Martin Scott - Thraxas 6 - Thraxas and the Dance of Death

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THRAXAS and the DANCE OF DEATH

Martin Scott

CHAPTER

ONE

It's summer. It's hot. The city stinks. I've just been described as a liar in

court and subjected to a stream of hostile invective that would have made a

statue flinch. Funds are low, I'm short of work and badly in need of beer.

Life, in general, is tough. It's no time for my idiot companion Makri to be

complaining about an examination.

'So you have to take an examination. You wanted to go to Guild College. What

did you expect?'

'It's not just a written examination. I have to stand up and talk to the whole

class. It's making me feel bad.'

'You used to fight in the gladiator slave pits. I thought you'd be used to an

audience.'

Makri shakes her head violently, causing her huge mane of black hair to swing

around the small of her back. Underneath all her hair Makri has pointed ears.

This often leads to problems.

'That was different. I was killing Orcs. It never felt stressful like talking

to a group of students. They're all merchants' sons with money and servants in

their houses. They're always laughing at me for being a barmaid. And how am I

meant to prepare for anything when this stupid city is as hot as Orcish hell

and stinks like a sewer?'

Summer in Turai is never pleasant, and this summer is promising to be as bad

as last year when dogs and men keeled over in the street, overcome by the

heat, and the main aqueduct into Twelve Seas was dry for a record eighteen

days in a row.

Makri continues to complain about her upcoming examination but I'm too annoyed

about my recent experience in court to pay attention. A few months ago I

arrested a thief down by the docks, name of Baxin. He was stealing Elvish

wine. I apprehended him and delivered him, complete with evidence, to the

Transport Guild. Unfortunately, being caught in the act of committing a crime

has never stopped a Turanian criminal from putting up a strong defence in

court. The devious, toga-clad lawyer Baxin hired to defend him made a good job

of convincing the jury that Baxin was nothing more than the victim of a bad

case of mistaken identity. The real criminal was the notoriously unreliable

Investigator Thraxas, a man with a city-wide reputation as a person of bad

character.

'Damn it, no one was saying I had a bad character last winter when I saved

this city from disgrace. Not to mention helping Lisutaris get elected as head

of the Sorcerers Guild. Then it was "Thank you, Thraxas, you're a hero.'"

'Well, no one actually said that,' points out Makri.

'They should have.'

Actually, I seem to remember several Sorcerers saying you should be thrown in

prison. And the Deputy Consul was very angry about you turning up drunk on the

last day of the Sorcerers Assemblage. And then the Consul threatened—'

'Yes, fine, Makri. You don't need to remind me of every detail of this city's

ingratitude. If there was any justice I'd be lounging by a pool in the Palace

instead of trudging back to a tavern in the bad part of town.'

We walk on through the intolerable heat. Packs of dogs lie listlessly on the

baked mud roads and beggars slump in despair at every corner. Welcome to

Twelve Seas, home to those city dwellers whose lives have not been going too

well. Sailors without a ship, labourers without work, mercenaries without a

war, broken-down prostitutes, pimps, thugs, runaways and the rest of the

city's underclass all struggling to survive, and no one struggling more than

sorcerous Investigator Thraxas -ex-Palace employee, ex-soldier, ex-mercenary,

currently broke, ageing, overweight, without prospects and really, really in

need of a beer.

'I'm sure that everyone at Guild College doesn't have to give a talk to the

class,' continues Makri, apparently unaware that I have no interest in her

problems. 'Professor Toarius is making me do it because he hates me. He just

can't stand that I'm a woman. And he can't stand that I've got Orcish blood.

Ever since I signed up at the college he's had it in for me. "Don't do this,

don't do that." Petty restrictions everywhere. "You can't wear your sword to

rhetoric class." "Don't threaten your philosophy tutor with an axe." I tell

you, Thraxas, life for me is tough.'

'Very tough, Makri. Now please shut up about your damned examination.'

It's a long way down Moon and Stars Boulevard from the centre of the city to

Twelve Seas. By the time we reach the corner of Quintessence Street I'm

sweating

like a pig. I'd buy a watermelon from the market if I hadn't lost every guran

I had on an unwise investment on a chariot which might possibly have won the

race had it not been driven by an Orc-loving charioteer with two left hands

and a poor sense of direction.

