The ‘conservative old elf’ rises, and while he’s still talking, circles the desk and goes behind me. He rests his hands on my shoulders, it’s as if the long sleeves of his tunic envelop me. Thank the Gods he doesn’t seem to want to intensify this physical contact. There’s something quite alien in his touch.
“I can assure you I know many ways of how to reward loyalty.” A hand hints at the harem, but only vaguely, it’s practically imperceptible, while the tone of his voice takes on a honeyed quality. “All I ask is that you protect this dynasty from further…unpleasantness, caused by such an undeserving girl. A prestigious position in the new administration perhaps. Can I count on your friendship, Lieutenant Arkham?
It’s like Father Christmas bringing you gifts, even though you’ve been a bad boy. I like Father Christmas.
“My job is to bring the guilty party to justice, Mr Lovl’Atheron.”
What have I said!? How the hell did those words come out of my mouth?
Father Christmas has turned into the Lord of the Abyss. And he’s pissed off. With me.
“Laudable. I expect periodic updates. Remember the way, officer.”
I beat a hasty retreat. It’s not just the more than justified fear of the immortal, elvish relic who just kicked me out. It’s not just because I crossed a god. There’s something else. A horrible suspicion, which becomes more real with every step. The inside pocket of my raincoat seems a little heavier as my panic rises. I don’t even glance at the ante-room full of spectacular naked bodies. I hardly notice the sickly feeling after the teletransportation, nearly running to my car, I knock over one of the numerous clients waiting in line at the window, who rolls onto the floor with an amazed exclamation. I’d like to check it straightaway but the car park is undoubtedly packed with security cameras. I turn the engine on, sweating and repeat to myself that it can’t be true. Five minutes later I pull over without indicating, this really enrages the other motorists. I check my pocket.
I swear. I swear so hard as to make the gods come back to earth just so they can strike me dead on the spot. I beat my fists on the steering wheel. Getting out of the car I kick the door, and swear even harder. A man approaches slowly. He looks worried.
“Sir? Are you feeli—“
The Altra jumps into my hand from its intradimensional holster, and I aim it right between his eyes. He almost chokes and throws himself to the ground. Stupid fucking good Samaritan from the Fourteenth Level bastard fuck, I should have just shot him. He crawls away to a safe distance and then legs it, looking back every so often to see if I’m following him. But I’m not, I’m standing here like a bloody idiot, staring at the banged-up door.
Inside the envelope there is only four thousand nine hundred and seventy-eight crowns and some change. I paid my debt at the Two of Spades with the money in the envelope. So high I didn’t even realise what I was doing. Shit. I’m such a prick.
It’s a good fifteen minutes of assorted vulgar words, shouted in the relative privacy of my car, as well as two snorts off the back of my hand, before I can get myself back under control. Eton’s generous gift has nearly run out, already.
Okay, let’s review the situation: I’m completely fucked. But this is not positive thinking. So calm down, think. A dead elf, apparently murdered by an ogre, but presumably taken out by a hired ass. I must check the autopsy report, I hope it arrives in this lifetime. Better get on the coroner’s back. Note to self: brandish badge at the morgue. The family of the victim says that Inla was an exile, and they hadn’t heard anything from her for years. True or false? Valan certainly has assassins capable of using a silk blade. But why kill his own granddaughter, and risk the media getting hold of such an embarrassing story? There is the politics aspect, I hadn’t thought of that before I saw the old elf. In fact, I never vote, it’s pretty clear that elections have very little to do with the polling stations, forms and ticks. Nevertheless, a big scandal could have compromised results, or maybe be used by a rival dynasty as leverage during negotiations, behind the scenes. ‘We’ll bury this story if in return you remove your support of Niuto…’ It’s a possibility, but even if the deceased knew something important, why expose oneself to the risks of a murder rather than just simply making her disappear? Why not even bother to remove the corpse? No. I don’t get it.
