“I’m not worried about Lord Kalith,” says Makri. “I’m concerned about my reputation as a fighter. How am I meant to train that child? She’s about as much use as a one-legged gladiator. She couldn’t defend herself against an angry butterfly.”
“Well, be sure and go easy on her,” I say. “Yestar won’t thank you if you send her home with a black eye and a bloody nose. And remember, no attacks to the groin, eyes, throat or knees. It’s against the rules.”
“No attacks to the groin, eyes, throat or knees?” cries Makri, despairingly. “This gets worse all the time. What’s the point? It’s hardly like fighting at all.”
“I told you, they don’t want their children maimed. If Isuas trots out to her first engagement and proceeds to poke a dagger into her opponent’s eye she’ll be disqualified, and no one is going to be very pleased about it.”
“But I was depending on the dagger attack to the eyes,” complains Makri. “Otherwise what chance does she have?”
“You’ll just have to teach her some proper sword play. You know, the sort of thing gentlemen do.”
“It’s all ridiculous. These tournaments are stupid.”
I agree with her, more or less.
“I’d never enter one,” states Makri. “If I’m going to fight, I’ll do it properly or not at all. What about these fighting competitions in the far west I’ve heard about? Are they all pussyfooting around?”
“No, not all of them. Some of the tournaments in the far west are very vicious affairs. They fight with real weapons and no one minds who gets hurt. The warriors’ competition in Samsarina used to be notorious for the number of deaths each year. Still is, I expect. It attracts the finest swordsmen from all over the world, because of the handsome nature of the prize.”
Makri is interested in this. “You’ve been in Samsarina, haven’t you? Did you see the competition?”
“I was in it.”
“Really? How did you do?”
“I won it.”
Makri looks at me suspiciously.
“You won the warriors’ competition in Samsarina, against the world’s best swordsmen?”
“I did.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I shrug. “I don’t care if you believe me or not.”
“How come no one in Twelve Seas ever mentions it? Surely they’d have heard of such a notable feat?”
“It was a long time ago. Anyway, I was entered under a different name as I was on some unscheduled leave from the army at the time. What are you looking so dubious about?”
“I thought you spent your youth being thrown out of the Sorcerers’ school.”
“I did. And after that I learned how to fight. You think it’s just an accident I’ve lasted so long as an Investigator in Turai?”
As I’m putting on my cloak I remember the slip of paper I filched from Lord Kalith’s Sorcerer. I can’t read it, so I show it to Makri.
“Royal Elvish?”
She nods. “Where did you get hold of this?”
“It fell out of Jir-ar-Eth’s pocket when you knocked him to the ground. Can you translate it?”
Makri studies the paper for a moment or two and pronounces it to be a list. I guessed it would be something dull.
“What sort of list? Laundry?”
“No. This is a summary of Jir-ar-Eth’s report to Lord Kalith. It’s a list of all possible suspects for the killing of Gulas-ar-Thetos. He’s been using sorcery to scan the area and he’s identified everyone who was close enough at the time to have stuck a knife into Gulas. You’re on it, and Camith.”
“We were on the walkway above. Who else?”
“Elith-ir-Methet,” reads Makri. “Lasas-ar-Thetos, Gulas’s brother. Merith-ar-Thet, listed as a cousin of Lasas and Gulas. Pires-ar-Senth, a Palace guard. Caripatha-ir-Min, a weaver. And Gorith-ar-Del.”
I take back the paper.
“Makri, did I ever say how much I valued your intellect, particularly your fine command of languages?”
“No. But you did once say that pointy-eared Orc bastards had no business learning Royal Elvish.”
I chuckle indulgently.
“A joke you took in good part, as I recall. When the Association of Gentlewomen sends round its next collection plate for educating the struggling masses of Turanian women, you can count me in for a few gurans. With this paper, my investigation just became a whole lot easier.”
“How come you get such a lucky break?” enquires Makri.
“I practise a lot.”
I leave Makri and seek out Camith for directions to the clearing at the stream and three oaks, which he provides.
“A haunt of armourers and poets, I believe.”
“Armourers and poets are fine with me, providing they have beer.”
I take my illuminated staff to light my way, and set off briskly over the walkways.
“Follow the Dragon’s Tail and you can’t go wrong,” Camith instructs me. The Dragon’s Tail comprises five stars that form a line. It’s visible from Turai, though I think it points in a different direction up there. I don’t know why that would be.
I traverse the walkway with care, not wishing to plunge off the edge in the darkness. It’s something of a relief when I come to the distinctive tree that carries a ladder down to the ground. From here I’m to keep to the path till I come to a fork, where I’m to take the left path till I reach the clearing.
Even though this is an Elvish island on which there are no evil creatures of the night and no criminal gangs—at least in theory—I still feel slightly apprehensive walking through the forest on my own in the darkness. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but the forest bothers me in a way the city never does. It feels like it’s alive, and it knows I don’t belong here. I boost my illuminated staff up to maximum power and hurry along, cheering myself up with the thought that I’m finally going to get myself a beer, and that it is long overdue.
I’m concentrating on following the path so when a voice comes from right behind me I practically jump into the nearest tree.
“It’s an enormous Human with an illuminated staff! How interesting!”
I spin round, not pleased to be taken unawares. Standing there, grinning at me, is a slender young female Elf of eighteen or so. Her hood is thrown back and her hair is cut unusually short for an Elf.
“How do you do?” she greets me. “Are you looking for beer, enormous Human?”
I scowl at her. “The name’s Thraxas.”
“I know,” she says, smiling pleasantly. “Everyone on Avula knows that there is an Investigator called Thraxas going around asking questions. Are you going to the three oaks to ask questions, enormous Human?”
“No. I’m going for a beer. And will you stop calling me enormous? Is that a polite way to address a guest?”
“Sorry. I was being poetic. But I suppose ‘enormous’ isn’t a very poetic word, when applied to a Human. Would ‘impressively girthed’ be better?”
“No, it would still be lousy,” I reply.
“Kingly proportioned?”
“Could we just forget my weight for a moment? What do you want?”
“The same as you. Beer.”
She falls in at my side and we walk on.
“I take it you are a poet rather than an armourer?”
“Definitely. I’m Sendroo-ir-Vallis. You can call me Droo.”
“Pleased to meet you, Droo.”
Having got over my surprise, I don’t mind a little company. Droo, obviously an Elf who has no problems in talking to strangers, tells me that she comes to the three oaks most nights to meet other poets.
“And drink beer.”
“I thought Elvish poets would drink wine.”
“Only the older ones,” Droo informs me. “And I daresay it was fine for composing epics. But poetry moves on, you know. Look, there’s the clearing. There’s a hill where you can look at the stars through the fine mist from the waterfall. It’s very inspiring. Poets have always loved the spot.”