Thraxas - The Complete Series (163 page)

“Maybe I’ll just take a walk outside the city walls tomorrow. You want to come?”

The idea of taking a walk outside the city walls for no apparent reason is so baffling I’m stuck for an immediate reply. Makri says she just feels like seeing something different.

“Could we at least look at the Fairy Glade?”

“You mean by sorcery?” I shake my head. A good Sorcerer like Lisutaris could open a seeing-window on the Fairy Glade without much effort, but my own sorcerous powers are so limited these days it would take too much expenditure of energy.

“Then I guess I’ll have to make do with thazis,” sighs Makri, lighting one of my thazis sticks. I pour a little beer for her, then pass her a glass of klee.

“The intoxicants of the poor.”

I start setting up the pieces on my niarit board. Niarit is a cunning game of skill and strategy at which Makri, despite her much-vaunted “I’m-top-of-the-class” intellect, has so far never defeated me. Only to be expected, really. I’m the undisputed niarit champion of Twelve Seas, and have in my time defeated lords, ladies, philosophers, Sorcerers and whoever else was foolish enough to challenge me. I take a hefty slug of klee and prepare for an infantry attack supported by elephants that will sweep Makri’s forces from the board.

“This time you’re dead,” mutters Makri, and moves her Hero quickly into play. “And pass me the klee.”

Makri shudders as the fiery spirit burns her throat.

Top-quality klee, made by monks in the mountains. I let her Hero advance up the board, pretending to fall back with my troops, not even pushing up my Harper to increase the morale of my front line. Makri sends her heavy cavalry up my right flank, preparing, I imagine, for a pincer movement. Poor Makri. She might be number one chariot with a sword in her hand, and the smartest student in the Guild College, but she has a lot to learn about the art of war. Less than half an hour later Makri is looking glumly at the remnants of her army, now falling back in full retreat before the wave of elephants, infantry and light cavalry currently sweeping up the board as directed by Thraxas, unstoppable warlord.

True to her character, Makri refuses to surrender and plays the game to its bitter end. My troops place their siege tower next to her castle, swarm up the ladders, kill everyone inside and hoist a flag in triumph. Well, metaphorically anyway. There isn’t actually a flag.

Makri stubs her thazis stick out in disgust.

“Why do you always beat me?”

“I’m smarter than you.”

“Like hell you are. You’ve just been playing longer.”

That’s what Makri always says, generally with a angry scowl and occasionally with some implications of cheating on my part. She’s a very poor loser. I ask her if she’d like another game. She shakes her head.

“I have to go out.”

“Out? Where?”

“I’m teaching a class.”

This is a surprise.

“At the college?”

“No, they wouldn’t let me teach there. Not that I couldn’t. My Elvish is far better than some of these professors. I’m going to Morixa’s bakery to teach some women to read.”

I’m still puzzled. Makri explains that she’s been asked by the organiser of the local chapter of the Association of Gentlewomen if she’d like to teach reading to some women in the area.

“I didn’t know you had a reading programme.”

Makri notices the disapproving tone in my voice.

“You think it’s a bad idea?”

“Not at all. A fine idea. If someone else was organising it.”

“So who else is going to organise it in this city?”

Makri has a point. Very few women go to school in Turai. The wealthy classes often arrange private tuition for their daughters, but only a tiny proportion of women in a poor area like Twelve Seas have ever had any sort of schooling. Not that the men round here are exactly intellectual. I wouldn’t disapprove at all if it wasn’t for the involvement of the Association of Gentlewomen, a collection of malcontents, harridans and troublemakers who are quite rightly frowned upon by all honest citizens of Turai.

“Remember what happened last time you taught anything?”

Makri frowns.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I wouldn’t say you were a patient tutor. You almost killed that young Elf on Avula.”

Makri waves this away.

“An entirely different matter. I was teaching her to fight. A little rough treatment was necessary.”

“A little rough treatment? I saw you kick her in the face.”

“So? She learned how to fight, didn’t she? She won the junior sword-fighting tournament. I regard the whole thing as a triumph.”

“Well,” I say, “if you start kicking the local women in the face, don’t come complaining to me when they run you out of town.”

“I won’t,” says Makri, and departs.

Later I see her leaving the tavern, on her way to her first teaching assignment. I notice that she has a sword at her hip and a knife in her boot. She’s carrying a bag of scrolls, but from the way it bulges I’d guess she’s got her short-handled axe in there as well. Makri never likes to go anywhere without some weapons to hand. I shake my head. As this enterprise involves both the totally incompetent Association of Gentlewomen and the fiery-tempered Makri, I have complete confidence that it will end in disaster.

T
he Consul’s office is situated inside the Palace grounds. North of the river, and a long walk from Twelve Seas. Not feeling like a long walk, I take a landus. As the horse-drawn carriage trots up Moon and Stars Boulevard, working its way slowly through the heavy traffic, I wonder what they want me for. As far as I know, the city isn’t gripped by any particular crisis at this moment, though when you a have a man like Prince Frisen-Akan as next in line to the King, there’s always something scandalous likely to happen. If he drinks himself to death before succeeding to the throne he’ll be doing the city a favour.

We turn left at Royal Way and travel through the wealthy suburb of Thamlin. I used to live here. When I worked as a Senior Investigator at the Palace. Before they threw me out on some pretext of drinking too much.

The Imperial Palace comes into view. Were I a man who was impressed by large buildings, I’d be impressed. It outshines the palaces of many larger states than Turai. The entrance alone is enough to make visitors gaze in wonder—huge gates carved in the shape of twin lions, six times the height of a man. Inside are some of the most beautifully laid-out gardens in the whole of the Human lands. Long avenues of trees lead to contoured lawns, beds of flowers and gleaming fountains, all engineered by Afetha Ar Kyet, the great Elvish garden-maker. In one corner of the grounds is the Imperial Zoo, home to a collection of fabulous creatures, including, at one time, a dragon from the east, though that was killed a while ago. Killed by the King’s daughter, Princess Du-Akai, actually, though it’s not a story that was ever made public.

