Martin Scott - Thraxas

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Thraxas
Table of Contents
T H R A X A S
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
T H R A X A S
and the Warrior Monks
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19 Next
Thraxas
INTRODUCING FANTASY'S
BIG NEW HERO . . .
In the enchanted city of Turai, the royal family is corrupt, the politicians can be
bought, and the civic guards have better things to do than guarding. Thraxas may look
unprepossessing and overweight, and more interested in pursuit of his next beer than
pursuit of justice, but if you're in trouble in Turai, this portly private eye is probably your
only hope.
Join Thraxas as he's hired by a Princess on a case which leads him from the
sewers of Turai right up to the Imperial Palace. Never a man to turn his back on a
client (or an extra meal), Thraxas, aided by Makri, an axe-wielding young barmaid with
a touch of Orcish blood, fights his way through the dark and magical streets of Turai.
Two full-length hilarious novels in one volume introducing Britain's fantasy smash
hit to America.
Praise from the British Press for the Exploits of
Thraxas:
"Blindingly funny, deeply subversive . . . Martin Scott has invented a new genre:
pulp fantasy noir."
—The Guardian
"A pulp fiction hero par excellence." —SFX
"Funny and engaging. I laughed aloud." —Starburst
"Wonderful plotting, and the jokes come thick and fast. . .. This is funny. Really
funny." —Black Tears Cover art by Monte Moore
This is a work of fiction. All the
characters and events portrayed in this
book are fictional, and any resemblance to
real people or incidents is purely
coincidental.
First U.S printing, September 2003
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Typeset by Bell Road Press, Sherwood,
OR Printed in the United States of
America
ISBN: 0-7434-7152-0
Copyright © 1999 by Martin Scott.
Thraxas and the Warrior Monks © 1999 by
Martin Scott.
All rights reserved, including the right
to reproduce this book or portions thereof
in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
http://www.baen.com
Production by Windhaven Press
Auburn, NH
Electronic version by WebWrights
http://www.webwrights.com
T H R A X A S
Chapter One
Turai is a magical city. From the docks at Twelve Seas to Moon Eclipse Park, from the stinking
slums to the Imperial Palace, a visitor can find all manner of amazing persons, astonishing items and
unique services. You can get drunk and swap tales with Barbarian mercenaries in the dockside taverns,
watch musicians, tumblers and jugglers in the streets, dally with whores in Kushni, transact business with
visiting Elves in Golden Crescent, consult a Sorcerer in Truth is Beauty Lane, gamble on chariots and
gladiators at the Stadium Superbius, hire an Assassin, eat, drink, be merry and consult an apothecary for
your hangover. If you find a translator you can talk to the dolphins in the bay. If you're still in need of
fresh experiences after all that, you could go and see the new dragon in the King's zoo.
If you have a problem, and you don't have much money, you can even hire me. My name is
Thraxas. I've done all of the things mentioned above. Apart from the King's new dragon. I haven't seen
that. I don't feel the urge. I saw enough dragons in the last Orc Wars.
I am forty-three, overweight, without ambition, and prone to prolonged bouts of drinking. The sign
on my door mentions the word Sorcerer but my powers are of the lowest grade, mere tricks compared
to the skills of Turai's greatest. I am in fact a Private Investigator. Cheapest Sorcerous Investigator in the
whole magical city of Turai.
When the situation is bad and the Civil Guard won't help, you can come to me. When what you
really need is a powerful Sorcerer but if you can't afford to hire one, come to me. When an Assassin is
on your tail and you want someone to serve as cannon fodder, come to me. If the city Consul isn't
interested in your case and you've been ejected from the offices of the high-class Investigators uptown,
I'm your man. Whatever people's problems are, when they've exhausted all other avenues and can't
afford anything better, they come to me. Sometimes I'm able to help them. Sometimes not. Either way my
finances never improve.
I used to work at the Imperial Palace. I was a Senior Investigator with Palace Security but I drank
myself out of the job. That was a long time ago. No one there is much pleased to see me these days.
I live in two rooms above the Avenging Axe, a dockside tavern run by Gurd, an ageing northern
Barbarian who used to fight for Turai as a mercenary. He was a good fighter. So was I. We fought
alongside each other on many occasions, but we were a lot younger then. It's a lousy place to live but I
can't afford anything better. There are no women in my life, unless you count Makri, who works as a
barmaid downstairs and sometimes acts as my assistant. Makri, a strange bastard mix of Human, Elf and
Orc, is a handy woman with a sword, and even the drunken lechers who frequent Gurd's tavern know
better than to abuse her.
