Martin Scott - Thraxas 7 - Thraxas at War

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THRAXAS at WAR

Martin Scott

CHAPTER

ONE

I'm sitting at the bar in the Avenging Axe, a beer in one hand and a thazis

stick in the other, trying to decide whether to have a glass of klee with my

next beer. It's a difficult decision. There's a bottle of klee upstairs in my

office. I could wait till I get there. But there's nothing quite like a glass

of klee washed down by a flagon of Gurd's freshly drawn ale. Having examined

my options for a while, studied the problem using the full weight of my

experience, I decide on the klee. And another ale while I'm at it.

Dandelion, the idiot barmaid, looks as if she might be about to make some

comment as to the wisdom of embarking on an ambitious drinking programme so

early in the afternoon. I direct a stern glance in her direction. The last

thing I need is a lecture about my drinking from Dandelion, a young woman who,

while not working behind the bar, is generally to be found on the beach,

talking to dolphins.

I frown. This tavern is really going downhill. It's bad enough having to put

up with Makri and her moods without having to endure Dandelion's own

particular brand of foolish behaviour. Worse, there's still no sign of

Tanrose, the tavern's cook, coming back. I haven't had a decent meal for

weeks. Life just gets worse.

Gurd, owner of the Avenging Axe and my oldest friend, sits down next to me.

I'm about to launch into a complaint about the deteriorating quality of his

barmaids but I bite back the words.

'No work, Thraxas?'

I shake my head.

'Things aren't so good. And you know why.'

'The investigation?'

I nod. A few months back I was accused of cowardice in the face of the enemy.

Throwing my shield away on the field of battle. This allegation, relating to

the Battle of Sanasa, which took place around seventeen years ago, is so

completely without foundation that it should never have been brought to court.

Not when the man being accused has fought bravely for his city. Unfortunately

Turai isn't a city that rewards a man for his past valour. Rather, it's a

place that seeks to drag an honest man down, allowing advancement to the rich

and corrupt at the expense of the poor but upright.

'Business has really gone downhill.'

'No one believes it, Thraxas.'

'Maybe not, but these things are lethal for a man's reputation. I'm tainted.

I'm beginning to regret not killing Vadinex when he made the allegation. Would

have got it over with quickly.'

And you'd be a fugitive by now,' points out Gurd.

Vadinex fought at the Battle of Sanasa. Why he's now come up with this false

accusation is something about which I'm still not certain.

I've spent the past weeks gathering evidence to defend myself in court. Plenty

of men still living in Turai were at the Battle of Sanasa but it's not been

easy finding

many who were close at hand when the alleged events took place. Even for a

professional Investigator like myself some of my old comrades took a lot of

finding. It meant a lot of uncomfortable trudging round the city in the hot

rainy season. Having found a few old comrades, I'm reasonably confident I'll

win the case. Unless my enemies do a lot of serious bribery, which is always

possible in this city. If that happens I'll kill my accuser and leave town.

It's not like Turai is such a great place to live anyway.

I'd have run into money problems by now had it not been for a rather

successful series of visits to the chariot races at the Stadium Superbius. I

picked the winner of the Turas memorial race and went through the card very

successfully, ending the week's racing with an extremely healthy profit and my

reputation as a gambler somewhat restored after last year's debacle. But the

races last year were fixed, of course. Everyone knows that Thraxas never makes

losses like that in normal circumstances.

The tavern door flies open. An assortment of foul Orcish oaths heralds the

arrival of Makri. The uttering of Orcish oaths is both taboo and illegal in

Turai but Makri. in times of stress, tends to revert to the language of her

youth. As she grew up in an Orcish gladiator pit, she has a wide variety of

Orcish bad language to choose from.

Gurd frowns at her. Dandelion looks pained. Makri ignores them both.

"You know someone just insulted me in the street? I was minding my own

business and then for no reason this man said, "There goes that skinny Ore.'"

Makri reaches over and takes a thazis stick from me, igniting it from a candle

and inhaling deeply.

'I hate this place,' she says.

