Thraxas - The Complete Series (110 page)

There are few people around, though I notice several youths that I know to be dwa dealers scurrying along about their business. Nothing interferes with the dwa trade. I’m planning to stop at Minarixa’s bakery to buy some pastries for breakfast, but I’m surprised to find a small crowd outside her shop, standing and staring in spite of the cold.

A few Civil Guards are holding back the onlookers. This is worrying. I depend on Minarixa’s bakery almost as much as Tanrose’s pies. If they’ve been robbed and the ovens aren’t fired up yet it’s really going to spoil my day. I arrive just as Captain Rallee, wrapped in a black government cloak, emerges from the premises. He’s scowling.

“Trouble?”

“Trouble. Minarixa’s dead.”

I gasp. Not my favourite baker.

The crowd moan as the body is brought out wrapped in a shroud. The baker is one of Twelve Seas’ most popular characters.

“What happened?”

“Overdose,” says the Captain.

I stare at him like he’s crazy.

“An overdose? Minarixa?”

He nods.

“It can’t be. Not Minarixa. She didn’t take dwa.”

“Well, she certainly took enough last night,” says Captain Rallee.

It’s some time since I’ve seen him looking so depressed. The Civil Guards loved that baker’s shop.

I stare dumbly as Minarixa’s body is loaded on to a wagon and driven away through the falling snow, then I walk home, cursing. Word has already reached the Avenging Axe. Gurd, Tanrose and Makri are as miserable as three Niojan whores. No one can believe that our cherished baker has gone and died of an overdose.

“Such a respectable woman,” says Gurd, shaking his head. Gurd, sturdy Barbarian that he is, finds it impossible to understand why the city has been gripped by the plague of dwa.

“Why did she do it? Surely she was a happy woman?”

“She kept that bakery going through the worst times,” says Tanrose, sadly. “Orc wars, riots, even the famine. She kept it going when the True Church tried to have it made illegal for women to own businesses. I can’t believe she’s finally gone because of this.”

The event casts further gloom over Twelve Seas. Citizens already struggling with the weather, beset by poverty and surrounded by corruption curse the powdered plant that has brought so much misery in the past few years.

Makri is madder than a mad dragon at Minarixa’s death. Not because of the bakery—Makri has little enthusiasm for food—but because Minarixa was the local organiser for the Association of Gentlewomen. The Association dedicates itself to raising the status of women in Turai, and Makri supports it to the extent of helping to collect money, a thankless task in Twelve Seas. She spends a long time expressing her outrage that such a fine woman as Minarixa should succumb to a drug overdose.

“Are you going to investigate?” she demands.

I shrug.

“What’s to investigate? She took too much dwa. So did about thirty other people in Twelve Seas this week. You’ve seen the bodies.”

Makri is furious. When Captain Rallee calls in late in the evening for a beer to unwind after a hard day, she demands to know what he’s going to do about the death.

“Nothing,” replies the Captain, gloomily.

“Why not? Shouldn’t you be arresting whoever sold her the dwa?”

“How? You think we could find a witness? Or make anything stick in court? No chance. All the dwa trade is controlled by the Brotherhood and no one’s going to give evidence against them. Anyway, you arrest one dwa dealer and another appears on the street before the day is out.”

“I’ve never seen you arresting even one,” says Makri.

Captain Rallee shifts uncomfortably. Makri’s right, but it’s not the Captain’s fault. He’s as honest as they come but his superiors aren’t. The Brotherhood have far too much influence for a captain of the Civil Guards to tangle with them.

“I’m as outraged as you about Minarixa. But no one is going to pay for her death. That’s just the way it is.”

“If I meet her dealer I’m going to gut him,” says Makri.

“Fine with me,” says Captain Rallee. “I’ll be happy to look the other way.”

