Thraxas and the Elvish Isles

Chapter Five

Next day they hold the funeral of the young Elf who fell from the rigging. It’s a long time since I’ve seen a burial at sea.

“Have a nice time,” mutters Makri from her bunk.

“You’re coming too,” I inform her.

“I’m sick.”

“Everyone on an Elvish ship has to attend the funeral of a crew member. It’s their custom, no exceptions allowed. So get ready.”

Neither of us is much looking forward to it. I’m trying to put some sort of shine on to my saltwater-encrusted boots. It’s a frustrating task and I give voice to some complaints.

“Sail down to Elfland and sort out some minor difficulty over a tree—ought to be as easy as bribing a Senator. Now Kalith is angry with me, the Prince wishes I was back in Turai and the Elves are treating me like I’ve got the plague. How did everything go wrong so quickly?”

“It’s a flaw in your character,” says Makri. “You generally offend everyone when you’re on a case. Sometimes it’s because you’ve drunk too much. Other times it’s just because you’re an offensive sort of person. But hey, you often get the job done.”

“Thank you, Makri.”

The ship’s crew are joined by the Turanian delegation in a sad and solemn gathering at the stern of the ship. Makri and I skulk at the back, trying to keep out of everyone’s way. Prince Dees-Akan, standing beside Lord Kalith, ignores us.

“I don’t really take to that Prince,” whispers Makri. “I liked his sister much better.”

We encountered Princess Du-Akai a while back. She hired me under false pretences, told me a load of lies and very nearly got me killed. But she did seem like a pleasant sort of person.

Lord Kalith intones the funeral litany, much of it in the Royal Elvish language which I don’t understand although I attended plenty of Elvish burials during the war. It doesn’t differ a great deal from a Human funeral—formal attire, brief reminiscences of the departed, some singing—and it isn’t any more cheerful. The Elves tend to look at life in a more philosophical manner than we do, but that doesn’t make death easy for them.

The ship pitches gently. We’re now far south and the weather is improving. The rain has ceased and the sun warms the air. At night all three moons have been visible, large and heavy in the clear sky.

The dead Elf is wrapped in a funeral cloth bearing Lord Kalith’s nine-starred insignia. After the oration a singer steps forward and intones a mournful dirge. His voice is clear and strong but the lament is full of sadness and casts a further shadow over us all. When the song is finished the Elves stand in silence. I bow my head, and try not to fidget. Finally the body is lowered over the side and sinks below the waves.

Lord Kalith walks briskly back to his post. The other Elves linger, talking among themselves. I’m already heading back to my cabin, keen to get below deck before Cicerius or the Prince decides it’s time to lecture me about something or threaten to take away my Investigator’s licence.

“A rather unfortunate family,” says Makri, as we step through my door.

“What do you mean?”

“The dead Elf. Weren’t you listening to the oration?”

“Most of it was in the Royal Elvish language. I couldn’t understand it.”

Makri slumps on to the bunk, looking ill. She’s one of the poorest sailors I’ve ever encountered.

“I caught most of it,” she says. “Lord Kalith is a very good speaker. I’ll relay his speech to my Elvish language teacher back at the College. He’ll like it.”

I get a beer and start hauling my boots off. “What did you mean about an unfortunate family?” I ask.

“Well, one Elf in jail and another one dead. The Elf who fell from the rigging was called Eos-ar-Methet. Vas-ar-Methet’s nephew, and Elith’s cousin.”

I finish my beer and start putting my boots back on. I can feel some investigating coming on.

“Her cousin? How about that. An interesting piece of information that no one was rushing to tell me.”

I make to leave. Before I do I ask Makri if she could keep it quiet that she understood all of the funeral oration.

“I think that the fewer people who know you can speak the Royal Elvish language, the better. You might pick up more interesting things.”

I find Vas-ar-Methet in his cabin, a large area that serves as both his living quarters and his on-board treatment area. As I arrive an Elf is leaving, smiling.

“He was looking pleased. You just heal him?”

“Yes. He was having bad dreams.”

“How do you cure someone of bad dreams? No, you can tell me some other time. Right now I’m looking for some information.”

Vas-ar-Methet immediately seems troubled.

“Thraxas, you know I’m grateful for your help, but. . . .”

“But you’ve heard that with the assorted Lords, Sorcerers and important Turanians on this ship I’m about as popular as an Orc at an Elvish wedding. Don’t worry about it, it’s often this way. You didn’t hire me to make friends. Now, how come you didn’t tell me that the Elf who died was your nephew?”

Vas looks puzzled. “Is it significant?”

