Thraxas - The Complete Series (42 page)

“I’ll have you free in no time,” I say in parting, as much to impress the Guard as anything. A brief depression settles on me. Ever since I saw the miserable little room in Twelve Seas where Grosex lived, and learned that he had no friends or family, I’ve been trying to avoid feeling sorry for him. Seeing him sit there in his cell waiting to be hanged, it’s impossible not to.

“Well, you look as miserable as a Niojan whore,” comes a robust voice.

It’s Captain Rallee. I scowl at him, and stop looking miserable. I’m not going to let Captain Rallee know that I’ve started to pity my clients. He tells me I’m just the man he’s looking for.

“Still trying to clear Grosex? Leaving it a bit late, aren’t you?”

“I’d have been further on if Prefect Tholius hadn’t arranged things so I couldn’t see my client.”

The Captain shrugs. “Tholius never bothers with the fine points of the law. He’s a fool. Dumb as an Orc in fact. But it makes little difference in this case because Grosex is guilty, as you probably know by now.”

“No evidence he did it.”

“No evidence? It was his knife, and his aura was all over it.”

“Come on, Rallee. There’s plenty of ways to fake that.”

“No. There are only a few ways to fake it. And they all need grade-A skills in sorcery. Are you saying that some high-level Sorcerer went all the way to Drantaax’s workshop just so he could stick a knife in the sculptor and blame the apprentice? Not too likely. Anyway, it didn’t happen, because Old Hasius the Brilliant says no sorcery was used in the workshop and I’ll take his word above yours any day. So will the court.”

“What motive could he have?”

“Calia probably. Kill the employer and set up with his wife. It’s not smart, but it’s not uncommon either. I remember you covered a couple of cases like that before you got slung out the Palace. Face it, Thraxas, you’re on a loser with this one. When it comes down to pulling dumb strokes like trying to get me to believe that two thugs off the street who attacked you also killed Drantaax, it’s time to hand in your toga. But that’s not what I wanted to see you about. What’s going on with the monks that are infesting the city?”

“Monks infesting the city? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Sure you haven’t, Thraxas. Except you have one for a client. The Venerable Tresius. Better make sure you don’t annoy him, he was empty-hand-fighting champion of the Northern Army forty years back. I hear he hasn’t withered with age. What’s he hired you for?”

Captain Rallee should know by now that I never discuss my clients’ affairs with the Civil Guard.

“He didn’t hire me. He just dropped in to swap a few ideas about consubstantiality. ”

“And what the hell is that?”

“A complicated religious matter relating to the precise nature of the Divinity.”

“Funny, Thraxas, funny. Is that what you were discussing when you were hauling your fat butt over the wall up at the villa in Thamlin the other night? Don’t look so surprised. You’re not so hard to identify. Neither is Makri. The Guards who saw you going over the wall tell me you still move well for such a big man. What was the fighting about?”

“Sorry, Captain. I really don’t know what it was about. Myself and Makri were just out on some private business and we happened upon it.”

“No good, Thraxas. Whatever the monks are up to, you’re involved in it. Taking a lot of work on, aren’t you? The Venerable Tresius, Thalius’s daughter … and Quen.”

I almost jump when the captain says this, but I control myself. I’m appalled that the Captain knows about Quen. Maybe I should’ve expected it—he’s a good man with any number of contacts—but the news that I am being linked to Quen comes as a blow.

“If you’re hiding her, Thraxas, you’re in for a whole lot of trouble. She burned down that tavern and killed the landlord and she’s due a short trip to the gallows. She won’t even make it as far as the gallows if the Brotherhood find her first. And neither will you. What did you get involved for?”

I can’t think of a snappy answer so I remain silent.

“If you know where she is, Thraxas, and you’re holding out, I really advise you to think again. Tell me and I’ll take her away quietly so that no one connects it with you.”

