Thraxas - The Complete Series (210 page)

“No,” says Tirini.

“Possibly,” says Coranius.

“We don’t know,” says Lisutaris.

I’m feeling very dissatisfied with all this.

“Since when did the dolphins become so important? All they do is swim around eating fish.”

Everyone ignores me.

“Makri,” says Lisutaris. “Please fetch Samanatius. I need to consult with him about this.”

Makri nods. She puts on her cloak then slings Lisutaris’s bag round her shoulders.

“Leave my bag here!” says Lisutaris.

“No. You can’t have any thazis.” says Makri, then departs.

Lisutaris scowls after her.

“That woman is the nurse from hell.”

Lisutaris takes a scrap of paper from the small table beside the bed, scribbles a message on it then mutters a brief spell, sealing the document.

“Thraxas, please send this to Cicerius immediately. We need him here.”

“This is a lot of fuss about a few dolphins.”

“Do as Lisutaris says,” barks Coranius.

I walk right up to the Sorcerer and put my face close to his.

“No one orders me around in my own room, and if you take that tone with me again I’ll pick you up and throw you down the stairs.”

Coranius growls.

“Are you asking to die?”

“No. I’m asking you to mind your manners, and if you try using a spell I’ll knock your ugly head off before you can get the words out.”

It looks like I may have to do just that because Coranius isn’t a man to back down, but before he can speak Lisutaris interrupts him.

“Coranius, desist. Thraxas is quite right. We’re his guests and I’ve been taking up his bedroom for a week. He deserves our thanks. Thraxas, please send the message, it is rather urgent.”

I nod at Lisutaris, then march from the room, still angry. Behind me Tirini Snake Smiter is complaining that her shoes are dirty because the place has never been properly cleaned. Sorcerers. I detest them. Apart from Lisutaris, possibly.

Before taking Lisutaris’s message to the nearby Messengers Guild outpost, I answer the door to Moolifi. The Niojan singer is looking a little less glamorous than usual. Her hair is slightly dishevelled and she’s not wearing any jewellery. She’s holding a tray with a beaker of steaming liquid on it.

“I’ve just come from the kitchen. Dandelion asked me to bring this to Lisutaris.”

I nod. Dandelion is caring for a lot of patients, and it’s decent enough of Moolifi, who’s a paying guest in the tavern, to lend a hand. I show her to the bedroom. I notice that underneath her gown—blue, well tailored, and more expensive than your standard Twelve Seas resident could afford—she’s wearing a pair of high-heeled shoes, yellow with pink embroidery. Very like Tirini’s, and quite similar to those worn by Anumaris Thunderbolt. The pink threads I found were a great clue. Narrowed it down to only every fashionable woman in the city.

As I walk along Quintessence Street I find my self humming “Love Me Through the Winter,” Moolifi’s most popular song. She’s sung it once or twice more in the tavern, and it’s still a great favourite. She’s a good singer, no matter what Makri thinks. I shake my head at the thought of Captain Rallee pounding round the harbour, looking for buried gold. No wonder. He’ll need a lot more money than he can earn if he’s to keep hold of Moolifi.

After sending the message to Cicerius I wonder what to do. Tonight Glixius Dragon Killer, General Acarius and Praetor Capatius are meant to be arriving at the Avenging Axe to play cards. I hardly have enough money to sit at the table with them, and despite my best efforts it doesn’t look like I’ll be raising any more. With the money I’ve borrowed from Lisutaris and Dandelion, plus my own meagre savings, I can scrape together around 440 gurans. Not enough, faced with the wealth of my opponents.

I shake my head. Treasure and magical artefacts. I’ve been spending my days chasing phantoms. I should have stuck to some solid investigating. Small crimes, men cheating on their wives, petty thefts. That sort of thing. It suits me better, and I might have earned more.