“Of course. Doesn’t it strike you as strange that the Elf who plummeted to his death for no apparent reason was Elith’s cousin?”

“No. What is the connection?”

“I can’t say. But trust me, my Investigator’s intuition doesn’t let me down. I knew there was something strange about that accident. Why would a healthy young Elf suddenly fall from the rigging and break his neck? Doesn’t make sense. How many times has he been up there? Hundreds. I saw him myself, moments before, and he wasn’t looking like an Elf who was suddenly going to make the elementary mistake of not holding on.”

“What are you suggesting? That he was pushed? There were other members of the crew there. They would have seen something.”

“There are other ways it could have happened. I tried looking at the body at the time but I was prevented from examining it properly. My first thought was that he might have been drinking, although as far as I could see he only had water in his flask. But it could have been poisoned.”

Vas is very dubious.

“I really don’t think that that is likely, old friend. His companions report that he simply lost his grip when he reached for his flask.”

“Do experienced sailors normally wave their hands around when they’re up in the rigging? He could have got a drink any time. Speaking of which. . . .”

I look pointedly at the inviting decanter on Vas’s table and he pours me a glass of wine. As Elvish wine goes, it’s okay, nothing more. Lord Kalith ought to take more care when he loads up with supplies.

I admit that the link may appear tenuous, but when I’m grubbing around in the city and odd things start happening I generally find they’re connected somehow. I doubt things are any different with the Avulans.

“Did Eos have any sort of connection with the Hesuni Tree? Maybe help with the prayers, hymns or whatever else goes on there? And was he on friendly terms with your daughter?”

Vas considers this. “It is not impossible. But before this terrible affair of my daughter, I had very little contact with the Tree Priests. I am only slightly acquainted with Gulas-ar-Thetos, the Chief Tree Priest. Whether Eos knew him, I can’t say. It seems unlikely. Young sea-going Elves do not normally spend too much time with older members of the religious order. But he was friendly with my daughter. She will be sad to learn of his death.”

He promises that when we reach Avula he will be able to put me in touch with several Elves who will be able to tell me more.

“I hope they’re going to be more co-operative than the crew.”

“They will be. They are my friends. I may be the only Elf on Avula who believes my daughter is innocent, but I am not the only one who would be glad if she were.”

An Elf arrives, apparently needing Vas’s healing services. He is looking particularly unhappy. Many of the crew look unhappy. Maybe they’re all having bad dreams.

The seas are now rough but we’re making good progress. It is not just the skill of the Elvish sailors that speeds us onwards; Elvish shipwrights are privy to shipbuilding secrets unknown to their Human allies. Our craft cuts through the water at a rate that would be the envy of any Turanian Captain. Lord Kalith’s personal Sorcerer, Jir-ar-Eth, is on the ship and could if necessary use sorcery to change the weather in our favour, but so far there has been no need. He stays below decks, swapping tales with Harmon Half-Elf and Lanius Suncatcher.

The death of the crew member has cast a pall of gloom over the ship. I’ll be glad when we reach Avula. The voyage has started to bore me and I’m running short of beer. There is nothing to see apart from the endless grey seas and there is precious little to do. I’ve carried on with my enquiries as best as I can but because of the reticence of the Elves I’ve learned very little that Vas has not already told me.

Even young Isuas, for some reason quite in thrall to Makri, tells us bluntly that Vas’s daughter is clearly guilty of the crime and is fortunate not to have been punished already.

“Only my father’s high regard for Vas-ar-Methet has delayed it.”

“Your father’s high regard? What do you mean?”

Isuas looks puzzled. “Lord Kalith of course. Were you not aware that he is my father?”

“This youth is a spy!” I exclaim, and glare at her. “So that’s why you’ve been coming here every day, is it? Reporting on my movements to Lord Kalith, no doubt. Makri, send her away immediately.”

“I didn’t want her here in the first place,” exclaims Makri, who has notably failed to warm to the young Elf.

“Are you really the daughter of the Elf Lord?”

“Yes. His youngest daughter.”

“Then what are you doing working as a cabin boy? Or should that be cabin girl?”

“Cabin Elf?” suggests Makri.

Isuas doesn’t seem to think there is anything strange about it. She’s been sailing with her father for the past year. “He says it will toughen me up.”

“Well that would make sense,” says Makri. “You certainly are a weedy kid.”

Isuas looks distressed at this. I guess she already knows she got the short straw when it came to handing out health and strength. I still feel suspicious of her presence. Back in Turai, young daughters of rulers don’t go around being junior sailors.

