Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Elvish Isles

“Careful,” she says solicitously, helping him up.

Jir-ar-Eth is displeased and rises with the air of an Elf who feels his dignity has been encroached upon.

“Can’t you look where you’re going ?” he demands before hurrying off. I’m disappointed. From Lord Kalith’s Chief Sorcerer, I would have expected a better rejoinder.

Our attendant leads us on. Before I follow him I bend down to quickly scoop up a slip of paper that I purposely covered with my foot when it fluttered from the Sorcerer’s pocket. It’s probably only the Royal Laundry List, but I always like the opportunity to study the private papers of important people. And Elves.

At the end of the final corridor, before the huge outside doors, the attendant leans over to whisper in my ear.

“I believe that if you go to the clearing at the stream and three oaks, you will often find a convivial gathering of those who enjoy beer,” he murmurs.

I thank him profusely, then ask a question.

“We saw some actors in the clearing below. They all seemed to be arguing with a grey-haired Elf. The director of the play, maybe?”

“That would be Sofius-ar-Eth, appointed by Lord Kalith to produce and direct Avula’s entry at the festival.”

“Sofius-ar-Eth? Any relation to Jir-ar-Eth, the Sorcerer?”

“His brother.”

That is interesting.

“Didn’t feel the desire to be a Sorcerer too?”

“He did, sir. Sofius-ar-Eth is one of Avula’s most powerful Sorcerers. It was a surprise to many when he was appointed to take charge of our play.”

The doors are opened and we stroll out, only to meet with Cicerius, Prince Dees-Akan, Lanius Suncatcher and Harmon Half-Elf, a full Turanian delegation here on business. I greet them politely and step aside to let them pass. Both Sorcerers enter the Palace but Prince Dees-Akan halts in front of me with an expression of dislike on his face.

“Have you been bothering our hosts again?”

I regret his unfriendly tone. It’s going to make life in Turai difficult having a Royal Prince down on me like a bad spell.

“Guests of Lady Yestar,” I explain.

“You are not to disturb Lady Yestar with your pointless questions,” commands the Prince.

Makri wanders up to us, obviously still under the influence of thazis.

“The second in line to the Turanian throne,” she says, benignly, “doesn’t have any power to issue orders to Turanian citizens while in another country. No legal basis for it. I studied the law at the Guild College. Passed the exam only last month. Do you like my new hat? I think it’s bezin.”

The Prince is outraged. “How dare you instruct me on the law!” he says, loudly.

“Well, you need instructing. Cicerius will tell you. He’s a lawyer.”

All eyes fall on Cicerius. He looks uncomfortable as he grapples with the difficult notion of trying to grant that Makri is correct without infuriating the Prince. Prince Dees-Akan shoots him a furious glance, turns on his heel, and marches into the Palace.

“Thank you for that,” says Cicerius, icily.

I apologise. “Sorry, Deputy Consul. Didn’t mean to put you on the spot. But we were invited here by Lady Yestar. We could hardly refuse to come, could we?”

The Deputy Consul draws me away from the gates and lowers his voice. “Have you discovered anything?”

“Nothing startling. But I’m still suspicious of everything.”

“This really is awkward for Lord Kalith you know. It’s most unfortunate that all this has happened at festival time. He has many important guests to welcome and even before the murder of the Tree Priest he was in an embarrassing situation. I understand that certain members of his Council of Elders are saying in private that the disgrace of having their Hesuni Tree damaged reflects so badly on the Avulans that Lord Kalith should abdicate. Since Gulas-ar-Thetos was killed that disgrace has grown considerably worse, though Kalith is putting a brave face on it. I repeat, Thraxas, I understand your desire to help your friend and wartime companion, but one can hardly blame the Elf Lord for wishing to bring things to a swift conclusion.”

“I suppose I can’t, Cicerius. And I don’t blame you for supporting him either. I know that Lord Kalith is an important ally of Turai. But doesn’t it strike you that I may be doing him a favour? His prestige won’t be helped if the wrong Elf suffers for the crimes.”

“That,” says Cicerius,“ would depend on whether anyone found out.”

“Meaning a swift conviction of Elith would be best all round, whether she did it or not.”

“Exactly.”

I study Cicerius’s face for a few moments. Over in the trees behind us colourful parrots are squawking cheerfully at each other.

“Cicerius, if we were in Turai, you wouldn’t want an innocent person to be punished for a crime they didn’t commit, no matter how convenient it was for the state. Even though you’re a strong supporter of the Royal Family you’ve defended people in the law courts that the King would much rather have seen quickly hanged. Hell, you’re far more honest than me.”

Cicerius doesn’t contradict me. He gazes over at the parrots for a minute or so.

“You would be far better leaving matters as they are,” he says, finally. “Were it not for the fact that Lord Kalith knows it would only look worse for him to have a Human guest of his own favoured healer languishing in prison during the festival, you would have been locked up for putting a spell on his guards. You would be unwise to push him any further.”

He pauses. The parrots keep squawking. “But you might be interested to know that Palace gossip says that Elith-ir-Methet was having an affair with Gulas- ar-Thetos. That, of course, would be a taboo affair that neither of their families would have allowed to continue. Tree Priests cannot marry outside of their clan.”

“Does Palace gossip say that’s why she killed him?”

Cicerius shrugs.

“I never repeat gossip,” he says, then walks swiftly away through the gates of the Palace. Makri is quiet as we walk back to Camith’s tree dwelling. Even the inquisitive monkeys don’t attract her attention. We’re almost there when she suddenly comes to a halt.

“What the hell was in that thazis stick?” she demands, shaking her head.

“Just thazis.”

“I feel like I’ve been journeying through the magic space.”

“I noticed you weren’t your usual self.”

Makri shakes her head again and a breeze catches her hair, displaying her pointed ears.

“Did I really agree to teach that horrible child how to fight?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She sits down and dangles her legs over the edge of the walkway. “Now I’m really depressed.”

“You should be. You’ve only got six days to get her ready.”

“Give me some thazis,” says Makri.

[Contents]

Chapter Twelve

We eat our evening meal with Camith and his family in relative quiet. Camith discusses the festival with his wife but Makri is mute and I’m too busy concentrating on the food to talk. Once again, I am well satisfied with the fare. The venison is of the highest quality and the fish is freshly caught that morning by a cousin of the family who has his own fishing boat.

In Turai Elves mean only one of two things to most people: either mighty warriors helping us against the Orcs, or makers of fine poetry and songs. We never think of them as owning fishing boats, somehow. Or having arguments when they’re trying to put on a play.

Makri is unusually quiet. Later she tells me that she has been feeling strange ever since drinking the water at the Hesuni pools.

“I’m almost back to normal now. I wonder why it didn’t affect you?”

“Maybe it only affects Elves? Or those with Elvish blood?”