Thraxas - The Complete Series (204 page)

“You sound like you’re looking forward to it.”

Astrath shrugs.

“I don’t mind. It’s not such a bad way to die.”

“You’re right, it’s not. But I sometimes get the feeling I could have died for someplace better than Turai.”

I ask Astrath if he’s heard any war news through the Sorcerers Guild that hasn’t been released to the public. He tells me that the Guild thinks they might have detected a large force of Orcs some way to the northeast of the city.

“Coming from Soraz, possibly.”

“You mean Rezaz the Butcher?”

Astrath nods.

Rezaz the Butcher, Lord of Soraz, was one of the leaders of the Orcish army who almost captured Turai seventeen years ago. He wasn’t with Prince Amrag when he attacked and no one knows for sure if he’s pledged his allegiance to Amrag. There has recently been some sort of cooperation between Turai and Lord Rezaz, on economic matters which were beneficial to both sides, but that’s not to say the Butcher wouldn’t welcome another chance to march into Turai.

“We don’t know for sure. The whole area is blanketed with Orcish spells of concealment. It might be Rezaz or it might be Amrag’s army.”

“I’d guess Amrag’s army’s gone south,” I say. “There have been sightings of his fleet along the coast.”

“It’s possible,” agrees Astrath. “Though we’re fairly sure Queen Direeva in the Southern Hills hasn’t joined up with him, which makes his going south less likely. But really, it’s impossible to say what’s going on.”

I drink another goblet of wine, and take a small bolt out from my bag.

“A crossbow bolt?”

“It’s the one that Sarin the Merciless once fired into Makri.”

Astrath grins.

“How is Makri? Still tantalising the clientele?”

“If you call walking round almost naked with a permanent frown on your face tantalising, then yes.”

I produce a small scrap of cloth, stained dark with blood.

“This is part of the tunic of a man I think was killed by Sarin. She wrenched a bolt out of his chest, which means she’s touched this cloth. Can you use these two items to locate her?”

Astrath picks up the bolt and the cloth, one in each hand, as if weighing them. He studies them for a few moments.

“Maybe. I think they’ve both got some of her aura on them. Is it urgent?”

I tell him it is.

“Do you want to come back in an hour, say?”

“It’s more urgent than that.”

Astrath shrugs. I’ve done him some favours in the past and he knows I wouldn’t press him if I didn’t have to. He instructs a servant to provide me with anything I want, and takes the crossbow bolt and the scrap of cloth through to his private workspace at the back of his house. He scoops up a half-full bottle of wine before leaving the room. I finish off the venison on my plate, take the rest from the silver salver in the middle of the table, and ring for the servant.

“Any more venison?”

The servant politely tells me that no, there isn’t. I look at her suspiciously.

“You did hear Astrath saying to bring me whatever I wanted?”

“I’m sorry, sir, that’s the last of our supply.”

A likely story. The servants are no doubt being economical with their master’s household goods, possibly figuring that if they have to get through a winter on short rations, they’re not about to share the supplies with a rather large Investigator.

“Anything in the way of spicy yams?”

“I’m afraid we finished the last of them yesterday.”

I look her in the eye but she stares straight back at me, unflinching. Eventually I have to make do with a few pastries and a small bottle of wine. According to the servant—rather a harsh-faced woman, now I think about it—Astrath is not currently holding any beer in his cellar.

The servant leaves me to my wine. I pick up a magical text from a shelf and flick through it. It’s a standard work, nothing too advanced, which doesn’t mean there aren’t plenty of spells in it I’ve never heard of. They had this book in class when I was an apprentice, yet I’d swear I’ve never seen most of the spells before. It shows how little attention I paid.

Astrath hurries back into the room. I’m considering asking him straight out, man to man, if he really doesn’t have any beer in his cellar, but he appears to be agitated and waves me quiet.

“Did you say these were from Sarin?”

“That’s right.”

“And she’s a killer?”

“She is.”