“Does no one else believe Elith to be innocent?”

“Why would they? She admits the crime.”

“Not exactly. She doesn’t deny it. That’s different.”

Isuas does not seem overly concerned with the affair. Rather, her interest is taken up with one of Makri’s swords, which is lying on her bunk, a dark evil-looking weapon that Makri brought with her from the Orc Lands.

“Is that an Orcish blade?” asks Isuas, wide-eyed.

Makri grunts in reply.

“Such a thing has surely never been on this ship before. Can I touch it?”

“Only if you want to lose your hand,” growls Makri, who is never keen to see her weapons pawed at.

Young Isuas again looks distressed.

“Well, could I watch you clean it?” she ventures.

Makri hisses something rude.

“Could I just touch it? Please?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, pick the damn thing up,” growls Makri. “Anything to shut you up. Little brat,” she mutters as she lies on the bunk, groaning and complaining about the rough seas. Isuas holds Makri’s sword out in front of her, and tries to look fierce.

“Will you teach me how to fight?” she says, eagerly.

Makri, unable to take any more of this, picks up one of her sandals and bounces it off Isuas’s head. Isuas squawks, then flees from the cabin in tears.

“That was a bit harsh.”

“Harsh? She’s lucky I didn’t hit her with the sword. Now stop talking to me—I’m sick.”

I depart, leaving Makri to her misery. I meet Cicerius on deck. He knows I’m curious about the death of the sailor and this displeases him. The rain has obliged him to wear a cloak over his Senatorial toga but he still manages to look like an important official giving a telling-off to some hapless minion as he informs me that I am to stop making enquiries.

“I have been given strongly to understand that the Elves do not wish the matter to be further investigated.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Am I the only one around here who thinks that deaths should be looked into? I take it you don’t actually forbid me to try and clear Vas-ar-Methet’s daughter of the crime she’s accused of?”

“I believe Lord Kalith regrets giving permission for Vas-ar-Methet to extend the enquiry,” says Cicerius.

Cicerius has the universal reputation of being the most incorruptible person in Turai. Despite his renowned austerity, he is not an unfair man. He tells me that he can understand my need to help my friend and wartime companion.

“Although I regret that you are on this voyage, I realise that it would have been difficult for you to refuse Vas-ar-Methet’s request. Ties of friendship should not be taken lightly. But I must insist that you carry out your work without causing offence to our Elvish friends. And keep that woman Makri out of sight. Yesterday she was parading round the ship in a quite shameless manner wearing only a chainmail bikini. I do not believe the Elves were pleased.”

“Well, it was certainly a novel sight for them. Though I think she was fleeing to the rail to be sick, rather than actually parading around. Did you notice the gold toenails? Odd that she’s picked up that fashion, because Makri’s never been in Simnia, and as far as I know the only other women who do that are Simnian—”

“Just keep her under control,” says Cicerius, icily.

“You know what she’s like, Cicerius. Difficult to reason with.”

The Deputy Consul almost smiles. Cicerius is not about to admit that Makri is exactly a good thing, but he would be forced to allow that she had been helpful when I last worked for him. He draws his cloak tighter against the wind and the rain, and contents himself with warning me not to make things difficult.

“There are times when your doggedness has proved useful. This is not one of them. If by any chance you do discover any secrets on Avula, keep them to yourself. As a representative of the state of Turai, I forbid you to say or do anything that may upset the Elves without fully consulting me first. This five-yearly festival is an important affair and the Avulans will be highly displeased if anything bad happens while their island is full of visitors.”

He pauses. “Have you been drinking?”

I don’t deny it. It passes the time.

Cicerius departs with his nose in the air. I notice that he is vain enough to wear a cloak sufficiently short to display the gold edging around the bottom of his toga. Only the upper classes wear togas. I’m dressed in my standard dull tunic with a heavy cloak to keep out the elements. I wander off, wondering who I might profitably spend some time with. It makes sense at least to try to gather some background information. Elith is due to be tried immediately after the festival, which means I’ll only have a week or so to investigate the affair once we land.

I decide to see if I can find Lanius Suncatcher and Harmon Half-Elf. So far I have had little contact with them on board and I wonder if they might have picked up anything interesting about the crime. Before I can go in search of the Sorcerers, an Elf I don’t recognise plants himself firmly in front of me. I greet him politely. He stares at me in a hostile manner. Though most of the Elves tie their hair back whilst on board ship, his long golden hair swings freely in the wind. His eyes are a little darker than normal and he has a powerful build. We stand looking at each other in silence.

