by Martin Scott
Isuas appears, wide-eyed and timorous as usual.
“Can’t you knock?” growls Makri.
I grin at the young Elf. She might be a sickly sort of kid, with straggly hair and watery eyes, but I like her well enough. She has a message for me from Lord Kalith.
“He asks if you would like to spend this last evening playing niarit.”
“Niarit? I must be back in his good books.”
Isuas looks doubtful. “I think he just ran out of opponents. He’s beaten all the other players on the ship.”
I haul myself up. “Then it sounds like a job for Thraxas. Once I’m through with him, your father will regret ever taking up the game.”
Isuas looks pained. “My father is renowned as a fine player.”
“Oh yes? Well, when it comes to niarit I am number one chariot. Ask Makri here.”
“Will you teach me some more fighting?” asks Isuas eagerly.
Makri scowls. “What’s the point? When it comes to sword play you’re about as much use as a eunuch in a brothel.”
Isuas gapes, shocked by this crude expression. She hangs her head. “I’ll try to do better,” she mumbles.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it, Makri. Have fun.”
“Are you going to go and leave me with this brat for company?”
“I am indeed. A true niarit player never refuses a challenge. If there’s any wine going spare I’ll bring you back a bottle.”
I depart, keen for some action. I wonder if Lord Kalith might wish to place a small wager on the outcome? I have a package with me, just in case.
I enter Kalith’s comfortable cabin for only the second time on the voyage. One might have thought that as a guest of the Elves I would have been invited there more frequently, but no. While Princes, Deputy Consuls and assorted Sorcerers have freely enjoyed the Elf Lord’s hospitality, Thraxas the Investigator has sadly languished in a tiny cabin at the unfashionable end of the ship, fruitlessly awaiting an occasional invitation to socialise with the upper classes.
Stifling my resentment, I greet Kalith politely enough.
“You wished to see me?”
“I wondered if you might care for a game?”
Lord Kalith gestures with his hand towards the niarit board set out in front of him. The two opposing armies are lined up against each other, the front rank comprising, from left to right, Foot Soldiers, or Hoplites, then Archers, then Trolls. The rear rank is made up of Elephants, Heavy Mounted Knights and Light Mounted Lancers. Each player also has in their army a Siege Tower, a Healer, a Harper, a Wizard, a Hero and a Plague Carrier. A the very back of the board is the Castle, the object of the game being to defend your own Castle and storm your opponent’s. Lord Kalith’s board is the same as that used all over the Human Lands, except that one of the armies is green instead of white, and the Castles at each end of the board are instead represented by large fortified trees.
“I generally take green,” says Lord Kalith.
“Fine. They call me Thraxas the Black. And I generally take wine.”
No servant is in attendance. Faced with the possibility of actually standing up and pouring me some wine himself—which would be asking rather a lot of an Elf Lord—Kalith looks suddenly puzzled and asks me if I know where his daughter is. I tell him she’s hanging around with Makri, which doesn’t please him.
“All I hear from my daughter these days is Makri this or Makri that. I do not approve.”
“Yeah, as a role model Makri is the woman from hell. Don’t worry, she hates your daughter anyway.”
Somehow that didn’t come out quite as I intended. Kalith is not pacified. To save him any embarrassment I get my own wine, filling a goblet from the decanter nearby. And once again I have to say that, as Elvish wine goes, it is not of the finest. Makes me again suspect that Kalith is not liberal with his hospitality, and probably doesn’t have a spare barrel of beer waiting in the storeroom for anyone who might wish to partake of it.
“Care for a small wager?”
Kalith raises his eyebrows a fraction. “I have no wish to take money from you, Investigator.”
“You won’t.”
“I will assuredly defeat you.”
“That’s what your cook said before I sent his army down to Elvish hell.”
Kalith smiles. “I have heard that you outplayed Osath. I, however, am a rather better player. But I repeat, I have no wish to take money from you.”
I unwrap my package.
“A stick?”
