by Martin Scott
I depart, leaving Makri to her misery. I meet Cicerius on deck. He knows I’m curious about the death of the sailor and this displeases him. The rain has obliged him to wear a cloak over his Senatorial toga but he still manages to look like an important official giving a telling-off to some hapless minion as he informs me that I am to stop making enquiries.
“I have been given strongly to understand that the Elves do not wish the matter to be further investigated.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Am I the only one around here who thinks that deaths should be looked into? I take it you don’t actually forbid me to try and clear Vas-ar-Methet’s daughter of the crime she’s accused of?”
“I believe Lord Kalith regrets giving permission for Vas-ar-Methet to extend the enquiry,” says Cicerius.
Cicerius has the universal reputation of being the most incorruptible person in Turai. Despite his renowned austerity, he is not an unfair man. He tells me that he can understand my need to help my friend and wartime companion.
“Although I regret that you are on this voyage, I realise that it would have been difficult for you to refuse Vas-ar-Methet’s request. Ties of friendship should not be taken lightly. But I must insist that you carry out your work without causing offence to our Elvish friends. And keep that woman Makri out of sight. Yesterday she was parading round the ship in a quite shameless manner wearing only a chainmail bikini. I do not believe the Elves were pleased.”
“Well, it was certainly a novel sight for them. Though I think she was fleeing to the rail to be sick, rather than actually parading around. Did you notice the gold toenails? Odd that she’s picked up that fashion, because Makri’s never been in Simnia, and as far as I know the only other women who do that are Simnian—”
“Just keep her under control,” says Cicerius, icily.
“You know what she’s like, Cicerius. Difficult to reason with.”
The Deputy Consul almost smiles. Cicerius is not about to admit that Makri is exactly a good thing, but he would be forced to allow that she had been helpful when I last worked for him. He draws his cloak tighter against the wind and the rain, and contents himself with warning me not to make things difficult.
“There are times when your doggedness has proved useful. This is not one of them. If by any chance you do discover any secrets on Avula, keep them to yourself. As a representative of the state of Turai, I forbid you to say or do anything that may upset the Elves without fully consulting me first. This five-yearly festival is an important affair and the Avulans will be highly displeased if anything bad happens while their island is full of visitors.”
He pauses. “Have you been drinking?”
I don’t deny it. It passes the time.
Cicerius departs with his nose in the air. I notice that he is vain enough to wear a cloak sufficiently short to display the gold edging around the bottom of his toga. Only the upper classes wear togas. I’m dressed in my standard dull tunic with a heavy cloak to keep out the elements. I wander off, wondering who I might profitably spend some time with. It makes sense at least to try to gather some background information. Elith is due to be tried immediately after the festival, which means I’ll only have a week or so to investigate the affair once we land.
I decide to see if I can find Lanius Suncatcher and Harmon Half-Elf. So far I have had little contact with them on board and I wonder if they might have picked up anything interesting about the crime. Before I can go in search of the Sorcerers, an Elf I don’t recognise plants himself firmly in front of me. I greet him politely. He stares at me in a hostile manner. Though most of the Elves tie their hair back whilst on board ship, his long golden hair swings freely in the wind. His eyes are a little darker than normal and he has a powerful build. We stand looking at each other in silence.
“I am Gorith-ar-Del,” he says, finally.
I stare at him blankly. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“Callis-ar-Del was my brother. He hired you to help him. Then he got killed.”
Callis-ar-Del. I remember him. Along with his friend Jaris-ar-Miat, he was one of the Elves who hired me to look for the valuable Red Elvish Cloth last summer. They pretended they were trying to recover it for their Elf Lord Kalith-ar-Yil, our ship’s Captain, but in reality they were trying to steal it. Both were eventually killed by Hanama from the Assassins Guild. They got in her way, which was foolish.
The way Gorith-ar-Del is staring at me, I have the impression he holds me responsible. I wasn’t, but I don’t want to go over the details of the case again. Hearing about his brother’s criminal activities can only be painful to Gorith.
