Thraxas and the Elvish Isles

Chapter Two

Next morning I’m woken up by the shrill voice of a street vendor outside, eager to sell her wares in the last week of autumn before the evil winter takes hold of the city. It doesn’t improve my mood.

Winter in Turai is grim: bitter cold, howling gales, freezing rain and enough snow to bury the homeless beggars that huddle miserably in the streets of Twelve Seas. Back in the days when I was a Senior Investigator at the Imperial Palace, winter didn’t trouble me. I hardly even saw it, just remained within the comfortable confines of the Palace walls, where a combination of engineering skill and sorcery prevented the inhabitants from feeling any discomfort. If any investigating needed doing, I sent a subordinate. Since I was booted out by my boss, Rittius, my life has changed considerably for the worse. I’m a Private Investigator in a dangerous part of town where there is plenty of crime to be investigated but precious little money to pay me for the investigating. I’m reduced to living in two rooms above a tavern, eking out my existence by risking my life against the sort of violent criminals who’ll happily gut a man for a few gurans or a small dose of dwa.

The sign outside my door says Sorcerous Investigator but that is somewhat misleading. A more accurate version would say Investigator Who Once Did Study Sorcery But Now Has Only The Feeblest Of Magical Powers. And Works Cheap.

I sigh. It’s true that my winnings at the chariot races will enable me to make it through the winter in more comfort than I otherwise might have. But if I’d taken that huge pot at rak last night I’d have been a good way towards moving out of this dump. I’ve had my fill of the slums. I don’t have the energy for it any more.

I need some beer for breakfast but that means going downstairs and facing Makri. She will be out for vengeance. The woman—I use the term loosely—has in the past refused to speak to me after far less wounding accusations. What she’ll do after the things I said last night, God only knows. Attack me, probably. Let her. I’m feeling angry enough to attack her right back. I tuck my sword in its scabbard and am on the point of marching right downstairs to confront Makri with her many crimes when there’s a knock on my outside door and a voice I recognise calls out my name.

I banish the minor locking spell from the door and haul it open.

“Vas-ar-Methet! What are you doing in the city? Come right in!”

Vas-ar-Methet walks in, dumps his green cloak on the floor, and embraces me warmly. I embrace him back, equally warmly. I haven’t seen him in fifteen years but you don’t forget an Elf who once saved your life during the last great Orc War.

I saved his life too. And we both saved Gurd. The last Orc War was grim. There were plenty of occasions when lives needed saving.

Like all Elves, Vas-ar-Methet is tall and fair, with golden eyes, but even among the upright Elvish Folk Vas-ar-Methet stands out as a distinguished figure. He’s a healer, an Elf of great skill, and well respected among his folk.

“Would you like some klee?”

Klee is the local spirit, distilled in the hills. Elves in general are not given to strong drink, but I seem to remember that Vas, after the months we spent together fighting, was not averse to something to keep the circulation going.

“I see you haven’t changed,” he laughs.

Vas always laughed easily. He’s rather more emotional than your average Elf. He’s some years older than me but, as is the way with Elves, shows little sign of advancing age. If he’s reached fifty, which he probably has, you’d be hard pushed to guess.

He brings out a small packet from within his green tunic. “I thought you might like these.”

“Lesada leaves? Thank you. I just finished my last one!”

I’m grateful. Lesada leaves grow only on the Elvish Isles and they’re hard to acquire in Turai. They’re used as a cure for many things and have a great purifying effect on the body. I use them for hangovers, and can personally state that there is no finer remedy.

The memory of where I obtained my last supply of lesada leaves causes me to frown.

“Did you hear about the two Elves I encountered last year?” I ask.

Vas-ar-Methet nods. They’d arrived at my door claiming to be friends of his and hired me under false pretences to work for them. As it turned out, they were Elves of the criminal variety—rare, but not unheard of—who had been using me for their own ends. It got them killed in the end, though not by me, and I’ve worried slightly since then that they might really have been friends of Vas.

He reassures me. “No, not friends, nor relatives. We heard the full tale on the islands eventually. They used my name and the name of my Lord only to gain influence with you, Thraxas. It is I who should apologise to you.”

