Thraxas and the Sorcerers

Chapter Four

The journey home is grim. I never figured I’d come so close to death just riding in a landus along Quintessence Street. Not for the first time I bitterly regret not saving enough of my winnings from Avula to buy some furs. I burst into the Avenging Axe and beg Tanrose to provide me with some hot food, before positioning myself as close to the fire as I can get without actually stepping over the grate.

Makri is wiping tables and collecting tankards.

“Have a good time with the philosopher?” I say, cuttingly. “Nice and warm in my cloak?”

“Yes thank you,” responds Makri. “The magic cloak is a great creation.”

“Well, it’s the last time you get your hands on it. I nearly died out there. Damn that Cicerius, he’s not human. You know he wants me to go to the Sorcerers Assemblage?”

I’m feeling angry about all things sorcerous. It’s ridiculous to hold their convention in the depths of winter.

“They’re only doing it to show off. No one else can move because of the snow, but the Sorcerers will all come rolling into the city boasting about how easy it was for them to manipulate the weather and what pleasant journeys they had. Braggarts, all of them. This job is a waste of time. Who cares who gets the post as leader of the Guild?”

“Samanatius says it’s a very important position,” says Makri.

“He would. Shouldn’t you be bringing me a beer instead of talking about philosophy all the time?”

“There’s nothing wrong with philosophy.”

“It’s a waste of time.”

“It’s enriching,” says Makri.

I find this very annoying.

“If you were enriched you wouldn’t have to wear that ridiculous chainmail bikini.”

“Samanatius says that women who are obliged to exhibit themselves to make a living are not degraded by the experience,” says Makri stiffly. “The audience are.”

“Samanatius is an idiot. Bring me a beer.”

“Get your own beer,” says Makri, which is hardly the way for any barmaid to talk to a customer. She should learn some manners.

I get my own beer and return to the fire to think gloomy thoughts. I know most of the Sorcerers in Turai and plenty others from around the world. It’s no secret that I failed my apprenticeship all those years ago, but I don’t like my nose being rubbed in it. I still advertise myself as a sorcerous Investigator to bring in business, though the spells I can work are pathetic, child’s play compared to their powers.

“If any Sorcerer laughs at me, I’m going to punch him right in the face.”

I finger my necklace. It’s a spell protection charm, and a good one. I might need it if things get rough.

Gurd had the excellent sense to provide the tavern with a plentiful supply of logs for the winter, and the Avenging Axe is warm enough to comfort the coldest guest. It’s warm enough to allow Makri to wear the tiny chainmail bikini. I shouldn’t have mocked her for it. It’s not like she’s crazy about it herself. She relies on it to earn tips, a stratagem which has proved successful over the past year, which is not really surprising, given Makri’s figure. Mercenaries who’ve been all round the world and seen everything there is to see can still be struck dumb when she appears. Tanrose says that Makri’s beauty will one day get her married to a Senator or a prince, but given that Makri has Orc blood, pointed ears and plenty of attitude, I reckon she’s more likely to end up dead in a gutter, probably not long after me. I never figure she’s that beautiful anyway, but I gave up thinking about women a long time ago, so I’m a poor judge.

I finish my beer. Makri ignores my request for another. I swear at her. She swears back at me. Other drinkers laugh. Her moods are really getting me down. I retreat upstairs.

My magic warm cloak is on the bed. I’ll have to charge it up again before I go out tonight. I’ve a small piece of business to attend to—checking up on a woman for a jealous husband—but after that my diary is empty. Cicerius was right, I do need the work.

Makri strides into my room.

“Thraxas, can I—”

“Will you stop marching into my room uninvited?”

A tear trickles from Makri’s eye. I’ve never seen Makri cry before, at least not in misery. A few tears of joy after massacring some opponents, maybe. She hurries from the room. It’s strange behaviour.

Outside it’s snowing again. I wish I didn’t have to go out. I’ve been watching the activities of the wife of a wealthy merchant for two weeks now. He’s suspicious of her and is paying me for reports of her movements. Normally I’d be glad of the work—no danger and not too strenuous—but it’s been tough in the cold weather. So far I haven’t found the wife doing anything particularly odd. The only visitors that ever call are representatives from high-class clothing concerns, make-up artists, hairdressers and the like. There’s one beautician who looks in every day, but this is standard behaviour for any rich Turanian woman. The merchant has no objections to his wife beautifying herself. He now thinks he may have misjudged her.

