Death and Thraxas

by Martin Scott

  The seas have become a little rougher and the ship has started to roll. I notice that Makri is looking a little queasy.

  "Feeling the effects?"

  "I'm fine."

  A large wave rocks the ship. Makri turns quite an odd colour and rushes out of the cabin. That will teach her to interfere with my mission.

  Seasickness doesn't trouble me. My only worry is that I might run out of ale on the voyage. Back in my army days I was used to these hardships, but since I moved into the Avenging Axe I've grown used to beer being available whenever I want it. It occurs that I want beer most of the time.

  "Nothing wrong with that," I say out loud, patting my belly. "In a corrupt city full of thieves, murderers and drug addicts, heavy beer consumption is the only rational response."

  Makri reappears, groans and flops down on the bunk, where she lies moaning about how terrible it is to be at sea.

  "You'll get used to it," I tell her. "Feel like a beer?"

  Makri spits out an Orcish curse, which would sound strong even in a gladiator pit, and turns her face to the wall. I decide to leave the cabin and wander among the crew. Even taciturn Elves will be better company than a seasick Makri.

  I emerge on deck to encounter a light drizzle and a strong wind. A senior member of the crew is shouting instructions to some lithe young Elves who are swarming over the rigging, adjusting the sails to cope with the worsening weather.

  I watch them with interest, noting the skill with which they carry out their tasks. I've seen Turanian sailors performing similar work on many occasions, and Turanian sailors are skilful at their craft, but the Elves seem to fly over the masts and rigging as if they are unaffected by gravity's pull.

  Someone appears beside me. I'm about to comment on the crew members' expertise when I realise that it is Prince Dees-Akan. This is the first time I've met him on board. I greet him graciously. I may have been sacked from my job at the Palace after getting drunk at Rittius's wedding and generally disgracing myself, but I haven't forgotten how to address the second in line to the throne.

  The Prince is around twenty years old, tall and dark, though not reckoned particularly handsome by our nation's matrons, certainly not in comparison with his older brother. The young Prince is fairly popular in our city-state however, and commonly regarded as a much more stable character than his brother, the heir to the throne. That's not saying too much really. Prince Frisen-Akan might have the good looks but he is also a drunken degenerate who'd sell the Palace furniture to buy dwa. Last year he very nearly caused the ruin of the city when he became involved in a plot to import the drug through the agency of Horm the Dead, a half-Orc Sorcerer who damn near destroyed Turai with one of the most malevolent spells ever created.

  I had a hand in stopping Horm. I also prevented the elder Prince's involvement from becoming known to the public. Cicerius paid me well enough, but I figure he might have been more grateful.

  I've never had any dealings with the younger Prince. As he stands next to me I sense a certain awkwardness. On a long sea journey etiquette tends to be relaxed so there is no particular reason why the Prince can't converse with even a low-life like myself, but he seems to be unsure of what to say. I help him along a little.

  "Ever been to the Elvish Isles before, your highness?"

  "No. Have you?"

  "Yes. A long time ago, before the last great Orc War. I've always wanted to go back."

  The Prince gazes at me. Is there a glimmer of dislike in his expression? Possibly.

  "Deputy Consul Cicerius is worried that you may cause trouble."

  I reassure him. "Nothing is closer to my heart than the well-being of our great city."

  "You are conducting an investigation. Might that not lead to some unpleasantness?"

  "I'll do my very best to prevent it, your highness."

  "I trust that you will. It seems to me a bad idea that you are here at all. Surely our Elvish friends can deal with their own criminals?"

  I've quickly gone off the young Prince, but I still try to look respectful.

  "And Cicerius informs me that when you are around, bad things tend to happen."

  "Not at all, your highness," I say, in my most reassuring voice. "For an Investigator, my life is surprisingly peaceful."

  At this moment an Elf falls from the highest mast and lands dead at my feet. It makes a really loud noise. I swear the Prince looks at me as if it's my fault.

