Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  “Sarazu?”

  “The Way of the Contemplative Warrior. It’s a kind of meditative trance for fighting. Very peaceful. You must be at one with the earth, the sky, the water and your opponent.”

  “And then you kill him?”

  “Sort of,” says Makri. “Although in the Way of the Sarazu, time doesn’t exactly flow in a straight line.”

  I shake my head. It doesn’t take much of this sort of thing to confuse me.

  “I liked the Way of the Gaxeen better. Good luck with the kid.”

  Makri isn’t listening. She’s staring intently at the Hesuni Tree. This goes on for quite a long time. Finally she shakes her head and looks puzzled.

  “You know, I could swear the tree was communicating with me.”

  “What did it say? Anything interesting?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m only partially Elf. But I thought it was saying you should stay around here for a while.”

  “It was a message for me?”

  I’m not too surprised. On an Elvish island it was bound to happen sooner or later. Makri departs. I take her advice and stick around, slinking into the shadows, where I can watch unseen. At least it will delay having to see Vas. I have a feeling that something is about to happen, though whether that’s my investigation or Makri’s suggestion I’m not sure.

  Darkness falls. I’ve finished my wine. I’ve been puzzling over the significance of Gulas taking dwa. Elith swore he didn’t. Something moves in the trees behind me. I sit up and listen, then crawl forward, careful not to make a sound. By the time I’ve advanced twenty yards or so I can make out two voices though I can’t see anyone.

  I sense some dwa dealing going on here. Lord Kalith is even more hopeless about policing his island than I’d realised. He doesn’t seem to be making any effort at all to stop it. I rise to my feet and command my illuminated staff to burst into light, which it does, quite spectacularly. Two hooded Elves and one bare-headed man look round in surprise and at the sight of me with my sword in my hand they flee. I’m about to pursue them when another Elf steps out of the shadows. I whirl round and put my sword point at his throat.

  “Well, well, Gorith-ar-Del. Sorry to interrupt you about your business. Not that you’ve been very discreet about it. In Turai you’d have been in jail a long time ago.”

  Gorith is speechless with anger.

  “I imagine Lord Kalith will be pleased to find out what you’ve been up to.”

  Rather to my surprise, Lord Kalith chooses this moment to step out of the bushes.

  “Lord Kalith desperately wishes that you had never come near Avula,” he says, frigidly. “Congratulations on scaring off the dwa dealers. And would you mind telling me why you have been continually interfering with my agent Gorith-ar-Del in the conduct of his investigations?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I’m picking moodily at my food. Camith, used to my hearty appetites, enquires solicitously if there is anything wrong with the fare. I tell him no, the food is excellent.

  “But it was a poor day, investigation-wise. Elith-ir-Methet is guilty of murder and I have shown myself to be an irredeemable idiot.”

  My number one suspect in the case turned out to be Lord Kalith’s special agent with responsibility for sorting out the dwa problem on Avula.

  “A job rendered considerably more difficult by your interference,” as Lord Kalith pointed out to me. He further informed me that, far from ignoring events, he was well aware of the problems his island faced, and had been trying to deal with them discreetly.

  “Gorith-ar-Del has more than once been on the verge of eradicating the dwa problem, aided by my extremely able Sorcerer Jir-ar-Eth. In this they have been severely hampered by you blundering about, alarming everyone. Had it not been for you we would now have whoever is behind the importing of dwa safely behind bars.”

  I doubt this very much. I defend myself, but without too much spirit. Kalith might be using me as a scapegoat, but I can’t deny I’ve made something of a blunder in pursuing Gorith-ar-Del and quite probably alerting the suspicions of the dwa dealers.

  Makri arrives home late. She’s sympathetic.

  “He didn’t even seem to believe we’d been attacked. When I described the masked Elves with spears he strongly implied that they were a thazis-induced hallucination. Seemed quite upset about it in fact. I don’t think Kalith really knows who’s behind it all, but whoever it is, I’m withdrawing from the affair. I can’t do any more.”

