Thraxas and the Warrior Monks by Martin Scott

Author:Martin Scott
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781857237313
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 1999-04-14T12:00:00+00:00

[Contents]

Chapter Eleven

Next day I sleep late and wake up with sore legs and a nasty hangover. I struggle out of bed and make straight for my small store of lesada leaves. These come from the Elvish Islands and are very effective against hangovers. I acquired them from an Elf who hired me a couple of months ago. He turned out to be a treacherous criminal and ended up dead, but at least he left something useful behind.

Hanama the Assassin killed him and his companion, and the thought jogs my memory. That small dark figure I glimpsed in the gardens last night reminded me of Hanama. That would be all I need, the Assassins Guild mixing itself up in things.

The lesada leaf quickly starts to take effect. As the hangover recedes I realise I’m stiff all over. It was a long walk home last night, interrupted by a lengthy stay in a tavern in Kushni. No problems for Makri there. The tavern was so disreputable I doubt they’d have turned away the King of the Orcs provided he had a few gurans in his pocket.

The Kushni quarter in the centre of town is a crime-ridden, dwa-soaked collection of taverns, brothels and gambling dens run by and fought over by the Brotherhood and the Society of Friends and habituated by the assembled lowlife of Turai. I come here often in the course of my work. Makri, who doesn’t have much spare time for socialising, isn’t quite so familiar with it. I suspect she was taken by surprise by the potency of the alcohol served. She claimed she wasn’t drunk but I swear it took her fifteen minutes to climb the outside stairs when we arrived home and she wouldn’t have made it at all if I hadn’t hauled her up the last flight myself.

So I’m slightly gratified when Makri crawls into my room about lunchtime and begs a lesada leaf from me. She’s wrapped in an old blanket and looks like she has a bad dose of the plague. I don’t mind Makri being number one chariot when it comes to fighting and she can be as sharp as an Elf’s ear with her studies in philosophy and rhetoric, but I’d really take offence if she started outdrinking me.

Her hand shakes as she raises a goblet of water to her lips.

“You’re looking as green as the leaf,” I comment cheerfully. “I told you that mountain klee was too powerful for you. Needs a strong stomach like mine to take that beverage in.”

“What the hell was it made of?” groans Makri.

“Oh, grapes, yams, corn. . . . Who knows? Up in the mountains they just distil whatever comes to hand.”

She shudders. “Don’t you feel bad?”

“Of course not. Take more than a couple of bottles of mountain klee to affect me. I was up bright and early for morning prayers.”

“Nonsense,” says Makri, wincing with the effort of speaking. “You just got to the lesada leaves first.”

Makri washes her leaf down with some difficulty then lies back on the couch with her arm covering her eyes.

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