Down each narrow alleyway youths are dealing dwa, the powerful drug that has

the city in its grip. The Civil Guard, bribed or intimidated by the

Brotherhood, look the other way. Their customers eye us as we pass, wondering

if we might be potential targets for a swift street robbery, but at the sight

of the swords at Makri's hips, and my considerable bulk, they look away. No

need to tangle with us when there are plenty of easier targets to be found.

The sun beats down cruelly. The crowds around the market stalls kick up clouds

of choking dust. By the time we reach the Avenging Axe I'm practically begging

for ale. I march through the doors, force my way through the afternoon

drinkers and reach for the bar like a drowning man clutching at a rope.

'Beer. Quickly'

The tavern is owned by Gurd, Barbarian from the north, a man I've fought

beside all over the world. Recognising the poor state I'm in, he omits the

small talk and fills me up a tankard. I down it in one and take another.

'Bad day in court?'

'Very bad. They let Baxin go. So now I'm missing out on the conviction bonus.

And you wouldn't believe what the lawyers said about me. I tell you, Gurd,

I've about had it with this stinking city. A man can't do an honest day's work

without some corrupt court official grinding him into the dust.'

My tankard is empty.

'What's the matter? Beer in short supply?'

Gurd hands over a third. He grins. Gurd's around fifty, and after a life of

mercenary wars he's content to settle down peacefully in his tavern. Once a

ferocious fighter, he's now a rather mellower person than me. Of course, Gurd

had the good sense to save enough money to buy an inn. Everything I ever

earned I gambled away, or drank.

By my fourth or fifth beer I'm complaining loudly to all who care to listen

that Turai is undoubtedly the worst city in the west.

'I tell you, I've been in Orcish hovels that were more civilised than this

place. The next time the city authorities need me to bail them out of a crisis

they can forget it. Let them look somewhere else.'

The beer doesn't lighten my mood. Even a substantial helping of Tanrose's stew

can't cheer me up. As the tavern starts to fill up with dock workers coming

off their afternoon shift at the warehouses, I grab another beer and head

upstairs. I used to be a Senior Investigator at the Palace with a nice villa

in Thamlin. Now I live in two rooms above a tavern. It doesn't make me feel

good about my life. Makri lives in another room along the corridor. I bump

into her as she emerges. She's changed into her chainmail bikini in readiness

for her shift as a waitress.

'Cheered up any?' she asks.

'No.'

'Strange. Eight or nine beers usually does it. What's eating you? You've been

criticised in court before. Now I think about it, weren't you criticised in

the Senate only last year?'

'Yes. I've been lambasted by the best of them. Do you realise that I'm in

exactly the same position I was when you arrived in this city a couple of

years ago?'

'Drunk?'

'No. I mean broke. Without a coin to my name. Dependent on Gurd for ale on

credit till some degenerate walks through my door asking me to investigate

some case which will no doubt involve me risking my life for a lousy thirty

gurans a day. It's not right. Look what I've done for this city. Fought in the

wars, held back the Niojans and repelled the Orcish hordes. Did anyone pin a

medal on me for that? Forget it. And who was it saved our necks when Horm the

Dead tried to wipe out Turai with his Eight-Mile Terror Spell? Me. Only this

winter I got a Turanian elected head of the Sorcerers Guild practically

single-handed.'

'I helped with that.'

'A little. Which doesn't alter the fact that I deserve a lot more than being

stuck in this foul tavern. I ought to be employed by the Palace.'

'You were employed by the Palace. They bounced you out for being drunk.'

'That only goes to prove my point. There's no gratitude. I tell you, if that

useless Deputy Consul Cicerius comes down here again begging for help I'm

sending him away with a dragon's tooth up his nose. To hell with them all.'

'It's not fair,' says Makri.

'You're damn right it's not fair.'

'I don't see why I have to take this examination. I'm so busy waiting tables I

hardly have time to study.'

