Thraxas - The Complete Series (149 page)

Throughout all this the government official has remained calmly waiting for an opportunity to speak, and when he does so the tavern falls silent. There’s still something about a man in a toga that induces respect.

“I must tell you that a man facing such a charge can no longer participate in any official duty. So you are forbidden by law to use the office of Tribune. Furthermore, your Investigator’s licence, being granted by the Consul’s office on behalf of the King, is temporarily revoked until such time as you be either cleared, in which case it shall be renewed, or convicted, in which case it will be revoked.”

“Are you saying I can’t investigate?”

“That is correct.”

“How long for?”

He doesn’t know. Until my case is heard by the Senate committee. This could take months. Possibly years. Unless you’re a man with influence in this city, legal cases can take a very long time to come to court.

The official departs, leaving me to contemplate the terrible baseness of the accusations. Gurd directs Makri to look after the bar and leads me into the back room, where he pours me a hefty glass of klee. I drink it in one and he refills the glass.

“Thanks, Gurd. For stopping me going to kill Vadinex. It would have been foolish. Though I still want to do it.”

“Of course,” says Gurd. “That’s what I’d want to do if anyone accused me of cowardice. Back in the north I’d have killed him already. But things are different here.”

I look at Gurd with some surprise.

“When did you become the responsible citizen?”

“When I bought this tavern and started paying taxes.”

I’ve known Gurd for so long. I always think of him with his axe in his hand, hewing at the enemy. Somehow it hadn’t quite struck me how much he’s changed. Matured, I suppose. Not that he’s a man who’d avoid a fight if it came along, as he’s demonstrated various times on my behalf in the past few years. Gurd senses my thoughts.

“Don’t worry. If you can’t clear your name by the law, I’ll help you kill Vadinex and we can flee the city together.”

I take another glass of klee. The way things are going we might find ourselves heading south with Lisutaris. She’d be a good companion for an outlaw. No problem lighting campfires in the wilderness. Gurd asks me if I know what’s behind this unfortunate turn of events.

“I used my Tribune’s powers to protect Lisutaris. It meant putting a block on the Civil Guards and Palace Security. I should have known I couldn’t meddle with powerful people like that. Someone’s out for revenge. Probably Rittius, head of Palace Security. He’s had it in for me for years. It was bound to happen.”

Gurd attempts to reassure me. “No one who knows you would ever believe you threw away your shield and fled the battlefield.”

“What about people that don’t know me? This will be all over the city. Some people will believe it.”

In a place like Turai where every man is glad to hear something bad about his neighbour, accusations of this sort tend to stick. A man’s name can be ruined, even if the case never comes to court. Just the association with cowardice in war is a terrible taboo. Throwing away your shield is punishable by law, but the stigma is worse. It’s so grave an accusation that it’s rarely levelled against any of the hapless and unwilling types of men who might actually be guilty of it. Most times the commander of a cohort, faced with a soldier’s cowardice, would simply beat the soldier, make sure he was full of drink when the enemy next approached, and send him back into the field. Actually taking a man to court for cowardice is the sort of thing normally reserved for politicians whose enemies are seeking a means of ruining them. Either that, or a rich man whose relatives are looking for a way to part him from his fortune. Once it’s proved against you, you lose all rights as a citizen.

“Why Vadinex?” wonders Gurd.

We both know Vadinex. A huge, brutal man. An effective soldier, but dumb as an Orc; vicious and bad, even in peacetime.

“I crossed him last winter,” I say. “He’d willingly play along if Rittius offered him enough.”

I’m certainly not giving up my investigation on behalf of Lisutaris. Not even the King can prevent a citizen of the city walking around asking questions, though it could lead me into difficulties. I no longer have any legal status to protect my clients and could be forced by the Civil Guard to tell them everything I knew about any case I was working on. In theory anyway. In practice, the Guard can go to hell.

“Everyone can go to hell. If I run into Vadinex I still might kill him. Otherwise it’s business as usual. I’m going to rescue Lisutaris. And I’m going to clear Makri. Even if I have to kill her afterwards, which I might.”

“What will I do about Tanrose?”

