Thraxas - The Complete Series (75 page)

“Damn that Melus, someone’s been bribing her.”

“Nonsense,” replies Makri, cheerfully. “You said yourself she got the job because of her honesty.”

“Well, you can’t tell me that wheel fell off by accident. Even the Sorcerers up in the royal box looked surprised.”

“You’re a poor loser, Thraxas.”

“You’re damn right I am.”

Makri is now rolling in money, having picked up an astounding four hundred and eighty gurans on Serenity of Love.

“I have six hundred and nine gurans,” she says.

“I don’t remember asking you for an exact count.”

I’m now down to twenty-two and facing the prospect of having nothing left for the final race. I remember that Makri owes me fifty—forty for her exam fees and ten that I lent her for betting.

“Hand it over,” I demand.

Makri repays me the fifty gurans with a bright smile, which puts me in a even worse mood. There are a couple of races to go before the big Turas Memorial and the trumpets sound for a break in the proceedings. Makri asks if I want to go with her to find something to eat, but I am in too bad a mood to accompany her.

“I prefer to take luncheon on my own,” I say.

I’m furious about the day’s events. There’s something strange going on here and I’m going to move heaven, earth and the three moons to get to the bottom of it. Leaving Makri to gloat over her winnings, I depart in the direction of the nearest food vendor.

I’m musing over a large meat pie—one of the Superbius Specials—when I run into the woman from the seat behind me.

“I haven’t seen such injustice since they cancelled the races during the Orc Wars,” she says.

I recognise her now. She was the landlady at the Mermaid tavern back in those days. She served me many a drink when I was a thirsty young soldier. She tells me that she married a man with a good position in the Barrel-Makers Guild and moved up to Pashish.

“How’s the barrel-making business?”

“Good. It’ll have to be, after the amount I’ve dropped here today.”

I wander away, going nowhere in particular. With the money that Makri repaid me I still have seventy-two gurans, but my confidence has been badly shaken. Near the Senators’ boxes I meet Kemlath Orc Slayer. He’s on his way down to the owners’ enclosure to wish good luck to Sarija, whose chariot will be competing soon.

“I don’t suppose she has much chance against the Orcs and Elves,” he says, truthfully. “But you have to admire her for making the effort. She’s a fine woman, Sarija.”

“I noticed you were getting to like her.”

I complain to Kemlath about my bad luck so far.

“You haven’t noticed any sorcery being used I don’t suppose?”

“Sorcery?“ says Kemlath. “Certainly not. You know Melus wouldn’t allow it.”

“I suppose not.”

“Incidentally,” says Kemlath. “I noticed Glixius Dragon Killer back there.”

He waves his hand, indicating a throng of people. His large ring glints in the sunlight.

“Glixius Dragon Killer. Really?”

I’m reminded of the longstanding rumours about the Society of Friends and their purported betting coup at the races. Could these strange events be the result of that? Have the Society somehow been manipulating things in their favour? I decide to nose around.

Kemlath warns me to be careful, reminding me of Glixius Dragon Killer’s sorcerous power.

“To hell with his sorcerous power. I’ll make him wish he took up basket-weaving instead.”

I spot quite a few Sorcerers in their rainbow cloaks around the stadium but Glixius’s size makes him easily visible. I wade through the crowd towards him. When I reach him he has his back to me and is talking to a Senator.

“I can’t understand it,” he’s saying. “Warrior Chief should have won. It was obviously the best chariot in the race. I’m down two hundred gurans today.”

The Senator nods in sympathy; obviously he’s suffered heavy losses himself.

“Don’t give me that,” I snarl, grabbing Glixius’s shoulder. “You and your Society friends are behind all this.”

He whirls round, a look of contempt and fury on his face. “Must you harass me everywhere I go?” demands the Sorcerer. “Were we not in the stadium where sorcery is forbidden I would tear your heart from your chest and jump on it.”

I repeat my accusation. The Senator looks interested. Glixius notices this and he becomes defensive.

“You accuse me of fixing the races? Me? How dare you. I personally have suffered grievous losses.”

