Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  “I think Isuas will give up before the tournament. Makri’s treating her pretty rough. But if things change, I’ll let you know. Make sure you don’t let on to anyone that Makri’s teaching her though, or the price will drop.”

  Having cemented my good relations with the lower Elvish order by some solid gambling talk, I emerge from the Palace well fed and in good shape for investigating, which is just as well as I’ve lost time I couldn’t afford and have a great deal to do.

  I find Lasas-ar-Thetos in a small hut in a tree near to the Hesuni. Around his head he has a yellow band denoting his new rank as Chief Tree Priest. He’s heard about recent events and displays a deep sadness.

  “To think that such a substance could be polluting the sacred water of the Hesuni Tree. It brings shame to the whole island. I cringe at the thought of what my dear brother would have made of it.”

  At least Avula’s new Tree Priest doesn’t blame me.

  “When Lord Kalith informed me of the matter I told him that you were not a man who would bring dwa to our island. Indeed, we should be grateful to you for uncovering it. Do you know where it came from?”

  I admit that I don’t, but I’m still working on it. It’s something of a relief to find an aristocratic Elf who doesn’t seem to hold me responsible for everything that’s been going on around here. Now that Lasas has got over the immediate shock of his brother’s death, he’s proving to be a calm and responsible Elf. I ask him again if there’s anything he might have forgotten to tell me.

  “No strange goings-on? No hint of who might have been in the vicinity with dwa?”

  “Nothing, I am afraid. I have been keeping my ear to the ground, but really since my brother was killed I have been too busy with preparations for the funeral and with taking up the reins of the Priesthood.”

  At least we seem to have got to the root of the bad dreams the Avulans have been suffering from. Lasas is firmly of the opinion that a powerful alien drug, contained in the water that feeds the Hesuni Tree, would be more than enough to give the Elves nightmares.

  “All Avulans communicate with the Tree. As it was ingesting poison, so it produced nightmares. We must be grateful to you for finding it. I am now attempting to cleanse the area by means of ritual.”

  Tramping back across the clearing, I’m frustrated. Everyone knows that something strange has been going on but no one quite knows what. And no one can suggest a motive for Elith killing Gulas. Even Elith, who admits to doing it, can’t think of a motive. Before I leave I ask Lasas if he has encountered Gorith-ar-Del yet.

  “Should I have?”

  “Probably not. It’s just I keep noticing him hanging round the area. Would you let me know if he contacts you in any way?”

  Lasas says that he will, and I depart. I find Harmon Half-Elf and Lanius Suncatcher in the enclave of houses next to the Turanian Ambassador’s residence. I know that Harmon Half-Elf has seen the prisoner and I want his opinion on whether she has been attacked or bemused by sorcery.

  “I did not get that impression,” he tells me. “Although with the Hesuni Tree in the vicinity, it is impossible to be certain. However, I think that if she had had her memory wiped or been victim of some spell that overpowered her will, forcing her to kill the priest, there would be some trace of it remaining. I know that Jir- ar-Eth has searched very thoroughly for any sign of this and has been unable to locate anything.”

  “And congratulations on getting out of jail,” adds Lanius Suncatcher.

  The two Sorcerers are not entirely unsympathetic to my cause.

  “If only because you are refusing to give up. Despite the fact that everyone knows Elith is guilty, I think the Avulans are starting to respect you for the way you keep on trying to help Vas-ar-Methet. They value friendship. But really, Thraxas, what can you hope to achieve now? Elith-ir-Methet is guilty. People saw her kill Gulas. She admits it.”

  They offer me some wine. I drain the goblet and rise to my feet.

  “If I find some reasonable motive, she might not be executed.”

  Stuck for inspiration, I seek out Makri. My horse is in the paddock where I left it, so I saddle up and ride round the island. Every clearing is now filled with choirs, actors, jugglers, all practising for the festival. As the path narrows between the encroaching trees I keep a keen eye out for masked Elves with spears who might be about to attack me, but none appear. So far I have not managed to gather the slightest clue as to who they are or who they might be working for. As far as I know, the Elves have nothing that is equivalent to the Assassins in Turai, but someone is certainly out to get me. Someone with powerful sorcerous backing. Once more I’m grateful for my excellent spell protection charm. It will protect me from most magical attacks, though not from invisible Elves suddenly appearing and gutting me with their spears.