I wrap myself in the warm cloak, fit on my sword and depart before Makri can bother me again with her moody behaviour. As expected, the assignment turns out to be a waste of time. If the merchant’s wife has any thoughts of being unfaithful, she’s probably waiting till the summer months, when her husband is away trading in foreign lands, which would be the smart thing to do.

I’m relieved when midnight rolls around. It’s another foul night and my magic warm cloak is starting to lose potency. I hurry off through the snow to the house of Astrath Triple Moon. Astrath is an old friend. He’s a powerful Sorcerer and might have expected to be a candidate for head of the Guild himself had it not been for some irregularities in the chariot races when he was employed as resident Sorcerer at the Stadium Superbius. The Stadium pays a Sorcerer to ensure that no magic is used to interfere with the races. When a rumour spread that Astrath Triple Moon had been taking bribes to look the other way while a certain powerful Senator hired a Sorcerer to help his chariots romp home easy winners, there was a lot of bad feeling in the city and Astrath faced a lengthy period in prison.

Fortunately for him, I managed to gather—and when I say gather, I mean fake—enough evidence in his favour to make prosecution impossible. Astrath was allowed to resign quietly provided he never showed his face in the stadium again. Thanks to me, he also escaped expulsion from the Sorcerers Guild, so he’s entitled to attend the convention, although whether he’s planning to, I don’t know. It might be a touchy subject. Astrath isn’t welcome in polite circles these days and I’m not certain how he stands with the other Sorcerers.

Astrath’s house is reasonably comfortable but not really the sort of place a powerful Sorcerer would expect to live in. Up in Thamlin, Harmon Half Elf has a villa with grounds so large he holds a horse race every year for all the Sorcerer’s apprentices, but here in more modest Pashish you’d be hard pushed to fit a horse into Astrath’s back yard.

He greets me warmly, as always. It’s a relief to him to see a friendly face from the old days.

“Thraxas, I’ve been expecting you. Some wine?”

“Beer would be better. And let me get myself in front of your fire, my warm cloak is starting to cool off.”

Astrath makes a living casting horoscopes, selling healing potions and such like, but there’s not much money around in Pashish. There’s not much money anywhere south of the river in Turai, unless you count the Brotherhood, who control the local criminal activity. They always do well, but you couldn’t say anyone else was prospering. Astrath only has one servant and she’s finished for the day, so he leads me inside himself, and takes my cloak.

“I’ll charge it up for you before you leave. What are you doing out on the streets in this weather?”

I tell him about my fruitless tailing of the merchant’s wife.

“The woman is completely blameless as far as I can see. Obsessed with beauty treatments, but having met the husband I can understand why she’d want a hobby.”

We sit and chat about this and that. I let Astrath get some wine inside him before raising the subject of the Assemblage.

“Are you planning on attending?”

The Sorcerer strokes his beard. Most Sorcerers in Turai are bearded, and they wear rainbow cloaks, the badge of their Guild.

“I’m not certain. I’m still a member, but—”

He shrugs. I tell him he should go.

“Be a shame to miss seeing your old friends.”

“There’s a lot of old friends not too keen to see me these days, Thraxas.”

“People in the Palace maybe. And round the race track. But your fellow Sorcerers? Do they care about a little trouble with the law? It’s not like you broke the Guild rules or anything. Hell, if the Assemblage banned every Sorcerer who’d had a run-in with their city authorities, the place would be empty. I’m forever getting Gorsius Starfinder out of trouble.”

Astrath smiles. Gorsius Starfinder, who holds a respectable post at the Palace these days, does have an unfortunate tendency to get drunk in brothels and cause a scene.

“Maybe you’re right. It’s a long time since they’ve held the Assemblage here, be a shame to miss it.”

Astrath knows that the Turanians are nominating Lisutaris for head of the Guild. He doesn’t give much for her chances.