“I am Gorith-ar-Del,” he says, finally.

I stare at him blankly. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Callis-ar-Del was my brother. He hired you to help him. Then he got killed.”

Callis-ar-Del. I remember him. Along with his friend Jaris-ar-Miat, he was one of the Elves who hired me to look for the valuable Red Elvish Cloth last summer. They pretended they were trying to recover it for their Elf Lord Kalith-ar-Yil, our ship’s Captain, but in reality they were trying to steal it. Both were eventually killed by Hanama from the Assassins Guild. They got in her way, which was foolish.

The way Gorith-ar-Del is staring at me, I have the impression he holds me responsible. I wasn’t, but I don’t want to go over the details of the case again. Hearing about his brother’s criminal activities can only be painful to Gorith.

“I don’t believe my brother was trying to steal the Cloth. I believe he was made the scapegoat after being caught up in events in a foreign city. He hired you to help him. Why didn’t you protect him?”

The wind is picking up, My hair, tied back in a long ponytail, starts to swing gently like a pendulum.

“He left Turai without telling me. I did go after him, and I caught up with him before his ship left harbour. Unfortunately he was dead by then. The Assassins Guild. It was no secret.”

“And was any effort made to punish the killers?”

“No one from the Assassins Guild ever gets taken to court.”

“Why not?”

“That would require a longer lecture on Turanian politics and customs than you want to hear. I’m sorry your brother was killed.”

Gorith leans towards me threateningly. “It seems to me that someone set my brother up with the Cloth then was able to share the profits after he was murdered.” The Elf’s eyes are cold. “I don’t trust you, fat man.”

Gorith-ar-Del stalks off, graceful despite the pitching of the ship. I look at his retreating figure. I shrug, and continue on my way to find Lanius and Harmon.

I locate them below decks in Harmon’s cabin, which is a whole lot bigger than mine. The Elvish Sorcerer Jir-ar-Eth is with them and they’re all seated comfortably, drinking wine. I’m irritated that no one thought to invite me, a fellow practitioner of the mystic arts, for a friendly drink. Harmon Half-Elf greets me affably enough.

“Come in, Thraxas. How are things with you?”

“Better than rowing a slave galley. Not too much better though. The Turanian delegation wishes I wasn’t here, the Elves are freezing me out and my cabin is occupied by a woman who only stops complaining when she’s throwing up.”

Vas has given Makri soothing herbs and potions, but she seems to be unusually prone to seasickness. There is nothing to do but wait for it to pass.

I’ve really come here looking for some friendly company, but the sight of all the friendly company going on quite merrily without me is annoying. Even the Sorcerers are avoiding me. How come I’m the one who’s suffering here? Rather than the civilised conversation I had in mind, I find myself pitching into the Elvish Sorcerer with an aggressive line in questioning.

“So, what’s up with you Elves anyway?” I demand, fixing Jir-ar-Eth with an accusing look. “I’m starting to think you all have something to hide. How come no one will answer my questions? Scared I’ll dig up something?”

“Not at all,” replies Jir-ar-Eth. “You can hardly blame Avulans for some reticence in the face of a man they have never met, who brings with him a woman of Orc parentage. But to the best of my knowledge, all the facts about the assault on the Hesuni Tree are known.”

“Oh yes?” I grunt. “Well, I’m not convinced.”

I’m feeling aggressive. It feels good. I’ve had enough of crawling around being polite. I take a goblet of wine, uninvited, and bark a few more questions.

Unlike our magicians, who all wear a rainbow cloak as a mark of their guild, Jir-ar-Eth is clad in a standard Elf’s green cloak with only a small yellow tree embroidered on the shoulder as a mark of his profession. He looks fairly old for an Elf, with his golden hair turning silver, but vigorous still.

“I understand that Elith can’t remember the crime. Very convenient, don’t you think?”

“You believe that someone else is responsible? Why?”

“Investigator’s intuition,” I reply. “And I’ll trust my intuition against yours any day. Is there any chance of another glass of wine? Thank you. So, why did Vas’s daughter damage the Tree?”

The Elvish Sorcerer confesses that he has no idea. Elith has not vouchsafed a motive.

“Rather suspicious, don’t you think? Who might have framed her?”

“Really!” protests Jir. “This is quite uncalled for. You must not apply the standards of your Human city to those of the Elvish Isles.”

“Oh yes,” I state, walking around the cabin waving my hands in the air. “You Elves are always keen to brag about your high standards. Well let me tell you, I’ve had to help quite a few high-class Elves out of tough spots in Turai. Generally when they find themselves drunk in some low-class brothel and want it all hushed up from their Elf Lord.”

