Thraxas - The Complete Series Read online

  Makri sneers.

  “Gosax? That cheap crook? He’s about as much use as a eunuch in a brothel.”

  “Maybe, but he’s the only lawyer I can afford.”

  Makri looks serious.

  “I saw Kerk.”

  Kerk is a dwa addict and dealer who, on occasion, passes me information he picks up on his travels.

  “He says this time you’re really in trouble.”

  “So everybody tells me. Why does Kerk say that?”

  “Because Senator Mursius is a hero of Turai and the Guards really think you killed him. You’ve been thrown in jail on trumped-up stuff in the past, Thraxas, but this time they think it’s for real. Did you kill him?”

  “Of course not! Why would I?”

  Makri shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe someone paid you. After the Troll Mangler debacle you need a stake for the big race meeting.”

  “Makri, I liked it better when you’d just arrived in the city and hadn’t learned how to make smart comments all the time. I’ve no idea who killed Mursius but when I was there the place stank of sorcery and now the Guards tell me that their own Sorcerer couldn’t detect any traces of magic at all. Which means either they’re lying spectacularly, or I’m involved with someone with great sorcerous power. Enough to completely clean up all traces of his actions, which isn’t easy.”

  Makri’s hand keeps straying to her hip. She had to check in her sword at the desk and she doesn’t feel comfortable without it.

  “You should get a good lawyer,” she says.

  “Makri, is there something behind this?”

  “Of course not. I’m just concerned for your welfare. I’ll get you a good lawyer. By the way, could you lend me some money?”

  Makri has not yet developed the art of subtlety.

  “Haven’t you already removed it from my room?”

  “No,” says Makri. “I was going to, but then I realised Samanatius wouldn’t approve.”

  Samanatius is a philosopher who sometimes teaches at the Guild College. He’s quite famous. He teaches for free, and gives every appearance of being genuine, unlike some of the charlatans we get round here. Makri likes him. He makes me feel uncomfortable.

  “I told Minarixa I’d lent out the money I collected to a woman in distress and I’d have it back in a few days. I promised her sixty gurans.”

  “I thought you owed them fifty.”

  “Minarixa seemed so disappointed I pretended I’d collected an extra ten.”

  Makri pulls a sheet of paper from her tunic. It’s a form sheet from Mox’s.

  “So lend me thirty,” she says. “And this time pick something good.”

  “I only have twenty,” I confess.

  “What about your emergency reserve?”

  “I’m talking about my emergency reserve.” Sensing that Makri is on the point of lecturing me about drinking my money away, I explain to her about the hefty bribe I had to pay out down at the docks. “To make things worse, my boots fell apart in the rain. You know how much it costs to get a new pair of boots? Anyway, I can only lend you ten. And I’m not forgetting the forty you already owe me.”

  Makri nods. She runs her fingers through her wet, tousled hair.

  “Do you know any good lawyers?”

  “None that will do me any favours,” I admit.

  “How about Cicerius?”

  “He’s the Deputy Consul.”

  “But isn’t he a lawyer as well? I’m sure I read some courtroom speeches he made in my law class.”

  I explain that while Cicerius is a fine lawyer, he isn’t the sort of man you can drag down to Twelve Seas to get you out of the slammer.

  “He only works on cases of national importance.”

  “Well, I’ll see what I can do,” she says.

  I study the form sheet for the day’s races at Juval. The best bet I can see is Orc Crusher, a good chariot who’s won for me in the past. Unfortunately he’s a strong favourite and the odds are five to four on. When I explain to Makri that this means if she bets five gurans she’ll win only four she’s a little disappointed. I tell her there’s nothing else really worth gambling on, particularly as we’re not in a position to take chances.

  “I hope you’re right about this one, Thraxas. I’ll bet my ten gurans. If I win eight it’ll be a start.”

  I tell her to put the same bet on for me. Makri bangs on the door, summoning the Guard. He lets her out.

  “So what’s it like being married to a half Orc?” he asks me when she’s gone.

  “She’s only a quarter,” I reply.

