Martin Scott: Thraxas at the races

“What have the Civil Guards done about it?”

“I have not informed them.”

I raise one eyebrow. Calling in the Guards would be the normal thing to do, unless there was some delicate aspect Mursius would rather not reveal in public. I was half expecting something like this. People do tend to come to me only in desperate circumstances.

“I have not informed them,” continues Mursius, “because I strongly suspect that my wife was behind the theft.“

“Your wife?”

The Senator expresses some anxiety about the private nature of his disclosures. I reassure him of my discretion. I have plenty of faults but I never blab about a client, even if it gets me thrown in jail. Which it does, often enough.

Outside the rain beats against the shutters, drowning out the other noise from the street. That’s the only good thing about the Hot Rainy Season. It keeps most of the squealing brats that infest the area indoors.

“We have been estranged for some time. We stay together because it suits us not to part. I’m sure you understand.”

I do. For a city as immoral as Turai, where almost everyone can be bought, the public still places a surprisingly high value on the morality of our public figures. If a Senator finds himself involved in a messy divorce case it can do great damage to his career and completely end his chances of advancing up the ladder of Prefect, Praetor, Deputy Consul and Consul. They tend to keep their problems hushed up and well away from the scandal sheets. Their wives generally go along with it. It suits them better to remain married and keep their wealth and social standing rather than risk finding themselves out on the market again.

“So, why would she rob you?”

“My wife is often desperate for money.”

“You don’t give her an allowance?”

“Not for dwa, no.”

Right. Not for dwa. That makes sense. Since the southern trade routes were opened up, this powerful narcotic has flooded into the city. The effect on the population has been dramatic. Beggars, sailors, youthful apprentices, whores, itinerants, rich young things: all manner of people once content to alleviate their sufferings with ale and occasional doses of the much milder drug thazis now spend their days lost in the powerful dreams of dwa. Unfortunately dwa is both expensive and addictive. Once you take your dose you’re as happy as an Elf in a tree, but when you come down you feel bad. Regular users who spend part of their lives lost in its pleasant grip are obliged to spend the other part raising money for more.

Since dwa swept Turai, crime has accelerated out of control. In many parts of Turai it’s not safe to walk the streets at night for fear of violent robbery. The city is rotting. The poor are despairing and the rich are decadent. One day King Lamachus of Nioj will come down from the north and sweep us away.

“Is she a serious addict?”

“Very serious. She’s tried to stop but—”

He holds his hands out in a hopeless gesture.

“For the past six months she’s been down at the villa. It was her idea. Said it would help her to get straight. From what the servants tell me, it hasn’t worked out. I’ve tried doctors, Sorcerers, herbalists, everything. Nothing does any good. She always comes back to dwa. Eventually I tried cutting off her money, just sending down a servant with supplies.”

“As a result of which your wife sold some of the family treasures to feed her habit?”

“So it would seem.”

I lean back in my chair and take a thazis stick from my drawer. I offer one to the Senator, but he declines. It’s still technically illegal but since the arrival of dwa swept the city no one much cares about that. I light it up and inhale the smoke.

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Find my belongings. Particularly the painting. Without involving the Guard or the scandal sheets.”

The Senator tells me in a frank, man-to-man sort of way that he’s being pressed by the Traditionals to stand for the post of Prefect next year. He’s fifty years old so it’s about time for his political career to get started. As a war hero and a popular man with both the mob and the King, he’s almost certain to get elected. Unless, of course, his name is blackened by scandal. The Populares, the powerful opposition party led by Senator Lodius, never hesitate to use any available dirt against their opponents.

I mull it over. It means travelling out of the city in the rain, which is a fairly unpleasant prospect with the country turning into swampland, but apart from that it sounds straightforward enough. No powerful criminal gangs involved. No mad Sorcerers out to get me. Just find out what she did with the goods and get them back. I can do that. I need the money. I take the case.

The Senator fills me in on the rest of the details and rises from his chair. He pauses at the door and glances round the room. “I hear you lost a great deal of money at the out-of-town chariot meeting.”

I frown. I knew the Senator would have checked me out but a man never likes his gambling losses being made too public.

“I’ll give you a good tip for the Turas Memorial Race.”

I lean forward, suddenly eager.

“I’m entering a chariot in the Turas Memorial,” says the Senator. “It’s called Storm the Citadel. Back it. It’s going to win.”

I sit back, disappointed. I’m not too keen on this tip.

“Your chariot is going to win the Turas Memorial Race? Excuse me, Senator, you’ve had some good horse teams in the past, but there’s an Elvish entrant in the Turas this year. Everyone knows Moonlit River is going to win. You can’t even get a bet down on it any more.”

The Senator treads softly back to my desk. “Storm the Citadel will win,” he says, quite emphatically. “If you want to make up your losses, back it with everything you have.”

With that he departs. I pick up a guran from the retainer he left me and head downstairs to the bar where I buy a flagon of Gurd’s finest ale and muse about Senators’ wives and the powerful addictive qualities of dwa. I tried it when I was younger, but it didn’t do much for me. I guess I’m just not that sort of character. I finish my beer quickly, drink down another, and take a third flagon back up to my office.

There’s a message on my desk. Odd. I break the seal and open it. It reads: Thraxas, your death is near.

I stare at it. I’m used to death threats but that doesn’t mean I enjoy them. I check the outside door. It’s locked. I’m sure no one came up the connecting stairs while I was at the bar. I put the letter under my nose, sensing around for any signs of sorcery. Is there a faint trace? Possibly.

My hand goes automatically to the spell protection charm at my throat. It’s new. I hope it works.

I’m wary as I travel out to Mox’s, but when I find that my chariot won and I pick up my twenty gurans winnings, I forget about the death threat. Afterwards I gloat to Makri.

“Yes, a man may have a few losses every now and then, but class will tell in the end. When it comes to picking winners I’m number one chariot around here. And I’ve a hot tip for tomorrow. You ought to join in and win a little money, Makri. Easier than working as a waitress.”

[Contents]

Chapter Three

“What do you think of Storm the Citadel’s chances in the Turas Memorial Race?” I ask Gurd as he hands me another beer. His biceps bulge as he passes it over the bar. His long hair is almost completely grey now but he’s still as strong as a team of oxen.

“No chance,” he says. “The Elves don’t send a chariot all the way up from the Southern Islands unless they know it’ll win.”

I nod. That’s what everyone in Turai thinks. Senator Mursius has produced some fine chariots in his time, but he’s never going to beat the Elves.