  I dismount near the private clearing and again advance cautiously. I’m wondering if Isuas has given up. Before long I hear Makri’s voice raised in anger.

  “Fight, you cusux! If you trip over your feet one more time I swear I’ll kill you. You want to see my Orcish blade? I’ll let you see it, you useless brat, I’ll pin you to that tree with it.”

  This is followed by the sound of a wooden sword cracking over a young Elf’s head, and some wailing.

  I peer into the clearing. Isuas has shown some spirit in returning for more lessons, but Makri doesn’t seem to appreciate it. The young Elf is struggling to her feet under a rain of blows, while Makri continues to scream abuse at her.

  “Didn’t I show you how to parry? Well, parry this!”

  Makri hits Isuas with a stroke that must come close to breaking her shoulder. Isuas yells in pain. This annoys Makri even more.

  “I didn’t say cry like a girl, I said parry. Now do it.”

  Makri slashes at the young Elf. Isuas makes a reasonable attempt at deflecting the blow, but Makri simply uses her other blade to whack Isuas on the side of the head, sending her once more thumping to the ground.

  I’m fairly aghast at this. The sight of Makri using her full fighting skills against the weak little Elf would distress the hardest of hearts. Isuas lies on the ground sobbing, where she is in receipt of a further torrent of abuse.

  “You useless exin miserable zutha pathetic cusux,” screams Makri, using a string of vile Orcish epithets, some of them unintelligible to me and some quite possibly never heard in the western world before.

  Makri drops her swords and yanks Isuas to her feet.

  “Are all Elves as pitiful as you? God help you if the Orcs ever sail down to Avula. Pah! You’re so pathetic I don’t even need a weapon.”

  Isuas suddenly looks angry. The insults are getting to her. She leaps to attack Makri, showing a surprising turn of speed. Makri stands her ground, merely twisting her body to avoid the blades before stepping lightly to one side. Isuas tries to turn and face her, but Makri, displaying new heights of savagery, actually kicks her in the head. Isuas crumples, which doesn’t prevent Makri from getting in another two kicks before she hits the ground. This time the young Elf lies still. I hurry forward, alarmed.

  “Goddammit, Makri, you’ve killed her.”

  Makri looks round, unconcerned.

  “No I haven’t. She’s just dazed. What are you doing here?”

  “I came to talk to you. If you can spare a moment in between tormenting that unfortunate youth.”

  “Unfortunate?” says Makri, puzzled. “She’s being taught to fight by the undefeated champion gladiator of all the Orc Lands. I’d call that a privilege.”

  Isuas groans. Makri, who possesses surprising strength despite her slender frame, hoists her into the air and tosses her in the direction of a water bottle under a tree.

  “Take a drink,” she says. “And stop crying.”

  “Is it really necessary to be this brutal?”

  Makri shrugs. “I’m trying to teach her a lot in a hurry. Anyway, we’re using wooden swords. How brutal can you be with a wooden sword?”

  “Pretty brutal, f
rom what I saw. When Lady Yestar gave her permission for this I doubt very much if she quite foresaw that you would be kicking her daughter in the head. Shouldn’t you be doing something about the bleeding?”

  “The island is full of healers. They’ll sort her out later. What are you here for?”

  “To talk. I’m still baffled by this case and I’m running out of time. I figured I might get some inspiration if we talked it out.”

  “I can’t spare the time right now. I’ll be back at Camith’s after dark—can it wait till then?”

  I suppose it can.

  “Try not to kill Isuas.”

  “Death in training isn’t so bad,” states Makri, firmly. “Better than disgracing yourself in the arena. Which,” she adds, turning menacingly back to the young Elf, “no pupil of mine is going to do. So get up and fight.”

  I leave them to it.

  I call back to Makri from the edge of the clearing.

  “What does zutha mean?”