“An illuminated staff. One of the finest. Given to me by the renowned Turanian Sorcerer Kemlath Orc Slayer.”
I speak a word of power and the staff lights up with a brilliant golden hue. It really is a fine illuminated staff, the best I’ve ever had. Even to an Elf Lord, it can’t be an unattractive bet.
Lord Kalith picks it up and holds it, watching as the golden light streams out of it, lighting all corners of the cabin.
“A fine staff. Though I seem to remember hearing that Kemlath Orc Slayer was obliged to leave Turai in disgrace.”
“He had the misfortune to have me investigate some crimes he’d committed.”
“Very well, I accept your bet. What shall I wager in return? A golden goblet?”
Elves always think that humans are slaves to gold. Fair enough. I’ve done plenty of questionable things for gold. But that’s not what I’m looking for right now.
“Would you rather I staked some mystical item? My chief Sorcerer Jir-ar-Eth has many fine articles.”
“No, I’m not needing any fine articles. I was thinking more about Makri.”
Kalith frowns.
“I want her on Avula with me. She helps me investigate. If I win, I want you to let her land, no questions asked. And guarantee that the Avulans will be hospitable to her.”
“There is no possibility of my people being hospitable to her.”
“Well at least not openly hostile. Do you accept my bet?”
The Elf Lord shakes his head. “I cannot allow her on my island.”
I stand up.
“A pity. I was looking forward to playing. It’s not often you get the chance to show an Elf Lord that no matter how many excellent variations he works out for the Harper’s Game, he’s got about as much chance against Thraxas as a rat against a dragon. And I mean a small rat and a big dragon.”
A pained look comes into the Elf Lord’s face. I doubt that he has ever before been compared to a rat.
“Sit down,” he says coldly. “And prepare to lose your staff.”
We start to play. Lord Kalith apparently does not fully trust his new variation because he starts off with the Hoplite advance, a solid if unexciting strategy. I respond in a conventional manner by harrying them with my Light Cavalry, meanwhile forming up my own Hoplites to resist and bringing up my Trolls for some heavy support. It has all the makings of a stiff battle on the centre of the field, which will suit me fine, when Lord Kalith surprises me by sending his Hero striding out in front of his army, straight into my Light Cavalry.
This seems foolish. The Hero carries a lot of weight on the board and can deal with most things, but not an entire division of Cavalry backed up with Hoplites and Trolls. I surround him and get ready for the kill but I’m keeping a watchful eye out for whatever else Kalith might have planned.
When I’m about to slay Kalith’s Hero he suddenly advances his Archers up towards my right flank, backed by his Elephants. Coming alongside them are his Harper and his Plague Carrier. I’m momentarily puzzled. Apparently Lord Kalith now wishes to rescue his Hero, but I can’t see how even this strong force can reach him in time. His Harper sings to my troops, which has the power of paralysing them, and his Plague Carrier starts to do some damage, but I form up my Trolls in a strong defensive line and send over some of my Heavy Cavalry for support, with my Healer and my Wizard in attendance. Lord Kalith’s relief force fails to penetrate and I kill his Hero, which, I think, puts me at a strong advantage.
All of a sudden I n
otice that for some reason his Harper seems to be continuing to advance and far too many of my troops on my left flank are succumbing to his singing. In an unexpected move, Lord Kalith sends his Light Cavalry streaming through the gap. I remain impassive at the board, but inside I’m uttering a few curses. Kalith has indeed worked out a new variation on the Harper’s Game, sacrificing his Hero. He apparently had no intention of rescuing him, but merely used the gambit as a distraction.
There are a tense few minutes as I struggle to reinforce my left flank. Even here I’m still a little doubtful, fearing that I may be missing something. I don’t want to overcommit and find Kalith suddenly breaking through somewhere else. It takes some fine swift calculations on my part to reorganise my defences and in the process I lose the services of my Harper when he is trampled by a rampaging Elephant.
