Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets (3 page)

In any case, this does not detract from my interest in those 550,000 crowns; it’s better to keep your free will, including the possibility of pulling out from the match, especially in view of the direction the investigation has been going in, right from the start. After all, the contract’s supernatural binding works both ways, it forces the instigator to come up with the payment once the job has been done.

I light a cigarette and wipe some ash off the digital clock set in the dashboard. I’ve booked a table at Fierno for nine, so I’ve got plenty of time for a quick trip to Sublevel One. Before I switch the ignition on, I snatch another look at the photos on my mobile, without coming to any mind-blowing conclusions.

Sublevel One is a lively commercial neighbourhood, practically mono-racial, a pleasant environment for dwarves and humanoids suffering from acute agoraphobia or acrophobia. Dwarves who are in touch with their roots prefer a house underground to the higher neighbourhoods, therefore Nectropis’s golden rule: higher means better, is not applied here. Barely interested in daylight, the dwarves have always been the most enthusiastic supporters of the city right from the very beginning, they capitalize on its heritage without dwelling on its biggest defect: night lasts over twenty-two hours.

Nectropis really does owe its blossoming to the Failed Apocalypse. According to the unanimous opinion of these self-appointed experts, the last colossal battle between the Sulphurous Throne and the planet’s sentient races was fought where the cyclopic city walls stand today. A great coalition launched a desperate attack here on the portentous demonic citadel, the brutal fighting lasted nearly a week. Once the war was over, only a few thousand dwarves survived and there were only a few dozen elves left in the whole world; but it was the vampires who paid the highest price, they were completely wiped out and disappeared from history. The vampires, who for centuries had governed most of today’s Western Federation, possessed the extraordinary gift of being able to establish a sort of mystical bond between themselves and the areas they reigned over, immersing them in dense darkness for most of the day. Curiously, the longer this bond persisted, the more fertile the soil became, the mines richer and the weather more temperate. Therefore, the people ruled over by the un-dead happily accepted this nomination by the eternal lords of darkness.

A few decades after the vampires were exterminated, the day-night cycle went back to normal everywhere, except in Nectropis. The most valid theory explaining this phenomenon claims that the vast amount of immortal bloodshed by the vampires on the battle field left a permanent mark on the landscape, which is apparently confirmed by the City’s surprising growth in the subsequent millennium.

I take ringroad 45, one of the level’s main roads which links the ramps to the centre. Traffic is dense but it’s moving, the dwarves are leaving work in an orderly fashion, some are heading home while others are off to the pub.

Funny folk, these bearded shorties, obsessive when it comes to work or traffic regulations, completely mental when playtime comes around. The same amount of traffic on the roads in human neighbourhoods would cause an endless traffic jam, hundreds of honking horns and numerous nervous breakdowns. Maybe even death. Instead, under less than an hour, the drunks will start the first bar fights of the evening. Dwarves are exempt from common law concerning bar fights, they are considered as being part of their multi-millennial culture. It’s no mere protest, confirmed by the fact that often important businessmen are involved in these fights as well as prominent political figures, just as if the brawl were a national sport. The police only intervene on the rare occasions weapons are involved, that really is a bad business. Anyway, punch ups in the dwarf district always attract crowds of tourists and onlookers who, apart from serious cases of congenital stupidity, do not normally join in the action. Simply speaking, a dwarf would never “stoop” to fighting with people from other races, with the natural exception of ogres, who are inevitably at the origin of sporadic battles involving real combat or improvised knives, axes and hammers.

