Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Dance of Death

“I won’t do it,” she says. “It’s not fair.”

I’m panting for breath. I feel like I’m about to die for lack of air. I’ve never been so hot. I pick up my water ewer and take a great draught. It’s stale and warm. I offer some to Makri. She drinks it awkwardly.

“Did I pass the examination?” she asks.

Some of her natural expression has returned to her face. Abruptly she shakes her head and looks alert.

“What happened?”

I pick up the pendant from the floor.

“You looked into the jewel.”

An expression of huge disappointment settles on her features.

“Am I not really captain of the armies?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Oh. I thought I was. It was good. We destroyed everything.”

Makri drinks some more water and pours the last of it over her face.

“Did I pass the examination?”

“You haven’t taken it yet. You’ve been confused from the jewel.”

“I haven’t taken it?”

Makri’s shoulders droop. She looks almost comically glum.

“No examination pass. No captain of the armies. Of course. I’m just a waitress. What a lousy day.”

By now I’m busy putting a little lotion on my cut fingers, a preparation made by Chiaraxi the local healer which is very good on wounds.

“Did I do that?” asks Makri.

“Yes. But I wasn’t really fighting properly. I was just letting you burn yourself out. Naturally I didn’t want to take advantage of your weakened state.”

“I think I have an accurate memory of our combat,” says Makri. All over the floor are the shards of my broken sword. I change the subject.

“Why were you looking in the drawer?”

“For money,” says Makri.

“Of course. I should have known. Feel free to regard my money as your own.”

“I was putting on a bet for both of us,” says Makri, but she doesn’t seem inclined to engage in our normal bickering. Instead she hauls herself to her feet, heavily, worn out from the effect of the jewel. Sweat has dampened her huge mane of hair and her pointed ears show through.

“Thanks for not killing me anyway,” she says. Then she kisses me lightly on the cheek and slips out of the room.

“You’re welcome,” I say, to the door.

The pendant is dangling in my hand. It’s a pretty thing, Elvish silverwork and a green gem of moderate size, well cut and sparkling in the few rays of sunlight that penetrate the drawn blinds of my office. This jewel is deadly. Anything other than a quick glance can suck you in. I’m tempted, but I don’t succumb. I tear a scrap of cloth off an old tunic that serves as a towel, wrap it round the jewel then put it in my bag. It’s time to take it to Lisutaris before it does any more harm.

As the rush of excitement brought on by combat fades, I find myself feeling well satisfied. You hire Thraxas to find a missing pendant and what happens? He finds your missing pendant. Whilst malevolent Sorcerers, evil killers, gangsters by the score and a whole army of government lackeys waste their energy in a fruitless search, I, Thraxas, have located the pendant without the help of sorcery or the assistance of a well-staffed intelligence service. Just solid, professional investigating and the willingness to do an honest day’s work. There was something inevitable about it. It was more or less bound to happen. You have a problem? Call on Thraxas. This man delivers. In all of Turai, I doubt there’s another person who could have retrieved the pendant.

There’s a knock on my door. Avenaris, Lisutaris’s secretary, walks into my office.

“Lisutaris has retrieved the pendant,” she says.

I raise my eyebrows a fraction.

“Really?”

“Yes. This morning. She sent me to tell you to stop looking. And to pay you.”

Avenaris lays some money on my desk. As always, behind her small, measured movements I can sense tension. She wants to get out of here as quickly as possible.

“How did Lisutaris locate the pendant?”

“She didn’t tell me.”

“Weren’t you curious?”

“I should leave now. Be sure not to mention anything of this affair to anyone.”

“Sure. We wouldn’t want to raise any suspicions among the few people who don’t know all about it already.”

As ever, I’m curious about this nervous young woman whom Lisutaris is extremely keen to protect.

“You know anything about how the pendant went missing in the first place?” I demand.

“What?”

“You heard me. One minute you’re looking after Lisutaris’s bag, the next the pendant’s gone missing. That always struck me as odd.”

“I don’t know why Lisutaris hired such a man as you,” blurts Avenaris.

“Because I’m good at noticing things. I notice when people are more nervous than they should be. Why is Lisutaris so keen to protect you? Do you need protecting?”

“No.”

“Lisutaris treat you well?”

“Lisutaris has always been very kind to me. I have to go now.”

The tic on her face has started up again. I notice how skinny she is. Skinnier than Makri even. Not a young woman who enjoys her food. Not a woman who enjoys anything much, from the look of her. A memory floats into my mind. Young Barius, lying on the couch, gasping.

“Anyone ever call you Vee, Avenaris?” I say, abruptly.

The tic goes into overdrive. Avenaris puts her hand to her face to cover it. For a second I think she’s going to faint.

“No!” she says. “Stop questioning me! Lisutaris told you not to.”

With that she runs from my office. I’m still weighing up the implications of our encounter when Sarin breezes in, this time not pointing a crossbow at me.

“I’m disappointed,” I say.

“At what?”

“I hoped you’d died when the warehouse collapsed.”

“I didn’t,” says Sarin. She’s not one for banter.

“What do you want?”

“I have a pendant to sell.”

“A pendant?”

“Belonging to Lisutaris. I have recovered it. I had planned to sell it to Horm. Circumstances have now changed and I am prepared to sell it to either Lisutaris or the government, using you as an agent.”

Lisutaris has the pendant. Now Sarin also has the pendant. Obviously they’re both lying because I have the pendant. I spin Sarin along a little, trying to find out what she’s up to.

“Circumstances have changed? Let me guess. Horm the Dead suspects you of double-crossing him and offering the pendant to Glixius Dragon Killer. Now you’re worried you might find yourself on the wrong end of a heart attack spell.”

No reaction from Sarin.

“What makes you think I’d act as your go-between?”

“You did before,” says Sarin, which is true, though circumstances were different.

Sarin’s price is five thousand gurans.

“Worth it to Lisutaris, to save her skin.”

“Maybe, Sarin. But one day you’re going to come to grief, meddling with the affairs of Sorcerers. They’re not all going to fall for you like Tas of the Eastern Lightning. What did you do to him? A simple stab in the back?”

“Something like that,” replies Sarin the Merciless. “Lisutaris has till tomorrow to come up with the money. Which she’d better do. My next approach will be to the Palace itself. They’ll pay well to keep the pendant from the Orcs.”

“It doesn’t worry you, selling state secrets to the enemy?”

“Not at all.”

“If the Orcs invade the west, I doubt they’ll spare you.”

Sarin looks at me quite blankly, and I get the sudden odd impression that she’d welcome death. Unwilling to engage in further conversation, she slips quietly from my office, leaving me to mull over her offer. I find myself admiring her nerve. She doesn’t even have the pendant, yet here she is, still trying to profit from the affair.