“Speaking of fighting, how is Isuas?”
“Bruised and bloody,” replies Makri. “I told her to visit Vas-ar-Methet for some healing before she saw her father. Lady Yestar is still keeping it all a secret.”
I again express my doubts about the ferocity of Makri’s training and Makri is again unrepentant. With so little time to prepare she is of the opinion that there is no alternative.
“And that’s not the only reason. I’m strengthening her spirit. If she ever gets in a fight for real, she’ll be glad I showed her the Gaxeen.”
“Gaxeen? What’s that?”
Makri puts down her tray, her meal unfinished. She is rarely an enthusiastic eater.
“Orcish. The Way of the Gaxeen. It translates as something like the ‘Spirit of the Insane Warrior.’ It’s what you do when you find yourself faced with insurmountable odds. Or up against an opponent whom you can’t beat with skill or craft. You go Gaxeen, as we used to say. A fury in which you do not fear for your life.”
I’m interested. Much of Makri’s experience of Orcish ways is unknown to us in the west. A few months ago she helped me solve a case with her knowledge of Orcish religion and prior to that I didn’t even know they had a religion.
“How long does it take to learn the Way of the Gaxeen?”
“Depends on the person, or the Orc. When I first started fighting I picked up skill with weapons easily enough, but one day my trainer said I hadn’t enough spirit so he’d decided to execute me. He took away my swords and told the four gladiators standing nearby that whoever killed me would get a reward. And after I’d scaled the wall of the pit, slain a guard with my bare hands to get his sword, then massacred the four gladiators in a blind fury, my trainer clapped me on the back and said, ‘Well done, you have learned the Way of the Gaxeen.’ I rather liked that old trainer. I had to kill him later, of course, when I made my escape.”
“Well, Makri, this is a fabulous gift for Isuas. When she starts slaughtering her playmates I imagine Lord Kalith will be beside himself with joy. How is she doing? If she can win one fight I might be up for some good winnings, which of course I’ll share with you.”
Makri shakes her head.
“Don’t bet on her. She’s still hopeless. If her first opponent has two legs and two arms she won’t last thirty seconds.”
“What if he’s only got one arm and one leg?”
“She still won’t win.”
Not wishing to let good food go to waste, I pick up Makri’s tray and finish off what’s left.
“I’m stuck in my investigation. I’ve managed to uncover some strange things but none of it is helping to clear Elith. You’ve heard about the dwa in the pool? That’s what was polluting the water and giving the Elves bad dreams. And I’m sure that’s what made you so stoned when we visited the Tree Palace. Someone has discovered that dwa mixed with the sacred water makes for a powerful drug that affects Elves. No doubt that’s why all these young Elves have been acting so strangely, going around with glazed eyes, not working, breaking their word and so on. And though Kalith will never acknowledge it, I’m certain that the Elf who fell from the rigging did so while under the influence. Took his supply with him on the voyage.”
Makri nods. “Makes sense. I can see why they’d all go for it. I felt great after I drank the water. Do you have any more?”
I frown. “That’s not quite the reaction I was looking for, Makri. You’re supposed to be outraged that the foul substance dwa is now polluting the world of the Elves.”
“Oh well, that too. Yes, it’s a shock. The Avulans will have to take swift action to prevent it spreading. Maybe we should hunt around, see if anyone else has some of the mixture and confiscate it?”
I glare at Makri. Back in Turai I have more than once suspected that she has been experimenting with dwa and I strongly disapprove.
“Never mind confiscating drugs. We already have a reputation as people of immoderate habits. Lord Kalith was fairly cutting on the subject, and that was before I beat him at niarit again. Now he’s as miserable as a Niojan whore and will be down on us like a bad spell if he catches us doing anything disreputable.
“If Elith-ir-Methet would just tell me exactly what was going on between her and Gulas, I might be able to get to the bottom of the affair. I should look into who is bringing the dwa into Avula, but with so few contacts it could take me a long time to find out, and I’m short of time. I’ll suggest to Jir-ar-Eth that he does some sorcerous scanning of the harbours. He might be able to pick up something. And I’d like to have someone examine Gorith-ar-Del’s movements over the past few months. There’s an Elf who’s a strong suspect. He gave up his job and now he keeps hanging round the Hesuni Tree acting suspiciously.”
“Do you think whoever is dealing dwa is responsible for attacking us?” says Makri.
“Yes. Back in Turai it’s the first thing I’d have suspected, but I just never expected it here.”
Makri wonders if Elith-ir-Methet is clamming up just to avoid the disgrace of having a calanith relationship with a Tree Priest.
“Surely her being executed is more of a disgrace for the rest of the family?”
“Who knows? Taboos are funny things when you’re outside them. I can’t work out what they’d find most important. Every other Elf who’s involved is running for cover. There’s no chance of any co-operation there.”
Inspiration suddenly strikes.
“I know someone I might be able to put a little pressure on—Droo’s boyfriend. Name of Lithias, I think. A poetic young Elf, last seen being tossed into a cell at the Tree Palace. From the way he was swaying around I’d say he was one rebellious youth who’d been dabbling with foreign substances. Perhaps Droo would persuade him to come clean about everything and that might give me some sort of lever over Elith.”
“Will Droo help you?”
“She might. She seemed to like me. Anyway, I’ll tell her it’s the best thing she can do for her boyfriend. That usually works, even when it isn’t true.”
And so it proves the next day when we locate Droo at a treehouse not far from Camith’s. She’s not actually in the house; she’s perched at the end of a slender branch high above the ground. Lithias’s incarceration has plunged her into gloom and she has not moved from the spot for twenty-four hours. Her parents are so worried that they are actually glad to see Makri and me climbing up their dwelling place, although, as with most of the Avulans, they cannot prevent themselves from examining us with interest and some suspicion. Particularly Makri. Everyone still gapes at her, though less impolitely than when we first arrived. The mother is in tears, the father is raging, and they’re cursing the fate that made their daughter fall in love with such a hopeless specimen as Lithias.
“Why couldn’t she have fallen for a warrior?” wails her mother. “Or the silversmith’s son?”
“You aren’t planning to jump, are you?” I call, from the safety of the treehouse.
“Maybe,” replies Droo.
“It’s not that bad. Lithias hasn’t done anything serious, Lord Kalith will let him go in a day or two. We’re going there now. Come with us and we can sort things out.”
Droo looks up.
“You’re really going to see him?”
“Yes. We have free access into the Palace, courtesy of Lady Yestar.”
Droo rises and hops nimbly along the branch. She ignores the admonitions from her parents and rushes inside the house, saying that she has to brush her hair before seeing Lithias.
“Lithias is a fool,” says her father. He turns to Makri. “And your nose ring is disgusting.”
“Well, we’d better get going,” I say.
The Elf gives me a stern look. ”You are the Investigator? You look like you would have difficulty finding a large tree in a small field.”
This is one rude Elf. I start to understand why young Droo might not be that happy at home.