Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets (16 page)

“We’re talking about elves here, Cohl. All the documents dating back to before the apocalypse were either lost or destroyed, while from the defeat by the Sulphurous Throne onwards they have always dominated society in practically every way. I can assure you that they are more than able to bury anything. Trust me.”

I should know.

“Just fabulous,” pouts Nohl, downhearted, “that means another day in the car tomorrow. A great Saturday, really. Let’s hope we end up in some dump where it’s raining slime, it’d be a shame to stop now that I’m starting to enjoy it.”

“Right. Join up, they said. You’ll see the world, they said.”

Not that anyone really said that to me, also because I think they were referring to the army, but it’s one of those lines you hear. You know.

We take our coats off the coat hook, and I stop to look at the only one left hanging there.

“Did you check the pockets?”

“Of course I did, but I didn’t find much of anything. There’s a note with half an email address. Who knows how long it’s been there. I put it back where I found it.”

“Let’s have a look…”

I rummage inside and pull out the note, a scrap of paper torn off a larger sheet, it has ‘kart.nofym’ written on it in red ink. There’s nothing unusual about it; in fact, there isn’t even a dominion.

“It’s better than nothing. It could be the name of a person or a company.”

“Just don’t ask me to look in the records, Lieutenant, otherwise I might never come out again. It could be a nickname you know?”

“In any case, it’s the only reference we’ve got, seeing as you didn’t find any diaries or things like that. Maybe Gilder overlooked something.”

“If you say so, Lieutenant…”

I completely understand Cohl’s skepticism, I also feel like I’m clutching at straws. But we could always get a lucky break, maybe this name will jump out of the Guard’s records, or from research on the internet. I feel like a dog chasing its tail. Things are worsened by that unhealthy idea that’s been going ‘round my head ever since I saw the non-dead at Nexus. A demented thought, something that I would never even consider if I weren’t forced to try everything.

“What time tomorrow?” yawns the Inspector.

“I’ll call you. You start making a nice list of all the clinics, a few calls might even be enough.”

I say goodbye to the kid at the door, leaving him to negotiate the yellow police tape. That’s funny, in theory the seal should also stop me from entering, seeing as it’s not my investigation, though in actual fact it doesn’t keep anybody out. All I can do is cross my fingers and hope the house doesn’t get cleaned out during the night. The idea of spending the night here in Gilder’s house is tempting, but Cohl would probably tell me to go to hell. It’s a real pain to fix the tape back on to the greasy door frame outside. And then, I’ve got my medicine. What do I need to sleep for?

“So I don’t piss my brain through my nostrils,” I answer myself, in the car. I light a cigarette, not sure about my next move, while I wait for the kid to leave so I can do a line. The windscreen, which has been under attack from the precipitation from the edge for the last few hours, looks like an oily kebab wrapper, the outside world is smudgy brown. The windscreen wipers do their best, but their efforts are in vain, not even the hammering rain can get rid of this filthy film on the glass.

I’m going to have to get the car cleaned, once I’ve pocketed the money.

Most of the deaths attributed to Onirò are in actual fact caused by chronic fatigue or lack of sleep. Clients and scientists agree that this ancient alchemist’s substance, by almost completely obliterating the perception of tiredness and pain, pushes users to stay awake for days on end, particularly if they can get their hands on a regular supply. However, an experienced connoisseur such as myself, learns a few tricks along the way. For example, I know I’m close to my limit when my desire to fuck starts to fade.

I am at precisely that point when I ring Beron’s doorbell. I usually end up here when I don’t know what to do. Tessa opens the door with a smile, two long platinum-blond plaits skim her ample chest. Female dwarves have great boobs, but they have one terrible defect (they are dwarves) which makes them totally unapproachable according to my sexual needs, which are, all things considered, somewhat traditional.

“Arkham, what a surprise!”

I bow and she stands on her tiptoes for the three kisses on the cheek.

“Hi Tessa. Is Beron at home?”

She assumes the characteristic scolding stance, with her fists on her hips. A far as I know, the wife continually telling off the husband is a standard dynamic between dwarf couples. Years ago, Beron explained to me that the frequency of rows between husband and wife is a direct measure of the strength of their relationship, and that they expect to beat the crap out of each other at least once a year. If this doesn’t happen, it is considered to be a bad sign for all the family’s business activities.