“So? You could pretend to do that to throw suspicion off yourself.”

Even as I’m saying this, I’m not entirely convinced. I have long, long experience of gamblers and their reactions to adversity. I hate to admit it, but Glixius Dragon Killer sounds more like a man genuinely aggrieved at his bad luck than a man who’s behind it all.

“Do you have any evidence for these accusations?” demands the Senator.

Do I? Not really. Glixius and the Society of Friends were certainly planning some doping, but I can’t prove it. I don’t even know if the operation carried on after they were interrupted by Mursius getting killed, or if it was cancelled. When it comes right down to it, I have no firm evidence against Glixius, and I don’t want to show my hand to him before I do. If I’m going to prove he killed Mursius I shouldn’t be giving him advance warning of what I already know. It was rash of me to approach him. My emotions got the better of me.

“Anyone making such accusations without good grounds faces severe penalties in the courts,” says the Senator.

I turn on my heel and march away, annoyed with myself. So far today, nothing is going very well.

I find myself next to the Senators’ enclosure, which is protected by a low wall. Inside, Melus the Fair is in conversation with Cicerius. I walk up and demand admittance. The Deputy Consul nods to the attendant to let me in.

I march up to the pair of them. Cicerius looks glad to see me.

“I’m pleased you’re taking your work seriously,” he says.

“What work?”

“Looking out for sabotage of the Orcish chariot, of course.”

“Sabotage of the Orcish chariot? Sabotage of me, more like.” I turn to Melus the Fair. “What is going on here? Are you trying to tell me that Serenity of Love won that last race without magical help?”

As I say this, various Senators and Praetors nod their heads in sympathy. It’s not only the poor who are suffering in the great gambling disaster that’s unfolding here.

Melus smiles. “It has been a string of unexpected results, I grant you, Thraxas. But I have been monitoring everything very carefully. I can assure you that no sorcery has been used in the stadium. Nor has there been any attempt at doping.”

The Senators all around sigh. It looks like we’re all just stuck with our losses.

I’m flummoxed. If Melus says it, then it’s true. Besides, there are plenty of other Sorcerers here as spectators. They all specialise in different types of sorcery but surely one of them would notice if anything odd had been happening. I decide to go down to the chariot pen underground and see if I can find out anything there. Maybe someone has been sawing through a few axles.

Cicerius draws me aside as I make to leave. “You are still in the employ of the city,” he hisses severely. “Rather than wasting time gambling, I expect you to keep a vigilant lookout for the welfare of the Orcs.”

“To hell with the Orcs,” I hiss back. “I’ve more important things on my mind right now.”

I storm off, having again caused my status to plummet in government circles. To hell with them all. I grab a beer and start shoving my way through the crowd again. It’s too hot. I wish I hadn’t broken my flask of klee. A blind beggar gets in my way. I push him to one side and he falls to the ground, protesting angrily. I ignore him. He was probably putting it on anyway. These beggars, you can never trust them.

At the foot of the terraces there’s another row of bookmakers’ stalls. People stand in line waiting to place bets and there, of all people, is Hanama the Assassin. I’m astonished. I didn’t really believe she was actually going to be here gambling but there she is. She’s wearing a cheap blue robe, the sort of thing worn by your average not-so-well-off Turanian woman on a day out, and she is completely indistinguishable from the rest of the crowd. In fact, with her thin, pale body she looks rather like a schoolgirl who’s bunked off for the day to place a bet.

I can’t understand it. It’s completely unheard of. Assassins dedicate their lives to not having fun. I wonder if she might be here in disguise to assassinate someone. The chariot owners with any luck. I’d be happy to see the owner of Warrior Chief carried out of the Stadium with a knife in his back.

“F
ind out anything?” asks Makri as I return to my seat.

I’ve never seen her so cheerful. It’s really irritating.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I expect there’s nothing to find out,” says Makri. “It’s just one of those days when the favourites don’t come in. Didn’t you tell me that happens sometimes? Statistically it’s bound to.”