Makri is one quarter Ore. In a city where everyone hates Ores, it can lead to

trouble. Most people in Twelve Seas are used to her by now but she still runs

into occasional hostility on the streets. Neither Gurd nor I take the trouble

to ask what happened after the man insulted her. We already know.

'So aren't you going to ask what happened?' demands Makri.

I take a sip of my beer.

'Let me see. A stranger calls you a skinny Ore while you're walking down

Quintessence Street. Now what could your response possibly be? You chuckle

merrily and walk on? You congratulate him on a fine turn of phrase? No, don't

tell me, I've got it. You punched him to the ground, then told him at sword

point that if he ever bothered you again you'd kill him without mercy?'

Makri looks disappointed.

'Something like that,' she says. 'But you spoiled my story.'

Makri lapses into silence. These past few weeks she hasn't been any more

cheerful than me. Not just because of the hot rainy season and her aversion to

the continual downpour. Even now, when we've reached autumn, one of the brief

periods when climate in Turai could be considered pleasant, she's not happy.

This summer was one of the high points of her life, when she scored top marks

at the Guild College and sailed into her final year of study as number one

student, but after the elation of that faded she got to remembering that her

first romantic encounter

seemed to have come to an untimely end. This encounter featured a young Elf on

the Isle of Avula; a young Elf who has since neglected to get in touch with

her. Avula is some weeks' sail from Turai, but, as Makri says, he could have

sent a message. So Makri has spent the past month being about as miserable as

a Niojan whore, much to the distress of the customers in the tavern.

There was a time when the sight of Makri, struggling to remain in her tiny

chainmail bikini while bringing a tray of drinks, was enough to cheer up the

most downhearted local dock worker. Makri's figure - unmatched, it's reckoned,

in the entire city-state - was of such renown as to make people forget their

prejudices against her. As old Parax the shoemaker says, you can't hold a

little Orcish blood against a girl with a physique like that. And there have

been plenty more comments in a similar vein, not just from Parax. But even the

finest physique can't compensate for a waitress who bangs your drink on the

table and looks like she'll knock your head off given the slightest excuse.

When dockers, sailmakers and the like come to the Avenging Axe after a hard

day's work, they're looking for a little light relaxation, and when Makri's

angry, it's hard to relax.

She tosses a small bag in my direction. It contains various pastries from

Morixa's bakery. Morixa took over the place from her mother Minarixa last

year, after Minarixa unfortunately partook of too much dwa; a deadly mistake.

The drug has claimed a lot of lives in this city. Most of them I don't care

about but I miss my favourite baker. Morixa doesn't quite have her mother's

skill at the pastry oven, but to give her her due, she's been improving

recently. Which is a relief for me. The

food in the Avenging Axe has suffered a sad decline in recent months. Without

the bakery to keep me going I'd be in a sorry state. I'm a man with plenty of

girth to maintain.

We have a new cook at the Avenging Axe, a woman by the name of Elsior. Not

such a bad cook but not a match for Tanrose, peerless mistress of the venison

stew, now estranged from Gurd and living with her mother in Pashish. When she

and Gurd failed to sort out their romantic difficulties - their main

difficulty being that Gurd finds it impossible to be romantic - I thought it

would be no more than a temporary problem. Having come to rely utterly on

Tanrose's stew, pies, pastries and desserts, I couldn't believe she'd be gone

for long. I even went so far as to visit her to plead Gurd's case, not

something that came easy to a man like myself, with a notably bad track record

in matters of the heart. All to no avail. Tanrose remains outraged by Gurd's

criticism of her book-keeping practices and refuses to return. My explanation

that it was merely the rough Barbarian's way of showing affection came to

naught. Tanrose is sulking in her tenement, and the patrons of the Avenging

Axe are suffering.

I've marched all over the world with a sword in my hand. I've fought Ores,

men, dragons and trolls. I've seen friends butchered and cities in flames, but

I can't think of anything to compare with the suffering caused by Minarixa's

death and Tanrose's departure. Life without either of them doesn't bear

thinking about.

