Thraxas and the Ice Dragon (15 page)

"What does that mean?" demands Lisutaris.

"It means that while certain members of our party crumble at the first sign of pressure, ending up half-killing themselves with thazis, and others stumble about like a child with a toy sword, losing their first fight and going home in tears, I, Thraxas of Turai, simply approach a difficult task in a determined manner, and complete the deal. Nine pies eaten, competitors snivelling in the dust, and we've earned fifty gurans. Let this be an inspiration to you."

"You're a fantastic inspiration," says Lisutaris, dryly. "I'll certainly never forget the sight of you wolfing down these pies."

"Greetings, Lisutaris," comes a familiar, unwelcome voice. It's Lasat Axe of Gold, who, along with his sidekick Charius, seems to be haunting the place. "Is it true that your Chief Adviser has just taken first place in a pie eating contest?"

"It is," says Lisutaris, stiffly.

"Really? That will make an amusing story for the King…"

Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, draws herself up to her full height. Her cloak, elegant dark blue with the Sorcerer's rainbow motif embroidered around the edge, flutters regally in the breeze.

"Pie-eating is an honourable occupation where I come from. I'm proud of my Chief Adviser's endeavours."

"Really?" Lasat smirks. "I wouldn't allow a member of my staff to participate."

"What you would or would not allow is of no consequence to me. Thraxas's mighty appetite has often been the precursor to some of his most brilliant advice. Come, Thraxas, and Makri. It's time to prepare for the sword-fighting competition." With that, Lisutaris sweeps away, head held high. We follow on.

"Thanks for the support," I say.

"You're welcome. If you do actually meet the king, try not to mention the pie-eating. Makri, are you ready to fight?"

Makri nods. She has an extremely determined glint in her eyes. Her group will finish today, which means she'll have four fights in quick succession. That's a tough schedule. I leave them on their way to the changing room, while I hurry off to the bookmakers to place the fifty gurans I won.

Chapter Eighteen

On my way to the bookmaker's tent I run into my old companion Combius of Juval. He greets me far less jovially than previously.

"Well Thraxas, you really landed me in it."

"What did I do?"

"You convinced me with your idiotic talk of that young girl being able to fight. I put money on her."

"Ah. Sorry about that."

"Why did you say she could fight? Now I'm the laughing-stock of the Armourers Guild."

Combius looks hurt. For a sword-fighter, he always did have a sensitive side.

"Makri
can
fight. She's due back on the field any time now. I'm here to bet on her again. So should you, to make up your losses."

"Are you joking? My wife tallies up my accounts. It's already going to be hard to explain."

"Your wife isn't a betting woman?"

"Not on hopeless long shots, no."

I lay my arm ion his shoulder. "Combius, there's a time when a man has to make a stand for what he believes in. Only minutes ago I was engaged in some serious competition, and I didn't flinch. Anyway, you can make up your losses on Makri's next fight."

"But what if she loses again?"

"I've got a hard-won fifty gurans here that says she won't."

Big Bixo greets me like an old friend. "Come to try your luck again?"

I'd planned to bet my whole fifty gurans on Makri winning her next fight, but I notice that her odds for winning the tournament have gone out to two hundred to one. Having seen her first fight, the bookmakers give her no chance at all. I place ten gurans on this, and put my remaining forty on her winning her second fight. Bixo gives me six to one. Makri's opponent is a very strong favourite, at one to ten. As an experienced bookmaker, Big Bixo isn't about to mock anyone who's giving him money, but even so, I can tell he thinks I'm wasting mine. So do several others nearby. As Combius steps up after me, there's some barely suppressed derision.

"Now it's not just the Armourers Guild laughing at me," he complains as we leave the tent. "There were leather-workers in there. They're a snide lot at the best of times. I'll never live this down."

"Relax. Makri is a shoo-in."

"I'm sure some silversmiths were laughing as well."

I turn to my old friend. "Combius, what happened to you? I remember us charging into battle with one broken spear between us, and you weren't as worried then as you are now."

"I wasn't married then."

"Put your mind at rest. You're in for a sudden windfall."

Next to the tournament field I manage to grab a private word with Lisutaris while Makri is preparing.

