Thraxas - The Complete Series (4 page)

A young Pontifex greets me politely as I turn into Attilan’s private pathway. He’s carrying a bag marked with the sign of the True Church. Busy gathering contributions from our wealthier citizens I expect. A servant answers the door. Attilan is not home and is not expected back in the near future. The servant shuts the door. I never enjoy having doors slammed in my face. I walk round the back. No one interrupts me as I stroll through the small garden, ending up in a patio at the back with a small statue of Saint Quatinius and various well-tended bushes. The back door is solid enough, and locked. I mutter the opening incantation, another minor spell which I can use at will, and it flies open. I walk in. I can guess the layout of the house. They’re all much the same, with a central courtyard containing an altar and private rooms at the back. If, as I suspect, Attilan only has one or two servants, and they’re lounging in their quarters while he’s away, I may be able to carry out some uninterrupted investigating.

Attilan’s office is neat, everything in its proper place. I check the letter rack. No sign of the Princess’s letters. A safe behind a painting almost resists my opening spell, but eventually creaks open reluctantly. I might have made a fine burglar, although anyone with anything really valuable to hide gets their safe locked tight with a good spell from a competent Sorcerer. Inside the safe I find a jewelled box with the Princess’s royal insignia on it. Very good. Things are going well.

I am about to place it in my bag when my curiosity overwhelms me. The Princess specifically requested that I did not open the box and read her letters. Which gives me an irresistible urge to open the box and read her letters. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.

It doesn’t appear to contain any letters. Just a parchment with a spell written on it. I frown. This is definitely the box the Princess asked me to retrieve; it carries her royal insignia. The spell is an unfamiliar one, not native to Turai. When I read it through I’m more puzzled than ever. It seems to be a spell for putting a dragon to sleep. Why would the Princess want to do that? I slip it into my bag, and hurry out the back way. It should be an easy getaway but as I plunge through the bushes I trip over something and cry out in surprise.

“Who’s there?” demands a servant, appearing at a run. He stares in horror at me. Or rather, at what’s at my feet, which is a dead body.

“Attilan!” he screams.

The case just took a bad turn. The servant obviously regards me as the man responsible for sticking a knife in his employer. So do the Civil Guards, who appear in less than thirty seconds. Not unreasonable, I suppose, as I decline to offer any explanation for my presence. They drag me off. As I’m being hauled through the garden I sense the faintest aura of something unusual but it’s too fleeting to identify and I don’t have a chance to think about it. I’m dumped in a wagon and driven smartly up to the prison. As the Guards fling me in a cell, I reflect that, of all my reversals of fortune, this is surely one of the quickest.

T
he city is divided into ten administrative units, each one overseen by a Prefect, who, among other things, oversees the Civil Guard in his area. Prefect Galwinius, in charge of Thamlin, is a large, tough individual who wastes no time in informing me I’m in serious trouble.

“We got no time for Private Investigators round here,” he snarls at me, again. “Why did you kill Attilan?”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Then why were you there?”

“Just taking a short cut.”

I’m flung back in my cell. It’s stiflingly hot and stinks like a sewer. Out of curiosity I try my standard opening incantation on the door, but nothing happens. This is to be expected. All cell doors are regularly serviced by the Civil Guard Sorcerers using powerful locking spells.

Hours pass. I hear the Crier calling Sabap, the time for afternoon prayer. At this all faithful members of the True Church—in theory the whole population of the city—are supposed to get down on their knees and pray. Pray for the second time, as all true devotees will also have prayed at Sabam, the start of the day. I missed the morning prayers. Didn’t wake up in time. I haven’t done in years. I decide to pass on the afternoon session as well.

The door rattles and Captain Rallee strides in.

“Don’t you know all citizens are legally obliged to pray during Sabap?” he says.

“I don’t see you on your knees.”

“I’m excepted for official business.”

“What business?”

“Coming down to order you to stop being such a fool and tell the Prefect what he wants to know.”

It’s some relief to see Captain Rallee, though not much. We’ve known each other a long time; we even fought in the same battalion during one of the Orc Wars. We were fairly friendly once, but since I left the Palace and set up on my own we’ve grown apart. He knows I’m not a fool but he doesn’t owe me any favours.

“Look, Thraxas, we don’t want to keep you here. We’ve got better things to do. No one thinks you personally stuck a knife in Attilan.”

“Prefect Galwinius does.”

Captain Rallee makes a face indicating he doesn’t think too much of the Prefect.

“We ran a test on the knife. Our Sorcerer reports that your aura isn’t on it. Of course some Sorcerers could remove their aura, but you aren’t good enough to do that.”

“Absolutely, Captain. I’m strictly small time.”

“But he picked up your aura in the house. What were you doing there?”

I continue staring at the ceiling.

“You know how serious this is, Thraxas? Attilan was a Niojan diplomat. Their Ambassador is raising hell. The Palace is raising hell. The Consul himself’s been down here asking questions.”

I’m impressed. The Consul is Turai’s highest official, answerable to no one except the King. Captain Rallee stares at me. I stare at him. He’s weathered his middle age better than I have. With his long blond hair and broad shoulders he’s still a handsome man. Probably still a hit with the ladies, in his smart black tunic and cloak. No fool, though. Sharp as an Elf’s ear in comparison to some of the blunderers they’ve got in the Civil Guard.

“So what’s going on?”

I remain silent.

