Thraxas - The Complete Series (83 page)

I nod. I notice that Lord Kalith has a game of niarit set out on the small table by his couch. I glance at the pieces.

“The Harper’s Game,” I say, recognising the formation.

Lord Kalith raises an eyebrow. “You play the game?”

“Often. But I never favour the Harper’s Game. I find it’s too susceptible to an attack from the Elephants and the Plague Carrier.”

“I have been working on a new variation. It involves some new moves for the Hero and the Sorcerer. Perhaps we shall have a chance to play, later in the voyage?”

As I leave the cabin his farewell is friendlier than it might have been. Keen niarit players always feel some sort of bond with their fellows. Heading back to my cabin, I’m thoughtful. As a warning not to do any investigating, it was reasonably friendly. I’ve had far worse.

Makri is sitting on my bunk reading a scroll. She’s wearing a green Elvish tunic brought to her by Isuas, the young Elf maid. While none of the other Elves on board has so much as spoken to Makri, Isuas doesn’t seem to share their inhibitions. From the way she bounded into the cabin minutes after Makri arrived soaking wet, and offered to find her some dry clothes, I’d say Makri might have made a friend. Makri doesn’t seem too impressed.

“At least someone on this ship likes you. I’d have thought you’d be pleased.”

“She annoys me.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s so weedy and pathetic. Are all thirteen-year-old Elf girls like that?”

I tell her I don’t think so. Isuas does seem a little on the small side, but I don’t see that as any reason for Makri’s dislike.

“I hate weedy little girls,” says Makri, matter-of-factly. “Back in the slave pits they just used them for target practice. If I’d been runt-sized like her I’d have been dead long ago.”

“Well, excuse the rest of the world for not all being demented warrior women,” I say, and tell her to shove up on the bunk as I need to sit down. “Anyway, try not to alienate her. Apart from Vas, she’s probably the only Elf on board with any sympathy towards either of us. You know, I’ve just been warned off by Lord Kalith? Not what I was expecting, I must say. I thought he’d be pleased to have an experienced investigator coming down to sort things out. It’s weird the way my cases always get so difficult right from the start. Sometimes I think I’m cursed by the Gods.”

Makri shrugs. She’s not big on religion. “Maybe you should pray more. Are you still meant to do it three times a day, even on a ship?”

In Turai this is a legal requirement.

“A Turanian citizen should pray at the correct times, no matter where he is.”

“I haven’t noticed you doing it,” says Makri.

“Yes, well, my knees aren’t what they were. It’s hard on a man, having to kneel all the time.”

In truth, I haven’t been out of bed in time for morning prayers for something like ten years, and for the other two daily prayer slots I generally just try to hide in my room.

“Anyway it’s too late for prayer now, I’m stuck with you.”

“What do you mean, stuck with me?” protests Makri.

“Exactly that. The plan was for me to go to Avula, thereby missing the rigours of the Turanian winter, quickly clear Elith-ir-Methet of Tree desecration, then spend the rest of the time lounging around in the sun drinking beer. Now you’ve managed to spoil everything. I’m practically confined to my cabin, and when we get to Avula I’ll be lucky if the Elves will deign to speak with me—I’m a man with a travelling companion who has Orc blood. And it’s no use looking at me like that, you know full well it’s true. It beats me why you insisted on coming.”

“I didn’t insist on coming. It was an accident. I was just trying to get your money back.”

I still suspect Makri staged the whole thing.

“Shouldn’t you be home studying?”

Makri attends the Guild College, a place where those sons of the lower classes of Turai who wish to better themselves take classes in philosophy, theology, rhetoric, mathematics and whatever else it is they teach there. Makri is the first woman ever to study at the College. At first they refused to have her, but she gained entry by extreme force of personality and some threats of legal action by the Association of Gentlewomen. Her ultimate ambition is to attend the Imperial University. There is no chance that they will ever let her in, but she refuses to be put off.

“The College shuts for the winter. I figure this trip will do me a load of good next year. I’ll be able to give my professors first-hand accounts of Elvish society.”

“You’ll be able to give them first-hand accounts of what it’s like to stay on a ship, you mean. There’s no chance they’re letting you disembark, Makri.”