I glare at Makri with loathing. As far as I can see, if

a person who's part Elf, part Orc and part Human decides to slaughter her

captors, escape to civilisation, then sign up for college, she's only got

herself to blame for her problems. She could have remained a gladiator. Makri

was good at that. Undefeated champion. She's just about the most savage

fighter ever seen in the west, and slaughtering people is her speciality. But

Guild College is a foolish enterprise requiring long hours of study in

rhetoric, philosophy, mathematics and God knows what else. No wonder she's

stressed. The woman - and I use the term loosely - is next door to insane at

the best of times; a result, I imagine, of having mixed blood, pointy ears and

a general tendency to believe that all of life's difficulties can be solved

with violence.

Makri departs downstairs. I take my beer to my room, slam the door, and clear

some junk off the couch. I've had enough of this. Poverty is getting me down.

I need a plan. There must be a way for a talented man to get ahead in this

city. I finish my beer. After a while I drag a bottle of klee out of a drawer

and start in on it. The klee burns my throat as it goes down. Finest quality,

distilled in the hills. The sun streams in, through the holes in the curtains.

My room is hotter than Orcish hell. No one can think in heat like this. I

guess I'm just going to finish my days in Twelve Seas broke, angry and

unla-mented. I finish the klee, toss the bottle in the bin, and fall asleep.

CHAPTER

TWO

I'm dreaming about the time I won a beer-drinking contest down in Abelesi.

Seven opponents, and every one of them unconscious on the floor while I was

still demanding more ale, and quickly. One of my finest moments. I'm rudely

awakened by someone shaking my arm. I leap to my feet and make a grab for my

sword.

It's me,' says Makri.

I'm angry at the invasion.

'How often do I have to tell you to stay out of my room!' I yell at her. 'I

swear if you walk in here uninvited again I'll run you through.'

'You couldn't run me through if I had both arms tied behind my back, you fat

ox,' retorts Makri, never one to smooth over a disagreement.

'One of these days I'm going to break you in half, you skinny troll-lover.'

I notice that Makri is not alone.

'You remember Dandelion?'

My heart sinks. It plummets. Even in a city full of strange characters,

Dandelion stands out as a particularly odd young woman. She hired me on a case

last year, and while I admit this worked out all right in the end, the whole

affair didn't endear her to me. Dandelion is weird. Not barbaric like Makri or

ethereal like the

Elves. Just weird. Not least among the things I dislike about her is her habit

of walking around with bare feet, something I'm utterly unable to account for.

In a city full of refuse-strewn streets, it defies common sense. You're liable

to step on a dead rat, or maybe worse. Besides this she wears a long skirt

covered with patterns from the zodiac, and spouts rubbish about communing with

nature. She hired me on behalf of the talking dolphins in the bay, which was

probably to be expected.

'What do you want?' I grunt. 'The talking dolphins having problems again?'

The dolphins don't actually speak Turanian. Just a lot of strange whistles. I

saw Dandelion communicating with them but I'm half convinced she was making it

up as she went along.

Dandelion tries to smile, but she seems nervous. With my sword in my hand I

guess I don't put people at ease. I sheathe it, just in case the woman has

anything useful to say. Now I think about it, she did pay me with several

valuable antique coins, and I'm not in a position to turn away paying clients

no matter how peculiar they might be.

Dandelion has a warning for you,' says Makri.

Makri's keeping a straight face but I sense she's secretly amused. Springing

Dandelion on me when I'm sleeping off ten beers is probably her idea of an

excellent joke.

A warning? From the dolphins?'

Dandelion shakes her head.

Not from the dolphins. Though they're still very grateful for your assistance.

You should visit them some time.'

'Next time I need to commune with nature I'll get right down to the beach.

What's the warning?'

'You're about to be involved in terrible bloodshed.'

Dandelion gazes at me. I gaze back at her. There's a brief silence,

interrupted only by the cries of the hawkers outside. At the foot of the steps

leading down from my outer door to the street there's an ongoing dispute over

territory between a woman who sells fish and a man who's set up a stall for

sharpening blades. They've been screaming at each other all week. Life in

Twelve Seas is never peaceful.

'Terrible bloodshed? Is that it?'

Dandelion nods. I hunt around for my klee. It's finished.

'I'm an Investigator. I'm always surrounded by bloodshed. Comes with the

territory. People round here just don't like being investigated.'

'You don't understand,' says Dandelion. 'I don't mean a little violence. Or

even a few deaths. I mean many, many deaths, more deaths than you can count.

