Thraxas and the Ice Dragon t-9

by Martin Scott

  I look at her blankly. «Who are you?»

  «I'm Demmy, the barmaid you had an affair with after you won the tournament.» She sits back heavily. «I expect you forgot about me within a week.»

  This is all quite a shock. I did have a brief liaison with a barmaid while I was in Samsarina. That was more than twenty years ago. «You're Demmy? Well dammit, how was I meant to recognise you?»

  «I haven't changed that much,» said Demelzos. She eyes my waistline. «Unlike you.»

  «But you were a barmaid. I wasn't expecting you to become a Baroness. How did that happen?»

  «My father left his job in the mine and went up north to prospect for queenstone. He made the richest strike anyone ever saw. Two years after you left Samsarina I was the wealthiest young woman in the country. Soon after that I was a member of aristocracy. The Barons are an exclusive class, but a young woman with enough money is tempting for anyone.»

  The Baroness is wearing a queenstone necklace, and even inside the carriage, with the curtains drawn, the blue stones sparkle. It's a very precious material, only found in Samsarina as far as I know.

  «So what's it like being married to Baron Mabados?»

  «Better than being a barmaid. How did life treat you?»

  «Twenty years soldiering, then I ended up living in a tavern in the bad part of town.»

  Demelzos was an attractive barmaid, as I recall, and she hasn't lost much in the way of looks. Her long brown hair hangs freely over her shoulders, in the style of the local noblewomen, with two slender braids looping round to meet at the nape of her neck where they're joined by a silver clasp. Though the weather is becoming milder, she hasn't abandoned her fur cape, which is luxurious, even by the normal standards of fur capes. Her shoes, while neither as extravagant nor as high-heeled as those worn by the fashionable women of Turai, are stitched with gold thread. I'd say she hasn't done too badly for herself.

  «I'm guessing you'd didn't ask me here to discuss old times,» I say.

  «I didn't. Though if I did, I'd have something to say about the way you left without saying goodbye.»

  «I had to get back to my regiment. I was absent without leave.»

  «You could have said goodbye.»

  «Sorry. As a young man, I may have been lacking in manners.»

  «Have they improved?»

  «Not really.»

  I'm feeling discomfited by the encounter. It's hard to know the right tone to take with a Baroness you knew as a barmaid.

  «I'm told you call yourself an investigator,» she says. «What do you do exactly?»

  «I find out things for people.»

  «What sort of people?»

  «All sorts. Poor people who can't afford a good lawyer. Rich people who don't want a good lawyer knowing the sort of trouble they're in. People who've got on the wrong side of someone powerful.» I pause, waiting for her to speak. She remains silent. «Do you fall into one of these categories?»

  «How do you find things out? Sorcery?»

  «I don't know enough sorcery to tell what day it is.»

  «Didn't you go to the Sorcerer's college? I remember you used to talk about it.»

  «It never worked out.»

  «So how do you find things out?»

  «Mostly by trudging around asking questions that other people can't be bothered to ask. It would save time if you told me what the problem is.»

  Demelzos muses for a while longer. It's a comfortable carriage. I don't mind waiting. It gives me some time to digest the fact that the young barmaid I had a brief affair with went on to become a Baroness. Maybe I should have stuck around till she became rich.

  «My daughter thinks someone is trying to kill her,» she says, eventually.

  «Are they?»

  «I don't think so. Why would anyone try to kill a Baron's daughter?»

  «Baron have enemies, I suppose.»

  «Probably,» agrees the Baroness. «But I can't see any reason they'd trouble my daughter Merlione. But ever since the accident she's been scared.»

  I lean forward. «Accident?»

  «Her friend Alceten was killed by a runaway carriage. Merlione saw it happen. She'd gone to meet her at the Royal Record House. Alceten's father was the Record Keeper. She came out the building, waved to my daughter, and then she was struck down by a carriage. It was a terrible accident. Alceten's family is distraught. But that's all it was, an accident.»

  «Merlione doesn't think so?»

  Baroness Demelzos shakes her head. «She's convinced it was deliberate. Worse, she thinks she's next.»