Gurd takes a beer from Dandelion, though he rarely drinks during his working

day. He isn't the most cheerful soul these days either. Tanrose's departure

was a

severe shock. It took him more than five years to even acknowledge his

feelings towards her. Having got that far, the recalcitrant old warrior was

actually on the point of proposing marriage when the blow fell. He's not a man

to express his private emotions, even to his oldest friend, but I can tell

he's suffering. Only last week I was telling the story of our notable victory

over the Niojans to a group of young mercenaries. When I looked over to Gurd

to support me in my claim - entirely truthful -that the two of us had put a

whole squadron of Niojan guards to flight, Gurd just sat there with a blank

expression on his face, mumbling that it was a long time ago and he couldn't

remember it all that well. It completely ruined my story. I was flabbergasted.

If Gurd won't join in with the old army stories, there's something seriously

wrong.

We make for a sad trio, Gurd, Makri and I. I order another beer. In the

circumstances, it's the only thing to do.

CHAPTER

TWO

As afternoon turns into evening, Gurd leaves his place at my side to help

serve the drinkers who begin to arrive in the tavern. After finishing their

shifts in the local docks, warehouses, smithies or tanneries, many of them

prefer to brace themselves with an ale or two before going home to the local

tenements, which are generally poorly built, draughty and leaky. Not

comfortable places, with a family crammed into a couple of small rooms and the

local water supply never being quite sufficient.

Every year the King promises that conditions will improve for the poorer

inhabitants of Turai. The Consul makes the same promise, with a fine speech in

the Senate. Our local Prefect, Drinius, is proud to share their sentiments.

But nothing ever seems to get better. Turai has certainly become richer in the

past twenty years, but precious little of that wealth has ever found its way

into Twelve Seas.

I take two beers and a plate of stew upstairs to my room. Once more, the stew

is a disappointment. Tanrose had a way with stew. It was a gift. Maybe a

calling. The new cook has not yet found the art. Outside, the street is noisy.

Vendors, taking advantage of the fine weather, are keen to sell their goods,

hoping to make enough to get them through the harsh winter. Winter will be

here

in a month or so. Another reason not to rejoice. Winter in Turai is hell.

Makri's right. It was a foolish place to build a city. A good harbour isn't

everything.

There's a knock on my door, the one that leads via a staircase directly to the

street outside. I consider answering it. I should. It might be a client. On

the other hand, I'm tired and full of beer. Sleeping on my couch seems ike a

better option. Let them take their problems to the Civil Guard, it's what

they're there for. The knocking continues and it's followed by a loud voice.

Thraxas. Open this door. Official business.'

I recognise the voice. Hansius, assistant to Deputy Consul Cicerius. Not a

visitor I can ignore, unfortunately. I haul the door open and scowl at the

young man.

What do you want?'

'Official business.'

So what?'

I let him in. I've nothing against Hansius really, except that he's young,

clean cut, and headed for a comfortable life as a Senator. I really hold that

against him.

Hansius is clad in his official toga. He's a handsome young man and his teeth

are a few shades whiter than you'd normally encounter in Twelve Seas.

"If Cicerius wants to hire me tell him he has to pay better this time.'

'The Deputy Consul has paid you adequately for all services rendered,'

responds Hansius, curtly. He casts his eye briefly over the mess that clutters

up my room. I feel annoyed.

'Want a beer?'

'No.'

Then what do you want?'

'Cicerius instructs me to summon you to a meeting tomorrow.'

'Sorry. I'm right off the idea of attending meetings these days.'

And why would that be?'

'Because my plate of stew was really sub-standard. And I'm facing a charge of

cowardice. So I'm not so keen on helping the city at this moment.'

'It's an official summons,' declares Hansius, as if that's an end to the

matter.

'Is there going to be food?'

'I imagine there will be provisions on hand.'

'Will you send a carriage?'

Hansius is a young man capable of tact and diplomacy. As aide to the Deputy

Consul, he's already developed his political skills. But for some reason he

starts to show signs of impatience.

Are you unable to make the journey on your own?'

'I might be. Is Cicerius going to let the charges against me proceed?'

'The charges against you, Thraxas, are not the business of the Deputy Consul's

office. Once the allegation has been made it must go before the courts, as you

know.'