“But I want to see the festival. Just think, there are going to be three staged versions of the tale of Queen Leeuven.”

“Sounds dull to me. These Elvish plays are all full of heroes battling hopelessly against fate, and they always end in tragedy.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“When I’m at the theatre I like something a little more entertaining.”

Makri makes a face at me. “You mean you like it when the chorus line sings some obscene drinking song and the heroine’s top falls off by accident.”

“That’s the sort of thing,” I agree. “I never enjoyed the classics.”

“They have to let me attend the festival,” says Makri. “I’m the only one from Turai who’ll appreciate it properly.”

“You won’t appreciate it if the Elves start rioting because they sense Orc blood in the audience.”

“Do Elves riot?” asks Makri.

I admit I don’t know. If Makri sets foot on Avula, we’ll probably find out.

By the fourth day of our voyage I’m bored. The ship is making good time over a calm sea with a fast wind behind us, but I’m starting to feel more than a little frustrated. Deputy Consul Cicerius has strongly suggested that I keep myself hidden for the whole of the journey. As a free Turanian citizen I don’t have to do what the Deputy Consul says, but I don’t want to aggravate him more than is necessary. He could make my life very difficult back in Turai. During the past year I’ve done some good work for Cicerius, thereby increasing my standing with city officials, but if I end up offending him or the Prince I could have my Investigator’s licence revoked and then I’d be in trouble.

I sigh. It’s surprising how much of my life is spent being in trouble. I should have studied more when I was young. I could have been a proper Sorcerer.

As for Prince Dees-Akan, he has not yet condescended to visit me. Nor has an invitation to an informal get-together in his cabin come my way.

I’ve been explaining the case to Makri. Normally I’d do this anyway—Makri is a very smart woman—but I had planned to be mad at her for a lot longer. However, as we have now been thrown together in one small cabin, it seems easier to forget her numerous outrages and revert to being friends.

The facts, as reported by Vas, are puzzling: his daughter Elith-ir-Methet was found unconscious at the scene of the crime, the Tree was badly damaged and she still had an axe in her hand.

“Is she saying she didn’t do it?” asks Makri.

“Unfortunately not. She claims not to remember anything.”

“That’s going to make things difficult for you.”

I nod. “Even if Elith is telling the truth about remembering nothing, it doesn’t mean she’s innocent. I’ve known criminals who’ve blanked out all memories of their crime. Something to do with the trauma, I suppose.”

“So what are you going to do? Distort the facts? Muddy the waters till there isn’t enough evidence to convict her?”

“Only as a last resort. I’ll at least try to find out the truth first. It’s possible she didn’t do it. It sounds to me as if there wasn’t any sort of proper investigation. The Elves on Avula are not used to investigating. I’m going along with the presumption that’s she’s been framed.”

The seas have become a little rougher and the ship has started to roll. I notice that Makri is looking a little queasy.

“Feeling the effects?”

“I’m fine.”

A large wave rocks the ship. Makri turns quite an odd colour and rushes out of the cabin. That will teach her to interfere with my mission.

Seasickness doesn’t trouble me. My only worry is that I might run out of ale on the voyage. Back in my army days I was used to these hardships, but since I moved into the Avenging Axe I’ve grown used to beer being available whenever I want it. It occurs that I want beer most of the time.

“Nothing wrong with that,” I say out loud, patting my belly. “In a corrupt city full of thieves, murderers and drug addicts, heavy beer consumption is the only rational response.”

Makri reappears, groans and flops down on the bunk, where she lies moaning about how terrible it is to be at sea.

“You’ll get used to it,” I tell her. “Feel like a beer?”

Makri spits out an Orcish curse, which would sound strong even in a gladiator pit, and turns her face to the wall. I decide to leave the cabin and wander among the crew. Even taciturn Elves will be better company than a seasick Makri.

I emerge on deck to encounter a light drizzle and a strong wind. A senior member of the crew is shouting instructions to some lithe young Elves who are swarming over the rigging, adjusting the sails to cope with the worsening weather.

I watch them with interest, noting the skill with which they carry out their tasks. I’ve seen Turanian sailors performing similar work on many occasions, and Turanian sailors are skilful at their craft, but the Elves seem to fly over the masts and rigging as if they are unaffected by gravity’s pull.