We beam at each other. I clap him heartily on the back, break open the klee, and tell him to fill me in on the last fifteen years.

“How’s life on the Elvish Isles? Still paradise on Earth?”

“Much the same as when you visited, Thraxas. Apart from. . . .” He frowns and breaks off.

My Investigator’s intuition lumbers into action. In the excitement of seeing old Vas again it had temporarily switched off, but now, looking at his troubled face, I can tell that something is wrong.

“Is this a professional visit, Vas? Do you need my help?”

“I am afraid so. And if you can forgive my rudeness, I must explain my business quickly, though I would far rather talk with you a while of old times. Is Gurd still alive?”

“Still alive? He certainly is. He owns this dump. I’m his tenant.”

Vas guffaws at the thought of Gurd turning into a businessman. And when Vas-ar-Methet guffaws, he really lets it out. He’s pretty unrestrained for an Elf. Not the sort to sit around in a tree all night, watching the stars. I always liked him.

“What’s the rush?”

“I am here as part of the retinue of Lord Kalith-ar-Yil. We sailed in early this morning, earlier than expected. Lord Kalith has been keen to complete the voyage as he is anticipating bad weather on the return journey.”

I’d heard that Lord Kalith-ar-Yil was due in Turai. He’s the ruler of Avula, one of the Elvish Isles to the south, and a friend and ally of our city. Some of our Turanian officials are going down to visit as guests of the Elves for the Avulan festival, which is held every five years, I believe. The invitation was sent up by way of Lord Lisith-ar-Moh, another Elvish ally, who visited Turai recently. Lisith-ar-Moh is the ruler of Ven, an island close to Avula.

“I heard you were of some service to Lord Lisith,” says Vas.

“I was. I helped make sure the great chariot race actually happened, though that involved helping the Orcs’ entrant as well, which I could have done without. A man doesn’t want too much of a reputation as an Orc helper. So you’re here to pick up our Prince and take him to the Avulan festival?”

“We are. And as we are earlier than expected, and Lord Kalith wishes to sail tonight, I imagine there is some amount of panic at the Imperial Palace. I myself have much to do and can’t spend long here.”

“Well, tell me the trouble, Vas. We can reminisce another time.”

Elves can be a little wordy. I heard Lord Lisith when he proffered the Avulans’ invitation to their festival, and to be honest it dragged a little. We all like Elves in this city, and we’re pleased they’ve invited our young Prince to the island of Avula, but we don’t necessarily want to hear endless speeches about it. Fortunately Vas is more direct than an Elf Lord.

“Two months ago our Hesuni Tree was damaged by fire.”

My eyes widen in surprise. Every Elvish island is inhabited by one clan of Elves and every clan has its Hesuni Tree. It’s said to record the history of the clan. In some ways it’s their soul. I’ve never heard of one catching fire.

“It never has happened before. And it was not completely burned, though it suffered considerable damage. The tree-tenders of our tribe have saved it, though it will be some time before it is strong again. This is not public knowledge. I know that Lord Kalith will have informed your Royal Family of the occurrence, but we would not wish for people to know the true state of affairs.”

I light up a thazis stick. Vas frowns.

“These narcotic substances are bad for a man, Thraxas.”

I shrug this off. Thazis is a very mild drug, calms the nerves, nothing more. Compared to the plague of dwa that has recently gripped the city, its effects are negligible. Since dwa started flooding in from the south, Turai has advanced several giant steps on its way to hell, damnation and destruction. Crime has mushroomed on all fronts, which is good for my business, I suppose.

“Tell me about the Tree.”

“Someone attacked it with an axe, and then with fire. It took the greatest efforts of our tribe to save it.”

He pauses to sip some klee.

“No Elvish tribe has ever suffered such an attack. The Hesuni Tree of the Uratha Clan was struck by lightning and killed three hundred years ago, and this calamity has ever since plagued the Uratha. That, however, was an act of God. It is without precedent for a Hesuni Tree to be attacked. You have been among the Elves, Thraxas; you may have some idea of what the Hesuni means to the clan.”

