Thraxas and the Dance of Death

Chapter Seven

Kushni, in the centre of the city, is one of the worst parts of town. Bad things happen here. As I’m stepping over the drunken bodies on the pavement I wonder, as I occasionally do, how exactly I ended up being the person who tries to fix the bad things. There are plenty of other ways of making a living. Dandelion sits on the beach and talks to dolphins. She seems to manage okay.

I check my sword is loose in its sheath, allow a scowl to settle on my features—which it does quite easily—and step into the Blind Horse, home to dwa dealers, gamblers, robbers and murderers. Whores with red ribbons in their hair mingle with intoxicated sailors looking for an opportunity to spend the money they risked their lives to earn. At the bar two Barbarians are arm-wrestling while their companions shout drunken encouragement. I bump into a man I haven’t seen for five years but used to know quite well.

“Demanius.”

“Thraxas.”

Demanius is around the same age as me. A lot thinner, and his hair has gone completely grey. Still a tough-looking character, though. We were in the army together. The last time I saw him he was working for the Venarius Investigation Agency, a very respectable organisation, well liked by the authorities. When I was in Palace Security we’d often find ourselves working alongside Venarius’s agents. I ask what brings him to the Blind Horse.

“I felt like a drink,” he replies, not feeling the inclination to tell me his business.

“So did I.”

We make our way to the bar, carefully avoiding the noisy Barbarians. The air is thick with thazis smoke and the aroma of burning dwa drifts down from the rooms upstairs. You’d be surprised who you might find upstairs in a tavern like this, partaking of illegal narcotics. Members of Turai’s upper classes, not wishing to be found using the substance in their homes, are not above visiting dubious establishments to feed their habit.

The Venarius agency has plenty of money. I let Demanius pay for the beer.

“How’s life in Thamlin?” I ask.

The agency headquarters is up close to Thamlin, where the Senators live.

“Very peaceful. But they keep sending me here.”

I’m feeling uneasy. So is Demanius. Meeting another Investigator while out on a case is rare. When it happens I never know quite what to do. If Demanius is working on the same case as me it won’t do me any good to have him solve it before me. Bad for my reputation and bad for my income. I drink my beer quickly and then tell Demanius that I’m due upstairs for a private appointment.

“As am I,” says Demanius.

I’m lying. I don’t know if he is. As Investigators go, I wouldn’t class Demanius as sharp as an Elf’s ear. There again, he’s not dumb as an Orc either. If he’s here fishing for information he’s not getting anything from me. We cross the room, wary of each other, hardly noticing the whores who flop around the tables, or the Barbarians, who are now throwing knives at a target on the wall. The stairs are dark and narrow with a flickering torch providing insufficient light. We’re almost at the top when a door opens and a woman emerges. She’s wearing the garb of a common market trader and looks out of place. There’s a strange expression on her face but when she recognises Demanius she starts to speak.

“The pendant,” she says.

I might be getting somewhere at last. She opens her mouth again. Then she falls down dead. So no real progress.

Demanius sprints up the last few stairs. I sprint after him. He bends down to examine the body. There’s a great wound in the woman’s back, still pumping blood. Demanius draws his sword and charges into the room she came out of. I’m at his heels. Inside we find a man sitting on a chair, staring into space.

Demanius starts barking out questions. I hold up my hand.

“He’s trying to speak.”

The man’s voice comes slowly, from a long way away.

“I’m King of Turai,” he says. Then he slumps forward. It’s an odd thing to say. Whoever he is, he isn’t the King. I feel for the pulse on his neck. There isn’t one. He’s dead. There are no wounds on his body. Really he looks tolerably healthy. But he’s still dead.

I’m becoming very familiar with this scene. More deaths and the pendant still missing. Demanius, lither than me, hauls himself out of the window and drops into the alley below. I don’t follow him. Whoever is responsible for this latest outrage is probably long gone. Besides, with my weight I don’t fancy the drop. A man doesn’t want to break his ankle in this place.