  «Were there any other witnesses?»

  «I think so. Daringos, the King's Chief Steward, did carry out an enquiry. If there'd been any hint of foul play I'm sure it would have been discovered.» The Baroness sighs. Briefly, she looks older. «My daughter just won't accept it was an accident. She's a quiet girl…» The Baroness's voice tails off.

  «You mean quiet and sensible, or quiet and neurotic?»

  «My daughter is not neurotic.»

  «So she's sensible?»

  «I'd say so. And she's good-natured, and intelligent. I love her dearly. I'm sure she's in no danger but I hate to see her frightened. Do you think you could talk to her? Just in case there's anything in it?»

  I mull things over for a little while. Outside I can hear the civilised tread of passing Barons, and the voices of their children.

  «Is it difficult being married to a Baron? After growing up poor?»

  «Isn't that rather an impertinent question?»

  «Probably.»

  «My marriage to Mabados has been generally successful.»

  Generally successful doesn't sound like the warmest description of a marriage I've ever heard. Sensing my doubts, Demelzos takes the opportunity to ask if I ever managed to stay in one place long enough to get married.

  «I did.»

  «And?»

  «Complete disaster.»

  «Any children?»

  «No. No property either.»

  The Baroness smiles. It makes her look younger, more like the barmaid I remember.

  «What does the Baron say about all this?»

  «He doesn't believe any of it. I can't really blame him, it all sounds so unlikely. It's putting a strain on my family. My daughter's refusing to leave the house. She wouldn't come with us to Orosis. My husband was furious.»

  «It must be awkward, with the wedding coming up.»

  «It is. If she's not at her brother's wedding, people will talk. Baronesses can be very vindictive with their gossip. Do you think you can help?»

  «Yes. I can.»

  The Baroness fishes around in her bag. «How much do you charge?»

  «Thirty gurans a day. But you don't have to pay me.»

  «That's gallant. I don't remember you being gallant. Weren't there some questions asked about your tactics in the tournament?»

  I grin. «One or two. But I still won. You don't need to pay me.»

  Demelzos smiles. She's pleased I'm not charging her.

  «But you could lend me some money.»

  Demelzos looks startled, and then laughs. «That's more like the man I remember. What do you need a loan for?»

  I explain that I need money for Makri to enter the tournament.

  «The Orc woman?»

  «Yes. Though she wouldn't like you calling her that.»

  «Can she fight?»

  «Champion of the Orcish gladiator pits.»

  «But she's just a skinny young girl.»

  «True. But she's part Orc, part Human, and part Elf. That's meant to be impossible, but she managed it somehow. The mixed blood's done something strange to her. It makes her move faster than anyone else. She likes fighting too, which makes a difference. But we need money for armour and weapons.»

  «And then there's your betting to consider, I imagine?»

  «You don't seem to have forgotten much about me. Yes, I may place a few bets.»

  «So which one of the women is
yours?» she asks, while counting out coins.

  «What?»

  «The Orc girl or the Sorceress? Who's you lover?»

  «Neither. I gave up on women when my marriage fell apart.»

  Demelzos plainly doesn't believe me, but lets it pass.

  «How much do you need?»

  «For Makri? About two hundred.»

  Demelzos hands me three hundred gurans. Twelve heavy gold coins.

  «That should keep you going. Make sure the Baron never hears about it.»

  Chapter Ten

  Makri stares at me suspiciously. «I can't believe you had an affair with a Baroness.»

  «She wasn't a Baroness at the time. She was a barmaid.»

  «I can't believe you had an affair with a barmaid.»

  «What's so strange about it? I'd just won the sword-fighting tournament. There were barmaids all over Samsarina keen to have an affair with me. Just because I don't boast about these things doesn't mean I wasn't a man for the ladies in my younger days.»

  Makri shakes her head. «Are you sure you're not imagining it?»

  I tap the purse I'm carrying. «You should be grateful the Baroness liked me so much. Otherwise we wouldn't have money for your armour.» I shake the purse, making the coins jangle. «I expect she's remembered me very fondly over the years.»

