Thraxas - The Complete Series (8 page)

I find the Captain staring morosely at a few dead bodies on the outskirts of Kushni.

“What happened?”

“Same as usual,” he grunts in reply. “Brotherhood and Society fighting over territory for the dwa trade. It’s getting out of hand, Thraxas. Half the city’s caught up in it.”

We watch as city employees load corpses into wagons and drive them off. I don’t bother asking the Captain if he’s planning to arrest anyone. The drug barons of the Society of Friends and the Brotherhood have too much protection in this city for the Civil Guard to touch them. As for their lesser minions, there’s so many of them it hardly makes any difference how many he throws in jail.

“Just trying to keep the lid on things till I retire,” sighs the Captain. “And now the elections are about to start. More chaos.”

He shakes his head, and asks me what I want. I explain my situation to him, without mentioning the Elves. He nods.

“We heard a rumour that Nioj was interested in the Cloth. The Elves don’t like selling to them. They get annoyed when the fundamentalist Niojan clerics denounce them as demons from hell. Don’t think the Niojans were involved in the hijacking though. We’ve obtained information as to who was responsible.”

“Yeah, I know, Glixius Dragon Killer,” I say, disappointing the Captain. “I’ve met him already. Any leads on where the stuff is?”

“No,” replies the Captain. “But I reckon it’s long gone. Probably never reached Turai at all.”

I ask him if the Guards are any closer to finding Attilan’s killer.

Captain Rallee sneers. “We reckon you make a pretty good suspect, Thraxas.”

“Come on, you know I didn’t kill him.”

“Maybe. But that might not stop us charging you anyway. If no one better comes along. Rittius would be delighted to see you in a prison galley. And he’s going to have to charge someone. The Niojan Ambassador is raising hell.”

“Don’t you have any real leads?” I ask him.

“You expect a lot, Thraxas. Information from me, but you won’t say what your involvement is. Why should I help you?”

“I once pulled you out from under the wheels of an Orc chariot?”

“That was a long time ago. I’ve done you enough favours since then. You got yourself mixed up in this, and now the Society’s on your tail. Tough. Come clean with us, Thraxas, and I might be able to help you. Otherwise you’re on your own.”

That’s as much as I get from the Captain, though he does tell me that an even more powerful form of dwa has appeared in the city, going by the name of Choirs of Angels. No one knows where it’s coming from.

“Kerk seems to like it. Well, Captain, if you refuse to help me, I’ll just have to find the Cloth myself. I could do with a fat reward.”

“Well, if we find you were mixed up in its theft, you won’t get out of prison to spend your reward. Still, Thraxas, maybe you should look for it. If the Society of Friends think you’ve got it, your life isn’t worth much anyway. Not that it’s going to be worth anything at all in two days’ time if you don’t hand over five hundred gurans to Yubaxas.”

I sneer at him.

“No doubt the Civil Guard will provide me with constant protection if a criminal organisation such as the Brotherhood is out to harm me?”

“Yeah right, Thraxas. Sure we will. Best thing you could do is leave town. Except you can’t, because you’re still a suspect for Attilan’s murder. Looks like you’re in a difficult position.”

“Thanks a lot, Captain.”

The heat is becoming oppressive. The sun’s rays are trapped between the six-storey slums that line the streets. It’s illegal to build above four storeys in Turai. Too dangerous. The property developers bribe the Prefects and the Prefects pass on some money to the Praetors’ officials and then no one minds that it’s dangerous any more. Stals, the small black birds which infest parts of the city, sit miserably on the rooftops, lacking the energy to scavenge for scraps. I’m sweating like a pig, the whores look tired and the streets stink. It’s a bad day. I might as well visit the Assassins.

K
ushni is the most disreputable area of a city which has more than its fair share of disreputable quarters. The narrow, filthy streets are comprised of brothels, gambling dens, dwa joints and dubious taverns. The streets are full of pimps, prostitutes, derelicts, junkies and thieves. It is perverse of the Assassins to have their headquarters there. Not that they’re in any danger of being robbed or assaulted by any of Kushni’s low-life habitués. No one would be so stupid.

“I’m surprised at you visiting us,” says the black-hooded woman sitting opposite me. “Our informants didn’t say you were possessed of great intelligence, but neither did they tell us you were a fool.”

I’m sitting in a plain room without decoration of any sort talking to Hanama, Master Assassin, and I can’t say I’m enjoying it. Hanama is number three in the Assassins’ chain of command, or so I believe. They don’t publish details of their ranks. She’s around thirty, I think, though she looks younger, but it’s hard to tell as her head and part of her face are generally covered by a black hood. She is small, very pale-skinned, and rather softly spoken.

“It was easy to break the locking spell on your door,” she murmurs. “I doubt if your protection spell would hold out against me for long.”

Little does she know I’m not carrying a protection spell. I put the sleep spell into my subconscious before I came out, and I can’t manage two spells these days. Could I utter the sleep spell before she made it across the table to kill me? Possibly. Possibly not. I’ve no intention of finding out.

“I don’t expect to need protection. After all, you’re mistaken in thinking I have the Red Elvish Cloth. Why did you think I had it?”

No reply.

“Why do the Assassins want it?”

“What makes you think I would answer questions from you?”

“I’m just doing my job. And protecting myself. If you, the Society of Friends and God knows who else believe I’ve got the Cloth, my life isn’t going to be worth much. The best I can expect is a long stay in the King’s dungeon. Or rowing one of his triremes.”