As far as I know, Makri has no romantic attachments, though I've caught her a few times looking
wistfully at some of the tall handsome Elves who occasionally pass through here on their way from the
docks to Golden Crescent. No chance with them however. Makri's mongrel breeding makes her a social
outcast practically everywhere. A pure-bred Elf wouldn't look at her twice, for all her youth and beauty.
I have no desire for any personal involvements, not since my wife ran off to the Fairy Glade with a
Sorcerer's Apprentice half my age. Enough to put any man off. I wouldn't mind a client though. Funds are
low and Gurd the Barbarian never likes it when his rent is late.
The Palace should hire me to find the missing Red Elvish Cloth. That's a big story in Turai just now,
though they tried to keep it quiet. Red Elvish Cloth is more valuable than gold. I'd be in for a big reward
if I found it. Unfortunately no one wants me. Palace Security and the Civil Guard are both on the case,
and express every confidence that they'll locate it soon. I have every confidence they won't. Whoever
was smart enough to hijack a load of heavily guarded Red Elvish Cloth on its way to the city is smart
enough to hide it from the Guard.
Chapter Two
Early spring in Turai is temperate and pleasant, but brief. The long summer and autumn are
unbearably hot. Every winter it rains continually for thirty days and thirty nights. After that it freezes so
cold that beggars die in the streets. Which is enough about the climate for now.
The brief spring has ended and the temperature is starting to rise. Already I'm feeling uncomfortable,
and I'm wondering if it's too early for my first beer of the day. Probably. I'm broke anyway. I haven't had
a client in weeks. You might think that the crime rate in the city has dropped, except that crime in Turai
never drops. Too many criminals, too much poverty, too many rich businessmen waiting to be robbed, or
waiting to make an illegal profit. None of this money is coming my way however. The last time I worked
I was successful, finding a magic amulet that old Gorsius Starfinder the Sorcerer mislaid during a drunken
spree in a brothel. I recovered it and managed to keep the whole affair fairly quiet. His reputation at the
Palace might suffer if his fondness for young prostitutes was too widely known.
Gorsius Starfinder promised to put a little business my way in return, but nothing has come of it.
You can't really depend on a Palace Sorcerer to repay a favour. Too busy social climbing, drawing up
horoscopes for young Princesses and that sort of thing.
I've just decided that there is really no alternative to going downstairs and having a beer, early or
not, when there's a knock at my outside door. I have two rooms and use the outer one as an office. A
staircase comes right up from the street for anyone who wishes to consult me without walking through the
tavern.
"Come in."
My rooms are very messy. I regret this. I never do anything about it.
The young woman who walks in looks like she might wrinkle her nose at anything less than a suite
of rooms at the Palace. She pulls back her hood to reveal long golden hair, deep blue eyes and perfect
features. Pretty as a picture, as we Investigators say.
"Thraxas, Private Investigator?"
I nod, and invite her to sit down, which she does after clearing some junk off a chair. We look at
each other from opposite sides of the table over the remains of dinner from yesterday, or maybe the day
before.
"I have a problem. Gorsius Starfinder told me that you may be able to help. He also told me you
were discreet."
"I am. But I think you might already have earned some attention coming down to Twelve Seas."
I'm not referring to her beauty. I gave up compli- menting young women on their beauty a long time
ago. Around the time that my waistband expanded too much to make it worthwhile. But she is strikingly
dressed, way too expensively for this miserable part of town. She's wearing a light black cloak trimmed
with fur and under this she has a long blue velvet toga more suitable for dancing with courtiers in a
ballroom than picking your way over the rotting fish heads in the street outside.
"My servant drove me here in a small cart. Covered. I don't think anyone saw me coming up the
stairs. I wasn't quite prepared for—"
She waves her hand in a motion which covers both the state of my room and the street outside.
"Fine. How can I help?"
When an obviously wealthy young lady visits me, which is very seldom, I expect some reticence on
her part. This is not unnatural, because such a person would only consult me if she's in some tight
situation that she absolutely does not want any of her peers to know about, something so potentially
embarrassing that she doesn't even want to risk going to a high-society Investigator up in Thamlin in case
word leaks out. This young lady however is far from reticent and wastes no time getting to the point.