Jir-ar-Eth looks at me with amazement. Possibly fearing that Jir is about to blast me with a spell for my insolence, Lanius Suncatcher tries his best to smooth things over.

“You must excuse Thraxas,” he laughs. “Always has to see suspicious circumstances everywhere. Back at the Palace he was famous for it.”

I am unapologetic. It’s time I stirred things up a little around here. I’ve been on this ship for two weeks and I’ve learned nothing at all. You can’t expect an Investigator to take that lying down. (Not this Investigator anyway. Maybe some others with lower standards.)

“I really don’t see that you have any cause for suspicion, Thraxas,” says Harmon Half-Elf. “And I would suggest that you moderate your manner. Cicerius and the Prince will not be pleased to learn that you are insulting our hosts.”

“Cicerius and our Prince can go to hell. I’m fed up with being warned about my behaviour. Who was it saved the city from that mad Orc Sorcerer only last month at the race meeting? Me. I didn’t see anyone complaining about my bad manners then.”

“Everyone complained about your bad manners,” retorts Harmon. “You were just too pleased with yourself to pay any attention.”

The Elvish Sorcerer clams up and refuses to answer any more of my questions. Lanius suggests that perhaps I should go back to my cabin and rest.

“Fine,” I tell him, and pack a bottle of wine into the bag at my side. “I will. But don’t expect me to pussyfoot around when I get to Avula. If anyone tries to hide the facts from me there I’ll be down on them like a bad spell.”

I storm out. Back on deck the rain hits me in the face. I ignore it and stride back to my cabin. Inside Makri is sitting on the floor, not looking any better.

“Damned Elves,” I exclaim. “I’m sick of them already. What can you expect? Sitting round in trees all the time, singing about the stars. Apart from the ones who are threatening me.”

“You were threatened?”

“Yes. Some large Elf called Gorith thinks I was responsible for the death of his brother. You remember, one of the pair whom Hanama killed in Twelve Seas.”

“Hanama. I like her.”

“Yes, for a murderous Assassin she’s always excellent company.”

I bring out the wine and take a healthy slug. “To hell with Gorith.”

The ship rolls suddenly. Makri, unable to take the sight of me guzzling wine in her present precarious state, is once more overcome with nausea. She fails to make it to the side of the ship. She fails even to make it out the cabin, and is sick on the floor. Meanwhile the sudden violent pitching makes me drop the bottle of wine and it smashes. I slip and follow it down. At this moment, while Makri and I are rolling around on the floor of our tiny cabin in a mess of beer, wine and vomit, the door bursts open and Prince Dees-Akan walks in.

He stares, incredulous, at the sight that meets his eyes. It’s not the sort of behaviour he’s been brought up to expect. As I’m hauling myself to my feet he seems to be having some difficulty in finding the appropriate words.

“Is it true that you just insulted the eminent Elvish Sorcerer Jir-ar-Eth?” he demands.

“Certainly not,” I reply. “Possibly he got the wrong impression. Not used to being questioned, I expect.”

Makri groans, rolls over and throws up over the Prince’s feet.

“Eh . . . sorry, your highness . . . hasn’t quite found her sea legs yet.”

“You low-life scum!” yells the Prince.

“There’s no need to talk to her like that!“ I protest. “She’s never been on a ship before.”

“I was referring to you,” says the Prince.

“Don’t worry,” says Makri, grabbing his leg in an attempt to make it back on to her feet. “I’ll have him civilised by the time we get to Avula.”

When Makri first arrived in Turai, fresh from the rigours of the gladiator slave pits, she showed very little sign of a sense of humour. It developed fairly rapidly, but I could have told her that with the Prince looking with horror at his ruined sandals, this was not the time to be light-hearted.

“How dare you address me, you piece of filth!” shouts the Prince.

He departs in a fury. Makri abandons her efforts to rise and lies in a pool of her own sickness. It is really, really unpleasant. I hunt for one of my remaining beers, break open the bottle and start pouring it down my throat. We remain in silence for a while.

“You think we made a good impression?” says Makri finally.

“Pretty good. I may be in for a swift recall to the Palace.”

Makri laughs. I help her to her feet. She shakes her head to clear it. “I think I’m starting to feel better now. How long till we reach Avula?”

I hand her a towel to clean her face. “Another two weeks.”

“I’ll be pleased to walk on dry land again,” says Makri.

“Me too. And it will be good to get some proper investigating done. Now we’ve started to make friends in important places, it should be a breeze.”

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