“I hate this place,” says Makri, and goes upstairs to read some mathematics treatise and curse the weather, the Brotherhood and everything else in Turai. Makri escaped from the Orcish gladiator slave pits a couple of years ago, an event involving such incredible carnage that the Orcs still talk of it with awe. She made her way over to Turai on hearing tales of its fine cultural tradition, but while she admits that Turai does contain a great amount of art and learning, she refuses to admit that our level of civilisation is much better than the Orcs. Sometimes I’m inclined to agree with her, though in the Orc-hating city of Turai, it’s not an opinion I’d voice in public.

Dwa is now plaguing all the Human lands. A few months ago on Avula I discovered that it was starting to make inroads into Elvish society. It’s said the Orcs encourage the trade, to weaken us. If that’s true, it’s a good plan. It’s working.

Captain Rallee buys me a beer, not a common event, though the Captain and I go back a long way. We don’t get on as well as we used to but we’ve still got some kind of connection. We drink to the baker.

“Congratulations on finding the dragon-scale thief,” says Rallee.

He must be emotional. The last time the Captain complimented me on anything, I’d just killed an Orc and tossed him from the city walls, which was sixteen years ago at least.

“What’s this I hear about you being some sort of government official?”

I explain to him that Cicerius is making me a Tribune of the People.

“What the hell is that?”

“Some old post that used to exist a hundred and fifty years ago.”

“I’ve never heard of it. Does it involve staying sober?”

“Not as far as I know. I’m not planning on staying that sober at the Assemblage.”

The Captain grins. The fire illuminates his long yellow hair, picking out his handsome features.

“Better take care you don’t offend someone.”

“I’d be more likely to offend the Sorcerers if I was sober.”

“True enough. When I heard our government were putting up Lisutaris for head of the Guild, I thought they were crazy. Everyone knows she’s stoned every day. But who knows? It might be in her favour. Sorcerers, they never could control themselves.”

“You remember the time we were camped up in the north and Harmon Half Elf was meant to be keeping watch?” asks Gurd, bringing up an old war memory.

“Sure,” replies the Captain. “He got so drunk he thought our pack mule was a troll and blasted it with a fire spell.”

“And he burned all our supplies so we ended up eating the mule!”

We all laugh, and call for more beer, and we spend the night telling war stories and drinking.

“It was different in those days,” says Gurd, some time after midnight. “The Orcs were always attacking us. We had to fight to stay alive. But there wasn’t any dwa. I liked it better then.”

T
he Assemblage is due to start in three days’ time. Already Sorcerers are arriving in the city, though there’s little sign of them in Twelve Seas. They’re either staying as guests of Turanian Sorcerers in Truth is Beauty Lane or else living in villas rented by the Guild in Thamlin. Some of the more adventurous among them may be visiting the Kushni quarter in the centre of town, where there’s a lot of diversion in the way of whores, gambling, drinking and dwa, but none ventures as far as Twelve Seas. This doesn’t mean we’re not interested in them. The local citizens read news of each new arrival in
The Renowned and Truthful Chronicle of All the World’s Events
, the cheap and poorly produced news sheet that brings the population of Turai its regular dose of gossip and scandal. Faced as we are with so many enemies, it’s comforting for Turanians to have powerful Sorcerers within our walls. When it’s learned that I’m to attend the Assemblage, most people are impressed, although fairly amused at the thought of me being some sort of government official.

“Of course,” as Chiaraxi, the local healer, points out, “it’s not as if our officials are all sober, responsible citizens. From what I’ve seen of these degenerates in the Senate, Thraxas would fit right in.”

“Only if they could make a special outsize toga,” replies Rox, who should stick to selling fish.

