Martin Scott - Thraxas at the races

She arrives back with her axe, two swords, a knife in her boot and a bag of throwing stars, an Assassins Guild weapon she’s been experimenting with recently.

“Makri, you’re only looking for a few plants. What the hell are you expecting to meet out there?”

“You never know. Any time I’m helping you on a case it always turns out worse than we expect. I still haven’t forgotten the time we went looking for that missing dog and ended up fighting pirates. And look what happened the last time you made me go out without my axe. I ended up with a crossbow bolt in the chest and nearly died.”

“And we’d have missed you terribly. Let’s go.”

“I found this envelope addressed to you on the stairs.”

I rip it open.

You’ll never make it past the Hot Rainy Season, says the message.

“Another death threat?”

I nod. I should have killed Glixius Dragon Killer when I had the chance.

Outside it’s still hot. The rain has intensified and my old cloak keeps me dry for about thirty seconds. Meanwhile Makri is comfortably wrapped up in the magic dry cloak.

“The rain doesn’t seem so bad when you get used to it,” she says. “Where are we going?”

“Ferias. An exclusive little resort further down the coast.”

“Then why aren’t we heading for the west gate?”

“I’m calling in at Mox’s. I have a hot tip.”

Makri nods. She might not approve of betting but she was impressed when she saw me come home with a twenty-guran profit.

Mox’s small, dingy premises is full of punters in the damp and grubby tunics and cloaks worn by the common Turanian masses. Most of the lower classes, including myself, wear grey. A few of the more adventurous youngsters might burst into colour occasionally but exotic clothes are beyond the budget of most people. Only the upper classes wear white.

A messenger arrives every now and then with the latest news from the Sorcerer at the track, hundreds of miles away in Juval. I’m here to bet on the first race tomorrow, just in case I don’t make it back to the city tonight. Though I’m careful not to reveal anything I’m practically beside myself with glee. I’ve been looking forward to this race for a long time. It’s my insurance policy.

The odds on the four chariots in the race are even money, six to four, six to one and eight to one. As a serious gambler I am not a man to throw away his cash on outsiders but I happen to know that Troll Mangler at six to one has a particularly good chance in this race. I whisper in Makri’s ear.

“I know the owner, I was drinking with him just before he went south. He’s been keeping this chariot in reserve, well out of sight. He told me he’s never trained a better team of horses. That’s why he’s gone down to Juval, where he isn’t known. He’s going to make a bundle at six to one, and so am I.”

Mox is slightly surprised when I confidently place forty gurans on Troll Mangler. Outside I do a little jig in the rain.

“Two hundred and forty gurans to Thraxas, thank you very much.”

“What if it loses?” says Makri as she swings herself on to her horse.

“No chance. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

The thunderstorm has passed but there will be plenty more of them in the month to come. It’s a two-hour ride down the coast to Ferias. By the time we reach the city walls my good humour at placing the bet has disappeared and I’m starting to regret taking this case. When we’re halfway there I seriously consider turning back.

“This is grim,” I splutter. “I’m about as miserable as a Niojan whore. I haven’t been this wet since Gurd and I swam underneath an enemy raft in the war against the Niojans and attacked them by surprise. And I was a lot younger then.”

We stop for something to eat, sheltering under a tree. Makri looks around for some interesting plant life.

“I have to turn up with something really special. All I can see here is grass and bushes.”

“They’ll probably have some unusual plants in the grounds at Mursius’s villa. Steal one of them.”

We ride on.

“What are you meant to do when you get there? Isn’t his wife going to find it rather offensive if you just march in and demand to know what she did with the loot?”

I look at Makri with interest. When she arrived in Turai I don’t think she understood the concept of being offensive. The classes must be civilising her.

“Maybe. But Mursius doesn’t care. Their relationship has passed the point of being polite. He just wants his paintings back.”

The rain lashes down. I swear a few curses at Rittius. If he hadn’t dragged me through the courts I wouldn’t have to be doing this. Thank God he’s not Deputy Consul any more. That post is now occupied by Cicerius, who belongs to the Traditionals, the party that supports the King. They’d been losing ground to the opposition Populares but Cicerius’s victory stemmed the tide. I had a hand in the victory. Thanks to some smart work on my part Cicerius avoided losing his reputation. Not that I particularly support the Traditionals. The Populares have some things in their favour. The common people could do with a little more of the city’s wealth. Unfortunately the Populares are led by Senator Lodius, as nakedly ambitious a tyrant as ever put on a toga.

“How come Cicerius didn’t use his influence to protect you in court?” asks Makri. “After all, he’s Deputy Consul now, and he owes you a favour.”

That’s a very sore point. First thing I did when the trouble arose was visit Cicerius but he would have to be the one man in Turai who is both absolutely incorruptible and a sworn upholder of the law. He expressed sympathy for my plight, but refused to use his influence to get the charges thrown out. Because, as he pointed out in his beautifully modulated orator’s voice, I was actually guilty. I had dragged the King’s representative from his landus and bludgeoned him to the ground. The fact that I needed the vehicle urgently was not, in Cicerius’s considered legal opinion, a valid defence for roughing up a fellow citizen.

“Trust you to gain influence with the one official too honest to bend the rules in your favour.”

We’re now approaching the loose collection of large country dwellings that make up Ferias. Progress is slow. The ground is churned up and muddy and several streams have swollen, so it’s difficult to get across. It’s a long time since I’ve been here. When I was Senior Investigator at the Palace I visited regularly as the guest of various Senators, Praetors and wealthy Sorcerers. Now I’m about as welcome as an Orc at an Elvish wedding.

It’s now well into the afternoon. My mood gets worse. The rain comes down in huge drops. After two hours it feels like rocks pounding on my head. I tell Makri it’s my turn for the cloak and we swap over.

“If you were any good as a Sorcerer you could make two of them.”

“If I was any good as a Sorcerer I wouldn’t be here. I’d be safe in a big villa in Thamlin casting horoscopes for Princesses and courtiers and generally having an easy time of it. I should have studied more when I was an Apprentice.”

We mount a small hill and there in the distance is Mursius’s villa. Suddenly my horse whinnies and rears up. I struggle to regain control but the wet reins fly from my hands and I plunge to the ground. I struggle to my feet, sliding in the mud and cursing freely at the ignorant beast. Without warning three large Orcs with swords step out from behind the nearest tree.

[Contents]

Chapter Four

This doesn’t make sense. You don’t find Orcs in the Human Lands. Especially not in the excessively wealthy settlement of Ferias.

Orcs are larger than Humans, and generally a little stronger. I never met one that wasn’t fierce, though as I’ve only met them on the battlefield, I suppose some might not be. Maybe the Orc poets all stay at home. I doubt it. Most Humans regard them as dumb animals but I haven’t found that to be true. Their Ambassadors, for instance, have often proved to be shrewd negotiators, and Bhergaz the Fierce, the Great Orc leader of fifteen years ago who united all the Orcish nations and led them into the west, was a brilliant general. Only through a combination of luck, sorcery and desperation were the combined forces of Elves and Humans able to defeat him.