“I don’t reckon you killed Attilan,” says the Captain. “But I reckon you might have been involved in a little robbery.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Stupid? Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve never known you rob anyone before, but then again, I’ve never known you owe the Brotherhood five hundred gurans before.”

He sees my look of surprise.

“You’re in big trouble, Thraxas. Yubaxas will have your head if you don’t pay. You need money badly, which naturally makes us suspicious when you’re found in rich people’s houses where you haven’t been invited. So why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t discuss my business with the Civil Guard. Or anyone else. If I did, I’d soon be out of clients.”

“Who’s your client?”

“I don’t have one.”

“In that case, Thraxas, you’d better reconsider your attitude to prayer. Unless you tell us what we want to know it’s going to take divine intervention to get you out of this cell.”

He departs. I remain. Languishing, I believe would be the correct term.

Later I bribe a jailer to let me have a news-sheet.

The Renowned and Truthful Chronicle of All the World’s Events
is one of the various rags published each day in Turai. It’s neither renowned nor truthful, being given more to hinting at scandalous relationships between Senators’ daughters and officers of the Palace Guard, but it’s entertaining. It’s a single sheet, poorly printed, and often contains nothing but gossip, but today it has the sensational news of Attilan’s death, about which the Niojan Ambassador is indeed raising hell. He has protested to the King about this gross breach of diplomatic privilege. He has a point. You can’t have your diplomatic privilege violated much more than being murdered. For our King, always keen to appease the Niojans, it’s a tricky situation, and the Palace needs the murder cleared up quickly. Quickly enough to pin it on me, quite possibly.

Thinking it over in my cell, I can’t make much sense of the affair. I’ve no idea who killed Attilan. Or why the Princess sent me to recover some love letters which turned out to be a spell for putting a dragon to sleep. Who needs to do that? There are no dragons around, apart from the King’s pet in his zoo, and the new one from the Orcs. I muse about this. It’s an interesting tale. This dragon, newly arrived at the King’s zoo, was on loan. The Orcish nation of Gzak sent it to King Reeth-Akan last week to mate with the King’s dragon as a token of friendship. There is, of course, no friendship whatsoever between Turai and Gzak, or any Human and Orcish nation, peace treaties notwithstanding. Why exactly the Orcs have sent it I’m not sure. I doubt very much that they are overly concerned that King Reeth-Akan’s dragon might be feeling lonely. Maybe it’s just to fool people into thinking they aren’t planning another war as soon as they can get their armies up to strength after the last beating we gave them. Gzak is one of the richest Orcish nations and has its own gold and diamond mines. It won’t take them too many years to build up their strength again.

Why, however, Princess Du-Akai might want to put this or any other dragon to sleep is a mystery.

I glance at the rest of the news-sheet. Usual round of Palace intrigue and scandal, and a story about a killer called Sarin the Merciless who’s apparently carried out a string of murders and robberies in the southern nations, making her the most wanted criminal in the west. This makes me laugh. I tangled with Sarin the Merciless a long time ago. Ran her out of town, if the truth be known. Just another small-time crook. The news-sheets always like to build up these petty criminals into something they’re not. I hope she comes back to Turai. I could do with some reward money.

Under this is a piece about Senator Lodius, the leader of the opposition, who is haranguing the Consul for the outbreak of lawlessness in Turai. Killings and robberies are on the rise, and there’s still no sign of the Red Elvish Cloth, for which the Treasury will have to pay the Elves, even though we haven’t got it.

What makes this cloth so rare and valuable is its ability to form a total shield against magic. It’s the only substance in the world no sorcery can penetrate. Very handy in a world full of enemy Sorcerers. But it’s presumably far away from the city by now. If it had been brought to Turai by the hijackers, our government Sorcerers would have traced it by now. In its finished state, the cloth is undetectable, but Elves aren’t dumb. Any time they despatch some, they brand it with a temporary sorcerous mark only they can remove. Once the Cloth reaches our King, an Elvish Sorcerer removes it. So someone has spirited the stuff away from the city. It’s well known the Orcs have been after Red Elvish Cloth for years. If they’ve finally acquired some, it’s bad news for us.

My musings are interrupted as the cell door bangs open and the jailer ushers in a young woman. She introduces herself as Jaisleti and flashes an official seal at me.

“I’m Princess Du-Akai’s handmaiden.”

“Whisper. You never know who’s listening.”

Jaisleti whispers, “The Princess is worried.”

“It’s okay. I hid the box before I was arrested. I’ve kept her name out of it.”

Jaisleti looks relieved. “When can she get the letters back?”

“As soon as I get out of here.”

“We’ll see what we can do. But you mustn’t mention her name. Now Attilan’s been murdered it would be an even worse scandal if the relationship were to be discovered.”

“Don’t worry. Stubborn silence is one of my strongest points.”

She departs, sticking to the pretence about love letters. No mention of dragons at all.

T
he call for Sabav, evening prayers, rings out through the jail. Sabam, Sabap, Sabav. Three prayer calls a day. Gets me down. Still, we get off lightly in Turai. In Nioj they have six. I kneel down to pray in case some jailer is spying on me; there’s no sense in giving the authorities another excuse to hold me here. Perhaps it isn’t such a bad idea, because I’m released shortly afterwards. God may now be on my side. More likely the Princess pulled some strings. Captain Rallee is most displeased. He can’t understand how a guy like me can still have any influence in this town.