I stare at the body still slumped on the chair, trying to figure out the cause of death. I don’t believe it was from natural causes. Doesn’t look like poison. Is there sorcery in the air? I look around, trying to sense it. With my own sorcerous background I can usually tell if magic has been used recently, but I can’t say for sure. Maybe, faintly.

Outside, a few customers have gathered to look at the dead woman, whose blood still seeps on to the floorboards. They don’t appear too interested and no one protests as I quickly search the pocket on her market worker’s apron. I find nothing, but I notice a tattoo on her arm. Two clasped hands. The mark of the Society of Friends. The Society is a criminal gang, based in the north of the city. They’re bitter rivals with the Brotherhood. Last year there was a murderous war over territory and the feud is still smouldering. Whoever this woman is, I doubt she’s the market worker she pretends to be. Or pretended to be.

Someone has finally summoned the landlord. He puffs his way up the stairs with a couple of henchmen, complaining about the inconvenience of always having to carry bodies out of his tavern.

“You could open an establishment in a better part of town,” I suggest. “But you’d probably miss the excitement. You know who this woman is?”

“Never seen her before. Who are you?”

“Thraxas. Investigator.”

The landlord spits on the floor.

“That’s what I think of Investigators.”

His henchmen get ready to run me off the premises. I save them the trouble by leaving. There’s not a lot of point in sticking around. No one in this place is going to answer questions. I’m not certain I could muster any questions. A peculiar feeling of gloom is settling over me. It’s starting to seem like I’m never going to find this pendant. Every time I get close all I find is more dead bodies. A man can only take so many dead bodies, even a man who’s used to them.

Walking back through Kushni, I try to review the situation, but I have no real idea what’s going on. I’m particularly troubled by the death of the man in the chair. Sword wounds are one thing but a death you can’t explain always spells trouble. When I reach Moon and Stars Boulevard I’m uncertain even which way to turn. Should I go back to the Avenging Axe? Possibly I should head north to Truth is Beauty Lane, home of the Sorcerers, and report to Lisutaris. But what’s the point? She’ll only send me out to some other godforsaken tavern where I’ll find a pile of dead bodies.

It’s hot as Orcish hell. I’ve been in cooler deserts. My head hurts. Maybe a beer will help. It often does. I look around for a tavern, somewhere where there’s unlikely to be anyone being murdered, at least not until I’ve had a drink. I’ve just spotted a reasonable-looking establishment across the road when a carriage pulls up in front of me. An official carriage, with a driver in uniform and the livery of the Imperial Palace. The door opens and a toga-clad figure leans out.

“Thraxas. How fortunate. I was on my way to visit you.”

It’s Hansius, assistant to Deputy Consul Cicerius. He’s a smart, handsome young man, son of a Senator, on his way up the ladder in public life. So far he’s doing well. Hasn’t been involved in anything scandalous and even stayed sober at the Sorcerers Assemblage, an event notable for its drunkenness and degeneracy.

“Cicerius wants you to visit him right away.”

I’m still looking at the inviting tavern across the road.

“Tell him I’m busy.”

“It’s an official summons.”

“I’m still busy.”

“Doing what?”

My head hurts more.

“Do I accost you in the street and ask you your business? I’m busy. Tell Cicerius I’ll come later.”

“If you require beer I am sure the Deputy Consul can provide it,” says Hansius, which is perceptive of him.

“The Deputy Consul serves wine, as I recall. And he’s miserly with it.”

Hansius looks stern.

“Official summons.”

I climb into the carriage. We ride slowly north towards the Palace. Our official vehicle has right of way but the streets are so crowded it’s still a slow journey. Since our King’s diplomacy opened up the southern trade routes a few years ago, commerce in Turai has mushroomed and trade wagons roll in all day. At the corner of the street that leads to Truth is Beauty Lane we’re held up for a long time by a huge wagon that’s trying to manoeuvre its way round a corner it wasn’t designed to turn. The driver curses, and shouts at his four horses.

“Big delivery.”

“On its way to Lisutaris’s villa, I believe,” Hansius informs me. “They’re building a theatre in the grounds for the performers to use at the ball.”