An orgy of blood-letting such as you've never encountered before.'

My head's starting to hurt. The sight of Dandelion with her bare feet and odd

clothes is irritating beyond measure. I'd like to bounce her down the stairs.

'Who gave you this warning? The Brotherhood? The Society of Friends?'

'No one gave it me. I read it in the stars.'

Makri fails to suppress a giggle. I stare at both of them with loathing.

'You read it in the stars?'

'Yes,' says Dandelion, nodding eagerly. 'Last night on

the beach. I hurried here as fast as I could to warn you. Because I owe you—'

'Will you get out of my office!' I roar. 'Makri, how dare you bring this freak

in here to bother me like this. If she's still here in five seconds I swear

I'll kill you both. Don't you know I'm a busy man? Now get the hell out of

here!'

Makri shepherds Dandelion from the room. She pauses at the door.

'Maybe you ought to listen to her, Thraxas. After all, she came up with the

goods during the dolphin case.'

I tell Makri brusquely I'll be grateful if she never wastes my time again, and

add a few curses I usually save for the race track. Makri departs, slamming

the door. I open it to curse her again, then sit down heavily. My mood just

got a lot worse. I need more sleep. There's a knock on the outside door. I

ignore it. It comes again. I continue to ignore it. My outside door is secured

by a minor locking spell which is sufficient for keeping out most people, and

I'm not in the mood for company. I lie down on my couch just as the door flies

open and Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, strides into the room. Lisutaris,

number one Sorcerer in Turai. Number one Sorcerer in all the Human lands, in

fact, since she was elected head of the Sorcerers Guild. She glares down at

me.

'Why didn't you answer the door?'

'I was counting on the locking spell to keep out unwanted intruders.'

Lisutaris smiles. A locking spell placed by the likes of me is never going to

be a problem for such a powerful Sorcerer.

Are you planning on lying there all day?'

I struggle to rise. Lisutaris is an important woman, and wealthy. She deserves

respect, though as I've frequently seen her in a state of collapse due to

overindulgence in the narcotic thazis, I don't feel the need to be too formal.

'Do you always greet your clients this way?'

'Only when I'm trying to sleep off the effect of beer. Is this a social call?

And incidentally, why are you in disguise?'

'It's a professional call. I'm here to hire you. And I'm in disguise because I

don't want anyone to recognise me.'

Turai's Sorcerers wear a distinctive rainbow cloak, and as Lisutaris is an

aristocratic woman, she'd normally have a fine gown under her cloak, along

with jewellery, gold sandals and the like. Instead she's dressed in the plain

garb of the lower classes, though any observer could tell that her extravagant

hair wasn't coiffured at one of the cheap establishments you'd find in Twelve

Seas. Even in a plain robe, Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, is a striking

woman. She's somewhere around the same age as me, but she's always been an

elegant beauty, and careful with her looks.

'I see nothing's changed around here,' she says, sweeping some junk off a

chair and sitting down lightly. 'Is it absolutely necessary for you to live in

such squalor?'

'Private investigation never pays that well.'

'You were well remunerated for your help at the Sorcerers Assemblage, I

believe.'

'Not as well remunerated as I should have been. And some recent investments

have turned out less well than I anticipated.'

'You mean you lost it all at the chariot races?'

'That's right.'

Lisutaris nods.

'I too lost money at the last meeting. Of course, I can afford it. Well,

Thraxas, as you're obviously in need of money, I expect you'll be glad to take

on the case.'

'Tell me about it.'

There's a slight delay while Lisutaris lights a thazis stick. She offers me

one, which I accept. Thazis is a mild narcotic for most people, but Lisutaris

is a very heavy user. She invented a new kind of water pipe and developed a

spell for making the plants grow faster. The citizens of Turai are proud that

one of our own was recently selected as head of the Sorcerers Guild, but they

might be surprised if they knew the full extent of Lisutaris's habit.

Generally she's too stoned to walk by the end of the day. She was never that

suitable a candidate for head of the Sorcerers Guild really, but there wasn't

a better one available, much to the chagrin of Deputy Consul Cicerius.

