by Martin Scott
Isuas stares at the floor. Makri seems to have summed it up neatly enough.
“They never let me do anything,” Isuas mumbles.
“Who can blame them?” says Makri.
“Please,” wails Isuas. “I want to enter the tournament.”
Makri again finds something to interest her in her scroll. I frown. I wish she didn’t display her dislike of the child quite so openly.
“What do your parents say about you entering the lists?”
“My father refuses to listen.”
“Well, perhaps we could have a word with your mother,” I suggest. “If Lady Yestar had no objections, I’m sure Makri could continue your lessons.”
Isuas’s face lights up. She is of course too young to realise the cunning way in which I have just guaranteed our entrance to the Tree Palace as an aid to investigating. Unfortunately Makri isn’t. She grunts at me.
“Forget it, Thraxas. I’m not getting stuck with the kid just so as you can wander about asking questions.”
“Makri will be delighted to help,” I say. “Would tomorrow in the afternoon be a good time to talk to Lady Yestar?”
Isuas nods, and manages to raise a smile. “I’ll have the servants prepare a meal.”
“Excellent, Isuas. Do you think they could rustle me up some beer?”
“Beer? I don’t think we have that at the Tree Palace. But maybe we could send out for some. I know that Mother will be pleased to meet you.”
I doubt that very much.
“I’ve practised what you showed me every day,” says Isuas to Makri before she departs.
Makri places her scroll on a table and looks at me rather wryly.
“Yes, very clever, Thraxas. Now you can enter the Palace as a guest of the Royal Family and make a nuisance of yourself to your heart’s content. Provided you don’t just concentrate on emptying the island of beer, that is. But I’m not playing along. I refuse to teach that kid any more. She’s a hopeless student. Anyway, I don’t like her. It was all I could do not to knock her head off on the ship. I only went along with it because I was bored. There’s plenty of other things I want to do on Avula rather than play nursemaid to the Royal Family’s unwanted runt.”
“I still don’t see why you dislike her so much, Makri. She’s not that bad.”
“I can’t stand the way she’s always bursting into tears. When I was her age tears were punishable by immediate execution. And she keeps falling over. It’s infuriating. And she’s so weedy. Also, it gives me the creeps the way she keeps getting more friendly the more I insult her. It’s not natural. What she needs is a good beating.”
“Are you sure she doesn’t remind you of yourself at her age?”
“What do you mean?” demands Makri. “I was never like that.”
“So you say. But the way you take against her gives me the strong impression that at one time in your life you were an extremely frightened and weak child. And you don’t like being reminded of it.”
“Nonsense,” says Makri, crossly. “Stop trying to be analytical, Thraxas, you’re really bad at it.”
I shrug. “Anyway, if you were teaching her how to fight, wouldn’t that give you some reason for handing out a beating? It would certainly toughen her up.”
“I’ve a reputation to protect,” objects Makri. “You think I want to send her out to fight as my pupil and have all these Elves laugh at her? Think how bad it would make me look. I’m not going to be able to teach her enough in six days to prevent her from being a laughing stock.”
“Don’t forget, she’s been practising every day. She might have improved. Anyway, when it comes right down to it, Lord Kalith and Lady Yestar aren’t going to let her enter the tournament. So just pretend you’re willing. It’ll get me a day or two at the Palace. After the way I outraged Lord Kalith by putting his guards to sleep, I can’t see any other way I’ll get back in.”
The most I can persuade Makri to do is to turn up with me there tomorrow.
“If I end up having to teach her, there’s going to be trouble,” Makri warns me.
“You won’t,” I assure her. “Kalith wouldn’t let Isuas within a mile of any fighting. Okay, you’re laughing about using wooden swords, but these things can still be tough. There were junior tournaments in Turai when I was young. Not big affairs, like they have for Senators’ sons of course, just small affairs for the offspring of the local workers. Prepared us for life in the army. One day I went up against the son of the blacksmith and he broke my arm with a wooden axe. My father was furious. Said I’d let the family down. He made me go back out and fight with my arm in a sling.”
