Thraxas - The Complete Series (96 page)

“Do you know of any reason why Elith-ir-Methet might have done it? Can you tell me anything about her relationship with Gulas?”

“I have to go now,” says Caripatha suddenly.

She rises from her stool and walks out. I’m astonished.

Her friend, or workmate, has so far sat in silence.

“Where did she go?” I ask her.

The other Elf shakes her head. “I don’t know. Her behaviour has been erratic recently. She hasn’t woven anything in a month.”

“Does she often just disappear like that?”

Apparently she does. I’m puzzled. One minute she was answering my questions, the next she suddenly departed. There was no sign that my questions had perturbed her. It just seemed like she’d remembered something more important she had to do.

Outside my horse is waiting for me. I mount up and ride off, deep in thought. These Elves. Is it just me, or are they all acting strangely?

I ride back towards the centre of the island. Two groups of mounted Elves pass me, each with cloaks and tunics a slightly different shade of green than those of the Avulans. The island is filling up as guests and spectators arrive from the nearby islands for the festival. As I pass the turning that leads to the Queen’s private clearing, I’m overcome with curiosity about Makri and Isuas. I lead my horse up the path. As far as I know, Makri has never taught anyone before. I wonder if she has an aptitude for it. I hope so. As long as Isuas is happy, I’m guaranteed entry to the Palace.

There are no guards or fences to prevent other Elves from entering the clearing. They just don’t. Avulans are, on the whole, far better behaved than the people of Turai. The murder of Gulas-ar-Thetos is the first killing to happen on the island for twelve years. In Turai someone is murdered every four hours.

When I sight the clearing I dismount, tether my horse, and advance softly, wishing to arrive unannounced. I poke my head quietly round the last tree at the edge of the path.

Makri and Isuas are facing each other. Each has a wooden sword in one hand and a wooden dagger in the other. Isuas is wearing a green tunic and leggings, which look new. Probably her mother provided her with new clothes for the venture, which would be regarded as lucky by the Elves. Makri has discarded her Elvish tunic and sandals and is looking exotic, though not very savage, in bare feet, chainmail bikini and floppy green hat. Her hair is as voluminous as usual but she’s plaited the strands at the front into braids to prevent it from flying into her face while in combat.

Makri is giving instructions. I remain silent, and strain to hear her words. Her voice sounds aggrieved, as if things have not been going well.

“Attack me. Sword then dagger, and try to get it right this time.”

Isuas lunges gamely at her. It’s not a bad effort for a beginner, but Makri parries her blow with some contempt and Isuas’s sword flies from her hand. The young Elf has made an effort to follow through with the dagger as instructed, but Makri simply twists her body to avoid it then hits Isuas on the head with the pommel of her own dagger. Isuas falls down heavily.

“That was terrible,” says Makri, raising her voice. “Now, get up, and do it right.”

“You hurt me,” wails Isuas.

Makri reaches down, yanks the kid to her feet and tells her to stop complaining and pick up her sword.

“Attack me again and try not to throw your sword away this time.”

Even at this distance I can see the glint of tears in Isuas’s eyes, but she does as she’s told and again executes a reasonable thrust in Makri’s direction. Makri is a master of the twin-bladed technique, which is not so common in the west or the south as it was in her gladiator days in the east. She parries both of Isuas’s blades simultaneously, steps forward, smashes her right hand into Isuas’s face, kicks her legs from under her and whacks her with the flat of her sword as she’s on the way down. The young Elf crumples as if hit by a bolt from a crossbow and starts to scream, a scream that is cut off as Makri places her foot on Isuas’s throat and glares down at her in a very hostile manner.

“What the hell was that?” she demands. “I didn’t tell you to wave your sword at your mother, you useless little brat. I said attack me with it. You’re pathetic. I used to have a little puppy dog that could hold a weapon better than you.”

Makri has abandoned all efforts to practise her Royal Elvish language, instead choosing to curse and abuse Isuas in an ungodly mixture of Common Elvish and Orcish, and even the Orcish epithets she chooses belong not to the Common Orc tongue but to the much cruder pidgin Orcish that was the lingua franca of the gladiator pits. All in all it makes for a terrifying verbal assault. I am meanwhile standing open-mouthed at this exhibition. I did foresee that Makri would be no easy task master, but I wasn’t expecting her to half kill her pupil on the first day.

