Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

Yestar stares into space. A smile comes to her face. “The juggling competition? Even here on Avula, you wish to gamble?”

  I feel uncomfortable. If Lady Yestar possesses powers of farseeing, I’d prefer her to concentrate on the matter of Elith rather than my bad habits. Any moment now she’ll be advising me to drink less.

  She lapses into her semi-trance once more. From another room I can hear the sound of a child’s voice, excited. Isuas is screaming about something or other.

  “And Makri may regret her offer of help when her mind clears. Did you drink of one of the pools?”

  I nod.

  “You’re not supposed to.”

  “I’m sorry. Is it calanith?”

  “No. We just don’t like it.”

  The Elvish Lady frowns, and concentrates some more. “Something was sold next to the Hesuni Tree.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Something was sold.”

  This is interesting, but Yestar can summon up nothing more. She can’t tell me who sold what, or to whom, but she has the distinct impression that a transaction was made. I ask her if in all her farsighted gazing she received any impression as to Elith’s guilt or innocence.

  “No. I could not see who killed our Tree Priest. But, as you know, the Hesuni Tree casts a dense cloud over all mystic effects in the area.”

  Yestar, now fully back in the real world, fixes me with a stare. “If you are able to clear Elith-ir-Methet I will be pleased. However, if it transpires that she is guilty, neither I nor my husband will stand for any attempt to forge evidence in her favour, or to spirit her off the island.”

  I don’t bother to defend myself against this one.

  “She will be executed if found guilty,” I point out, and I can see that the prospect of this does not please Lady Yestar.

  “I’d like to talk to someone who could tell me about the rival factions for the position of Tree Priest,” I say.

  “That would be calanith.”

  “But possibly very helpful.”

  Yestar studies me for a while longer. Whether she’s influenced by my honest face, or by her abhorrence at the thought of Elith being executed, she finally tells me that Visan, the Keeper of Lore, may be willing to explain it to me, if Yestar gives him permission.

  Our conversation is interrupted by Isuas, who erupts into the room with Makri in tow.

  “Makri just showed me a new attack,” she yells.

  It’s time for us to leave. Makri promises to return tomorrow to start the training. Lady Yestar will direct her to a private clearing where they will be undisturbed. An attendant leads us through the Palace.

  “Still happy to be teaching the kid how to fight?”

  “Guess so,” says Makri.

  Whatever is influencing Makri’s behaviour is lasting a long time. I study her eyes, and I see that they have the same glazed sort of look I saw in Elith-ir-Methet’s.

  “Bezin hat,” she says, still pleased.

  Makri’s continued intoxication leads to a brief comedy when we are led through a corridor with doors going off on each side. One of the doors opens and Jir-ar-Eth rushes out, plunging headlong into Makri, who stands there looking surprised as the Sorcerer tumbles to the floor.

  “Careful,” she says solicitously, helping him up.

  Jir-ar-Eth is displeased and rises with the air of an Elf who feels his dignity has been encroached upon.

  “Can’t you look where you’re going ?” he demands before hurrying off. I’m disappointed. From Lord Kalith’s Chief Sorcerer, I would have expected a better rejoinder.

  Our attendant leads us on. Before I follow him I bend down to quickly scoop up a slip of paper that I purposely covered with my foot when it fluttered from the Sorcerer’s pocket. It’s probably only the Royal Laundry List, but I always like the opportunity to study the private papers of important people. And Elves.

  At the end of the final corridor, before the huge outside doors, the attendant leans over to whisper in my ear.

  “I believe that if you go to the clearing at the stream and three oaks, you will often find a convivial gathering of those who enjoy beer,” he murmurs.

  I thank him profusely, then ask a question.

  “We saw some actors in the clearing below. They all seemed to be arguing with a grey-haired Elf. The director of the play, maybe?”

  “That would be Sofius-ar-Eth, appointed by Lord Kalith to produce and direct Avula’s entry at the festival.”

  “Sofius-ar-Eth? Any relation to Jir-ar-Eth, the Sorcerer?”