“What happened?”
“I kicked the blacksmith’s son in the groin and then stepped on his face. Which was going a bit far even by the relaxed standards of the tournament. I was disqualified. But my father was pleased with me.”
“Quite right,” says Makri. “I don’t see why they disqualified you. You have to do whatever is necessary.”
Makri tells me some stories of her early fighting experiences, most of which involve inflicting terrible damage on Orcish opponents, all much older and heavier than her. She cheers up. Talking about fighting always puts Makri in a good mood. It must be the Orcish blood. Keeps her savage, even when studying botany.
Chapter Ten
I’m planning to make an early start next day. As the Elves rise late I should be able to examine the scene of the crime without interruption. Unfortunately, after securing another bottle of wine from Camith, I find myself swapping war stories with him late into the night and by the time I wake the sun is overhead and the morning is gone.
“I did not wish to disturb you,” says Camith as I struggle through for a late breakfast. “I know that Turanians are conscientious about their morning prayers.”
“Yes, it often holds me back,” I admit, and settle down to a loaf or two, washed down with the juice of some Avulan fruit I can’t put a name to.
I ask Camith if he knows Gorith-ar-Del.
“I know of him. I don’t believe we have ever spoken. He’s a maker of longbows and lives on the west of the island, where the trees are suitable for his craft.”
“Can you think of any reason why he might be skulking round the Hesuni Tree, looking unfriendly?”
Camith can’t. He’s never heard anything disreputable about Gorith although he is aware of the trouble his relatives found themselves in when they visited Turai.
“I’ve been wondering about this Hesuni Tree, Camith. Just supposing it wasn’t Elith who damaged it, and also supposing it wasn’t just some random act of vandalism, which seems unlikely, what motive might any other Elf have for doing it? I mean, who could gain from it?”
“No one.”
“Are you sure? Makri tells me that not only are all the Avulans connected to it in some way, but the Tree Priests can actually communicate with it.”
“In a way,” agrees Camith. “Though the communication is not what you would have with another Elf. More a sense of the life around the Tree, I believe.”
“What if something dubious was going on on Avula? Might the Tree be able to tell the Tree Priests about it?”
This makes Camith smile. “I do not think so. It’s not that sort of communication.” He looks serious. “Yet there is a relationship. Perhaps the Tree Priest might learn some things that were beyond the ken of other Elves.”
“Which might be motive for someone to try and kill it. Bumping off a witness, so to speak.”
Makri is sceptical. “You can’t get a witness statement from a Hesuni Tree, Thraxas. You’re grasping at straws here.”
“Okay, I’m grasping at straws. But last summer I found myself in conversation with dolphins in Turai, so I’m keeping an open mind about a talking tree. What about this other branch of the family I heard about? The rival claimants to the position of Tree Priest?”
This makes Camith uncomfortable. “There is a rival claimant, Hith-ar-Key. The dispute over the succession goes back som
e centuries. I believe that their claim is weak but it is not something that would be much discussed, apart from in the Council of Elders.”
“Why not?”
“Any dispute over the Priesthood is calanith to everyone except the Elders and the priestly families. It is up to them to sort it out and no other Elf would interfere or even refer to the matter.”
I’m already getting the impression that far too many things on Avula are calanith, which might turn out to be awkward, given the Deputy Consul’s strict admonition not to rub up against any Elvish taboos the wrong way. I let the subject drop.
Makri is eager to set off.
“I haven’t seen the Tree Palace yet. Look, I painted my toenails again.”
“Lady Yestar will be thrilled. Are you planning on wearing that tunic?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“The same as with everything else you wear. It doesn’t cover enough of you. Haven’t you noticed that the Elf women cover their legs? Couldn’t you borrow some demure Elf clothes?”