Distant memories of us fighting the Niojans and the Orcs together must be stirring inside Rallee. He’s trying to do me a favour here. Prevent me from falling foul of the Brotherhood. While I’d certainly like Quen off my hands, I’m not turning a friend of Makri’s over to the authorities for them to string her up. I stay silent, and make to leave.

“I think you’re being unwise on this one, Thraxas. You have too much on your plate already. These monks are tearing each other to pieces. Whatever your involvement, you’ll probably end up getting torn apart yourself. Especially now Ixial’s back on his feet. A dangerous man, Ixial the Seer.”

I gape in astonishment. “Ixial the Seer? Back on his feet? He was next best thing to dead a couple of hours ago.”

“Maybe. But he’s walking around just fine now. I’ve seen him. We had him in for questioning about the fight in the garden. And I know one other thing I’ll tell you for free. There’s an Assassin’s contract out on him.”

“How do you know that?”

“We have our sources.”

“If you’ve got a spy in the Assassins Guild it’s liable to be a very short stay. Have they really been hired to assassinate Ixial?”

“Yes. I’d stay well out of it if I was you, Thraxas. If you can find who killed old Thalius Green Eye, good luck to you. I’d even wish you good luck if you could come up with anything to clear Grosex, even though he’s guilty as hell. But you ought to steer clear of those monks. And ditch Quen before the Brotherhood starts getting annoyed or the Abode of Justice assigns a proper Sorcerer to hunt for her.”

I walk out of the law courts with much on my mind. Ixial is alive. He can’t be, but he is. And now there’s a contract out on him. From who? And for why? Damn these monks. I wish I’d never met any of them. And damn that Quen as well. If she had to go and burn down a tavern, couldn’t she have just climbed on a horse and ridden out of town, instead of coming to the Avenging Axe and making my life difficult?

I meant to ask the Captain if the Guard was making any progress on the missing gold. I forgot. It’s hot. I find a tavern next door and push my way through the scribes and jurists and petitioners of the law courts to get one beer to quench my thirst and another to encourage some serious thinking.

M
akri flops down on my couch. Perspiration runs down her shoulders and she rubs her skin where the chainmail bikini has been chafing in the heat.

“Stupid garment,” she mutters.

It certainly is. No protection at all in a fight. Makri has an excellent set of lightweight leather and chainmail body armour which she brought with her from the gladiator pits. Orcs are skilful metalsmiths and their armour is easily a match for ours, if not quite up to the standard of the Elves. Makri’s light mail will turn most blades, but it doesn’t turn heads—or earn tips, hence the bikini during working hours. All fairly undignified, I suppose, but as Makri regards all men in Twelve Seas as scum she doesn’t really care. She is, however, starting to care about the congestion in her room.

“Throw Dandelion out,” I suggest, hopefully.

“No. I said she could stay.”

“Doesn’t she live anywhere?”

“She doesn’t seem to. She’s been sleeping on the beach recently.”

“Well, at least she’s close to the dolphins.”

Makri won’t go back on her word, so Dandelion stays for the meantime, but she does admit that it’s starting to be a strain. Dandelion keeps wanting to do her horoscope and Makri doesn’t really have the time for this sort of thing. Also she lit some perfumed candles which dripped wax all over Makri’s axe. Which was annoying for a woman who loves her axe.

“Why do you put up with it?”

“I like her, sort of. I never met anyone before who thought trees were as important as people. Anyway, I don’t have any friends in this city. Except for you, I suppose. It’s good to have someone else to talk to. At least she’s friendlier than Quen—Quen never speaks. You’d think she might be more civil, seeing that I’m saving her life by letting her live here.”

I suggest that Quen might have been too soured by her experiences as an exotic dancer to be friendly to anyone any more. Or maybe she’s too scared of the Brotherhood to think about small talk.

“Maybe. But all she does is sit there in silence. It’s a bit of a strain. How come I’ve ended up with Soolanis as well?”

“I think she’s too unhappy about her father being killed to go back home. I expect it gets lonely in a villa on your own.”

“Couldn’t she sleep in here?”