  I'm already bending down over the body. Elves are much longer lived than Humans, but even they can't survive broken necks. Members of the crew are running towards us and more are swarming down the rigging to see if they can help. There's some confusion till Vas-ar-Methet arrives on the scene and forces his way through. He kneels over the fallen Elf.

  "What has happened?" comes the commanding voice of Lord Kalith, arriving at a fast gait from the bridge.

  "He fell from the rigging, sir," replies one young sailor.

  "Dead," says Vas, standing up. "His neck's broken. How did it happen?"

  I struggle to hear clearly as many Elves speak at once, but from what I can gather the young Elf had lost his hold on the rigging when he went to take a drink from his water bottle. The bottle, made from some sort of animal skin, is still slung from his neck on a long string.

  I bend over the body, lift the bottle and sniff the contents.

  "That will not be necessary, Investigator," booms Lord Kalith, sounding quite insulted at the implication that there may have been something other than water in the Elf's bottle. Without making it too obvious, the other Elves get between me and the body and lift it up to take it away.

  Throughout all this the Prince has stood impassively at the side of the action, joined now by his bodyguards, and also Cicerius, who hastened to our side at the sound of the commotion.

  "That was hardly tactful," the Prince says to me reproachfully as the Elves depart.

  Cicerius asks what he means.

  "The Investigator felt obliged to check the unfortunate Elf's water bottle, apparently suspecting that he may have fallen from the rigging while drunk. Lord Kalith was plainly insulted."

  "Is this true?" explodes Cicerius.

  I shrug. "Just a reflex action. After all, he fell off while trying to take a drink. You've seen how sure-footed the Elves are. I just wondered if he might have had a little klee inside him, or maybe some Elvish wine?"

  Cicerius glares angrily at me. The Prince glares angrily at me.

  "Well, it's my job," I protest. "What if he was poisoned?"

  Cicerius, never hesitant about giving a man a lecture, proceeds to tell me in strong language that I am to stay well out of the affair.

  "Let the Elves bury their own dead, and whatever you do, do not go around asking questions about the accident. You and your companion have caused us enough trouble already."

  I am spared further lecturing by the reappearance of Vas-ar-Methet. He looks worried.

  "Very unfortunate," he confides. "Please tell Makri to stay well out of sight."

  "Why?"

  "A few of the younger Elves are muttering that we're cursed because of her presence."

  "That is ridiculous, Vas, and you know it. It's nothing to do with Makri that one of your crew fell off the rigging."

  "Nonetheless, do as he says," says Cicerius.

  A slender figure in a man's tunic with a great mass of hair billowing in the wind suddenly staggers past us at a fast rate. It's Makri, heading swiftly to the rail at the side of the ship. Once there she hangs her head over and throws up violently. The wind catches some of her vomit and blows it back over her feet. She curses vehemently, and quite obscenely, and bends down to wipe them clean. I notice that her toenails are painted gold, a fashion only worn, to my certain knowledge, by the lowest class of prostitutes in Simnia. Cicerius winces.

  "Hey, Makri," I call. "The Deputy Consul wants you to stay out of sight."

  Makri's reply to this is fortunately carried away in the wind. She's really going to have to
stop using these Orcish insults if she wants to start making friends around here.

  As soon as Cicerius and the Prince depart I start asking Vas-ar-Methet about the recently deceased Elf.

  "Did anyone see anything suspicious?"

  Vas is puzzled. "I don't think so. Why?"

  "Well aren't you curious when one of your crew suddenly plunges to his doom for no apparent reason?"

  Vas shrugs. "These things happen at sea."

  "Maybe. But I seem to recall hearing that Lord Kalith has one of the finest crews in the Elvish Isles. I'd say it warranted a little digging around. Will Lord Kalith instigate an enquiry?"

  Vas-ar-Methet seems genuinely puzzled by my curiosity. He doesn't seem to think that there is anything to enquire about. Maybe it's one of these different-culture things. Perhaps Elves accept deaths at sea as natural occurrences. Myself, I'm just naturally suspicious about anyone dying right in front of me.