“I think not,” says Makri, sagely. “As the philosopher Samanatius says, ‘Never try to pretend to be someone else.’ ”
“I don’t trust Samanatius.”
“Why not? You’ve never heard him speak.”
“He teaches for free, doesn’t he? If he was any good he’d charge admission.”
Makri shakes her head. “Thraxas, you take ignorance to new depths. Anyway, Yestar would probably be disappointed if I turned up looking like an Elf. Isuas will have told her what a Barbarian I am.”
As if to emphasise the point, Makri has her twin swords strapped to her back. I instruct her not to unsheathe the Orcish blade under any circumstances. The dark metal is instantly recognisable and waving an Orcish weapon around is liable to get us run off the island.
Camith sees us off. “You notice how he was yawning all through breakfast?” I ask Makri.
“Still bored by your war stories, no doubt.”
“Camith was not bored by my war stories. Rather, he was honoured to have such a distinguished soldier under his roof. If we hadn’t stood firm in Turai, there would have been no stopping the Orcs. They’d have been down here with the war ships, dragons at the ready. The Elvish Isles might well have fallen. Really, when you think about it, these Elves owe me for protecting them.”
“I thought the Elves came to your rescue?”
“They helped. I expect we’d have managed anyway. But the point I was trying to make before you started interrupting was that Camith was yawning having presumably had a bad night’s sleep. More nightmares, I imagine. So when we get in the vicinity of the Hesuni Tree, keep a look-out for anything that might be affecting it enough to make it start sending out bad feelings to the Elves.”
“Like what?”
“I’ve no idea. Just look. You’re well versed in Elvish lore, you might spot something I’d miss.”
We set off across the walkways towards the Palace. Even at this elevation the vegetation is dense, with vines tangled over the tops of the trees. There are few places where the ground is visible and such small clearings as we cross are covered with flowering bushes. There are plenty of butterflies and small birds that make a lot of noise, and occasionally a monkey swings over to examine us before disappearing back into the forest. Makri studies them with interest but I’ve never been fond of monkeys.
Above our heads the sky is blue. Although this is the winter season on Avula it’s still warm and pleasant, in contrast to the icy misery of Turai, far away to the north.
“Poor Gurd, he’ll be as cold as a frozen pixie right now. Of course as a northern Barbarian he doesn’t feel it as much as a civilised man like myself.”
We pass over the tournament field. Some young Elves are practising for the big event. Camith had laughed when we mentioned that Isuas had asked Makri for fighting lessons. Isuas is not unpopular among the Avulans, but her lack of physical prowess is something of a standing joke among them.
“But Kalith has four strong sons and three hearty daughters,” Camith pointed out. “No one minds that his eighth child is a weakling. I believe that Lady Yestar encourages him to take her on his voyages in an effort to harden her, but from what I saw of her yesterday it has had little effect.”
Along the way we pass small settlements. When an Elvish child runs indoors in a panic at the sight of Makri, she professes that’s she’s starting to feel depressed again.
“Now I think about it, it might not be so great at the Tree Palace. Full of high-class Elves making comments about my toenails, I expect.”
“Well, you would insist on painting them.”
“I need some fortifying,” she announces. “You bring any thazis out with you?”
“Thazis? This is the Elvish Isles. A paradise on earth and a drug-free environment.”
“I know. So did you bring any?”
“What do you need it for? Can’t you just enjoy the clean air?”
“It’s wonderful. So? You bring any thazis?”
“Of course. You expect me to wander about a strange island without any thazis? Hell, who knows when I might next get a beer.”
I pass Makri a thazis stick and she lights it with a satisfied sigh. I do the same. I don’t know if this mild narcotic is illegal on Avula but I doubt Lord Kalith would be pleased to learn we’d been using it on his island. We finish it off on a lonely stretch of walkway. The sound of choral singing floats past us pleasantly. Entrants to the festival are rehearsing anywhere they can find space.