“Then you’d better get back to the Avenging Axe immediately,” says Astrath.

“Why?”

“Because she’s heading that way right now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

I rise, finish my goblet of wine, and throw my cloak around my shoulders in double-quick time.

“Can you find me a landus around here?”

“Take my carriage,” says Astrath.

I’m surprised.

“You have a carriage?”

“Issued to all Sorcerers in wartime,” explains Astrath.

I’m impressed. He really is going up in the world.

Minutes later I’m at the reins, thundering through the narrow streets of Pashish towards Twelve Seas. I turn into Moon and Stars Boulevard and head south, scattering pedestrians as I go.

“Out of the way, dogs!” I scream, as a tutor with three children fails to cross the road quickly enough. I thunder on. At this moment the head of the Turanian Sorcerers Guild is lying sick in my bed, and one of the most deadly killers ever seen in Turai is heading towards the Avenging Axe.

I
make it to the Avenging Axe in record time, pulling up outside the front door and leaping from the wagon like a hungry dragon going after a plump sheep. The first person I run into is Makri, carrying a tray of tankards.

“Sarin’s here,” I mutter, and head for the stairs.

Makri isn’t far behind me as I burst into my office, though she’s taken a diversion to pick up her axe. My sword is in my hand, ready for action. The outside door is open, and Sarin the Merciless is standing by the couch, looking down at the still-sleeping Hanama.

“Does your locking spell ever keep anyone out?” demands Makri, and raises her axe. I get myself in between them.

“Makri. Wait till I know why she came here before you kill her.”

Sarin regards us with her cold eyes.

“No one is about to kill me.”

Sarin’s a tall woman, with her dark hair cropped short, which is very unusual in Turai. Unlike almost every other woman in the city, from the market workers to the senators’ wives, she wears no make-up of any kind, and her man’s tunic is plain and undecorated. For some reason she has a liking for earrings, and there must be at least eight silver rings pierced through each of her ears. She wears a short, curved sword at her hip, and she’s pointing a small crossbow at my heart.

“Don’t you know it’s illegal to carry a crossbow in the city?”

“And yet I never seem to get arrested,” says Sarin.

She gazes first at me, then at Makri. There’s a peculiar deadness to Sarin’s eyes which is slightly unsettling.

“I’ve been looking for something that belongs to me,” she says. “It wasn’t there. But I believe you were.”

She holds out her hand.

“Give me the Ocean Storm.”

I’m staggered by the audacity of this woman, having the nerve to march into my office and demand I hand over a stolen item like she has some rights over it.

“Why would I give it to you?”

“Because I’m pointing a crossbow at you.”

“So you are. Maybe you’d like me to roast your insides with a spell?”

“You can’t,” says Sarin, flatly. “You don’t have the power. And I don’t like long conversations. Give me the Ocean Storm.”

“I’d like to, Sarin, but I just don’t believe it belongs to you.”

“I made an agreement with Captain Arex.”

“Too bad for you someone else got there first.”

“Too bad indeed. Hand it over or I’ll kill you.”

Makri suddenly makes a move. She hurls her axe, moving so quickly that the spinning blade knocks the crossbow from Sarin’s hands before she can pull the trigger. Sarin curses and pulls her sword from its sheath. Then she coughs, puts her hand to her head, and sinks gently forward on her knees, sweat pouring from her brow. The sword drops to the floor.

“Oh come on,” says Makri, and looks frustrated. Sarin continues to sink, ending up on the floor, her breath coming in short gasps.

I turn to look at Makri.

“What is this? Is there a sign up somewhere saying go to Thraxas’s office if you get the malady?”

“I’m going to kill her anyway,” declares Makri.

“Okay with me. I’m damned if I want another patient taking up space.”

There’s the sound of footsteps on the stairs and Hansius walks in through the open door. When he sees Sarin he looks alarmed.

