Thraxas - The Complete Series (79 page)

The spectators can’t help showing surprise and there are excited whispers as they crane their necks to see the action.

Karlox counts. Casax looks me straight in the eye. I stare straight back at him and I don’t allow the slightest flicker of expression to show on my face. I don’t think the Brotherhood boss is bluffing. He has a good hand. That’s fine with me. I have a good hand too. I have four black dragons. Four black dragons is practically unbeatable at rak. The only thing higher would be a full royal mansion, and if Casax turns up with a full royal mansion at the same time as I have four black dragons I’m liable to suspect that things have not been entirely above board, and to start asking a few questions with my sword.

I calmly sip some beer, and make ready to clean out the gangster. While my face is devoid of expression, inside I’m feeling pretty damn good. I’ve fought all over the world, I’ve seen Orcs, Elves and dragons, I’ve been employed at the Imperial Palace and I’ve been down and out in the gutters. I’ve talked, drunk and gambled with Kings, Princes, Sorcerers and beggars. And now I’m about to walk off with the largest pot of winnings ever seen in Twelve Seas. I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life.

“One thousand,” mutters Karlox, and hands the money over to his boss. Casax gets ready to make his bet.

“You mind if I sit down on the edge of your chair?” says Makri to me, breaking the silence. “I’m feeling a bit weary. I’ve got a heavy blood flow this month.”

I blink at her. “What?”

“My period. You know, it can make a woman tired.”

For a split second a profound, awestricken hush descends in the room, followed immediately by the most God-awful racket as people rise from their chairs in a panic. To my certain knowledge no woman has ever said such words in public in Turai before. Menstruation is high up the list of taboo subjects in this city and in the assembled company of gamblers and drinkers the words fall like a fiery blast from a war dragon. Casax freezes. He might have once killed a lion with his bare hands but he’s not up to this sort of thing. Beside him Gurd’s face assumes a look of terror the like of which I’ve not seen since we were tramping through the Macian Hills and a large and venomous snake suddenly reared up and bit him on the leg.

Chairs crash as people start heading for the exits. Young Pontifex Derlex, the local Priest, shrieks as he runs out the tavern.

“I’ll open the church for immediate purification,” he yells over his shoulder, and bursts out through the door to safety.

“You filthy whore!” yells Karlox, helping his boss to his feet. Casax is looking shaky and has to be led away. His other companions scoop up his money before they depart, taking not only his thousand but the other money he’s already put into the pot.

“You can’t do that!” I yell, rising to my feet and fumbling for my sword, but they’ve already got their blades out. From the way Captain Rallee is buttoning up his cloak I can tell he’s not going to hang around to help me out. Gurd, my trusty companion in adversity, is disappearing into the back room muttering that if this sort of behaviour continues he’s going to close the tavern and move back north.

About thirty seconds after Makri’s grim utterance I’m staring at a scene of total desolation. Everyone has fled, either to the safety of their homes or straight to church for ritual purification. I stare at Makri. I try to shout at her but nothing comes out. I’m too shocked even to yell. Makri is looking puzzled.

“What just happened?” she asks.

My arms are shaking. It takes me a while to get my tankard up to my mouth. The ale revives me a little, enough to get some words out.

“You … you … you…”

“Come on, Thraxas. It’s not like you to splutter. What’s going on? Did I say something wrong?”

“
Something wrong!
” I bellow, my voice finally returning in fury. “Something wrong? ‘Can I sit down because I’ve got a heavy blood flow?’ Are you completely insane? Have you no shame?”

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“It’s completely taboo to mention … to mention…” Somehow I can’t say the word.

“Menstruation?” says Makri, helpfully.

“Stop saying that!” I scream. “Look what you did! I was about to rake in a thousand gurans from Casax and you scared him away!”

I’m livid. Strange emotions well up inside me. I’m forty-three years old. As far as I can remember I haven’t cried since I was eight, when my father caught me raiding his beer cellar and chased me round the city walls with a sword in his hand. But at the thought of Casax’s thousand gurans, rightfully mine but now disappearing into the depths of Twelve Seas, I’m pretty close to tears. I consider attacking Makri. She might be a lethal swordswoman but I’m the best street fighter in town and I figure I could take her low down with a surprise kick.

“Don’t try it,” says Makri, taking a step backwards towards the bar, where she keeps her sword hidden during working hours.

I advance towards her. “I’ll kill you, you pointy-eared freak!” I yell, and get ready to charge. Makri grabs for her sword and I draw mine swiftly from its scabbard.

Tanrose appears and plants herself between us. “Stop this at once!” she demands. “I’m surprised at you, Thraxas, drawing your sword against your friend Makri.”

“That pointy-eared Orc freak is no friend of mine. She just cost me a thousand gurans.”

“How dare you call me a pointy-eared Orc freak,” screams Makri, and advances towards me, blade in hand.

“Desist!” yells Tanrose. “Thraxas, put that sword away or I promise I will never cook you a venison pie again. I mean it. And Makri, put your weapon down or I’ll have Gurd get you to clean out the stables and sweep the yard. I’m surprised at you both.”

I hesitate. It shames me to admit it, but I do more or less depend on Tanrose’s venison pies. My life would be far poorer without them.

“It’s not Makri’s fault if she didn’t know she shouldn’t say that. After all, she grew up in an Orcish gladiator slave pit.”

“Quite right,” says Makri. “We couldn’t mess around with social taboos. We were too busy fighting. Just get a towel in place and chop up the next enemy. When you’ve got four Trolls with clubs trying to knock your head off, no one worries about whether you’re menstruating or not.”

I can’t take any more. I swear that when Makri says this Tanrose actually smiles. I begin to suspect that these women are conspiring against me. I am now madder than a mad dragon, and maybe a little more.

