Thraxas and the Elvish Isles

Chapter Nine

Vas-ar-Methet’s brother has treated Makri and me hospitably from the moment we arrived and we’re grateful for this. We can eat our meals with Camith’s family or on our own if we prefer, and they make no attempts to hinder us in our coming and leaving. If they think it is strange or disreputable to have someone with Orc blood under their roof, they don’t show it. Makri tells me that her faith in Elfkind is partially revived.

“After that voyage, I thought I was going to hate them all. But Vas-ar-Methet’s relatives are nice. When you were out they asked if there was anything they could bring me and then Camith invited me up to the top of the tree to look at the stars.”

Elves are partial to the night, rising late in the day and staying up to enjoy the pleasures of the midnight sky. Well, most of them. Perhaps farming Elves have to rise early to plant crops. I ask Makri about this, but she doesn’t know.

“At the Guild College we only learn Elvish myths, stories, histories of their wars and things like that. The subject of Elves having to get up early to plant crops or milk cows never came up. Strange really, because only last term Professor Azulius was stressing how important the average citizen was in the history of the city-state. ‘History is not all Kings, Queens and battles,’ as he likes to say. Do you think there are low-class Elves who clean the sewers at the Tree Palace?”

“I expect so. They can’t all be composing epic poems and gazing at the stars. You know, I’ve been close to losing my faith in Elfkind as well. I appreciate that I’m causing them difficulties, but right from the first day of the voyage they’ve been about as friendly as a two-fingered troll. Much less welcoming than my hosts on my last visit to the islands.”

“That was a long time ago,” Makri points out. “Maybe they became more suspicious of strangers after the last War. Do you know the whole island is suffering from bad dreams?”

“Really? Everyone?”

“Apparently,” says Makri. “Camith certainly is. I don’t think the Elves like to talk about it though. Discussing illness with strangers is calanith.”

“Is it only the Avulans or are their guests from the other islands suffering as well?”

Makri doesn’t know. She’s hoping the other Elves are in good health because she’s looking forward to the theatrical performances. I remain unimpressed at the prospect.

“Three versions of the tale of Queen Leeuven. Couldn’t they come up with something else?”

“Of course not. The plays at the festival are always about Queen Leeuven. That’s the point.”

“It sounds dull to me.”

“Well, they do choose different episodes from the saga. But it’s all quite formal, you know. The stories are already well known to the audience; it’s the way they are told that makes all the difference. At the last festival the Venian Elves presented such a tragic account of Queen Leeuven accidentally killing her brother that the entire audience was moved to bitter tears. They won the prize. The Avulans are keen to take it this time.”

I see that Makri has wasted no time in learning more about the culture of the island. I ask her if she knows anything about the juggling competition. She informs me that it’s part of the light entertainment put on before the plays, to get the crowd in a festive mood.

“Is there a favourite to win? I might be able to get a bet down.”

“Do you have to bet on everything?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think they have bookmakers on Avula,” says Makri.

“Don’t you believe it. Just because the festival features high-class tragedy doesn’t mean there isn’t someone running a low-class gambling operation somewhere. If you can get a hot tip for the juggling competition, I’ve no doubt I can place some money on it.”

With her mind occupied by the theatre, Makri has little enthusiasm for juggling, but she does express an interest in the tournament. She’s sorry that it is only for the under-fifteens and would have preferred to see the true Elvish warriors battling it out, but considers that any fighting is better than none.

“I’ve never seen a tournament,” she says.

She is disappointed when I inform her of the probable nature of the event.

“It’s only practice really. Nothing too vicious. They use wooden swords and there are restrictions on what you can do. No stamping on your opponent’s groin for instance, and no attacks to the eyes.”

“No groin-stamping? No attacks to the eyes? What’s the point of that?”

“They’re all under fifteen, Makri. The Elves don’t want to maim their kids, just give them a little practice in sword play. And don’t tell me that when you were fifteen you were already killing dragons. You mentioned that already. But being a gladiator is not the same thing as entering a civilised tournament.”

Makri is still dissatisfied. “Sounds like a waste of time to me.”

I’m eating my dinner from a tray. Obviously realising that I am a man of healthy appetites, my hosts have sent me a great amount of food. It’s not quite the gargantuan meal I’d take in back at the Avenging Axe after a hard day’s investigating, but it comes close. As I drink the last of the bottle of wine they sent along with it I feel a little more in tune with the world.

“Did Camith have any idea why everyone was having bad dreams?”

“Not exactly. He thought it might have something to do with the damage to the Hesuni Tree. The Avulans are all connected to it in some way.”