Suitable or not, it was a relief for the Deputy Consul, the Consul and the

King to have a Turanian elected. It guarantees us help from all the Sorcerers

in the west should we come under attack from the Orcs again, which we will,

sooner or later.

'Have you heard of the Sorcerer's green jewel?'

I shake my head.

T never made it past apprentice. My sorcerous knowledge has a lot of gaps.'

'Not many people have heard of it,' continues Lisutaris. 'It's what you might

call a state secret. Even I was unaware of its existence till I became privy

to government secrets after my election as head of the Guild.

The green jewel is Turai's guarantee against unexpected invasion. In the hands

of a powerful Sorcerer, the jewel acts as an all-seeing eye. No matter how

private the Orcs might try to keep their affairs, we will always be able to

tell when they're massing armies against us. So it's an important piece of

rock.'

I'm surprised to learn of this artefact, and a little puzzled by Lisutaris's

explanation.

'It sounds like a handy thing to have. But what do you mean, it's our only

defence against unexpected invasion? The Sorcerers Guild has plenty of spells

for giving us advance warning.'

'True. But the Orcish Sorcerers Guild has spent the last fifteen years in a

concentrated attempt to negate every one of them. There used to be twenty or

more far-seeing spells we could use. Government intelligence now indicates

that this is down to two or three. The Orcs have successfully developed

counter-spells to the rest. The Orcish Sorcerers Guild is a far more cohesive

unit than most things in the east. Even when their states have been riven by

internal wars, they've kept working away on the problem. If they come up with

counter-spells to our few remaining incantations for tracking their movements,

the green jewel will be the only thing standing between the west and

oblivion.'

This talk of Orcish wars, while uncomfortable, has got my attention. I fought

in the last one. So did Lisutaris, Gurd, and practically every other

able-bodied Turanian who was old enough to wield a blade or chant a spell. In

the climax of a savage and destructive conflict we threw them back from the

walls, but it was a close thing till the Elves arrived from the south. Without

their aid,

Turai would now be an outpost of the Orcish empire, or a pile of ruins.

'So the Orcish Sorcerers have been busy and we're now dependent on the green

jewel.'

'That's right,' says Lisutaris. 'I trust I've impressed you with the great

importance of this item?'

You have. So what about it?'

'It was entrusted to me.'

'And?'

'I lost it.'

You lost it? How?'

'I put it in my bag when I went to the chariot races. Which was not as

careless as it might sound. To use the jewel properly, it's necessary for a

Sorcerer to become very familiar with it, and learn its properties in all

circumstances. Unfortunately when I returned home it was no longer in my bag.

I think it may have dropped out when I was giving my secretary some money to

place a bet.1

'What chariot?'

'City Destroyer.'

"Bad choice. I lost a bundle on that.'

'The jewel was—'

Didn't you think there was something fishy about the way it dropped out of the

running on the last lap? I think the charioteer may have been bribed.'

'Of course I looked for it at the time but—'

'I'm not convinced that Melus the Fair was the right choice for Stadium

Sorcerer. I'm sure there's some corruption going on that she's not picking up

on—'

Lisutaris informs me coldly that she didn't come here to discuss our mutual

misfortunes at the races.

I've just lost the most important weapon in the nation's armoury and I need it

back quickly. If word of this gets out, the King will have me expelled from

the city, or possibly something worse. So I'd appreciate it if you'd start

investigating without further delay.'

'No need to get upset. I was just sharing in your misfortunes. City Destroyer

should have won that race at a canter. It's getting so a man can't make an

honest bet these days.'

I notice that the Mistress of the Sky has a threatening glint in her eye. I

get down to business.

'You'll need to tell me some more details.'

'The green jewel is set in a pendant, Elvish silverwork, quite distinctive.

However, I do not require you to do much investigating. Though I was unable to

find the pendant immediately - you will understand that I did not wish to draw

attention to my loss by performing a spell at the Stadium Superbius under the

nose of Consul Kalius - as soon as I returned home I put my powers to use. I

have now located the pendant by means of sorcery. It's being held in a tavern

next to the harbour. The Spiked Mace. Are you familiar with it?'

'Yes. It's the sort of place you'd expect stolen jewels to end up.'

