At the foot of the stairs, I run into Moxalan, younger son of Honest Mox the bookmaker. Only son I should say, as his older sibling succumbed to an overdose of dwa last winter, around the same time that Minarixa the baker also died of an overdose. I miss the baker terribly. Life isn't the same without her pastries. I don't miss Mox's son, but as I do a lot of trade with the bookmaker, it's as well to be civil to his family.
Moxalan is around nineteen, open-faced and friendly, not yet having taken on the mean and cunning look of the hardened bookmaker. His tunic is plain but well cut and his sandals are expensive enough to let anyone know that his father's business isn't doing badly. We exchange greetings and he tells me that he's here to ask Makri for help with some theories of architecture, which makes no sense to me.
"Theories of architecture?"
"For the Guild College. We're in the same class. I missed a lecture so I want Makri's notes."
I didn't know Honest Mox was sending his younger son to Guild College, though it's not really a surprise. A man who's raking in as much cash as Mox can afford the fees, and Mox, as a bookmaker, has very low social status in the city. It's not uncommon for men of low status who find themselves wealthy to try and improve the family lot by educating their sons and getting them into the civil service, or something similar.
"Not entering the family business, then?"
He shakes his head.
"I help out a little, but my father wants me to better myself. Is Makri in the tavern?"
"Yes. She's working."
Moxalan is confident that Makri will have a full set of notes from the course.
"She's the best student. Much better than me. Did you know she's top of every class?"
I didn't. Makri probably mentioned it but I don't pay that much attention. I notice that Moxalan's face goes a little dopey as he mentions Makri's name. I recognise the symptom. Young men, on seeing Makri's impressive figure crammed into two barely adequate strips of chainmail, tend to forget that their mothers want them to marry a sensible girl from a good family and their fathers warned them to stay away from women with Orcish blood. Even the Elves were impressed, and it's next door to taboo for Elves to be impressed by anything remotely connected to the Orcs. What these young men don't realise is that their mothers were right. Life with Makri would be hell, no matter how fabulous they think her figure is. She'll never shake off the effects of growing up as a gladiator. At the first sign of a domestic argument, Makri would very likely behead her husband and paint her face with his blood.
"I thought she'd be with you," says Moxalan.
"Why?"
"Because of the warning."
Again I don't know what he's talking about. Moxalan explains that he's heard about Dandelion warning me of a bloodbath. In a place like Twelve Seas, rumours travel fast. I'm aggravated, and not just because I don't like my private business becoming the stuff of gossip. The implication seems to be that if I'm heading into danger I need Makri to protect me. As if I didn't get along fine for years before she arrived.
"Don't worry about me," I grunt, and take my leave.
The Spiked Mace is an unpleasant little establishment close to the harbour, full of drunken sailors and unruly stevedores. Unlike many of the local taverns, it's not owned by the Brotherhood, the criminal gang that controls most of the crime south of the river. Which is good news for me. If I tried to remove stolen loot from the Brotherhood, they'd be down on me like a bad spell. Most likely I'll find the pendant in the hands of some petty thief who'll be keen to sell it as soon as possible to raise money for his next dose of dwa. If the guy is desperate enough and lets me have it cheap, I might even make a profit on the deal. Hell, Lisutaris isn't going to gripe over a few gurans, not with the wealth she has, and her huge villa in Thamlin. It's a simple job and shouldn't involve much thought, which is just as well, as the heat makes thinking an arduous business.
As usual, contact with a member of the Turanian aristocracy has left me envious of their wealth. I've always been poor. A few years ago I worked my way up to a nice job as Senior Investigator at the Palace, with a big office, a nice home and lackeys to do the work. Then I drank myself out of the job. My father always said I'd come to nothing. So far I've been unable to prove him wrong.
The sun beats down. The streets are as hot as Orcish hell, and inside the Spiked Mace it's worse. The heat mingles with the smell of rancid ale and burning dwa. Thazis smoke drifts over the tables. The wooden beams overhead are blackened with age. The prostitute who patrols the area with red ribbons in her hair strives vainly to interest the largely inebriated clientele. There's a woman on the floor who looks like she might be dead. I shake my head. This is about as low as life gets. No civilised person would visit this tavern.
"Thraxas! We were wondering where you'd got to."
I come here occasionally. Mainly in the line of business. The barman, and owner of the establishment, is Gavarax, one-time captain of his own fighting trireme till he was kicked out of the navy for failing to hand over booty to the King. He's dark-skinned and has a scar stretching from chin to eyebrow, a result of some naval encounter which he's not shy of bragging about when the old salts get to remembering the old days. Taking a beer merely to be polite, I ask him if there's been anyone in trying to sell a stolen jewel. Gavarax isn't the sort of man who'd give information to the Civil Guard, but he knows me well enough to pass on anything that won't get him into trouble, providing there's something in it for him.
Gavarax waits till the customer at the bar—a docker, from his red bandanna, but not one who's planning on working in the next week or two—departs unsteadily with his drink before leaning over to inform me quietly that actually, yes, there was a man of that sort. I slide a few gurans over the bar.
"He's upstairs now in the private room. With a couple of others. Never seen them before."
I make to leave. Gavarax grabs my arm.
"If you're going to kill anyone, go easy on the furniture."
Making my way through the smoky, noisy room to the stairs at the back, I'm thinking that this case is going to be even easier than I anticipated. I climb the stairs and wait outside the room, listening. Not a sound. I boot the door open and march in, sleep spell ready, in case anyone is planning on resisting.
There are four men in the room, but they're not going to do much resisting. Three of them are dead and the other one looks like he'll be joining them soon. Each one stabbed. It makes for a very large puddle of blood. I bend over the only one who's still breathing, albeit shallowly.
"What happened?"
He tries to look at me, but his eyes won't focus.
"I was on a beautiful golden ship," he whispers. Then he coughs up some blood and dies.
As last words go, they're fairly strange. I file them away for later consideration and look round the room. The window at the back is open and there's blood on the sill. There's an alleyway outside and it's not too far to the ground. No problem making a getaway, though I'm wondering quite what sort of person it was who got away. Obviously a person or persons capable of taking care of themselves. The dead men are all wearing swords. Petty thieves aren't necessarily trained fighters, but it's never that easy to kill four armed opponents.
Moving quickly, I start searching the bodies. They're still warm. I've handled plenty of corpses in my time but I don't enjoy it. I recognise one of them. Axaten, a petty thief, often worked at the Stadium Superbius, picking up whatever he could from careless race-goers. I don't recognise the other three. None of them has the pendant. All I find are a few coins in their purses. No tattoos, nothing identifying them as belonging to any organisation. I search the room, again without results.
I look down into the alley. An easy enough drop for a lighter person maybe, but with my bulk I'm not keen to try it out. Besides, there's the matter of four corpses to consider. I'd like nothing better than to leave them here and sneak out, but there's no point. Gavarax isn't going to cover for me. As soon as the bodies are found, he'll squeal to the Civil Guard and I'll be a handy suspect for murder.
I curse mightily and retrace my steps downstairs to the bar. Gavarax isn't pleased.
"Four of them? All dead? The guards are going to love this."
His eyes narrow.
"Did you kill them?"
"I'm not that quick with a sword these days."
Gavarax glances at my belly. He can believe it. He sends a boy off with a message and I wait in the dingy tavern for the guards to arrive. I'm now in for what will undoubtedly be an uncomfortable interrogation. I'm going to have more than a few words to say to Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky.