Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Dance of Death

“I am tough.”

“With a sword, yes. With down-and-outs, not nearly tough enough.”

“Doesn’t your religion say you should be kind to the poor?” counters Makri.

“Probably. I never learned much about it.”

“What about your three prayers a day? What are you praying for?”

“Self-advancement, same as everyone else.”

“I’m glad I don’t have a religion,” says Makri.

“That’s because you’re a Barbarian who grew up without the benefit of a proper education.”

“I’m educated enough not to continue with this conversation, you fat hypocrite,” says Makri.

She produces two thazis sticks which she’s stolen from behind the bar. We light one each and smoke them in silence. Relaxed from the effects of the thazis, I describe today’s events.

“All in all, another disaster.”

“How many dead does that make?” asks Makri.

“Twenty-one. But there’s every indication that there’s more to come. So I figure we should place a few bets somewhere around the thirty mark, and maybe take a punt at forty, just in case things really get rough.”

“Pardon?” says Makri.

“Of course, you’ll have to put the bet on for me. Moxalan isn’t going to accept a wager from me, he’d disqualify me for having too much inside information.”

Makri is looking baffled.

“I’m getting the feeling I’ve missed something again. You’ve spent the last two days berating me for gambling on your investigation, and now you’re telling me I have to place a bet on your behalf? What changed?”

“Nothing.”

“What about the ethical problems?”

“I leave ethics to the philosophers. Lisutaris wants to put money on, you’d better do that as well.”

“Okay. As long as I can hide in your rooms from Dandelion.”

“If you must. I may need to borrow a little money.”

“What about all the money Lisutaris gave you?”

“I used it to pay the rent and buy a case of klee.”

“I don’t have any money to spare,” claims Makri.

“Yes you do. You’ve been putting away your tips to pay for your examinations and I happen to know you’ve more than a hundred gurans secreted in your room for that purpose.”

“How dare you—”

I hold up my hand.

“Before you launch into a diatribe, I might remind you that it wasn’t too long ago I found you trying to steal the emergency fifty-guran coin I was keeping under my couch. Furthermore, I’ve helped you out with money on numerous occasions, not to mention steering you in the right direction when it came to placing several astute wagers, so get off your moral high horse and make with the money. With my inside information and your cash we’re on to a certainty, and you’ll win enough money to pay for your examinations this year and next year and probably buy a new axe as well.”

“Well, all right,” says Makri, “but don’t ever lecture me about anything again.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Are you any closer to actually recovering the pendant?”

“No. It’s frustrating. I thought it was going to be easy. Sorcerers. You can’t trust them.”

The heat makes me drowsy. When Makri goes back to work I don’t fight the urge to go to sleep. I waken hungry and head downstairs to fill up with Tanrose’s stew. I hope she’s patched things up with Gurd. I depend so completely on her cooking that I dread her leaving the tavern. Moxalan is in the bar and Makri gives me a discreet nod, indicating that she’s placed our bet.

Despite the usual hubbub from the early-evening customers, something seems to be missing. No friendly aroma of stew. No smell of food at all. A strange sensation washes over me and I find myself trembling, something that’s never happened even in the face of the most deadly opponent. I fear the worst.

“Where’s Tanrose? Where’s the food?”

“She left,” says Gurd, and draws a pint with such viciousness that the beer pump nearly disintegrates in his hand.

“What about the food?”

“Tanrose left,” repeats Gurd, slamming the tankard down in front of an alarmed customer.

“Did she leave any food?”

“No. She just left.”

“Why?”

“Makri told her to.”

“What?”

“I did not tell her to leave,” says Makri.

My trembling is getting worse.

“Someone tell me what happened!” I yell. “Where has Tanrose gone?”

“Back to her mother,” says Gurd, flatly. “Makri told her to.”

“This is a really inaccurate description of events,” protests Makri. “I merely suggested that she take a little time to sort out her feelings for Gurd and then speak to him frankly.”

Gurd sags like a man with a fatal wound. I get the urge to bury my face in my hands.

“What happened then?”

“She told me she was fed up with working for a man who was too mean-spirited to appreciate the things she did for him,” groans Gurd. “Then she packed her bags and left.”

Makri studies the floor around her feet.

“It wasn’t the result I was expecting,” she says.

“Why couldn’t you leave well alone?” I yell at her. “Now look what you’ve done! Tanrose has gone!”

Makri looks exasperated.

“I was only trying to help. Like you suggested.”

“Thraxas suggested it?” says Gurd.

“I did no such thing. Makri, you vile Orcish wench, do you realise what you’ve done?”

Makri’s mouth opens wide in shock.

“Did you just call me a vile Orcish wench?”

“I did. And of all the ridiculous things you’ve done since you arrived here to plague us, this is the worst. Now Gurd will be as miserable as a Niojan whore for the rest of his life and I’ll starve to death.”

“Why couldn’t you leave things alone?” cries Gurd.

After my Orcish slur Makri’s first impulse was to reach for her sword, but faced with fresh criticism from Gurd she’s confused.

“I was just trying to—”

Dandelion suddenly arrives and throws herself into the conversation.

“Thraxas, I have terrible news.”

“I’ve already heard,” I say. “We have to bring her back.”

“Who?”

“Tanrose, of course.”

“Has she left?” says Dandelion.

“Of course. It’s terrible news.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? This woman cooks the best stew in Turai.”

Dandelion sniffs.

“I do not partake of the flesh of animals,” she says.

I raise my fist.

“Don’t you dare punch Dandelion,” says Makri, getting in between us.

“Maybe I should punch you.”

“Just try it.”

Makri raises her hands and sinks into her defensive posture.

“I can’t live without Tanrose,” says Gurd. I’ve never heard him sounding so distressed. I once pulled three arrows out of his ribs and he never so much as complained.

“You’re not listening to my news,” says Dandelion.

“If it’s something to do with the stars, I’m not interested.”

“But the stars are sacred!”

“I’m not interested.”

There’s no putting the woman off. Dandelion is practically jumping up and down in her frenzied eagerness to tell me something.

“The most serious of warnings! Last night there were flashes in the sky the like of which I’ve never seen!”

“So?”

“It was as if the skies above the beach were on fire!”

“Will you stop giving me warnings? They’ve already caused enough trouble.”

Dandelion looks hurt. She fingers her necklace—a ridiculous affair made of seashells—and mumbles something about only trying to help. Voices are raised everywhere as people now seek to give their opinions on the various topics on offer. Gurd, Makri and myself all find ourselves bombarded with suggestions. Most people seem to think that Gurd should go and propose marriage to Tanrose immediately, but there’s a vocal faction who want to know if it’s true that Lisutaris has promised to kill anyone who gets in the way of her illicit love affair.