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?”
Cicerius glares angrily at me. The Prince glares angrily at me.
“Well, it’s my job,” I protest. “What if he was poisoned?”
Cicerius, never hesitant about giving a man a lecture, proceeds to tell me in strong language that I am to stay well out of the affair.
“Let the Elves bury their own dead, and whatever you do, do not go around asking questions about the accident. You and your companion have caused us enough trouble already.”
I am spared further lecturing by the reappearance of Vas-ar-Methet. He looks worried.
“Very unfortunate,” he confides. “Please tell Makri to stay well out of sight.”
“Why?”
“A few of the younger Elves are muttering that we’re cursed because of her presence.”
“That is ridiculous, Vas, and you know it. It’s nothing to do with Makri that one of your crew fell off the rigging.”
“Nonetheless, do as he says,” says Cicerius.
A slender figure in a man’s tunic with a great mass of hair billowing in the wind suddenly staggers past us at a fast rate. It’s Makri, heading swiftly to the rail at the side of the ship. Once there she hangs her head over and throws up violently. The wind catches some of her vomit and blows it back over her feet. She curses vehemently, and quite obscenely, and bends down to wipe them clean. I notice that her toenails are painted gold, a fashion only worn, to my certain knowledge, by the lowest class of prostitutes in Simnia. Cicerius winces.