harsh conditions, training their minds and bodies with rigorous exercise. I don’t think they make exceptions for their Abbots. They’re not meant to adopt false names, pretend to be aristocrats and hang around in villas in wealthy parts of town. I don’t think they’re meant to have affairs with married ex-lovers either, although different sects adopt different views on celibacy and such like. But I have to leave these questions for now, and concentrate on Grosex. Now that Calia has opened up a little, she tells me what she knows. Simply put, she arrived in the workshop to find Grosex standing over Drantaax’s body and the statue gone.

  That’s the same story as the Guards so far.

  “Why did you flee?”

  “I panicked. I knew there were stories about me having an affair. People thought I’d been seeing Grosex when really I had been seeing Ixial. I thought the Guards would accuse me of killing my husband so Grosex could have his business. So I fled. I didn’t know they’d suspect Grosex. I liked him. I didn’t mean to bring him any harm, but I had to get away.”

  “Sounds like you were glad of the chance.”

  “So what if I was?”

  She puts a great deal of feeling into that. Maybe it’s unbearable being married to a busy sculptor.

  “You don’t sound shattered with grief about his murder.”

  “I’m sad. I’ve got other things to be sadder about.”

  “What happened to the statue?”

  She claims not to know. If she is aware of the goings-on with the magic purse, she’s not letting on. I point out to her that the statue thief must surely be the murderer, and Ixial and the Star Temple were currently minus one statue. Which does make them a strong suspect.

  She shakes her head. “Ixial would not have harmed my husband. Why would he? And anyway, when Drantaax’s statue went missing Ixial was already close to death. It’s taken his monks four days to transport him from the mountains to the city.”

  “Injured or not, he was still giving out orders, because his monks have been searching the city. Searching my rooms anyway.”

  “I know nothing of that.”

  Ixial calls out in pain. Calia hurries over to him. I look at the young monks, trying to gauge their reaction to her. Are they aware of her relationship with their leader, or has he deceived them with some story? I see no signs of disapproval on their faces.

  I turn to Makri. “What do you make of it?”

  “I’m completely confused,” she replies. “Who did kill Drantaax, then? And who stole the statue and put it in the magic purse?”

  I admit that I don’t know.

  “I don’t understand that woman,” continues Makri. “If she didn’t want to marry Drantaax, then why did she? She didn’t need a husband. She could’ve got a job in Minarixa’s bakery.”

  “I don’t think Calia is the type to spend her days in a bakery.”

  The healing goes on by the light of the lamps. Ixial drifts in and out of consciousness. Finally he lapses into a deep sleep, or maybe a deep coma. The healer, the herbalist and the apothecarist exchange glances, which are not hard to interpret. Ixial will be handing in his toga pretty soon. Several of the younger monks have tears in their eyes. If I was a man of sensitivity I’d leave them all to their grief. But I’m not. I grab the sleeve of one monk whom I think I recognise as one of the burglars at my office.

  “Why did you think I had the statue?”

&nb
sp; He yanks his sleeve away and hurries off to join his fellows. I question another with similar results.

  “You’re not going to learn anything more here, Thraxas,” says Makri. “They’re all too worried about Ixial. I feel kind of annoyed really. They owe me a fight.”

  As if on cue the silent garden suddenly erupts. Yellow-clad monks pour over the walls, and they haven’t come to talk about consubstantiality. They charge towards the monks of the Star Temple yelling war cries and waving short sticks and curious knives. The Star Temple monks react quickly, forming a human shield around Ixial. More of their brothers hear the uproar and rush from the house. Soon eighty or so monks are battling away in the garden, punching, kicking, and flying through the air in their now familiar acrobatic manner. It’s quite a sight. Makri and I withdraw to the bushes to watch, slightly bewildered by this turn of events. I start to suspect that there may be no more reason behind any of this apart from the two Temples’ hatred of each other. Maybe they just fight all the time anyway, and the statue is no more than a side issue.