  “His brother.”

  That is interesting.

  “Didn’t feel the desire to be a Sorcerer too?”

  “He did, sir. Sofius-ar-Eth is one of Avula’s most powerful Sorcerers. It was a surprise to many when he was appointed to take charge of our play.”

  The doors are opened and we stroll out, only to meet with Cicerius, Prince Dees-Akan, Lanius Suncatcher and Harmon Half-Elf, a full Turanian delegation here on business. I greet them politely and step aside to let them pass. Both Sorcerers enter the Palace but Prince Dees-Akan halts in front of me with an expression of dislike on his face.

  “Have you been bothering our hosts again?”

  I regret his unfriendly tone. It’s going to make life in Turai difficult having a Royal Prince down on me like a bad spell.

  “Guests of Lady Yestar,” I explain.

  “You are not to disturb Lady Yestar with your pointless questions,” commands the Prince.

  Makri wanders up to us, obviously still under the influence of thazis.

  “The second in line to the Turanian throne,” she says, benignly, “doesn’t have any power to issue orders to Turanian citizens while in another country. No legal basis for it. I studied the law at the Guild College. Passed the exam only last month. Do you like my new hat? I think it’s bezin.”

  The Prince is outraged. “How dare you instruct me on the law!” he says, loudly.

  “Well, you need instructing. Cicerius will tell you. He’s a lawyer.”

  All eyes fall on Cicerius. He looks uncomfortable as he grapples with the difficult notion of trying to grant that Makri is correct without infuriating the Prince. Prince Dees-Akan shoots him a furious glance, turns on his heel, and marches into the Palace.

  “Thank you for that,” says Cicerius, icily.

  I apologise. “Sorry, Deputy Consul. Didn’t mean to put you on the spot. But we were invited here by Lady Yestar. We could hardly refuse to come, could we?”

  The Deputy Consul draws me away from the gates and lowers his voice. “Have you discovered anything?”

  “Nothing startling. But I’m still suspicious of everything.”

  “This really is awkward for Lord Kalith you know. It’s most unfortunate that all this has happened at festival time. He has many important guests to welcome and even before the murder of the Tree Priest he was in an embarrassing situation. I understand that certain members of his Council of Elders are saying in private that the disgrace of having their Hesuni Tree damaged reflects so badly on the Avulans that Lord Kalith should abdicate. Since Gulas-ar-Thetos was killed that disgrace has grown considerably worse, though Kalith is putting a brave face on it. I repeat, Thraxas, I understand your desire to help your friend and wartime companion, but one can hardly blame the Elf Lord for wishing to bring things to a swift conclusion.”

  “I suppose I can’t, Cicerius. And I don’t blame you for supporting him either. I know that Lord Kalith is an important ally of Turai. But doesn’t it strike you that I may be doing him a favour? His prestige won’t be helped if the wrong Elf suffers for the crimes.”

  “That,” says Cicerius,“ would depend on whether anyone found out.”

  “Meaning a swift conviction of Elith would be best all round, whether she did it or not.”

  “Exactly.”

  I study Cicerius’s face for a few moments. Over in the trees behind us colourful parrots are squawking cheerfully at each other.

  “Cicerius, if we were
in Turai, you wouldn’t want an innocent person to be punished for a crime they didn’t commit, no matter how convenient it was for the state. Even though you’re a strong supporter of the Royal Family you’ve defended people in the law courts that the King would much rather have seen quickly hanged. Hell, you’re far more honest than me.”

  Cicerius doesn’t contradict me. He gazes over at the parrots for a minute or so.

  “You would be far better leaving matters as they are,” he says, finally. “Were it not for the fact that Lord Kalith knows it would only look worse for him to have a Human guest of his own favoured healer languishing in prison during the festival, you would have been locked up for putting a spell on his guards. You would be unwise to push him any further.”

  He pauses. The parrots keep squawking. “But you might be interested to know that Palace gossip says that Elith-ir-Methet was having an affair with Gulas- ar-Thetos. That, of course, would be a taboo affair that neither of their families would have allowed to continue. Tree Priests cannot marry outside of their clan.”

