Thraxas and the Elvish Isles

Chapter Three

Around seven and a half hours later I’m ready to sail. I arrive at the harbour on a wagon and load my belongings on board. The Turanian soldiers on guard duty look at me suspiciously as I roll up with a small bag of provisions and a large barrel of beer, but as the Elves are expecting me they let me past. The Elvish crew assume that as I am a guest of Vas-ar-Methet I’m probably part of the official Turanian party heading south for the festival, and I don’t bother to correct them.

This festival is held every five years and, as far as I know, is mainly attended by Elves from the three neighbouring islands of Avula, Ven and Corinthal. There are several distinct great tribal groupings of Elves on the Southern Islands, and all the Elves from these three islands, while forming separate nations, belong to the great Ossuni tribe. Whether Elves from further afield will be in attendance I’m not sure, but there will certainly be few Humans there. It is regarded as a great honour in Turai that our representatives have been invited, a mark of the continuing friendship between our nations.

Turai needs this friendship. We have declined in importance in the last fifty years or so, mainly as a result of the internal strife within the League of City-States. It is now pretty much politically impotent. When the League was strong Turai could speak with a powerful voice. Now we’re weak. Despite this we are still high among the nations who are regarded as friends of the Elves. They saved us during the last great Orc War and if the Orc nations ever unite again and start heading west over the Wastelands, which is more than likely, we’ll be relying on the Elves again. Hence the importance of this invitation. Prince Dees-Akan won’t just be attending a festival, he’ll be cementing our diplomatic ties.

Turai is sending the young Prince, second in line to the throne, and Deputy Consul Cicerius, the city’s second highest official, along with a few other minor dignitaries, a couple of Sorcerers and various royal bodyguards and attendants, a party of twenty or so, which is why the Elves sent up such a large ship. It’s a bireme with twin banks of oars along each side, although it’s unlikely that these will be much in use. Elves don’t enjoy rowing any more than they have to and they’ll be planning on running with the wind for most of the journey.

It’s against the law for the city’s highest official, the Consul, to leave the state during his term of office, which is why our government will be represented by his Deputy, Cicerius. I’ve worked for Cicerius on several occasions, and he’s been satisfied with my achievements, but I couldn’t claim to be friends. I know he has neither forgiven nor forgotten the time I was carried drunk into the Palace, singing songs. I’m not under any illusions that he’ll be pleased to have me along.

I expect that the Elves have proffered other invitations to Humans. Turai was not the only city to fight alongside Lord Lisith-ar-Moh and Lord Kalith-ar-Yil. Important politicians from other sea-going nations will be gathered on Avula. Maybe I can pick up some business.

As I’m lugging my travelling bag up the gangplank I notice Lanius Suncatcher striding nimbly on board, followed by his apprentice struggling with the heavy baggage. Lanius is wrapped in his rainbow cloak, denoting him as a member of the Sorcerers Guild. I used to know him back in the days when I was a Senior Investigator at the Palace. A nice young guy, as I remember. He’s been recently promoted to a senior spot in Palace Security because of several unfortunate deaths among our more experienced Sorcerers.

He greets me as I reach the deck. “Thraxas. Wasn’t expecting to see you here. Are you back in favour with the Palace?”

“Afraid not. Still pounding the streets in a private capacity. I’m not part of the official party, just here as a guest of the Elves.”

I congratulate the young Sorcerer on his promotion. “You’ve come a long way. Last time I saw you, you were still running errands for Old Hasius the Brilliant.”

“The way our Sorcerers have been handing in their togas recently has been good for my career,” he admits. “I’m Chief Sorcerer at Palace Security these days, promoted after Mirius Eagle Rider got himself killed. It would be just fine if it wasn’t for Rittius.”

He makes a face. So do I. Rittius, head of Palace Security, is not a popular man with his staff. He was the man responsible for my sacking and any time our paths cross there is trouble.

“He’s not part of the delegation, is he?”

“Fortunately not. Cicerius refused to sanction his coming. You’re not going to Avula to work, are you?” asks Lanius Suncatcher, suddenly suspicious.

“Work? Of course not. No call for an Investigator in those parts. Purely a social visit.”

