Thraxas - The Complete Series (207 page)

“Glixius? How did he learn about it?”

“Servant gossip. Tanrose’s mother’s servant is the sister of one of Glixius’s cooks.”

Servants are notorious for gossiping. I should have guessed it wouldn’t remain a secret. I’d better find this gold, and soon. If I don’t, there’s no telling how many people might start trying to muscle in. I curse Glixius. This man really is the bane of my life. Not only is he searching for the Ocean Storm, he’s apparently looking for the hidden gold. It’s not like the man is poor. He doesn’t need a share of 14,000 gurans the way I do. The thought makes me even angrier. I feel slightly better when I remember that I’ll soon have the chance to take some of his money from him at the card table. Unfortunately I’m immediately reminded that I don’t have enough money to sit down with yet, and I get angry again.

I leave the room. To hell with them all. I’ve got about thirty-six hours before Turai’s richest gamblers roll up to the Avenging Axe, and nothing is going to prevent me from finding the cash I need to play with them. There’s a knock on the inner door. I open it to find Tirini Snake Smiter outside. I glare at her. Tirini hasn’t actually stabbed me in the back but she’s an associate of Lisutaris’s and Makri is Lisutaris’s bodyguard, so I’m annoyed at her by association.

“What do you want?” I ask.

Tirini looks surprised.

“To protect Lisutaris, of course. That’s what I’m here for, remember?”

I let her in, muttering under my breath all the while.

Tirini eyes me with mild distaste.

“Don’t blame me. This tavern is the last place I’d choose to spend my time. But some of us have to make sacrifices for the good of the city. Did you give up guarding the walls?”

“I have a few days off.”

“Really,” says Tirini, raising her eyebrows. “How reassuring. One trusts the Orcs are also enjoying a holiday.”

Tirini sweeps past me and on into the bedroom to check on Lisutaris. I notice she’s wearing another fancy pair of shoes with pink and gold embroidery. Was she wearing them before? I can’t remember. The pink looks rather similar to the threads I have in my pocket. The ones I picked up from where we left Marizaz.

There’s probably nothing in it. Lots of rich Turanian women have embroidery on their shoes. It’s a popular way of showing off your wealth. But maybe I’ll examine them later to see if there are any threads missing. I don’t completely trust Tirini. She never appeared on the battlefield. For all anyone knows she could be an Orcish spy. Lisutaris trusts her. But Lisutaris also employs Makri as a bodyguard, so it’s not like you can trust her judgement in everything.

There’s a knock on the outside door.

“Go to hell!” I shout.

The door flies open. Harmon Half Elf strolls into the room. He has long fair hair, and an elegant green cloak with the rainbow motif of the Sorcerers Guild embroidered around the hem.

“Where is the meeting?” he asks, politely enough for a man who just countermanded my locking spell and barged into my office.

“What meeting?”

“The Sorcerers’ meeting.”

“What Sorcerers’ meeting?”

Before I can reply, Coranius the Grinder strides in though the door. Coranius is one of Turai’s most powerful Sorcerers, and a man of notoriously short temper.

“Where is the meeting?” he asks, curtly.

I’m starting to feel annoyed.

“There isn’t any meeting.”

Coranius stares at me.

“Stop talking rubbish.”

A carriage draws up outside. Anumaris Thunderbolt, one of our younger Sorcerers, hurries into the office.

“Am I late for the meeting?” she asks. “Hello, Thraxas.”

I nod at her politely. I fought at Anumaris’s side only a month or two ago, when the Orcs attacked us outside the walls. It was her first time in battle and she did well, so I greet her rather more politely, but tell her once more there isn’t a meeting.

My bedroom door opens. Tirini leans out.

“In here, everyone,” she says.

“What’s going on? Did you organise a meeting in my room without telling me?”

No one listens. Before Harmon, Coranius and Anumaris have disappeared through the door, Lanius Suncatcher, Chief Sorcerer from Palace Security, is hurrying in, followed by Melus the Fair, resident Sorcerer at the Stadium Superbius.

“Is there any chance of a glass of wine?” asks Melus.

