Thraxas and the Elvish Isles

Chapter Four

On the second day of the voyage Vas-ar-Methet manages to escape from his official duties for long enough to fill me in on the details of the case.

“My daughter’s accuser is Lasas-ar-Thetos, Chief Attendant to the Tree. He is the brother of Gulas-ar-Thetos, the Chief Tree Priest. According to Lasas, he caught her in the act of chopping into the tree with an axe, after she had previously tried to set it on fire.”

“What does your daughter have to say about this?”

“She remembers nothing of the incident.”

I raise my eyebrows. I don’t expect all my clients to be innocent, but the least they can do is think of a good excuse. “She remembers nothing at all?”

“No. But she does not deny that she was there. Unfortunately her memory of events appears to be completely empty. She cannot remember a thing from the time she left our house till the moment she found herself in custody.”

“You know that doesn’t look good, Vas. Doesn’t she even remember why she went to the Tree?”

Vas shakes his head. I ask him if he believes her and he is quite emphatic that he does.

“I am aware that it looks bad for her. She has no defence to present to the Council of Elders who will try her. But I do not believe that my daughter, as fine an Elf as there is on the entire island, would ever commit such a sacrilegious act. It is completely against her character, and besides, she had no reason to do it.”

Despite Vas-ar-Methet’s strong desire to see his daughter cleared, I can’t learn nearly enough from him. He has no idea of what she might have been doing near the Tree, no idea when she ever visited it in the course of her normal life, and no idea of who else might have wished to damage it.

“Do you think her memory was sorcerously affected? Has anyone checked?”

“Yes. The case has been investigated by Lord Kalith’s officials, and that includes Jir-ar-Eth, his Chief Sorcerer. I understand that he found no trace of sorcery being used in the area, although everyone knows that that would be hard to establish anyway. The Hesuni Tree creates a powerful mystical field around it. All sorcery would be affected, and it is impossible to look back in time at anything that happened there.”

I nod. I’m used to sorcery not working out too well when it comes to investigating. The idea of a Sorcerer having a look at events, sorting out some clues and producing a neat answer is fine in theory—and it works occasionally in practice—but generally there are too many variables to make it reliable, or even feasible. That’s why I’m still in a job. You always need a man who’s prepared to pound the streets looking for answers. Or, in this case, pound the trees. The Avulans live mainly above the ground, on villages suspended in the tree tops, with walkways connecting them. Last time I visited the Elvish Isles I remember travelling briskly over these walkways, admiring the ground below, but I was a lot younger then, and a lot thinner.

As Vas leaves the scrawny little Elvish girl arrives and tells me that Lord Kalith wants to see me in his cabin. I make my way there, shielding my face against the heavy rain that pounds down on to the deck. Despite the poor weather the wind is in our favour and we’re making good progress. The ship rolls gently beneath my feet and the motion brings back many memories. It’s some time since I’ve been on a voyage, but I haven’t lost my sea legs.

Lord Kalith’s cabin, while comfortable, is not ostentatious. There’s little by way of decoration to show that Kalith is the head of his tribe, though I cast a jealous eye at the fine furniture. All I have in my cabin is a bunk, and it makes for a very poor seat, particularly when the ship pitches into a trough.

Lord Kalith himself wears few emblems of his rank, as is common among the Elves. An Elvish Lord would regard anything more than a small circle of silver in his hair to be bad taste. His cloak, while slightly more sumptuously cut than those of the other Elves, is the same shade of green, and untrammelled by any decoration.

“I understand you have been questioning my crew.”

I nod. There’s no denying it, though really I have been doing little more than acquainting myself with the background of the case.

“I wish you to stop,” says Lord Kalith.

“Stop? Why?”

“As master of this ship and Lord of my island, I do not have to give you a reason. I merely wish you to stop. My sailors should not be disturbed in their duties.”

I shrug noncommittally. I would have no qualms whatsoever about outraging Kalith and every other Elf Lord while carrying out an investigation, but I figure there’s no point in annoying him yet. If things go badly for me on Avula, I’ll annoy him plenty there.

I do take the time to point out to Kalith that I am here at the bidding of Vas-ar-Methet, and was given to understand that he had his Lord’s approval. Kalith concedes that this is true, but makes it clear that he never thought it was such a great idea.

“Vas-ar-Methet is of great value to me. I could not refuse his request for help in the matter of his daughter. But I am quite certain that, sad as it may be, his daughter did actually do what she is accused of. On Avula, you have my permission to ask questions, within reason. Here on my ship, I expect you to behave with decorum, and refrain from distracting my crew.”

I nod. I notice that Lord Kalith has a game of niarit set out on the small table by his couch. I glance at the pieces.

“The Harper’s Game,” I say, recognising the formation.

Lord Kalith raises an eyebrow. “You play the game?”

“Often. But I never favour the Harper’s Game. I find it’s too susceptible to an attack from the Elephants and the Plague Carrier.”

“I have been working on a new variation. It involves some new moves for the Hero and the Sorcerer. Perhaps we shall have a chance to play, later in the voyage?”

As I leave the cabin his farewell is friendlier than it might have been. Keen niarit players always feel some sort of bond with their fellows. Heading back to my cabin, I’m thoughtful. As a warning not to do any investigating, it was reasonably friendly. I’ve had far worse.

Makri is sitting on my bunk reading a scroll. She’s wearing a green Elvish tunic brought to her by Isuas, the young Elf maid. While none of the other Elves on board has so much as spoken to Makri, Isuas doesn’t seem to share their inhibitions. From the way she bounded into the cabin minutes after Makri arrived soaking wet, and offered to find her some dry clothes, I’d say Makri might have made a friend. Makri doesn’t seem too impressed.