  “Interesting religious dispute,” I mutter to Makri as a monk bounces off a tree and crashes into the bush beside us. “They should try it in the True Church. Certainly liven things up a bit.”

  It’s hard to be sure in the dim light, but I think I can see the Venerable Tresius in the thick of things. If it is him he’s even better preserved for his age than I thought. I swear he leaps eight feet from the ground to hurtle over an opponent, kicking him as he does so, and lands behind another one whom he scythes to the ground with another kick to the legs. He finds himself surrounded by a group of red monks but leaps clear after sending two of them hurtling backwards into the pond.

  Cries of anger and pain ring out from all sides as the monks surge this way and that. While some knives are in view most of the fighting is done empty-handed. Everyone seems to be doing their best to maintain the warrior monks’ reputation as masters of unarmed combat. I wince as a pile-driving blow sends another young novice crashing into the bushes to lie unconscious at our feet.

  “Should have kept your guard up,” murmurs Makri who, I suspect, is enjoying the spectacle.

  “Should we join in?” she asks.

  “Of course not. Why would we?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought maybe we should.”

  “Just because there’s a fight doesn’t mean you have to get involved, Makri.”

  “I suppose not. It just doesn’t seem natural not to.”

  The yellow-robed monks of the Cloud Temple seem to have the upper hand, mainly because of the presence of the Venerable Tresius who carries everyone before him. None of the young monks in red can stand up to his furious fighting technique. Bodies literally fly into the air in front of him as he smashes one young novice after another out of the way. He fights his way to the edge of Ixial’s bodyguard and keeps right on going. His followers fan out and start to attack from all directions.

  The healer, the herbalist and the apothecarist have wisely fled the scene but I think Calia is still by Ixial’s side, ready to defend him to the last. The power of love, I reflect. I have to admire her for it.

  The brothers of the Star Temple put up a desperate defence. They’re brave and unflinching but Tresius is just too much for them, brushing them out of the way like a dragon going through a squadron of poorly paid mercenaries. I wonder if he intends to kill Ixial? As an Investigator, sworn to uphold the law, I should act to prevent such a serious crime being committed right under my nose, but it’s not really my affair when it comes right down to it.

  Suddenly I sense someone close to us in the bushes. So does Makri. We turn round as one to the place where a dark-shadowed figure has moved in silence. The figure notes our presence but pays us no more attention. He raises something I can’t quite discern. There’s a sharp twang and a brief humming sound and the next thing I know one of the yellow monks cries out in pain and slumps to the ground. I recognise the humming sound. A crossbow. I don’t need an introduction to know who the figure in the shadows is.

  “Sarin the Merciless,” I whisper to Makri.

  The crossbow is both powerful and unwieldy. It’s good for defending a city or launching an assault from cover but not much used on the battlefield because of its slowness to load. But in less time than I’ve ever seen it done before, Sarin has another deadly bolt in the groove. She fires it off, killing another of the Cloud Temple monks. As their second man goes down the yellow monks start to realise that something is wrong and pause slightly in their attack, unsure of what’s happening. Another bolt flies from the crossbow. Another monk goes down.

  “In the bushes,” yells the Venerable Tresius, gesturing with his hand.

  The interruption helps the Star Temple regroup and they re-form a solid defence around Ixial. Monks of the Cloud Temple are now running towards the bushes. I watch as Sarin the Merciless coolly loads another bolt into her weapon. This time she takes more careful aim. She fires at Tresius.

  Tresius does something that is not humanly possible. He seizes the bolt out of the air before it hits him. I gasp in astonishment. A bolt from a crossbow has enough power at close range to go in through one wall and out through another. It’s not possible to grab it out of the air in mid-flight. You can’t even see it. And yet Tresius just did.

  His followers reach the bushes. I step further back into the shadows. Sarin calmly fires a final bolt into the nearest of her attackers then engages the rest with an unarmed combat technique which matches theirs. Her boast that she’d spent four years studying in a monastery must have been true. She’s up against three opponents and acquitting herself well, sending one spinning backwards, then circling round the other two, denying them an opportunity to attack.