I’m speechless. If a bunch of Sorcerers think they can just turn up and start demanding wine from me they’re sadly mistaken. I’m about to give them all a piece of my mind when old Hasius the Brilliant himself hobbles into the room complete with three attendants. Old Hasius is reputed to be 112 years old, and he’s starting to look it. He very rarely leaves his chambers at the Abode of Justice yet here he is, walking into a tavern in Twelve Seas like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Various other Sorcerers crowd in, some powerful, some less so, and some I don’t even know. I fight my way to the door of my bedroom and peer over their shoulders. My bedroom is a mass of rainbow cloaks of every description. Sorcerers are perched everywhere, on the floor, on the bed, all acting like they belong here. Meanwhile Makri is sitting calmly beside Lisutaris. It’s enough to test anyone’s patience.

“Would someone tell me what’s going on?” I yell, loud enough to stop their babbling. They all turn to look at me.

“Sorcerers’ meeting,” says Coranius, sternly.

“Yes, I know it’s a Sorcerers’ meeting. But why in my bedroom?”

“Because Lisutaris is here.”

“And she can’t be moved.”

“Sorry Thraxas,” says Lisutaris, who’s still looking weak, but has managed to sit up in bed. She has her cloak draped round her shoulders, and looks rather regal.

“Isn’t it meant to be a secret that she’s here?” I ask.

“It remains a secret,” says Coranius.

“Not much of a secret if every Sorcerer in Turai suddenly appears.”

“We’re Sorcerers,” says Coranius. “We can cover our tracks.”

I’m about to raise several more objections when Glixius Dragon Killer suddenly appears.

“Sorry to be late,” he booms, brushing past me. “Has the meeting started yet?”

I give up in disgust. My own private space invaded by my enemies, and there’s nothing to be done about it. Much as I’d like to sling every one of them out into the street, I can’t. The weakest Sorcerer here still has more power than me. Unable to think of even a good line to leave on, I turn on my heel and depart. I’m seething, not least because Makri seems to be welcome at the meeting whereas I’m obviously not. I head straight downstairs to the bar. I need beer, and plenty of it. And I need it quickly. Gurd is standing behind the bar, a welcoming sight.

“Beer. Quickly. My rooms are full of Sorcerers.”

Gurd pours me a beer. He hands it over with a sympathetic look.

“It’s an outrage,” I say. “A man can’t even call his room his own any more. First it was invaded by sick people and now it’s Sorcerers. I detest them all.”

“Perhaps the Sorcerers will get sick,” says Gurd.

“I hope so. I tell you, Gurd, this city makes me sick. Apart from you, I hate every inhabitant.”

Gurd grins, but his smile fades quite suddenly and he starts to look vague. He puts his hand to his forehead, then stares at his palm, which is damp with sweat.

“Is it hot in here?” he asks.

Before I can reply, Gurd is sinking gently to the floor.

“And you’re sick as well,” I say, and shake my head sadly. “Now I don’t like anyone.”

“Look after the tavern,” gasps Gurd.

Dandelion appears on the scene. She gives a small cry when she sees Gurd lying on the floor.

“Oh my goodness, Gurd is sick. Help me get him to his room. Thraxas? What are you doing?”

“Pouring myself a beer.”

“We have to help Gurd.”

“I will. I just need a beer first.”

At this rate there will soon be no one left. Gurd was my last ally. Now he’s gone it’s just me against the hostile world, and at this moment the hostile world seems to be winning.

Makri suddenly appears at my side.

“Shouldn’t you be with your Sorcerer buddies?”

“They threw me out,” says Makri. “I’m completely offended.”

“Well, Sorcerers are always secretive.”

“But I’m Lisutaris’s bodyguard.”

Poor Makri. She’s under the misapprehension that this gives her some sort of status. It doesn’t really. She’s acknowledged to be a good woman with a sword, but fighting abilities alone don’t win status in this city.

“Help us get Gurd into his room.”

“I hate all these sick people everywhere,” says Makri.