I walk down to the public baths, pay the admission fee, and wallow in the pool for a long time. Given the poverty that exists in Twelve Seas, we’re not so badly off for public baths. The King loosened his grip on the purse strings some years back and helped renovate several of the area’s old bathing houses. Even the poorest citizen can get himself a warm bath every now and then, and that’s not the case in every city by any means. Not everyone is as clean as the Turanians. We’re well known for it.

I relax for the first time in a long time. By the time I leave the bathing house I’m feeling a little more like my old self. I call into Ginixa’s bakery and buy four pastries and eat them as I walk along the road. A street urchin stands right in front of me and holds out his hand. Feeling moderately benevolent, I break one of the pastries in half and give a piece to him. He thanks me and runs off. And then I have a sudden flash of inspiration. Perhaps it’s a reward from the gods for being charitable. Or perhaps the relaxation brought on by bathing. More likely it’s the pastries; I generally think better on a full stomach.

Makri is in the back yard at the Avenging Axe, practising with her weapons.

“St Quatinius once talked to a whale,” I say.

“What?”

“St Quatinius. Patron saint of this city. One of our most famous religious figures. He once talked to a whale.”

“Why?” says Makri.

“The whale was full of religious knowledge. So the story goes, anyway.”

Makri eyes me.

“And you’ve only just thought of this?”

“My thoughts rarely venture into the realms of religious mystery. Anyway there’s a small fountain in the back streets off Quintessence Street. The statue in the middle is of St Quatinius talking to the whale.”

“And you’ve only just thought of that?”

“Do you want to come or are you just going to make sarcastic comments?”

Makri sheathes her swords.

“Number one chariot at investigating,” she mutters. “He just remembers now there’s a whale fountain in Twelve Seas.”

We set off once more along Quintessence Street.

“I can’t believe you didn’t think of this earlier,” says Makri. “Like maybe before we tramped all over the entire city searching for anything that looked like a whale.”

“Don’t exaggerate. Anyway, I told you. I have a mental blank on anything to do with religion.”

“It’s a fountain. With a statue of a whale. How much more obvious could it be?”

By now we’re close to the street with the fountain. We turn the corner to find a riot going on. A mob is attempting to reach the fountain and the Civil Guards are trying to hold them back. The mob is mostly made up of beggars, but I can see a few shopkeepers in there, and one or two craftsmen. We stand on the corner and watch the struggle.

“It looks like other people were thinking the same thing,” says Makri.

I nod. Apparently everyone wants to find out if there’s gold under the statue. The mob advances. The Civil Guards put away their batons and draw their swords. The crowd hesitates, but doesn’t retreat. Plenty of people in Twelve Seas are willing to risk a sword point for 14,000 gurans.

Before battle can be fully joined, a carriage thunders into the street, flanked by a troop of soldiers. The door opens and Prefect Drinius steps out, elegant in his snow-white toga. He holds up his hand and the crowd goes quiet. Turai might have become a disorderly place in the past few years, but the sight of the local prefect is still enough to quieten the mob. Drinius looks around him quite disdainfully, then starts to lecture the crowd. He isn’t a bad speaker. Quite an effective orator in fact, given his total lack of talent at any other aspect of his job. Even the most useless of our senatorial aristocrats can often speak well in public. They learn the art at school, and later from private tutors. A man can’t succeed in politics in Turai unless he has some skill as an orator.

The prefect castigates the crowd for their disorderly behaviour. He points out that at a time of crisis in the city, every man should be at his post, doing his duty, rather than scrabbling around for gold. He points out a few examples of heroic behaviour from Turai’s glorious past. Then he reminds them all of the sacrilegious act they’re about to commit, excavating under a statue of our city’s patron saint.

“Nothing could ensure the downfall of the city more quickly than this profane act,” he thunders.

By now the crown have quietened. Drinius softens his tone, and assures everyone that if they all go home now, the riot will be forgotten about. Besides, he says, there isn’t any gold under the statue.

