conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled Thraxas and the Sorcerers about Millar, Thraxas, Martin with the genre: Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: the author is the pseudonym under which Martin Millar writes his humorous fantasy adventures about Thraxas the sybaritic overweight private eye and man of action in a fantasy world of elves, Orcs, and mean streets. There are six Thraxas novels in print, with a seventh soon to be published, and The Guardian has praised the series as "blindingly funny, deeply subversive," while SFX calls Thraxas "a pulp fiction hero par excellence." Martin Millar, under his own name, has written several mainstream novels, such as, The Good Fairies of New York , Love and Peace with Melody Paradise , and his newest novel, Suzy, Led Zeppelin and Me , which The Guardian called "brilliant" and the London Times praised as one of the few "great rock novels." Millar has been compared to Kurt Vonnegut and Armistead Maupin, and The Edinburgh Times calls him "one of Britain's most gifted underground writers." Originally from Glasgow, Scotland, he lives in London, England in a flat filled with videos of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Thraxas and the Sorcerers
  Turai is in the grip of one of the fiercest winters in memory. Ice lies in thick sheets over the frozen streets. Snow falls incessantly from the grey sky. The vicious north wind whips it through the alleyways, where it comes to rest in huge banks deep enough to bury a man. The citizens groan in frozen misery and the church sends up prayers for relief. The poor huddle miserably in their slums while the wealthy hide behind the walls of their mansions. In the taverns, great log fires struggle to keep the cruel weather at bay. Deep inside the imperial palace, the King's Sorcerers expend their powers in keeping the Royal family warm. Winter in Turai is hell.
  Three hours before dawn, the snow is falling heavily and the wind is howling. No creature dares show its face. The beggars, whores, dogs, dwa addicts, thieves and drunks that normally infest the streets have vanished. Even the lunatics have better sense than to invite death in the appalling cold. No one is outside. No one would be so foolish. Except for me. I'm Thraxas the Investigator. In the course of my work, I often do foolish things.
  I'm down at the docks, looking for a man the Transport Guild suspects of stealing shipments of dragon scales. Dragon scales are valuable items but the rare cargoes that arrive in Turai have been going missing almost as soon as they arrive. The Guild has hired me because it believes that one of its officials has been stealing from their harbour-front warehouses. The idea is that I catch him in the act. It never seemed like that great an idea to me, but I needed the money.
  I'm hiding behind a low wall in the freezing darkness. I can feel the frost gathering on my face. I'm tired, hungry and I need a beer. My legs have gone numb. I'm as cold as the ice queen's grave and that's a lot colder than I want to be. I'm in a very bad mood. There's no sign of the suspect, who goes by the name of Rezox. No sign of anyone. Why would there be? Only a crazy person would be out on a night like this. I've been shivering for two hours and I figure if he doesn't show up in the next few minutes I'm giving up and going home. Dragon scales may be valuable, but they're not worth freezing to death for. The only thing that's keeping me alive is the spell that warms my cloak, but the warming spell is wearing thin.
  I think I hear something. I'm no more than ten yards from the warehouse but it's difficult to make out anything through the driving snow. The door of the warehouse is opening. A large man wrapped in furs emerges, carrying a box. That's good enough for me. I've no intention of hanging round any longer than I have to, so I struggle to my feet and clamber over the low wall. Unsheathing my sword, I walk up behind him. The howling wind prevents Rezox from hearing my approach, and when I bark out his name he spins round in alarm.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The landlord makes the unforgivable mistake of laying his hand on her shoulder to lead her out. Makri immediately lands him such a fearsome kick in the groin that the students at the far end of the tavern shrink back in terror. The landlord collapses to the floor. Makri grabs a table and hurls it on top of him. She glares down at his prostrate body.
  We struggle down the street till we reach another tavern, The Diligent Apprentice. Makri marches in. I follow with my hand on the hilt of my sword, ready for trouble. A friendly-looking landlady greets us as we enter. Makri seems almost disappointed.
  I study Makri's copy. It's very interesting, a spell the like of which I've never encountered. It claims that if worked properly it can erase almost a full hour.
  It is a coincidence. And Makri's correct. In my line of work, coincidences always make me suspicious.
  The landus driver doesn't want to take us to Twelve Seas. These uptown drivers hate to go south of the river.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The landlord makes the unforgivable mistake of laying his hand on her shoulder to lead her out. Makri immediately lands him such a fearsome kick in the groin that the students at the far end of the tavern shrink back in terror. The landlord collapses to the floor. Makri grabs a table and hurls it on top of him. She glares down at his prostrate body.
  We struggle down the street till we reach another tavern, The Diligent Apprentice. Makri marches in. I follow with my hand on the hilt of my sword, ready for trouble. A friendly-looking landlady greets us as we enter. Makri seems almost disappointed.
  I study Makri's copy. It's very interesting, a spell the like of which I've never encountered. It claims that if worked properly it can erase almost a full hour.
  It is a coincidence. And Makri's correct. In my line of work, coincidences always make me suspicious.
  The landus driver doesn't want to take us to Twelve Seas.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last four paragraphs. Start with the sentence 'Captain Rallee is in a foul temper due to being out on patrol on one of the coldest nights of the year'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Captain Rallee is in a foul temper due to being out on patrol on one of the coldest nights of the year. I'm not planning on leaving the comfort of the tavern for the rest of the winter. Now I've been paid, I don't have to. Come the spring, business should pick up. I just did some sterling service for the city and I'm expecting the city to be grateful. Between them, Cicerius and Lisutaris should be able to put a few wealthy clients my way.
  It's deep into the night by the time I make it upstairs to my rooms. My office is surprisingly warm. A fine fire is lit and an illuminated staff casts a warm glow over the shabby furnishings. Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, Makri and Princess Direeva are all unconscious on the floor. I sigh. Makri's good intentions haven't lasted for long.
  I haul Makri to her feet and drag her along the corridor. Restricted space or not, she can entertain her friends in her own room. Direeva takes Lisutaris.
  Now my room is clear of intoxicated Sorcerers and barmaids, I have a final beer before going to bed. I wonder how long my term of office as Tribune is supposed to last. However long it is, I'm withdrawing from politics. A man should never get involved with these people. It's far too dangerous.