"I need you to recover a box for me. A small jewelled casket."
"Someone steal it?"
"Not exactly."
"What's in it?"
She hesitates. "Do you need to know?"
I nod.
"Letters."
"What sort of letters?" I ask.
"Love letters. From me. To a young attaché at the Niojan Embassy."
"And you are?"
She pauses briefly, slightly surprised. "I'm Princess Du-Akai. Don't you recognise me?"
"I don't get out much in high society these days."
I suppose I should have recognised her from my work at the Palace, but the last time I saw her she
was ten years old. I wasn't expecting the third in line to the Imperial Throne to waltz into my office.
Imagine that. If King Reeth-Akan, Prince Frisen-Akan, and Prince Dees-Akan were all to die in an
accident right this minute, I'd be sitting here talking to the new ruler of the city-state of Turai. Over a plate
of three-day-old stew. Perhaps I should tidy my place more often.
"I take it your family would not be pleased to learn that you've been writing love letters to a young
Niojan attaché?"
She nods.
"How many letters?"
"Six. He keeps them in a small jewelled box I gave him."
"Why can't you just ask for it back?"
"Attilan—that's his name—refuses. Since I broke off our relationship he's been angry. But I had to.
God knows what my father would have said if he'd learned of it. You understand this is very awkward. I
can't ask Palace Security for help. The Royal Family has occasionally used Private Investigators
for—other matters—but I can't take the risk of going anywhere I'll be known."
I study her. She seems very calm, which surprises me. Young Princesses are not meant to write
love letters. And not to Niojan diplomats of all people. Although there has been peace for a while now,
Turai and our northern neighbour Nioj are historical enemies. Nioj is very strong and very aggressive and
our King spends half his time desperately keeping the peace with them. To make things worse, the
Niojans are a deeply puritanical race, and their Church is particularly caustic about the state of the True
Religion in Turai, always criticising something or other. Niojans are not the most popular of people in
Turai.If word of the affair leaked out there would be a terrible scandal. The public in this city loves a
scandal. I still know enough about Palace politics to guess at what some of the factions would make of it.
Senator Lodius, leader of the opposition party, the Populares, would exploit it as a means of discrediting
the King. So I wonder a little about the Princess's apparent serenity. Perhaps our Royal Family are bred
to control their emotions.
I take some details. I bump up my daily fee but even then I can tell she's shocked at how little I
charge. Should have asked for more.
"I don't imagine it'll be too difficult, Princess. You mind spending a little money to get them back? I
expect that's what he's after."
She doesn't mind.
She asks me not to read the letters. I promise not to. She covers her head with her hood and
departs.
My mood finally lightens. An easy enough case, in all likelihood, and I now have some money. It's
lunchtime. I go downstairs for a beer. No reason not to. Perfectly respectable thing for a man to do after
a hard morning's work.
Chapter Three
The bar is full of dock workers and Barbarian mercenaries. The dockers drink here every lunchtime
and the Barbarians are stopping off on their way to enlist in the army. All the tension between Turai and
Nioj has led to heavy recruitment recently. There's trouble in the south as well, on the border with
Mattesh. Some dispute about the silver mines. Turai belongs to a league of city-states with Mattesh and
others, to defend us from the larger powers, but it's falling apart. Damned politicians. If they lead us into
another war I'll be on the first horse out of town.
Gurd frowns at me. I give him some rent money. He smiles. He's a man of simple emotions, Gurd. I
look round for Makri to see if she'll join me for a beer but she's too busy with the lunchtime trade,
hurrying round the tables with her tray, collecting tankards and taking orders. Makri wears a tiny
chainmail bikini at work, in keeping with the general "Early Barbarian" decor that adorns Gurd's place,
and as she has a particularly fine figure and the bikini exposes almost all of it she generally does well for
tips. Makri is a highly skilled swordswoman and if she was actually fighting you would never catch her in
a chainmail bikini. She'd be dressed in full leather and steel body armour with a sword in one hand and an
axe in the other and she'd have your head off your shoulders before you noticed whether she had a nice
figure or not, but the bikini keeps the customers happy. Her long black hair hangs down over her dark,
slightly reddish shoulders, her unusual skin colour the product of her Orc, Elf and Human parentage.
