Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Elvish Isles

“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.

I’ve been suspicious of the large pool ever since Makri found herself so powerfully affected by drinking the water. I’m here to work a spell. I know the Elves won’t like it. I considered coming here in the early hours of the morning when it might be quieter, but I suspect that Kalith will have set his attendants to watch over it and I’d be easily spotted. Here in the crowd I’m hoping I might just work some sorcery unnoticed.

I sit down next to the pool. I casually dip my finger into the water then sprinkle a few drops on to a small scrap of parchment. I look round. No one is paying any attention to me. Just another large detective taking a rest from his exertions.

I drift slowly into a state of concentration. I utter the arcane words of the Spell of Not Belonging. I’ve used this spell in the past and found it simple and effective, though it’s possible that the mystic field projected by the Hesuni Tree will render it useless. I watch the pool, and wait. After a minute or so I notice something bobbing to the surface, quite close to me. I get up, stretch and saunter round the edge, a man without a care in the world. Floating on the surface is a small package. I reach down to adjust my boot, quickly scoop up the package, then walk on.

I’m well pleased with myself. I might not be much of a Sorcerer, but it takes a cool head to successfully work a spell like that in public without a soul noticing anything.

“Easy as bribing a Senator,” I mutter, strolling over the grass.

I duck behind a tree and take out the package. I unwrap the waterproof oilskin. Inside is some white powder. I dip my finger in, taking a tiny pinch to my lips to taste it.

It’s dwa. The most powerfully addictive drug on the market. The scourge of the Human Lands, and now available at the most exclusive locations in Elfland. I’m just congratulating myself on finally making some progress when a hand falls heavily on my shoulder.