Thraxas and the Elvish Isles

Chapter One

It’s well past midnight and the air in the tavern is thick with thazis smoke. In front of me the table is groaning from the weight of money in the pot. Every week the Avenging Axe plays host to a game of rak, but there’s rarely been this much money riding on a single hand. There are six of us left in and Captain Rallee is next to bet. He stares at his cards for a long time.

“I reckon Thraxas is bluffing,” he says, and pushes forward his fifty gurans.

Next to him is Old Grax the wine merchant. Grax is a wily card player. He once won a thousand gurans off General Acarius, and General Acarius is universally acknowledged to be the finest gambler in the Turanian army. It’s never easy to read Old Grax’s intentions. From the confident way he slides his money into the centre of the table you might think he’s got one hell of a hand. I’m not so sure. I’m guessing he hasn’t.

Outside the streets are dark and silent. The front door of the Avenging Axe is locked. Light from the fire and the torches on the walls flickers over the faces of the dozen or so spectators. They nurse their drinks in silence, caught up in the tension as the game nears its climax.

“I’m out,” says Ravenius, a young guy from uptown who joins us most weeks. He’s a big loser on the night and looks disappointed, but he’s the son of a wealthy Senator so he’ll be back next week with another bag of money.

Gurd the landlord is still in the game, and next to bet. The heat from the fire brings sweat to his brow. He pushes back some strands of grey hair from his face and stares at his cards, which are dwarfed by his great hands. Gurd is a Barbarian from the north. In our younger days we fought all over the world together as mercenaries. We also played rak. Gurd’s a shrewd gambler. He thinks he knows everything there is to know about my technique at the card table. He doesn’t.

“I’m in,” he grunts, pushing his money forward with his brawny arm.

Captain Rallee raises his flagon and sips his ale. Two of his men, Civil Guards still in uniform with their swords at their hips, sit close to him, their interest fixed on the game. Tanrose, the tavern’s cook, has abandoned her position at the bar and edges closer to peer at the players.

Last person to bet is Casax, head of the local chapter of the Brotherhood, the powerful criminal gang that runs the southern half of the city of Turai. It’s not often you’ll see Captain Rallee at the same table as a Brotherhood boss. Unlike most of our city officials, the Captain is way too honest to socialise with figures from the underworld. But the Captain loves to gamble at rak so he makes an exception for our weekly meeting.

Nor would Casax normally be sitting down with me. Brotherhood bosses don’t take kindly to Private Investigators. More than once Casax has threatened to have me killed. Karlox, his oxlike henchman, who sits by his shoulder, would like nothing better than to gut me with his sword. He’ll have to wait. There is never any violence at this table, which is why it attracts such diverse people as rich wine merchants and Senators’ sons down to Twelve Seas, a rough part of town they’d normally work hard to avoid.

Casax glares round at us. He tugs at his earrings. Might be a sign of tension. Might not be. Casax is a very hard man to read. We wait for him to make his move. We wait a long time, in silence.

“I’ll cover,” he grunts, eventually. “And raise.”

Casax reaches out a hand and Karlox drops a fat purse into his palm. Casax rips it open and counts rapidly.

“Your fifty gurans and another two hundred.”

The onlookers whisper in excitement. Two hundred gurans. It takes an honest citizen a long time to earn that amount. It takes me a long time to earn it, and I’m not that honest.

Makri appears with a tray of drinks. Ravenius studies her with interest. She’s worth studying if you’re a young man with the energy for that sort of thing. Strong, beautiful, and possibly the only person in the West to have Orc, Elf and Human blood in her veins, Makri is quite a sight. She wears a tiny chainmail bikini at work for the sole purpose of earning tips and as Makri has the sort of figure men dream about when they’re far from home, and maybe dream about even more when they’re actually at home, she earns a lot of tips.

My five cards lie face down on the table in front of me. I don’t bother looking at them again. I don’t react to Casax’s raise too slowly or too quickly. Two hundred gurans on a single hand might be getting out of my league in the normal course of things, but last month I walked out of the Turas Memorial Chariot Race with an extremely handsome profit, thanks to some very astute gambling on my part. I still have most of my winnings. I can cover Casax’s bet. I take a beer from Makri’s tray and edge my chair back an inch to give my belly a little more room. I take my purse from my lap and count out two hundred gurans and I push it into the centre of the table.

