Thraxas - The Complete Series (102 page)

“How much dwa had he taken?”

“Difficult to judge. Enough to put him to sleep, I’d say.”

Strange. He wasn’t sleeping when Elith stuck a knife in him. And somehow I doubt he’d be able to ingest much dwa after that. It would be good to know if my number one suspect, Gorith-ar-Del, has been in recent contact with dwa. Now that Harmon has used his spell he won’t be able to do it again till he relearns it, so I ask Lanius if he also loaded in a suitable spell. He tells me he did. I discreetly point out Gorith.

“Could you use it to find out if that Elf has been in contact?”

“My spell is for using on a corpse. You never said you wanted a live person tested.”

“Can’t you improvise?”

As an Investigating Sorcerer at the Abode of Justice, Lanius often encounters dwa, and must have had to adapt his spells before. He agrees to give it a try, and sidles off. Gorith-ar-Del pays him no heed as he walks up behind him. The spell might lower the temperature around them slightly, but on a cold day like today Gorith might not notice. Lanius concentrates for a second or two, then heads back towards us.

“Been in contact,” he says. “Definitely.”

It’s a damning piece of evidence against Gorith. I’m delighted to finally have confirmation that he’s been involved in this business.

After the funeral I wait around, wondering what to do. I should go and report to Vas-ar-Methet, but I can’t face telling him that his daughter really is a murderer. I’m standing aimlessly in the clearing when Makri appears.

“I’m in trouble,” she says. “Lord Kalith was as angry as a Troll with a toothache about his daughter appearing at the funeral looking like she’d just fallen out of a tree. Which, fortunately, is what she had the presence of mind to tell him had happened. She’s been banished to her room and forbidden to leave the Palace.”

“At least you won’t have to spend the rest of the day teaching Isuas to fight.”

Makri shakes her head. “She’s still coming. She sent me a message saying she’ll meet me at the clearing in thirty minutes.”

“Is she going to exit via a window and shin down a tree?”

“Something like that.”

I congratulate Makri on improving the child’s spirit in such a short time.

“Possibly the first ever Elf child imbued with the—what was the word for insane Orc warrior?”

“Gaxeen. Yes, she’s learning all right. Too much Gaxeen in fact. Now I have to show her the Way of the Sarazu.”

“Sarazu?”

“The Way of the Contemplative Warrior. It’s a kind of meditative trance for fighting. Very peaceful. You must be at one with the earth, the sky, the water and your opponent.”

“And then you kill him?”

“Sort of,” says Makri. “Although in the Way of the Sarazu, time doesn’t exactly flow in a straight line.”

I shake my head. It doesn’t take much of this sort of thing to confuse me.

“I liked the Way of the Gaxeen better. Good luck with the kid.”

Makri isn’t listening. She’s staring intently at the Hesuni Tree. This goes on for quite a long time. Finally she shakes her head and looks puzzled.

“You know, I could swear the tree was communicating with me.”

“What did it say? Anything interesting?”

“I’m not sure. I’m only partially Elf. But I thought it was saying you should stay around here for a while.”

“It was a message for me?”

I’m not too surprised. On an Elvish island it was bound to happen sooner or later. Makri departs. I take her advice and stick around, slinking into the shadows, where I can watch unseen. At least it will delay having to see Vas. I have a feeling that something is about to happen, though whether that’s my investigation or Makri’s suggestion I’m not sure.

Darkness falls. I’ve finished my wine. I’ve been puzzling over the significance of Gulas taking dwa. Elith swore he didn’t. Something moves in the trees behind me. I sit up and listen, then crawl forward, careful not to make a sound. By the time I’ve advanced twenty yards or so I can make out two voices though I can’t see anyone.

I sense some dwa dealing going on here. Lord Kalith is even more hopeless about policing his island than I’d realised. He doesn’t seem to be making any effort at all to stop it. I rise to my feet and command my illuminated staff to burst into light, which it does, quite spectacularly. Two hooded Elves and one bare-headed man look round in surprise and at the sight of me with my sword in my hand they flee. I’m about to pursue them when another Elf steps out of the shadows. I whirl round and put my sword point at his throat.