It's actually regarded as virtually impossible to carry the blood of all three races. The extremely few
people who do so are considered freaks and outcasts from society. In the smarter areas of Turai Makri
would not even be allowed into a tavern. Makri gets a lot of abuse about her parentage. On the streets
children taunt her with "half-breed," "triple-breed," "Orc bastard" and much worse.
I notice her slipping some bread from behind the bar to Palax and Kaby, a young pair of travelling
musicians who've recently moved to the neighbourhood. They're good musicians, but busking brings in
little money in a poor place like this, and they're looking hungry.
"Never like to see a man drinking alone," says Partulax, joining me.
I nod. I have no objection to drinking on my own but I'm happy enough to have Partulax's
company. He's a big red-haired man who used to drive wagons between the docks and the warehouses
up in Koota Street. Now he's a paid official in the Transport Guild. I've worked for him once or twice on
small matters.
"How's work?" I ask him.
"Okay. Better than rowing a slave galley."
"How's things with the Guild?"
"Trade's good, wagons are full but we're having a hard time keeping the Brotherhood at bay."
I nod. The Brotherhood, the main criminal fraternity in the south of the city, is always trying to make
inroads on the labour guilds. Probably the craftsmen's guilds as well. Maybe even the Honourable
Association of Merchants for all I know. The Brotherhood seems to be all-pervasive these days. More
troublesome too. There have been numerous gang fights and killings involving them and the Society of
Friends, the criminal organisation operating in the north of Turai. Most of the disputes revolve around
control of the dwa trade. Dwa is a powerful and popular drug and there's a lot of money to be made out
of it. The Brotherhood and the Society of Friends are not the only organisations angling for their share.
Plenty of otherwise respectable people make a good living from dwa, even though it's illegal. The Civil
Guard doesn't seem to do anything about it. Bribery works well in Turai.
"You hear about the new dragon?" says Partulax.
I nod. It was in the news-sheets.
"I hauled it up to the Palace."
"How do you transport a dragon?"
"Carefully," replies Partulax, and guffaws. "It was asleep most of the time. The Orcs sent a keeper
who drugged it."
I frown. The dragon story is a bit weird when you think about it. The King has one dragon in his
zoo and the Orcs have now lent him another one to mate with it. Very kind of them. Except Orcs don't
perform acts of kindness for Humans. They hate us just as much as we hate them, even if we are
technically at peace right now. Partulax, another veteran of the last war, doesn't know what to make of it
either.
"You can't trust an Orc."
I nod. You can't actually trust most Humans either, and the Elves aren't a hell of a lot better when it
comes right down to it, but we old soldiers like to air our prejudices.
The bar empties as the dockers in their red bandannas make their way back to their afternoon shifts
in the cargo holds, casting not a few backward glances at Makri's bikini-clad figure. Makri, ignoring their
stares and comments, comes over to my table.
"Any progress?" she asks.
"Yes," I reply. "Got a case. Paid Gurd the rent."
She frowns. "That's not what I mean."
I know it's not what she means, but what she means is a difficult proposition. Makri wishes to study
at the Imperial University and she wants me to help her. This, as I have pointed out on numerous
occasions, is impossible. The Imperial University is a deeply conservative body and does not accept
female students. Even if it did, it would not accept a student with Orcish blood in her veins. Completely
out of the question. The aristocrats and rich merchants who send their sons there would be up in arms.
Questions would be asked in the Senate. The Turai news-sheets would create a scandal. Apart from all
this Makri doesn't even have the basic academic qualifications necessary for entry.
Makri scoffs at these objections. She claims that it's well known that any student can get into the
University, no matter how sparse their qualifications, providing they have a rich father to pay their fees or
wield influence at the Palace.
"And anyway, I'm going to philosophy night classes at the Revered Federation of Guilds College. I'll
get the qualifications."
"The University doesn't teach women."
"Neither did the College till I insisted. And don't go on about my parentage, I've had enough of that
today from the customers. You promised you'd ask Astrath Triple Moon to help me."
"I was drunk when I promised," I protest. "Anyway, Astrath couldn't help."
"He's a Sorcerer. He must know people."
"He's a Sorcerer in disgrace. None of his old friends would do him any favours."
"Well, it would be a start," says Makri with the look of a woman who is not going to stop harassing
me until I give in. I give in.