  “I reckon you’d be better off being hanged,” he says, and slams the door.

  I wait in the cell for hours. No one comes to see me. I feel so starved of company I’d be glad if they interrogated me again, but all that happens is a stony-faced guard brings me more bread, cheese and water. Maybe they’re trying to bore me into a confession.

  Finally Drinius returns. There’s a strange, troubled expression on his aristocratic face. He gazes at me for a few seconds before speaking.

  “Your lawyer is here.”

  “Good.”

  “I was unaware that you were represented by Deputy Consul Cicerius.”

  So was I. I can’t believe that Makri has managed to bring him here. No wonder Drinius looks troubled. If you’re starting out on your political career in Turai you don’t want to be caught maltreating a prisoner by the Deputy Consul. Cicerius has little in the way of human warmth, but he’s a stickler for the law.

  The Prefect departs and Cicerius enters, wearing the green-edged toga that denotes his rank. I notice his sandals are quite dry despite the rain outside. Of course an important man like Cicerius would be ferried here in a wagon and escorted to the door by a servant with a parasol. They might even have laid out a special carpet to protect him from the mud.

  “I understand you need a lawyer,” he says, somewhat dryly.

  Deputy Consul Cicerius is by far the best orator in the city and has won numerous sensational cases for the defence in the law courts. He’s not a crowd-pleaser but he is respected by all for his irreproachable honesty. Although he is a bastion of the Traditional Party and a strong supporter of the Royal Family, he has not hesitated to defend opponents of the King in court if they happen to be innocent. But while everyone trusts Cicerius, he is not exactly well liked. His character is too austere, and he exudes too little warmth to be genuinely loved by the masses. And he is not well born enough to be totally accepted by the aristocracy. He’s aware of his brilliance, and his vanity shows. He’s a self-made man, respected by all. I wonder if it bothers him that no one much likes him. Possibly.

  I thank him for coming, telling him I’m glad I was able to help such an esteemed character as himself with his recent difficulties. He informs me sharply that he did not come out of any sense of obligation.

  “You were adequately paid for your services. You should not expect any favours from me, Thraxas. If you do, you will be disappointed.”

  I’m disappointed already.

  “Then why are you here?”

  He tells me he is repaying Makri for a service. I blink. Service from Makri?

  “My official wagon became trapped in the mud as we progressed along Royal Way. Some hooligans from the Populares seized the occasion to toss mud and rocks at me. I was in a most uncomfortable position. Your friend Makri fortunately appeared on the scene. She dealt with my tormentors in a most convincing manner.”

  This sort of political violence is common in Turai. When it comes round to election times it’s swords instead of rocks.

  “As a result of which I agreed to her request to help you. In truth, I was not unhappy to do so, because you have featured in my thoughts recently. I believe you may be able to be of service to me. However, that can wait. Firstly, I must get you released from this cell. Tell me the circumstances surrounding your arrest.”

  I tell him the full story, omitting nothing.

  “In that case they have nothing to
hold you on. The case against you is entirely circumstantial. I will arrange your release immediately.”

  He leaves the cell. He arranges my release immediately. I am instructed to stay in the city. We leave the Guard station.

  “Thank you, Cicerius. What now?”

  “Now we have an appointment with Makri at the Avenging Axe. Come.”

  He leads me to his official wagon, which takes us slowly through the sodden streets of Twelve Seas.

  “She is an interesting woman,” says the Deputy Consul, suddenly.

  “Who?”

  “Makri. Is that her only name?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “I had planned to introduce a bill banishing all people with Orc blood from the city. They only cause trouble and are rarely loyal citizens. But I may delay it for a while.”

  Somehow this doesn’t surprise me. Makri has this odd attribute of making herself popular with the most unlikely people. I used to put it down merely to the sight of her bursting out of her chainmail bikini, but it seems to go further than that. Cicerius has no known track record of being impressed by any young woman’s shape, but already he seems to have taken to her.