“Makri,” I say with dignity. “For the first time in my life, I find myself in complete agreement with Karlox. You are a filthy whore and you have the manners of an Orcish dog. No, Orcish dogs have many social graces which you lack. I am now going upstairs to my room. Kindly never talk to me again. And in future please keep your disgusting revelations about your bodily functions to yourself. Here in the civilised world we prefer not to know what goes on between the legs of the Orcish half-breeds who sometimes see fit to infest our city.”

Somewhere in the middle of this speech Makri explodes in fury and tries to rush forward and sink her sword in my guts, but fortunately Gurd has re-emerged from the back room and places his brawny arms around her shoulders to restrain her. As I mount the stairs, still with dignity, I hear her screaming that she looks forward to the day when her sword pierces my heart.

“If it can make it through all that blubber, that is,” she adds, quite unnecessarily referring to my excess weight.

I place a locking spell on both my doors, grab a bottle of beer, drink it down, then slump on my couch. I hate this stinking city. Always have. Nothing goes right for a man in this place.

N
ext morning I’m woken up by the shrill voice of a street vendor outside, eager to sell her wares in the last week of autumn before the evil winter takes hold of the city. It doesn’t improve my mood.

Winter in Turai is grim: bitter cold, howling gales, freezing rain and enough snow to bury the homeless beggars that huddle miserably in the streets of Twelve Seas. Back in the days when I was a Senior Investigator at the Imperial Palace, winter didn’t trouble me. I hardly even saw it, just remained within the comfortable confines of the Palace walls, where a combination of engineering skill and sorcery prevented the inhabitants from feeling any discomfort. If any investigating needed doing, I sent a subordinate. Since I was booted out by my boss, Rittius, my life has changed considerably for the worse. I’m a Private Investigator in a dangerous part of town where there is plenty of crime to be investigated but precious little money to pay me for the investigating. I’m reduced to living in two rooms above a tavern, eking out my existence by risking my life against the sort of violent criminals who’ll happily gut a man for a few gurans or a small dose of dwa.

The sign outside my door says Sorcerous Investigator but that is somewhat misleading. A more accurate version would say Investigator Who Once Did Study Sorcery But Now Has Only The Feeblest Of Magical Powers. And Works Cheap.

I sigh. It’s true that my winnings at the chariot races will enable me to make it through the winter in more comfort than I otherwise might have. But if I’d taken that huge pot at rak last night I’d have been a good way towards moving out of this dump. I’ve had my fill of the slums. I don’t have the energy for it any more.

I need some beer for breakfast but that means going downstairs and facing Makri. She will be out for vengeance. The woman—I use the term loosely—has in the past refused to speak to me after far less wounding accusations. What she’ll do after the things I said last night, God only knows. Attack me, probably. Let her. I’m feeling angry enough to attack her right back. I tuck my sword in its scabbard and am on the point of marching right downstairs to confront Makri with her many crimes when there’s a knock on my outside door and a voice I recognise calls out my name.

I banish the minor locking spell from the door and haul it open.

“Vas-ar-Methet! What are you doing in the city? Come right in!”

Vas-ar-Methet walks in, dumps his green cloak on the floor, and embraces me warmly. I embrace him back, equally warmly. I haven’t seen him in fifteen years but you don’t forget an Elf who once saved your life during the last great Orc War.

I saved his life too. And we both saved Gurd. The last Orc War was grim. There were plenty of occasions when lives needed saving.

Like all Elves, Vas-ar-Methet is tall and fair, with golden eyes, but even among the upright Elvish Folk Vas-ar-Methet stands out as a distinguished figure. He’s a healer, an Elf of great skill, and well respected among his folk.

“Would you like some klee?”

Klee is the local spirit, distilled in the hills. Elves in general are not given to strong drink, but I seem to remember that Vas, after the months we spent together fighting, was not averse to something to keep the circulation going.

“I see you haven’t changed,” he laughs.

Vas always laughed easily. He’s rather more emotional than your average Elf. He’s some years older than me but, as is the way with Elves, shows little sign of advancing age. If he’s reached fifty, which he probably has, you’d be hard pushed to guess.

He brings out a small packet from within his green tunic. “I thought you might like these.”

“Lesada leaves? Thank you. I just finished my last one!”

I’m grateful. Lesada leaves grow only on the Elvish Isles and they’re hard to acquire in Turai. They’re used as a cure for many things and have a great purifying effect on the body. I use them for hangovers, and can personally state that there is no finer remedy.

The memory of where I obtained my last supply of lesada leaves causes me to frown.

“Did you hear about the two Elves I encountered last year?” I ask.

Vas-ar-Methet nods. They’d arrived at my door claiming to be friends of his and hired me under false pretences to work for them. As it turned out, they were Elves of the criminal variety—rare, but not unheard of—who had been using me for their own ends. It got them killed in the end, though not by me, and I’ve worried slightly since then that they might really have been friends of Vas.

He reassures me. “No, not friends, nor relatives. We heard the full tale on the islands eventually. They used my name and the name of my Lord only to gain influence with you, Thraxas. It is I who should apologise to you.”

We beam at each other. I clap him heartily on the back, break open the klee, and tell him to fill me in on the last fifteen years.

“How’s life on the Elvish Isles? Still paradise on Earth?”

“Much the same as when you visited, Thraxas. Apart from…” He frowns and breaks off.

My Investigator’s intuition lumbers into action. In the excitement of seeing old Vas again it had temporarily switched off, but now, looking at his troubled face, I can tell that something is wrong.

“Is this a professional visit, Vas? Do you need my help?”

“I am afraid so. And if you can forgive my rudeness, I must explain my business quickly, though I would far rather talk with you a while of old times. Is Gurd still alive?”

“Still alive? He certainly is. He owns this dump. I’m his tenant.”