I storm out. Back on deck the rain hits me in the face. I ignore it and stride back to my cabin. Inside Makri is sitting on the floor, not looking any better.
“Damned Elves,” I exclaim. “I’m sick of them already. What can you expect? Sitting round in trees all the time, singing about the stars. Apart from the ones who are threatening me.”
“You were threatened?”
“Yes. Some large Elf called Gorith thinks I was responsible for the death of his brother. You remember, one of the pair whom Hanama killed in Twelve Seas.”
“Hanama. I like her.”
“Yes, for a murderous Assassin she’s always excellent company.”
I bring out the wine and take a healthy slug. “To hell with Gorith.”
The ship rolls suddenly. Makri, unable to take the sight of me guzzling wine in her present precarious state, is once more overcome with nausea. She fails to make it to the side of the ship. She fails even to make it out the cabin, and is sick on the floor. Meanwhile the sudden violent pitching makes me drop the bottle of wine and it smashes. I slip and follow it down. At this moment, while Makri and I are rolling around on the floor of our tiny cabin in a mess of beer, wine and vomit, the door bursts open and Prince Dees-Akan walks in.
He stares, incredulous, at the sight that meets his eyes. It’s not the sort of behaviour he’s been brought up to expect. As I’m hauling myself to my feet he seems to be having some difficulty in finding the appropriate words.
“Is it true that you just insulted the eminent Elvish Sorcerer Jir-ar-Eth?” he demands.
“Certainly not,” I reply. “Possibly he got the wrong impression. Not used to being questioned, I expect.”
Makri groans, rolls over and throws up over the Prince’s feet.
“Eh . . . sorry, your highness . . . hasn’t quite found her sea legs yet.”
“You low-life scum!” yells the Prince.
“There’s no need to talk to her like that!“ I protest. “She’s never been on a ship before.”
“I was referring to you,” says the Prince.
“Don’t worry,” says Makri, grabbing his leg in an attempt to make it back on to her feet. “I’ll have him civilised by the time we get to Avula.”
When Makri first arrived in Turai, fresh from the rigours of the gladiator slave pits, she showed very little sign of a sense of humour. It developed fairly rapidly, but I could have told her that with the Prince looking with horror at his ruined sandals, this was not the time to be light-hearted.
“How dare you address me, you piece of filth!” shouts the Prince.
He departs in a fury. Makri abandons her efforts to rise and lies in a pool of her own sickness. It is really, really unpleasant. I hunt for one of my remaining beers, break open the bottle and start pouring it down my throat. We remain in silence for a while.
“You think we made a good impression?” says Makri finally.
“Pretty good. I may be in for a swift recall to the Palace.”
Makri laughs. I help her to her feet. She shakes her head to clear it. “I think I’m starting to feel better now. How long till we reach Avula?”
I hand her a towel to clean her face. “Another two weeks.”
“I’ll be pleased to walk on dry land again,” says Makri.
“Me too. And it will be good to get some proper investigating done. Now we’ve started to make friends in important places, it should be a breeze.”
[Contents]
Chapter Six
Two weeks later we’re close to Avula. We should sight land tomorrow. The weather has improved. Makri’s health has improved. We’re bored. For want of anything better to do, Makri, with encouragement from me, has given in to Isuas’s repeated requests and has given her some lessons in basic sword play. These lessons have all taken place in the cramped privacy of our cabin, partly because Isuas feels her father would not be pleased if he knew, and partly because Makri says she wouldn’t like her reputation as a fighter to suffer from anyone learning that she was trying to teach sword-fighting to such a useless excuse for an Elf as Isuas. The cabin being somewhat cramped at the best of times, I haven’t actually seen any of these sessions, but Makri assures me that Isuas is the most pathetic creature ever to hold a sword, and seeing the child fumbling around gives Makri the strong desire to pick her up and throw her overboard.
“Not warming to the kid, then?”
“I loathe her. She keeps bursting into tears for no reason. Why did you encourage me to teach her?”
“Because it might do us some good on Avula if we have an ally. She’s Kalith’s daughter—she might be able to open a few doors for us.”
“Not if I break her fingers,” mutters Makri.
Nothing of note has happened to me. I haven’t even been threatened recently. I’ve seen Gorith-ar-Del several times but he has not spoken to me since his original menacing approach.
I haven’t learned anything much though I picked up a little gossip while playing niarit with Osath, the ship’s cook. I like Osath. He’s an excellent chef. He’s also one of the very few Elves who carries a little extra weight round his belly. My tremendous enthusiasm for his food overcame his Elvish reticence and we’ve spent a few evenings playing niarit together. Most of what I learn sheds no light on Elith’s case, but it’s interesting background information. Even in a place like Avula, there are political tensions. Lord Kalith has an advisory Council of twelve leading Elvish Elders, and certain of these Elders have been pushing for more influence. It’s even rumoured that some wish to abandon the traditional rule of the Elvish Lord and move on to some representative system, which would be unheard of among the Elves.
Furthermore, there are some tensions around the Hesuni Tree. Gulas-ar-Thetos holds the position of Chief Tree Priest but there is another branch of the family that has claimed for several generations that the Priesthood should belong to them. Some sort of complicated dispute about the rules of succession, which never quite goes away.
Even the festival is not without its attendant controversy. The three staged versions of the tale of Queen Leeuven are each put on by one of the Ossuni Elves’ islands—Avula, Ven and Corinthal—in the form of a competition, with judges giving a prize to the winning play. It is a great honour to produce the play and on each island leading Elves compete for the position. Apparently the person chosen by Lord Kalith to produce and direct Avula’s play this year is not universally popular. There is a feeling on the island that the job has gone to the wrong Elf.
“Myself, I’ve never cared much for the plays,” confides Osath. “Too highbrow for me. I like the juggling competition best. More soup?”
Other than this, I sit in my cabin and smoke thazis with Makri.
“I can’t wait to get off this ship,” she tells me for the twentieth time, idly prodding at the gold ring that pierces her nose, another sartorial outrage guaranteed to inflame public opinion in Turai. She’s just washed her hair and the huge dark mass of it seems to take up a substantial amount of our limited cabin space.
We pass the thazis stick back and forward between us. We have the porthole open to let out the pungent aroma. This gives me the odd feeling that I’m a much younger man, a youth in fact, smoking the mild narcotic in secret. These days in Turai no one bothers to conceal thazis, though it is still technically illegal. Since the much more powerful drug dwa took its hold on the city, the authorities are relieved if thazis is the worst thing you’re up to. But I don’t want to offend the Elves. As far as I know, they disapprove of all narcotics.