Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets

by Alessio Lanterna

  The long night of an extremely long Friday

  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 ru
n-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.”

  “Millions?” I repeat and raise an eyebrow. Blowing millions on two people in a few years is substantial in itself. Not incredible though, to be honest. I caress the alcohol again with my lips and produce a soft slurping noise.

  “And if the exiled elf had a child?”

  Beron’s expression becomes more animated when he puts the pieces together, following the thread of my questions.

  “The hare in the alleyway was a pregnant exile then?” He hits the nail on the head with keen interest, leaving the cigar stub to languish in the ashtray.

  “Yeah.”

  “Dammit. Ugly business. And odd.”

  “What do you mean, odd?”

  “Assassinating the child of an elf is quite a feat, sonny.”

  I can tell there’s more to it.

  “Explain.”

  “Years ago,” he begins, while he strokes his beard, fixing the middle distance with his gaze, “at a certain point during one of the schism wars, a couple that had been disowned by the… erm, Geno’Atheron dynasty, I think… yes, definitely, Geno’Atheron… had a baby. It caused quite a stir at the time, because people were convinced that elves were practically semi-Gods, so the idea that people who had been expulsed from their own circle could be blessed by a progeny disconcerted everybody. On the other hand, the time was right to break down the walls of superstition. Anyway, all hell broke loose which, along with the unrest produced by religious conflicts, threatened to split the family down the middle.”

  “In what way?” I ask while he breaks off to neck yet another glassful.

  “There were two schools of thought within the dynasty: some thought that the little girl (little girl? What little girl?) was a tangible sign of the mistake made when the dynasty disowned the couple, and not only that it was wrong, but that they should have actually welcomed them back into the fold; the hardliners, on the other hand, actually accused the parents of having made a pact with the demons. There were a lot of duels between family members.”

  “How come you remember something so well that took place centuries ago?”

  “Try and understand, kid, at the time the idea that an elvish dynasty could split was pure science fiction. I mean, it would have been if science fiction had existed back then. For the first time, you could see a serious crack in one of the towers in Nectropis.”

  I smiled a sinister smile. Obviously, Professor Tubgorne had not always been a teacher. The agreement between the titchy people and the asses, undoubtedly the basis of the modern-day Federation, is still relatively recent in the lives of dwarves of a certain age. There’s a reason why, even today, elderly dwarves use the expression ‘like elves and dwarves’ to mean two things which don’t mix.

  “Bet you had a right old time during those years.”

  “Oho, you can say that again!” He mimes the blow of a hammer by suddenly dropping his fist.

  A hearty laugh.

  “What happened in the end?”

  “They were reintegrated, but the ‘quasi feud’ was a harsh blow to the dynasty. At that time there weren’t as many asses, and this internal fight had the power to wipe out the Geno’Atherons. The patriarch, who, naturally was a—“

  “… hardliner…” I guess, making the dwarf smile.

  “… hardliner, exactly. He challenged the current ruler, Shelmerina, to a duel when he found out his faction had mustered under the banners and troops were on the march towards the City to depose him. They’ve made a couple of films about this part of history, though if you ask me, they don’t portray it properly. Anyway, measured swords and sorceries is what storytellers used to say, the patriarch was lying in his own blood. A taboo had been broken: the survivors of the apocalypse could die, or even better, they could be killed. It was a disaster for the pointy-eared people, the beginning of the process which led to the agreement. As for the main characters in the story, Shelmerina had no difficulty in regaining his power after this demonstration of power and took the baby under his wing. But the backlash for the Genos was utterly devastating. They used to be the most prominent dynasty before all this business, in fact their spire is the third-highest. Today they hold a miserable five percent of Nexus, and they’re no better than servants to the Feltus.”

  He shakes his head, there’s a hint of disbelief in his voice.

  I take a minute to take in this new information. A newborn hare can destroy a whole dynasty, great news. Imagine what a half-elf could do. Excellent, Arkham, really. Fantastic. Next time you could go to into the abyss and spit on the devil, what do you think? My headache is thumping on my right temple, barging in like a gatecrasher at a wedding reception.

  Beron’s still staring into the middle distance stroking his beard and muttering his favourite slogan, ‘ugly business, ugly business’. He’s clearly feeling the effects of Salamander Breath, but he’d sooner go to bed with an ogre than admit it.

  “I’ve come to a damned dead end, once again. All I’ve found out is that this ca
se is even more likely to kill me.”

  “Ugly business.” It’s like a beep confirming his presence.

  “I’ve got an idea that you’re not going to like.”

  He turns around slowly, his eyes are watery from lack of sleep.

  “Nooo. How unusual.”

  “At the Academy they said there was a renegade from Ecatomb here in the city…”

  “Not again. Necromancy got you expelled, may the Hammer straighten you out, but you still insist. Nothing good will ever come out of that trap, and you should know that better than anybody.”

  “Beron, not another sermon, do me a favour. The expulsion was what it was. Come on, you know full well that all students carry out experiments. Others got told off and no more than that.”

  “You’re right, but you knew you should have been careful, that they were on to you! You, a human, one of the most gifted bastards in recent years, with a scholarship…”

  “You don’t need to remind me what happened, okay? Thank you. I’m fine now, I lead a different life and I’m happy all the same, okay?”

  I’m lying through my teeth and Beron knows it. His face darkens.

  “I know it’s a stupid idea. I know it only too well. But I’m in the shit and I don’t know what else to do.”

  Luckily the professor isn’t the type to suggest coming off the case in order to save my arse, otherwise I’d have to come up with a plausible explanation for my insistent suicide attempts. Tubgorne is wrestling with his conscience.

  “I don’t know how to contact Screech, but I do know who to ask. Maybe you’ve met him, Dasson, he did alchemy. He was a few years younger than you. Brilliant. He got the Archmagus in just six years after he left the Academy, he invented a formula for producing rejuvenating potions in under six months. Yes, very smart, a but strange mind you. Following the Archmagus he virtually stopped working, he’s enjoying his patent, like I did with mine. He’s got a villa at the top.” He points upwards.

  “Of course nowadays the money’s a lot different for patents.”

  “Why, did you want a house at the top?”

  “I think you’re going to get into a whole new load of trouble, sonny.”