“Go and visit her. Take flowers. Apologise for criticising her bookkeeping. And make sure Makri doesn’t interfere. She’s not qualified to advise normal people about how to run their lives.”

“Do you think I should ask her to marry me?”

My own marriage was such a disaster, I’m loath to answer this.

“Gurd, you know I’m about as much use as a one-legged gladiator when it comes to relationships.”

Unfortunately Gurd is unwilling to let me off the hook. He demands to know what I think. I seem to owe him a proper answer.

“Yes, Get married. After all, you’re paying taxes. It’s probably the next step.”

Gurd pours himself a glass of klee. Probably he’s thinking that the prospect of marriage is more frightening than facing an enemy force who outnumber you twenty to one. Which we’ve done, of course. More than once.

Gurd realises that he’s left Makri to look after a busy tavern and goes off to assist her. Makri’s coping well with the situation, aided by Dandelion, who’s decided to help and is currently fumbling with a beer tap, wondering how it works. Several recently arrived regulars are looking puzzled at the sight of the bar at the Avenging Axe being run by the odd pairing of Makri and Dandelion. As a respectable local drinking establishment, the Avenging Axe doesn’t generally go in for novelty attractions.

“Is this something to do with it raining frogs outside?” asks a docker, a regular customer not noted for drunkenness.

“Raining frogs?”

We all troop outside to look. It is indeed raining frogs. They bounce on the dusty road then hop off sharply. After a minute or so it stops, and the frogs disappear.

“I’ve never seen that before,” says another dock worker.

“Yesterday I saw a unicorn,” says his companion. “But I didn’t like to tell anyone.”

No one can explain the downpour of frogs. The general consensus is that it’s a bad sign and the city is doomed, which makes for a swift rush to the bar and a lot of purchases of beer and klee. I shake my head. Unicorns, centaurs, frogs. Let someone else sort it out. I’m still livid about the accusation of cowardice. I head up to my office, ready to make someone suffer for the indignity which has been inflicted upon me. You can’t expect to accuse a man like Thraxas of deserting the battlefield and not suffer some consequences. The next person who gives me so much as an unfriendly look is going to find himself at the wrong end of a hefty beating, and maybe worse.

Unfortunately, the next person I encounter is Horm the Dead, and he’s not a man to whom you can just hand out a beating. He is in fact one of the most malevolent and powerful Sorcerers in the world, an insane half-Orc from the wastelands who almost destroyed the entire city a year ago. He’s strong, he’s evil, he hates Turai and he hates me. It’s a surprise to find him sitting in my office.

“Make yourself comfortable, why don’t you?” I growl at him.

Powerful Sorcerer or not, I’ll have a good attempt at plunging my sword into his ribs before he can utter a spell. I demand to know what he’s doing here.

Horm the Dead is a Sorcerer of striking appearance. Black clothes, pale skin, long dark hair, high cheekbones, eagle feathers in his hair and a fistful of silver rings, most of them bearing impressions of skulls. His long black cloak trails over the chair like a great pair of bat’s wings.

“Are you always so uncivil to your guests?” he asks, and laughs. His laugh sounds like it comes from somewhere on the other side of the grave. The last time I heard it he was riding a dragon over the city, having just intoned a spell which drove the entire population insane. Turai would have consumed itself in a bloody orgy of fire and violence had Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, not managed to neutralise the spell at the very last moment. Even so, the destruction was widespread, severe enough to make Horm an eternal enemy of Turai.

“I’m famous for my incivility. Now get out of my office.”

Horm ignores the suggestion.

“I am not impressed with this city,” he says.

“We’re not impressed with you.”

“I really thought my eight-mile destruction spell would wipe you out. I was terribly disappointed when it didn’t.”

“So you decided to bombard us with frogs?”

“Frogs? The unusual downpour? Nothing to do with me.”

Despite being half Orcish, Horm speaks very elegant Turanian. Coupled with his languid malevolence, it has an unsettling effect. As there seems to be no prospect of banishing him from my office without using violence, I ask him again why he’s here.

“I thought I might hire you, Investigator. Perhaps to find a certain pendant for me?”