Someone appears beside me. I’m about to comment on the crew members’ expertise when I realise that it is Prince Dees-Akan. This is the first time I’ve met him on board. I greet him graciously. I may have been sacked from my job at the Palace after getting drunk at Rittius’s wedding and generally disgracing myself, but I haven’t forgotten how to address the second in line to the throne.

The Prince is around twenty years old, tall and dark, though not reckoned particularly handsome by our nation’s matrons, certainly not in comparison with his older brother. The young Prince is fairly popular in our city-state however, and commonly regarded as a much more stable character than his brother, the heir to the throne. That’s not saying too much really. Prince Frisen-Akan might have the good looks but he is also a drunken degenerate who’d sell the Palace furniture to buy dwa. Last year he very nearly caused the ruin of the city when he became involved in a plot to import the drug through the agency of Horm the Dead, a half-Orc Sorcerer who damn near destroyed Turai with one of the most malevolent spells ever created.

I had a hand in stopping Horm. I also prevented the elder Prince’s involvement from becoming known to the public. Cicerius paid me well enough, but I figure he might have been more grateful.

I’ve never had any dealings with the younger Prince. As he stands next to me I sense a certain awkwardness. On a long sea journey etiquette tends to be relaxed so there is no particular reason why the Prince can’t converse with even a low-life like myself, but he seems to be unsure of what to say. I help him along a little.

“Ever been to the Elvish Isles before, your highness?”

“No. Have you?”

“Yes. A long time ago, before the last great Orc War. I’ve always wanted to go back.”

The Prince gazes at me. Is there a glimmer of dislike in his expression? Possibly.

“Deputy Consul Cicerius is worried that you may cause trouble.”

I reassure him. “Nothing is closer to my heart than the well-being of our great city.”

“You are conducting an investigation. Might that not lead to some unpleasantness?”

“I’ll do my very best to prevent it, your highness.”

“I trust that you will. It seems to me a bad idea that you are here at all. Surely our Elvish friends can deal with their own criminals?”

I’ve quickly gone off the young Prince, but I still try to look respectful.

“And Cicerius informs me that when you are around, bad things tend to happen.”

“Not at all, your highness,” I say, in my most reassuring voice. “For an Investigator, my life is surprisingly peaceful.”

At this moment an Elf falls from the highest mast and lands dead at my feet. It makes a really loud noise. I swear the Prince looks at me as if it’s my fault.

I’m already bending down over the body. Elves are much longer lived than Humans, but even they can’t survive broken necks. Members of the crew are running towards us and more are swarming down the rigging to see if they can help. There’s some confusion till Vas-ar-Methet arrives on the scene and forces his way through. He kneels over the fallen Elf.

“What has happened?” comes the commanding voice of Lord Kalith, arriving at a fast gait from the bridge.

“He fell from the rigging, sir,” replies one young sailor.

“Dead,” says Vas, standing up. “His neck’s broken. How did it happen?”

I struggle to hear clearly as many Elves speak at once, but from what I can gather the young Elf had lost his hold on the rigging when he went to take a drink from his water bottle. The bottle, made from some sort of animal skin, is still slung from his neck on a long string.

I bend over the body, lift the bottle and sniff the contents.

“That will not be necessary, Investigator,” booms Lord Kalith, sounding quite insulted at the implication that there may have been something other than water in the Elf’s bottle. Without making it too obvious, the other Elves get between me and the body and lift it up to take it away.

Throughout all this the Prince has stood impassively at the side of the action, joined now by his bodyguards, and also Cicerius, who hastened to our side at the sound of the commotion.

“That was hardly tactful,” the Prince says to me reproachfully as the Elves depart.

Cicerius asks what he means.

“The Investigator felt obliged to check the unfortunate Elf’s water bottle, apparently suspecting that he may have fallen from the rigging while drunk. Lord Kalith was plainly insulted.”

“Is this true?” explodes Cicerius.

I shrug. “Just a reflex action. After all, he fell off while trying to take a drink. You’ve seen how sure-footed the Elves are. I just wondered if he might have had a little klee inside him, or maybe some Elvish wine?”