  We pull up at the Avenging Axe. Vendors still grimly try to sell their cheap wares and the prostitutes still ply their trade with any soul brave enough to face the weather. The beggars, having nowhere else to go, still sit in useless misery in the mud, homeless, hopeless, deformed, a sight to raise pity in anyone’s breast, anyone apart from the entire population of Twelve Seas, who see it every day.

  To my annoyance Kerk chooses this moment to waylay me. Kerk deals dwa but he uses far too much of his own product. He’s around thirty, gaunt, with large eyes, possibly displaying a faint trace of Elvish blood, no doubt the result of some distant union of an Elvish visitor and a Twelve Seas whore. Even Elves have to enjoy themselves sometime, I suppose, when they’re not sitting in trees singing about stars and rainbows.

  Cicerius looks on with disapproval as the bedraggled Kerk plants himself in front of me. I tell him I can’t talk now but if he comes across any of Mursius’s missing works of art I’ll be interested to hear about it. I give him a small coin, which he glances at with disgust before tramping off through the mud and rain.

  Makri is waiting for us inside. She looks pleased with herself.

  “Thanks for the lawyer. Did you put on the bet?”

  She nods. I make a fast trip to the bar. Deputy Consul or not, I haven’t eaten properly all day. Bread and cheese are nowhere near enough to satisfy the healthy appetite of a man my size. And I haven’t had a beer for more hours than I care to think about. I order a fair selection from Tanrose’s dinner menu and a “Happy Guildsman” jumbo-sized tankard of ale, and then proceed to get them inside me as quickly as I can.

  Cicerius is more accustomed to the Senate and the law courts than Twelve Seas and is uncomfortable in the public bar. Everyone is staring at him, wondering what an important man like him is doing here. He insists that we retreat to my office immediately. I nod, but stop off on the way for another “Happy Guildsman.” You can’t expect me to function properly if you starve me of beer. It just can’t be done.

  Chapter Seven

  Cicerius’s crisp white toga stands out like a beacon in the shabby surroundings of my office.

  “To business,” he declares. “I need the services of a man who has experience of the seamier side of this city, someone who also has a knowledge of chariot racing and all its mechanisms. You qualify for that, I believe.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Since our recent encounter, Thraxas, I have looked into your career. I find that though you were a notably bad student as a Sorcerer, and have rarely held down a regular job, you did serve well in the Army. Senator Mursius himself spoke highly of your fighting qualities.

  “It is unfortunate,” he continues, fixing me with the sort of stare that can terrify an opponent in court, “that you could not apply yourself properly in the rest of your life. Your time as Senior Investigator at the Palace was continually marred by periods of drunkenness and insubordination, of which I myself have seen evidence. And where has such behaviour got you?” He gestures round at the squalor of my office. “Do you not even have a servant to clean for you?”

  I can’t afford a servant, but I’m not going to admit that to Cicerius. I remain silent.

  “Well, it is your affair. If you choose to squander your talents instead of using them for the good of our nation, no one can prevent you. But I think that you might be of use to me, and I wish to hire you.”

  He addresses Makri. “I believe that you may also be of service. I understand that you speak fluent Orcish, both Common Orcish and the pidgin Orcish spoken in the Wastelands?”

  Makri nods. Her eyes narrow at the mention of Orcs.

  The Deputy Consul turns back to me. “You are aware of the Turas Memorial Race, and the entry of a chariot by the Elf Lord Lisith-ar-Moh, who has always been a great friend of Turai?”

  “Certainly. I’m looking forward to it. The whole town is.”

  “It may surprise you to know that Lord Rezaz Caseg also wishes to enter a chariot in the race.”

  I frown. “Lord Rezaz Caseg? I’ve never heard of him.”

  “You may know him better as Rezaz the Butcher.”

  I explode in astonishment. Beer flies everywhere. “Rezaz the Butcher? That Lord Rezaz? But he’s an Orc, for God’s sake! The last time he was in the area he damn near wiped us off the map. What do you mean, he wants to enter a chariot?”