Shit, since when is the Guard of Nectropis supposed to find the culprits? Usually they explain to me what happened, or they let me sense it, and then they tell me to bury the whole thing. This is the job taxpayers pay my salary for, shit. Not investigating. For investigating, we’ve got idiots like MetroPo, and everyone has got complete faith in their inability to discover God-knows-what.
Anyway. There’s another lead. Gilder Feltu’Atheron. This one seems a lot more promising for a number of reasons. First off, it’s straightforward, as murder cases where the victim ends up dumped in an alley usually are. The slag plays around, he takes a sword out of his box of old toys and kills her. Then he arranges a false trail with the pest control guy and takes him out too, relying on the ineptitude of the cops. It almost worked too.
I switch my phone on with the intention of calling Dorisa, to smoke old Gilder out. But it’s a stupid idea. Xevez will skin me alive if I ask her for two interceptions on the same day, and I can’t request a warrant as the investigation officially belongs to MP, fuck. Officially I’m missing a working day, as the two unanswered calls from the department reminded me. A minor annoyance compared to Cohl’s nine attempts. That pig-headed moron has called me at regular intervals for the whole bloody morning. Better turn my mobile off before he catches me.
There is something positive in all of this. The Feltu’Atherons have put me where I am now. A few years ago I saved their front-page boy, the current mayor, Romeriòs, from a scandal which would have destroyed his reputation, and since then I’ve been their ‘trustworthy man’ as the old fella in the tower calls me. Oh yes. Valan knew all about it and this makes me uneasy. I’ve got a nasty feeling I’m a rat in a maze, with an audience of elves betting on how long it’ll take me to find my way out.
Why did it have to be me that got an envelope that dragged me into this story of rival dynasties? One of which is my sponsor, and surprise, surprise, they both happen to be competing for a seat in the council. No, it can’t have been Valan who sent me the magical contract, because he’s got a vested interest in the whole business being buried; but then it can’t logically be the Feltus either, they would have just asked. Unless…
Unless the culprit is somebody incredibly important, someone I would never dare arrest, not for any price or favour in the world. If this certain someone got me, I couldn’t say who I was working for anyway, because I don’t know.
My head hurts, and all this reasoning is getting me nowhere.
There are only three ways to get myself out of this fucking mess. The first is feet first which, judging by the way things are going, is as undesirable as it is probable. The second is to wipe out the person who sent me the contract and forget the whole thing; not bad as a solution, but it implies finding the contract counterpart, and until then, trying to resist the devouring sensation of urgency caused by the spell. I can keep it up for a while, but not for ever. The final, tragic possibility is to get to the bottom of this business like a real fucking federal agent. ‘Real’ like the ones in films.
What a shit-awful life. The engine starts with an ominous-sounding death rattle. I should buy a new car, before this one leaves me stranded somewhere. That fifty thousand would really come in handy.
There’s nothing else for it but to go and listen to Feltu’Atheron’s stream of bollocks, I say to myself between bouts of swearing, while I leave the car park, cutting up the odd loser.
“Lonny.”
The elf looks up from the papers he was examining, writing notes here and there in the margins. Just like almost all the Lovls have red hair, Feltus are blonde.
“Lonadir. I’m still called Lonadir, Arkham,” he answers, piqued. I like taking the p
iss now and then with the asses, when possible. I’m like an employee to the Feltu’Atherons, so when my contact person receives me, he does so without standing on ceremony or fawning and I see him directly in his office. As long as I’m a useful employee though, my friends are willing to overlook my insolent behaviour. Thank God, otherwise I’d go mad. Lonadir scrutinises from over the top of his reading glasses, while I make myself comfortable on the edge of the desk.
“Use the chair, please.”
“Only because you asked me to.”
“I didn’t send for you.”
“I know. I thought, just for a change, you could do something nice for me.”
Lonny arches a skeptical eyebrow.
“Gilder Feltu’Atheron. What do you know about him?”
“I don’t see why you should be interested.”