"Has Makri been taking anything she shouldn't have?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Reasonably. How did she get that dwa anyway?"

"She claims it was just a fragment she brought from Turai, and that was the last of it."

"Surely she couldn't find any more in Samsarina?" says Lisutaris. "Look how strict they are about thazis."

"Dwa's spread just about everywhere. It will be here all right, if you look hard enough."

Makri emerges from her changing room, clad in her armour. Behind us, someone laughs. It's Charius the Wise.

"At least it covers her ears," he says. "Mistress of the Sky, if you had to employ an Orc, shouldn't it at least have been a tough one?"

Lisutaris doesn't deign to reply, choosing instead to accompany me to the edge of the arena. I'm the only one allowed to accompany Makri into the fighting area, but Lisutaris has decided to remain as close as possible.

"All set, Makri?" I ask.

"I'm ready."

"If you need inspiration, just remember the way I tackled these pies."

There are a few catcalls as Makri enters the arena, though I do hear one encouraging voice. General Hemistos, in the front row, apparently hasn't lost faith in her.

Makri's opponent, a Simnian by the name of Zetorex, turns out to be an extremely large man. There's something of a comic mismatch as they square up to each other. Before he drops his helmet over his shaven head there's an expression in his eyes that suggests he's insulted to be faced with such a puny opponent. The Marshal, brightly dressed in red, raises his flag. I walk swiftly back to the edge of the small field. As I turn to watch, the Marshal signals for the fight to begin. Zetorex leaps forward to attack. Makri catches his blade on hers, and uses his momentum to spin him completely round so he ends up facing in the opposite direction. It's the sort of fancy defensive move you might see attempted in practice, but one that would never work that well in real life. Except, that is, when Makri does it. Three seconds into the fight, Zetorex is facing the wrong way and the tip of Makri's sword is touching the back of his neck. That counts as a lethal stroke, and and the Marshal signals she's the winner.

There's some applause from the crowd, and some surprised laughter. So fast was the fight, and so unexpected the ending, that most people assume it was an accident.

"She got lucky," says one spectator beside me, and his neighbour agrees.

Makri sheathes her sword and walks calmly back towards us. Lisutaris and I congratulate her.

"You'll be fighting again soon," I tell her. "Get some rest while I hurry back to Big Bixo's."

"Are we winning now?" asks Lisutaris.

"Things are looking up. We picked up two hundred and forty gurans on that fight. With the original stake, we've got two hundred and eighty. I'm planning to put it all on Makri again."

Leaving Makri in Lisutaris's care, I hurry off to do just that. A bird is singing in a tree at the edge of the fields. It suits my mood, which is better than it's been for a while. Nothing like a successful wager for brightening the spirits. Big Bixo hands over my winnings with a sullen look on his face. I study the odds chalked up on the board. Makri is still an outsider, but not by so much. Bixo is offering five to two on her winning her next fight, and the odds on her qualifying from her group have come down to eight to one. I place two hundred and forty on her to win.

As it's generally a good idea to spread your bets around if you can, I take a walk down the field to the next bookmaker's tent, where the sign says 'Generous Ges, the Gambler's Friend.' Generous Ges is offering the same odds as Big Bixo. I place my remaining forty gurans on Makri to qualify from her group at eight to one, then hurry back to the arena. On the way I meet Combius, who's celebrating with a flagon of ale.

"Happy now?" I ask.

"Yes. Should I bet on her again?"

"Definitely."

I return in time to see Parasas, the swordsman who defeated Makri, fighting again. I have to admire his technique as he puts away his next opponent. Makri glowers at him all the way through.

"How could I lose to him?" she demands. "Not that I did anyway. I was cheated."