'Sure I know. The fact that I risked my life a hundred times for this lousy

city has nothing to do with it. What does Cicerius want?'

'Everything will be explained at the conference.'

'Conference? With other people? Cicerius isn't just hiring me to cover up some

scandal one of his corrupt Senator buddies has got himself into?'

Hansius frowns. Now I'm annoying him. It makes me feel a little better.

"It is a formal meeting. At the Consul's office.'

"The Consul's office?'

That's surprising. Cicerius, the Deputy Consul, has on

occasion summoned me when he needed some help with a matter not suitable for

investigation by the higher class

of Investigators who work up-town, but it's rare for any common citizen to be

summoned to the office of Consul Kalius, the city's highest official.

'Please be there at noon.'

Having had enough of trading words with a large angry Investigator, Hansius

abruptly departs. I head for

the couch, but before I can lie down the door opens and Makri walks in.

"How many times have I told you to knock?'

Makri shrugs. She can't seem to get used to the

civilised habit of knocking on doors. I shouldn't be sur-prised. After two

years in the city, she's still not great

with cutlery.

'What did Hansius want?'

I pick up my empty plate and brandish it.

'You see this stew? Deficient in every way. Taste, texture, presentation. All

lacking. And you know why? I'll tell you why. Because Tanrose didn't cook it.

And why is that? Because you advised her to leave the tavern.'

Makri refuses to acknowledge the truth of this. She claims that her advice to

Tanrose was simply to take a little time to herself to consider her

relationship with Gurd. She wasn't expecting Tanrose to up and leave. Since

then I've spent many a dissatisfied mealtime cursing the day that an

axe-wielding Barbarian like Makri ever got the notion that she was qualified

to give personal advice to anyone.

'Will you never stop complaining about that?' protests Makri. 'I miss Tanrose

too. It's bad enough that you and Gurd are continually going round as

miserable as a pair of Niojan whores, but now I've got no one to discuss—'

I hold up my hand.

'Please. If this is going anywhere near the area of intimate female bodily

functions, I don't want to hear it. I still haven't got over the last time.'

'Fine,' says Makri, sitting down on my only comfortable chair. 'So what did

Hansius want?'

There was a time, not too long ago, when I never discussed my affairs with

anyone. As an Investigator it's necessary to be discreet. But in the two years

or so since Makri arrived in the city I've found myself, almost without

noticing, slipping into the habit of telling her about my business. I still

balk at this occasionally but in general I don't mind. Makri is discreet,

trustworthy and, more to the point, as lethal a fighter as ever set foot in

Turai. Many times over the past two years I've been pleased to have her sword

or axe at my side. Not that I'm going to admit it to her. Makri is always

bragging about her exploits as champion gladiator and doesn't need any

encouragement from me.

'Summoned me to a meeting. At the Consul's office, which is unusual.'

Are you in trouble?'

'Possibly. But I didn't really get that impression from Hansius.'

'Maybe they're going to offer you another official position,' suggests Makri.

'That's unlikely.'

'You were a Tribune.'

It's true, I was. Still am, technically. Last winter I was appointed Tribune

of the People by Cicerius, as a convenient way of giving me the official

status necessary to attend the Sorcerers Assemblage. And a Tribune of the

People turned out to have a fair amount of power. On one occasion I prevented

Praetor Capatius from evicting the tenants of one of his buildings in Twelve

Seas. The Praetor is one of the richest men in Turai and he wasn't too pleased

about it.

The appointment has now almost expired, and I can't say I'm sorry. The post

wasn't exactly cushy. It was unpaid and any action I took always led to

trouble. Politics is a dangerous game in this city, particularly for a man

without a party to support him. I haven't used the Tribune's powers for any

reason recently, and I don't intend to.

'I'm bored,' says Makri.

'It beats being unhappy over an Elf.'

'I'm also unhappy over an Elf. But I'm bored as well. My college is closed for

a week. Some stupid holiday. What do they need a holiday for?'

'Probably to recover from teaching you. Don't you have books or scrolls to

study?'

'I've read them all,' says Makri.