“His little ginger friend is having her beauty sleep in the coroner’s fridge.”
He slightly cocks his head to the left, like he does when he listens to something interesting.
“I did read something about it. Still can’t understand why you’re involved.”
I’m ready for this question.
“Well, you know, I thought to myself: imagine how angry my friend Lonny will be if MP throws his cousin Gilder in jail on suspicion of murder just before the elections.”
“Murder?” he asks, suspiciously.
“Yep.”
“Gilder chose ostracism.”
Oh what a romantic story. Two lovebirds on the run. The elves have a lovely idea of what constitutes choice.
“I suppose the dynasty helped him choose. Why is that?”
“I don’t think I have to remind you of the feud.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Valan belched during dinner with your grandfather a thousand and something years ago, so now you’re all going to sulk for the rest of time.”
I push him right to the limit. As usual. I think that secretly he’d be disappointed if I didn’t drive him up the wall every time we meet.
“If I didn’t know that you do this on purpose, I would already have had you thrown out,” he snarls, “but that would only give you satisfaction, I suppose. I console myself by thinking about the day of your funeral, I will attend for one reason only, to make sure that it’s not someone else in the coffin,” he concludes with an evil grimace.
“Stop that, I’m getting emotional. So he left because the dynasty wasn’t happy with the idea of him banging a redhead. Do you know where he lives, by any chance?”
“No.” But he hesitates for a fraction of a second, before answering. That means yes.
“Oh come on, Lonny. I told you I work side by side with a certain Inspector Nohl Cohl? A real chatterbox that one. You might have seen him in today’s papers. He just loves talking to the press. Just think how much the reporters would love it if…”
He raises a hand to stop me.
“All right.”
Annoyed, he rips a sheet of paper off a pad and starts to write.
“Discretion, Arkham,” he says even before lifting the pen off the paper, “that’s all we’ve ever asked of you, I believe.”
He hands me the note, but when I grasp it, he doesn’t let go. He stares at me, waiting for me to acknowledge, and I find myself fighting the urge to repeat that absurd load of bollocks about justice.
“I’ll see what I can do, Lonny,” I manage to spit out. He still hangs on to the note for a couple of seconds longer, with a threatening glare. Suddenly he snaps back to his notes.
“I don’t want to hear anymore talk about Gilder. I don’t want to read about Gilder. Make yourself scarce.”
“One last thing.”
“You’re trying may patience, Lieutenant.” My rank crawls out of his mouth like it’s had the shit beaten out of it.
“Does your cousin know how to use a silk blade?”
His nostrils flare and he writes some notes.
“He is no longer my cousin.”
“I suspect I won’t get any more out of the Feltu’Atherons. But this is important confirmation.”
Hungry
I press the green button with a sigh, sit on the bonnet and inhale a lungful of smoke. The sky is beginning to clear, like its slipping off its lingerie in a striptease of cosmic length. The mobile tells me that one of its kin, inside Inspector Cohl’s pocket, has started to annoy my potential interlocutor, who will predictably already be well-pissed off for reasons of his own.
“Arkham, where the fuck have you been?!”
“Cohl—”
“I’ve been trying to call you all morning on that fucking—“
“—Cohl—”
“Bloody hell, I’m not at your beck and call …”
I hold the phone away from my ear. Another drag. I wait until the phone stops transmitting a stream of abuse in my direction and replaces it with a rhythmic series of calls for attention.
“Arkham? Arkham! Are you there…? Hello? Lieutenant?”
There you go. We can start from scratch.
“Hello, Inspector. What did you get up to this morning?”
On the other end of the line I can hear smothered cursing. I smile.
“I worked—plus, I’ve got an address.”
Nohl waits a few seconds before answering, during which time there’s no noise at all. I bet he covered the microphone with his hand so he could freely damn me to hell.
“Shall we meet somewhere?”
“Of course we’re going to meet somewhere.” I don’t need to look at my watch to know that it’s lunch time. “Do you know Pantalassa?”