  Makri gives me a translation. I wince. It’s even worse than cusux.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I return to Camith’s peaceful home, where I wash, eat and stare out of the window. I’m in need of some inspiration. None is forthcoming. Somewhere outside, an Elvish choir is singing, a long slow tribute to one of Lord Kalith’s ancestors. It’s meant to be soothing, but I’m too pressurised to appreciate it.

  It’s late into the night when Makri returns. She brings a tray of food into my room and tells me with a disgruntled air that she again encountered masked Elves with spears.

  “On that quiet bit of walkway where you never see anyone. I turned the corner and there they were, marching towards me, spears at the ready.”

  Makri, unwilling to flee again, had drawn her swords and made ready to repel her attackers.

  “But then they disappeared. Just vanished into the air.”

  I nod. A similar experience to mine.

  “So what’s going on with them?” demands Makri. “Do they want to attack us or not? I wish they’d just get on with it. I can’t be doing with all this appearing and disappearing. It’s no way to fight.”

  “Speaking of fighting, how is Isuas?”

  “Bruised and bloody,” replies Makri. “I told her to visit Vas-ar-Methet for some healing before she saw her father. Lady Yestar is still keeping it all a secret.”

  I again express my doubts about the ferocity of Makri’s training and Makri is again unrepentant. With so little time to prepare she is of the opinion that there is no alternative.

  “And that’s not the only reason. I’m strengthening her spirit. If she ever gets in a fight for real, she’ll be glad I showed her the Gaxeen.”

  “Gaxeen? What’s that?”

  Makri puts down her tray, her meal unfinished. She is rarely an enthusiastic eater.

  “Orcish. The Way of the Gaxeen. It translates as something like the ‘Spirit of the Insane Warrior.’ It’s what you do when you find yourself faced with insurmountable odds. Or up against an opponent whom you can’t beat with skill or craft. You go Gaxeen, as we used to say. A fury in which you do not fear for your life.”

  I’m interested. Much of Makri’s experience of Orcish ways is unknown to us in the west. A few months ago she helped me solve a case with her knowledge of Orcish religion and prior to that I didn’t even know they had a religion.

  “How long does it take to learn the Way of the Gaxeen?”

  “Depends on the person, or the Orc. When I first started fighting I picked up skill with weapons easily enough, but one day my trainer said I hadn’t enough spirit so he’d decided to execute me. He took away my swords and told the four gladiators standing nearby that whoever killed me would get a reward. And after I’d scaled the wall of the pit, slain a guard with my bare hands to get his sword, then massacred the four gladiators in a blind fury, my trainer clapped me on the back and said, ‘Well done, you have learned the Way of the Gaxeen.’ I rather liked that old trainer. I had to kill him later, of course, when I made my escape.”

  “Well, Makri, this is a fabulous gift for Isuas. When she starts slaughtering her playmates I imagine Lord Kalith will be beside himself with joy. How is she doing? If she can win one fight I might be up for some good winnings, which of course I’ll share with you.”

  Makri shakes her head.

  “Don’t bet on her. She’s still hopeless. If her first opponent has two legs and two arms she won’t last thirty seconds.”

  “What if he’s only got one arm and one leg?”

  “She still won’t win.”

  Not wishing to let good food go to waste, I pick up Makri’s tray and finish off what’s left.

  “I’m stuck in my investigation. I’ve managed to uncover some strange things but none of it is helping to clear Elith. You’ve heard about the dwa in the pool? That’s what was polluting the water and giving the Elves bad dreams. And I’m sure that’s what made you so stoned when we visited the Tree Palace. Someone has discovered that dwa mixed with the sacred water makes for a powerful drug that affects Elves. No doubt that’s why all these young Elves have been acting so strangely, going around with glazed eyes, not working, breaking their word and so on. And though Kalith will never acknowledge it, I’m certain that the Elf who fell from the rigging did so while under the influence. Took his supply with him on the voyage.”

  Makri nods. “Makes sense. I can see why they’d all go for it. I felt great after I drank the water. Do you have any more?”

  I frown. “That’s not quite the reaction I was looking for, Makri. You’re supposed to be outraged that the foul substance dwa is now polluting the world of the Elves.”