  Chapter Five

  Next day they hold the funeral of the young Elf who fell from the rigging. It's a long time since I've seen a burial at sea.

  "Have a nice time," mutters Makri from her bunk.

  "You're coming too," I inform her.

  "I'm sick."

  "Everyone on an Elvish ship has to attend the funeral of a crew member. It's their custom, no exceptions allowed. So get ready."

  Neither of us is much looking forward to it. I'm trying to put some sort of shine on to my salt-water- encrusted boots. It's a frustrating task and I give voice to some complaints.

  "Sail down to Elfland and sort out some minor difficulty over a tree—ought to be as easy as bribing a Senator. Now Kalith is angry with me, the Prince wishes I was back in Turai and the Elves are treating me like I've got the plague. How did everything go wrong so quickly?"

  "It's a flaw in your character," says Makri. "You generally offend everyone when you're on a case. Sometimes it's because you've drunk too much. Other times it's just because you're an offensive sort of person. But hey, you often get the job done."

  "Thank you, Makri."

  The ship's crew are joined by the Turanian delegation in a sad and solemn gathering at the stern of the ship. Makri and I skulk at the back, trying to keep out of everyone's way. Prince Dees-Akan, standing beside Lord Kalith, ignores us.

  "I don't really take to that Prince," whispers Makri. "I liked his sister much better."

  We encountered Princess Du-Akai a while back. She hired me under false pretences, told me a load of lies and very nearly got me killed. But she did seem like a pleasant sort of person.

  Lord Kalith intones the funeral litany, much of it in the Royal Elvish language which I don't understand although I attended plenty of Elvish burials during the war. It doesn't differ a great deal from a Human funeral—formal attire, brief reminiscences of the departed, some singing—and it isn't any more cheerful. The Elves tend to look at life in a more philosophical manner than we do, but that doesn't make death easy for them.

  The ship pitches gently. We're now far south and the weather is improving. The rain has ceased and the sun warms the air. At night all three moons have been visible, large and heavy in the clear sky.

  The dead Elf is wrapped in a funeral cloth bearing Lord Kalith's nine-starred insignia. After the oration a singer steps forward and intones a mournful dirge. His voice is clear and strong but the lament is full of sadness and casts a further shadow over us all. When the song is finished the Elves stand in silence. I bow my head, and try not to fidget. Finally the body is lowered over the side and sinks below the waves.

  Lord Kalith walks briskly back to his post. The other Elves linger, talking among themselves. I'm already heading back to my cabin, keen to get below deck before Cicerius or the Prince decides it's time to lecture me about something or threaten to take away my Investigator's licence.

  "A rather unfortunate family," says Makri, as we step through my door.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The dead Elf. Weren't you listening to the oration?"

  "Most of it was in the Royal Elvish language. I couldn't understand it."

  Makri slumps on to the bunk, looking ill. She's one of the poorest sailors I've ever encountered.

  "I caught most of it," she says. "Lord Kalith is a very good speaker. I'll relay his speech to my Elvish language teacher back at the College. He'll like it."

  I get a beer and start hauling my boots off. "What did you mean about an unfortunate family?" I ask.

  "Well, one Elf in jail and another one dead. The Elf who fell from the rigging was called Eos-ar-Methet. Vas-ar-Methet's nephew, and Elith's cousin."

  I finish my beer and start putting my boots back on. I can feel some investigating coming on.

  "Her cousin? How about that. An interesting piece of information that no one was rushing to tell me."

  I make to leave. Before I do I ask Makri if she could keep it quiet that she understood all of the funeral oration.

  "I think that the fewer people who know you can speak the Royal Elvish language, the better. You might pick up more interesting things."

  I find Vas-ar-Methet in his cabin, a large area that serves as both his living quarters and his on-board treatment area. As I arrive an Elf is leaving, smiling.

  "He was looking pleased. You just heal him?"

  "Yes. He was having bad dreams."

  "How do you cure someone of bad dreams? No, you can tell me some other time. Right now I'm looking for some information."

