I look pointedly at the inviting decanter on Vas’s table and he pours me a glass of wine. As Elvish wine goes, it’s okay, nothing more. Lord Kalith ought to take more care when he loads up with supplies.
I admit that the link may appear tenuous, but when I’m grubbing around in the city and odd things start happening I generally find they’re connected somehow. I doubt things are any different with the Avulans.
“Did Eos have any sort of connection with the Hesuni Tree? Maybe help with the prayers, hymns or whatever else goes on there? And was he on friendly terms with your daughter?”
Vas considers this. “It is not impossible. But before this terrible affair of my daughter, I had very little contact with the Tree Priests. I am only slightly acquainted with Gulas-ar-Thetos, the Chief Tree Priest. Whether Eos knew him, I can’t say. It seems unlikely. Young sea-going Elves do not normally spend too much time with older members of the religious order. But he was friendly with my daughter. She will be sad to learn of his death.”
He promises that when we reach Avula he will be able to put me in touch with several Elves who will be able to tell me more.
“I hope they’re going to be more co-operative than the crew.”
“They will be. They are my friends. I may be the only Elf on Avula who believes my daughter is innocent, but I am not the only one who would be glad if she were.”
An Elf arrives, apparently needing Vas’s healing services. He is looking particularly unhappy. Many of the crew look unhappy. Maybe they’re all having bad dreams.
The seas are now rough but we’re making good progress. It is not just the skill of the Elvish sailors that speeds us onwards; Elvish shipwrights are privy to shipbuilding secrets unknown to their Human allies. Our craft cuts through the water at a rate that would be the envy of any Turanian Captain. Lord Kalith’s personal Sorcerer, Jir-ar-Eth, is on the ship and could if necessary use sorcery to change the weather in our favour, but so far there has been no need. He stays below decks, swapping tales with Harmon Half-Elf and Lanius Suncatcher.
The death of the crew member has cast a pall of gloom over the ship. I’ll be glad when we reach Avula. The voyage has started to bore me and I’m running short of beer. There is nothing to see apart from the endless grey seas and there is precious little to do. I’ve carried on with my enquiries as best as I can but because of the reticence of the Elves I’ve learned very little that Vas has not already told me.
Even young Isuas, for some reason quite in thrall to Makri, tells us bluntly that Vas’s daughter is clearly guilty of the crime and is fortunate not to have been punished already.
“Only my father’s high regard for Vas-ar-Methet has delayed it.”
“Your father’s high regard? What do you mean?”
Isuas looks puzzled. “Lord Kalith of course. Were you not aware that he is my father?”
“This youth is a spy!” I exclaim, and glare at her. “So that’s why you’ve been coming here every day, is it? Reporting on my movements to Lord Kalith, no doubt. Makri, send her away immediately.”
“I didn’t want her here in the first place,” exclaims Makri, who has notably failed to warm to the young Elf.
“Are you really the daughter of the Elf Lord?”
“Yes. His youngest daughter.”
“Then what are you doing working as a cabin boy? Or should that be cabin girl?”
“Cabin Elf?” suggests Makri.
Isuas doesn’t seem to think there is anything strange about it. She’s been sailing with her father for the past year. “He says it will toughen me up.”
“Well that would make sense,” says Makri. “You certainly are a weedy kid.”
Isuas looks distressed at this. I guess she already knows she got the short straw when it came to handing out health and strength. I still feel suspicious of her presence. Back in Turai, young daughters of rulers don’t go around being junior sailors.
“Does no one else believe Elith to be innocent?”
“Why would they? She admits the crime.”
“Not exactly. She doesn’t deny it. That’s different.”
Isuas does not seem overly concerned with the affair. Rather, her interest is taken up with one of Makri’s swords, which is lying on her bunk, a dark evil-looking weapon that Makri brought with her from the Orc Lands.
“Is that an Orcish blade?” asks Isuas, wide-eyed.
Makri grunts in reply.
“Such a thing has surely never been on this ship before. Can I touch it?”
“Only if you want to lose your hand,” growls Makri, who is never keen to see her weapons pawed at.
Young Isuas again looks distressed.
“Well, could I watch you clean it?” she ventures.
Makri hisses something rude.
“Could I just touch it? Please?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, pick the damn thing up,” growls Makri. “Anything to shut you up. Little brat,” she mutters as she lies on the bunk, groaning and complaining about the rough seas. Isuas holds Makri’s sword out in front of her, and tries to look fierce.
“Will you teach me how to fight?” she says, eagerly.
Makri, unable to take any more of this, picks up one of her sandals and bounces it off Isuas’s head. Isuas squawks, then flees from the cabin in tears.
“That was a bit harsh.”
“Harsh? She’s lucky I didn’t hit her with the sword. Now stop talking to me—I’m sick.”
I depart, leaving Makri to her misery. I meet Cicerius on deck. He knows I’m curious about the death of the sailor and this displeases him. The rain has obliged him to wear a cloak over his Senatorial toga but he still manages to look like an important official giving a telling-off to some hapless minion as he informs me that I am to stop making enquiries.
“I have been given strongly to understand that the Elves do not wish the matter to be further investigated.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Am I the only one around here who thinks that deaths should be looked into? I take it you don’t actually forbid me to try and clear Vas-ar-Methet’s daughter of the crime she’s accused of?”
“I believe Lord Kalith regrets giving permission for Vas-ar-Methet to extend the enquiry,” says Cicerius.
Cicerius has the universal reputation of being the most incorruptible person in Turai. Despite his renowned austerity, he is not an unfair man. He tells me that he can understand my need to help my friend and wartime companion.
“Although I regret that you are on this voyage, I realise that it would have been difficult for you to refuse Vas-ar-Methet’s request. Ties of friendship should not be taken lightly. But I must insist that you carry out your work without causing offence to our Elvish friends. And keep that woman Makri out of sight. Yesterday she was parading round the ship in a quite shameless manner wearing only a chainmail bikini. I do not believe the Elves were pleased.”
“Well, it was certainly a novel sight for them. Though I think she was fleeing to the rail to be sick, rather than actually parading around. Did you notice the gold toenails? Odd that she’s picked up that fashion, because Makri’s never been in Simnia, and as far as I know the only other women who do that are Simnian—”
“Just keep her under control,” says Cicerius, icily.
“You know what she’s like, Cicerius. Difficult to reason with.”
The Deputy Consul almost smiles. Cicerius is not about to admit that Makri is exactly a good thing, but he would be forced to allow that she had been helpful when I last worked for him. He draws his cloak tighter against the wind and the rain, and contents himself with warning me not to make things difficult.
“There are times when your doggedness has proved useful. This is not one of them. If by any chance you do discover any secrets on Avula, keep them to yourself. As a representative of the state of Turai, I forbid you to say or do anything that may upset the Elves without fully consulting me first. This five-yearly festival is an important affair and the Avulans will be highly displeased if anything bad happens while their island is full of visitors.”