“No. It’s not one of those places that does coastal food, is it? I don’t like spicy food.”
“You can have bread and salad, okay? Good for your health.”
“Lieutenant, you are the only person who really makes me want to swear.” In the meantime, he’s back to showing me respect.
“Great. Ringroad 180 on Ninth. Big red sign with a volcano on it.” I snigger. “Half an hour. Bring me Inla’s file, and see if there’s anything on a Gilder Feltu’Atheron.”
“It’ll take a while, I don’t know if I can get there in half an hour—“
“Thunder farts, use that magic box with all the pretty lights and buttons… you know, on your desk, next to your vibrator, in your office.”
“The filing system is still paper-based.” He grunts threateningly.
“Okay, listen, I’ll be there in half an hour. As soon as I arrive, I’ll order you a coffee, that way if you’re late, you’ll have to drink it cold. That’s a good incentive, don’t you think? Half an hour.”
I hang up and hop in the car.
I like Pantalassa because the spicy food is spicy. A load of places write “coastal food” on the sign and business cards, then they bring you a flabby, insignificant steak, half a stunted chili pepper shivering from coldness and loneliness. Here, on the other hand, you’ve got to move them out of the way to get to your piece of dead cow. Another reason why I like it is because the sun shines down at exactly lunch time. The owner, whom I’ve known by sight for years, corrupted five separate officials from some dynasty or other so he could open his restaurant in a particularly advantageous square paved with white cobblestones which, when the sun shines, dazzles like the teeth of a troll who’s rich enough to afford a dental hygienist.
I find my customary illegal parking spot, grab my sunglasses off the dashboard and push them onto my face while I get out of the car. Everybody in Nectropis owns at least one pair of sunglasses, because the world outside is ruthless. Numerous nouveau riche dicks, who could suddenly afford to go on a beach holiday to some third rate hole, every year ended up as part of the statistics measuring stupidity because they burned their retinas off as soon as they woke up, along with the rest of the fucking family. The progressives who take part in those ludicrous summer talk shows always say that it’s not their fault if they’re ignorant, and the ministry should provide more information. Yeah right, like a pamphlet saying: ‘You’ve
lived in the dark your whole life, you wanker, put on a pair of fucking sunglasses when you leave the City’. If the ministry ever does anything like that with my taxes, I swear I’ll hunt them down with a rusty crowbar.
You never really need dark glasses in the City, but I like them. They make me look tough, hide my bloodshot eyes together with the bags languishing beneath them, along with any black eyes I may have acquired, this happens more often than I’d like. I sit down at a lovely table bathed in light, and bask in the warmth of the sunshine. The waiter comes and I order two special steaks, two beers and a coffee. I did promise him, after all.
Cohl arrives fifteen minutes late. He says ‘hello’ but stops halfway through my name, staring in confusion at the steak smothered in chili pepper, the beer and the coffee. The steak is cold and spicy, the coffee stone cold. The beer is lukewarm and on duty. The expression on his face is my dessert, seeing as I’ve already finished my meal.
Defeated, he plonks himself down. He doesn’t know what to say, so I break the ice.
“Thanks for lunch, Nohl. Eat something, though, otherwise I feel guilty.”
Cohl breathes in to answer, but it’s a false start. He tries again, same story. By the third attempt, his tone is more curious than angry, in that he’s damned curious and only fucking angry.
“Why do you do this?”
Yeah, why? Probably because I’m a complete bastard. Or because this Nohl Cohl gets on my nerves. No, wait, it’s his Fiamma 1600 that gets on my tits.
“When I was a child, a fella from Frosgaarde bit me.”
“That doesn’t explain all the blaspheming.”
“Jesus fucking Christ—“
“There, you see? Why do you have to—“
“May Muraddin take you, what are you, a priest?”
“Insulting the Gods of the dwarves, too, well done. A world-class blasphemer.”
“So what faith do you follow then, the Cult of Morons?”
Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets Page 5