Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Elvish Isles

“What happened to the director?”

“He sailed off in a bad mood, saying the judges wouldn’t know a good play if Queen Leeuven herself handed it down from heaven. We haven’t seen him since.”

This leads to a lot of talk about the relative merits of the three entrants in this year’s competition. As far as I can gather there is no clear favourite, but public opinion slightly favours the Corinthalians.

“But Ven will put up a good show too. Some singers from Avula went over there earlier this year and they came back with some very impressive reports of a rehearsal they’d seen.”

“What about Avula this year?” I ask.

All around the table there are pursed lips, and a general air of disgruntlement.

“Not giving yourselves much chance?”

“Not much. We’ve got some fine performers, but who ever heard of a Sorcerer for a director? I don’t know what Lord Kalith was thinking of, appointing Sofius-ar-Eth to the post.”

The Elvish armourers are unanimous on this point.

“Not a bad Sorcerer, we admit, but a director? He’s had no experience. No chance of winning the prize with him at the helm. There’s been dissatisfaction in Avula ever since it was announced. There’s talk of some fierce arguments in the Council of Elders over the affair. No one wants to see our play turning into a shambles, and from what we hear that’s what’s going to happen.”

It’s odd. No one can explain why Lord Kalith made such an unexpected appointment.

“It’s said that Lady Yestar was far from pleased. But they’re always arguing, everyone knows that.”

I turn the conversation round to the question of juggling, and this produces some furious debate. The merits of various jugglers from Avula, Ven and Corinthal are discussed at length, with no clear favourite emerging. The best Avulan juggler is apparently a young woman called Shuthan-ir-Hemas, but opinion is divided as to whether she can defeat some of the more experienced practitioners from the other islands.

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.