Thraxas at the Races by Martin Scott

Author:Martin Scott [Scott, Martin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy
ISBN: 9781626751118
Publisher: BookBaby
Published: 1999-06-03T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Unfortunately during the week that follows I achieve very little. The rain pours down, the streets turn into rivers of mud, and I run into dead end after dead end. It's been raining for twenty-two days and I'm no nearer to finding either Mursius's killer or the Orcish prayer mat. Cicerius keeps demanding to know when I'm going to come up with something, and I'm fast running out of answers.

I've asked representatives from every conceivable group of people in Turai what they know about Orcish religion, and the sum total is nothing at all. The Honourable Association of Merchants, the Sorcerers, the Guard, the Brotherhood, the Transport Guild, the True Church, the Goldsmiths, and plenty more besides. As far as I can see no one in Turai knows enough about Orcs to even guess they have a religion, let alone deliberately set out to steal their prayer mat. I'm starting to wonder if the whole thing is a coincidence. Maybe someone took the mat to keep their feet dry. Furthermore these questions are very bad for my reputation, with the city being so touchy about Orcs just now.

I wouldn't be floundering around in quite such a hopeless manner if Cicerius could tell me anything useful, but he can't. No one who shouldn't have been there was seen near the Prince's villa. And when Old Hasius the Brilliant gets round to checking the scene, he can't find anything.

"How is it that Sorcerers can never find anything?" I complain loudly to Makri. "The damned city is top heavy with Sorcerers yet every time there's a crime and I could use a little help, there's nothing they can do. Either the moons are in the wrong conjunction or the whole area's been mysteriously cleaned up. What's the point of having so many Sorcerers if all they can do is make up horoscopes for handmaidens? It's not like that when I get accused of something, of course. Then it's, 'We found Thraxas's aura on the knife so let's throw him in the slammer.' I tell you, Makri, they're useless. Damned Sorcerers. I hate them."

"What about Kemlath?"

I admit I don't hate Kemlath. At least he's trying to be helpful. He keeps hanging round anyway, though I think there might be more to it than helping me.

"I think he's taken a shine to Sarija," I say.

"Sarija? Wouldn't he regard her as beneath him? And kindly don't turn that into one of your crude jokes."

"Who knows? Sorcerers aren't quite as hidebound about that sort of thing as other aristocrats. Kemlath comes from the far west originally, same as Astrath. He's certainly been spending a lot of time with her. Says he's helping her to kick dwa."

Makri agrees that this does seem to be working. "But that might be because you got her addicted to beer instead."

"Well it's far healthier. Build her up. She'll need her energy if she's still planning to enter Storm the Citadel in the Turas Memorial."

I stare glumly out of the window. Magic dry cloak or not, I can hardly bear going out in the rain again.

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