Finally, however, I hold the line, and start pushing Kalith back up the board. With his Hero gone, his Wizard nearly out of spells and his Trolls hemmed in by my Heavy Cavalry, he has no option but to retreat. As play crosses back into his side of the board I start to inflict heavy losses on his army and manage to isolate and kill his Wizard. I’ve got him beat. No one comes back from this position, not against me anyway.
Makri chooses this moment to burst into the cabin, followed firstly by a frightened-looking Isuas and secondly by two irate Elvish attendants. She strides over to us and plants herself right beside Lord Kalith’s chair.
“What’s this your daughter tells me about you issuing orders that I can’t leave the ship?” she demands.
I quickly glance at Makri’s hips and am relieved to see she has not actually brought a sword with her. Not that this is any real guarantee that she is unarmed. Makri is always liable to produce a dagger or a throwing star from some unexpected place. I never met anyone so keen on walking round with a knife in each boot.
“I did indeed issue such an order,” says Lord Kalith, regally. If he’s at all concerned about the sight of a furious Makri towering over him he’s not showing it, and when his attendants hurry forward he holds up his hand to show that everything is under control.
I rise to my feet. “Don’t worry about it, Makri, I’ve arranged things.”
I wave at the niarit board, then give Kalith a look.
“I presume you do not wish to carry on with the game.”
Again, I have to say that Lord Kalith takes it well. Good breeding. He can’t be at all happy that’s he’s just lost to me at niarit, and he has made it perfectly plain that he is utterly opposed to Makri landing on Avula, but from all the emotion he shows you might imagine he was having another excellent day at the Tree Palace.
“I concede. Well played, Investigator. I see that my variation needs further work.”
He turns his head toward Makri. “You may land on Avula. Do nothing that may disturb my Elves. And stay away from my daughter.”
“What’s going on?” asks Makri. I tell her I’ll explain later and usher her out before she causes any further offence.
Back on the deck we run into Cicerius.
“Have you—?” he says.
“Yes. Thoroughly offended Lord Kalith. Major diplomatic incident. Better go and sort it out. See you on Avula.”
Chapter Seven
By the afternoon of the next day we’re riding inland to the heart of the island. Avula is extremely lush, densely forested with tall trees that cover the shallow hills that rise towards the centre. I’m a little taken aback by the size of the trees. I’d forgotten how large they were. Even the great oaks in the King’s gardens in Turai are mere saplings in comparison. And without getting too mystical about it, the trees on an Elvish island give the impression that they’re more alive than your average tree.
Landing on the island involved less ceremony than I was expecting. A delegation of important Elves, including Kalith’s wife, Lady Yestar, was at the quay to greet their guests, but there was not the tedious formality that such an event would have occasioned in Turai. Brief introductions were made and we set off inland. Even Makri’s appearance failed to cause a commotion. Kalith presumably had sent word of her arrival, and his subjects, while not looking thrilled at the sight of her, at least didn’t make a fuss. Makri greeted Lady Yestar in her flawless Elvish, as genteelly as any lady of the court, if the Elves have a court that is, which I’m not certain about. I know Kalith has some sort of palace in the trees.
I ride beside Makri at the back of the column, far behind Lord Kalith and Prince Dees-Akan. Makri looks around her with interest but I’m too busy thinking about my work to fully appreciate the splendour of the island. I have the tiniest feeling, far away at the very edge of my Investigator’s intuition, that something is wrong all around me. Something intangible that I can’t put a name to. Whatever it is, it prevents me from gaping at the giant butterflies.
Avula is one of the largest of the Elvish Isles. During the last Orc War it provided many troops and ships for the defence of the west, but as we travel inland it’s not exactly obvious where all these Elves live. There are no extensive settlements at ground level. Here and there wooden houses stand secluded in clearings in the forest, but in the main the Elves prefer to construct their houses high up in the trees. These are cunningly crafted so that they appear to be more like natural growths than artificial objects. Even some of the larger collections of these houses, connected by walkways high above our heads, blend in with the environment in a manner that makes it easy to believe that the land is devoid of inhabitants. Only the regular, well-maintained path we travel on betrays the fact that many Elves live in these parts.
