“I felt like a drink,” he replies, not feeling the inclination to tell me his business.
“So did I.”
We make our way to the bar, carefully avoiding the noisy Barbarians. The air is thick with thazis smoke and the aroma of burning dwa drifts down from the rooms upstairs. You’d be surprised who you might find upstairs in a tavern like this, partaking of illegal narcotics. Members of Turai’s upper classes, not wishing to be found using the substance in their homes, are not above visiting dubious establishments to feed their habit.
The Venarius agency has plenty of money. I let Demanius pay for the beer.
“How’s life in Thamlin?” I ask.
The agency headquarters is up close to Thamlin, where the Senators live.
“Very peaceful. But they keep sending me here.”
I’m feeling uneasy. So is Demanius. Meeting another Investigator while out on a case is rare. When it happens I never know quite what to do. If Demanius is working on the same case as me it won’t do me any good to have him solve it before me. Bad for my reputation and bad for my income. I drink my beer quickly and then tell Demanius that I’m due upstairs for a private appointment.
“As am I,” says Demanius.
I’m lying. I don’t know if he is. As Investigators go, I wouldn’t class Demanius as sharp as an Elf’s ear. There again, he’s not dumb as an Orc either. If he’s here fishing for information he’s not getting anything from me. We cross the room, wary of each other, hardly noticing the whores who flop around the tables, or the Barbarians, who are now throwing knives at a target on the wall. The stairs are dark and narrow with a flickering torch providing insufficient light. We’re almost at the top when a door opens and a woman emerges. She’s wearing the garb of a common market trader and looks out of place. There’s a strange expression on her face but when she recognises Demanius she starts to speak.
“The pendant,” she says.
I might be getting somewhere at last. She opens her mouth again. Then she falls down dead. So no real progress.
Demanius sprints up the last few stairs. I sprint after him. He bends down to examine the body. There’s a great wound in the woman’s back, still pumping blood. Demanius draws his sword and charges into the room she came out of. I’m at his heels. Inside we find a man sitting on a chair, staring into space.
Demanius starts barking out questions. I hold up my hand.
“He’s trying to speak.”
The man’s voice comes slowly, from a long way away.
“I’m King of Turai,” he says. Then he slumps forward. It’s an odd thing to say. Whoever he is, he isn’t the King. I feel for the pulse on his neck. There isn’t one. He’s dead. There are no wounds on his body. Really he looks tolerably healthy. But he’s still dead.
I’m becoming very familiar with this scene. More deaths and the pendant still missing. Demanius, lither than me, hauls himself out of the window and drops into the alley below. I don’t follow him. Whoever is responsible for this latest outrage is probably long gone. Besides, with my weight I don’t fancy the drop. A man doesn’t want to break his ankle in this place.
I stare at the body still slumped on the chair, trying to figure out the cause of death. I don’t believe it was from natural causes. Doesn’t look like poison. Is there sorcery in the air? I look around, trying to sense it. With my own sorcerous background I can usually tell if magic has been used recently, but I can’t say for sure. Maybe, faintly.
Outside, a few customers have gathered to look at the dead woman, whose blood still seeps on to the floorboards. They don’t appear too interested and no one protests as I quickly search the pocket on her market worker’s apron. I find nothing, but I notice a tattoo on her arm. Two clasped hands. The mark of the Society of Friends. The Society is a criminal gang, based in the north of the city. They’re bitter rivals with the Brotherhood. Last year there was a murderous war over territory and the feud is still smouldering. Whoever this woman is, I doubt she’s the market worker she pretends to be. Or pretended to be.
Someone has finally summoned the landlord. He puffs his way up the stairs with a couple of henchmen, complaining about the inconvenience of always having to carry bodies out of his tavern.
“You could open an establishment in a better part of town,” I suggest. “But you’d probably miss the excitement. You know who this woman is?”
“Never seen her before. Who are you?”
“Thraxas. Investigator.”
The landlord spits on the floor.
“That’s what I think of Investigators.”
His henchmen get ready to run me off the premises. I save them the trouble by leaving. There’s not a lot of point in sticking around. No one in this place is going to answer questions. I’m not certain I could muster any questions. A peculiar feeling of gloom is settling over me. It’s starting to seem like I’m never going to find this pendant. Every time I get close all I find is more dead bodies. A man can only take so many dead bodies, even a man who’s used to them.
Walking back through Kushni, I try to review the situation, but I have no real idea what’s going on. I’m particularly troubled by the death of the man in the chair. Sword wounds are one thing but a death you can’t explain always spells trouble. When I reach Moon and Stars Boulevard I’m uncertain even which way to turn. Should I go back to the Avenging Axe? Possibly I should head north to Truth is Beauty Lane, home of the Sorcerers, and report to Lisutaris. But what’s the point? She’ll only send me out to some other godforsaken tavern where I’ll find a pile of dead bodies.
It’s hot as Orcish hell. I’ve been in cooler deserts. My head hurts. Maybe a beer will help. It often does. I look around for a tavern, somewhere where there’s unlikely to be anyone being murdered, at least not until I’ve had a drink. I’ve just spotted a reasonable-looking establishment across the road when a carriage pulls up in front of me. An official carriage, with a driver in uniform and the livery of the Imperial Palace. The door opens and a toga-clad figure leans out.
“Thraxas. How fortunate. I was on my way to visit you.”
It’s Hansius, assistant to Deputy Consul Cicerius. He’s a smart, handsome young man, son of a Senator, on his way up the ladder in public life. So far he’s doing well. Hasn’t been involved in anything scandalous and even stayed sober at the Sorcerers Assemblage, an event notable for its drunkenness and degeneracy.
“Cicerius wants you to visit him right away.”
I’m still looking at the inviting tavern across the road.
“Tell him I’m busy.”
“It’s an official summons.”
“I’m still busy.”
“Doing what?”
My head hurts more.
“Do I accost you in the street and ask you your business? I’m busy. Tell Cicerius I’ll come later.”
“If you require beer I am sure the Deputy Consul can provide it,” says Hansius, which is perceptive of him.
“The Deputy Consul serves wine, as I recall. And he’s miserly with it.”
Hansius looks stern.
“Official summons.”
I climb into the carriage. We ride slowly north towards the Palace. Our official vehicle has right of way but the streets are so crowded it’s still a slow journey. Since our King’s diplomacy opened up the southern trade routes a few years ago, commerce in Turai has mushroomed and trade wagons roll in all day. At the corner of the street that leads to Truth is Beauty Lane we’re held up for a long time by a huge wagon that’s trying to manoeuvre its way round a corner it wasn’t designed to turn. The driver curses, and shouts at his four horses.