“Of course he’s at home. He’s in his armchair watching kids box, and he’s offloaded all the work onto me.”

“Do you mind if I come in for a second?”

“Don’t be an idiot, of course you can come in. Actually, I’d like to have a word with you, but unfortunately
someone
let the work mount up and
someone else
has got to get it finished by tomorrow.”

I bend over to cross the threshold and, following the mistress of the house, go into the living room. The professor, a large smoking cigar in his mouth, is shouting at the television and miming the right moves the two opponents should make, now and then he sloshes the contents of his glass around the room.

“
Master
Tubgorne
. We have a guest, if you would have the decency to behave like a civilised dwarf, for once.”

“Ah, sonny. Come on, sit yourself down.” Beron invites me in distractedly, pointing at the low sofa.

“Is this how you greet a guest?!”

“Shut your mouth, woman!”

“Oh yeah!? Then I’ll put a rat in your stew!”

“Get back to work, you bloody ape!”

I sit down and stretch my legs, while Mrs Tubgorne disappears back into the domestic laboratory yelling insults at the professor.

“Dear girl,” comments Beron in an undertone, without taking his eyes off the fight, “she talks too much, like all women, but I just couldn’t manage without her…”

“Are you teaching her how to engrave properly?” I ask, trying to work out who the two boxers are.

“Ah yes… oh, no! Not like that, you stupid boy!” The dwarf gesticulates in the direction of the one wearing blue shorts, who misses landing a hook on his opponent, who in turns responds by quickly pummelling his ribs. When the one in blue shorts embraces the one in red ones, Beron picks up where he left off. “Yes, I’m teaching her a few tricks. Well, you know, one day she’ll have to cope on her own.”

“Oh come on, you’re not that old…”

“Well,” he doubts that, shaking his head, “I’m starting to feel my age. Obviously I’ll strangle you if you tell anyone.”

“Are you going to teach her your family secret, too?”

He breathes in deeply before answering.

“No, it’s far too dangerous. I think the whole world would be better off if it disappeared with me…”

I didn’t want to put him in a bad mood so soon, so I rush to change the subject.

“What are we watching?”

“Two snotty-nosed kids pretending to box, that’s what. It’s supposed to be the title for middle-weight humans, instead it’s a scrap between a couple of kids! I’ve told you before… have I?... Yes, I’ve told you before; you long-legged folk don’t know how to fight… it’s all about the centre of gravity…”

If, as is patently obvious, he’s not watching the fight because he likes it, then there’s only one possible reason.

“Who have you got money on?”

“On that imbecile Garan Bel, blue shorts. The contender… just look at him, I hope he disappears! And you call that an uppercut? Bah, I could do better at primary school!”

Bel sways dangerously under a renewed shower of blows. The champion looks to be in perfect control of the situation, he bluffs and quickly neutralises the attacks by his rival, who looks to be at breaking point.

“How much have you bet on him?”

A punch to Bel’s jaw makes the poor bastard spit blood even more, he staggers onto the ropes and hardly has the strength to lift up his arms to guard against a second one.

“Five hundred.”

Red starts to hammer Beron’s ‘favourite’ with the obvious intention of mincing him.

“Come on, Beron…”

“Only five hundred!” he protests, innocently.

During the final seconds the one in blue falls to the ground twice, literally annihilated. Right at the end, Bel looks as though he’s about to collapse for the third and last times after he receives a blow straight to his already shattered nose, and Beron jumps to his feet holding his breath. The sudden sound of the gong saves the challenger from a premature death. Nursultan—that’s the name of the reigning champion, the commentators inform me—skips back to his corner, while Garan struggles towards his. The professor rejoices loudly.

“Don’t they go off the points?” I doubt Garan has much of a chance.

“Of course, but I don’t care. I bet that he wouldn’t stay down, not that he’d win. I’m no fool, you know?” He rubs his hands together and turns the volume down on the television, reducing it to a background murmur.

“Let’s celebrate!”