Makri seems to be well in advance of her studies. The woman's energy can be

quite disturbing. Reading scrolls, going to the Imperial Library, attending

lectures, and working shifts in the Avenging Axe to pay for it all. And if

it's not that it's weapons practice. At some point every day the back yard

resounds with the noise of Makri knocking hell out of targets with her

collection of swords, axes, knives, throwing stars and whatever else

she has in her weapons chest. For a woman who can be ridiculously enthusiastic

about some tedious old Elvish playwright, she still shows great dedication to

her fighting skills.

Of course, I was a champion fighter myself, back in my younger days. And I

didn't need to go around practising all the time. I just had a natural talent

for it.

'Don't you have any criminals I could attack?'

'Well, technically, Makri, they're meant to commit a crime first. And business

is quiet just now.'

'Do you want to go back to the Fairy Glade?' asks Makri, unexpectedly.

'That's a long ride.'

Makri and I did visit the Fairy Glade on one occasion, but we haven't had

reason to go back since. Makri sighs. She liked it there, and the magical

creatures of the glade certainly seemed to like her, even though no creature

with Orcish blood is supposed to be able to enter. The fairies were all over

her and she practically had to fight off the centaurs, who are lascivious

creatures by nature.

Makri looks glum.

'I can't really take time off from the tavern just now. I need money to pay my

fees at the library. You know, when I killed all those Ores and escaped to

Turai to get an education, I never thought it would be so expensive.'

It's true. Turai is famed for its scholarship but almost all of the students

are the sons of the upper classes, whose fathers can afford the fees at the

Imperial University. The Guild College Makri attends is less expensive, and

the Federation of Guilds provides some help for the students, but even so, all

of the scholars there are sons of relatively wealthy Guild members -

merchants,

goldsmiths, glassmakers and the like. I don't think there's anyone else there

actually paying their own fees like Makri.

'Maybe I'll just take a walk outside the city walls tomorrow. You want to

come?'

The idea of taking a walk outside the city walls for no apparent reason is so

baffling I'm stuck for an immediate reply. Makri says she just feels like

seeing something different.

'Could we at least look at the Fairy Glade?'

'You mean by sorcery?' I shake my head. A good Sorcerer like Lisutaris could

open a seeing-window on the Fairy Glade without much effort, but my own

sor-cerous powers are so limited these days it would take too much expenditure

of energy.

'Then I guess I'll have to make do with thazis,' sighs Makri, lighting one of

my thazis sticks. I pour a little beer for her, then pass her a glass of klee.

'The intoxicants of the poor.'

I start setting up the pieces on my Niarit board. Niarit is a cunning game of

skill and strategy at which Makri, despite her much-vaunted

Tm-top-of-the-class' intellect, has so far never defeated me. Only to be

expected, really. I'm the undisputed Niarit champion of Twelve Seas, and have

in my time defeated lords, ladies, philosophers, Sorcerers and whoever else

was foolish enough to challenge me. I take a hefty slug of klee and prepare

for an infantry attack supported by elephants that will sweep Makri's forces

from the board.

'This time you're dead,' mutters Makri, and moves her Hero quickly into play.

And pass me the klee.'

Makri shudders as the fiery spirit burns her throat.

Top-quality klee, made by monks in the mountains. I let her Hero advance up

the board, pretending to fall back with my troops, not even pushing up my

Harper to increase the morale of my front line. Makri sends her heavy cavalry

up my right flank, preparing, I imagine, for a pincer movement. Poor Makri.

She might be number one chariot with a sword in her hand, and the smartest

student in the Guild College, but she has a lot to learn about the art of war.

Less than half an hour later Makri is looking glumly at the remnants of her

army, now falling back in full retreat before the wave of elephants, infantry

and light cavalry currently sweeping up the board as directed by Thraxas,

unstoppable warlord.

True to her character, Makri refuses to surrender and plays the game to its

bitter end. My troops place their siege tower next to her castle, swarm up the

ladders, kill everyone inside and hoist a flag in triumph. Well,

metaphorically anyway. There isn't actually a flag.

Makri stubs her thazis stick out in disgust.

'Why do you always beat me?'