Leaving the ring road I turn into a narrow one-way street lined with various shops, but no pubs, thank God. I park crosswise between two squared vehicles perfectly aligned along the pavement. The buildings rise from the ground as far as the ceiling which is punctuated with powerful street lamps. The old neon sign—TUBGORNE’S—is already switched off, but there’s still a light on inside. I scan the goods in the window with bored indifference while I finish my cigarette. Beron Tubgorne, in my
expert
opinion, is the best rune engraver in the whole city. I met the hairy son of a little bitch at the Academy of Magic, when he still held the Chair of Engraving. One hundred years previously he had received an award from the institution for his creation of an original prototype of a hybrid elemental combustion engine, one of the crucial inventions for modern magitechnics. A stab of nostalgia hits me right in the gut as I think back to my time at the Academy. Master Tubgorne was expelled when his affair with one of the students, a female dwarf, came out. Beron decided to marry her all the same, but his early retirement and subsequent excess of free time (which translated, fatally, into excessive brawling and gambling accompanied by his wife) ruined him completely, despite his wealth generated by numerous patents belonging to the dwarf. Poor bugger. The day I saved him from a loan shark, I became a kind of uncle in his eyes. Opening the shop was a way of getting back on track.

Without thinking, I flick the cigarette butt onto the pavement and instantly regret it. An elderly dwarf couple, solemnly plodding along arm-in-arm, flinch in horror.

“How dare you, you lout?”

“Can’t you see there’s a bin?!” This is the wife, with a tone of voice you would use with a backward child. She’s wearing a brown scarf wrapped round her head, covering her hair. Someone ought to explain to her that it went out of fashion a good few decades ago. She’s five hundred years old if she’s a day.

“That’s what street cleaners are for,” I reply, shrugging. They are momentarily stunned by my indifference, I take advantage of this brief awkward interlude to dive into the shop and leave them to their resentful muttering. The bell above the door heralds my arrival.

Inside is rather bare compared to human standards. I linger to have a look at the goods. On the right, some shelves have a tidy display of various items for sale, particularly utensils, strengthened by runic inscriptions. A torch with no batteries with a hundred-year guarantee here, a pan which heats up without the aid of fire there, a mobile phone with constant reception in pride of position on the middle shelf, all with price labels, obviously more expensive than your common-or-garden torches, pans or mobiles. Then, on the wall to the left, there is an impressive poster of all the runes people could choose from for Beron to engrave and the prices of each. This kind of work was always the main source of business for the shop. At the back, the counter stands between the clientele and the entrance to the workshop and the basement. I’m about to head towards it when a cavernous voice from the other room stops me in my tracks.

“We’re closed.”

I fold my arms with a smirk.

“We’re closed,” repeats Beron, showing his face. “Oh, hello there, sonny, it’s you” He greets me with a smile.

“For the love of Owl, Professor, I’m thirty-seven, stop calling me sonny.”

“Hey! No swearing in my shop, cheeky. I’ve told you before…”—waving his stubby index finger in my direction—“…Muraddin will have you.”

We both burst out in peals of laughter.

“What are you doing around here? Looking for a decent beer? I was just about to pop ‘round to Otre’s.”

He approaches with the strange swaying gait of dwarves, and crushes my hand. His thick black beard, streaked with grey, comes down as far as his belly, and is in sharp contrast with his head which is completely bald. His glasses, secured to his neck by a gold chain, peek out halfway as though involved in an exploration of the prominent belly underneath the grizzled undergrowth.

“No, just passing by. You got rid of the plaits in your beard?!”

“Yes,” he answers, his fingers worrying the mass of hair. “Tessa says it makes me look younger.”

I laugh.

“I didn’t think you cared about trying to look younger.”

“Bah. Women. They make you do the weirdest things. When are you going to find yourself one and settle down? Then
I
can take the piss out of
you.”

“Never, if I have a say in the matter.”

“All right, all right, lover boy. What can I do for you?”

Taking my mobile out, I upload the photos.

“Tell me what could have caused a wound like that.”

Putting his round glasses on, he wets his lips with his tongue while he scrolls down the pictures. At the beginning he murmurs “uhmm”, and then he starts with his classic “ugly business, ugly business”. He takes his glasses off and looks me right in the eye, his tone heavy.

“Ugly business.”

“Well? Do you know then?”

“In my opinion, an elf-made silk blade was used.”

“Are you kidding? Like in the films? I didn’t know they actually existed.”

Beron sighs and lowers himself down onto the small stool behind the till. He thinks chairs are for loafers.