This worsens my mood. I ask Hansius if he’s going. He is, of course.

“I accompany the Deputy Consul to all such events.”

Having learned to be tactful as a young man in public service, Hansius doesn’t ask me if I’m invited. He knows very well that since being sacked from my job at the Palace I’m not on the guest list for smart parties. To hell with them. Who wants to go to a masked ball anyway? I can just imagine Deputy Consul Cicerius prancing round in a costume. It’s unbecoming. I wouldn’t offend my dignity.

At the Palace grounds I’m searched for weapons, and before entering the outlying building that houses Cicerius’s offices I’m examined by a government Sorcerer, checking to see if I might be carrying any dangerous spells or aggressive sorcerous items.

“You can’t see the Deputy Consul while carrying a sleep spell.”

I turn to Hansius to protest.

“You expect me to give up my spells? I didn’t ask to visit.”

There’s no use protesting. Palace Security is very sensitive about anyone who isn’t a member of the Sorcerers Guild bringing usable spells anywhere near the King. The official Sorcerer holds out a magically charged crystal which I unwillingly take hold of. I feel the sleep spell draining away through my fingers.

“It takes a lot of work to learn these things, you know. Is anyone going to compensate me for my wasted effort?”

Hansius leads me through the marble corridors towards Cicerius’s office. Everything here is elegant—pale yellow tiled floors. Elvish tapestries on the walls, each window, no matter how small, decorated with artfully stained glass—and I get a pang of regret for the fine office in a fine building I used to inhabit when I was an investigating Sorcerer at the Palace. The King’s residence is one of the finest buildings in the west, full of artwork to rival that of many larger states, and the buildings of his senior officials are likewise well appointed. While I’m not a man who’s too concerned with works of art, I can’t help feeling a twinge of grief as I realise that everywhere I look there’s a bust or statue that would cost more than I’ll earn in a year. Even the clerks’ desks are made of dark wood imported from the Elvish Isles.

Possibly I shouldn’t have got so drunk at my boss Rittius’s wedding that I was immediately fired for outraging public decency. But Rittius hated me anyway. He was just looking for an excuse.

My visit to the Deputy Consul’s office follows a long-established pattern. Cicerius roundly condemns me for my behaviour and I try vainly to defend myself. Any time I’ve worked for Cicerius there’s come a point when he’s felt the need to point out that I’m a disgrace to the fair city of Turai. After a little preparatory sarcasm, he starts laying in with the criticism even though, as I point out, I’m not working for his office at the moment.

“But it was this office which gave you the post of Tribune. On the strict understanding that you were not to go around abusing your powers.”

“I wouldn’t say I’d been abusing them. Anyway, Professor Toarius abused his first. I had to do something.”

Cicerius points a bony finger at me.

“Any use of your Tribunate powers is an abuse. It was merely a device to let you enter the Sorcerers Assemblage. Look what happened when you forbade Praetor Capatius to evict these tenants during the winter.”

“You don’t have to remind me. The Praetor tried to have me killed.”

Cicerius rattles on. As Turai’s foremost public orator, he has no trouble inventing new terms of abuse. The Deputy Consul is of the opinion that the prospect of a common man from Twelve Seas getting involved in the politics of our city state is just a step away from complete anarchy.

“Who can say what will happen now?”

I’m not here to argue civil politics with Cicerius, I just want him to get to the point so I can get on with my investigation.

“It was never a good idea that Tribunes could hold up public affairs. Their power of referring matters to the Senate was an anomaly. That is why the post was abolished last century. I must insist that you drop your investigation.”

As I suspected from the start, Cicerius shows no sign of providing me with beer. With the heat, my aching head and the intolerable sound of Cicerius lecturing me, I’m coming close to breaking point, a point at which I shall roundly abuse the Deputy, march out of the house and thereby do great damage to my career. I interrupt the flow to tell him that much as I didn’t want to use my Tribunate powers, I couldn’t see a ready alternative.