I nod. I know enough to realise the seeming impossibility of any Elf harming it.

“Coming before our Festival it is particularly unfortunate. Many Elves from the neighbouring islands visit Avula and it has cast a shadow over the occasion.”

“Who was responsible? Has Orcish sorcery extended its arm so far south?”

Vas’s eyes mist over. “My daughter stands accused of the crime.”

Unexpectedly, a tear rolls down the face of Vas-ar-Methet.

I see too much misery on the streets every day to be much affected by it, but I’m greatly touched by the sight of my old companion-in-arms reduced to tears.

He tells me that his daughter is currently under lock and key on the island, accused of the terrible and unprecedented crime.

“I swear she is innocent, Thraxas. My daughter is not capable of such a terrible act. I need someone to help her but there is no one on the islands who can do what you do. No one has any experience of investigating . . . we have no crime to investigate . . . till this. . . .”

I finish off my klee and bang my fist on the table in a reassuring manner. “Don’t worry, Vas. I’ll sort it out. When do we sail?”

You can trust me in a crisis. Thraxas will always come to your aid. What’s more, it will get me away from the terrible Turanian winter, which is all to the good.

“We sail with the evening tide. The winter storms will soon be here and we must be well clear of your coast before then.”

The thought of winter storms makes me wonder if I might have leaped in too hastily here. I’ve sailed enough to take another long voyage in my stride, but even under the fine seamanship of Lord Kalith and his Elvish crew I don’t relish the prospect of battling though the icy winter gales. Vas reassures me: Avula is one of the closest of the Elvish Isles, about three or four weeks’ journey due south, and we should be able to pass through the most dangerous waters before they become too troubled.

“I appreciate this more than I can say, Thraxas. It is no light thing for a man to drop everything at a moment’s notice to travel far, even in answer to a call for help from an old friend.”

“Think nothing of it, Vas. I owe you. Anyway, who wants to sit through another Turanian winter? You ever been here in winter? It’s hell. Last year I had to spend three weeks at the harbour sorting out some shipping fraud. I was colder than a frozen pixie and you couldn’t move without tripping over some poor beggar’s corpse. Anyway, I’ve a little personal trouble at the moment I wouldn’t mind being far away from.”

“Personal trouble? What sort of. . . .”

An almighty crash comes at my inside door. It’s still protected by my locking spell but this minor incantation isn’t going to hold out for long against such a determined assault.

“An angry woman,” I grunt. “If you can call her that.”

I grab my sword and bark a few ancient words at the door, removing the spell. It bursts open and Makri practically flies into the room. She has an axe in one hand and is trying to fend off Gurd with the other. She makes good progress towards me before Gurd manages to get his arms round her and bring her to a grinding halt.

“Let go of me, damn you,” yells Makri. “I don’t care what you say, I’m going to kill him.”

Gurd hangs on, using his extra body weight to his advantage. Makri struggles furiously. Normally in this sort of situation she would produce a dagger from somewhere around her body and stab whoever was unwise enough to be hanging on to her but she has the disadvantage of not actually wishing to kill Gurd, who is her employer and has always treated her rather kindly.

Vas has stood up in astonishment at the sight of Makri and Gurd struggling at the door. Like any Elf, he can sense Orc blood, and Elves hate Orcs even more than Humans do. But of course he can also sense Makri’s Elf blood. Elves are always confused by Makri, while Makri herself finds relating to Elves troubling, so troubling that, at the sight of the dignified presence of the healer, she stops struggling and eyes him coldly.

“Who the hell are you?” she demands, in fluent Elvish.

“A friend of Thraxas,” replies Vas.

“Well you better say your goodbyes,” grunts Makri. “I’m about to send him to hell. No one calls me a pointy-eared Orc bitch and lives.”

Vas walks up to her, bows politely, then looks her in the eye. “I have rarely heard our language spoken so gracefully by someone not born on the islands,” he says. “You speak it quite beautifully.”