“I don’t believe my brother was trying to steal the Cloth. I believe he was made the scapegoat after being caught up in events in a foreign city. He hired you to help him. Why didn’t you protect him?”
The wind is picking up, My hair, tied back in a long ponytail, starts to swing gently like a pendulum.
“He left Turai without telling me. I did go after him, and I caught up with him before his ship left harbour. Unfortunately he was dead by then. The Assassins Guild. It was no secret.”
“And was any effort made to punish the killers?”
“No one from the Assassins Guild ever gets taken to court.”
“Why not?”
“That would require a longer lecture on Turanian politics and customs than you want to hear. I’m sorry your brother was killed.”
Gorith leans towards me threateningly. “It seems to me that someone set my brother up with the Cloth then was able to share the profits after he was murdered.” The Elf’s eyes are cold. “I don’t trust you, fat man.”
Gorith-ar-Del stalks off, graceful despite the pitching of the ship. I look at his retreating figure. I shrug, and continue on my way to find Lanius and Harmon.
I locate them below decks in Harmon’s cabin, which is a whole lot bigger than mine. The Elvish Sorcerer Jir-ar-Eth is with them and they’re all seated comfortably, drinking wine. I’m irritated that no one thought to invite me, a fellow practitioner of the mystic arts, for a friendly drink. Harmon Half-Elf greets me affably enough.
“Come in, Thraxas. How are things with you?”
“Better than rowing a slave galley. Not too much better though. The Turanian delegation wishes I wasn’t here, the Elves are freezing me out and my cabin is occupied by a woman who only stops complaining when she’s throwing up.”
Vas has given Makri soothing herbs and potions, but she seems to be unusually prone to seasickness. There is nothing to do but wait for it to pass.
I’ve really come here looking for some friendly company, but the sight of all the friendly company going on quite merrily without me is annoying. Even the Sorcerers are avoiding me. How come I’m the one who’s suffering here? Rather than the civilised conversation I had in mind, I find myself pitching into the Elvish Sorcerer with an aggressive line in questioning.
“So, what’s up with you Elves anyway?” I demand, fixing Jir-ar-Eth with an accusing look. “I’m starting to think you all have something to hide. How come no one will answer my questions? Scared I’ll dig up something?”
“Not at all,” replies Jir-ar-Eth. “You can hardly blame Avulans for some reticence in the face of a man they have never met, who brings with him a woman of Orc parentage. But to the best of my knowledge, all the facts about the assault on the Hesuni Tree are known.”
“Oh yes?” I grunt. “Well, I’m not convinced.”
I’m feeling aggressive. It feels good. I’ve had enough of crawling around being polite. I take a goblet of wine, uninvited, and bark a few more questions.
Unlike our magicians, who all wear a rainbow cloak as a mark of their guild, Jir-ar-Eth is clad in a standard Elf’s green cloak with only a small yellow tree embroidered on the shoulder as a mark of his profession. He looks fairly old for an Elf, with his golden hair turning silver, but vigorous still.
“I understand that Elith can’t remember the crime. Very convenient, don�
�t you think?”
“You believe that someone else is responsible? Why?”
“Investigator’s intuition,” I reply. “And I’ll trust my intuition against yours any day. Is there any chance of another glass of wine? Thank you. So, why did Vas’s daughter damage the Tree?”
The Elvish Sorcerer confesses that he has no idea. Elith has not vouchsafed a motive.
“Rather suspicious, don’t you think? Who might have framed her?”
“Really!” protests Jir. “This is quite uncalled for. You must not apply the standards of your Human city to those of the Elvish Isles.”
“Oh yes,” I state, walking around the cabin waving my hands in the air. “You Elves are always keen to brag about your high standards. Well let me tell you, I’ve had to help quite a few high-class Elves out of tough spots in Turai. Generally when they find themselves drunk in some low-class brothel and want it all hushed up from their Elf Lord.”
Jir-ar-Eth looks at me with amazement. Possibly fearing that Jir is about to blast me with a spell for my insolence, Lanius Suncatcher tries his best to smooth things over.