“I’m busy,” I reply curtly, and don’t let it show that I’m perturbed. With Horm the Dead now in Turai looking for the pendant, the stakes have moved up a notch, and they were already far too high.

“You know that Prince Amrag will destroy you soon?” says Horm.

I’m thrown by the sudden change of subject.

“He will?”

“Oh yes. The young Prince is proving to be a surprisingly powerful leader. He’s uniting the Orcish lands. No doubt your city is already aware of this. I imagine that before too long he will be in a position to lead an army from the east.”

“Then there will be a lot of dead Orcs for burning.”

Horm shrugs.

“No doubt. But he’ll wipe you off the map, and every other Human nation. You’re not as strong as you used to be, and neither are the Elves. How strange that they should now be starting to suffer from the ravages of dwa.”

Horm seems to have some very up-to-date information. It’s not too many months ago that I was far down south on the Elvish Isles. It’s true that dwa had found a foothold among the Elves, but I would not have thought that news of this could have travelled to the Wastelands. Unless Horm had something to do with dwa reaching the Elves in the first place. He’s a user and purveyor of the drug himself, and makes money by supplying it to the Human lands, including Turai. We’re all conspiring in our own downfall and seem unable to do anything about it.

“Turai has few allies. There is very little cohesion left in the League of City States. And the larger countries will look to protect their own borders. No one will help Turai when the Orcs next attack.”

“Did you just come here to lecture me on politics? Because I’m a busy man.”

“Of course,” continues Horm, “I am not under the sway of Prince Amrag. My kingdom in the Wastelands has never been subject to rule by any of the eastern Orcish nations, and so it shall remain. But I will add my might to their forces. One gets so bored sometimes. In truth, I’ve been looking forward to the emergence of a new warlord.”

He sits forward in his chair.

“But I digress. Turai still has a year or so left. And it also has something I want, namely the pendant.”

“So you can hand it over to Prince Amrag? If you think I’d help you with that, you’re madder than you look.”

Horm leans forward.

“Perhaps I should just kill you now.”

“Perhaps you should just bounce a spell off my fine protection charm while I stick my sword in your guts.”

Horm sits back, perfectly relaxed.

“You’re really not scared of me, are you? It’s foolish, but admirable in a way. Tell me, why do you wish to protect this city?”

“I live here.”

“You could live anywhere. Turai doesn’t like you. I was concealed downstairs when that unpleasant official arrived carrying the allegation that you had once fled from the field of battle. An allegation I would judge unlikely to be true. In my kingdom I would not allow such an accusation to be made. Of course, such things are commonplace in these lands you call civilised. A true warrior will always be brought down by his cowardly enemies.”

Not liking the way Horm the Dead is starting to make sense, I ask him directly about the pendant.

“What’s your involvement?”

“It was offered to me for sale.”

“By Sarin the Merciless?”

“Indeed.”

“I seem to remember you fell out last time you worked together.”

Horm waves his hand rather grandly.

“We may have argued. However, that was not the last time we worked together. Merely the last time you are aware of. Since then we have collaborated on various pieces of profitable business.”

Horm smiles.

“I see that this perturbs you, Investigator. But did you really think that everything that happens around this city is known to you?”

“I know that Sarin doesn’t have the pendant.”

“Unfortunately she does not. Having gone to some trouble to visit this miserable city—I am of course obliged to use a variety of disguising spells—I find that the item has gone missing. The transaction was disturbed by Glixius Dragon Killer, who I look forward to removing from this world. Really, Thraxas, it has been farcical. The pendant travelling this way and that around your city, pursued here and there by either Sarin or Glixius’s men, none of whom were able to resist staring into the jewel, which, of course, drove them insane. Now it is missing and whoever has the pendant seems to have hidden it very successfully. And I do so want it. As a tool for far-seeing it is quite unique, unmatched in the east or the west. Only the Elvish glass of Ruyana can compare, and the Elvish glass is, for the moment, beyond my reach.”

“How did Sarin learn of its existence?”

“I have no idea,” says Horm, sounding bored. “When she offered it to me for sale, I did not trouble myself with the petty details.”

“Careless of you, Horm. If you’d paid attention to details you might have the pendant.”