Possibly sensing that the youngster is about to expire, Makri removes her foot from Isuas’s throat. Isuas sobs. This seems to infuriate Makri even more.

“Stop crying, you ignorant little whore. You wanted to learn how to fight. Well, get up and fight, you cusux.”

Cusux is pidgin Orcish. It’s about the rudest thing you can possibly say to anyone. If Isuas ever repeats it to Lord Kalith he’ll send up his fleet to sack Turai. Isuas, having made two game attempts at attacking, now seems a little unwilling to try a third. She rises, but slowly, so Makri kicks her savagely in the ribs, making her howl, as she falls over again.

“Don’t hang around on the ground, stupid. You think your opponent is going to wait all day for you to get ready? Pick up your weapons and attack me and this time you better do it properly or I swear I’ll put this sword in through your mouth and out through the back of your throat.”

Feeling that this is going rather too far, I hasten forward.

“Makri,” I call, endeavouring to make my voice jovial rather than appalled. “Just called in to see how things are going.”

Makri whirls round. She’s not pleased to see me.

“Can’t talk, Thraxas, I’m busy.”

“So I see.”

Isuas is lying on the ground, holding her ribs and sobbing.

“Possibly time for a little break?” I suggest. “Maybe smoke some thazis?”

“No time for that,” says Makri dismissively. “I have to teach this imbecile to fight. Goodbye.”

Makri turns back to her pupil and screams at her to get up. Isuas breaks down completely, and starts bawling. I lay my hand on Makri’s shoulder.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little—”

Makri spins to face me again, a truly savage expression on her face.

“Get out of here, Thraxas,” she yells angrily. “Go investigate. And don’t bother me again.”

I’m taken aback. I’ve seen Makri in a foul mood plenty of times before but I wasn’t expecting such passions to be raised in the matter of the junior tournament. I decide to withdraw. After all, it is really Makri’s business and not mine. I just hope Lady Yestar doesn’t ban me from the Palace when she learns of Makri’s barbaric behaviour.

I walk back to the path, turning my head for a last look before leaving. Makri has hauled Isuas to her feet and forced her to attack again. As I watch, Makri smacks her practice sword on to Isuas’s fingers, making her shriek with pain and once more drop her blade.

“Keep hold of your sword, you miserable cusux!” yells Makri, accentuating each word with a vicious blow. I shudder.

Riding back along the path, I try to remember what my early weapons training was like. Quite rough I think, but nothing in comparison with the lessons Isuas is receiving from Makri the madwoman. I pray that Isuas makes it through the day in one piece. If she does, I’m certain she won’t be back for a second.

I ride round the island till I reach one of the paths that lead towards the middle of Avula. It runs along the banks of the river that rises in the central hills. From here I can ride most of the way to the Palace, though I’ll have to walk the last part as it is forbidden to take horses into the central clearing. I haven’t seen this part of the island before. It’s less heavily wooded, with some areas of grassland and a few cultivated fields. Although the majority of the houses I pass are still high up in the trees, there are a few more buildings at ground level. These are of simple construction, but all bear the signs of fine craftsmanship. Everything on Avula does. They don’t seem to build anything shoddily.

“The Ossuni Elves perform all work with love and perfection,” I remember Vas-ar-Methet saying a long time ago.

I wonder about his daughter having an affair with Gulas-ar-Thetos. If she was, does it make her more or less likely to have damaged the Tree? Get back at your lover by damaging his precious Hesuni Tree? Maybe. I’ve known stranger ways of taking revenge. But then, why kill him later? It seems like far too extreme a thing for Elith to have done.

Much as I hate to admit it, I can’t run away from the fact that I have now spoken to a witness who actually saw the murder. Though the weaver Caripatha showed some signs of erratic behaviour, she didn’t sound to me like an Elf who was lying or unsure of what she saw. Things are looking worse for Elith. I might yet be forced to fall back on finding some extenuating circumstances to save her from execution.

