Thraxas - The Complete Series (95 page)

I lower my voice, and mutter a few words in Voluth’s ear. He grins. “Well, you might be able to place a bet though Lord Kalith doesn’t approve of anyone gambling on events at the festival.”

“Is it calanith?”

“No, he just doesn’t like it. But it’s been known to happen. I can’t really recommend anyone for the juggling, but if you want a safe bet on the junior tournament, go for Firees-ar-Key. Son of Yulis-ar-Key, finest warrior on the island, and a chip off the old block. Firees won the tournament for under-twelves when he was only nine, and he’s practically fully grown now, though he’s only fourteen years of age.”

I file that away as a useful piece of information. I’m about to cast around for some more betting tips when Droo interrupts by squeezing in beside me at the table. She’s looking rather unhappy but her expression brightens as the armourers greet her genially.

“It’s young Droo! Up to no good, no doubt.”

“Do your parents know you’re out writing poems and drinking ale, youngster?”

Droo returns their greetings, equally genially. They all seem to know her and like her. I try to think of anywhere in Turai where weapon-makers and poets mingle happily together. I can’t. The race track, maybe, except poets never have any money to place a bet.

“You’ve met Thraxas already? Are you writing a poem about him?”

“Certainly,” grins Droo.

“Better make it an epic,” calls Voluth. “There’s a lot of him to write about.”

They all laugh. I call for more beer.

“I came over so I could be questioned too,” says Droo. “I didn’t want to miss out.”

“He hasn’t been questioning us,” the armourers tell her.

“Why not?”

Everyone looks at me. I tell them frankly that as this is the first time I’ve been able to relax with a beer for weeks, I can’t be bothered doing any investigating. This seems to disappoint them. In fact, as the ale keeps flowing, almost everyone seems to be keen to express an opinion about the case, and I find myself drawn into some investigating anyway, pretty much against my will. A chainmail-maker at the end of the table knows Vas-ar-Methet well and refuses to believe that his daughter is responsible for any crime. A blacksmith’s apprentice beside him is of the opinion that some odd things have been happening around the Hesuni Tree for some time, and everyone knows that this is why the Elves have been having bad dreams. Maybe, he suggests, it was bad dreams that drove Elith to commit the crimes?

There is some sympathy for Elith, mainly because of the high opinion in which her father is held, but the general view is that she must be guilty as charged. Indeed, a blacksmith, who is, incidentally, the largest Elf I have ever seen, tells us that he knows Elith is guilty of the murder because his sister was close to the Hesuni Tree at the time and she was certain she’d seen the fatal blow being struck.

“You should talk to her, Thraxas. She’ll tell you what she saw.”

I learn something of note about Gorith-ar-Del. As a maker of longbows he’s known to the armourers but he isn’t making fine longbows any more. He’s given up the business. No one knows why, or what he does with himself these days when he’s not sailing with Lord Kalith-ar-Yil.

Some white-robed actors appear in the clearing, leading to more general good-natured greetings. I recognise them as members of the Avulan cast I saw earlier close to the Tree Palace. They’ve been rehearsing in the vicinity.

“How is the tale of Queen Leeuven coming on?” call the weapon-makers.

“Badly. We need ale,” reply the actors, making comic faces and hurrying to the hollow tree for refreshment. They mingle with the poets and, from the fragments of their conversation I can catch, they’re feeling no happier with their director.

I turn to Droo, and notice that she has a rather sad expression on her face.

“Bad time with the boyfriend?” I say sympathetically.

She nods.

“He left after we argued.”

“What were you arguing about?”

“Are you investigating me?” says Droo, brightening at the prospect.

“No. Well, not unless you or your boyfriend defaced the Hesuni Tree and murdered the priest.”

“He didn’t,” says Droo, and looks gloomy again. “But his behaviour is so erratic these days, it wouldn’t surprise me if he did something equally stupid. And he was really mean about my new poem.”

I sympathise, which just goes to show how mellow this evening’s gathering has made me. Under normal circumstances, I don’t have much time to spare for the problems of teenage poets.

Elves start drifting away as the night wears on. Droo departs with her friends and I decide that it’s time to go. I have drunk a great amount of beer, and it’s a fair walk back to Camith’s house. I ask at the bar if they have any beer in flasks or bottles I can take away with me.

“We can let you have a wineskin full, if you like.”

“That’ll do fine.”

I pay for my drink, say goodbye to my fellow drinkers, and start off on the journey home. I don’t want to admit that I can’t see as well as the Elves at night so I wait till I’m some way along the path before lighting up my illuminated staff. On the way home I’m merry. The forest no longer feels threatening.

“Well, of course, that was the problem,” I say out loud. “How’s a man meant to relate to an Elvish forest without a few beers inside him? Now I’m in the right state of mind, it’s quite a cheery place.”

I greet a few of the trees as I pass. I’m quite close to home. I remember that I have to climb up a long ladder to get there. Damn. I’m not looking forward to that. The path becomes narrow. I’m humming a bright ditty as I turn the next corner. There, in front of me, are four masked Elves with spears. They let out a battle cry, and sprint towards me, weapons lowered for action.

I’m startled. I’d forgotten all about the hostile spear-carrying Elves. Once more I’m at a severe disadvantage on the narrow path. I mutter the word and my illuminated staff goes out and I hurl myself sideways into the trees. Here in the forest, they won’t be able to attack me in formation. I scramble some way into the depths, then halt and listen. There is no sound.

I’m not in the mood for skulking. I’m not in the mood for struggling through the trees either. I had enough of that on the first occasion they forced me off the walkway. I get angry. A man should be able to walk around Avula without being chased by spearmen everywhere he goes. I decide to risk creeping back towards the path. I go as quietly as I can, which is very quietly. When I’m close to the path, I stop, hardly even breathing for fear of making a sound. The moonlight illuminates the path in front of me. There, easily visible, are the four Elves, standing silently, waiting.

