Detective Nicely Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf (18 page)

I sat in the wagon, watching the sun go down over the stud farm, chewing on the information that I had obtained from the King of the Desolate Wastes, and tallying it with what I had already learnt from Clubbin and Mother Crock.

I was not exactly sure what it was that had brought me back to Rosebud. All I know is when I had woken up in the Fortress of the Desolate Wastes, I had felt a touch uneasy, and it was not just the thought of the court assassins still wandering around. This unease was still with me after I had broken my fast with something solid, and satisfied my coffee urge. Well, as much as my coffee urge can ever be satisfied without a permanent drip-feed being attached. And that’s not possible yet, I checked. It makes you wonder what these scholars do all day instead of inventing something useful.

On the way back from the Fortress I made better time. Around midwatch I stopped off at a lay-by. I wasn’t very hungry, so I just bought some fruit for the journey, but I did take the opportunity to find a horn and get in touch with my answering service. Messages were picked up and messages were left. Mrs Hardwood’s scribe had called to arrange a lunch date. Josh Corncrack had been on several times, threatening blood and bones if he didn’t get an exclusive for
The Citadel Press
concerning ‘whatever it was I was up to that was driving everybody crazy’. More importantly, there was a message from Grove. It turned out that the barkeeper at
The
Old Inn
had not seen Perry collect his goods in person. Some friends, unspecified, had picked them up on his behalf. I wanted to get back to Grove, but unfortunately, as his message made clear, the extraction of this information from the barkeeper had involved dangling him, by his ankles, over an open barrel of his own beer. Grove was thus seeking further employment, and lodgings, and would get back to me when he had a number. The last message I had was from Renfield Crew, the scribe. He sounded excited and said he had some information on Mr Hardwood that I would find exciting too. Fortunately he also sounded as if he was now back shooting with a full quiver of arrows. I put him top of my ‘to do’ list.

When I finally made it back to the outskirts of civilisation proper the sun was dropping behind the Citadel, casting a long shadow over the plain of Rhavona. Now, as I have admitted, I can just about tell one end of a horse from the other, but it is a close thing. All I had to go on was an old picture on a kid’s trading card, the words of an outmoded noble, and that little thing that resembled a detective’s hunch. Maybe my detective instincts weren’t completely atrophied after all. Oh yes, and I now also had a copy of a photograph of a queen who was now married to a very different sort of high-powered leader. I found a hardgoods store still open and bought what I needed there, then I picked up some provisions; it was going to be a long evening, but I had an itch that needed scratching before I visited Renfield Crew.

I parked the wagon where I could get a view of the stable, without being seen myself. Taking out a fresh new bottle from my pack, I unscrewed the top and took a sample, then wished that I had thought to bring a skin of water instead. It was still far too hot for hard gravy. I screwed the top back up tight, got out my pipe and waited.

As soon as it was dark enough to cover my movements I made my way around the back to Rosebud’s stall. I found it with no trouble – good old dwarf night vision. He was jolly pleased to see me and nuzzled for the sugar I had picked up along with the provisions. The job didn’t take long. I stepped back to admire my handiwork, and fell into the black pit that is always ready to swallow up a dwarf detective who doesn’t pay enough attention.

I came to, lying on a bed of straw. I knew it was straw because that is where the horses crap and my nose was confident that this was what it was poking into. There was another smell as well: the paint thinner which had spilt as I fell. I was still clutching the rag I had used on Rosebud. A lantern was swinging from the rafters. I then realised that the lantern was stationary and it was me that was not so steady. The rafters then turned out to be the arms of the tall stable man I had met the day before.

‘Thought you’d be back, I’ve a feeling for these things.’ He placed the lantern on a convenient hook. ‘I’ve been keeping watch at the Lancer’s stall, though; nose steered me wrong there.’

He sat on a large stool and rested his hands and chin on the long staff that had dealt me the blow. ‘Remember me? Clubbin?’

I nodded. Some detective I was. Big clue in the name there.

‘I generally like to introduce myself to those I’ve maced. Mind you, you’ve a fine skull there, they don’t usually come round this quick, unless I’m losing my touch. I was just fixing myself a pipe.’ He threw his pouch over and I caught it. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Co-ordination is fine, no concussion.’ He lit a long-stem with a match, which he struck on a boot that must have taken the best part of a heifer’s hide.