The crowd has grown. It's a noisy scene, with the clash of weapons, the babble of voices, and music from travelling musicians. Makri's second fight of the day lasts only slightly longer than her first. She attacks from the start. Her opponent parries her first blow and doesn't see the second coming. Makri plants her sword tip at his throat, halting it a fraction of an inch away from him, as required by the rules. The Marshal immediately flags her as the winner. Once again, the crowd is not all that impressed. A bout lasting a few seconds is not what they came here to see. Fights are usually much longer; there can be a great deal of hacking a slashing, with mighty blows landing on shields, before the outcome is decided. Not all fights are ended by a lethal strike. Blows deemed by the Marshal to have landed, but not counting as mortal wounds, are given a half point. A fighter needs four of these half points to win a match, and that's not an uncommon way for a fight to end. A lethal strike has to be performed absolutely perfectly, leaving the Marshal in no doubt that it would have led to death in real combat, before he'll call it. Makri has now done this twice, very quickly. As she retires from the field there's some grumbling.

"Was that really a killing blow?"

"I think the Marshal's going easy on her. Damned Orcs."

Taking a moment to check that Makri is undamaged, I hurry as fast as I can down to the bookmaker's tent. Not surprisingly, Big Bixo isn't pleased to see me. My two hundred and forty gurans at five to two wins me six hundred. Along with my stake, that means Bixo has to pay me eight hundred and forty gurans, which is more than he has in his till. He has to send one of his assistants off for more cash. When he returns he's flanked by a man I haven't seen before. Younger than Bixo, with a hard, flat face, and scarring round his mouth.

"Congratulations," says the hard-faced man, in a voice that's cold even by bookmaker's standards.

"Who's this?" I ask Bixo.

"My business partner."

Bixo's business partner has a sword glinting at his hip and a poorly concealed dagger under his shirt. I can guess what part of the business he might take care of.

Naturally, Makri's odds for her next fight, the fourth in her qualifying group, have now fallen drastically, particularly as she's matched against the one fighter whose chances of qualifying were rated worse than hers. Makri is the slight favourite, and Big Bixo is only offering five to six. When I check with Generous Ges, his price is the same. If Ges is actually generous, it doesn't seem to involve giving better odds than the other bookmakers. I keep sixty gurans for expenses and bet the rest, seven hundred and eighty, on Makri to win.

Lisutaris is in a much better mood after Makri's victories. I find her talking to Kublinos. The Harbour Sorcerer has put on quite a fancy cloak to visit the tournament, and is busy inviting Lisutaris to dinner. He glares at me with loathing as I interrupt, and draw Lisutaris off to one side for a private talk. I take twenty gurans from my purse and hand it to her.

"What's this?" she asks.

"Living allowance"

"Twenty gurans? Are you serious? What am I meant to do with that?"

"I'm giving the same to Makri. And myself. I need the rest for betting. You want to win big, don't you?"

The Sorcerer looks at me quite suspiciously. "You have't drunk the rest away, have you?"

"Is that any way to speak to your Chief Adviser? I've put seven hundred and eighty gurans on Makri to win."

Lisutaris gazes at the small pile of coins in her hand. "I was hoping to get my hair done. And my nails. And buy a new dress. And shoes."

"Can't you manage without all that?"

"Certainly, if I don't mind going to meet the King looking like a peasant woman fresh from the fields."

"Can't you use sorcery?" I suggest. "Conjure up a new dress?"

"Possibly," says Lisutaris. "But it's not the same as buying something nice."

"Are you going to accept Kublinos's invitation to dinner?"

"I don't know."

"If you do, try and bring some food home. I don't think Arichdamis is going to be restocking his cellars any time soon."

It's almost time for Makri's next fight, her third of the day. I lead her into the centre of the field, then take a few steps back to watch her demolish her opponent, which she does, quite rapidly. Makri blocks a few attacks then delivers a flurry of attacking blows, any one of which would probably be fatal. Her opponent ends up flat on his back while the Marshal signals her victory. The crowd enjoy this contest more. It was short, but it did at least contain some violence.

When I give Makri her twenty gurans she accepts it without complaint, but she does tell me she's not happy with her gorget, which isn't sitting comfortably around her neck. There's no time to do anything about it now, but we can have it altered after she qualifies, which she will do if she wins her next fight.

"We've got over 1,400 gurans now."

"Really?" Makri is impressed, which pleases me.

"Yes, I'm tormenting the bookmakers. Too much for their liking. There may be trouble if we keep taking their money."

Makri touches the pommel of her sword, and smiles. "We can cope with a little trouble from a bookmaker."