Thraxas - The Complete Series by Martin Scott Page B

form of dwa has appeared in the city, going by the name of Choirs of Angels. No one knows where it’s coming from.
    “Kerk seems to like it. Well, Captain, if you refuse to help me, I’ll just have to find the Cloth myself. I could do with a fat reward.”
    “Well, if we find you were mixed up in its theft, you won’t get out of prison to spend your reward. Still, Thraxas, maybe you should look for it. If the Society of Friends think you’ve got it, your life isn’t worth much anyway. Not that it’s going to be worth anything at all in two days’ time if you don’t hand over five hundred gurans to Yubaxas.”
    I sneer at him.
    “No doubt the Civil Guard will provide me with constant protection if a criminal organisation such as the Brotherhood is out to harm me?”
    “Yeah right, Thraxas. Sure we will. Best thing you could do is leave town. Except you can’t, because you’re still a suspect for Attilan’s murder. Looks like you’re in a difficult position.”
    “Thanks a lot, Captain.”
    The heat is becoming oppressive. The sun’s rays are trapped between the six-storey slums that line the streets. It’s illegal to build above four storeys in Turai. Too dangerous. The property developers bribe the Prefects and the Prefects pass on some money to the Praetors’ officials and then no one minds that it’s dangerous any more. Stals, the small black birds which infest parts of the city, sit miserably on the rooftops, lacking the energy to scavenge for scraps. I’m sweating like a pig, the whores look tired and the streets stink. It’s a bad day. I might as well visit the Assassins.

 
Chapter Ten

    K ushni is the most disreputable area of a city which has more than its fair share of disreputable quarters. The narrow, filthy streets are comprised of brothels, gambling dens, dwa joints and dubious taverns. The streets are full of pimps, prostitutes, derelicts, junkies and thieves. It is perverse of the Assassins to have their headquarters there. Not that they’re in any danger of being robbed or assaulted by any of Kushni’s low-life habitués. No one would be so stupid.
    “I’m surprised at you visiting us,” says the black-hooded woman sitting opposite me. “Our informants didn’t say you were possessed of great intelligence, but neither did they tell us you were a fool.”
    I’m sitting in a plain room without decoration of any sort talking to Hanama, Master Assassin, and I can’t say I’m enjoying it. Hanama is number three in the Assassins’ chain of command, or so I believe. They don’t publish details of their ranks. She’s around thirty, I think, though she looks younger, but it’s hard to tell as her head and part of her face are generally covered by a black hood. She is small, very pale-skinned, and rather softly spoken.
    “It was easy to break the locking spell on your door,” she murmurs. “I doubt if your protection spell would hold out against me for long.”
    Little does she know I’m not carrying a protection spell. I put the sleep spell into my subconscious before I came out, and I can’t manage two spells these days. Could I utter the sleep spell before she made it across the table to kill me? Possibly. Possibly not. I’ve no intention of finding out.
    “I don’t expect to need protection. After all, you’re mistaken in thinking I have the Red Elvish Cloth. Why did you think I had it?”
    No reply.
    “Why do the Assassins want it?”
    “What makes you think I would answer questions from you?”
    “I’m just doing my job. And protecting myself. If you, the Society of Friends and God knows who else believe I’ve got the Cloth, my life isn’t going to be worth much. The best I can expect is a long stay in the King’s dungeon. Or rowing one of his triremes.”
    She gazes at me silently. This annoys me.
    “Perhaps I should report last night’s events to the Civil Guard,” I say. “The Consul and the Praetors tolerate the Assassins because they find them useful.