The Palace itself is a huge building, constructed of shining white marble topped by silver minarets. It’s a fabulous place. I used to work here. Now I’m about as welcome as an Orc at an Elvish wedding. Seeing the luxury all around me does nothing but add to the general feeling of gloom I’ve had for the past few days.

Security at the Palace is tight. Civil Guards prevent anyone suspicious from coming too near, and inside the grounds officials from Palace Security are on patrol. If someone wanted to assassinate the King, they’d have to put in a lot of effort. You can’t really blame the King for his security concerns. The city state of Turai contains some very talented assassins, and the King has enemies.

I’m searched when I enter the grounds and again when I approach the Consul’s offices. I turn in my sword to a member of Palace Security while a Sorcerer checks that I’m not carrying any spells.

I’m deposited in a reception room. There’s a tall man there I don’t recognise, staring out of the window. More importantly, there’s an elegant trolley in the corner laden with food. My long journey has made me hungry, so I head straight for the trolley and get to work. The food provided for the Consul’s guests is beautifully prepared, though I can’t say I’m overimpressed by the size of the portions. There are some small pastries stuffed with venison, which, while tasting good enough to please the most demanding palate, are really not large enough to satisfy a man with a healthy appetite. I put one in my mouth, take another, grab a plate from under the trolley and load it with fifteen or so of the pastries. There’s a carafe of wine on the table nearby which I use to wash down the pastries before moving on to the next dish, some sweet-tasting cakes delicately iced with sugar. Once more it’s high-quality produce but somewhat on the small side. I fill up my plate with every cake on offer and retire to a chair in the corner, carafe of wine still in hand.

I’ve hardly sat down before my plate is empty. I catch the eye of my fellow guest, a dignified-looking individual in a green robe. Looks like a foreign priest, or maybe some sort of minor official.

“Not really generous portions, are they?” I say, affably. He turns back to the window without replying. Doesn’t speak our language, probably. I saunter back over to the trolley, but apart from a plate of eggs there’s nothing else on offer. I eat the eggs but really I’m not satisfied. If the Consul asks a man to a meeting at his office the least he can do is feed him properly. I look around hopefully, wondering where I might get some more food. At this moment the outside door opens and a woman in a long white dress comes in. Rather a fancy outfit for a waitress, but at the Palace they like their formal wear.

“Any chance of another trolley?” I ask, politely.

“Pardon?”

“More pastries. These ones seem to be finished. And maybe another tray or two of cakes? Hell, bring in more eggs if you want to get rid of them, I’m not too fussy. And do you think you could get this carafe filled up again?”

The waitress seems to be starring at me in an odd manner. Have I offended her? Palace etiquette can be tricky; even the servants need to be spoken to properly.

“Thraxas, guest of Consul Kalius,” I announce. “Wondering if you might be able to bring me another platter of your fine cuisine?”

“I am the wife of the Juvalian ambassador,” she replies, not looking too pleased.

“Oh… Sorry”

She sweeps past me with her nose in the air, and stands by the man in the window, who, from the outraged look on his face, is almost certainly the Juvalian ambassador. I’d no idea they wore green cloaks.

“Well, have you seen a waitress anywhere?” I ask, but they ignore me.

An inner door opens, a quiet word is spoken and the ambassador and his wife—no doubt a well-bred woman who has never worked as a waitress—are whisked inside to meet the Consul. I look around me with some dissatisfaction. I really need more to eat. The outside door opens and another young woman in a long white dress appears. I regard her dubiously.

“Are you an ambassador’s wife?”

She shakes her head.

“A young relative of the royal family?”

“No. I serve food to the Consul’s guests.”

I can feel my face lighting up. This is exactly what’s required. I point to the empty food trolley.

“Is there any chance of a bite to eat? There weren’t more than a few crumbs left by the time I arrived. The Juvalian ambassador and his wife, they just ate like hogs.”

The waitress smiles pleasantly, nods her head, and leaves the room. She’s gone no more than a few minutes before reappearing with another trolley which is overflowing with food—pastries, sweetmeats, pies, cakes and other more exotic delicacies.

“Here you are,” she says brightly.

I like this waitress. As she produces another carafe of wine I reflect that, even in an unfriendly city like Turai, you occasionally come across a person who’s willing to help out a man in difficulty. The waitress departs and I get to work. With luck the Juvalian ambassador will take up a lot of the Consul’s time. As I plough through the first tier of the trolley, with my eye already on the hearty provisions on the level below, I feel like I’m in no hurry.

Despite my best efforts I haven’t quite finished all the food when the ambassador and his wife reappear. They pass out of the room without giving me so much as a look. An official summons me into the next room. Inside I find Consul Kalius, wearing the gold-rimmed toga that denotes his rank. He’s sitting at an enormous wooden table in the company of Deputy Consul Cicerius, Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, head of the Sorcerers Guild, Old Hasius the Brilliant, Chief Sorcerer at the Palace, Rittius, head of Palace Security, and Galwinius, Prefect of Thamlin. With them is General Pomius, the highest-ranking soldier in the state. A high-powered collection of Turai’s finest. I’m still carrying the carafe of wine. I put it down casually on the table.

Kalius regards me somewhat coldly.

“Why did you ask the Juvalian ambassador’s wife to bring you food?” he enquires.

“I thought she was a waitress.”

Kalius shakes his head.

“The ambassador was insulted.”

“It was a mistake anyone could have made.”

“Surely, as a man who once worked at the Palace, you can tell the difference between a foreign dignitary and a waitress?”