Martin Scott - Thraxas at the races

“Thank you, Cicerius. What now?”

“Now we have an appointment with Makri at the Avenging Axe. Come.”

He leads me to his official wagon, which takes us slowly through the sodden streets of Twelve Seas.

“She is an interesting woman,” says the Deputy Consul, suddenly.

“Who?”

“Makri. Is that her only name?”

“As far as I know.”

“I had planned to introduce a bill banishing all people with Orc blood from the city. They only cause trouble and are rarely loyal citizens. But I may delay it for a while.”

Somehow this doesn’t surprise me. Makri has this odd attribute of making herself popular with the most unlikely people. I used to put it down merely to the sight of her bursting out of her chainmail bikini, but it seems to go further than that. Cicerius has no known track record of being impressed by any young woman’s shape, but already he seems to have taken to her.

We pull up at the Avenging Axe. Vendors still grimly try to sell their cheap wares and the prostitutes still ply their trade with any soul brave enough to face the weather. The beggars, having nowhere else to go, still sit in useless misery in the mud, homeless, hopeless, deformed, a sight to raise pity in anyone’s breast, anyone apart from the entire population of Twelve Seas, who see it every day.

To my annoyance Kerk chooses this moment to waylay me. Kerk deals dwa but he uses far too much of his own product. He’s around thirty, gaunt, with large eyes, possibly displaying a faint trace of Elvish blood, no doubt the result of some distant union of an Elvish visitor and a Twelve Seas whore. Even Elves have to enjoy themselves sometime, I suppose, when they’re not sitting in trees singing about stars and rainbows.

Cicerius looks on with disapproval as the bedraggled Kerk plants himself in front of me. I tell him I can’t talk now but if he comes across any of Mursius’s missing works of art I’ll be interested to hear about it. I give him a small coin, which he glances at with disgust before tramping off through the mud and rain.

Makri is waiting for us inside. She looks pleased with herself.

“Thanks for the lawyer. Did you put on the bet?”

She nods. I make a fast trip to the bar. Deputy Consul or not, I haven’t eaten properly all day. Bread and cheese are nowhere near enough to satisfy the healthy appetite of a man my size. And I haven’t had a beer for more hours than I care to think about. I order a fair selection from Tanrose’s dinner menu and a “Happy Guildsman” jumbo-sized tankard of ale, and then proceed to get them inside me as quickly as I can.

Cicerius is more accustomed to the Senate and the law courts than Twelve Seas and is uncomfortable in the public bar. Everyone is staring at him, wondering what an important man like him is doing here. He insists that we retreat to my office immediately. I nod, but stop off on the way for another “Happy Guildsman.” You can’t expect me to function properly if you starve me of beer. It just can’t be done.

[Contents]

Chapter Seven

Cicerius’s crisp white toga stands out like a beacon in the shabby surroundings of my office.

“To business,” he declares. “I need the services of a man who has experience of the seamier side of this city, someone who also has a knowledge of chariot racing and all its mechanisms. You qualify for that, I believe.”

“Absolutely.”

“Since our recent encounter, Thraxas, I have looked into your career. I find that though you were a notably bad student as a Sorcerer, and have rarely held down a regular job, you did serve well in the Army. Senator Mursius himself spoke highly of your fighting qualities.

“It is unfortunate,” he continues, fixing me with the sort of stare that can terrify an opponent in court, “that you could not apply yourself properly in the rest of your life. Your time as Senior Investigator at the Palace was continually marred by periods of drunkenness and insubordination, of which I myself have seen evidence. And where has such behaviour got you?” He gestures round at the squalor of my office. “Do you not even have a servant to clean for you?”

I can’t afford a servant, but I’m not going to admit that to Cicerius. I remain silent.

“Well, it is your affair. If you choose to squander your talents instead of using them for the good of our nation, no one can prevent you. But I think that you might be of use to me, and I wish to hire you.”

He addresses Makri. “I believe that you may also be of service. I understand that you speak fluent Orcish, both Common Orcish and the pidgin Orcish spoken in the Wastelands?”

Makri nods. Her eyes narrow at the mention of Orcs.

The Deputy Consul turns back to me. “You are aware of the Turas Memorial Race, and the entry of a chariot by the Elf Lord Lisith-ar-Moh, who has always been a great friend of Turai?”

“Certainly. I’m looking forward to it. The whole town is.”

“It may surprise you to know that Lord Rezaz Caseg also wishes to enter a chariot in the race.”

I frown. “Lord Rezaz Caseg? I’ve never heard of him.”

“You may know him better as Rezaz the Butcher.”

I explode in astonishment. Beer flies everywhere. “Rezaz the Butcher? That Lord Rezaz? But he’s an Orc , for God’s sake! The last time he was in the area he damn near wiped us off the map. What do you mean, he wants to enter a chariot?”

It’s one of the most outrageous things I’ve ever heard. An Orc entering a chariot in the Turas Memorial? And not just any Orc—Rezaz the Butcher! One of the fiercest, most bloodthirsty warlords ever to lay waste to a human settlement. And also, unfortunately for us, one of the cleverest generals ever to destroy a Human army. He was by far the best commander in the Army of King Bhergaz the Fierce, who united all the Orcish lands and led them against us. I pound my fist on the table.

“You don’t have to say any more, Deputy Consul. Just tell me what I have to do and I’ll do it. I’ll prevent that Orc from ever reaching the city. You can depend on me!”

Cicerius looks at me with that steely gaze again. “That is not what I require you to do. I do not wish you to prevent him reaching the city. Rather I am hiring you to look after the Orcs while they are here. There may be attempts to sabotage their chariot. I need someone to protect against that and see that they are given a fair deal.”

It’s not often that I’m speechless. But at Cicerius’s words I’m struck dumb. I can’t even move my lips. I stand there, staring, wondering which one of us has gone mad. Makri fares no better. She’s actually drawn a sword and is looking round her suspiciously as if an Orc might enter right now.

“I see you are surprised,” says Cicerius, breaking the silence.

I’m feeling weak. I fumble for the remains of my beer and try to formulate a reply. Meanwhile I’m straining my mental powers for any sign of sorcery, in case this isn’t actually Cicerius but some magical impostor sent to torment me. Finally I utter a few words.

“You can’t be serious. Rezaz the Butcher can’t really be entering a chariot in the Turas Memorial race. And if he is, you can’t expect me to play nursemaid to an Orc! Especially not that Orc. He was leading the assault when the wall caved in. I was there. I lost almost everyone I knew to the Butcher’s soldiers.”

“Times change,” replies the Deputy Consul.

“I know. But not that much. Okay, we’re at peace just now, but for how long? The Orcish Ambassadors never appear in public for fear of causing a riot. And this Orc Lord wants to walk right into the Stadium Superbius and enter a chariot? Why? And what does the King think about it?”

“The King is strongly in favour of the idea. You see, Thraxas, the politics of running a city involves us in many strange alliances. It so happens that at this moment it is vital to the interests of Turai that we maintain good relations with Lord Rezaz Caseg. Are you aware that exploration and prospecting of the various minerals in the furthest northeast of our territory has advanced to such an extent that we are about to open several new copper mines?”