“Disregard that statement,” I say quickly. “The woman is under stress and doesn’t know what’s she’s saying.”
“She knows very well what she is saying,” retorts Kalith. “She murdered our Priest. Three Elves witnessed the event. At this moment they are giving sworn statements to my scribes.”
It’s a bad turn of events but, as people have been known to say in Twelve Seas, Thraxas never abandons a client.
“Witnesses have been known to make mistakes,” I point out.
Kalith smiles, which surprises me. He’s regained his composure.
“Thraxas, I could almost like you, were you not such a buffoon. One certainly has to admire your persistence. You enter my Palace without an invitation, you sneak over to this cell and you put three of my guards to sleep with a spell. You question Elith-ir-Methet against my express wishes. Then, despite the fact that she admits the crime, and that there are independent witnesses to testify that she is guilty, you persist in standing here blustering about client-Investigator privileges. You have never thought me sympathetic to your case, but believe me, if my trusted healer Vas-ar-Methet had not spoken so highly of the character you showed during the Orc Wars, I would never have even allowed you on board my ship. And he was right, in some ways at least. He told me that you were disinclined to give up on anything you started. An admirable trait in time of war, but not so now. Elith is guilty. Nothing you can do will change that fact. And you must now leave it to me to dispense justice, as is my right and duty.”
I protest, but he holds up his hand, forbidding further speech, and gestures to his guards. “Enough, Thraxas. These Elves will escort you from the Palace. No doubt we will meet again at the festival.”
And that, for the moment, is that. The four armed Elves escort me out of the cell, along the courtyard, back up to the high walkways, and out of the Palace.
Once back on the ground, I turn towards the Hesuni Tree, having no intention of going home just yet. The large clearing is now empty of life. Light from the moons reflects from the still water of the twin pools and the Hesuni Tree stands majestically at the far end of the water. I decide to take a look at the Tree, and march over.
To me it looks like any other large tree. I can’t pick up any traces of its spiritual power, but that’s only to be expected, me being Human rather than Elf, and not very spiritual. I can’t sense any sign of sorcery in the air either. I can’t learn anything, in fact. Studying the grass in the area where Gulas lay dying reveals nothing except that a lot of Elves have since walked all over it.
“Are you looking for something that will save Elith?”
It can be annoying the way these Elves approach without making a sound. I whirl round and lift my staff, illuminating an Elf by the Tree.
“Lasas-ar-Thetos?”
He bows slightly. I wonder at him being here on his own. As his brother has just been murdered, I might have expected him to be comforting the family, or mourning, or something.
“I must assume my new position and minister to the tree,” he says, as if in answer to my thoughts.
“Why did Elith kill your brother?”
“She is insane. We knew it from the moment she damaged the Tree.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“I believe so. Now, please, leave me. I must communicate with the Tree.”
“Yeah, I guess the Tree must be pretty upset, with all this going on. Do you know Gorith-ar-Del?”
Lasas scowls at me, frustrated by my persistence.
“No,” he replies. “I do not.”
It seems to me that Lasas is lying. I’m about to question him further when he starts chanting softly, his eyes closed, his head swaying gently from side to side. Torchlight and voices from the other side of the clearing announce the arrival of some Elves from the Palace. I depart. It feels like a long walk back to Camith’s house. I climb wearily up to my temporary dwelling and find Makri sitting in my room, studying a scroll.
“How’s the case going?” she asks.
“Getting difficult,” I confess. “Elith-ir-Methet has just been accused of murdering the Tree Priest.”
I haul my boots off. “And I still can’t find any beer. I think the Elves are hiding it from me out of spite.”
[Contents]
Chapter Nine
Vas-ar-Methet’s brother has treated Makri and me hospitably from the moment we arrived and we’re grateful for this. We can eat our meals with Camith’s family or on our own if we prefer, and they make no attempts to hinder us in our coming and leaving. If they think it is strange or disreputable to have someone with Orc blood under their roof, they don’t show it. Makri tells me that her faith in Elfkind is partially revived.
“After that voyage, I thought I was going to hate them all. But Vas-ar-Methet’s relatives are nice. When you were out they asked if there was anything they could bring me and then Camith invited me up to the top of the tree to look at the stars.”
Elves are partial to the night, rising late in the day and staying up to enjoy the pleasures of the midnight sky. Well, most of them. Perhaps farming Elves have to rise early to plant crops. I ask Makri about this, but she doesn’t know.
“At the Guild College we only learn Elvish myths, stories, histories of their wars and things like that. The subject of Elves having to get up early to plant crops or milk cows never came up. Strange really, because only last term Professor Azulius was stressing how important the average citizen was in the history of the city-state. ‘History is not all Kings, Queens and battles,’ as he likes to say. Do you think there are low-class Elves who clean the sewers at the Tree Palace?”
“I expect so. They can’t all be composing epic poems and gazing at the stars. You know, I’ve been close to losing my faith in Elfkind as well. I appreciate that I’m causing them difficulties, but right from the first day of the voyage they’ve been about as friendly as a two-fingered troll. Much less welcoming than my hosts on my last visit to the islands.”
“That was a long time ago,” Makri points out. “Maybe they became more suspicious of strangers after the last War. Do you know the whole island is suffering from bad dreams?”
“Really? Everyone?”
“Apparently,” says Makri. “Camith certainly is. I don’t think the Elves like to talk about it though. Discussing illness with strangers is calanith.”
“Is it only the Avulans or are their guests from the other islands suffering as well?”
Makri doesn’t know. She’s hoping the other Elves are in good health because she’s looking forward to the theatrical performances. I remain unimpressed at the prospect.
“Three versions of the tale of Queen Leeuven. Couldn’t they come up with something else?”
“Of course not. The plays at the festival are always about Queen Leeuven. That’s the point.”
“It sounds dull to me.”
“Well, they do choose different episodes from the saga. But it’s all quite formal, you know. The stories are already well known to the audience; it’s the way they are told that makes all the difference. At the last festival the Venian Elves presented such a tragic account of Queen Leeuven accidentally killing her brother that the entire audience was moved to bitter tears. They won the prize. The Avulans are keen to take it this time.”
I see that Makri has wasted no time in learning more about the culture of the island. I ask her if she knows anything about the juggling competition. She informs me that it’s part of the light entertainment put on before the plays, to get the crowd in a festive mood.
“Is there a favourite to win? I might be able to get a bet down.”