  “Does Palace gossip say that’s why she killed him?”

  Cicerius shrugs.

  “I never repeat gossip,” he says, then walks swiftly away through the gates of the Palace. Makri is quiet as we walk back to Camith’s tree dwelling. Even the inquisitive monkeys don’t attract her attention. We’re almost there when she suddenly comes to a halt.

  “What the hell was in that thazis stick?” she demands, shaking her head.

  “Just thazis.”

  “I feel like I’ve been journeying through the magic space.”

  “I noticed you weren’t your usual self.”

  Makri shakes her head again and a breeze catches her hair, displaying her pointed ears.

  “Did I really agree to teach that horrible child how to fight?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She sits down and dangles her legs over the edge of the walkway. “Now I’m really depressed.”

  “You should be. You’ve only got six days to get her ready.”

  “Give me some thazis,” says Makri.

  Chapter Twelve

  We eat our evening meal with Camith and his family in relative quiet. Camith discusses the festival with his wife but Makri is mute and I’m too busy concentrating on the food to talk. Once again, I am well satisfied with the fare. The venison is of the highest quality and the fish is freshly caught that morning by a cousin of the family who has his own fishing boat.

  In Turai Elves mean only one of two things to most people: either mighty warriors helping us against the Orcs, or makers of fine poetry and songs. We never think of them as owning fishing boats, somehow. Or having arguments when they’re trying to put on a play.

  Makri is unusually quiet. Later she tells me that she has been feeling strange ever since drinking the water at the Hesuni pools.

  “I’m almost back to normal now. I wonder why it didn’t affect you?”

  “Maybe it only affects Elves? Or those with Elvish blood?”

  Whatever the reason, I’m betting it has some connection with Elith’s memory loss, and I’ll be investigating the pools at the first opportunity. I wonder what Lady Yestar meant about something being sold in the vicinity?

  “I’m heading off to the clearing at the stream and three oaks.”

  “What for?”

  “Beer. Apparently it’s a gathering point for night-time drinking.”

  “Do you always have to move heaven, earth and the three moons just to find beer?”

  “Yes. Do you want to come?”

  Makri shakes her head. She’s muttering about the injustice of being mysteriously drugged and then tricked into teaching Isuas how to fight.

  I’m puzzled about this. I could see that Lady Yestar liked Makri but after all the fuss about a person with Orcish blood even landing on the island, one might have thought that the Queen would be hesitant about immediately commissioning this person to train her child in the art of war. How are the population going to react? What about the already dissatisfied Council of Elders? Surely Lord Kalith will be furious when he hears the news.

  “I’m not worried about Lord Kalith,” says Makri. “I’m concerned about my reputation as a fighter. How am I meant to train that child? She’s about as much use as a one-legged gladiator. She couldn’t defend herself against an angry butterfly.”

  “Well, be sure and go easy on her,” I say. “Yestar won’t thank you if you send her home with a black eye and a bloody nose. And remember, no attacks to the groin, eyes, throat or knees. It’s against the rules.”

  “No attacks to the groin, eyes, throat or knees?” cries Makri, despairingly. “This gets worse all the time. What’s the point? It’s hardly like fighting at all.”

  “I told you, they don’t want their children maimed. If Isuas trots out to her first engagement and proceeds to poke a dagger into her opponent’s eye she’ll be disqualified, and no one is going to be very pleased about it.”

  “But I was depending on the dagger attack to the eyes,” complains Makri. “Otherwise what chance does she have?”

  “You’ll just have to teach her some proper sword play. You know, the sort of thing gentlemen do.”

  “It’s all ridiculous. These tournaments are stupid.”

  I agree with her, more or less.

  “I’d never enter one,” states Makri. “If I’m going to fight, I’ll do it properly or not at all. What about these fighting competitions in the far west I’ve heard about? Are they all pussyfooting around?”