“Absolutely not. I need the couch for whenever I can’t make it into the bedroom. You’re too soft, Makri. If you don’t want her around, just throw her out. No one’s trying to kill her.”

Makri grunts. “Well she’s not much trouble. Just lies around drunk all day.”

It’s interesting the way she’s gathered a group of troubled young women around her. She could start holding her own branch meetings of the Association of Gentlewomen. Provided they allowed for wide interpretation of the word “Gentlewomen.” They let Makri in, so I guess they must.

Makri has come along to study her notes for her next class, as it’s too crowded in her own room to concentrate.

“What are you studying?”

“Elvish languages.”

“You speak Elvish already.”

“Only the common tongue. I’m learning the royal language.”

I’m not sure how come Makri speaks Elvish. She’s quarter Elvish of course, but I assume the Elvish grandparent wasn’t around in the gladiator pits. She never volunteers information about her upbringing, and I’ve never asked.

“What’s that?” she enquires, noticing that I have a sheet of paper in front of me on the desk.

“I’ve been making a list of everything I need to deal with. It’s something I do when I get too many things going on to remember at once.”

I pass it over and she reads it out.

“Monks, statue, gold robbery, Drantaax, Grosex, Thalius, Assassins Guild, Quen, Sarin, Ixial, Tresius. You’re right. You do have too many things to remember. Funny how you weren’t going to do any work this summer.”

“Hilarious.”

“You can cross Ixial off now anyway.”

“No, I can’t. He’s walking around healthy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

I assure her it’s true. Makri is just as astonished as me. She knows as well as I do that Ixial should be dead by now. Even if he somehow managed to cheat death, he’d be recuperating for months. There is just no way he could be up and about.

“Sorcery?”

“No sorcery I’ve ever heard of can cure gangrene and heal wounds like that. I just don’t know.”

“What’s the Assassins Guild doing on the list?”

“They’ve been engaged to kill Ixial. Don’t know who by, but it’s reliable information. He’s not going to be an easy target from what I hear. If your friend Hanama gets the job, she’d better watch out.”

Makri stiffens slightly at the mention of Hanama, wondering if we’re going to have our standard disagreement about the subject, but the moment passes without dispute.

“And take care when you’re out. Sarin the Merciless is threatening to shoot on sight if I don’t hand over the statue.”

“I will. Are you close to digging up anything to clear Grosex?”

“Not really. I strongly suspect those two guys we fought here but now they’re gone up in smoke there’s no way of connecting them with the crime. Even if they did carry out the killing, I figure someone else organised it. If I could prove that I’d still get the apprentice off. Everything revolves round the statue, which does point towards Ixial and the Star Temple, but now it’s turned out to be full of gold who’s to say it wasn’t someone else altogether? Maybe whoever organised the heist fell out with Drantaax and had him killed. It could just be a coincidence that right at that moment the Star Temple came looking for a statue. Or else Ixial knew about the gold and was in on it all along. I just don’t know. I can’t turn up in court with some wild story about monks and statues. If the Consul found out I had the gold he’d be more likely to hang me than clear Grosex.”

I take a drink of beer and a mouthful from a pastry I got at Minarixa’s fine bakery. “What I need is some inspiration. Or a stroke of luck. Either will do.”

“How long till they hang Grosex?”

“Two or three days.”

“Well, at least there’s no hurry. Have another beer.”

I note that Makri’s sarcasm is coming along nicely. She settles down with her Elvish manuscript and I stare vacantly out of the window, waiting for inspiration. I’ve got too much information. I can’t sort it out. I’m confused. I go downstairs and bring up another beer.

Some hours later I’m still staring out of the window, though now I have a pile of empty flagons at my feet. Makri, who has been busy reading all this time, finally rises from the floor and folds up her manuscript. She casts a glance at the empty flagons.

“It’s been a pleasure to watch you at work,” she says, grinning. She heads downstairs to the back yard for a little weapons practice before her Elvish languages class.