Thraxas - The Complete Series (202 page)

“Congratulations,” I say.

Makri nods.

“He was a good fighter. He should have stayed at home.”

I drag the body into a an alleyway and pull some tattered fragments of sailcloth over it.

“I’ll send a message to the Guards when we reach the Axe.”

We start to walk away.

“I hate Orcs,” says Makri.

She shivers.

“Give me your cloak,” she says.

“My cloak? I need it.”

“I’m only wearing this bikini.”

“You should have put more clothes on before you came out. You don’t catch me chasing Orcs in a bikini.”

“Thank the gods for that. I’m freezing, give me your cloak.”

Makri curses me in Orcish.

“Will you stop cursing in Orcish? Goddamn, between that and the pointy ears and the Orcish sword you’re lucky people don’t mistake you for the enemy.”

Makri curses me further, using some quite obscene pidgin-Orcish words probably never heard before outside the gladiator pits. I shake my head, and take off my cloak, though I’m none too pleased about it. The freezing mist quickly penetrates my tunic.

Makri tells me to stop scowling.

“I can’t believe how unhelpful you are sometimes. I’ve just killed the deadliest Orc swordsman this side of Gzak and you’re complaining about lending me your cloak. Anyone would think you wanted me to catch the malady.”

“If you do, you’re on your own. I’m not feeding you any of that foul potion.”

Makri halts, and looks at me quite sternly.

“You mean you wouldn’t look after me?”

“Not a chance. I’ve had it with sick people.”

“I saved your life.”

“When?”

“Hundreds of times.”

“Okay you’ve helped me out occasionally.”

“So?” demands Makri.

I sigh.

“Fine. If you get sick, I’ll feed you potion.”

“You’d better.”

We advance a few paces. Makri halts again.

“Will you mop my brow?”

“Not a chance.”

“What do you mean, not a chance? You’d do it for Lisutaris.”

“She’s the head of the Sorcerers Guild.”

“So that’s the way it is,” says Makri, raising her voice. “You’ll spend endless time mopping someone’s brow if they’re important, but when it comes to me, a woman without whose help you’d have been dead and buried long ago, you’re just going to leave me to die in the gutter?”

I make an exasperated gesture.

“How did gutters enter into this? Who said anything about you dying in a gutter?”

“Well, obviously I’d be just as well off lying in a gutter as being looked after by you. You probably wouldn’t feed me any potion at all, you’d just get drunk and forget about it. Don’t worry about Makri, she’s an Orc with pointy ears, she can just get the malady and die for all anybody cares.”

“Will you shut up? Did I ever let you die?”

“You can’t wait to let me die. You’re probably looking forward to it.”

I stop, and look at Makri suspiciously. Is she becoming feverish?

“Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine,” declares Makri.

“Then what’s this about?”

Makri looks awkward.

“Nothing,” she mumbles.

“Are you scared of getting sick?”

“I’m not scared of anything,” says Makri, fiercely.

“Yes, I know you’re not scared of anything. But apart from that, are you scared of getting sick?”

“A little,” admits Makri. “I’ve never been sick. I hate the way these people are all sweating and tossing and turning. I don’t want it to happen to me.”

I try and speak reassuringly; not something I’m very good at.

“You probably won’t get sick. You’ve lasted this long. And if you do, I’ll feed you potion.”

Makri looks placated.

“Well you’d better, or there’ll be trouble.”

“If I have to stand out here like a frozen pixie any longer there’s going to be more trouble.”

We make our way home.

“It’s been a strange winter so far,” muses Makri. “The Orcs defeat Turai in battle, we all get stuck inside the city and catch this disease, and now we’re just waiting for the Orcs to force their way in. Plus Orcish Assassins are now in the city. How did that happen?”

I admit I don’t know.

“Our Sorcerers should have detected any Orcish incursions.”

“We shouldn’t wait around to be picked off,” says Makri. ”We should do something.”

“What?”

“Round up everyone that’s healthy and attack.”

“The city’s too weak.”

Makri doesn’t like hanging round waiting for the Orcs. She’d rather gather up everyone in Turai who can carry a sword and go out and confront them. I point out that we don’t even know where they are, but Makri thinks she’d find them if she had to. And she doesn’t care how many of them there are. I don’t scoff at her idea. I’ve been in campaigns which have been won by the smaller force taking swift decisive action. But General Pomius, head of the Turanian army, is quite a cautious man. Far too cautious to march out and confront an enemy of unknown size.

“Amrag doesn’t have that big a force,” says Makri. “He beat us because he took us by surprise. We ought to try doing the same to him.”

“We don’t know what’s going on out there. He might have a larger army by now.”

“More reason to attack him quickly,” says Makri. “I’d get in a chariot and head right for him. Cut off Amrag’s head and his army would melt away.”

“We’ll make it through all right till reinforcements arrive in the spring.”

Makri doubts that they will. The gossip round the markets is that the western forces will hold the line on the Simnian border, leaving Turai to its fate. It might be true.

“Fine,” says Makri. “We just wait here till the Orcs overwhelm us. I never get my diploma from college. I never get to go to the university. I never see what my hair looks like yellow and I never hear from my Elf again.”

“Are you still going on about that Elf?”

“No.”

Makri scowls. She had a brief romance with an Elf when we visited the southern islands. It’s a continual disappointment to her that he hasn’t been in touch since.

“You’re lucky,” she says.

“Lucky? How?”

“You don’t have any ambitions left.”

It’s true enough. Though I did always feel I might one day go through the card at the Turai memorial chariot races and pick every winner.