  After the painful interview with Kalith I had to tell Vas-ar-Methet that his daughter was guilty as charged. A tree desecrator and a murderer.

  “I’ll put the mitigating circumstances to Kalith before the trial. It might do some good.”

  Vas thanked me for my efforts, but his eyes had a haunted look I never saw in them before.

  “Are you really withdrawing?” asks Makri. “You never do that. Even when your client is guilty. And you’ve found out some odd things.”

  I raise my hands hopelessly to heaven.

  “What have I found out? Almost nothing. The Tree Priest was full of dwa when he died. Enough to put a man to sleep. Seems strange, but maybe Tree Priests can take a lot of dwa. Elith swore he didn’t use it, but she’d lie to protect his reputation. And Elith found a knife where no knife should have been, but what of that, really? Maybe someone dropped it. The rest—the Tree desecration, the Elves acting strangely—can all be accounted for by dwa and hopeless romance. I’m nowhere on this. I’ve let Vas down.”

  I make a late visit to the drinking den of the armourers. I drink a lot of beer, but it fails to raise my spirits. The armourers are cheerful at the prospect of several days away from their forges but still pessimistic about Avula’s chances in the dramatic competition.

  “I saw the Corinthalians rehearsing the scene where Queen Leeuven leads an assault on the Enchanter’s tree fortress and it was nothing short of sensational,” reports a shield-maker. “It had everything. Music. Drama. Excitement. Beautiful costumes. And as for their Queen Leeuven…” The Elf makes a comically lustful face which makes everyone laugh. “I can’t see the Avulan company coming up with anything to match that.”

  No one has actually seen the Avulans rehearsing. It is all being carried out in great secrecy.

  “No doubt to hide the extreme incompetence of Sofius-ar-Eth’s production. What ever induced Lord Kalith to appoint that old Sorcerer as director is beyond me.”

  The Sorcerer seems to have even less support than before.

  “He should’ve stuck to his trade. Okay, I admit he protected us from that tidal wave six years ago. He’s good with the weather. And he made a cloak of protection for Lord Kalith so fine that no blade has ever penetrated it. No one’s denying he’s an excellent Sorcerer. But direct a play? Pah!”

  There is still no clear favourite for the juggling competition, although Shuthan-ir-Hemas is commonly thought to be out of contention. Firees-ar-Key is still hot favourite to win the under-fifteens tournament. No one has heard about Makri training Isuas. This at least is a relief. I’m still hopeful that I might pick up a few winnings.

  Perhaps tactfully, the subject of Elith-ir-Methet is avoided. Her guilt is now firmly established, but no one wants to talk about it. Not to me, and not with so many visitors on the island.

  Droo, the young poet, makes a late appearance. She’s more cheerful than the last time I saw her, and she tells me that Lord Kalith has released Lithias from prison with a warning that if he ever touches dwa again he’ll be banished from the island. Droo is grateful to me for getting her in to see Lithias in his cell.

  “If I can ever do you a favour, let me know.”

  “I will.”

  She goes off to talk and argue with her fellow poets on the hill. I leave soon afterwards, taking with me a quantity of beer. Enough to get me through tomorrow, I hope, because I’ve no investigating to do and I’ve lost my appetite for Elvish holidaying. I wish I was back in Turai, cold as a frozen pixie or not. If Elith is executed
straight after the festival, I’ll still be on Avula. The prospect of seeing my client hanged puts me into a mood of bleak depression and no amount of beer will chase it away.

  Next day I find myself wandering aimlessly. Everywhere there are crowds of happy Elves. Bad things may have happened on Avula, but their nightmares have gone and there is a festival to be enjoyed. Whole families gather in the clearings to watch the jugglers practising or listen to the choirs. The temperature rises a few degrees and the sun shines on the island.

  “I hate this place,” I say to Cicerius.

  “I have found it to be congenial,” replies the Deputy Consul.

  We’re standing in the shadow of the Tree Palace.

  “You don’t have a client facing execution.”