'So I imagined. You will understand, Thraxas, that absolute secrecy is

necessary. I cannot allow the King, the Consul or any of my fellow Sorcerers

to learn that I have lost the jewel. That being the case, I am unable to

stride into the tavern myself and start blasting people with spells.

Explanations would be called for which I would be unwilling to provide.'

I understand well enough. In a city which hates and

fears the Ores, anyone found to have carelessly lost our most powerful

protection against them would soon find their life not worth living. It is a

shocking piece of carelessness on Lisutaris's part, though in truth it's not

surprising. Her thazis habit is so severe that bad things were bound to happen

once she ended up head of the Guild.

'Why didn't you just send someone from your household?'

'I deem it too much of a risk. Even if they were not recognised there is no

telling who might later learn of the affair. Turanian servants are not known

for their discretion. My secretary is of course absolutely loyal, but she is a

young woman of rather delicate constitution and not suitable for a task such

as this. Though I know the address where you may find the jewel, I do not know

what else you might find there.'

'Someone who really doesn't want to return it, most likely. The Spiked Mace is

the original den of thieves. Don't worry, I'll get it back.'

From Lisutaris's description of events, it seems quite possible that the thief

won't realise what he's got. He may believe he's holding nothing more than a

normal piece of dress jewellery and try to sell it as soon as possible for a

modest profit.

Lisutaris shifts uncomfortably in the sticky heat of my office. During the

winter the Mistress of the Sky, like every other Sorcerer, had warming spells

on her apparel to fight off the bitter cold, but cooling oneself by sorcery is

far more difficult. A worried expression flits across her face.

'Given that discretion is essential, you won't start throwing your legal

powers around, will you?'

I frown. I've been busy trying to forget that I had any legal powers. After

many years as a private citizen, I was unexpectedly elevated to the position

of Tribune of the People some months ago by Cicerius, the Deputy Consul. The

Tribunate, a sort of official citizens' representative, was an extinct post

till Cicerius nominated me last winter. He did this purely so I would be

granted access to the Sorcerers Assemblage. It was never his intention, or

mine, that I'd actually do anything official, but I was blackmailed into using

my Tribune's powers to halt an eviction, something which carried with it

various political ramifications. Since I'm always keen to avoid getting

involved in Turai's murky political world, I've been playing down the Tribune

bit as much as possible ever since, and have flatly refused to use the

authority of the position again, knowing that it will only land me in trouble

with some powerful party or other.

'Don't worry. The post was purely honorary. Senator Lodius forced me into

action once, but that's it.'

The position lasts for a year and I'm hoping that the last few months of my

term will run out unnoticed by all, leaving me once more a private citizen. A

man who goes around using political power in Turai needs a lot more protection

than I've got.

Lisutaris lights another thazis stick.

'You didn't gamble the jewel away, did you?'

She has the good grace to smile.

'No. I'm still wealthy. However, if the loss is made public, you will not be

the only person to make that remark. The Stadium Superbius was an unfortunate

place to lose the pendant and there has been some jealousy in certain circles

since I was elected head of the Guild.'

Lisutaris takes out her purse and lays some money on the table.

'Thirty gurans. Your standard retainer, I believe. There's one more thing. I

positively must have the jewel back quickly. In four days' time I'm holding a

masked ball at my mansion and the Crown Prince will be there, along with

Kalius and Cicerius. It is entirely likely that they will wish to view the

jewel. Consul Kalius was, I know, somewhat dubious about letting me take it

from the Palace.'

I'm not surprised. Anyone who saw Lisutaris stumbling around the Sorcerers

Assemblage in a thazis-induced stupor would have been dubious about letting

her take anything valuable home with her.

'Couldn't you cancel the ball?'

Apparently not. Lisutaris's masked ball is set to be a highlight of the social

season. I wonder what it's like to have a social season.

'I'll get it back.'

'When you have it, be certain not to stare into it.'

'Why not?'

'It's a powerful sorcerous object. Handling the pendant for a short space of

time is quite safe, but it could be hazardous for an untrained person to gaze

deeply into the green jewel. It may induce fainting, or worse.'

'I'll put it straight into my pocket.'

Lisutaris is now on to her third thazis stick. She finishes it, drops the end

in my bin, and lights another.

'How is Makri?'