He grabs the bottle on the table next to the sofa. He fetches a second glass from the kitchen, just as the judging panel decrees an ignoble defeat for Bel, thus confirming Nursultan champion.

When he comes back he hands me a small glass of transparent liquid which has a ferocious alcoholic smell to it.

“Try this. Knock it back in one.”

We both swallow it in one go, following a brief toast.

Oh Gods.

I cough for at least two minutes, and nearly suffocate the old dwarf with my cursing, who, in turn, slaps me on the back and keeps on muttering, “Good, isn’t it? Come on, breathe sonny!” between laughs.

“You really are a bastard, Beron. What the hell was that stuff? He turns the bottle around to show me the label, printed in a language I don’t understand. The logo, a black silhouette against an orange background looks like a gecko spitting fire.

“Good huh?” he repeats happily. “‘Salamander Breath’. A client brought it back for me from the central states. They squeeze the lizard’s fire glands and distill this lovely stuff. Oh, and get this,” he adds, with a serious face, “this is authentic, made from real salamanders, not some laboratory crap.”

“Tastes like petrol…”

“It really does,” He nods in agreement, clearly not picking up on the sarcasm in my voice. He returns to his seat and pours himself another glass of poison.

Apparently, when it’s made from wild salamanders it’s even stronger. Unfortunately they’re in danger of extinction, so you can only find a few bottles on the black market.”

“Bummer.”

“I know. Did you get hand-bagged by a rent boy, Lieutenant?” he queries when he notices the cut above my eye.

“Ah, it’s a long, muddled story.”

I give him a general outline of my run-in with the Odas, leaving out the inappropriate parts but letting slip the location. Dammit, I’m really starting to lose my grip.

“I see, I see. On the Seventh you say,” comments the dwarf after a mouthful of smoke, at the end of the “And what were you doing on the Seventh at night then, eh? You were beaten up by those monsters and now you’re here, as fresh as a daisy, eh?”

“Not exactly fresh…”

“May Muraddin take you, sonny! You’ve got to give that shit up,” he tells me off, jabbing me with his index and middle fingers which grip his lit cigar.

“Beron, if I wanted to listen to a sermon I would have gone to church.”

“Dammit, you’re a…” He takes a deep breath when I motion to him to stop preaching. “All right, all right. But I just don’t understand you, I don’t understand how you think, you humans. Your lives are short, yet you damn your souls trying to shorten it as much as you can. You smoke, you drink, you do things that—“

“I’ve never seen anyone smoke and drink as much as you do.”

“What’s that got to do with it? You lot are weak, you can’t expect to... and then what’s that got to do with it, I didn’t tell you to stop drinking, I told you to stop taking that shit!”

“Listen, we’re friends, etc. But no one gets to tell me how to live my life, okay?

Following this admonishment, Beron raises his hands and surrenders, nosily expelling plumes of murky air through his flared nostrils. A few moments of silence are broken only by the tinkling of the bottle and glass when I pour myself another finger of Breath, which I sip warily. It’s not that bad if you drink it with criterion.

“Anyway, I dropped by to ask you a few things.”

“What?” he asks, his anger almost extinguished.

“The topic is half-elves.” I just let it hang there.

“There’s not a lot to say about it.”

“In other words?”

“They don’t exist.” He taps his cigar in the ashtray. “Outside of books, I mean. There are some novels and poems that feature half-elves, but a half-elf is simply a sort of mythological creature. I think they personify loneliness, how difficult it is to be different. At least, I think that’s what it was in the piece I saw a few centuries ago, I can’t remember the title.”

“So you don’t believe they exist.”

“I think they do, but you should ask a doctor.”

Bad news. Even when he’s not sure about something, it’s very unusual for Professor Tubgorne to be wrong about something. Particularly regarding history, considering he experienced a large part of it first hand. If there isn’t even a trace of rumours amongst the dwarves, the odds of the half-elf theory drop dramatically.

“Right… and about exile from a birth dynasty, do you know how that works?”

“You’re out of the game. They pay you your ‘share’ in cash, but as far as I know, they never acknowledge you again.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“A substantial amount. Millions.”