‘Mind the sparks,’ I said, pointing to the paint thinner, and carefully filling my own briar.

‘Oh yes. The thinner. Don’t expect no apology from me, though. Even if you were right, no call to be creeping round a stable at night.’ I could not think of a reply worth the effort. ‘I’ve finished your work for you. Best come take a look.’

He led, lantern in hand. I got up and followed. We left the animal in Rosebud’s stall happily clearing up the sugar spilt as I had fallen. Clubbin outpaced me, but no way was I going to run to catch up, so I followed his guide-light as quickly as I was capable. He took me to the Dark Lancer’s stall. The horse was pleased to see us. He seemed docile now, he seemed positively friendly, he seemed everything he should be, except for the distinctive white mark on his muzzle, in contrast to the all-black horse I had left happily eating in what I could no longer really call Rosebud’s stall.

‘Maybe I do owe you something after all,’ said Clubbin, pulling a bottle from behind a hay bale and throwing it in my direction. I pulled the bottle cork with my teeth. The contents smelt like horse liniment, and might well have tasted like it – I’ve never been that desperate – but at least my eyes leapt back into focus. I threw the bottle back to Clubbin and it was effortlessly plucked out of the air. He took a drink and then asked: ‘What do you reckon we have here then?’

I eased myself up onto a convenient crate, a respectful distance from the unmasked horse. ‘As I read the runes, I think we have a winning horse with a lucrative pedigree, but no desire to do what a stud should do. We also have another stallion, a winner without the parentage, who is the same general size and colour as the first horse, but for a distinctive marking. He, at least, has the, how shall we put it, the enthusiasm for the job?’

‘Sounds good so far,’ agreed Clubbin, taking a long draw of his pipe.

‘So with a bit of black dye, Rosebud becomes the Dark Lancer and with a bit of white bleach the Dark Lancer becomes Rosebud. The problem is thereby solved and everybody is happy, and very much richer. Especially the stud owners.’ I eyed Clubbin carefully to see how this went down.

‘Yup, that’s about how I read the runes too. And it wouldn’t take much for that very rich stud owner to keep up the pretence when the horses are out of my sight either.’

‘Does it sound like the sort of stunt he might pull?’

‘This is horse racing, Master Dwarf; I’d be surprised if he didn’t. I’m thinking there might be more too it as well.’

‘Such as?’

‘Remember that last race, the one I told you that Rosebud did so poorly in?’

‘Oh yes, when he ran out of legs?’

‘Maybe he never did.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Come on, you’ve not just come down from the mountain. Big money bet on an outsider, that’s the normal reason for a sudden loss of form by a favourite. But perhaps it was the Dark Lancer that was going off his form and so they did the switch. They clear up on the betting and the Dark Lancer’s value is assured, for winning the race and for later stud payments.’

I thought about this. ‘That could also explain why the so-called Rosebud was pulled out of racing at the same time that the Lancer was supposed to be going out to stud.’

‘Indeed,’ said Clubbin. ‘You know, as I recollect now, I do believe that Leo Courtkey didn’t ride Rosebud in that last race. It was the Dark Lancer’s normal rider.’

‘That would make sense. Maybe he was asked to take a dip, but refused. They certainly couldn’t have fooled him with a dye job.’ We both pulled on our pipes, contemplating. Finally Clubbin broke the silence. ‘Or perhaps he took their gold and hightailed it out of there as speedily as his own two legs could take him.’

‘It’s possible, especially if he had been supporting expensive habits.’

‘True. Some riders take a lot of different things to kill their appetites to stop them putting on weight.’

‘Like Moondust, for example?’

‘It has been known, if they can find the money. It’s not a cheap way of slimming.’

‘So where does that leave us?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ said Clubbin, ‘it leaves me out of here, that’s for sure. All of this went on before I started work here, but I should have suspected something and I want nothing to do with it now. Still one last thing to do, though.’