I have twenty gurans on Demon Killer. Makri has thirty on Joyous Sunrise. Joyous Sunrise wins by a length and a half and Makri collects another sixty gurans. Next race I back Venomous Death Adder, the favourite. Makri backs Fairy Rainbow, a rank outsider at twenty-five to one. Fairy Rainbow records its first ever win. Even the charioteer looks surprised. The crowd rises to its feet to protest. The Guards are again obliged to fan out to keep them from invading the track. Bottles and broken chairs rain down on them. I’ve lost another twenty gurans.

Makri picks up five hundred gurans for her twenty-guran stake and now has the incredible total of one thousand, one hundred and nineteen gurans.

“Easy as bribing a Senator,” she says.

I can’t understand it. I’ve never known anyone be so successful at the race track simply by backing every chariot with a nice-sounding name.

Honest Mox’s son looks glum as he hands over her winnings, though in truth he’s doing well. The way the favourites keep losing means he’s raking in the public’s money. The public is not amused. Only the appearance of the Orcish and Elvish chariots keeps the crowd from staging an uprising. The race officials wisely usher the alien chariots out early knowing that the interest in them will quieten the crowd. It works. As Lord Lisith’s chariot appears there is great cheering but when the Orcish chariot rolls out after it there is a tremendous wave of booing and jeering. Frustrations are put to one side as the major race of the day approaches. The Orcish charioteer has long black hair, plaited and tied in a black ribbon. Despite the hostility around him he rides with an air of assurance. I expect he’s feeling confident now he has his prayer mat back.

Storm the Citadel comes out next, with Sarija and Kemlath walking behind it. The crowd cheer again. Popular support has brought the odds on Storm the Citadel down to two to one, the same price as the Elvish Moonlit River. The Orcish chariot, Destroyer, is quoted at four to one. Certain astute punters have been backing it, feeling that a sensible bet is more important than patriotism. Nothing else figures much, the five other chariots in the race being quoted at prices between sixteen to one and eighty to one.

I’m still undecided how to bet. I fancy the Elves to win but I’m not convinced the Orcs won’t pull it off. I could do with a nice piece of four to one. I’m down to thirty-two gurans and facing ruin. I delay my bet. The Orcish chariot drifts out to five to one. I’m tempted. I get a strange feeling. It’s similar to the one I had down at the warehouse when the Orcs appeared. Nothing strange about that. After all, there are Orcs here.

My senses are picking up something else. A man walks past, a very normal-looking man in a plain tunic and sandals. I notice a slight scar on his forehead. I’ve never seen him before. Without quite knowing why, I follow him.

He heads up through the terraces. He seems to be in a hurry and I have to use my weight again to keep up. He pays no attention to either the bookmakers or the punters. At the top of the terraces he turns left and makes his way towards the Senators’ box. I’m close behind him, still with no idea of why my senses are detecting something unusual.

As he halts in front of the Senators’ box I glance at his face. Am I imagining it, or is the scar on his forehead beginning to glow? Cicerius is standing near the front of the box. Right beside him is Lord Rezaz Caseg. I suddenly realise what’s happening and make a dive for the stranger. I land on him with all my weight and as we go down a terrific bolt of energy flies straight up in the air. Next second I find myself grappling hand to hand with Makeza the Thunderer. This Orcish Sorcerer is way out of my league in every way, apart from girth. I’ve prevented the assassination of Rezaz the Butcher, but I might not live to tell the tale.

I have my hands around his neck and I am desperately trying to keep out of the way of the jewel on his forehead. He manages to turn his head enough to send a piercing bolt into my shoulder and I cry out in pain. My spell protection charm has kept me alive, but it’s not strong enough to resist a close-range blast of Orcish sorcery.

I yell for help, but the Guards at the Senators’ enclosure are slow to react. I remember that I’m carrying my sleep spell. I use it, charging it with as much power as I can. This spell can knock a company of men unconscious, but it has little effect on the powerful Orcish Sorcerer, other than to make him loosen his grip a fraction. I break free, kick him in the ribs, then hurdle the wall into the Senators’ enclosure.