  Whistles sound in the distance. The Civil Guard has been alerted. You can’t stage a large battle in Thamlin without the neighbours complaining, and when the neighbours complain in Thamlin, the Guards take notice. There are screams and yells and whistles and the sounds of horse-drawn wagons arriving at the front of the house. Seconds later men wearing the black tunics of the Civil Guard are swarming into the garden.

  “Time to go.”

  We depart swiftly, finding ourselves running towards the far wall in the company of various monks. I think I notice another figure in the shadows, a small figure, not a monk. Reminds me of someone, but I can’t think who. By the time we’re across the wall and into the park we’re on our own.

  “That was quite a night.”

  “Great fight.”

  We hurry away from the scene. Having once lived here I know my way around even in the dark. I lead us down a little-used lane between two villas till the sound of the uproar fades away. We now face a long walk home. Horse travel is forbidden in Turai at night. The night is still too hot to walk comfortably, and I realise I haven’t eaten or drunk for some time.

  “Did you learn enough to clear Grosex?” Makri enquires.

  “I’m not sure. I’ll need a while to sort it all out. Right now I need a beer. Why don’t they have more taverns up here? First one we reach, I’m going in.”

  It’s well past midnight. As nightlife in this district is not particularly raucous, we don’t find a tavern open until we’re almost out of Thamlin and into Jade Temple Fields, which is a fraction more lively. Jade Temple Fields takes its name, naturally enough, from the old temple with jade columns built as a present from the Elves three hundred years ago after we helped them in a war with the Orcs. Turai sent the biggest contingent of ships with the fleet of the League of City-States and we crushed the Orcish Armada at the famous Battle of Dead Dragon Island. That put an end to Orcish sea power for a long time. Turai’s great Navy was formidable in those days, despite our relatively small size. Not any more. We used to be an important member of the League of City-States. We still are in theory, but everyone knows the Army and Navy are not what they were.

  The League isn’t what it was, either. It’s protected smaller city-states from the aggression of our larger
neighbours like Nioj for the last four centuries but it’s been falling apart for the past twenty years. Now we’re in a permanent state of alert over the silver mines that border on our supposed ally Mattesh in the south. If we end up at war with them the League will disintegrate and Nioj will eat us all for breakfast.

  Jade Temple Fields is home to government workers, lesser civil servants and the like. We finally find a tavern where the lights are still on. Makri looks at it suspiciously.

  “It’ll be fine,” I reassure her, and march in.

  We’re confronted at the door by a large individual wearing a green tunic signifying him as a member of the Securitus Guild, hired to keep out undesirables. Not like the Avenging Axe. Gurd will let anyone in.

  The doorway is illuminated by a flaming torch. In the flickering firelight Makri’s skin looks even redder than usual. The Guard is a mountainous individual. He stretches his arm out, preventing us from entering.

  “No swords in here,” he grunts, looking at Makri. “And no Orcs.”

  So Makri, without any hesitation whatsoever, hauls off and punches him in the face. He crumples to the ground.

  I stare at her. “Couldn’t we even have discussed it first?”

  “What’s to discuss? He insulted me.”

  True enough. But I badly wanted a beer.

  “We’ll find another tavern,” says Makri.

  The Guard is lying unconscious in the doorway. I’m tempted to hurdle the body and rush inside for a quick flagon of ale anyway, but decide against it. It’ll only lead to trouble if he wakes up while I’m at the bar.

  We trudge on through the hot night.

  “I really think you ought to work on controlling your temper, Makri.”

  “I’ll start on it tomorrow. Good punch, wasn’t it?”

  Makri has cheered up and is no longer looking as miserable as a Niojan whore, which she has been ever since the monk kicked her. Which is quite probably why she punched the doorman. Just keen to have some unarmed combat practice in case she meets them again.

  Chapter Eleven