“I still hear all the gossip, and Sunstorm Ramius from Simnia is the favourite. He’s sharp as an Elf’s ear and he has a lot of friends. And if he doesn’t win it, there’s a few others not far behind. Rokim the Bright from Samsarina, for instance. The Samsarinans control a lot of votes. Or Darius Cloud Walker. He impressed a lot of people when he brought down that stray war dragon right in the middle of the Abelasian Sorcerers’ drinking contest. Just pointed his finger, down it came, and he carried on drinking and won the contest. A man like that carries a lot of weight with Sorcerers.”

“True. It takes a good man to win the drinking contest in Abelasi. But Lisutaris is powerful too.”

“Maybe. But everyone in the Guild knows she’s not always in a fit state to take care of business. Or even put on her own shoes.”

He looks at me knowingly.

“Are the authorities sending you to fix the election?”

“Absolutely not. Just to see it’s fair.”

“The Sorcerers have plenty of ways of their own to make things fair. Lasat, Axe of Gold, and Charius the Wise are running things till the new chief is elected, and no one’s going to slip anything by that pair.”

“Then I’ll have an easy time of it.”

Astrath lets it go. Like all Sorcerers, he’s a man of powerful intuition and he guesses there is probably more to my mission than I’m admitting, but he doesn’t press the point.

“So you’re reckoning on Sunstorm Ramius, Rokim the Bright and Darius Cloud Walker as the main rivals? Abelasi is small and far away, so Darius wouldn’t affect Turai much one way or another. Rokim the Bright wouldn’t be too bad, but Samsarina is a long way off. No chance of help arriving quickly if Turai is in trouble. The worst choice would be Sunstorm Ramius. It’s a long time since Turai has been friends with Simnia.”

Astrath brings me more beer. After discussing the convention for a while, we get to reminiscing about old times, and eventually I doze off on the couch. Astrath shakes me awake and points me towards the guest room. I sleep well under the Sorcerer’s roof and leave next day without waking him. My cloak has been fully recharged and keeps me warm as I tread carefully over the icy streets back to Twelve Seas.

There are few people around, though I notice several youths that I know to be dwa dealers scurrying along about their business. Nothing interferes with the dwa trade. I’m planning to stop at Minarixa’s bakery to buy some pastries for breakfast, but I’m surprised to find a small crowd outside her shop, standing and staring in spite of the cold.

A few Civil Guards are holding back the onlookers. This is worrying. I depend on Minarixa’s bakery almost as much as Tanrose’s pies. If they’ve been robbed and the ovens aren’t fired up yet it’s really going to spoil my day. I arrive just as Captain Rallee, wrapped in a black government cloak, emerges from the premises. He’s scowling.

“Trouble?”

“Trouble. Minarixa’s dead.”

I gasp. Not my favourite baker.

The crowd moan as the body is brought out wrapped in a shroud. The baker is one of Twelve Seas’ most popular characters.

“What happened?”

“Overdose,” says the Captain.

I stare at him like he’s crazy.

“An overdose? Minarixa?”

He nods.

“It can’t be. Not Minarixa. She didn’t take dwa.”

“Well, she certainly took enough last night,” says Captain Rallee.

It’s some time since I’ve seen him looking so depressed. The Civil Guards loved that baker’s shop.

I stare dumbly as Minarixa’s body is loaded on to a wagon and driven away through the falling snow, then I walk home, cursing. Word has already reached the Avenging Axe. Gurd, Tanrose and Makri are as miserable as three Niojan whores. No one can believe that our cherished baker has gone and died of an overdose.

“Such a respectable woman,” says Gurd, shaking his head. Gurd, sturdy Barbarian that he is, finds it impossible to understand why the city has been gripped by the plague of dwa.

“Why did she do it? Surely she was a happy woman?”

“She kept that bakery going through the worst times,” says Tanrose, sadly. “Orc wars, riots, even the famine. She kept it going when the True Church tried to have it made illegal for women to own businesses. I can’t believe she’s finally gone because of this.”

The event casts further gloom over Twelve Seas. Citizens already struggling with the weather, beset by poverty and surrounded by corruption curse the powdered plant that has brought so much misery in the past few years.

