Martin Scott - Thraxas at the races

It turns out to be Carilis, the not very friendly employee whom we met yesterday in Ferias, looking after Sarija. She has mud all over her fancy black boots and water drips from her elegant blue cloak.

She strides in and looks around with disapproval. “What a mess.”

“If I knew you were coming I’d have had it cleaned.”

“How can you live in such squalor? It’s disgusting.”

I glare at her. I’m starting to feel some disgust myself.

“Did you just come here to lecture me about the state of my office?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Some people are too polite. The rest are in too much trouble to care.”

“Well, I find it very offputting. You should do something about it.”

“I will. I’ll throw you out on your ear if you don’t get down to business. What do you want?”

She stares at me like I’m something that just crawled out from under a rock, but swallows the rest of her criticism and gets down to business.

“Mursius’s belongings.”

“What about them?”

“He’s hired you to find them?”

“Maybe.”

She leans over the desk and drops a scrap of paper in front of me.

“You’ll find them there if you hurry,” she says. She rises swiftly and departs without a backward glance.

I look at the paper. It has an address written on it. One of the old warehouses next to the docks.

I find my magic dry cloak. This case might be even easier than I thought.

The rain has halted and a hot breeze blows in from the sea, raising steam from the streets. The stals, the small black birds that infest the city, risk a few chirrups and venture from their perches high up on the tenement roofs. In the Hot Rainy Season they usually hang around looking miserable like everyone else.

When I’m halfway down Quintessence Street I realise I haven’t had any breakfast. I’m hungry. It strikes me that it will soon be time for prayers. I hurry through the mud, keen to get indoors before Sabam, the call for morning prayers which rings out through the city as regularly as clockwork every morning. It’s a legal obligation for all citizens to kneel and pray, no matter where they are. Anyone found not complying is charged with impiety, and there’s no way round it. Naturally, most citizens take care to be in some suitable place, but if you happen to be in the street at the time, then you have to pray there. Three times a day. It gets me down. It could be worse. Up in Nioj, where things are much more strict, they have six prayer calls a day. Last time I was there on a case my knees ached for a month.

I make it to the harbour and head for the warehouse. Unfortunately, before I reach it, the call rings out from the tower of the nearest church and I am obliged to kneel and pray. I’m seething with frustration. This sort of thing makes it hard to be an Investigator. If anything is going on in that warehouse, the culprit will have plenty of time to cover it up before I arrive.

All around the dock workers are kneeling down so I can’t risk ignoring the call. I’d be reported for sure and hauled in front of the special clerical court for impious behaviour. Bishop Gzekius, head of the True Church locally, would relish the chance to send me away for a long trip on a prison galley. He hasn’t forgiven me for putting a stop to some nefarious operations he was engaged in earlier this year.

As I’m kneeling, the rain starts again. I pull my cloak tighter around me and wonder how anyone is meant to pray in such circumstances. Finally prayers are over. I hurry towards the warehouse and step inside. The interior is set up with pens and feeding troughs for receiving livestock but the warehouse is empty. I follow my instincts and mount the metal staircase to where the manager’s office should be. I find the office, but there’s no sign of any manager. No sign of anyone at all.

The door is locked. I bark out the common opening spell and it springs open. I walk in. It’s dark apart from a narrow shaft of light coming through the shutters. I wrench them open. Light floods in, and I look around me. The room is full of artwork. Nine or ten sculptures, a few paintings and what looks like a very fine old antique chest inlaid with gold and ivory. I nod. I can’t help feeling some satisfaction. When it comes to investigating I’m number one chariot for sure. Hire Thraxas to find your missing works of art, and what happens? He finds your missing works of art the very next day.

It looks like quality goods. There’s a small statue of an Elf Maiden which might even be by Xixias, the famed Turanian sculptor who lived in the last century and whose work is now highly prized. I glance at the paintings. High quality again. One catches my eye immediately. It’s the painting Mursius was most keen to get back. It depicts a group of young men, one of whom is Mursius. He’s in the uniform of a Captain and he’s standing with a group of other soldiers, all in dress uniform with swords at their hips and long spears over their shoulders. The inscription on the bottom reads: Officers of the King’s Fourth Regiment after the successful defence of Turai against the Orc Invaders .

I was there as well, doing my share of defending. No one painted me afterwards.

If I’d prepared for this eventuality I might have been able to load some carrying spell into my mind enabling me to take this lot home with me. But I didn’t. Which means I need some form of transport, and quick. I hurry out of the warehouse and look around. The dockers are unloading crates of what looks like Elvish wine from a small vessel tied up in the dock. I approach the foreman, a man I know slightly from drinking in the Avenging Axe. I ask him if I can hire his wagon.

He shakes his head. I take out ten gurans. He shakes his head again. I take out another ten. He tells his men it’s time to take a break.

“Have it back in half an hour,” he says, and pockets his twenty gurans. That’s quite a sum for hiring a wagon, but I’m sure Senator Mursius won’t mind the expense. As I’m leading the horse-drawn vehicle back towards the warehouse I suddenly sense something unusual. Nothing I can name, just unusual. I halt, trying to identify it. Sorcery? I can’t tell, it’s too faint for my senses. A clap of thunder overhead breaks my concentration but the feeling returns as soon as I re-enter the warehouse and it quickly gets stronger. Everything looks the same but I know that something has happened. This place reeks of sorcery. I draw my sword and tread softly up the stairs.

I pause outside the office door. My senses are going crazy. I take a deep breath and kick the door with all my might then charge in with my sword raised. There’s no one inside. The room is empty. And when I say empty I mean empty. Of the sculptures and paintings, there is no sign. Damn.

I swear out loud. In the few minutes I’ve been outside I’ve been outsmarted by a Sorcerer. I vent my frustration by kicking a cupboard door. It swings open slowly, propelled by some weight behind it. I watch with horror as a body slumps forward to lie sprawled at my feet. It’s Senator Mursius. Blood seeps out of a wound in his back. He’s dead.

I stand there staring stupidly at the corpse, trying to work out what’s happened. Suddenly heavy boots sound from outside, thundering up the stairs. There’s no time to flee and nowhere to hide. A platoon of Civil Guards bursts into the office. As soon as they see me standing beside the body they surround me, swords drawn. Their Captain bends down and examines the body.

“It’s Senator Mursius!” he exclaims.

I’m arrested on the spot. Within a minute I’m in the back of a covered Guard wagon on my way to the main Twelve Seas Civil Guard station.

“You’re in serious trouble,” mutters one of the Guards.