"Okay, Makri. I'll talk to him."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
"Well you'd better then, or I'll be down on you like a bad spell."
I ask Makri if she wants a drink but she still has a load of tables to clean so I take a beer upstairs
and finish it off while I'm getting dressed to go out. I put on my best black tunic, which is patched, but
quite professionally, and my best boots, which are a mess. One of the heels is about to come off. Not
very impressive for visiting a Niojan diplomat. Staring in the bronze mirror I have to admit that I'm
looking a little shabby these days. Altogether not too impressive. My hair is fine, still dark and long, and
my moustache is as impressive as ever, but I've put on weight recently. In addition to my expanding
waistline I seem to be getting a double chin. I sigh. Middle age.
I tie my hair back in a braid and hunt around for my sword. I remember I pawned it last week to
buy food. What sort of Private Investigator pawns his sword, for God's sake? Turai's cheapest, that's
what sort.
I consider looking into the kuriya pool, but decide against it. The ability to use kuriya is one of my
few claims to sorcerous power. It involves entering a trance and staring into a small pool of kuriya, a rare
dark liquid, wherein may appear mystical insights. In a saucer full of kuriya I have occasionally been able
to find the solution to an investigation—a missing husband, a thieving nephew, a lying business partner.
Very convenient. Solve a mystery in the comfort of your own room. Unfortunately it rarely works. Using
magic to draw a picture of the past is extremely difficult. Even Sorcerers with a great deal more power
than myself are only sometimes successful. It requires precise calculations of the phases of the three
moons and suchlike, and entering the required trance is no easy feat. The Investigating Sorcerers of the
Civil Guard will generally only attempt it in the most important criminal matters, and fortunately for Turai's
criminals they often get it wrong.
Another problem is the price of kuriya. The black liquid comes from the far west and the one
merchant who imports it keeps his prices high. He claims it's dragon's blood, but he's a liar.
I place the sleep spell in my memory. I can only put one spell in at a time these days, and even that
takes a lot of effort. Major spells don't stay in the memory after you've used them, so you have to learn
them all over again. If I'm out on a case and think I may need a little outside help I usually memorise the
sleep spell, but I find the whole process pretty tiring these days. I'm not much of a Sorcerer. No wonder
I have to work for a living. A good Sorcerer can carry two major spells at once. A truly great one can
walk around all day with three or even four spells safely tucked up in his memory, just waiting to come
out. I should have studied more when I was an apprentice.
I step through the outside door and get to work. I mutter my standard locking incantation over the
door, this being a minor spell which I'm able to use at will. Quite a number of people can use these minor
spells. They don't require much studying.
"That's not going to help you much if you don't pay Yubaxas what you owe him," comes a rasping
voice from the bottom of the stairs.
I glower down at the large man who's waiting there for me. He's very tall, very broad, and a virulent
sword scar runs from his temple to his collar bone. With his shaved head he's an ugly brute by anyone's
standards, and one I'd rather not have hanging around to see me. I go down the stairs and stop on the
third from the ground so that our eyes are level.
"What do you want, Karlox?" I demand.
"Passing on a message from Yubaxas. Money's due in five days."
As if I needed reminding. Yubaxas is the local Brotherhood boss. I owe him five hundred gurans, a
gambling debt after some very unwise speculations at the chariot races.
"He'll get his money," I grunt. "I don't need gorillas like you to remind me."
"You better come up with it, Thraxas, or we'll be down on you like a bad spell."
I push my way past. Karlox laughs. He acts as an enforcer for the Brotherhood and he's a violent
and unpleasant man. He's also dumb as an Orc. No doubt he enjoys his work. I leave him without a
backward glance. The gambling debt is worrying me, but I'm not going to let an ox like Karlox see that.
The air stinks of rotting fish. It's hotter than Orcish hell out here. I redeem my sword at Priso's pawn
shop. I'd like a new pair of boots but I can't afford it. Nor can I afford to redeem my illuminated staff or
my spell protection charm. I get depressed about my poverty. I shouldn't gamble. I should have stayed at
the Palace, riding around in official horse carts and raking in bribes. I was a fool to leave. Or rather I was
a fool to get so drunk at the wedding of the Head of Palace Security that I tried to make a move on his
bride. No one at the Palace could ever remember an Investigator being dismissed from his post quite so
abruptly, not even proven spies and traitors. Damn that Deputy Consul Rittius. He always hated me.