“Well, well, Gorith-ar-Del. Sorry to interrupt you about your business. Not that you’ve been very discreet about it. In Turai you’d have been in jail a long time ago.”

Gorith is speechless with anger.

“I imagine Lord Kalith will be pleased to find out what you’ve been up to.”

Rather to my surprise, Lord Kalith chooses this moment to step out of the bushes.

“Lord Kalith desperately wishes that you had never come near Avula,” he says, frigidly. “Congratulations on scaring off the dwa dealers. And would you mind telling me why you have been continually interfering with my agent Gorith-ar-Del in the conduct of his investigations?”

I
’m picking moodily at my food. Camith, used to my hearty appetites, enquires solicitously if there is anything wrong with the fare. I tell him no, the food is excellent.

“But it was a poor day, investigation-wise. Elith-ir-Methet is guilty of murder and I have shown myself to be an irredeemable idiot.”

My number one suspect in the case turned out to be Lord Kalith’s special agent with responsibility for sorting out the dwa problem on Avula.

“A job rendered considerably more difficult by your interference,” as Lord Kalith pointed out to me. He further informed me that, far from ignoring events, he was well aware of the problems his island faced, and had been trying to deal with them discreetly.

“Gorith-ar-Del has more than once been on the verge of eradicating the dwa problem, aided by my extremely able Sorcerer Jir-ar-Eth. In this they have been severely hampered by you blundering about, alarming everyone. Had it not been for you we would now have whoever is behind the importing of dwa safely behind bars.”

I doubt this very much. I defend myself, but without too much spirit. Kalith might be using me as a scapegoat, but I can’t deny I’ve made something of a blunder in pursuing Gorith-ar-Del and quite probably alerting the suspicions of the dwa dealers.

Makri arrives home late. She’s sympathetic.

“He didn’t even seem to believe we’d been attacked. When I described the masked Elves with spears he strongly implied that they were a thazis-induced hallucination. Seemed quite upset about it in fact. I don’t think Kalith really knows who’s behind it all, but whoever it is, I’m withdrawing from the affair. I can’t do any more.”

After the painful interview with Kalith I had to tell Vas-ar-Methet that his daughter was guilty as charged. A tree desecrator and a murderer.

“I’ll put the mitigating circumstances to Kalith before the trial. It might do some good.”

Vas thanked me for my efforts, but his eyes had a haunted look I never saw in them before.

“Are you really withdrawing?” asks Makri. “You never do that. Even when your client is guilty. And you’ve found out some odd things.”

I raise my hands hopelessly to heaven.

“What have I found out? Almost nothing. The Tree Priest was full of dwa when he died. Enough to put a man to sleep. Seems strange, but maybe Tree Priests can take a lot of dwa. Elith swore he didn’t use it, but she’d lie to protect his reputation. And Elith found a knife where no knife should have been, but what of that, really? Maybe someone dropped it. The rest—the Tree desecration, the Elves acting strangely—can all be accounted for by dwa and hopeless romance. I’m nowhere on this. I’ve let Vas down.”

I make a late visit to the drinking den of the armourers. I drink a lot of beer, but it fails to raise my spirits. The armourers are cheerful at the prospect of several days away from their forges but still pessimistic about Avula’s chances in the dramatic competition.

“I saw the Corinthalians rehearsing the scene where Queen Leeuven leads an assault on the Enchanter’s tree fortress and it was nothing short of sensational,” reports a shield-maker. “It had everything. Music. Drama. Excitement. Beautiful costumes. And as for their Queen Leeuven…” The Elf makes a comically lustful face which makes everyone laugh. “I can’t see the Avulan company coming up with anything to match that.”

No one has actually seen the Avulans rehearsing. It is all being carried out in great secrecy.

“No doubt to hide the extreme incompetence of Sofius-ar-Eth’s production. What ever induced Lord Kalith to appoint that old Sorcerer as director is beyond me.”