Lisutaris is acquainted with Makri; she hired her to be her bodyguard at the

Sorcerers Assemblage.

'Same as usual. Busy and bad-tempered.'

'I have something for her.'

The Sorcerer hands me an envelope. Makri's name is written on it in the fancy

script of a professional scribe. I promise to pass it on. I'm curious, but I

figure it's none of my business, so after Lisutaris leaves I dump it in

Makri's room. Then I douse myself with water to get rid of the last effects of

the alcohol and thazis, and strap on my sword. Finally I load one spell - the

most I can comfortably manage - into my memory and head out into the streets.

Outside, the knife sharpener and the fish vendor are still arguing. It's bound

to end in violence.

CHAPTER

THREE

At the foot of the stairs, I run into Moxalan, younger son of Honest Mox the

bookmaker. Only son I should say, as his older sibling succumbed to an

overdose of dwa last winter, around the same time that Minarixa the baker also

died of an overdose. I miss the baker terribly. Life isn't the same without

her pastries. I don't miss Mox's son, but as I do a lot of trade with the

bookmaker, it's as well to be civil to his family.

Moxalan is around nineteen, open-faced and friendly, not yet having taken on

the mean and cunning look of the hardened bookmaker. His tunic is plain but

well cut and his sandals are expensive enough to let anyone know that his

father's business isn't doing badly. We exchange greetings and he tells me

that he's here to ask Makri for help with some theories of architecture, which

makes no sense to me.

'Theories of architecture?'

'For the Guild College. We're in the same class. I missed a lecture so I want

Makri's notes.'

I didn't know Honest Mox was sending his younger son to Guild College, though

it's not really a surprise. A man who's raking in as much cash as Mox can

afford the fees, and Mox, as a bookmaker, has very low social status in the

city. It's not uncommon for men of low

status who find themselves wealthy to try and improve the family lot by

educating their sons and getting them into the civil service, or something

similar.

'Not entering the family business, then?'

He shakes his head.

'I help out a little, but my father wants me to better myself. Is Makri in the

tavern?'

'Yes. She's working.'

Moxalan is confident that Makri will have a full set of notes from the course.

'She's the best student. Much better than me. Did you know she's top of every

class?'

I didn't. Makri probably mentioned it but I don't pay that much attention. I

notice that Moxalan's face goes a little dopey as he mentions Makri's name. I

recognise the symptom. Young men, on seeing Makri's impressive figure crammed

into two barely adequate strips of chain-mail, tend to forget that their

mothers want them to marry a sensible girl from a good family and their

fathers warned them to stay away from women with Orcish blood. Even the Elves

were impressed, and it's next door to taboo for Elves to be impressed by

anything remotely connected to the Orcs. What these young men don't realise is

that their mothers were right. Life with Makri would be hell, no matter how

fabulous they think her figure is. She'll never shake off the effects of

growing up as a gladiator. At the first sign of a domestic argument, Makri

would very likely behead her husband and paint her face with his blood.

'I thought she'd be with you,' says Moxalan.

'Why?'

'Because of the warning.'

Again I don't know what he's talking about. Moxalan explains that he's heard

about Dandelion warning me of a bloodbath. In a place like Twelve Seas,

rumours travel fast. I'm aggravated, and not just because I don't like my

private business becoming the stuff of gossip. The implication seems to be

that if I'm heading into danger I need Makri to protect me. As if I didn't get

along fine for years before she arrived.

'Don't worry about me,' I grunt, and take my leave.

The Spiked Mace is an unpleasant little establishment close to the harbour,

full of drunken sailors and unruly stevedores. Unlike many of the local

taverns, it's not owned by the Brotherhood, the criminal gang that controls

most of the crime south of the river. Which is good news for me. If I tried to

remove stolen loot from the Brotherhood, they'd be down on me like a bad

spell. Most likely I'll find the pendant in the hands of some petty thief

who'll be keen to sell it as soon as possible to raise money for his next dose

of dwa. If the guy is desperate enough and lets me have it cheap, I might even

make a profit on the deal. Hell, Lisutaris isn't going to gripe over a few

gurans, not with the wealth she has, and her huge villa in Thamlin. It's a

simple job and shouldn't involve much thought, which is just as well, as the

heat makes thinking an arduous business.