Lanius might be an old acquaintance, but I’m not in the habit of sharing my business secrets with Palace officials. I wonder how powerful his sorcery is these days. As often happens when I encounter a young Sorcerer on the way up, I grow suddenly depressed at the sad decline in my powers. I admit I was never the most powerful Sorcerer on the block, but I used to be able to perform a trick or two. These days I’m lucky if I can put an opponent to sleep, or temporarily blind him with flashing lights, and even these small spells wear me out. It’s a long time since I’ve been able to carry around more than two spells in my head. A powerful Sorcerer can carry four or five.

I sigh. Too much drinking and high living. But I’ve had bad luck as well. I never did get the breaks I deserved. As a man who fought loyally for his city, I shouldn’t be having to scratch a living in Twelve Seas, declining powers or not.

Harmon Half-Elf, another of our important Sorcerers, arrives on deck. He greets me with a nod before going off with Lanius Suncatcher, discussing the probability of their needing to calm the ocean on the way. The harbour at Twelve Seas is well protected and the ship is lying calmly on the water, but already the open seas are rough. It’s not unusual for the winter storms to descend early, though on an Elvish ship, with extra Sorcerers in attendance, I figure I’m safe enough.

I hunt for Vas-ar-Methet, taking care not to run into any Turanian official who might not be delighted to find me aboard. Vas has reserved for me a tiny cabin where I dump my stuff, haul my boots off, drink some beer and wait for us to sail. Vas arrives and I tell him that an unexpected voyage to the Elvish Isles is just what a man needs after his idiot companion has cost him a thousand gurans at cards.

Vas still seems impressed by my idiot companion. “After you departed she told me of her studies at the Guild College. I just cannot believe that any woman with Orc blood should be so civilised and intelligent.”

“What do you mean, civilised? The first time you saw her she was trying to plant an axe in my head.”

“Well, Thraxas, you had grossly insulted her. She also told me about the card game.”

“Oh yes? Did she tell you about the outrage she caused by wilfully offending public decency?”

Vas laughs. “She did. And I can understand why it caused such a disturbance. The subject is calanith among Elves also.”

“Calanith” roughly translates as “taboo.” The Ossuni Elves have a lot of them.

“Often during my healing it has caused awkwardness. But the young woman was surely unaware of the offence it would cause. I feel you must make allowances for her. Had you not abused her so virulently at the time, she would quite probably have apologised for the loss she caused you.”

I snort in derision. Makri would probably leap from the highest part of the city walls rather than apologise. Stubborn, that’s what she is. It’s a very bad trait and one she would do well to overcome. But Elves are always keen to see the positive side.

“Try living in a tavern with her. Then you’d see how likely she is to apologise. And anyway, what good is an apology to a man who’s just been cheated out of a thousand gurans? I tell you, Vas, I’m desperate to get out of Twelve Seas. If I don’t raise enough money soon for a villa in Thamlin, you’re going to find me swimming south looking for a permanent residence in your tree. Any chance of a game of rak down on your island?”

This makes Vas smile, troubled though he is. He shakes his head. “Elves are not fond of cards as a rule. We play niarit though. I remember you used to be keen on that.”

“Still am,” I inform him. “Local champion in fact. I’m hell at the niarit board.”

Niarit is a complicated board game involving two armies of Hoplites, Trolls and Cavalry along with assorted other pieces—Harpers, Sorcerers, Plague Carriers and such like. The aim is to defeat your opponent’s army and storm his castle. I brought my board with me, thinking that it might while away a few idle hours on the long voyage. When it comes to niarit I’m sharp as an Elf’s ear and undefeated champion of Twelve Seas. Since I taught Makri how to play she’s never come close to beating me, for all her much vaunted intellect. Drives her crazy. Whether or not I find a game of rak or niarit anywhere along the way, at least Makri will not be along to ruin it, and that’s a bonus.

“Well, if you find yourself on the wrong side of Lord Kalith,” says Vas-ar-Methet, “try challenging him to a game of niarit. He’s the finest player on Avula, and can’t resist a game.”

“That’s good to know. I could do with a little practice.”