Cursing all witnesses who make life difficult for my clients, I ride on. Why are so many of the Elves acting strangely? It’s not just Elith. Gorith-ar-Del, for instance. I can understand his dislike for me, but why did he suddenly quit his work as a longbow-maker? Most un-Elf-like. I think back to the sailor who plunged to his death from the rigging. Very strange. As was the behaviour of Caripatha, who hasn’t woven anything for a month, and suddenly decided she had to be somewhere else, rushing off without a word of explanation to her companion. What’s the matter with them all?

An Elf on horseback approaches me on the path. Rather than riding past he draws his horse up in front of mine and halts, staring at me intently. He’s an old Elf, the oldest I’ve seen on the island. He sits upright in his saddle but his hair is white and his brow is a mass of fine wrinkles.

“I am Visan, the Keeper of Lore,” he says. “I believe you wish to talk to me?”

“I do.”

“Then talk.”

“I’d like to know about the disputed succession of the Tree Priesthood.”

“Talking about that to a stranger would be calanith. Also, it is a very old and obscure story regarding junior branches of cousins’ families that you would neither understand nor enjoy.”

“I haven’t enjoyed much since I arrived here. I don’t need to know the whole history, just what might be happening now. For instance, did anyone have it in for Gulas?”

“Yes,” says Visan, surprising me with his directness. “Hith-ar-Key, who claims that the Priesthood should be his. His complaints to the Council of Elders are neverending.”

“How strong is his claim?”

“That is calanith.”

Visan declines to answer my next few questions on the same grounds. I can see I’m not going to learn any secret details here.

“Well, might Hith have damaged the Hesuni Tree to discredit Gulas?”

Visan sits astride his horse, elderly and sedate, and considers my question.

“Yes,” he says finally. “He might.”

“Was it looked into at the time?”

Visan shakes his head. “Certainly not. Such an outrageous idea would not have occurred to anyone on the island.”

“But now I’ve suggested it…?”

“It’s possible.”

Visan nods to me, then rides off. Whether I’ve upset him by trampling on something calanith or just tired him out with my questions, I can’t say. At least I’ve dragged another suspect on to the scene.

I ride on till I reach a place where nine or ten horses roam free in a large paddock. Here I have to leave my mount and continue on foot. I don’t travel far before I run into a large crowd of Elves who are staring expectantly at a tree. Thinking that this is probably some private tree matter that only Elves will fully appreciate, I make to walk on by till suddenly a voice calls out, “Avula’s greatest juggler—in preparation for the festival—Shuthan-ir-Hemas!”

The watching Elves applaud as Shuthan-ir-Hemas steps nimbly out along a branch and bows to them all. She’s a slender young Elf with bare feet and extremely long hair, and from the excited words of the crowd I can tell that they’re expecting great things of her. Still keen for some information on which way to bet, I hang around to study her act.

Shuthan starts confidently, juggling three balls and performing some standard tricks while making faces at the crowd. I’ve seen this sort of thing often enough in Turai, but she quickly ups the tempo, adding fourth and fifth balls, still juggling easily while hopping back and forward along the branch. The crowd cheers and shouts encouragement. Obviously Shuthan-ir-Hemas is a popular favourite.

Unfortunately things go badly wrong when she tries to add a sixth ball to the routine. She fails to catch it, the sequence goes wrong, and the balls tumble from her hands. In an effort to retrieve the situation Shuthan trips clumsily over her feet and plunges to the ground, landing heavily on the heads of the onlookers. There are groans of disappointment from the audience.

“She’s not at her best,” they say with disappointment.

“Just hasn’t got the same skill she used to have.”

Others mutter that this is going to be a bad festival for Avula. Their play is being directed by an incompetent Sorcerer, their choir is nowhere near the standard of that of the Venians, and now even their top juggler is about to let them down.

“If Firees-ar-Key doesn’t win the junior tournament we’ll be the laughing stock of the Ossuni Islands,” mutters one disconsolate Elf to his companion.

I walk on. I feel sorry for the Avulans, but that’s one juggler I won’t be placing a bet on.

It’s late in the afternoon. The weather is mild and a light breeze blows small ripples over the pools of water at the Hesuni Tree. The clearing is busier than usual, with Elves from other islands paying their respects to the Tree. They ignore me as I stroll over the grass. I’m not the only Human in view. Over by the smaller of the pools some Elves are pointing out features of the local scenery to a delegation of visitors from Mattesh.