As usual, contact with a member of the Turanian aristocracy has left me

envious of their wealth. I've always been poor. A few years ago I worked my

way up to a nice job as Senior Investigator at the Palace, with a big office,

a nice home and lackeys to do the work. Then I drank myself out of the job. My

father always said I'd come to nothing. So far I've been unable to prove him

wrong.

The sun beats down. The streets are as hot as Orcish hell, and inside the

Spiked Mace it's worse. The heat mingles with the smell of rancid ale and

burning dwa. Thazis smoke drifts over the tables. The wooden beams overhead

are blackened with age. The prostitute who patrols the area with red ribbons

in her hair strives vainly to interest the largely inebriated clientele.

There's a woman on the floor who looks like she might be dead. I shake my

head. This is about as low as life gets. No civilised person would visit this

tavern.

'Thraxas! We were wondering where you'd got to.' I come here occasionally.

Mainly in the line of business. The barman, and owner of the establishment, is

Gavarax, one-time captain of his own fighting trireme till he was kicked out

of the navy for failing to hand over booty to the King. He's dark-skinned and

has a scar stretching from chin to eyebrow, a result of some naval encounter

which he's not shy of bragging about when the old salts get to remembering the

old days. Taking a beer merely to be polite, I ask him if there's been anyone

in trying to sell a stolen jewel. Gavarax isn't the sort of man who'd give

information to the Civil Guard, but he knows me well enough to pass on

anything that won't get him into trouble, providing there's something in it

for him.

Gavarax waits till the customer at the bar - a docker, from his red bandanna,

but not one who's planning on working in the next week or two - departs

unsteadily with his drink before leaning over to inform me quietly that

actually, yes, there was a man of that sort. I slide a few gurans over the

bar.

'He's upstairs now in the private room. With a couple of others. Never seen

them before.'

I make to leave. Gavarax grabs my arm.

'If you're going to kill anyone, go easy on the furniture.'

Making my way through the smoky, noisy room to the stairs at the back, I'm

thinking that this case is going to be even easier than I anticipated. I climb

the stairs and wait outside the room, listening. Not a sound. I boot the door

open and march in, sleep spell ready, in case anyone is planning on resisting.

There are four men in the room, but they're not going to do much resisting.

Three of them are dead and the other one looks like he'll be joining them

soon. Each one stabbed. It makes for a very large puddle of blood. I bend over

the only one who's still breathing, albeit shallowly.

'What happened?'

He tries to look at me, but his eyes won't focus.

'I was on a beautiful golden ship,' he whispers. Then he coughs up some blood

and dies.

As last words go, they're fairly strange. I file them away for later

consideration and look round the room. The window at the back is open and

there's blood on the sill. There's an alleyway outside and it's not too far to

the ground. No problem making a getaway, though I'm wondering quite what sort

of person it was who got away. Obviously a person or persons capable of taking

care of themselves. The dead men are all wearing swords. Petty thieves aren't

necessarily trained fighters, but it's never that easy to kill four armed

opponents.

Moving quickly, I start searching the bodies. They're still warm. I've handled

plenty of corpses in my time but I don't enjoy it. I recognise one of them.

Axaten, a petty thief, often worked at the Stadium Superbius, picking up

whatever he could from careless race-goers. I don't recognise the other three.

None of them has the pendant. All I find are a few coins in their purses. No

tattoos, nothing identifying them as belonging to any organisation. I search

the room, again without results. .

I look down into the alley. An easy enough drop for a lighter person maybe,

but with my bulk I'm not keen to try it out. Besides, there's the matter of

four corpses to consider. I'd like nothing better than to leave them here and

sneak out, but there's no point. Gavarax isn't going to cover for me. As soon

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THRAXASandtheDANCEOFDEATHMartinScottCHAPTERONEIt'ssummer.It'shot.Thecitystinks.I'vejustbeendescribedasaliarincourtandsubjectedtoastreamofhostileinvectivethatwouldhavemadeastatueflinch.Fundsarelow,I'mshortofworkandbadlyinneedofbeer.Life,ingeneral,istough.It'snotimeformyidiotcompanionMakritobecomplain...

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Martin Scott - Thraxas 6 - Thraxas and the Dance of Death

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