'I'm smarter than you.'

'Like hell you are. You've just been playing longer.'

That's what Makri always says, generally with a angry scowl and occasionally

with some implications of cheating on my part. She's a very poor loser. I ask

her if she'd like another game. She shakes her head.

'I have to go out.'

'Out? Where?'

'I'm teaching a class.'

This is a surprise.

At the college?'

'No, they wouldn't let me teach there. Not that I couldn't. My Elvish is far

better than some of these professors. I'm going to Morixa's bakery to teach

some women to read.'

I'm still puzzled. Makri explains that she's been asked by the organiser of

the local chapter of the Association of Gentlewomen if she'd like to teach

reading to some women in the area.

'I didn't know you had a reading programme.'

Makri notices the disapproving tone in my voice.

'You think it's a bad idea?'

'Not at all. A fine idea. If someone else was organising it.'

'So who else is going to organise it in this city?'

Makri has a point. Very few women go to school in Turai. The wealthy classes

often arrange private tuition for their daughters, but only a tiny proportion

of women in a poor area like Twelve Seas have ever had any sort of schooling.

Not that the men round here are exactly intellectual. I wouldn't disapprove at

all if it wasn't for the involvement of the Association of Gentlewomen, a

collection of malcontents, harridans and troublemakers who are quite rightly

frowned upon by all honest citizens of Turai.

'Remember what happened last time you taught anything?'

Makri frowns.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'I wouldn't say you were a patient tutor. You almost killed that young Elf on

Avula.'

Makri waves this away.

An entirely different matter. I was teaching her to fight. A little rough

treatment was necessary.'

A little rough treatment? I saw you kick her in the face.'

'So? She learned how to fight, didn't she? She won the junior sword-fighting

tournament. I regard the whole thing as a triumph.'

'Well,' I say, 'if you start kicking the local women in the face, don't come

complaining to me when they run you out of town.'

'I won't,' says Makri, and departs.

Later I see her leaving the tavern, on her way to her first teaching

assignment. I notice that she has a sword at her hip and a knife in her boot.

She's carrying a bag of scrolls, but from the way it bulges I'd guess she's

got her short-handled axe in there as well. Makri never likes to go anywhere

without some weapons to hand. I shake my head. As this enterprise involves

both the totally incompetent Association of Gentlewomen and the fiery-tempered

Makri, I have complete confidence that it will end in disaster.

CHAPTER

THREE

The Consul's office is situated inside the Palace grounds. North of the river,

and a long walk from Twelve Seas. Not feeling like a long walk, I take a

landus. As the horse-drawn carriage trots up Moon and Stars Boulevard, working

its way slowly through the heavy traffic, I wonder what they want me for. As

far as I know, the city isn't gripped by any particular crisis at this moment,

though when you a have a man like Prince Frisen-Akan as next in line to the

King, there's always something scandalous likely to happen. If he drinks

himself to death before succeeding to the throne he'll be doing the city a

favour.

We turn left at Royal Way and travel through the wealthy suburb of Thamlin. I

used to live here. When I worked as a Senior Investigator at the Palace.

Before they threw me out on some pretext of drinking too much.

The Imperial Palace comes into view. Were I a man who was impressed by large

buildings, I'd be impressed, t outshines the palaces of many larger states

than Turai. entrance alone is enough to make visitors gaze in wonder - huge

gates carved in the shape of twin lions, six times the height of a man. Inside

are some of the most beautifully laid-out gardens in the whole of the Human

lands. Long avenues of trees lead to contoured

lawns, beds of flowers and gleaming fountains, all engineered by Afetha Ar

Kyet, the great Elvish garden-maker. In one corner of the grounds is the

Imperial Zoo, home to a collection of fabulous creatures, including, at one

time, a dragon from the east, though that was killed a while ago. Killed by

the King's daughter, Princess Du-Akai, actually, though it's not a story that

was ever made public.

The Palace itself is a huge building, constructed of shining white marble

topped by silver minarets. It's a fabulous place. I used to work here. Now I'm

about as welcome as an Ore at an Elvish wedding. Seeing the luxury all around

me does nothing but add to the general feeling of gloom I've had for the past

few days.