  Vas-ar-Methet immediately seems troubled.

  "Thraxas, you know I'm grateful for your help, but . . ."

  "But you've heard that with the assorted Lords, Sorcerers and important Turanians on this ship I'm about as popular as an Orc at an Elvish wedding. Don't worry about it, it's often this way. You didn't hire me to make friends. Now, how come you didn't tell me that the Elf who died was your nephew?"

  Vas looks puzzled. "Is it significant?"

  "Of course. Doesn't it strike you as strange that the Elf who plummeted to his death for no apparent reason was Elith's cousin?"

  "No. What is the connection?"

  "I can't say. But trust me, my Investigator's intuition doesn't let me down. I knew there was something strange about that accident. Why would a healthy young Elf suddenly fall from the rigging and break his neck? Doesn't make sense. How many times has he been up there? Hundreds. I saw him myself, moments before, and he wasn't looking like an Elf who was suddenly going to make the elementary mistake of not holding on."

  "What are you suggesting? That he was pushed? There were other members of the crew there. They would have seen something."

  "There are other ways it could have happened. I tried looking at the body at the time but I was prevented from examining it properly. My first thought was that he might have been drinking, although as far as I could see he only had water in his flask. But it could have been poisoned."

  Vas is very dubious.

  "I really don't think that that is likely, old friend. His companions report that he simply lost his grip when he reached for his flask."

  "Do experienced sailors normally wave their hands around when they're up in the rigging? He could have got a drink any time. Speaking of which . . ."

  I look pointedly at the inviting decanter on Vas's table and he pours me a glass of wine. As Elvish wine goes, it's okay, nothing more. Lord Kalith ought to take more care when he loads up with supplies.

  I admit that the link may appear tenuous, but when I'm grubbing around in the city and odd things start happening I generally find they're connected somehow. I doubt things are any different with the Avulans.

  "Did Eos have any sort of connection with the Hesuni Tree? Maybe help with the prayers, hymns or whatever else goes on there? And was he on friendly terms with your daughter?"

  Vas considers this. "It is not impossible. But before this terrible affair of my daughter, I had very little contact with the Tree Priests. I am only slightly acquainted with Gulas-ar-Thetos, the Chief Tree Priest. Whet
her Eos knew him, I can't say. It seems unlikely. Young sea-going Elves do not normally spend too much time with older members of the religious order. But he was friendly with my daughter. She will be sad to learn of his death."

  He promises that when we reach Avula he will be able to put me in touch with several Elves who will be able to tell me more.

  "I hope they're going to be more co-operative than the crew."

  "They will be. They are my friends. I may be the only Elf on Avula who believes my daughter is innocent, but I am not the only one who would be glad if she were."

  An Elf arrives, apparently needing Vas's healing services. He is looking particularly unhappy. Many of the crew look unhappy. Maybe they're all having bad dreams.

  The seas are now rough but we're making good progress. It is not just the skill of the Elvish sailors that speeds us onwards; Elvish shipwrights are privy to shipbuilding secrets unknown to their Human allies. Our craft cuts through the water at a rate that would be the envy of any Turanian Captain. Lord Kalith's personal Sorcerer, Jir-ar-Eth, is on the ship and could if necessary use sorcery to change the weather in our favour, but so far there has been no need. He stays below decks, swapping tales with Harmon Half-Elf and Lanius Suncatcher.

  The death of the crew member has cast a pall of gloom over the ship. I'll be glad when we reach Avula. The voyage has started to bore me and I'm running short of beer. There is nothing to see apart from the endless grey seas and there is precious little to do. I've carried on with my enquiries as best as I can but because of the reticence of the Elves I've learned very little that Vas has not already told me.

  Even young Isuas, for some reason quite in thrall to Makri, tells us bluntly that Vas's daughter is clearly guilty of the crime and is fortunate not to have been punished already.

  "Only my father's high regard for Vas-ar-Methet has delayed it."

  "Your father's high regard? What do you mean?"