“At least someone on this ship likes you. I’d have thought you’d be pleased.”

“She annoys me.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s so weedy and pathetic. Are all thirteen-year-old Elf girls like that?”

I tell her I don’t think so. Isuas does seem a little on the small side, but I don’t see that as any reason for Makri’s dislike.

“I hate weedy little girls,” says Makri, matter-of-factly. “Back in the slave pits they just used them for target practice. If I’d been runt-sized like her I’d have been dead long ago.”

“Well, excuse the rest of the world for not all being demented warrior women,” I say, and tell her to shove up on the bunk as I need to sit down. “Anyway, try not to alienate her. Apart from Vas, she’s probably the only Elf on board with any sympathy towards either of us. You know, I’ve just been warned off by Lord Kalith? Not what I was expecting, I must say. I thought he’d be pleased to have an experienced investigator coming down to sort things out. It’s weird the way my cases always get so difficult right from the start. Sometimes I think I’m cursed by the Gods.”

Makri shrugs. She’s not big on religion. “Maybe you should pray more. Are you still meant to do it three times a day, even on a ship?”

In Turai this is a legal requirement.

“A Turanian citizen should pray at the correct times, no matter where he is.”

“I haven’t noticed you doing it,” says Makri.

“Yes, well, my knees aren’t what they were. It’s hard on a man, having to kneel all the time.”

In truth, I haven’t been out of bed in time for morning prayers for something like ten years, and for the other two daily prayer slots I generally just try to hide in my room.

“Anyway it’s too late for prayer now, I’m stuck with you.”

“What do you mean, stuck with me?” protests Makri.

“Exactly that. The plan was for me to go to Avula, thereby missing the rigours of the Turanian winter, quickly clear Elith-ir-Methet of Tree desecration, then spend the rest of the time lounging around in the sun drinking beer. Now you’ve managed to spoil everything. I’m practically confined to my cabin, and when we get to Avula I’ll be lucky if the Elves will deign to speak with me—I’m a man with a travelling companion who has Orc blood. And it’s no use looking at me like that, you know full well it’s true. It beats me why you insisted on coming.”

“I didn’t insist on coming. It was an accident. I was just trying to get your money back.”

I still suspect Makri staged the whole thing.

“Shouldn’t you be home studying?”

Makri attends the Guild College, a place where those sons of the lower classes of Turai who wish to better themselves take classes in philosophy, theology, rhetoric, mathematics and whatever else it is they teach there. Makri is the first woman ever to study at the College. At first they refused to have her, but she gained entry by extreme force of personality and some threats of legal action by the Association of Gentlewomen. Her ultimate ambition is to attend the Imperial University. There is no chance that they will ever let her in, but she refuses to be put off.

“The College shuts for the winter. I figure this trip will do me a load of good next year. I’ll be able to give my professors first-hand accounts of Elvish society.”

“You’ll be able to give them first-hand accounts of what it’s like to stay on a ship, you mean. There’s no chance they’re letting you disembark, Makri.”

“But I want to see the festival. Just think, there are going to be three staged versions of the tale of Queen Leeuven.”

“Sounds dull to me. These Elvish plays are all full of heroes battling hopelessly against fate, and they always end in tragedy.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“When I’m at the theatre I like something a little more entertaining.”

Makri makes a face at me. “You mean you like it when the chorus line sings some obscene drinking song and the heroine’s top falls off by accident.”

“That’s the sort of thing,” I agree. “I never enjoyed the classics.”

“They have to let me attend the festival,” says Makri. “I’m the only one from Turai who’ll appreciate it properly.”

“You won’t appreciate it if the Elves start rioting because they sense Orc blood in the audience.”

“Do Elves riot?” asks Makri.

I admit I don’t know. If Makri sets foot on Avula, we’ll probably find out.

By the fourth day of our voyage I’m bored. The ship is making good time over a calm sea with a fast wind behind us, but I’m starting to feel more than a little frustrated. Deputy Consul Cicerius has strongly suggested that I keep myself hidden for the whole of the journey. As a free Turanian citizen I don’t have to do what the Deputy Consul says, but I don’t want to aggravate him more than is necessary. He could make my life very difficult back in Turai. During the past year I’ve done some good work for Cicerius, thereby increasing my standing with city officials, but if I end up offending him or the Prince I could have my Investigator’s licence revoked and then I’d be in trouble.

I sigh. It’s surprising how much of my life is spent being in trouble. I should have studied more when I was young. I could have been a proper Sorcerer.

As for Prince Dees-Akan, he has not yet condescended to visit me. Nor has an invitation to an informal get-together in his cabin come my way.

I’ve been explaining the case to Makri. Normally I’d do this anyway—Makri is a very smart woman—but I had planned to be mad at her for a lot longer. However, as we have now been thrown together in one small cabin, it seems easier to forget her numerous outrages and revert to being friends.

The facts, as reported by Vas, are puzzling: his daughter Elith-ir-Methet was found unconscious at the scene of the crime, the Tree was badly damaged and she still had an axe in her hand.

“Is she saying she didn’t do it?” asks Makri.

“Unfortunately not. She claims not to remember anything.”

“That’s going to make things difficult for you.”

I nod. “Even if Elith is telling the truth about remembering nothing, it doesn’t mean she’s innocent. I’ve known criminals who’ve blanked out all memories of their crime. Something to do with the trauma, I suppose.”

“So what are you going to do? Distort the facts? Muddy the waters till there isn’t enough evidence to convict her?”

“Only as a last resort. I’ll at least try to find out the truth first. It’s possible she didn’t do it. It sounds to me as if there wasn’t any sort of proper investigation. The Elves on Avula are not used to investigating. I’m going along with the presumption that’s she’s been framed.”

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.

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