It did not take us long to swap the two horses and put them back in their rightful stalls. Rosebud did not seem too impressed with his reduced circumstances. The Dark Lancer seemed overjoyed with his surroundings, especially his winning rosettes. ‘Well lad, you earned them,’ said Clubbin, patting him reassuringly. ‘I wish I could be here tomorrow, when all the rich Citadel folk come out to see their mares covered by the great Dark Lancer. I don’t really think I should be hanging about, though.’ He gave the horse one last pat.

‘He’ll be all right, will he? The Dark Lancer, I mean,’ I said some time later, as we drove back to the Hill.

‘They’re not about to put him down, if that’s what you mean. Don’t worry; word will get around very quick, and they won’t be able to pull that stunt again. Most likely it will be put down to something contagious, but Dark Lancer, he’s a personality, and he’ll probably end up opening summer shows and parties. He’d like that, lots of sugar and fuss, but thanks for asking. As for the real Rosebud, well, you’ve probably heard the saying: you can’t keep a good horse down. He’ll probably be siring a few champions now under his own name!’

Clubbin fell quiet again for the rest of the journey. Just before he got out on Lower Fifth he said, ‘That book of pictures you were after, it seems it’s only gone missing. Somebody has been covering their tracks. Thought you might want to know that.’

I dropped him on a corner, just by the gate, and he disappeared. One more dark shadow lost in the night. He never did say sorry for the macing, and I never did hold it against him.

I sat in the wagon for a moment joining up a few of the dots. Leo Courtkey certainly looked like the number-one candidate for the role of Hardwood Emerald thief. Even if he were no longer working there, he would know the security arrangements and it sounded like he had a habit to support. Was he, even now, sitting on a beach somewhere in the far south sipping cocktails?

It wasn’t very far to the Wizards’ Quarter and Renfield Crew’s deepmost dwelling. I found it easier to find this time; it was probably the flashing lights on the roofs of all the Citadel Guard wagons parked outside that helped.

I knew the tabard-wearing Cit guarding the top of the staircase: Caff Twoson. He had been a new boy when I was fresh off the mountain too. He had a strong back and a quick smile, a combination that had made him popular wherever he patrolled. His singular lack of ambition was the sole reason for his lack of advancement and did not reflect on either his wit or ability. He gave me a quick heads-up: ‘The shiny gold badges want to send you back to New Iron Town by instalment plan.’

‘That good, eh?’

‘The word is that the only reason they’re not carrying out that particular option is because the White and Wise are busy thinking up something even nastier to do with you.’

‘Great! How’s Ralph?’

‘Sergeant Credible Ignorance is currently downstairs and I’m sure will be delighted to be updated as to your current misadventures. As for myself, I’m going to walk over yonder and advise that member of the local community to “move on” … unfortunately leaving this entrance momentarily unguarded.’

‘Thanks, Caff.’

‘For what? I’ve not seen you.’

‘Who has?’

‘And Nicely … I hope you’ve not just eaten, because this one’s not pretty.’

I walked carefully down the staircase, not looking forward to what I knew I must find. The hovel was better lit than before, thanks to the presence of a number of Citadel Guard mobile lights. What they illuminated was not pretty – not in any way.

Ralph was standing by the stove staring at the surprised expression on Renfield’s face. It was a very natural, lifelike expression. The fact that Renfield’s body was propped up against the sleeping pallet some five feet away told a different story.

They say that the quill is mightier than the sword, but the sword is a whole lot messier.

For a seriously skinny guy Renfield sure had his full quota of blood. It hadn’t helped towards the embellishment of his quarters any.

‘Nice trip?’ said Ralph, after we had retired to the bottom of the staircase and leant against the wall to take a pipe.

‘Now what makes you think I’ve been anywhere?’

‘Probably because I asked you to not leave the Citadel for a while. So from past experience I would expect you to have headed out for a week in Tall Trees at least.’

‘The Fortress of the Desolate Wastes, actually.’

Ralph registered real surprise. ‘Now that’s an interesting destination – my in-laws went there last year. I’m assuming it was tat?’

‘Oh, yes – it was the pinnacle of tat.’

‘But advantageous?’

‘It depends really how you might classify advantageous, Sergeant Credible Ignorance.’

Ralph drew long on his pipe and sighed the sigh of a much put-upon public guardian. ‘I suppose you know what was in the very late Renfield Crew’s pocket?’