I break open another beer. I’ve brought as many bottles as I could carry and a barrel for when they run out. I’m still sketchy on the details of the case I’m being asked to investigate. All I really know is that Vas’s daughter Elith is currently imprisoned on a charge of attempting to kill the Hesuni Tree. I’m about to ask Vas-ar-Methet to fill me in, but before I can he is called away. Vas is not only Lord Kalith’s chief healer, he is close enough to him to be his trusted adviser as well, and this makes him a busy man. Well, there will be plenty of opportunity to learn the full facts of the case before I arrive on Avula. And once I’m in command of the facts, I’m confident I’ll be able to sort it out. When it comes to investigating, I’m number one chariot, and no one can deny it.

Lord Kalith is insisting that we must sail with the next tide and urgent last-minute preparations are underway. I settle back on my bunk. My mood mellows. No winter in Turai for me. No pounding my way to Minarixa’s bakery through the frozen streets for a few pastries to keep me going. No hunting through snow-bound streets for debtors, robbers, murderers and assorted other degenerates. No murderous gangs carving out their dwa territory. No filth, squalor and general misery. Just a pleasant visit to the Elvish Isles where I shall no doubt clear Vas’s daughter without breaking sweat and spend the rest of the time lying under a tree in the warm sunshine drinking beer, listening to Elvish choirs and swapping war stories with some of the more experienced Elves. I can’t wait.

We cast off and start to manoeuvre our way out of the harbour. I’ve decided to keep my head down till we are well at sea for fear that Deputy Consul Cicerius or some other official might start beefing about my presence here and try sending me back, but all of a sudden a commotion breaks out on deck. I never can ignore a commotion—I’m just too nosy. It’s a problem I’ve always had. I hurry out of my cabin and up the stairs to the deck. All along one side of the ship the Elvish crew are gathered, talking and pointing with excitement at something that’s going on back on the pier.

I use my body weight to force my way through. What I see leaves me gaping. Makri is pounding down the dock with a sword in one hand, a bag in the other and around thirty armed men in close pursuit. Makri’s well in front but she’s running out of room. They’ve chased her to the end of the pier and there’s nothing in front of her but the sea. Even at this distance I can identify her pursuers. The mob comprises a large part of the local chapter of the Brotherhood. I’m astonished. I’ve only been gone five minutes and already Makri is waging war with the deadliest gang in the neighbourhood.

Makri reaches the end of the quay and whirls to face her attackers, drawing her second sword as she does so. The first two assailants to come near her fall beneath her blades but the others fan out and surround her, then close in with their weapons at the ready. I look on helplessly as we sail slowly away. There are cries of concern from the Elves alongside me at the sight of a lone woman up against such murderous odds, but we are powerless to help. Even if Lord Kalith turned the ship, by the time we made it back it would be far too late.

“Jump,” I scream at Makri.

I can’t understand why she doesn’t leap into the sea. At least there she would have some chance of escape. Instead Makri stands fighting against hopeless odds. Supreme swordswoman or not, she can’t fight off that number of well-armed men attacking from all sides. A pile of bodies lies prostrate at her feet but any second now one of the multiple blades facing her will find its target.

“Jump into the sea!” I scream again, but we are now more than eighty yards distant and my voice probably doesn’t carry over the noise of the battle, and the waves, and the seabirds that soar over the harbour.

Finally Makri seems to realise that there is no way she’s walking away from this one without getting wet. She spins on her heel, rams her swords into the scabbards that form a cross on her back, and leaps from the quay into the water below. By this time I’m already lowering a boat from the side of the ship with the aid of several young Elves. They don’t know Makri, but the sight of her battling such enormous odds has enraged their sense of fair play.

The boat hits the water with a mighty splash and I swarm down a rope into it, looking all the while for Makri’s head to appear above water. Meanwhile the thugs on the dock are peering over the waters, hunting for their prey. As I start to row another body clatters into the boat. It’s Vas. He wastes no energy in talking but grabs the second set of oars and starts to pull. We make our way against the tide, back towards the mouth of the harbour.

“Where is she?” I cry, alarmed.

“She must be swimming underwater to safety.”