Somewhere or other there must be some sort of industry, workshops where the Elves make their own swords, harnesses and other such things, but we see nothing of this. Just trees, treehouses and the occasional Elf looking down with interest at the procession.
We’re riding on horses provided by the Elves. Vas tells me that on the far side of the island the land is more open, and their animals are pastured there. We pass several small rivers, each running with bright water that glints in the sunlight.
Lord Kalith’s Tree Palace is situated at the centre of the island, the highest point on Avula. The Hesuni Tree is next to the Palace. The important guests are to be quartered nearby. I wonder how Cicerius will manage living in a tree. I notice that the sombre mood of our Elvish hosts has lightened as they find themselves once more in their familiar surroundings, but I still have the feeling that all is not well.
Cicerius is riding beside me, upright in the saddle like a man who once fought in the army. Cicerius never managed to cover himself in glory at war, but he did at least do his duty against the Orcs, unlike most of our present-day Turanian politicians, many of whom bought their way out of military service. I lean over and whisper to him.
“Is it just me or do you feel something wrong here?”
“Wrong? What do you mean?”
“I don’t know exactly. I just get the feeling that something is wrong. Shouldn’t these Elves in the trees be waving to us or something?”
“They are waving.”
“Well maybe they’re waving a bit. I still figure they should be happier to see their Lord back. Singing maybe. Don’t Elves sing a lot? There’s some kind of gloom over this place.”
“I don’t feel it,” says Cicerius.
I always trust my intuition and it’s kept me alive for a long time.
We pass through a clearing and view an unusual spectacle. Thirty or so Elves in white cloaks are moving around in unison under the direction of another Elf. He seems to be shouting at them in an exasperated manner.
“The chorus for one of the plays,” our Elvish companions inform us.
The irate screaming gets louder.
“The directors of the plays are often given to excesses of emotion.”
Passing through another clearing we distinctly hear choral singing, again from a group rehearsing for the festival, and in the distance we catch sight of some jugglers practising. The whole atmosphere
becomes more festive. I wonder again if I might solve the case quickly and thereby have some time in which to enjoy myself. Along with Osath the cook, I’m quite looking forward to the juggling competition. Whatever happens, I don’t have that long in which to investigate. Elith is due to be tried immediately after the festival, which begins in seven days’ time and lasts for three.
Vas-ar-Methet is riding some way in front of us. Several hours into the journey he sends a message back to me that we are close to his brother’s abode. The messenger is to take Makri and me there while the procession rides on. The deputation is to receive the full hospitality of Lord Kalith. We aren’t.
“Would it be any use telling you not to make a nuisance of yourself?” asks Cicerius as we prepare to go our separate ways.
“You’ll hardly notice we’re here,” I promise.
“Whatever you do,” says Cicerius sternly, “don’t meddle with anything that is calanith.”
“Cheer up, Cicerius,” says Makri, appearing beside us. “I’m an expert in Elvish taboos. In fact, I am an Elvish taboo. I’ll keep Thraxas out of trouble.”
Makri sits well on her horse. When she arrived in Turai she was already a good rider. Makri is good at most things. It’s annoying. Since leaving the ship her spirits have improved.
“I’m as happy as an Elf in a tree,” she says, laughing, and then looks thoughtful. “Although I have noticed that the Elves up in the trees don’t actually look all that happy. Good choral singing though.”
Our guide leads us down a narrow path. For an Elf he seems remarkably dour. My efforts at conversation come to nothing. Apart from learning that his name is Coris-ar-Mithan and he’s a cousin of my friend Vas, I learn nothing at all from him.
We don’t have to endure each other’s company for long. Coris brings us swiftly to another small clearing where three other Elves, two of them elderly, are waiting for us. Coris greets them briefly, bows formally to us and rides off.
“Greeting, friends of Vas-ar-Methet. Welcome to our home.”
They introduce themselves to us as Vas’s brother, mother, and sister.