Security at the Palace is tight. Civil Guards prevent anyone suspicious from

coming too near, and inside the grounds officials from Palace Security are on

patrol. If someone wanted to assassinate the King, they'd have to put in a lot

of effort. You can't really blame the King for his security concerns. The city

state of Turai contains some very talented assassins, and the King has

enemies.

I'm searched when I enter the grounds and again when I approach the Consul's

offices. I turn in my sword to a member of Palace Security while a Sorcerer

checks that I'm not carrying any spells.

I'm deposited in a reception room. There's a tall man there I don't recognise,

staring out of the window. More importantly, there's an elegant trolley in the

corner laden with food. My long journey has made me hungry, so I head straight

for the trolley and get to work. The food provided for the Consul's guests is

beautifully prepared, though I can't say I'm overimpressed by the size

of the portions. There are some small pastries stuffed with venison, which,

while tasting good enough to please the most demanding palate, are really not

large enough to satisfy a man with a healthy appetite. I put one in my mouth,

take another, grab a plate from under the trolley and load it with fifteen or

so of the pastries. There's a carafe of wine on the table nearby which I use

to wash down the pastries before moving on to the next dish, some

sweet-tasting cakes delicately iced with sugar. Once more it's high-quality

produce but somewhat on the small side. I fill up my plate with every cake on

offer and retire to a chair in the corner, carafe of wine still in hand.

I've hardly sat down before my plate is empty. I catch the eye of my fellow

guest, a dignified-looking individual in a green robe. Looks like a foreign

priest, or maybe some sort of minor official.

'Not really generous portions, are they?' I say, affably. He turns back to the

window without replying. Doesn't speak our language, probably. I saunter back

over to the trolley, but apart from a plate of eggs there's nothing else on

offer. I eat the eggs but really I'm not satisfied. If the Consul asks a man

to a meeting at his office the least he can do is feed him properly. I look

around hopefully, wondering where I might get some more food. At this moment

the outside door opens and a woman in a long white dress comes in. Rather a

fancy outfit for a waitress, but at the Palace they like their formal wear.

Any chance of another trolley?' I ask, politely.

'Pardon?'

'More pastries. These ones seem to be finished. And

maybe another tray or two of cakes? Hell, bring in more eggs if you want to

get rid of them, I'm not too fussy. And do you think you could get this carafe

filled up again?'

The waitress seems to be starring at me in an odd manner. Have I offended her?

Palace etiquette can be tricky; even the servants need to be spoken to

properly.

Thraxas, guest of Consul Kalius,' I announce. 'Wondering if you might be able

to bring me another platter of your fine cuisine?'

'I am the wife of the Juvalian ambassador,' she replies, not looking too

pleased.

'Oh ... Sorry'

She sweeps past me with her nose in the air, and stands by the man in the

window, who, from the outraged look on his face, is almost certainly the

Juvalian ambassador. I'd no idea they wore green cloaks.

'Well, have you seen a waitress anywhere?' I ask, but they ignore me.

An inner door opens, a quiet word is spoken and the ambassador and his wife -

no doubt a well-bred woman who has never worked as a waitress - are whisked

inside to meet the Consul. I look around me with some dissatisfaction. I

really need more to eat. The outside door opens and another young woman in a

long white dress appears. I regard her dubiously.

Are y^u an ambassador's wife?'

She sLakes her head.

A young relative of the royal family?'

'No. I serve food to the Consul's guests.'

I can feel my face lighting up. This is exactly what's required. I point to

the empty food trolley.

'Is there any chance of a bite to eat? There weren't more than a few crumbs

left by the time I arrived. The Juvalian ambassador and his wife, they just

ate like hogs.'

The waitress smiles pleasantly, nods her head, and leaves the room. She's gone

no more than a few minutes before reappearing with another trolley which is

overflowing with food - pastries, sweetmeats, pies, cakes and other more

exotic delicacies.

'Here you are,' she says brightly.