I buy some bread at Minarixa's bakery. Minarixa greets me in a friendly manner as I am a very
frequent customer. Outside I notice she's put up a wall poster asking for donations to the Association of
Gentlewomen. Quite a bold move on her part; many people disapprove of the Association of
Gentlewomen, an unofficial organisation, deeply frowned on by the King, the Palace, the Senate, the
Church, the guilds and practically every man in the city.
"A sinful thing," says a voice beside me.
It's Derlex, the local Pontifex, or priest of the True Church.
I greet him politely, if slightly dubiously. I always feel nervous around Derlex. I get the impression he
disapproves of me.
"You don't sympathise with their aims, Pontifex Derlex?"
He doesn't. A women's organisation is anathema to the True Church. The young Pontifex seems
quite upset by it. Not only does he dislike the poster, he doesn't seem to approve of Minarixa's bakery.
"Women should not run businesses," he states.
As Minarixa runs the only decent bakery in the whole of Twelve Seas I can't agree with this at all,
but I keep my silence. I don't want to argue with the Church, it's too powerful to offend.
"I haven't seen you at church recently," says Derlex, taking me by surprise.
"Pressure of work," I reply, foolishly, which gets me a lecture about putting my work before the
Church.
"I'll certainly make every effort to attend this week," I say as convincingly as I can, and make my
escape. I can't say I enjoyed the conversation. The Pontifex isn't all that bad, provided he leaves you
alone, but it's not going to be much fun if he suddenly starts worrying about my soul.
Chapter Four
I step over three young dwa addicts lying unconscious in an alleyway. I sigh. The opening up of the
southern trade route through Mattesh was proclaimed by our King as a triumph of diplomacy.
Commerce has started to flow but unfortunately the main import has been dwa. Use of the powerful
narcotic is now rife throughout the city and the effect on its population has been dramatic. Beggars,
sailors, youthful apprentices, whores, itinerants, rich and idle young fashionables—all manner of people,
once content to alleviate their sufferings with ale and occasional doses of the much milder drug Thazis,
now spend their days lost in the powerful dream brought on by the ingestion of dwa. Unfortunately dwa
is both expensive and addictive. Once you've taken your dose you're as happy as an Elf in a tree, but
when you come down you feel dreadful. Those regular users who spend part of their lives lost in its
pleasant grip are obliged to spend the other part raising money to buy their next day's supply. Since dwa
swept Turai crime of all sorts has mushroomed. In many parts of the city it's not safe to walk the streets
at night for fear of violent robbery. The houses of the rich are ringed by walls and guarded by hired
members of the Securitus Guild. Gangs of youths in the slums who used to steal the occasional piece of
fruit from market stalls now use knives for street robberies and kill people for a few gurans.
Turai is rotting. The poor are despairing and the rich are decadent. One day King Lamachus of Nioj
will come down from the north and sweep us away.
I feel better when I've got my sword tucked snugly in my belt and I'm riding in a horse cab, or
landus, up Moon and Stars Boulevard, the main street running north to south, up from Twelve Seas
docks through Pashish, a poor though generally peaceful area, eventually turning on to Royal Way, which
runs west through the upper-class suburb of Thamlin to the Imperial Palace. Attilan, our Royal Princess's
erstwhile lover, lives here on a quiet street popular with young men about town.
I'm prepared to dislike him. Niojans are never friendly to Private Investigators. Private Investigators
are in fact illegal in Nioj. Most things are illegal in Nioj. It's a grim place. Thamlin isn't. Our well-off
citizens make their surroundings very comfortable—yellow and green tiled pavements and large white
houses with fountains in well-tended gardens. Civil Guardsmen patrol the streets, keeping them safe from
undesirables. It's a peaceful place. I used to live here. Some time ago. My old house is now occupied by
the Queen's Royal Astrologer. He's a dwa addict, but he keeps it quiet.
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
摘要：

ThraxasTableofContentsTHRAXASChapterOneChapterTwoChapterThreeChapterFourChapterFiveChapterSixChapterSevenChapterEightChapterNineChapterTenChapterElevenChapterTwelveChapterThirteenChapterFourteenChapterFifteenChapterSixteenChapterSeventeenChapterEighteenChapterNineteenChapterTwentyChapterTwenty-OneCh...

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