She gazes at me silently. This annoys me.

“Perhaps I should report last night’s events to the Civil Guard,” I say. “The Consul and the Praetors tolerate the Assassins because they find them useful. But they wouldn’t be very pleased to hear you were trying to get your hands on Red Elvish Cloth reserved for the King.”

“We would not appreciate anyone spreading false rumours about us,” says Hanama, threateningly.

“I’d hate to do anything the Assassins would not appreciate. You know anything about the theft of the Cloth?”

“The Assassins do not indulge in illegal activities.”

“You kill people.”

“No charges have ever been brought against us,” says Hanama, coolly.

“Yeah, sure, I know. Because you’re always hired by people rich and important enough to avoid the law. Why are you looking for the Cloth?”

“We aren’t.”

“No doubt you’re aware the Cloth is valued at thirty thousand gurans?”

Hanama maintains her cool indifference. I get more annoyed.

“You cold-blooded murderers make me sick. Stay well away from me, Hanama. Bother me again and I’ll be down on you like a bad spell.”

Hanama rises gracefully to her feet.

“Our interview is over,” she says, slightly less coolly.

I’ve succeeded in riling her. Good. Just goes to show what a reckless old fool I’ve become, riling an Assassin in her own den.

“Just one last question. How do you Assassins all keep your skin so pale? Is it make-up, or special training, or what?”

Hanama pulls a bell-rope. Two junior Assassins enter the room and escort me along a corridor to the front door.

“You should brighten the place up a bit,” I suggest. “Get a few pot plants.”

They refuse to reply. Practising being grim-faced, I expect. Outside, in the dusty road, I shudder. Assassins. Give me the creeps.

W
alking through the busy outskirts of Twelve Seas I take my usual short cut through Saint Rominius’s Way, a narrow alley. Round the first corner I’m confronted by three men with swords at the ready.

“Well?” I demand, drawing my own sword.

They take a few steps towards me.

“Where’s the Cloth, Thraxas?” demands one of them.

“No idea.”

They move to encircle me. I bark out the sleep spell. My three assailants instantly fall to the ground. Very satisfying. I’m most pleased. Every time I do that it gives me a warm glow. Makes me feel like my life has not been entirely wasted.

The sleep spell usually lasts for around ten minutes so I have time for a little investigating before I quit the scene. Delving into their pockets, I find nothing of interest, but they’re all tattooed with the clasped hands of the Society of Friends.

Behind me someone speaks. I wheel around, and realise I’ve made somewhat of a blunder in hanging around. The words belong to one of the arcane languages known only to us Sorcerers, and they formed a common countermanding spell. Which means any spell currently used in the area is no longer operational. Which means that three angry members of the Society of Friends are at this moment coming back to consciousness.

I glare at the Sorcerer with disgust. There’s no point in me going to all the trouble of learning, storing and using a sleep spell if he’s just going to come along and countermand it. Whilst glaring, I notice that, for a Sorcerer, he’s pretty damned big. Carries a sharp-looking blade as well. “You must be the Glixius Dragon Killer everyone’s talking about.” He doesn’t reply. The three Friends start climbing to their feet, groping for their swords. I run like hell along Saint Rominius’s Way.

I’m worried. Not so much by the blades of the three men—I’ll take my chances at swordplay against most inhabitants of Turai—but by the Sorcerer. Something in the way he chanted his counterspell makes me feel that he’s a powerful man, skilful enough to be carrying one or two more spells. If one of those is a heart attack spell I’m done for. Even a sleep spell would give them the opportunity to finish me off. I was a fool to pawn my spell protection charm. I must have badly needed a beer.

For a man in poor condition I’m making good time, but as I round the next corner I see three more thugs coming towards me. Six armed men and the Sorcerer. I certainly have offended the Society of Friends.

In front of me I spy a wooden manhole cover. The sewerage system of Turai is one of the wonders of the world, so they say, with a tunnel leading all the way from the Palace to the sea. Not for the first time in my crime-fighting career, I find myself in a position to admire it. I whip off the cover and plunge into the tunnels.

The stench is unbearable. Rats scatter in all directions as I stumble my way through the blackness in front of me. I bitterly regret pawning my illuminated staff along with my protection charm. This is a grim, hellish place to be in the dark. Still, having been here before, I know this sewer leads to the harbour, and just before it discharges into the sea there’s another manhole cover through which I can make my escape.

Unsure of whether I’m still being pursued or not I halt and listen.

“Try further down,” comes a voice.

Somewhere behind me is a greenish light. The Sorcerer’s illuminated staff. I worry again about how many spells he might be carrying. Rogue criminal Sorcerers are rare in Turai, thanks to the Sorcerers Guild, but when they appear I’ve no real protection against them. I wade on through the filth, ignoring the stink and the squeaking rats, feeling along the wall for the ladder which will tell me when I’m under the exit. I hope there aren’t any alligators down here. Rumours abound of alligators living in the city sewers. I don’t think I believe them. Even they must have somewhere better to go. There’s a whole sandy bay outside, unless the dolphins chase them in here, I suppose. Dolphins aren’t fond of alligators, apparently.

I pick up the pace a little, but this is a mistake because almost immediately a man somewhere behind shouts that he can hear me and this cry is followed by the sound of feet splashing quickly through the water. I curse and hurry on but the splashing footsteps draw nearer.