“I too have heard these rumours. I don’t believe a word of them. There is no gold in Twelve Seas. And if there were, it wouldn’t be under this fountain. I was here when the Consul himself laid the first stone in its foundations. I witnessed its construction, as did many of you. It rests on good Turanian earth, not a mythical chest of gold.”

Looking at the fountain, he has a point. It’s a hefty piece of stonework. I don’t really see how a lone sea captain could have buried anything under it. Makri thinks the same.

“At least you weren’t the only one with such a ridiculous notion,” she says.

Drinius brings his speech to an end. The crowd, by now thoroughly abashed, begin to drift off. It’s a job well done by our prefect.

“It’s strange how a man in a toga can still win over the masses,” says Makri.

As we leave the street, soldiers are already starting to cordon it off. A gang of workers make their way in, with picks and shovels.

“What’s going on?” asks Makri.

“Now Drinius has cleared the rabble out of the way, he’s going to have a good look under the fountain himself, of course. You can’t expect the local prefect to miss out on a treasure hunt. I doubt there’s anything there, though. One man in a hurry couldn’t bury anything under that fountain.”

“Any more ideas?”

I admit I haven’t.

“I thought the whale fountain was a breakthrough. I was wrong. I’m just going to have to go into the card game short of funds and hope for the best.”

“You don’t sound very confident,” says Makri.

“I’m not feeling very confident.”

“Why not?”

I shrug.

“Who knows? The war. The malady. My continual lack of success at everything.”

Makri bats me quite a hard blow on the shoulder.

“Is this Thraxas I’m talking to? Fighter, gambler, drinker, and all-round notorious braggart? Get a hold of yourself. I’m expecting you to sit down at that card table and make them weep. So Glixius is rich? So Praetor Capatius owns his own bank? So what? Who’s the best rak player? You or them?”

“Me.”

“Exactly. So just get in there and give them hell. Did I ever tell you about the time I was faced with eight Orcs and two trolls in the arena and my sword broke?”

She has actually, but I don’t interrupt.

“You didn’t catch me complaining,” continues Makri. “I didn’t start wondering if I was any good. I just killed the nearest Orc with my bare hands, took his sword and got on with business as usual. I set a new record for multiple slaughter.”

“They had records?”

“Of course,” says Makri. “I was champion in every category. I’m expecting you to be down like a bad spell on your opponents tonight no matter what the odds.”

We walk on towards the tavern. I am slightly cheered by Makri’s encouragement. Not that she understand the intricacies of playing rak, of course, but even so, she has a point. It’s not like me to become discouraged.

“You’re damn right, Makri. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m going to give them hell. Nothing will get in my way.”

We walk up the steps to my office. My outside door is open. I frown, and hurry inside. Standing there quite calmly is Horm the Dead, one of the most powerful Sorcerers in the world and a deadly enemy of Turai.

“I suppose this could be a problem,” I say, and draw my sword.

I
n the past few years my office has hosted some interesting gatherings. Sorcerers, senators, thieves, murderers, Assassins, demagogues, Orcs, Elves and a few you couldn’t really put a name to have all passed through my door. Even royalty. Princess Du-Akai was once a client of mine. However, I’d say that the present gathering matches anything in terms of the diversity of characters involved. We have, in the middle of the floor, Horm the Dead, Orcish Sorcerer and Lord of the Kingdom of Yall. Once seen flying over Turai on a dragon, trying to destroy the city with a malevolent spell, and almost succeeding. He’s caused a lot of trouble for Turai, and the fact that last time he was here he sent Makri some flowers hasn’t endeared him in any way.

On the couch is Hanama, Assassin, cold, ruthless, previously sick but now looking somewhat better. She brought Makri flowers too, an occurrence so strange I don’t really want to think about it.

At the door to the bedroom stands Coranius the Grinder, as grim and short-tempered a Sorcerer as Turai can boast, which is saying something. Behind him is Tirini Snake Smiter, still glamorous, and behind her is Anumaris Thunderbolt, looking young, keen, but possibly glad that the others are between her and Horm.