“Isn’t it healthy again? It looked okay to me.”

Makri nods. The tree healers have brought it back to full health. Something is still causing the Elves to have nightmares, though, which is interesting.

“So what now? If Elith did kill the priest, what can you do? Are you serious about breaking her out of jail?”

“Maybe. The way these Elves run things it would be as easy as bribing a Senator. Her last cell didn’t even have any bars on the window. Elith just gave her word she wouldn’t escape.”

I pause. It is very, very unusual for an Elf to break her word. It’s something they just don’t do. It’s calanith. Vas would rather die than disgrace himself in such a way. It strikes me that there must have been some overwhelmingly powerful reason for Elith-ir-Methet to leave the Palace.

“But I’m not convinced she’s guilty. I don’t like the way she can’t remember anything about damage to the tree. It means she’s either lying or under pressure from someone. Or else her memory has been affected by sorcery or drugs. I’m not happy about her murder confession either. She was acting very strangely the whole time I was with her. The first time I saw her she fainted right away and you know, Elvish women don’t faint a lot. They’re tougher than that. I’ve seen them fighting Orcs. When I was asking her questions I swear her mind was somewhere else. There was a very strange look in her eyes.”

“What kind of look?”

I can’t exactly describe it. “Something like a person on dwa.”

Makri is dubious. “You said dwa hadn’t reached the Elvish Isles.”

“It hasn’t. Anyway, it doesn’t affect them the same way it affects Humans. I’ve seen the occasional decadent Elf in Turai who’s taken it, but they never get the same hit off the drug as a Human. Nothing like enough to be so out of it they’d forget about committing some major crime. I’ll go and see Kalith’s Sorcerer, Jir-ar-Eth, and see if he might have picked up any lingering traces of magic. Lord Kalith has probably had him examine Elith by now, though if he’s found anything I doubt he’ll be eager to tell me. Things would be a lot easier if these damned Elves would cooperate. Still, I knew it was going to be tough.”

I consider the situation. Things look bad for Elith-ir-Methet, but things have looked tough for my clients before. It’s not as if anyone has provided a motive for the killing, and I can’t see why a respectable Elf would just up and kill the Tree Priest for no reason. As for the witnesses, I’m keeping an open mind. There are plenty of reasons why witnesses might get things wrong. Like wanting to please an Elf Lord for instance. I’ll start nosing around the Hesuni Tree and see who else might have had something against Gulas-ar-Thetos. And I’ll ask a few questions about Gorith. I’m suspicious of him, if only because he seemed so hostile towards me.

Makri stretches. “Camith gave me this scroll; it’s all about the local plants. He used to learn from it when he was at school. Elves go to school in trees, which is no real surprise. Tomorrow I’m going to look around at the local plant life and then see what the Elves have in the way of swords, knives and axes. You think they might give me some free stuff, seeing as I’m their guest? Thank God that spineless brat Isuas isn’t here to bother me any more.”

“Eh . . . hello,” says the spineless brat, entering the room timidly. She’s wearing a green floppy hat that comes to a point at the end, rather like a pixie might wear in a children’s story. It makes her look even younger than usual. As Isuas walks towards Makri she catches her foot in a rug and plummets to the floor. It’s quite a pathetic sight, but Makri looks on stonily as I help the youngster up. She rubs her head and tries not to cry.

“I thought I’d see if you were all right,” she says, fumbling with her hat.

“I was a minute ago,” says Makri sharply.

I’m still of the opinion that being friends with Kalith’s daughter would be no bad thing, so I cover up for Makri’s rudeness by asking Isuas if she’s pleased to be home.

“Feel good to be back on dry land?”

Isuas shrugs. “Okay. But everyone’s busy at the Palace.”

I have the impression that everyone being too busy for Isuas might not be that uncommon.

“Will you save Elith even though she killed Gulas?”

“I will. And I’m not convinced she did kill him.”

“I hope not,” says the young Elf. “I like Elith.”

“Will you teach me more fighting?” she says to Makri, unexpectedly.

“No,” replies Makri. “I’m busy.”

“Please,” says Isuas. “It’s important.”

Makri sticks her nose in her scroll.

“Why is it important?” I enquire.

“So I can fight in the junior tournament.”

Makri emerges from her scroll to have a good laugh. “The junior tournament? With wooden swords?”

“Yes. For all the Elves under fifteen. My oldest brother won it six years ago. My next oldest brother won it the year after that. And my next oldest brother won it the year—”

“We get the picture,” says Makri. “And now you want to enter but you can’t because you’re too puny and haven’t a chance of making it past the first round even if your father lets you enter, which no doubt he wouldn’t. You being so puny. And clumsy.”