I’m dubious. Makri has been under for a very long time. We’re almost at the spot where she went in and there is no sign of her. Perhaps she took a wound in the fight and is unable to swim. Perhaps she has already drowned.

“Goddammit,” I growl, and stand up in the boat, scanning the waters for any sign of her. Suddenly I spot something—a dark mass like seaweed on the water. Makri’s hair. Makri’s head appears, twenty yards or so from our boat. Before I can yell for her to swim to us she goes under again, in a manner that suggests she won’t be coming back up.

Without hesitation I strip off my cloak and plunge into the sea. I’ve always been a strong swimmer and it takes me very little time to reach the spot and dive under the surface. The waters are cold and grey, impossible to see through for more than a few yards. I sink deeper and deeper, hunting desperately for sight of Makri, and the thought flashes through my head that if I was any sort of Sorcerer I’d have some spell ready to help me. But I’ve no spell for this, nothing to help me except a grim determination that I’m not going to see Makri drown.

My lungs are bursting. I can’t stay under any longer. I keep swimming. Finally I see Makri rising slowly in front of me. I kick towards her, grab her arm and head for the surface. We arrive there spluttering, coughing up water, but still alive. Makri seems in a bad way.

“Thraxas,” she mutters.

I start swimming for the boat, dragging her along behind me. Vas rows towards us and soon he is helping us on board. I think I hear some cheering from the Elves’ ship, and maybe some howls of anger from the dockside.

Makri retches over the side of the boat, and suddenly looks more alive.

“Nice escape,” I say to her. “But it would have been better if you’d actually swum somewhere. Sinking like a stone was never going to work.”

“I can’t swim,” says Makri.

“What?”

“I can’t swim. You think I’d have hung around on the pier so long if I knew how to swim?”

“Well, maybe. You like fighting. I figured you were just enjoying yourself.”

Vas brings us alongside the ship and we are helped aboard.

The Elves are full of congratulations for me at my fine rescue and there are words of admiration too for Makri for the fighting spirit she showed on the pier. Their praise dries up as the Elves suddenly notice that Makri is not the standard-issue woman they took her for.

“Orc blood!” whispers one young member of the crew, quite distinctly.

Deputy Consul Cicerius, resplendent in his best gold-rimmed toga, strides over to us.

“Investigator Thraxas!” he rasps. “What are you doing here?”

“My guest,” explains Vas-ar-Methet, which surprises the Deputy Consul but doesn’t prevent him from rounding on Makri.

“You cannot remain on this ship.”

“Well, I can’t go back there,” points out Makri, quite reasonably. The dock, now receding into the distance, is still lined with armed men.

“Lord Kalith,” says Cicerius, as the Elvish Captain strides along the deck towards us. “You must turn this ship around.”

At this moment the wind blowing us from the harbour suddenly strengthens and the sails bulge as the ship spurts forward. Lord Kalith frowns.

“Impossible. We cannot miss this tide. To do so would make us lose a day’s voyage and quite probably run into the first winter storm.”

He stares at Makri. For him this is something of a dilemma. He doesn’t want to turn the ship around, but there is no inhabited land between us and Avula. If he lets her stay he’s going to be the first Elf Lord to arrive back home with an Orc in tow. He doesn’t look thrilled at the prospect.

I’m none too pleased myself. I didn’t want Makri to drown but that doesn’t mean I want her along spoiling things for my visit to Avula. No Elf is going to want to talk to a man who’s brought his mixed-blood friend along for a visit. The Deputy Consul is all for sending Makri back in the boat but the shore is already fading in the distance and it is just not practical.

“We’ll decide what to do with you later,” Kalith tells Makri. “Meanwhile, stay out of sight.”

“Fantastic,” says Makri, brightly. “I’ve always wanted to go to the Elvish Isles. How long till we get there?”

Lord Kalith doesn’t reply. As he departs to the bridge he’s not looking pleased at this turn of events. He orders his crew back to their posts, and his voice is harsh.

I scowl at Makri. “Is there no end to these outrages? First you ruin my card game and now you’ve muscled your way on board my ship.”

“Well, thanks for saving my life,” says Makri. “I forgive you for the insults you heaped on my head. Could you get me something dry to wear?”