“And as I recall, Deputy Consul, you ran for the election largely on an honesty ticket. Cicerius never takes a bribe and he never prosecutes an innocent man, so they say. Everyone’s still impressed by the way you’ve defended people in court because you believed them to be innocent, even when it meant going against your party.”

This gets his attention. Cicerius never minds hearing good things said about himself.

“So consider things from my point of view. Or, more to the point, from Makri’s. She’s completely innocent of the theft. You shouldn’t find that too hard to believe because you’ve met her and you know what she’s like. Demented but honest. And you also know how hard she works for these examinations. All the while slaving away as a barmaid to support herself and pay for her classes, which don’t come cheap. I thought that would impress you in particular.”

Cicerius purses his thin lips. He takes my meaning. Though born into the aristocratic class, Cicerius wasn’t born rich. His father died when he was an infant, leaving a family in poverty because he’d invested all his money in a fleet of trading ships which went down in a storm. There was a dispute over the insurance and Cicerius’s mother, outsmarted by her late husband’s business partners, ended up in penury. This meant that Cicerius himself had to work extremely hard to make his way through university and up the ranks of government. Though he’s a rich man now, his younger years were one long struggle.

The reason I know all this, the reason everyone knows all this, is that Cicerius himself has not been above bringing his background up on any occasion he needs to remind the Senate that he’s a self-made man, and proud of it.

“Are you going to let a citizen of Turai—”

“Makri is not a citizen of Turai. Makri is an alien with Orcish blood.”

“Who did a good job for you when you needed someone to look after that Orcish charioteer last year. Are you going to let a hard-working young woman be denied her chance to sit her examination because Professor Toarius has taken an irrational dislike to her? And please don’t tell me that Consul Kalius has done the poor a great favour by appointing Toarius as head of the Guild College.”

“Consul Kalius has done the poor a great favour by appointing Toarius as head of the Guild College,” says Cicerius.

“I don’t care. He’s not stopping Makri from taking the examination. I’ve forbidden her expulsion. It can’t go ahead before it’s been discussed by a Senate committee, and by that time I’ll have evidence to prove her innocence. And nothing you can say can change my mind. I’m offended that a champion of justice like yourself should be ranged against me.”

Cicerius is almost at a loss for words. I’ve managed to flummox the great orator, if only because he’s honest at heart. An appeal to justice wouldn’t have gotten me very far with any other official in this city. The Deputy Consul fixes me with a piercing lawyer’s stare.

“You seem extremely concerned for the welfare of this young woman. Is there some arrangement between you?”

I’m staggered that the Deputy Consul could suggest such a thing.

“If I prove her innocence she won’t slaughter everyone at the College. I guess you could call that an arrangement.”

Cicerius isn’t happy but really he’s in an impossible situation. He can’t bring himself to connive in a blatant injustice, and even if he could, there is no legal way to rescind my Tribune’s decree. Only I can do that, and I’ve made it clear I’m not going to.

“Very well,” he says. “You may continue with your investigation. And when the matter comes to the Senate committee I will ensure that it is looked into thoroughly. But I warn you, if there are any political repercussions of your actions, if Senator Lodius and his opposition party again manage to make you their tool in an action against the government, I will personally rescind your Investigator’s licence. With your past record, it will be quite in order for me to do so.”

Having nothing more to say, I make to leave.

“One moment,” says Cicerius. “Why did Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, visit you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Lisutaris is head of the Sorcerers Guild and an important person in the interests of this city state. If she is in any sort of trouble I would naturally wish to know.”

“If she was in any trouble and she’d consulted me, I doubt I’d tell you. I respect my clients’ privacy. But she didn’t come to see me, she came to see Makri.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She was inviting her to her ball.”

Cicerius is surprised. Twenty years ago, a woman like Makri would never have been allowed to attend such an event.

“So be careful who you bump into on the night. If it’s a crazy-looking woman with an axe, don’t ask her about college.”

I depart, leaving Cicerius displeased with the laxity of manners in modern-day Turai. As a Sorcerer mutters a spell to let me out of the building, I’m wondering what sort of costume our Deputy Consul will be sporting at the ball. I just can’t imagine him in fancy dress.

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