By Martin Scott
Within the enchanted urban of Turai, the royal kin is corrupt, the politicians can be purchased, and the civic guards have larger activities than guarding. Thraxas might glance unprepossessing, being obese and never particularly overbrained, and extra attracted to pursuit of his subsequent glass of beer than pursuit of justice, but when you're in hassle in Turai this portly deepest eye is perhaps your in basic terms desire.
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Extra resources for Thraxas and the Dance of Death
It’s immoral. Taking bets on how many deaths there are going to be in my current case? What’s that going to do for my reputation? I curse everyone roundly. So irate am I that I actually march out of the tavern without picking up a beer and I can’t remember the last time I did that. I need to get to the Mermaid to recover the pendant as quickly as possible, so I set off at a brisk pace, promising myself that I’ll have more than a few harsh words for Makri and Gurd when I get back. Youthful dwa dealers hover round the alleyway that leads to the Mermaid.
Nothing happens. No wagons come. As Casax the Brotherhood boss sees his headquarters starting to disappear in flames, he becomes agitated. He screams for his men to bring water from neighbouring houses, waving his fists to encourage them. The way the flames are taking hold, I doubt that this is going to do much good. Normally I’d enjoy seeing the Mermaid burning to the ground. However, it strikes me that it’s hardly helpful to my immediate purposes. I approach Casax. He doesn’t acknowledge me, being too busy trying to save the tavern to pay any attention to an unwelcome Investigator.
The heat mingles with the smell of rancid ale and burning dwa. Thazis smoke drifts over the tables. The wooden beams overhead are blackened with age. The prostitute who patrols the area with red ribbons in her hair strives vainly to interest the largely inebriated clientele. There’s a woman on the floor who looks like she might be dead. I shake my head. This is about as low as life gets. No civilised person would visit this tavern. “Thraxas! ” I come here occasionally. Mainly in the line of business.
Thraxas and the Dance of Death by Martin Scott