  Cicerius looks pained. Before his duties as Deputy Consul started to take up all his time, he was famed as a lawyer. He’s the finest orator in Turai but he has very rarely used his powers of speech to get a person condemned. Despite being a bastion of the traditional elements in the city, his role in the courts has almost always been that of defender. He no more likes to see a man, woman or Elf go to the scaffold than I do.

  For the first time ever, Cicerius seems to be lost for words. We stare at the Hesuni Tree.

  “You did your best,” he says, eventually.

  The festival officially starts tomorrow. The juggling will take place around noon and will be followed by the tournament. Next day it’s the turn of the choirs and then there are three days of plays. Which means that this is Isuas’s last day of training. Having nothing better to do, I call in at the clearing to watch. Makri and Isuas are sitting cross-legged on the grass, facing each other, eyes shut. Each has a sword on her lap. They sit motionless for a long time. The Way of the Sarazu, I presume. At least it doesn’t seem to involve Isuas being beaten half to death.

  Suddenly Isuas makes a move, grabbing for her sword. Before her fingers can even close on the hilt Makri lifts her weapon and brings it down with great violence on her pupil’s head. Blood spurts from Isuas’s forehead and she slumps forward on to the grass. Makri, still cross-legged, reaches forward, grabs Isuas’s hair and hauls her upright. She slaps the young Elf’s face three or four times till eventually Isuas regains consciousness.

  “Poor technique,” says Makri. “Get back in position.”

  “I’m bleeding,” moans Isuas, wiping her forehead.

  “Stop talking,” says Makri. “And start meditating.”

  Isuas, still groggy, forces herself back into position. They both close their eyes. I make a mental note never to take meditation lessons from Makri, and leave them to it. I walk back to Camith’s, where I spend the rest of the day sitting staring out of the window till the sun goes down over the trees and the moons appear in the sky. I don’t feel any better. As miserable as a Niojan whore would be the appropriate expression, I imagine.

  Chapter Nineteen

  On the first day of the festival Elves from all over Avula stream towards the tournament field. Singers and lute players serenade the crowds. Isuas is due to fight in the afternoon and Makri confesses to feeling tense.

  “If she lets me down I’ll kill her.”

  She still won’t say whether or not we should bet on her pupil.

  “Wait till I see what the other fighters are like.”

  After packing a spare wooden sword in a bag for Isuas, she complains about not being able to bring a real blade, but it’s calanith to take weapons to the festival.

  “Who knows what might happen at the tournament? If some of these fifteen-year-olds get out of hand we’ll regret not having swords with us.”

  Makri is still wearing the floppy pointed hat she got from Isuas. Only Elvish children wear them, but Makri likes it. She’s painted her toenails gold and is wearing a short green tunic borrowed from Camith. Through her nose she has a new gold ring with a small jewel in it, borrowed from Camith’s wife. All in all, it’s a notable get-up and even though the Elves are getting used to her it doesn’t prevent them from staring as we pass.

  Some stands have been set up for the convenience of important guests such as Prince Dees-Akan, but the great mass of the audience just perches on the grass round the clearing, which, dipping slightly towards the centre, acts as a natural amphitheatre. Makri is politely accosted by one of the Elves who showed such an interest in her at the funeral. I slip away and look for Voluth the shield-maker, who has promised to introduce me to the local bookmaker. Whilst searching I meet the young poet Droo, who beams at me in a friendly manner and tells me I’m just the man she’s been looking for.

  “I want to do you a favour, large Human,” she says.

  I frown. I thought she’d got over the “large Human” bit.

  “Okay, I could do with a favour. What is it?”

  “Last night at the clearing I heard you talking about making a bet.”

  I start to get more interested. I had feared that the favour might turn out to be a poem in my honour. Droo informs me that while it is a surprise to her that betting goes on at the festival, she thinks she might be able to give me a hint.

  “What do you mean, a hint?”

  “On a winner.”

  “You mean a tip?”

  “That’s right. A tip.” Droo beams. “Do you gamble much in Turai?”

  “All the time.”

  “And you get drunk?”

  “Every minute I’m not gambling.”

  Droo looks wistful.

  “I wish I could visit a Human city. It sounds like fun. You know my father won’t even let me smoke thazis? It’s not fair.”