I’m unsure what to do. Attacking them would be rash. I’m scared of no one in a fight but back on the path they would have the opportunity to form their phalanx against me. Besides, even if I hurled myself on them and managed to cut them down, Lord Kalith isn’t going to be too pleased with me. I wasn’t invited here to kill Elves.

All of a sudden the Elves vanish. Just like that. They disappear into thin air. I’m stunned. I’ve seen plenty of sorcery in my time, but it was the last thing I was expecting. I’m seriously perturbed. If four invisible Elves start hunting for me in this forest I’m doomed. I strain my senses, trying to catch any scent of them. I can’t pick up anything but get the faint impression of voices receding into the distance.

After a while I venture back on to the path. Nothing there. I light up my staff and bend down to examine the grass. It looks to me as if the Elves just went on their way after becoming invisible. I don’t understand any of this, but I’m not going to hang around and wait for them to come back. I set off homewards rapidly, not stopping till I reach the welcoming sight of the ladder that leads up to Camith’s treehouse, which I ascend a good deal more briskly than I had anticipated.

N
ext day I’m feeling sprightly, despite the hefty intake of beer.

“Must be the healthy air,” suggests Makri. “I’m feeling good myself. What are you doing today?”

“Questioning a blacksmith’s sister who saw the fatal stabbing. And talking to Visan the Keeper of Lore, whoever he may be. Yestar suggested he might be able to tell me more about the rivals for the Tree Priesthood.”

“Wouldn’t that be calanith?”

“What isn’t on this damn island? You’d think it might be calanith to execute a woman without a proper investigation, but apparently not.”

“Does Elith really face execution?” asks Makri.

“So they say. It would be the first on Avula in over a hundred years, and it’s going to happen right after the festival unless I come up with something quick.”

“Well, have fun. I’m teaching that idiot child how to fight.” Makri is wearing her swords and has thrown a few other weapons in a bag. “I only had two knives when I jumped in the ocean, but I’ve borrowed a couple more from Camith. And a practice sword.”

Makri looks at the wooden blade with frank distaste. I tell her not to worry, she can still kill Isuas with it if she hits her hard enough.

Makri is meeting her pupil some way over to the west of the island, at a clearing used only by the Royal Family, where they will not be disturbed. Although we’ve seen young Elves practising their fighting all over the island, Makri is to teach Isuas in private. This suits Makri.

“If no one sees anything, my reputation might survive the debacle.”

She is still unhappy at the way things have turned out but supposes she should just make the best of it.

“Okay, teaching the brat will be a disaster, but I’ll get some exercise and weapons practice myself. And maybe a chance to use the Royal Elvish language.”

After some study of my grimoire, I load the sleep spell into my mind, and another one that may prove useful. We leave together, heading west. Rather than tramp over the walkways we borrow two horses from Camith and make our way round by means of one of the main paths in the forest. As we travel we pass performers of various sorts at regular intervals, all rehearsing for the festival, now only five days away. I pause to look at a young Elf who is putting on a fine juggling performance under a tall silver tree. She’s keeping four small wooden balls in the air at once and her partner, or possibly her trainer, tosses another one at her, and then another, so that she now has six balls flying in an arc from one hand to the other.

“She looks like a woman who might be worth a wager,” I mutter, and trot over to ask her name. She’s called Usath, she’s from Ven, and her green tunic is decorated with silver crescent moons. Although she is at first surprised at our approach, and visibly sniffs the air as she catches scent of Makri’s Orc blood, she is not distracted for long and soon gets back to practising. Obviously a dedicated performer. Her assistant, another young female Elf, throws a seventh ball to her, but it goes wrong and the balls cascade on to the grass.

The young juggler lets out a coarse oath, and stoops to pick them up. Already she’s forgotten our presence.

“Well, she made a hash of the seventh ball, but even so, she was pretty impressive with six,” I say.

“Might be worth a bet,” agrees Makri. “I’ll see if Isuas has any information about the other jugglers.”

Realising what she has just said, Makri frowns.

“How come I’m keen to bet on a juggling competition? I used to disapprove of gambling.” She twists in her saddle. “It’s your fault, you corrupted me.”

“Nothing corrupt about it, Makri. Gambling is good for you.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. But I’m sure it is. You know, thanks to me, you are a much finer person than the raw young gladiator who arrived in Turai only a year and a half ago. Beer, klee, thazis and gambling. I taught you them all. Now I think about it, you weren’t very good at lying till I showed you how.”

Soon after this we go our separate ways, Makri to Lady Yestar’s private clearing and myself on to the collection of treehouses where the blacksmith’s sister dwells. She is a weaver by trade and should now be working at her loom. A few enquiries lead me to her place of work, a small wooden hut at ground level that contains four looms and two elves. One of these is Caripatha, the Elf I’m looking for. She’s sitting at her loom, though rather than working she’s staring into space. I introduce myself, mention my conversation with the blacksmith, and ask her if she’d mind answering a few questions.

She nods, vaguely. I’m surprised at her lack of reaction. From her indifference you might think that a Human detective appearing at her workplace to investigate a murder was an everyday occurrence.

“You were in the clearing when the murder took place?”

She nods.

“Would you mind telling me what you saw?”

“Elith-ir-Methet sticking a knife into Gulas-ar-Thetos.”

“Are you sure it was her?”

“I’m sure.”

“It was dark when it happened. Could you have been mistaken about her identity?”

Caripatha is quite certain that she was not mistaken. I ask her what she was doing in the clearing. She tells me that she just likes to be close to the Hesuni Tree every now and then, the same as all Avulans.