Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Dance of Death

“Fabulously expensive,” agrees Lisutaris. “But with the amount of rain we have in Turai, nothing else will do.”

Lisutaris turns sharply to Makri.

“Why has Captain Rallee placed a bet on me dying?” she demands. “Has he some inside information?”

Makri doesn’t think so, but Lisutaris is troubled. Maybe it’s the thazis. Overuse can lead to feelings of paranoia. I ask Makri casually if many people are betting money on me dying.

“Hundreds of people,” answers Makri. “It’s a strong favourite. The moment the Brotherhood got involved, money started pouring in.”

“I’m damned if I’m going to die just to win money for a lot of degenerates in the Avenging Axe. You think the Brotherhood worries me? Anyway, I thought this betting was just on the body count?”

Makri shrugs.

“It sort of grew. Moxalan was getting so many enquiries he had to take on an assistant and widen his range.”

The carriage pulls up and we climb out into the dusty street. Lisutaris is clad in her rainbow cloak. Possibly fatalistic by now, she makes no attempt to disguise herself as we stride into the Rampant Unicorn, a tavern on the outskirts of Kushni where, I’m told, Barius is often to be found. It’s yet another appalling den of iniquity, and at the sight of the head of the Sorcerers Guild striding through the doors, the place goes quiet. Several customers, presuming that Lisutaris must be here on official business, and whatever this business is it can’t be good for them, scurry for cover as the Mistress of the Sky heads towards the bar.

“I am looking for a young man by the name of Barius,” she says.

“He’s upstairs,” blurts the barman, quaking as he imagines the effect a spell from a disgruntled Sorcerer might have on him.

“This way,” says Lisutaris, leading myself and Makri up the stairs. She’s looking pleased with herself.

“I have never investigated anything before. It does not seem to be overly difficult.”

I stifle a sarcastic response, and follow Lisutaris to one of four doors that lead off the upstairs corridor. Lisutaris tries the first door. Finding it locked, she mutters a minor word of power and it springs open. Inside the private room we find a stout man in a toga in the embrace of a woman who’s young enough to be his granddaughter, but probably isn’t a relation.

“I beg your pardon, Senator Alesius,” says Lisutaris grandly, and leads us back into the corridor.

“Well, that spoiled his afternoon’s entertainment,” I say. “The thing about investigating, you don’t just barge through the first door you come to.”

“And how did you expect me to choose?”

“It’s a matter of experience and intuition,” I explain. “You develop it after a few years in the business.”

“Very well,” says Lisutaris, motioning to the three remaining doors. “Which do you recommend?”

I select the door on the left. Lisutaris again mutters a word of power and it springs open. Inside we find a well-dressed middle-aged woman with plenty of jewels and a younger man, naked, who looks like he might be a professional athlete, both of them very busy with a pipe full of dwa.

“I beg your pardon, Marwini,” says Lisutaris, and withdraws from the room, quite elegantly. Makri and I stumble out after her, rather embarrassed at the whole thing.

“Who was that?”

“Praetor Capatius’s wife,” says Lisutaris. “Really, I had no idea. One always understood that they were a contented couple. Only last week she informed me over a glass of wine that she had never felt happier with her husband.”

“Probably because he’s coming home less.”

“Is this sort of behaviour standard all over Kushni?”

“Pretty standard,” I reply. “Though they might have to find a new place to misbehave if you keep using spells to open doors.”

“I want to pick the next room,” says Makri.

Inside the next room we find Barius. He’s lying semiconscious on a couch. The room stinks of dwa. From the overpowering aroma and general squalidness of the situation, I’d say he’d been lying here for a few days.

“I picked the right room,” says Makri, happily.

“You only had two doors to choose from.”

“That’s not the point. You were wrong and I was right.”

“It’s completely the point. The odds were entirely different.”

“Do you two never stop bickering?” says Lisutaris. “Here is your suspect. What do you do now?”

“Waken him up, if that’s possible.”

There’s a pitcher of stale water beside the couch. I take a lesada leaf from the small bag on my belt and try getting Barius to swallow it. It’s a difficult process and I’m careful in case Barius chooses this moment to vomit. Finally I succeed in making him swallow the leaf.

“Now we wait. Lisutaris, please lock the door again.”

Elvish lesada leaves are extremely efficient in cleansing the system of any noxious substances. They’re hard to get hold of in the Human lands and normally I’d be reluctant to waste one on a dwa addict who’s only going to fill himself full of dwa again at the first opportunity, but I don’t have time to wait for Barius to come round naturally. A few minutes after he’s swallowed the leaf, the colour is returning to his skin and his pupils are reverting to their normal size. He coughs, and struggles to rise. I give him more water.

“Who are you?”

“Thraxas. Investigator.”

“Investigator . . . from Ve . . . Vee. . . .” he gasps.

“No. Not from the Venarius Agency. I’m independent and I can help you.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to ask you a few questions.”

Possibly the lesada leaf has done its job too well. Barius has regained some youthful vigour and defiance.

“Go to hell,” he says, and struggles to rise from the couch. I place my arm on his shoulder and hold him down. Makri is by my side. I can sense her impatience. If Barius has any information that can help to clear her name, she’s not going to let him leave the room without imparting it. Lisutaris meanwhile looks bored, and in the sordid, foul-smelling room, less like she’s having a good time.

I ask Barius if he knew about the theft of the money at the Guild College. He gives an impression of a young man too confused by dwa addiction to know much about anything. I’m about to make some threats about telling his father and all his snooty relatives just what he gets up to in his spare time when Makri’s patience snaps.

Makri has two swords with her, one Elvish and gleaming and one Orcish and dark. She brought the Orcish blade from the gladiator pits and received the Elvish sword as a gift from the Elves on Avula. Both fine weapons, as fine as any held by anyone in Turai. Either one would fetch enough at auction to pay for Makri’s classes for a year or more, but Makri will never sell a weapon. She draws both of her swords. The light from the torch on the wall reflects brightly off the Elvish blade, but the Orcish sword seems to absorb light. It’s a vile weapon, and caused great offence to the Elves when Makri took it to their islands. Makri deftly positions the black Orcish sword under Barius’s chin.

“Tell us about the money or I’ll kill you right now,” she says.

Barius realises she’s serious. He looks at me fearfully, waiting for me to protect him. I look up at the ceiling. Makri pushes her sword forward. A trickle of blood appears on Barius’s throat. Barius cringes backwards, then tries to shrug as if unconcerned.

“So I took five gurans from a locker. Who cares?”

“I do, you cusux,” says Makri, raising her sword. “For the price of a shot of dwa, you’d ruin my life?”

I raise my hand to block Makri’s arm.

“It’s okay, we’ve got what we came for. We can go.”