Bolstered by such support, I’m wrapping up all other business. The Transport Guild has paid me for the apprehension of Rezox and I’ve been to visit the suspicious merchant with regard to his wife. He’s a timber dealer by the name of Rixad. While I can’t say he’s the friendliest client I’ve ever had, he does seem to take my opinions seriously and he doesn’t quibble over payment. Rixad is around fifty, overweight and not the handsomest man in the city. I can see he might be suspicious of his glamorous young wife, but if he wants to use his wealth to scoop up a beauty in need of money, it’s almost bound to happen. His wife started off on the stage and might have thought it a wise move to swap the uncertain life of an actress for the luxury of an important merchant’s household, but she’s probably bored by now.

I report that as far as I can see she has no external interests save in beautifying herself.

“I checked out her visitors but there’s nothing suspicious. Standard crowd, cater for all the richest women in the city. I expect it’s costing you a bundle, but apart from that you’ve nothing to worry about.”

Rixad nods.

“The last bill from Copro was for more than a shipload of timber. I don’t mind. It keeps her happy.”

Copro is quite a well-known man in Turai. One of our finest beauticians. Since arriving in Turai he’s attained such a reputation that the female aristocracy fight for his services. Princess Du-Akan swears by him, I believe. He’s been a frequent visitor to Rixad’s wife, but as Copro is rumoured to have a close relationship with his young male assistant, he’s not a man you have to worry about your wife misbehaving with.

Business completed, I make my way home, reasonably satisfied. I’m still in a bad mood about having to attend the Assemblage, but at least it will be warm. The temperature has dropped even further and the streets are quieter than I’ve ever seen them. Only the most vital services are still in operation and many of the population are obliged to chip blocks of ice from frozen aqueducts and thaw it out for drinking water.

I arrive at the Avenging Axe just as Makri is climbing the outside stairs to my office.

“I just had an argument with the dealer who sold dwa to Minarixa,” she says. “Do you think there might be any trouble?”

“How bad was the argument?”

“He’s dead.”

I mutter the minor incantation to open my door and hurry inside.

“Of course there will be trouble. Did anyone see you?”

Makri doesn’t think so.

“The alley was dark and it was snowing.”

“Did you have to kill him?”

Makri shrugs.

“I wasn’t planning to. I was just going to beat him. He pulled a knife so I ran him through.”

I swear it was only last week that Makri was telling me in glowing terms about some lecture she’d attended concerning the importance of moral behaviour at all times.

“You think this was moral?”

“He deserved it.”

“I’m sure Samanatius would be highly impressed. If the Brotherhood find out they’ll be down on us like a bad spell. I don’t fancy trying to escape the city when the gates are frozen shut. Do you always have to do things which lead to trouble?”

Makri opens her mouth to reply but instead she starts to cry. I stare at her in complete astonishment. She’s never reacted like this before. When I shout at her she normally just shouts back louder, and maybe reaches for her axe.

Faced with a tearful Makri, I have no idea what to do. I’m worried it might be some sort of menstruation problem, a subject I had successfully avoided for forty-three years until Makri insisted on breaking one of Turai’s strongest taboos by bringing it up in public a few months ago, thereby throwing the whole neighbourhood into panic. The local priest swears he’ll never visit the Avenging Axe again. Makri slumps down heavily on the couch and continues to cry. I wonder if I could escape downstairs for a beer.

“Um … well, it might not turn out so bad … dwa dealers get killed all the time. Maybe the Brotherhood won’t care too much…”

Tears trickle down Makri’s face. I’m trapped.

“What’s going on? Is it something, er … personal…?”

Makri seems reluctant to talk.

“Okay, maybe you could tell me later, I’ve got some important…”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” she demands.

“What do you mean? I was trying to be sympathetic. If you’re just going to sit there all day being as miserable as a Niojan whore, what the hell do you expect me to do? I’m a busy man.”

“Well, that’s fine, I wouldn’t want to bother you,” says Makri angrily. “I won’t bother saving you next time you get in trouble.”

“Makri, the last thing in the world I want to do is discuss your private life, but Tanrose says I have to, so spill it.”

“You expect me to tell you about my private life? No chance.”

“That’s fine with me, I don’t want to hear it anyway.”