The Sorcerer seems to have even less support than before.

“He should’ve stuck to his trade. Okay, I admit he protected us from that tidal wave six years ago. He’s good with the weather. And he made a cloak of protection for Lord Kalith so fine that no blade has ever penetrated it. No one’s denying he’s an excellent Sorcerer. But direct a play? Pah!”

There is still no clear favourite for the juggling competition, although Shuthan-ir-Hemas is commonly thought to be out of contention. Firees-ar-Key is still hot favourite to win the under-fifteens tournament. No one has heard about Makri training Isuas. This at least is a relief. I’m still hopeful that I might pick up a few winnings.

Perhaps tactfully, the subject of Elith-ir-Methet is avoided. Her guilt is now firmly established, but no one wants to talk about it. Not to me, and not with so many visitors on the island.

Droo, the young poet, makes a late appearance. She’s more cheerful than the last time I saw her, and she tells me that Lord Kalith has released Lithias from prison with a warning that if he ever touches dwa again he’ll be banished from the island. Droo is grateful to me for getting her in to see Lithias in his cell.

“If I can ever do you a favour, let me know.”

“I will.”

She goes off to talk and argue with her fellow poets on the hill. I leave soon afterwards, taking with me a quantity of beer. Enough to get me through tomorrow, I hope, because I’ve no investigating to do and I’ve lost my appetite for Elvish holidaying. I wish I was back in Turai, cold as a frozen pixie or not. If Elith is executed straight after the festival, I’ll still be on Avula. The prospect of seeing my client hanged puts me into a mood of bleak depression and no amount of beer will chase it away.

Next day I find myself wandering aimlessly. Everywhere there are crowds of happy Elves. Bad things may have happened on Avula, but their nightmares have gone and there is a festival to be enjoyed. Whole families gather in the clearings to watch the jugglers practising or listen to the choirs. The temperature rises a few degrees and the sun shines on the island.

“I hate this place,” I say to Cicerius.

“I have found it to be congenial,” replies the Deputy Consul.

We’re standing in the shadow of the Tree Palace.

“You don’t have a client facing execution.”

Cicerius looks pained. Before his duties as Deputy Consul started to take up all his time, he was famed as a lawyer. He’s the finest orator in Turai but he has very rarely used his powers of speech to get a person condemned. Despite being a bastion of the traditional elements in the city, his role in the courts has almost always been that of defender. He no more likes to see a man, woman or Elf go to the scaffold than I do.

For the first time ever, Cicerius seems to be lost for words. We stare at the Hesuni Tree.

“You did your best,” he says, eventually.

The festival officially starts tomorrow. The juggling will take place around noon and will be followed by the tournament. Next day it’s the turn of the choirs and then there are three days of plays. Which means that this is Isuas’s last day of training. Having nothing better to do, I call in at the clearing to watch. Makri and Isuas are sitting cross-legged on the grass, facing each other, eyes shut. Each has a sword on her lap. They sit motionless for a long time. The Way of the Sarazu, I presume. At least it doesn’t seem to involve Isuas being beaten half to death.

Suddenly Isuas makes a move, grabbing for her sword. Before her fingers can even close on the hilt Makri lifts her weapon and brings it down with great violence on her pupil’s head. Blood spurts from Isuas’s forehead and she slumps forward on to the grass. Makri, still cross-legged, reaches forward, grabs Isuas’s hair and hauls her upright. She slaps the young Elf’s face three or four times till eventually Isuas regains consciousness.

“Poor technique,” says Makri. “Get back in position.”

“I’m bleeding,” moans Isuas, wiping her forehead.

“Stop talking,” says Makri. “And start meditating.”

Isuas, still groggy, forces herself back into position. They both close their eyes. I make a mental note never to take meditation lessons from Makri, and leave them to it. I walk back to Camith’s, where I spend the rest of the day sitting staring out of the window till the sun goes down over the trees and the moons appear in the sky. I don’t feel any better. As miserable as a Niojan whore would be the appropriate expression, I imagine.