Chapter Two
Next morning I’m woken up by the shrill voice of a street vendor outside, eager to sell her wares in the last week of autumn before the evil winter takes hold of the city. It doesn’t improve my mood.
Winter in Turai is grim: bitter cold, howling gales, freezing rain and enough snow to bury the homeless beggars that huddle miserably in the streets of Twelve Seas. Back in the days when I was a Senior Investigator at the Imperial Palace, winter didn’t trouble me. I hardly even saw it, just remained within the comfortable confines of the Palace walls, where a combination of engineering skill and sorcery prevented the inhabitants from feeling any discomfort. If any investigating needed doing, I sent a subordinate. Since I was booted out by my boss, Rittius, my life has changed considerably for the worse. I’m a Private Investigator in a dangerous part of town where there is plenty of crime to be investigated but precious little money to pay me for the investigating. I’m reduced to living in two rooms above a tavern, eking out my existence by risking my life against the sort of violent criminals who’ll happily gut a man for a few gurans or a small dose of dwa.
The sign outside my door says Sorcerous Investigator but that is somewhat misleading. A more accurate version would say Investigator Who Once Did Study Sorcery But Now Has Only The Feeblest Of Magical Powers. And Works Cheap.
I sigh. It’s true that my winnings at the chariot races will enable me to make it through the winter in more comfort than I otherwise might have. But if I’d taken that huge pot at rak last night I’d have been a good way towards moving out of this dump. I’ve had my fill of the slums. I don’t have the energy for it any more.
I need some beer for breakfast but that means going downstairs and facing Makri. She will be out for vengeance. The woman—I use the term loosely—has in the past refused to speak to me after far less wounding accusations. What she’ll do after the things I said last night, God only knows. Attack me, probably. Let her. I’m feeling angry enough to attack her right back. I tuck my sword in its scabbard and am on the point of marching right downstairs to confront Makri with her many crimes when there’s a knock on my outside door and a voice I recognise calls out my name.
I banish the minor locking spell from the door and haul it open.
“Vas-ar-Methet! What are you doing in the city? Come right in!”
Vas-ar-Methet walks in, dumps his green cloak on the floor, and embraces me warmly. I embrace him back, equally warmly. I haven’t seen him in fifteen years but you don’t forget an Elf who once saved your life during the last great Orc War.
I saved his life too. And we both saved Gurd. The last Orc War was grim. There were plenty of occasions when lives needed saving.
Like all Elves, Vas-ar-Methet is tall and fair, with golden eyes, but even among the upright Elvish Folk Vas-ar-Methet stands out as a distinguished figure. He’s a healer, an Elf of great skill, and well respected among his folk.
“Would you like some klee?”
Klee is the local spirit, distilled in the hills. Elves in general are not given to strong drink, but I seem to remember that Vas, after the months we spent together fighting, was not averse to something to keep the circulation going.
“I see you haven’t changed,” he laughs.
Vas always laughed easily. He’s rather more emotional than your average Elf. He’s some years older than me but, as is the way with Elves, shows little sign of advancing age. If he’s reached fifty, which he probably has, you’d be hard pushed to guess.
He brings out a small packet from within his green tunic. “I thought you might like these.”
“Lesada leaves? Thank you. I just finished my last one!”
I’m grateful. Lesada leaves grow only on the Elvish Isles and they’re hard to acquire in Turai. They’re used as a cure for many things and have a great purifying effect on the body. I use them for hangovers, and can personally state that there is no finer remedy.
The memory of where I obtained my last supply of lesada leaves causes me to frown.
“Did you hear about the two Elves I encountered last year?” I ask.
Vas-ar-Methet nods. They’d arrived at my door claiming to be friends of his and hired me under false pretences to work for them. As it turned out, they were Elves of the criminal variety—rare, but not unheard of—who had been using me for their own ends. It got them killed in the end, though not by me, and I’ve worried slightly since then that they might really have been friends of Vas.
He reassures me. “No, not friends, nor relatives. We heard the full tale on the islands eventually. They used my name and the name of my Lord only to gain influence with you, Thraxas. It is I who should apologise to you.”
We beam at each other. I clap him heartily on the back, break open the klee, and tell him to fill me in on the last fifteen years.
“How’s life on the Elvish Isles? Still paradise on Earth?”
“Much the same as when you visited, Thraxas. Apart from. . . .” He frowns and breaks off.
My Investigator’s intuition lumbers into action. In the excitement of seeing old Vas again it had temporarily switched off, but now, looking at his troubled face, I can tell that something is wrong.
“Is this a professional visit, Vas? Do you need my help?”
“I am afraid so. And if you can forgive my rudeness, I must explain my business quickly, though I would far rather talk with you a while of old times. Is Gurd still alive?”
“Still alive? He certainly is. He owns this dump. I’m his tenant.”
Vas guffaws at the thought of Gurd turning into a businessman. And when Vas-ar-Methet guffaws, he really lets it out. He’s pretty unrestrained for an Elf. Not the sort to sit around in a tree all night, watching the stars. I always liked him.
“What’s the rush?”
“I am here as part of the retinue of Lord Kalith-ar-Yil. We sailed in early this morning, earlier than expected. Lord Kalith has been keen to complete the voyage as he is anticipating bad weather on the return journey.”
I’d heard that Lord Kalith-ar-Yil was due in Turai. He’s the ruler of Avula, one of the Elvish Isles to the south, and a friend and ally of our city. Some of our Turanian officials are going down to visit as guests of the Elves for the Avulan festival, which is held every five years, I believe. The invitation was sent up by way of Lord Lisith-ar-Moh, another Elvish ally, who visited Turai recently. Lisith-ar-Moh is the ruler of Ven, an island close to Avula.
“I heard you were of some service to Lord Lisith,” says Vas.
“I was. I helped make sure the great chariot race actually happened, though that involved helping the Orcs’ entrant as well, which I could have done without. A man doesn’t want too much of a reputation as an Orc helper. So you’re here to pick up our Prince and take him to the Avulan festival?”
“We are. And as we are earlier than expected, and Lord Kalith wishes to sail tonight, I imagine there is some amount of panic at the Imperial Palace. I myself have much to do and can’t spend long here.”
“Well, tell me the trouble, Vas. We can reminisce another time.”
Elves can be a little wordy. I heard Lord Lisith when he proffered the Avulans’ invitation to their festival, and to be honest it dragged a little. We all like Elves in this city, and we’re pleased they’ve invited our young Prince to the island of Avula, but we don’t necessarily want to hear endless speeches about it. Fortunately Vas is more direct than an Elf Lord.
“Two months ago our Hesuni Tree was damaged by fire.”
My eyes widen in surprise. Every Elvish island is inhabited by one clan of Elves and every clan has its Hesuni Tree. It’s said to record the history of the clan. In some ways it’s their soul. I’ve never heard of one catching fire.
“It never has happened before. And it was not completely burned, though it suffered considerable damage. The tree-tenders of our tribe have saved it, though it will be some time before it is strong again. This is not public knowledge. I know that Lord Kalith will have informed your Royal Family of the occurrence, but we would not wish for people to know the true state of affairs.”