Death and Thraxas

by Martin Scott

  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.

  I hurry back to Makri with our winnings. She's about to meet up with Isuas and accompany her to the field of combat. I wish her good luck.

  "I'd still like to know if Isuas is worth a bet."

  Makri motions for me to go along with her. When we near the centre of the field where the combatants are gathering, Makri halts and points out one of the fighters to a nearby Elf.

  "That one. How does he rate?"

  "One of the best," the Elf informs her. "The under-fifteens champion of Corinthal."

  Makri takes the wooden sword from her bag, strides up to the Corinthalian youth and without warning makes a cut at him. The Corinthalian, taken by surprise, still manages to parry the blow. Makri backs away, leaving the young Elf looking puzzled.

  "Bet your cloak on Isuas," says Makri.

  "What?"

  "If he's one of the favourites, then bet everything we have on Isuas."

  I can't see how Makri can possibly have made such a judgement after only one stroke, but I trust her when it comes to fighting. I retrace my steps to the bookmaker's, stopping on the way to tell Osath the cook that, in the opinion of her esteemed trainer, Isuas stands not only an excellent chance of winning her first bout but will do well in the rest of the tournament. The cook and his companions are sceptical.

  "Well, that's what Makri says, and when it comes to single combat she's an excellent judge."

  By this time the entrants for the tournament have been announced. I'm too far away from the field to see Lord Kalith's face when he learns for the first time that his youngest daughter has made a late entry into the lists, but I can imagine his surprise. I can foresee some heated domestic arguments in the near future between him and Lady Yestar, but what is done is done, and family honour will not allow him to withdraw his daughter once the announcement has been made.

  I arrive back at the clearing with a slip of paper in my pocket acknowledging that I have a large wager on Isuas at the excellent odds of five hundred to one to win the tournament outright, with another bet on her winning her first fight. Normally, for an event like this I'd have a large-scale plan of campaign worked out and I'd be betting on several of the contestants to cover myself, but I haven't really had time to organise such a strategy, nor the opportunity to study every entrant's form. I'll just have to cope with any emergencies as we go along.

  There are sixty-four entrants, eight of them female. It's a straight knockout competition, so to win the tournament a fighter will have to defeat six opponents. The first bout is already under way. I watch with interest as the two young contestants engage rather tentatively with their wooden swords. The fighters are meant to hold back slightly and not deliver blows that might severely damage their opponent. An experienced Elf ju
dges each fight. The first fighter to inflict what would be lethal damage, were a real weapon being used, is declared the winner. The spectacle takes place right in front of Lord Kalith and Lady Yestar, and I can tell from Kalith's face that he was not pleased to learn of his daughter's entry. Around me the crowd are still talking of little else, and the common opinion is that their ruler has lost his senses in inflicting such an ordeal on his notoriously weak daughter.

  The first bout comes to an end when the fighter from Ven delivers a neat cut to the throat of the Avulan and the judge waves a small red flag indicating that the affair is over. The winner departs to generous applause. For all their fondness for poetry and trees, Elves are keen swordsmen, and appreciate any display of martial skills.

  Makri and Isuas are sitting on the grass at the front. I use my body weight to force my way through till I'm close enough to lend assistance if necessary. Makri, lone bearer of Orcish blood in a huge crowd of Elves, might possibly find herself in some trouble if anything goes badly wrong. Isuas looks nervous but doesn't have long to wait. Her opponent is a fellow Avulan, a tall lad of fourteen who advances with a grin on his face that implies that he knows he has easy passage into the next round. He has a wooden sword in one hand and a wooden dagger in the other. From the way he holds them I can tell that he's thinking that while he had better not seriously damage the daughter of Lord Kalith, he isn't going to have to try too hard to defeat her. The crowd crane their necks in anticipation, but as it turns out there is little to see. Isuas's opponent makes a lazy attack and Isuas quickly and confidently parries the blow and runs her sword up his arm to his neck. The lad looks surprised, the judge holds up his red flag, and the fight is over. Isuas trots back to Makri an easy winner with the crowd wondering if Isuas just got lucky or whether her opponent let her win.

  "Daughter of Lord Kalith or not," says the Elf next to me, "she won't get it so easy in the next round."

  I collect up my winnings, place another bet on Isuas for the next round, then cut through the crowd in the direction of Lady Yestar. I have some trouble reaching her and am obliged to elbow a few attendants out of the way. Yestar smiles as I arrive.