Isuas stares at the floor. Makri seems to have summed it up neatly enough.

“They never let me do anything,” Isuas mumbles.

“Who can blame them?” says Makri.

“Please,” wails Isuas. “I want to enter the tournament.”

Makri again finds something to interest her in her scroll. I frown. I wish she didn’t display her dislike of the child quite so openly.

“What do your parents say about you entering the lists?”

“My father refuses to listen.”

“Well, perhaps we could have a word with your mother,” I suggest. “If Lady Yestar had no objections, I’m sure Makri could continue your lessons.”

Isuas’s face lights up. She is of course too young to realise the cunning way in which I have just guaranteed our entrance to the Tree Palace as an aid to investigating. Unfortunately Makri isn’t. She grunts at me.

“Forget it, Thraxas. I’m not getting stuck with the kid just so as you can wander about asking questions.”

“Makri will be delighted to help,” I say. “Would tomorrow in the afternoon be a good time to talk to Lady Yestar?”

Isuas nods, and manages to raise a smile. “I’ll have the servants prepare a meal.”

“Excellent, Isuas. Do you think they could rustle me up some beer?”

“Beer? I don’t think we have that at the Tree Palace. But maybe we could send out for some. I know that Mother will be pleased to meet you.”

I doubt that very much.

“I’ve practised what you showed me every day,” says Isuas to Makri before she departs.

Makri places her scroll on a table and looks at me rather wryly.

“Yes, very clever, Thraxas. Now you can enter the Palace as a guest of the Royal Family and make a nuisance of yourself to your heart’s content. Provided you don’t just concentrate on emptying the island of beer, that is. But I’m not playing along. I refuse to teach that kid any more. She’s a hopeless student. Anyway, I don’t like her. It was all I could do not to knock her head off on the ship. I only went along with it because I was bored. There’s plenty of other things I want to do on Avula rather than play nursemaid to the Royal Family’s unwanted runt.”

“I still don’t see why you dislike her so much, Makri. She’s not that bad.”

“I can’t stand the way she’s always bursting into tears. When I was her age tears were punishable by immediate execution. And she keeps falling over. It’s infuriating. And she’s so weedy. Also, it gives me the creeps the way she keeps getting more friendly the more I insult her. It’s not natural. What she needs is a good beating.”

“Are you sure she doesn’t remind you of yourself at her age?”

“What do you mean?” demands Makri. “I was never like that.”

“So you say. But the way you take against her gives me the strong impression that at one time in your life you were an extremely frightened and weak child. And you don’t like being reminded of it.”

“Nonsense,” says Makri, crossly. “Stop trying to be analytical, Thraxas, you’re really bad at it.”

I shrug. “Anyway, if you were teaching her how to fight, wouldn’t that give you some reason for handing out a beating? It would certainly toughen her up.”

“I’ve a reputation to protect,” objects Makri. “You think I want to send her out to fight as my pupil and have all these Elves laugh at her? Think how bad it would make me look. I’m not going to be able to teach her enough in six days to prevent her from being a laughing stock.”

“Don’t forget, she’s been practising every day. She might have improved. Anyway, when it comes right down to it, Lord Kalith and Lady Yestar aren’t going to let her enter the tournament. So just pretend you’re willing. It’ll get me a day or two at the Palace. After the way I outraged Lord Kalith by putting his guards to sleep, I can’t see any other way I’ll get back in.”

The most I can persuade Makri to do is to turn up with me there tomorrow.

“If I end up having to teach her, there’s going to be trouble,” Makri warns me.

“You won’t,” I assure her. “Kalith wouldn’t let Isuas within a mile of any fighting. Okay, you’re laughing about using wooden swords, but these things can still be tough. There were junior tournaments in Turai when I was young. Not big affairs, like they have for Senators’ sons of course, just small affairs for the offspring of the local workers. Prepared us for life in the army. One day I went up against the son of the blacksmith and he broke my arm with a wooden axe. My father was furious. Said I’d let the family down. He made me go back out and fight with my arm in a sling.”

“What happened?”

“I kicked the blacksmith’s son in the groin and then stepped on his face. Which was going a bit far even by the relaxed standards of the tournament. I was disqualified. But my father was pleased with me.”

“Quite right,” says Makri. “I don’t see why they disqualified you. You have to do whatever is necessary.”

Makri tells me some stories of her early fighting experiences, most of which involve inflicting terrible damage on Orcish opponents, all much older and heavier than her. She cheers up. Talking about fighting always puts Makri in a good mood. It must be the Orcish blood. Keeps her savage, even when studying botany.

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