  “Oh well, that too. Yes, it’s a shock. The Avulans will have to take swift action to prevent it spreading. Maybe we should hunt around, see if anyone else has some of the mixture and confiscate it?”

  I glare at Makri. Back in Turai I have more than once suspected that she has been experimenting with dwa and I strongly disapprove.

  “Never mind confiscating drugs. We already have a reputation as people of immoderate habits. Lord Kalith was fairly cutting on the subject, and that was before I beat him at niarit again. Now he’s as miserable as a Niojan whore and will be down on us like a bad spell if he catches us doing anything disreputable.

  “If Elith-ir-Methet would just tell me exactly what was going on between her and Gulas, I might be able to get to the bottom of the affair. I should look into who is bringing the dwa into Avula, but with so few contacts it could take me a long time to find out, and I’m short of time. I’ll suggest to Jir-ar-Eth that he does some sorcerous scanning of the harbours. He might be able to pick up something. And I’d like to have someone examine Gorith-ar-Del’s movements over the past few months. There’s an Elf who’s a strong suspect. He gave up his job and now he keeps hanging round the Hesuni Tree acting suspiciously.”

  “Do you think whoever is dealing dwa is responsible for attacking us?” says Makri.

  “Yes. Back in Turai it’s the first thing I’d have suspected, but I just never expected it here.”

  Makri wonders if Elith-ir-Methet is clamming up just to avoid the disgrace of having a calanith relationship with a Tree Priest.

  “Surely her being executed is more of a disgrace for the rest of the family?”

  “Who knows? Taboos are funny things when you’re outside them. I can’t work out what they’d find most important. Every other Elf who’s involved is running for cover. There’s no chance of any co-operation there.”

  Inspiration suddenly strikes.

  “I know someone I might be able to put a little pressure on—Droo’s boyfriend. Name of Lithias, I think. A poetic young Elf, last seen being tossed into a cell at the Tree Palace. From the way he was swaying around I’d say he was one rebellious youth who’d been dabbling with foreign substances. Perhaps Droo would persuade him to come clean about everything and that might give me some sort of lever over Elith.”

  “Will Droo help you?”

&nb
sp; “She might. She seemed to like me. Anyway, I’ll tell her it’s the best thing she can do for her boyfriend. That usually works, even when it isn’t true.”

  And so it proves the next day when we locate Droo at a treehouse not far from Camith’s. She’s not actually in the house; she’s perched at the end of a slender branch high above the ground. Lithias’s incarceration has plunged her into gloom and she has not moved from the spot for twenty-four hours. Her parents are so worried that they are actually glad to see Makri and me climbing up their dwelling place, although, as with most of the Avulans, they cannot prevent themselves from examining us with interest and some suspicion. Particularly Makri. Everyone still gapes at her, though less impolitely than when we first arrived. The mother is in tears, the father is raging, and they’re cursing the fate that made their daughter fall in love with such a hopeless specimen as Lithias.

  “Why couldn’t she have fallen for a warrior?” wails her mother. “Or the silversmith’s son?”

  “You aren’t planning to jump, are you?” I call, from the safety of the treehouse.

  “Maybe,” replies Droo.

  “It’s not that bad. Lithias hasn’t done anything serious, Lord Kalith will let him go in a day or two. We’re going there now. Come with us and we can sort things out.”

  Droo looks up.

  “You’re really going to see him?”

  “Yes. We have free access into the Palace, courtesy of Lady Yestar.”

  Droo rises and hops nimbly along the branch. She ignores the admonitions from her parents and rushes inside the house, saying that she has to brush her hair before seeing Lithias.

  “Lithias is a fool,” says her father. He turns to Makri. “And your nose ring is disgusting.”

  “Well, we’d better get going,” I say.

  The Elf gives me a stern look. ”You are the Investigator? You look like you would have difficulty finding a large tree in a small field.”

  This is one rude Elf. I start to understand why young Droo might not be that happy at home.

  “I’d have let her stay on the branch,” he mutters as a parting shot, then departs into the house.