Turai’s morale isn’t helped by the fruitless hunt in Twelve Seas. Next day the story is all over the city that Orcs were inside the walls and somehow escaped. In fact, Makri and I were the only people who did meet an Orc, and he was a lone Assassin, not an invasion force. I inform Lisutaris, but she’s still so sick I’m not certain that she takes it in properly. I sent a message to Cicerius outlining what happened, and another message to Captain Rallee. The Captain picked up the body before anyone found it, preventing the city’s population from panicking even more.

The citizenry are in a bad enough state of mind already, struggling under siege and illness. It isn’t helped by news of the Ocean Storm leaking out. Soon the whole of Turai is aware that there’s a sorcerous weapon capable of battering down our sea walls and letting the Orcish fleet sail in, and no one knows where it is.
The Renowned and Truthful Chronicle
runs an article on the affair; questions are asked in the senate. Deputy Consul Cicerius is forced to assure the senators that he has matters in hand. He sends more troops to the south of the city, along with Sorcerers to strengthen our protection. This carries some risk as it means leaving the other parts of the city less well guarded than they should be, though we still have enough Sorcerers in Turai to maintain our defensive spells. In reply to some harsh questioning from Senator Lodius, Cicerius assures him that Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, has our defences well in hand. As Lisutaris is currently lying ill in the Avenging Axe, this is not strictly true.

Lisutaris seems to be making a very slow recovery. She’s taken the malady badly. I’m quite certain I got over it a lot quicker than our head of the Sorcerers Guild. Of course, I’ve always been strong. “Thraxas the Ox,” they used to call me in my younger days. I was famous for my feats of strength. Ask anyone, they’ll remember.

H
anama, third in command in the Assassins Guild, slumbers on my couch. I look at her with distaste, and for the fiftieth time contemplate picking her up and slinging her out. Whoever made it taboo to abuse a sick house guest never had to put up with this sort of thing. I’m still not entirely convinced it isn’t all some plot on her part. If she were to suddenly leap up and assassinate someone, I wouldn’t be all that surprised.

I settle down at my desk and open a book about Turai’s naval history which I borrowed without asking from Makri’s room. She has a lot more books and scrolls in her room these days. They’re expensive items, mostly out of her budget, but she’s managed to fool Samanatius and his cronies into thinking she’s a worthwhile student and they’ve been lending her more.

I peer at the book, frowning at the smallness of the writing and the dullness of the text. The historian manages to make some epic battles sound like very dull affairs indeed, and he has an annoying habit of quoting sources from all over the place, as if anyone really cares. I’m wading through the chapter on the Battle of Dead Dragon Island, hoping to pick up something which might help me locate Tanrose’s mother’s buried gold. I’m now fairly certain there’s nothing in the vicinity of the harbour which could be referred to as a whale, but who knows, maybe these sailors used “whale” as a name for something else.

There’s an oil lamp on the desk and I’ve got my illuminated staff cranked up to full power, but it’s still not easy reading the endless pages of tedious facts. I realise why I never read a history book before. They’re dreadfully dull. Soon I hate everyone involved, and I’m hoping they’re all dead by the end of the chapter.

There’s a knock at the door. Before I can answer it Makri strolls in. I glare at her.

“What?” she says. “I knocked.”

“You’re supposed to wait till I answer it.”

“You’re never satisfied, are you? Maybe I should send a message saying I’m coming.”

Makri glances at the book on my desk and looks surprised.

“You’re reading?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Just broadening my knowledge.”

Makri looks suspicious.

“You don’t have any knowledge to broaden. What is it?”

She lifts the cover to see the title.

“That’s my book. Did you take it from my room?”

“Of course I took it from your room. Why, do you need it?”

Makri admits she doesn’t at this moment, but she’s displeased that I’ve taken it. I get the impression she doesn’t trust me with it.

“It’s only a book. What can happen?”

“Plenty of things. You might spill beer on it. Who can forget the incident at the library?”

I nudge my tankard away from the book.

“Preposterous. And why are you complaining anyway? You should be pleased I’m gathering a little knowledge.”

Makri looks dubious.

“You’re up to something. Tell me what it is.”

“I’m not up to anything. Can’t a man read a book without people making a fuss? What do you want anyway?”

“It’s potion time,” says Makri, and right on cue, Dandelion walks into the room with a steaming bowl of herbal medicine.

“How’s Chiaraxi?” I ask, hoping she might have made a miraculous recovery.

“Not too bad,” says Dandelion. “She doesn’t seem as serious as everyone else. She wanted to get up and give everyone potion. But I told her I could do it.”

It strikes me that the healer may regret this when Dandelion kills all her patients, but I don’t mention it. Dandelion lent me money. I have to be polite to her, for a few days at least.

Dandelion doesn’t wear shoes. The sight of her wandering round my room in bare feet makes me uncomfortable. Naked female feet are not exactly taboo in Turai but they’re a rare sight. As for the circlet of flowers around her brow, it’s frankly offensive. She holds Hanama’s head and pours her medicine into her. Hanama is only partially conscious and some of the liquid dribbles down her chin. It’s not an attractive sight. Makri places her hand on Manama’s forehead.

“Still very feverish,” she says.

“Any chance of her dying soon?” I ask, not entirely giving up hope.

Dandelion and Makri go through to the bedroom to minister to Lisutaris. I splash some water on my face and glance at the small cupboard behind my desk where my present from Lisutaris is hidden. I could do with a drink of the Grand Abbot’s Ale right now but I’m not about to risk taking it out when Makri and Dandelion are around. I’m not planning on sharing it with anyone.

Dandelion and Makri reappear. Dandelion stands and looks at me.

“Don’t let me detain you,” I say, by way of a hint.

“Dandelion has something to tell you,” says Makri. There’s a slight glint in Makri’s eye which immediately makes me suspicious. Makri always finds it amusing when Dandelion’s strange ramblings start to infuriate me.

“I’m busy.”

“It’s very important,” says Dandelion. “It’s about the dragon line.”

“The what?”