Makri is madder than a mad dragon at Minarixa’s death. Not because of the bakery—Makri has little enthusiasm for food—but because Minarixa was the local organiser for the Association of Gentlewomen. The Association dedicates itself to raising the status of women in Turai, and Makri supports it to the extent of helping to collect money, a thankless task in Twelve Seas. She spends a long time expressing her outrage that such a fine woman as Minarixa should succumb to a drug overdose.

“Are you going to investigate?” she demands.

I shrug.

“What’s to investigate? She took too much dwa. So did about thirty other people in Twelve Seas this week. You’ve seen the bodies.”

Makri is furious. When Captain Rallee calls in late in the evening for a beer to unwind after a hard day, she demands to know what he’s going to do about the death.

“Nothing,” replies the Captain, gloomily.

“Why not? Shouldn’t you be arresting whoever sold her the dwa?”

“How? You think we could find a witness? Or make anything stick in court? No chance. All the dwa trade is controlled by the Brotherhood and no one’s going to give evidence against them. Anyway, you arrest one dwa dealer and another appears on the street before the day is out.”

“I’ve never seen you arresting even one,” says Makri.

Captain Rallee shifts uncomfortably. Makri’s right, but it’s not the Captain’s fault. He’s as honest as they come but his superiors aren’t. The Brotherhood have far too much influence for a captain of the Civil Guards to tangle with them.

“I’m as outraged as you about Minarixa. But no one is going to pay for her death. That’s just the way it is.”

“If I meet her dealer I’m going to gut him,” says Makri.

“Fine with me,” says Captain Rallee. “I’ll be happy to look the other way.”

“I hate this place,” says Makri, and goes upstairs to read some mathematics treatise and curse the weather, the Brotherhood and everything else in Turai. Makri escaped from the Orcish gladiator slave pits a couple of years ago, an event involving such incredible carnage that the Orcs still talk of it with awe. She made her way over to Turai on hearing tales of its fine cultural tradition, but while she admits that Turai does contain a great amount of art and learning, she refuses to admit that our level of civilisation is much better than the Orcs. Sometimes I’m inclined to agree with her, though in the Orc-hating city of Turai, it’s not an opinion I’d voice in public.

Dwa is now plaguing all the Human lands. A few months ago on Avula I discovered that it was starting to make inroads into Elvish society. It’s said the Orcs encourage the trade, to weaken us. If that’s true, it’s a good plan. It’s working.

Captain Rallee buys me a beer, not a common event, though the Captain and I go back a long way. We don’t get on as well as we used to but we’ve still got some kind of connection. We drink to the baker.

“Congratulations on finding the dragon-scale thief,” says Rallee.

He must be emotional. The last time the Captain complimented me on anything, I’d just killed an Orc and tossed him from the city walls, which was sixteen years ago at least.

“What’s this I hear about you being some sort of government official?”

I explain to him that Cicerius is making me a Tribune of the People.

“What the hell is that?”

“Some old post that used to exist a hundred and fifty years ago.”

“I’ve never heard of it. Does it involve staying sober?”

“Not as far as I know. I’m not planning on staying that sober at the Assemblage.”

The Captain grins. The fire illuminates his long yellow hair, picking out his handsome features.

“Better take care you don’t offend someone.”

“I’d be more likely to offend the Sorcerers if I was sober.”

“True enough. When I heard our government were putting up Lisutaris for head of the Guild, I thought they were crazy. Everyone knows she’s stoned every day. But who knows? It might be in her favour. Sorcerers, they never could control themselves.”

“You remember the time we were camped up in the north and Harmon Half Elf was meant to be keeping watch?” asks Gurd, bringing up an old war memory.

“Sure,” replies the Captain. “He got so drunk he thought our pack mule was a troll and blasted it with a fire spell.”

“And he burned all our supplies so we ended up eating the mule!”

We all laugh, and call for more beer, and we spend the night telling war stories and drinking.

“It was different in those days,” says Gurd, some time after midnight. “The Orcs were always attacking us. We had to fight to stay alive. But there wasn’t any dwa. I liked it better then.”

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