I
t’s a chaotic evening at the Avenging Axe. Dandelion and Makri are both serving behind the bar, which means there’s no waitress service, which in turn leads to a long queue of thirsty drinkers all competing for service. Mercenaries and dockers become impatient. They’re not used to waiting so long for their tankards of ale, and they’re not shy about complaining. The food is being prepared by some temporary cook whose name I don’t even know. She seems to be taking a long time about it, which leads to more impatience. There are more than a few angry words and sharp exchanges as Makri and Dandelion struggle to cope. It’s a bad situation, and a less experienced drinker than myself might be inclined to panic. Fortunately I’ve had a great deal of practice and I’ve got a lot of weight on my side. I lever some mercenaries out of the way, force back a sailmaker, and slide up to the bar without too much trouble.

“Happy Guildsman, Makri,” I say, holding out my extra-large tankard for a refill.

Makri looks at me balefully.

“Have you considered helping out?”

“Helping out? Why?”

“Because we need help,” she says, logically enough. Logical or not, I brush it aside.

“I’m not employed here. I’m a paying customer.”

Even Dandelion is slightly harassed as Barbarian mercenaries compete for her attention.

“It really would be nice if you were to help, Thraxas,” she says.

“Afraid I can’t do that.”

Makri hands a tankard of ale over to a customer, then pauses.

“Then you’re not being served,” she says.

I gape at her.

“What do you mean?”

“If you won’t help, I’m banning you from the tavern.”

Only the crush of bodies prevents me from reeling backwards in shock. I’m not used to being banned from taverns. Or rather, I am used to being banned from taverns, but not the one I reside in.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t ban me. I live here.”

“I don’t care,” says Makri. “You’re not getting any drinks. Either help out or step aside. There are people waiting.”

“You dog!” I roar, and reach for my sword. “This time you’ve gone too far!”

I start heaving my way through the press of bodies to the hatch in the bar, intent on getting behind it and skewering Makri at the first opportunity. Makri grabs the axe she keeps for emergencies and waits for me to arrive.

“No one refuses beer to Thraxas!” I yell, still struggling through the crowd. I find my way blocked by a Barbarian mercenary who stands about seven feet tall and almost as wide. It takes me a while to work my way round him and it doesn’t calm my temper. Meanwhile I’m yelling insults at Makri and she’s yelling insults back at me. By the time I make it behind the bar, fifty or so assorted mercenaries, dockers and other Twelve Seas lowlifes are looking on with some amusement. I ignore them.

“Pour me a beer or I’ll run you through like a dog.”

Makri raises her axe.

“Get out from behind the bar or I’ll chop your head off, you cusux.”

Even in the company of mercenaries and dock workers, not the most refined of people, Makri’s use of an Orcish insult causes a few raised eyebrows. I take a step forward. Dandelion suddenly leaps in front of me.

“Stop this at once,” she says. “With everyone sick we all have to work together.”

I eye her with loathing.

“Dandelion, have I ever told you how much I despise you?”

“Don’t pick on her, you fat oaf,” shouts Makri. “Dandelion, get out the way so I can chop his head off.”

Dandelion turns to face Makri.

“You have to stop it as well. We shouldn’t be fighting among ourselves.”

“Goddamn you, you ignorant zutha bitch,” roars Makri, giving vent to another of her favourite foul Orcish insults. “Get out the way or I’ll chop you in half.”

Dandelion takes a step backwards, intimidated. She turns to me, and then back to Makri. And then, quite abruptly, she bursts into tears.

“I was only trying to help,” she wails, then runs off into the back room, leaving me and Makri staring at each other with weapons raised, feeling a little foolish.

“Well there was no need to make the girl cry,” says one of the loudest voices in Turai. It’s Viriggax, who’s standing at the bar with a look of disapproval in his eye.

“Poor little soul,” says Parax the shoemaker, agreeing with him. “Always tries to do her best.”

“I never like to see a young woman bullied,” growls Viriggax. “Goes against the grain.”

“Oh come on,” I protest. “We weren’t bullying her. Everyone knows Dandelion is an idiot.”

Another mercenary at the bar, a man with a scar running from his ear to his chin, clucks in disapproval.