  «You're loving this, aren't you?» says Makri, who, for some reason, seems unnecessarily scathing about the whole thing.

  «I suppose it does say something about the vigorous love-making of the youthful Thraxas that she still remembers me so kindly. But I'm not bragging.»

  «If Baron Mabados ever finds out he'll throw you back in the ocean.» Makri doesn't sound too displeased at the prospect.

  We're walking through Elath, on our way to buy armour and weapons. Makri's preferred method of combat is to use two swords, but tournament rules stipulate that each fighter must enter the arena carrying a sword and a shield.

  «A blunted sword,» mutters Makri. «What use is that?»

  Weapons have to have the edge taken off before they can be used. Makri keeps grumbling about it. We walk eastwards through the town till we reach the outskirts, where tents have been set up selling all sorts of goods. Makri becomes more interested as we approach. She does like weapons, and can't help but be interested in the rows of swords, shields, helmets and so on. We're studying a display of daggers when someone claps me heartily on the back.

  «Saxarth? Is that you? You old dog!»

  I turn round to find myself confronted by a man a few inches shorter than me, grey haired, but wiry and vigorous.

  «Combius?»

  «Saxarth!» He claps me on the shoulder again. «Good to see you!»

  «Saxarth?» says Makri.

  «It's the name I used when I won the tournament. I was absent without leave from the army at the time. Had to disguise my identity. Makri, this is Combius of Juval. Champion the year before me, and as good a fighter as I've met.»

  «I'd have been champion next year too if I hadn't been injured,» roars Combius, cheerfully. A quite untrue statement, but I let it pass.

  «Saxarth is just Thraxas backwards,» says Makri. «Couldn't you come up with something better?»

  «What are you doing here, Combius?»

  «Selling weapons. Set myself up as an armourer after I retired from fighting.»

  «Then you're just the man I've been looking for. This is Makri. She needs weapons for the tournament.»

  Combius looks at Makri in surprise. «You're entering the tournament?»

  «Couldn't you think of anything better than Saxarth?» asks Makri.

  I purse my lips. «Could you drop the inquisition about my name? Yes, Combius, Makri is entering the tournament. She's currently bodyguard to the Head of the Sorcerers Guild and I give her every chance of doing well.»

  Combius doesn't look especially convinced, but he's not going to turn away our business. «I've got the full range here. What do you need?»

  «Everything. Sword, shield, mail shirt, gorget, mail gloves, helmet, boots, leggings. At a generous discount for an old companion, I trust.»

  Combius leads us behind his table and signals to a young assistant to help him find suitable armour for Makri.

  «She's a good deal thinner than anyone else I'm outfitting,» he muses. «Going to need some adjustments.»

  Makri has picked up a sword from the table and makes a few practice thrusts. As she walks down the row of merchandise, examining the various pieces of armour, Combius lowers his voice. «What's the idea, Saxarth? She's not really entering the tournament is she?»

  «She is.»

  «Did you lose your mind when Turai fell to the Orcs? People die in this tournament. Why risk the girl's life?»

  «She's not risking her life.»

  «Really? Orc blood isn't too popular around here. It's madness letting her enter.»

  By now Makri is trying on some of Combius's chainmail shirts, all of which are too large for her. She complains about the weight, comparing them unfavourably to the Orcish armour she left in Turai, something that doesn't go down well with Combius.

  «The Orcs can't make armour.»

  «Yes they can. Good armour.»

  Neither Combius nor his assistants look pleased. No western armourer will acknowledge that Orcish smiths have any skill.

  «How about that small shirt at the back?» I suggest, to move things along.

  «Might do,» says Combius. «It's a youth's size. Made if for a Baron's son. Killed in a horse riding accident before he could wear it, poor lad. I might be able to adjust it for her.»

  By the time we leave Combius's weapons tent Makri has purchased a sword, a shield, and chainmail gloves. We have to call back for the rest later, after alterations. Makri scowls at her sword.

  «It's blunt.»

  «Of course it's blunt. Can't you get it through your head that you're not meant to kill anyone?»

  «No. And I still think Saxarth was a poor choice of name. I'd have seen through it right away.»