I like this waitress. As she produces another carafe of wine I reflect that,

even in an unfriendly city like Turai, you occasionally come across a person

who's willing to help out a man in difficulty. The waitress departs and I get

to work. With luck the Juvalian ambassador will take up a lot of the Consul's

time. As I plough through the first tier of the trolley, with my eye already

on the hearty provisions on the level below, I feel like I'm in no hurry.

Despite my best efforts I haven't quite finished all the food when the

ambassador and his wife reappear. They pass out of the room without giving me

so much as a look. An official summons me into the next room. Inside I find

Consul Kalius, wearing the gold-rimmed toga that denotes his rank. He's

sitting at an enormous wooden table in the company of Deputy Consul Cicerius,

lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, head of the Sorcerers Guild, Old Hasius the

Brilliant, Chief Sorcerer at the Palace, Rittius, head of Palace Security, and

Galwinius, Prefect of Thamlin. With them is General Pomius, the

highest-ranking soldier in the state. A high-powered collection of Turai's

finest. I'm still carrying the carafe of wine. I put it down casually on the

table.

feet

Kalius regards me somewhat coldly.

'Why did you ask the Juvalian ambassador's wife to bring you food?' he

enquires.

'I thought she was a waitress.'

Kalius shakes his head.

'The ambassador was insulted.'

'It was a mistake anyone could have made.'

'Surely, as a man who once worked at the Palace, you can tell the difference

between a foreign dignitary and a waitress?'

'Thraxas was rarely sober while employed at the Palace,' comments Rittius,

who's always been an enemy of mine. 'He probably has little recollection of

his time here.'

'I remember you well enough, Rittius,'

The Consul holds up his hand and looks stern. Consul Kalius, with his grey

hair and sculpted features, can be impressive when he wants. While he's not

exactly as sharp as an Elf's ear - and definitely no match for Cicerius in

terms of intellect - he does always look the part. The city trusts him,

almost, and he's remained reasonably popular throughout his term of office.

'Enough. We have not asked you here to discuss the lamentable history of your

time at the Palace.'

I'm prepared for some long-winded explanation of why exactly they have asked

me here, particularly if any part of the explanation comes from Cicerius. Any

time the Deputy Consul has asked me to do something for him it's been

proceeded by a long lecture on how vital it is to the welfare of the city,

followed by another lecture on the patriotic duties of all Turanians. Kalius,

however, does not dissemble.

'Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, believes that an attack from the Orcish Lands

is imminent. For the past week we have been involved in meetings with all

trustworthy elements in Turai with regard to the defence of the city. In your

capacity as Tribune, you have a part to play in our preparations.'

This wasn't what I was expecting. The last war with the Ores was what -

sixteen, seventeen years ago? We threw them back from the walls but it was the

bloodiest struggle in the history of Turai and we were lucky to emerge as

victors. If the Elvish army hadn't arrived when it did the city would have

fallen. I always knew that I'd have to fight the Ores again. But I hoped that

maybe I wouldn't.

It's the first I've heard about this. In a city like Turai it's very hard to

keep anything secret. If they've been having meetings for a week without word

getting out they've obviously gone to a lot of trouble to keep things quiet.

Uninvited, I take a chair.

'Prince Amrag?'

Kalius nods. We've been hearing reports of Prince Amrag for some time now. He

started off as a young rebel in the Orcish lands, and in what seemed like a

very >hort time, he'd conquered his kingdom and started exerting his influence

on those around him. It was to be expected that he might one day work himself

into the position of war leader and overlord of all the Ore lands but it's

come quicker than anyone anticipated.

The Ores hate us as much as we hate them. The only thing that prevents them

from attacking us constantly

heir own internal feuding. Once someone comes

along who's capable of uniting their nations, an attack on the west becomes

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THRAXASatWARMartinScottCopyright©2003byMartinScottCHAPTERONEI'msittingatthebarintheAvengingAxe,abeerinonehandandathazisstickintheother,tryingtodecidewhethertohaveaglassofkleewithmynextbeer.It'sadifficultdecision.There'sabottleofkleeupstairsinmyoffice.IcouldwaittillIgetthere.Butthere'snothingquitelik...

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Martin Scott - Thraxas 7 - Thraxas at War

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