  “You were saying something about a tip?”

  “That’s right. You should bet on Shuthan-ir-Hemas to win the juggling.”

  I make a face. That’s not much of a tip.

  “What about her dwa addiction?”

  “That’s the point,” says Droo, brightly. “She hasn’t had any dwa for three days. I know, because she’s been staying at Lithias’s house since her parents kicked her out of the family tree. She says she’s determined to make a new start and has renounced dwa and she’s been practising her juggling like mad, and really, last night I saw her give a sensational performance when no one else was around. And I heard the armourers say how no one will be betting on her because everyone thinks she’ll be useless. So won’t that mean you get good odds?” Droo looks doubtful. “Unless I’ve got that wrong. I don’t really understand gambling.”

  “No, you’ve got it exactly right. The odds on her will be high. You’re sure she’s going to put on a good performance?”

  Droo is sure. I’m still not certain, because it takes a lot longer than three days to kick a dwa habit. Still, if she’s determined to do well, it might be worth a wager. I thank Droo, and hurry off to find Voluth. I’ve got a bag of gurans plus some Elvish currency. Makri has entrusted me to place bets for her.

  Voluth introduces me to a bookmaker who’s situated himself in the hollow of a large tree just far enough from the clearing to avoid giving offence to Lord Kalith and the Council of Elders. The bookmaker—an elderly Elf, and a very wise-looking one at that—is offering twenty to one on Shuthan, with few takers. It’s a bit of a risk, but at these odds I take it.

  With so many of Avula’s lower-class Elves in attendance, there is more than one stall selling beer, so I pick up several flagons and hunt for Makri. I find her on a slight hillock, a good position to view the event. Her Elvish admirer is not that pleased to find me barging in, but he’s not making much progress with Makri anyway. She’s too preoccupied with Isuas’s fate.

  I inform Makri that I’ve bet on Shuthan-ir-Hemas.

  “Bit of a risk, isn’t it?”

  “Good tip from Droo the poet.”

  Makri is less confident, but too busy thinking about the tournament to give me a hard time. Personally, I’m starting to feel more alive. Things in the case of Elith-ir-Methet may be disastrous, but any time I get round to gambling I find my problems just fading away.


  Singers and tumblers are strolling through the crowd as the jugglers take the field. As this competition serves merely to introduce the festival, and is not considered to be on the same artistic plane as the later dramatic events, it gets underway with very little ceremony. Jugglers, mainly young, march into the centre of the arena and do their act while the audience cheers on their favourites. I’m impressed with the performances. I’ve seen a lot of this sort of thing in Turai, but the Elves seem to have taken the art further. Usath, the juggler whom we saw practising earlier, has the crowd roaring as she keeps seven balls looping through the air, an incredible performance in my opinion, though Makri professes herself to be uninterested.

  “Wake me up when something cultural happens,” she says.

  Despite her protestations Makri is all attention when Shuthan-ir-Hemas takes the field. We have a hefty bet on this young Elf, although the opinion of the crowd is still that Shuthan will certainly trip over her own feet and embarrass the whole island.

  Shuthan does exactly the opposite. She comes on in her bright yellow costume with a determined air, hopping and tumbling for all she’s worth and, despite a shaky start and a little trouble with her early rhythm, she goes on to give a performance that thrills the audience. Great cheers go up when she equals Usath’s tally of seven balls in the air at once and when she adds an eighth and keeps it going for a full minute the crowd are up on their feet shouting their approval.

  No one is shouting louder than me. I rush to pick up my winnings. An excellent start to the festival. And it is at this moment, while I am re-energised by a substantial win, that it suddenly becomes clear to me what has been going on with regard to Elith-ir-Methet and the shocking murder of the Tree Priest. Two Elves, complaining about some early gambling losses, are saying to each other that Shuthan’s unexpectedly good juggling has cost them the cloaks off their backs. I get to thinking about cloaks and it strikes me that firstly I may well be able to save Elith’s life, and secondly I am still number one chariot when it comes to investigating.