“Didn’t the Deputy Consul instruct you to maintain strict privacy? Why is the door open like this? And why is there another malady victim sprawled here for all to see? Get her out of sight this instant.”

I stare at Hansius. Just because Cicerius can come down here and order me about doesn’t mean his assistant can.

“What do you want?”

“Is that—”

“Sarin the Merciless.”

Hansius frowns. Sarin once blackmailed the government out of ten thousand gurans, and they haven’t forgotten.

“Why did you let her in?”

“I didn’t let her in. She countermanded my locking spell.”

“Thraxas’s locking spell is useless,” says Makri. “Anyone can get past it.”

“Why did Sarin come here?” demands Hansius.

“Who knows? People just seem to like to visit these days.”

Hansius eyes us with some distaste.

“Didn’t the Deputy Consul inform you that we suspect a plot has been hatched to kill Lisutaris and betray the city?”

I look at Makri.

“I can’t remember. Did he tell us?”

Makri shrugs.

“There’s so many plots. It’s hard to remember them all.”

“You must be aware of security at all times!” insists Hansius.

I bend down to grab hold of Sarin.

“What are you doing?” asks Hansius

“Throwing her out.”

“But I want to kill her,” protests Makri.

“She’ll die on the street anyway,” I point out.

Hansius practically throws himself in front of the door.

“Have you no idea what it means to maintain security? This woman has heard us talk of Lisutaris. No one who knows that Lisutaris is ill in this tavern can be allowed to leave. We might as well just send a message to the Orcs inviting them to attack.”

“Fine,” says Makri, stepping forward. “I’ll kill her now.”

The inside door bursts open.

“What are you doing?” cries a very loud voice.

It’s Dandelion, clutching potions.

“I’m about to stab Sarin the Merciless,” explains Makri.

Dandelion hurries forward, a horrified look on her face.

“You’re about to stab a sick woman? Shame on you, Makri.”

Makri looks confused.

“But she deserves it.”

“Put that sword away,” demands Dandelion.

“Absolutely not,” retorts Makri.

Dandelion confronts her.

“You can’t kill a sick person.”

“Yes I can. I’m going to do it now.”

“You are not,” states Dandelion, quite emphatically. “No one kills any person that I’m ministering to.”

“Since when are you ministering to her?”

“Since I took over from Chiaraxi.”

“Well this is just ridiculous,” says Makri. “You’re not a proper healer. You can’t order us around.”

“I’m the healer,” says Dandelion firmly. “I look after everyone that’s sick.”

I’ve never seen Dandelion so determined before. She even casts a defiant glance towards Hansius, in case he might be about to argue with her.

“I’m going to kill her,” insists Makri.

“You can’t kill a sick guest,” says Dandelion.

“A person who breaks in to commit crimes doesn’t count as a guest!” retorts Makri.

“Well…” says Hansius. “That’s a moot point. We do have a strong tradition of hospitality.”

Makri curses in Orcish. That’s also taboo in Turai, and Hansius is annoyed.

“But if Sarin hadn’t suddenly fallen sick I’d have killed her by now anyway,” says Makri.

“Not necessarily,” says Hansius.

“What?”

“She might have survived the combat. She might even have defeated you.”

Makri looks aghast at the thought. I weigh in on her side.

“Ridiculous. Makri’s a far better fighter. She’d already got rid of the crossbow with her axe.”

Hansius glances at the floor.

“But Sarin has a sword. You companion had thrown her axe, and seems not to have brought another weapon.”

“I’d still have beaten her,” says Makri. “And why do you care about her anyway?”

“I don’t care about her at all,” says Hansius. “I’m just pointing out the foolishness and unpredictability of women fighting. Women should not be fighting. It’s not their place.”

Makri reaches down to pick up her axe, whether to show Hansius her place or whether to kill Sarin, I’m not certain. Either one would be fine with me but Dandelion interrupts us again.

“Stop this. It doesn’t matter who would have won the fight. Sarin’s sick with the malady and now we’re going to look after her.”