The tavern is completely silent apart from the spitting of the fire. Makri stares at me. She’s one of my very few friends in the city. I can tell from her expression she thinks I’m a fool who’s about to be parted from his money.

The betting has gone too far for Captain Rallee. That’ll teach him to be honest. To compete at this level he ought to be taking a bribe every now and then. He hands in his cards with a look of disgust.

Old Grax is next. Despite the heat he’s still wearing the dark green cloak with the fur collar that denotes his high ranking in the Honourable Association of Merchants. He’s a wealthy man—he should be, with the amount of wine drunk in Turai—but he doesn’t seem so keen on risking two hundred gurans on the card he holds.

I guessed right. He folds, his face betraying neither anger nor disappointment. He motions to Makri for some wine. I motion for another beer. I’m not the sort of man who needs to stay entirely sober at the card table. So I like to believe anyway.

Gurd sighs deeply. He’s already a loser on the night and another two hundred gurans would make a substantial hole in his tavern’s profits. Gurd had a lot of expense rebuilding after the city-wide riots last year and maybe this influences him. He hands in his cards, reluctantly. I notice Tanrose smiling. She doesn’t like to see him lose. Tanrose is sweet on the old Barbarian. Also, he pays her wages.

Makri hands me my beer and stands next to me. Here in the Avenging Axe everyone is more or less used to her by now, but in much of the city her appearance still draws a lot of attention. It’s not just her looks and figure. The reddish hue of her skin and her pointed ears reveal her Orc blood and anyone with Orc blood is regarded as cursed, a social outcast, and totally unwelcome in Turai. Everyone hates Orcs, even though we’re at peace with them just now. Makri’s only a quarter Orc, but that’s more than enough to get you into trouble in many places.

Casax has a glass of water in front of him. No alcohol has passed his lips since he sat down at the table almost six hours ago. His eyes are deepest black and in the torchlight they shine with malevolent intelligence. He snaps his fingers. Karlox the enforcer digs deep into his robe, producing a larger bag of money.

“Count me out a thousand,” says Casax, casually, as if betting a thousand gurans on a hand of cards is an everyday occurrence.

The spectators can’t help showing surprise and there are excited whispers as they crane their necks to see the action.

Karlox counts. Casax looks me straight in the eye. I stare straight back at him and I don’t allow the slightest flicker of expression to show on my face. I don’t think the Brotherhood boss is bluffing. He has a good hand. That’s fine with me. I have a good hand too. I have four black dragons. Four black dragons is practically unbeatable at rak. The only thing higher would be a full royal mansion, and if Casax turns up with a full royal mansion at the same time as I have four black dragons I’m liable to suspect that things have not been entirely above board, and to start asking a few questions with my sword.

I calmly sip some beer, and make ready to clean out the gangster. While my face is devoid of expression, inside I’m feeling pretty damn good. I’ve fought all over the world, I’ve seen Orcs, Elves and dragons, I’ve been employed at the Imperial Palace and I’ve been down and out in the gutters. I’ve talked, drunk and gambled with Kings, Princes, Sorcerers and beggars. And now I’m about to walk off with the largest pot of winnings ever seen in Twelve Seas. I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life.

“One thousand,” mutters Karlox, and hands the money over to his boss. Casax gets ready to make his bet.

“You mind if I sit down on the edge of your chair?” says Makri to me, breaking the silence. “I’m feeling a bit weary. I’ve got a heavy blood flow this month.”

I blink at her. “What?”

“My period. You know, it can make a woman tired.”

For a split second a profound, awestricken hush descends in the room, followed immediately by the most God-awful racket as people rise from their chairs in a panic. To my certain knowledge no woman has ever said such words in public in Turai before. Menstruation is high up the list of taboo subjects in this city and in the assembled company of gamblers and drinkers the words fall like a fiery blast from a war dragon. Casax freezes. He might have once killed a lion with his bare hands but he’s not up to this sort of thing. Beside him Gurd’s face assumes a look of terror the like of which I’ve not seen since we were tramping through the Macian Hills and a large and venomous snake suddenly reared up and bit him on the leg.

Chairs crash as people start heading for the exits. Young Pontifex Derlex, the local Priest, shrieks as he runs out the tavern.

“I’ll open the church for immediate purification,” he yells over his shoulder, and bursts out through the door to safety.

“You filthy whore!” yells Karlox, helping his boss to his feet. Casax is looking shaky and has to be led away. His other companions scoop up his money before they depart, taking not only his thousand but the other money he’s already put into the pot.