“Now I’m relaxed,” says Makri.
Eight masked Elves carrying long vicious spears appear round the corner and advance towards us menacingly.
“Damn it,” says Makri. “Why did you make me smoke that thing?”
I can’t believe that we are about to be attacked right here in the middle of Avula.
“They must be practising for the tournament.”
“They don’t look like they’re under fifteen.”
The walkway is wide enough for four. The eight Elves are drawn up in two ranks, in battle formation. Eight spears point towards us, leaving no way through. They break into a run. You can’t fight eight Elves with spears in a confined space like this, certainly not without a hefty shield to cover yourself.
“Got any spells?” says Makri, unsheathing her twin blades.
“Didn’t think to load any in.”
“Can’t you just remember one?”
Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that. Once you use a spell it’s gone from your mind. To use it again you have to reread it from your grimoire. We’ve no time for further discussion. They’re almost upon us. Even against such odds Makri would normally refuse to retreat. Probably she’d try and outflank them. On the narrow walkway, there’s no way to do that. When the spears are only a few feet away Makri and I sheathe our swords simultaneously and leap into the trees. I offer up a prayer for a sturdy branch to hold on to, a prayer that unfortunately seems to go unanswered as I plunge down through the branches. I grab frantically at everything I can reach but nothing will support my weight and I fall a long way without making contact with anything firm enough to halt my descent. Eventually I thud heavily into a sturdy branch, only ten feet or so from the ground. I’m severely winded and badly scratched, but otherwise undamaged.
There are crashing noises above me, and some swearing. Makri found a firm handhold further up and is now swinging herself down to my level. We drop to the ground and draw our weapons, waiting for our assailants to come after us. There’s no sign of them.
“Let’s go,” I say, and we move off, but moving off in the dense undergrowth is difficult. Makri snarls as she cuts her way through the vegetation. Fleeing from an opponent always puts her in a bad mood.
“Don’t worry. I figure you’ll get a chance to meet them again.”
“Who were they?”
Neither of us has any idea. Eight masked Elves, all silent, with no identifying marks.
After a long period of ha
cking our way through the thick plant life, hunting unsuccessfully for a path, Makri rounds on me with a savage look in her eyes.
“Give me more thazis,” she demands.
“Not really what we need right now, is it, Makri?”
“Just give me the damned thazis,” she snarls.
“Hey, okay, don’t get crazy about it. I know you hate running from opponents, it’s not my fault they had us outweaponed in a narrow place.”
Makri’s anger suddenly leaves her and she sits down heavily.
“Now I’m depressed. In fact I’m as miserable as a Niojan whore. Damn these mood swings.”
I ask her what is going on.
“It’s a month since we left Turai,” she replies.
“So?”
“So it’s my period again. Any complaints?”
I sigh. “No. None. But try not to bleed over the Tree Palace. Kalith will be furious if that happens.”
“To hell with Kalith,” says Makri, lighting up her thazis stick. “Of course I don’t have anything with me, seeing as I didn’t get a chance to pack before I leaped into the ocean. Maybe Lady Yestar can lend me a towel or something.”
By this time I’m in need of a little relaxation myself. I smoke another thazis stick and consider the situation. There has to be a path around here somewhere. There’s nothing for it but to keep chopping our way through till we find one. I’m not certain if the Avulan forest contains any dangerous predators. It certainly contains a lot of insects, several of which seem to have decided that nothing tastes better than Thraxas the Investigator.
“If this blunts my blades someone is going to pay dearly,” states Makri. “I hate this. My legs are getting scratched. Why didn’t you tell me to wear something more suitable? You want to go in front for a while, I’m sure I’m doing all the work here. Put some effort into it, Thraxas, we’re going to be here all day at this rate.”
It’s exhausting work and I am soon dripping with sweat. Eventually we break through into a small clearing. I slump heavily to the ground.
“To hell with this.”
“Give me another thazis stick,” says Makri.