Makri is not placated. She spits out an Orcish curse at him. I wince. I myself am fluent in the Common Elvish tongue and since Makri arrived my Orcish has greatly improved. I can’t believe that she just said that to a well-bred Elf. I hope he didn’t understand. It’s about the rudest thing you can do to an Elf to speak Orcish in front of him.

Vas does the last thing I’m expecting, which is to put his head back and laugh heartily.

“You speak Orcish very well also. I picked up quite a lot during the war. Please tell me, young lady, who are you that you live here in a tavern in Twelve Seas and have such command of three languages?”

“Four,” says Makri. “I’ve been learning the Royal Elvish language as well.”

“Really? That is unheard of. You must be a person of unusual intelligence.”

Makri has now stopped struggling. Having this cultured Elf compliment her on her high intelligence puts her in a quandary. Makri is not short of compliments on her looks, her figure, her spectacular hair. She hardly notices them any more, unless they are accompanied by a hefty tip. The main reason she stays around here is to attend the Guild College. Makri is a budding intellectual of a serious nature and an Elf complimenting her intelligence can’t fail to have some effect.

“Well, I’ve been reading the scrolls at the library . . . you know. . . .”

“Have you read the tale of Queen Leeuven?”

“Yes,” replies Makri. “I loved it.”

Vas is delighted. “Our finest epic. So fine that it has never been translated from the Royal language for fear of spoiling its beauty. You know it originated on Avula, my island? It is one of the glories of my tribe. I am indeed pleased to meet you.”

He bows to her again. Makri bows back. Gurd lets her go. Makri frowns, realising that she can’t really hit me with her axe. It would completely spoil the good impression she just made.

“Calmed down now?” says Gurd.

“No,” grunts Makri. “But I’ll save it for later.”

Tanrose calls from downstairs, something about a man arriving with a load of fresh venison, and Gurd hurries off. Makri is about to turn and leave when Vas calls her back.

“I am pleased to have met you. I sail on tonight’s tide and may not see you again. But the Elves of my island will be pleased to learn of the person in Turai who respects our tale of Queen Leeuven.”

It’s struck me before as peculiar the way Makri can make all sorts of people like her. Every time she comes across some well-bred or high-up member of society, the sort of person who would, not without reason, regard her as an ignorant Barbarian not worthy of notice, she always seems to end up creating a good impression. Cicerius, our Deputy Consul, was practically eating out of her hand the last time I worked for him. And now my friend Vas, an Elf of the highest repute, who quite possibly has never so much as spoken a word to any creature with a speck of Orc blood in them, is chatting away to her when really we should be discussing business. Any moment now they’ll be reciting poetry together.

Just because Makri and Vas have hit it off in a big way doesn’t mean I’m keen to spend time with the woman. I’m still mad as hell about the money she cost me.

“How long till we sail?” I say, muscling into the conversation.

“About eight hours.”

“Where are you going?” asks Makri, immediately interested.

“To Avula,” I reply. “Far away from you. Vas, I’ll need to make preparations. I’m going out to buy a few things. There will be plenty of time to fill me in on the details while we’re sailing.”

“I want to come,” says Makri.

I laugh. “No chance. As the well-known saying goes, you’d be as welcome as an Orc at an Elvish wedding.”

“It’s the Avulan festival, isn’t it?” says Makri. “I’ve read about it. Three staged versions of the tale of Queen Leeuven and competitions in choral singing, dance and poetry. I want to come.”

“Well you can’t,” I say. “The Avulan festival is not open to everyone. It’s strictly an Elf-only affair, plus a few honoured guests. Like me, for instance. I’ll see you on board, Vas. If you wish to stay here and discuss poetry with this barmaid, I must warn you that she is not fully trained in the ways of civilisation.”

And with that I depart. As I head down the stairs I can feel the air getting colder. The voyage may well be chilly till we reach the warmer waters of the south. I’ll need a warm, waterproof cloak for the journey and maybe a new pair of boots. And some beer. I’ll get Gurd to load a barrel on to a wagon for me when I get back. The Elves have fine wine but it wouldn’t surprise me if there was no beer at all on board their ship, and that’s a chance I’m not prepared to take.

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