“You must excuse Thraxas,” he laughs. “Always has to see suspicious circumstances everywhere. Back at the Palace he was famous for it.”
I am unapologetic. It’s time I stirred things up a little around here. I’ve been on this ship for two weeks and I’ve learned nothing at all. You can’t expect an Investigator to take that lying down. (Not this Investigator anyway. Maybe some others with lower standards.)
“I really don’t see that you have any cause for suspicion, Thraxas,” says Harmon Half-Elf. “And I would suggest that you moderate your manner. Cicerius and the Prince will not be pleased to learn that you are insulting our hosts.”
“Cicerius and our Prince can go to hell. I’m fed up with being warned about my behaviour. Who was it saved the city from that mad Orc Sorcerer only last month at the race meeting? Me. I didn’t see anyone complaining about my bad manners then.”
“Everyone complained about your bad manners,” retorts Harmon. “You were just too pleased with yourself to pay any attention.”
The Elvish Sorcerer clams up and refuses to answer any more of my questions. Lanius suggests that perhaps I should go back to my cabin and rest.
“Fine,” I tell him, and pack a bottle of wine into the bag at my side. “I will. But don’t expect me to pussyfoot around when I get to Avula. If anyone tries to hide the facts from me there I’ll be down on them like a bad spell.”
I storm out. Back on deck the rain hits me in the face. I ignore it and stride back to my cabin. Inside Makri is sitting on the floor, not looking any better.
“Damned Elves,” I exclaim. “I’m sick of them already. What can you expect? Sitting round in trees all the time, singing about the stars. Apart from the ones who are threatening me.”
“You were threatened?”
“Yes. Some large Elf called Gorith thinks I was responsible for the death of his brother. You remember, one of the pair whom Hanama killed in Twelve Seas.”
“Hanama. I like her.”
“Yes, for a murderous Assassin she’s always excellent company.”
I bring out the wine and take a healthy slug. “To hell with Gorith.”
The ship rolls suddenly. Makri, unable to take the sight of me guzzling wine in her present precarious state, is once more overcome with nausea. She fails to make it to the side of the ship. She fails even to make it out the cabin, and is sick on the floor. Meanwhile the sudden violent pitching makes me drop the bottle of wine and it smashes. I slip and follow it down. At this moment, while Makri and I are rolling around on the floor of our tiny cabin in a mess of beer, wine and vomit, the door bursts open and Prince Dees-Akan walks in.
He stares, incredulous, at the sight that meets his eyes. It’s not the sort of behaviour he’s been brought up to expect. As I’m hauling myself to my feet he seems to be having some difficulty in finding the appropriate words.
“Is it true that you just insulted the eminent Elvish Sorcerer Jir-ar-Eth?” he demands.
“Certainly not,” I reply. “Possibly he got the wrong impression. Not used to being questioned, I expect.”
Makri groans, rolls over and throws up over the Prince’s feet.
“Eh … sorry, your highness … hasn’t quite found her sea legs yet.”
“You low-life scum!” yells the Prince.
“There’s no need to talk to her like that!“ I protest. “She’s never been on a ship before.”
“I was referring to you,” says the Prince.
“Don’t worry,” says Makri, grabbing his leg in an attempt to make it back on to her feet. “I’ll have him civilised by the time we get to Avula.”
When Makri first arrived in Turai, fresh from the rigours of the gladiator slave pits, she showed very little sign of a sense of humour. It developed fairly rapidly, but I could have told her that with the Prince looking with horror at his ruined sandals, this was not the time to be light-hearted.
“How dare you address me, you piece of filth!” shouts the Prince.
He departs in a fury. Makri abandons her efforts to rise and lies in a pool of her own sickness. It is really, really unpleasant. I hunt for one of my remaining beers, break open the bottle and start pouring it down my throat. We remain in silence for a while.
“You think we made a good impression?” says Makri finally.
“Pretty good. I may be in for a swift recall to the Palace.”