  “No, not all of them. Some of the tournaments in the far west are very vicious affairs. They fight with real weapons and no one minds who gets hurt. The warriors’ competition in Samsarina used to be notorious for the number of deaths each year. Still is, I expect. It attracts the finest swordsmen from all over the world, because of the handsome nature of the prize.”

  Makri is interested in this. “You’ve been in Samsarina, haven’t you? Did you see the competition?”

  “I was in it.”

  “Really? How did you do?”

  “I won it.”

  Makri looks at me suspiciously.

  “You won the warriors’ competition in Samsarina, against the world’s best swordsmen?”

  “I did.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  I shrug. “I don’t care if you believe me or not.”

  “How come no one in Twelve Seas ever mentions it? Surely they’d have heard of such a notable feat?”

  “It was a long time ago. Anyway, I was entered under a different name as I was on some unscheduled leave from the army at the time. What are you looking so dubious about?”

  “I thought you spent your youth being thrown out of the Sorcerers’ school.”

  “I did. And after that I learned how to fight. You think it’s just an accident I’ve lasted so long as an Investigator in Turai?”

  As I’m putting on my cloak I remember the slip of paper I filched from Lord Kalith’s Sorcerer. I can’t read it, so I show it to Makri.

  “Royal Elvish?”

  She nods. “Where did you get hold of this?”

  “It fell out of Jir-ar-Eth’s pocket when you knocked him to the ground. Can you translate it?”

  Makri studies the paper for a moment or two and pronounces it to be a list. I guessed it would be something dull.

  “What sort of list? Laundry?”

  “No. This is a summary of Jir-ar-Eth’s report to Lord Kalith. It’s a list of all possible suspects for the killing of Gulas-ar-Thetos. He’s been using sorcery to scan the area and he’s identified everyone who was close enough at the time to have stuck a knife into Gulas. You’re on it, and Camith.”

  “We were on the walkway above. Who else?”

  “Elith-ir-Methet,” reads Makri. “Lasas-ar-Thetos, Gulas’s brother. Merith-ar-Thet, listed as a cousin of Lasas and Gulas. Pires-ar-Senth, a Palace guard. Caripatha-ir-Min, a weaver. And Gorith-ar-Del.”

  I take back the
paper.

  “Makri, did I ever say how much I valued your intellect, particularly your fine command of languages?”

  “No. But you did once say that pointy-eared Orc bastards had no business learning Royal Elvish.”

  I chuckle indulgently.

  “A joke you took in good part, as I recall. When the Association of Gentlewomen sends round its next collection plate for educating the struggling masses of Turanian women, you can count me in for a few gurans. With this paper, my investigation just became a whole lot easier.”

  “How come you get such a lucky break?” enquires Makri.

  “I practise a lot.”

  I leave Makri and seek out Camith for directions to the clearing at the stream and three oaks, which he provides.

  “A haunt of armourers and poets, I believe.”

  “Armourers and poets are fine with me, providing they have beer.”

  I take my illuminated staff to light my way, and set off briskly over the walkways.

  “Follow the Dragon’s Tail and you can’t go wrong,” Camith instructs me. The Dragon’s Tail comprises five stars that form a line. It’s visible from Turai, though I think it points in a different direction up there. I don’t know why that would be.

  I traverse the walkway with care, not wishing to plunge off the edge in the darkness. It’s something of a relief when I come to the distinctive tree that carries a ladder down to the ground. From here I’m to keep to the path till I come to a fork, where I’m to take the left path till I reach the clearing.

  Even though this is an Elvish island on which there are no evil creatures of the night and no criminal gangs—at least in theory—I still feel slightly apprehensive walking through the forest on my own in the darkness. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but the forest bothers me in a way the city never does. It feels like it’s alive, and it knows I don’t belong here. I boost my illuminated staff up to maximum power and hurry along, cheering myself up with the thought that I’m finally going to get myself a beer, and that it is long overdue.

  I’m concentrating on following the path so when a voice comes from right behind me I practically jump into the nearest tree.

  “It’s an enormous Human with an illuminated staff! How interesting!”