“Oh they exist all right, sonny, but only a handful of asses use them. Decades of intense training is required before you can master the art of the silk blade, and elves no longer have reason to use them in battle. They were very common before the Apocalypse, at least that’s what the few surviving hares say, the ones who deign themselves to talk to us poor mortals.”

Dwarves can live up to seven centuries but only elves live indefinitely.

“It’s a magical weapon, I imagine.”

“Oh yes.” Tubgorne nods vigorously. “Maybe the most magical
of all
, apart from the legendary weapons of course. It has to be, otherwise it could get broken simply by taking it out of its sheath. Actually, it’s practically indestructible, and it can bend like a whip. Virtually weightless. The blade is less than half a millimetre thick. I held one once, a long time ago. One of the dynasties lent it to the Academy for a research project, but nothing good came of it. It’s enchanted with the magic of willpower, nothing at all to do with runes.”

The mention of the Academy makes the dwarf come over all misty-eyed for a moment. A feeling of vague sadness lingers in the air. I thump my fist on his back.

“Well, thanks a lot, Beron. Must dash now, I’ve got a dinner date. Let’s go out for a drink some time next week?”

He nods, lost in his memories. I’m already at the door when he calls me back.

“Sonny.”

“What?”

“Watch yourself. A murdering elf is ugly business. Have you still got it with you?”

I pat my raincoat with a flat hand, in the general location of the Altra holster.

“Always.”

“Hmmm. Altra. What a name for a gun.”

“I know, but I’ve never been able to get my tongue round the name you gave it” Flashing him a grin, I nod goodbye.

I don’t think anyone would ever believe me, knowing this story and knowing me, if I said that it breaks my heart knowing that I can’t go for a drink with him next week.

But it’s absolutely true.

Dorisa. In my opinion, Dorisa could have been a model. Instead, who knows why, she chose the MetroPo. When I get there, late, obviously, she’s waiting for me outside Fierno and she’s wearing a knock-out dress that reveals her bare back. A discreet clutch bag, sky-high heels, long lean legs. She’s no spring chicken, but this really is irrelevant. Without even realising it, I lick my lips.

I sneak up on her, and peeking out from behind her shoulder I plant a kiss on her cheeks.

“Arkham!” she exclaims. “You startled me.” She smiles. Dorisa smiles all the time.

“You’re late.”

“As usual. I’m sorry.”

She gives me a push.

“It’s always the same with you. I just got here anyway.”

I proffer my arm, even though we look a bit ridiculous as a couple. It’s not that I don’t have any suits good enough for Fierno, it’s just that I simply didn’t have time to go home and get changed, or have a shower and a shave. With our chins up and a solemn countenance we make our entrance, aping the dignified behaviour of the rich magnates who count Fierno as their number one eatery.

The
maître d'
does not alter his deadpan expression, but he scans me from head to foot. He’s almost certainly repulsed even though he doesn’t show it. Professional.

“Do you have a re
th
erva
th
ion?” he asks with his oh-so-chic lisp, safe in the knowledge that the reservation bastion will drive off this piece of trash and his inexplicably attractive companion. After all, in his eyes, it’s just
inconceivable
for such a person to have booked a table in
his
restaurant.

“Ye
th
, a table for two, the name’
th
Arkham.”

Dorisa is almost crying with laughter, but she manages to stifle her giggles.

“
Th
ir, I mu
th
t inform you that your, erm,
th
uit…”

“Lieutenant Arkham, Federal Guard, old boy.”

He jumps, within the constraints of etiquette.

“This way, please.” He’s already forgotten his standard-issue lisp. Not so professional after all.

“Let’
th
th
it,
th
weetheart,” I say to Dorisa, who finally collapses into a heap of giggles.

I wake up with a rather inelegant belch. Maybe I had too much to eat at dinner last night. After a few disoriented seconds, I recognise Sergeant Xevez’s bedroom. I rub my eyes and squint at the clock on the bedside table. A quarter past one. Good morning.

Luckily, Dorisa’s sprog is with the grandparents. I’ve never known who the father is and I’ve never wanted to. Judging by Dorisa’s relaxed attitude to sex it could be anyone.