“You can’t do that!” I yell, rising to my feet and fumbling for my sword, but they’ve already got their blades out. From the way Captain Rallee is buttoning up his cloak I can tell he’s not going to hang around to help me out. Gurd, my trusty companion in adversity, is disappearing into the back room muttering that if this sort of behaviour continues he’s going to close the tavern and move back north.

About thirty seconds after Makri’s grim utterance I’m staring at a scene of total desolation. Everyone has fled, either to the safety of their homes or straight to church for ritual purification. I stare at Makri. I try to shout at her but nothing comes out. I’m too shocked even to yell. Makri is looking puzzled.

“What just happened?” she asks.

My arms are shaking. It takes me a while to get my tankard up to my mouth. The ale revives me a little, enough to get some words out.

“You . . . you . . . you. . . .”

“Come on, Thraxas. It’s not like you to splutter. What’s going on? Did I say something wrong?”

“Something wrong!” I bellow, my voice finally returning in fury. “Something wrong? ‘Can I sit down because I’ve got a heavy blood flow?’ Are you completely insane? Have you no shame?”

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“It’s completely taboo to mention . . . to mention. . . .” Somehow I can’t say the word.

“Menstruation?” says Makri, helpfully.

“Stop saying that!” I scream. “Look what you did! I was about to rake in a thousand gurans from Casax and you scared him away!”

I’m livid. Strange emotions well up inside me. I’m forty-three years old. As far as I can remember I haven’t cried since I was eight, when my father caught me raiding his beer cellar and chased me round the city walls with a sword in his hand. But at the thought of Casax’s thousand gurans, rightfully mine but now disappearing into the depths of Twelve Seas, I’m pretty close to tears. I consider attacking Makri. She might be a lethal swordswoman but I’m the best street fighter in town and I figure I could take her low down with a surprise kick.

“Don’t try it,” says Makri, taking a step backwards towards the bar, where she keeps her sword hidden during working hours.

I advance towards her. “I’ll kill you, you pointy-eared freak!” I yell, and get ready to charge. Makri grabs for her sword and I draw mine swiftly from its scabbard.

Tanrose appears and plants herself between us. “Stop this at once!” she demands. “I’m surprised at you, Thraxas, drawing your sword against your friend Makri.”

“That pointy-eared Orc freak is no friend of mine. She just cost me a thousand gurans.”

“How dare you call me a pointy-eared Orc freak,” screams Makri, and advances towards me, blade in hand.

“Desist!” yells Tanrose. “Thraxas, put that sword away or I promise I will never cook you a venison pie again. I mean it. And Makri, put your weapon down or I’ll have Gurd get you to clean out the stables and sweep the yard. I’m surprised at you both.”

I hesitate. It shames me to admit it, but I do more or less depend on Tanrose’s venison pies. My life would be far poorer without them.

“It’s not Makri’s fault if she didn’t know she shouldn’t say that. After all, she grew up in an Orcish gladiator slave pit.”

“Quite right,” says Makri. “We couldn’t mess around with social taboos. We were too busy fighting. Just get a towel in place and chop up the next enemy. When you’ve got four Trolls with clubs trying to knock your head off, no one worries about whether you’re menstruating or not.”

I can’t take any more. I swear that when Makri says this Tanrose actually smiles. I begin to suspect that these women are conspiring against me. I am now madder than a mad dragon, and maybe a little more.

“Makri,” I say with dignity. “For the first time in my life, I find myself in complete agreement with Karlox. You are a filthy whore and you have the manners of an Orcish dog. No, Orcish dogs have many social graces which you lack. I am now going upstairs to my room. Kindly never talk to me again. And in future please keep your disgusting revelations about your bodily functions to yourself. Here in the civilised world we prefer not to know what goes on between the legs of the Orcish half-breeds who sometimes see fit to infest our city.”

Somewhere in the middle of this speech Makri explodes in fury and tries to rush forward and sink her sword in my guts, but fortunately Gurd has re-emerged from the back room and places his brawny arms around her shoulders to restrain her. As I mount the stairs, still with dignity, I hear her screaming that she looks forward to the day when her sword pierces my heart.

“If it can make it through all that blubber, that is,” she adds, quite unnecessarily referring to my excess weight.

I place a locking spell on both my doors, grab a bottle of beer, drink it down, then slump on my couch. I hate this stinking city. Always have. Nothing goes right for a man in this place.

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