Makri laughs. I help her to her feet. She shakes her head to clear it. “I think I’m starting to feel better now. How long till we reach Avula?”
I hand her a towel to clean her face. “Another two weeks.”
“I’ll be pleased to walk on dry land again,” says Makri.
“Me too. And it will be good to get some proper investigating done. Now we’ve started to make friends in important places, it should be a breeze.”
Chapter Six
Two weeks later we’re close to Avula. We should sight land tomorrow. The weather has improved. Makri’s health has improved. We’re bored. For want of anything better to do, Makri, with encouragement from me, has given in to Isuas’s repeated requests and has given her some lessons in basic sword play. These lessons have all taken place in the cramped privacy of our cabin, partly because Isuas feels her father would not be pleased if he knew, and partly because Makri says she wouldn’t like her reputation as a fighter to suffer from anyone learning that she was trying to teach sword-fighting to such a useless excuse for an Elf as Isuas. The cabin being somewhat cramped at the best of times, I haven’t actually seen any of these sessions, but Makri assures me that Isuas is the most pathetic creature ever to hold a sword, and seeing the child fumbling around gives Makri the strong desire to pick her up and throw her overboard.
“Not warming to the kid, then?”
“I loathe her. She keeps bursting into tears for no reason. Why did you encourage me to teach her?”
“Because it might do us some good on Avula if we have an ally. She’s Kalith’s daughter—she might be able to open a few doors for us.”
“Not if I break her fingers,” mutters Makri.
Nothing of note has happened to me. I haven’t even been threatened recently. I’ve seen Gorith-ar-Del several times but he has not spoken to me since his original menacing approach.
I haven’t learned anything much though I picked up a little gossip while playing niarit with Osath, the ship’s cook. I like Osath. He’s an excellent chef. He’s also one of the very few Elves who carries a little extra weight round his belly. My tremendous enthusiasm for his food overcame his Elvish reticence and we’ve spent a few evenings playing niarit together. Most of what I learn sheds no light on Elith’s case, but it’s interesting background information. Even in a place like Avula, there are political tensions. Lord Kalith has an advisory Council of twelve leading Elvish Elders, and certain of these Elders have been pushing for more influence. It’s even rumoured that s
ome wish to abandon the traditional rule of the Elvish Lord and move on to some representative system, which would be unheard of among the Elves.
Furthermore, there are some tensions around the Hesuni Tree. Gulas-ar-Thetos holds the position of Chief Tree Priest but there is another branch of the family that has claimed for several generations that the Priesthood should belong to them. Some sort of complicated dispute about the rules of succession, which never quite goes away.
Even the festival is not without its attendant controversy. The three staged versions of the tale of Queen Leeuven are each put on by one of the Ossuni Elves’ islands—Avula, Ven and Corinthal—in the form of a competition, with judges giving a prize to the winning play. It is a great honour to produce the play and on each island leading Elves compete for the position. Apparently the person chosen by Lord Kalith to produce and direct Avula’s play this year is not universally popular. There is a feeling on the island that the job has gone to the wrong Elf.
“Myself, I’ve never cared much for the plays,” confides Osath. “Too highbrow for me. I like the juggling competition best. More soup?”
Other than this, I sit in my cabin and smoke thazis with Makri.
“I can’t wait to get off this ship,” she tells me for the twentieth time, idly prodding at the gold ring that pierces her nose, another sartorial outrage guaranteed to inflame public opinion in Turai. She’s just washed her hair and the huge dark mass of it seems to take up a substantial amount of our limited cabin space.
We pass the thazis stick back and forward between us. We have the porthole open to let out the pungent aroma. This gives me the odd feeling that I’m a much younger man, a youth in fact, smoking the mild narcotic in secret. These days in Turai no one bothers to conceal thazis, though it is still technically illegal. Since the much more powerful drug dwa took its hold on the city, the authorities are relieved if thazis is the worst thing you’re up to. But I don’t want to offend the Elves. As far as I know, they disapprove of all narcotics.