  It’s one of the most outrageous things I’ve ever heard. An Orc entering a chariot in the Turas Memorial? And not just any Orc—Rezaz the Butcher! One of the fiercest, most bloodthirsty warlords ever to lay waste to a human settlement. And also, unfortunately for us, one of the cleverest generals ever to destroy a Human army. He was by far the best commander in the Army of King Bhergaz the Fierce, who united all the Orcish lands and led them against us. I pound my fist on the table.

  “You don’t have to say any more, Deputy Consul. Just tell me what I have to do and I’ll do it. I’ll prevent that Orc from ever reaching the city. You can depend on me!”

  Cicerius looks at me with that steely gaze again. “That is not what I require you to do. I do not wish you to prevent him reaching the city. Rather I am hiring you to look after the Orcs while they are here. There may be attempts to sabotage their chariot. I need someone to protect against that and see that they are given a fair deal.”

  It’s not often that I’m speechless. But at Cicerius’s words I’m struck dumb. I can’t even move my lips. I stand there, staring, wondering which one of us has gone mad. Makri fares no better. She’s actually drawn a sword and is looking round her suspiciously as if an Orc might enter right now.

  “I see you are surprised,” says Cicerius, breaking the silence.

  I’m feeling weak. I fumble for the remains of my beer and try to formulate a reply. Meanwhile I’m straining my mental powers for any sign of sorcery, in case this isn’t actually Cicerius but some magical impostor sent to torment me. Finally I utter a few words.

  “You can’t be serious. Rezaz the Butcher can’t really be entering a chariot in the Turas Memorial race. And if he is, you can’t expect me to play nursemaid to an Orc! Especially not that Orc. He was leading the assault when the wall caved in. I was there. I lost almost everyone I knew to the Butcher’s soldiers.”

  “Times change,” replies the Deputy Consul.

  “I know. But not that much. Okay, we’re at peace just now, but for how long? The Orcish Ambassadors never appear in public for fear of causing a riot. And this Orc Lord wants to walk right into the Stadium Superbius and enter a chariot? Why? And what does the King think about it?”

  “The King is strongly in favour of the idea. You see, Thraxas, the politics of running a city involves us in many strange alliances. It so happens that at this moment it is vital to the interests of Turai that we maintain good relations with Lord Rezaz Caseg. Are
you aware that exploration and prospecting of the various minerals in the furthest northeast of our territory has advanced to such an extent that we are about to open several new copper mines?”

  “No.”

  “Prospecting has been continuing for some years, and is now about to pay dividends. You will appreciate the importance of this to the state. Small as we are in size, we depend on our wealth for our security. You are of course aware that there have for some years been border disputes with Nioj?”

  Nioj, our northern neighbour, is always finding some reason to start a border dispute. We already have gold mines along the boundaries of our two nations and they would love to get their hands on them. In fact, right before the last Orc War Nioj invaded Turai. Only the arrival of the Orcs brought that war to an end as we Humans were obliged to forget our differences and unite to face the common enemy.

  “Well, once more, the territory is disputed. Although the deposits of copper are clearly on land that belongs historically to Turai, Nioj has been making inroads and may even be about to claim it as hers.”

  Cicerius pulls a map from his toga and spreads it on the desk. He points to the mountainous area where the northeastern part of our territory meets the far larger state of Nioj.

  “The next territory along is Carsan, populated mainly by nomadic tribes with little state authority. Carsan is in fact under the strong influence of its eastern neighbour Soraz, which sits firmly in the Wastelands between us and the Orcs. And its effective ruler is Lord Rezaz Caseg. To make things as simple as possible, we need support from Carsan to keep hold of the copper mines. And we can’t get support from Carsan unless Soraz allows it.”

  “So we have to be nice to Lord Rezaz Caseg?”

  I look at the map. Soraz looks a long way away.

  “Do we really need support from them? What about the League of City-States?” About a hundred years ago all the small states in the region banded together to protect ourselves from large predatory countries like Nioj.

  “We can no longer count on much support from that direction.”

  I knew that before I asked. The League has been crumbling for a decade, pulled to pieces by the selfishness of its members, including Turai.