  «Yes Makri, that's fascinating. Fortunately no one in Elath at the time had your mighty intellect. Now I have to eat. Which I should be able to do at that tent with the flag on top.»

  «The flag with a meat pie on it?»

  «That's the one. Lets go.»

  By now the fields are crowded, but it takes a good man to prevent Thraxas from advancing towards a meat pie. I clear a path, enter the tent, plant myself on an available bench and beckon a serving girl in our direction.

  «Three pies, a tankard of ale and whatever side dishes you have. And quickly, if you can, I haven't eaten for a long time.»

  The waitress looks towards Makri. Makri shakes her head, not wanting anything.

  «You should keep your strength up, Makri. You've got a tournament to win.»

  Makri's lips twist in a faint sneer. «I could win this tournament in my sleep. What do any of these people know about fighting? I slaughtered the entire honour guard of an Orc Lord on my own so I'm not about to start worrying about any tournament fighter.»

  «There will be a lot of good swordsmen here.»

  «None of them are any good.»

  I don't like Makri's over-confidence. «I'm telling you, there will be good fighters. Elupus, for instance.»

  Makri scoffs. «Elupus? He can't fight.»

  «How do you know that? You've never seen him in combat.»

  Makri shrugs. «I can tell. I wasn't impressed when I met him. I'll beat him. Easy as bribing a Senator. I'm more interested in Arichdamis and his inventions. Do you know he's making a special sort of huge crossbow for bringing down dragons? He showed me the plans.»

  It's my turn to be sceptical. «It will never work. People have tried before. You can't build anything big enough to fire an arrow tough enough to pierce a dragon's hide. The machine would be too cumbersome.»

  «Arichdamis doesn't think it's impossible. He's got a new swivel mounting which will allow for fast manoeuvrability. And he's invented th
is new sort of sight for aiming, it's got this little mirror in it, it was one of the cleverest things I've ever seen.»

  I'm about to pass an unfavourable opinion on the intellect of anyone foolish enough to think he can bring down a war-dragon with a crossbow when Makri unexpectedly looks sad.

  «I really wish Arichdamis could visit Samanatius,» she says. «But I expect Samanatius is dead.»

  There's not much to say to that. Samanatius is almost certainly dead. I doubt very much if the elderly philosopher escaped from the wreckage of Turai. Makri's gloom quickly transfers itself to me and I eat my pies rather quietly, thinking all the while about Gurd, Captain Rallee, Tanrose, and the other people I knew in Turai.

  «We should be marching back there right now, not sitting here,» declares Makri.

  «I know. But it takes time to get these things organised. Once Lisutaris has re-established her control over the Sorcerers Guild, we'll see some action.»

  Though the food marquee is busy, a small space has cleared around us. No one wants to sit next to Makri. If she notices, she doesn't let it show. I'm expecting some awkwardness when we enter her for the tournament. There's a smaller marquee where entrants put their name down for the competition. It's a bustling scene as contestants call out to each other, and swap friendly insults, while their supporters eye up the opposition and exchange information on the fighters' recent form. Here, even more than elsewhere, the Samsarinan class system has relaxed. Barons and their retinues mingle with their favourite sword fighters, trainers and armourers. As we approach, the banter subsides. The officials don't make any objections as Makri gives her name — the Samsarinan tournament prides itself on being open to anyone — but they're far from welcoming. I register Makri in an atmosphere of hostile silence.

  «I'm as welcome as an Orc at an Elvish wedding,» mutters Makri, as we emerge from the marquee.

  «True.»

  «Do you think Elves will ever invite me to a wedding?»

  «Probably not.»

  Now that Makri has entered the tournament, I'm keen to place some bets as soon as possible. There are several bookmakers taking bets on the tournament, all of them operating out of tents close to the fighting arena. The largest operation is run by Big Bixo. As far as I can learn, he's honest enough, if only because the whole operation is overseen by Baron Mabados himself, who, as presiding noble in the area, has a hand in most profitable business arising from the tournament. He'll have to hand over a good share of that profit to the King, of course, but it's still a good earner for the Baron.