Finally Makri seems to realise that there is no way she’s walking away from this one without getting wet. She spins on her heel, rams her swords into the scabbards that form a cross on her back, and leaps from the quay into the water below. By this time I’m already lowering a boat from the side of the ship with the aid of several young Elves. They don’t know Makri, but the sight of her battling such enormous odds has enraged their sense of fair play.
The boat hits the water with a mighty splash and I swarm down a rope into it, looking all the while for Makri’s head to appear above water. Meanwhile the thugs on the dock are peering over the waters, hunting for their prey. As I start to row another body clatters into the boat. It’s Vas. He wastes no energy in talking but grabs the second set of oars and starts to pull. We make our way against the tide, back towards the mouth of the harbour.
“Where is she?” I cry, alarmed.
“She must be swimming underwater to safety.”
I’m dubious. Makri has been under for a very long time. We’re almost at the spot where she went in and there is no sign of her. Perhaps she took a wound in the fight and is unable to swim. Perhaps she has already drowned.
“Goddammit,” I growl, and stand up in the boat, scanning the waters for any sign of her. Suddenly I spot something—a dark mass like seaweed on the water. Makri’s hair. Makri’s head appears, twenty yards or so from our boat. Before I can yell for her to swim to us she goes under again, in a manner that suggests she won’t be coming back up.
Without hesitation I strip off my cloak and plunge into the sea. I’ve always been a strong swimmer and it takes me very little time to reach the spot and dive under the surface. The waters are cold and grey, impossible to see through for more than a few yards. I sink deeper and deeper, hunting desperately for sight of Makri, and the thought flashes through my head that if I was any sort of Sorcerer I’d have some spell ready to help me. But I’ve no spell for this, nothing to help me except a grim determination that I’m not going to see Makri drown.
My lungs are bursting. I can’t stay under any longer. I keep swimming. Finally I see Makri rising slowly in front of me. I kick towards her, grab her arm and head for the surface. We arrive there spluttering, coughing up water, but still alive. Makri seems in a bad way.
“Thraxas,” she mutters.
I start swimming for the boat, dragging her along behind me. Vas rows towards us and soon he is helping us on board. I think I hear some cheering from the Elves’ ship, and maybe some howls of anger from the dockside.
Makri retches over the side of the boat, and suddenly looks more alive.
“Nice escape,” I say to her. “But it would have been better if you’d actually swum somewhere. Sinking like a stone was never going to work.”
“I can’t swim,” says Makri.
“What?”
“I can’t swim. You think I’d have hung around on the pier so long if I knew how to swim?”
“Well, maybe. You like fighting. I figured you were just enjoying yourself.”
Vas brings us alongside the ship and we are helped aboard.
The Elves are full of congratulations for me at my fine rescue and there are words of admiration too for Makri for the fighting spirit she showed on the pier. Their praise dries up as the Elves suddenly notice that Makri is not the standard-issue woman they took her for.
“Orc blood!” whispers one young member of the crew, quite distinctly.
Deputy Consul Cicerius, resplendent in his best gold-rimmed toga, strides over to us.
“Investigator Thraxas!” he rasps. “What are you doing here?”
“My guest,” explains Vas-ar-Methet, which surprises the Deputy Consul but doesn’t prevent him from rounding on Makri.
“You cannot remain on this ship.”
“Well, I can’t go back there,” points out Makri, quite reasonably. The dock, now receding into the distance, is still lined with armed men.
“Lord Kalith,” says Cicerius, as the Elvish Captain strides along the deck towards us. “You must turn this ship around.”
At this moment the wind blowing us from the harbour suddenly strengthens and the sails bulge as the ship spurts forward. Lord Kalith frowns.
“Impossible. We cannot miss this tide. To do so would make us lose a day’s voyage and quite probably run into the first winter storm.”
He stares at Makri. For him this is something of a dilemma. He doesn’t want to turn the ship around, but there is no inhabited land between us and Avula. If he lets her stay he’s going to be the first Elf Lord to arrive back home with an Orc in tow. He doesn’t look thrilled at the prospect.
I’m none too pleased myself. I didn’t want Makri to drown but that doesn’t mean I want her along spoiling things for my visit to Avula. No Elf is going to want to talk to a man who’s brought his mixed-blood friend along for a visit. The Deputy Consul is all for sending Makri back in the boat but the shore is already fading in the distance and it is just not practical.
“We’ll decide what to do with you later,” Kalith tells Makri. “Meanwhile, stay out of sight.”
“Fantastic,” says Makri, brightly. “I’ve always wanted to go to the Elvish Isles. How long till we get there?”
Lord Kalith doesn’t reply. As he departs to the bridge he’s not looking pleased at this turn of events. He orders his crew back to their posts, and his voice is harsh.
I scowl at Makri. “Is there no end to these outrages? First you ruin my card game and now you’ve muscled your way on board my ship.”
“Well, thanks for saving my life,” says Makri. “I forgive you for the insults you heaped on my head. Could you get me something dry to wear?”
Makri tugs at the man’s tunic she’s wearing. In common with all of Makri’s clothes, it fails to cover nearly enough of her. I hurry her off in case she commits some further outrage, such as taking it off in front of the crew. I notice that the young sailor who first commented on Makri’s Orc blood has not actually departed back to his post but stands staring at Makri with some fascination. I scowl at him, then notice it isn’t a him but a her, a young Elvish maid, along on the voyage for some reason. A fairly scrawny-looking specimen, not blooming with health like your standard Elvish female.
We make for my cabin. Small though it is, I will now have to share it with Makri for the voyage. I continue to complain.
“Couldn’t you just let me sail in peace? What the hell were you doing fighting the Brotherhood anyway? Did you arrange the whole thing just so you could come to the festival?”
“Certainly not,” replies Makri. “Although now I think about it, how come you didn’t invite me?”
Makri is suspiciously cheerful about all this. For a woman who’s suffering from several nasty sword cuts and nearly drowned, she’s in a surprisingly good mood. I ask her what the fight was about.
“I was just trying to get your money back.”
“What?”
“The money Casax took back from the pot. After all, you said yourself it wasn’t fair. Once you make your bet you can’t take your money back, no matter what outrage may make you wish to leave the tavern. So I went to get it back for you.”
“Really? And what brought on this display of public-spiritedness?”
According to Makri it was Vas-ar-Methet. After talking for a while about the beautiful epic poem of Queen Leeuven, they came round to discussing the reason behind her wishing to kill me with an axe.
“Of course, he quite understood why I was so annoyed at you, insulting me in such a crass manner when really I was not responsible at all for anything. It’s not like anyone ever mentioned to me that menstruation is strictly taboo in Turai. But after we talked for a while I did see that you were probably too upset to think clearly. Any gambler would be, and you of course do have a problem with your gambling. And you’d been drinking heavily, which always clouds your judgement. I expect you were addled with thazis as well. I’ve noticed it always has a bad effect on you when you smoke too much. So with the gambling, the drink and the drugs all making you crazy, I figured it wasn’t really fair of me to hold a grudge, though your behaviour was bad, even by your standards. In the spirit of friendship I thought I’d get your money back for you.”