Makri tugs at the man’s tunic she’s wearing. In common with all of Makri’s clothes, it fails to cover nearly enough of her. I hurry her off in case she commits some further outrage, such as taking it off in front of the crew. I notice that the young sailor who first commented on Makri’s Orc blood has not actually departed back to his post but stands staring at Makri with some fascination. I scowl at him, then notice it isn’t a him but a her, a young Elvish maid, along on the voyage for some reason. A fairly scrawny-looking specimen, not blooming with health like your standard Elvish female.

We make for my cabin. Small though it is, I will now have to share it with Makri for the voyage. I continue to complain.

“Couldn’t you just let me sail in peace? What the hell were you doing fighting the Brotherhood anyway? Did you arrange the whole thing just so you could come to the festival?”

“Certainly not,” replies Makri. “Although now I think about it, how come you didn’t invite me?”

Makri is suspiciously cheerful about all this. For a woman who’s suffering from several nasty sword cuts and nearly drowned, she’s in a surprisingly good mood. I ask her what the fight was about.

“I was just trying to get your money back.”

“What?”

“The money Casax took back from the pot. After all, you said yourself it wasn’t fair. Once you make your bet you can’t take your money back, no matter what outrage may make you wish to leave the tavern. So I went to get it back for you.”

“Really? And what brought on this display of public-spiritedness?”

According to Makri it was Vas-ar-Methet. After talking for a while about the beautiful epic poem of Queen Leeuven, they came round to discussing the reason behind her wishing to kill me with an axe.

“Of course, he quite understood why I was so annoyed at you, insulting me in such a crass manner when really I was not responsible at all for anything. It’s not like anyone ever mentioned to me that menstruation is strictly taboo in Turai. But after we talked for a while I did see that you were probably too upset to think clearly. Any gambler would be, and you of course do have a problem with your gambling. And you’d been drinking heavily, which always clouds your judgement. I expect you were addled with thazis as well. I’ve noticed it always has a bad effect on you when you smoke too much. So with the gambling, the drink and the drugs all making you crazy, I figured it wasn’t really fair of me to hold a grudge, though your behaviour was bad, even by your standards. In the spirit of friendship I thought I’d get your money back for you.”

I inform Makri stiffly that I was far from addled, and was certainly not crazy. “It was merely the rational response of a man who has been pushed past the limit by the ludicrous behaviour of a woman who has no idea of how to behave in polite society. What happened when you saw Casax? I take it he wasn’t too keen to return the money?”

Makri shakes her head. “Afraid not. He wasn’t keen to see me in the first place and I had to do a fair bit of fighting just to get to him. I grabbed his purse, but there’s only a hundred or so gurans in it. And after that a battle just seemed to develop between me and his men. I didn’t realise there were so many of them.”

Makri grins happily, hands me the purse, and squeezes past me to peer out of our porthole.

“The Elvish Isles. Avula, birthplace of Queen Leeuven. And the festival! I can’t wait. Remind me why we’re going there?”

“You’re not going there for anything. I’m going to get my friend Vas’s daughter out of jail. She’s accused of attacking a tree.”

“Attacking a tree? And they threw her in prison? These Elves certainly love their vegetation.”

“It was a special tree. The Hesuni Tree in fact. No doubt you have learned all about Hesuni Trees at the Guild College.”

“Heart and soul of the tribe,” pronounces Makri.

“Exactly. I don’t have all the details yet, but Vas’s daughter is in bad trouble. So kindly try not to ruin everything for me. Vas is an old friend and I want to help him. Also I can’t afford to look bad in front of Cicerius and Prince Dees-Akan.”

“Is he the dwa-ridden drunken Prince or the sober responsible one?”

“The sober responsible one. Well, sober and responsible as far as Turanian Princes go.”

“You mean he’s a lush?”

“He’s not quite as bad as his older brother. And don’t insult the Royal Family.”

My cheerful mood has vanished. I can see this is going to be a tough journey.

“When we get to Avula I doubt you’ll be allowed to go ashore, but if by some miracle you are, for God’s sake don’t mention your—your—well you know what I’m talking about. You’ll panic the Elves.”

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