Detective Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf. Terry Newman
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It shut him up for a while, though.
I had kept the ragtop up, as discretion seemed the better part of not attracting attention. It was still warm and the air that climbed into the half-opened windows from the narrow streets and back alleys spoke of the heat of spicy food, over-worked machinery and sweating bodies. I followed the elf’s directions and he navigated us by a tortuous route to the Fifth Level. Truetouch certainly knew his way around the Citadel and we passed some interesting places where one might while away the odd lifetime or two. That’s one thing you can say about the Citadel: around every corner is a new way of endangering your health. I do not know if Truetouch thought we were being shadowed, but he had done a very good job of losing anyone who might have been trying to follow.
We finally pulled up at a place just outside the Fifth Level, some distance from my quarters in the armoury on the other side of the Citadel. It was an undistinguished building in an area I was not familiar with. I looked out of the driver’s window; if this was the Inn Truetouch was recommending. I could not see the attraction of the establishment. There was no sign and no modern cold-light tubes. I suppose in its own way the building was actually quite remarkable, one of those rare places in the Citadel that looked as if history had passed it by. Solid stonework, in need of some mortar, and good ironwood shingles, all with no signs of the damage that combat and canon fire can impart. Nothing special had ever happened here, nobody important had been born here, no one important had died here either, and in a place like the Citadel, believe me, that is remarkable.
The elf stepped nimbly from my Dragonette, as they have a tendency to do. He beckoned, but I paused before following.
‘Is there a problem, Master Strongoak?’
‘No, I always follow strange elves into places unknown where their disaffected brethren might be waiting to welcome me with a stout staff made from the wood they value so much.’
Truetouch seemed genuinely surprised by the comment. I know elves are supposed to have difficulty lying, but that is another part of their self-promotion I have trouble believing. That and the whole five-day sex business.
‘Well, Truetouch, is it the sort of invitation you always accept?’
He thought a moment and a genuinely winning smile came to his lips. ‘Master Detective, I have seen from your suits and hats that you are indeed an expert of matters sartorial. Do you really think that if I had intended you harm tonight I would have worn a linen summer coat with pearl buttons?’
‘That,’ I said, with a matching grin, ‘was the best answer you could have given. Lead on!’ No doubt about it, I was most definitely warming.
We went down some badly lit steps that had seen some traffic over the years. At the bottom there was a crude board with the legend The Twilight Alehouse written in chalk. The elf knocked twice on the door and we were let in by a greybeard who had seen it all before, and hadn’t enjoyed it the first time.
Nobody looked up as we walked in, and nobody said anything as we sat down. The customers were a strange mix. The lighting was low enough for most men to be sent stumbling, and even my mine-adapted vision found it oppressive. Two Brothers got up as I entered and left without a sign – which was strange; obviously they were on some business which was not necessarily all ‘above ground’. A couple of characters, boasting hairlines that had moved south to invade their eyebrows, looked like men from way out of town. They carried themselves with the swagger of pathfinders. A couple of others, pumping some goblin blood by their eyes and dentition, might be the local muscle. They were sharing a table with a straight-backed individual who could have given a pillar lessons in posture. Something about him was familiar but a large hood hid any features. I even thought I saw a couple more elves in one corner. No gnomes, but what’s new?
The elf went to fetch the drinks. I studied him at the bar. He certainly looked like one of the Lower Elves; those left behind when the Higher Elves disappeared off in a sulk back to the Hidden Lands all those years ago. There was something a little different about him though, maybe the sense of humour. Elves are as renowned for their sense of humour as they are for their humility and big bushy beards. Truetouch returned with two full glasses and an extra bottle. My sort of round. He almost dropped the tray as he sat down. Nerves, surely not? Where was that famous elf composure now?
I knocked my wine back quickly. I’d drunk worse, but I can say that most places I go. Truetouch sat, toying awkwardly with his glass. At last he spoke. ‘Master Strongoak, I saw the way you handled Highbury at the Gnada, and it was very impressive.’ He gave that winning smile another airing. It suited him. ‘You would not believe the uproar on the beach after you drove off.’
‘Oh, I think I could! I’ve seen a five year old throw a tantrum before.’
‘One might be half inclined to believe, Master Dwarf, that you do not hold my brethren and myself in very high regard?’
‘Not at all! Some of my best friends are elves … oh no they’re not.’
This got the winning smile a final outing before he grew serious again.
‘So Master Detective Strongoak … to the point … I would like to hire you.’
‘Suppose I’m not for hire.’ This was a turn of events that obviously had not occurred to him.
‘But you must be!’ he blurted.
‘No “must” about it, Truetouch,’ I replied. ‘I have two clients at this moment and I like to give customer satisfaction; unless you can give me a good reason why I should think otherwise.’
‘I can pay you.’
‘Generally a sound first move; however, in this case, not good enough.’
Truetouch finished his drink, and hurriedly poured another. That soon went the way of the first, and he collected another one to keep them both company. I followed on at a more sedate pace now.
‘But I need … I need protection,’ he finally admitted.
‘And whom might you need protection from?’ Was there disharmony amongst the Surf Elves? Could he have seen something in connection with Perry, perhaps? This might be even better than a clue. This just might be a lead.
Truetouch drummed his fingers on the table and tried a change of tack. ‘I could provide you with something, something of value, that I think you might find very interesting.’
It felt like he was playing me here, so I proceeded with some caution. ‘“Something of value”? That’s a rather vague term, Truetouch – sort of politician’s words. You running for office this year?’
Truetouch found this a pretty funny idea and it raised a snort of derision. ‘That is a pretty spiteful thing to say to an elf that just bought you a drink.’
‘You’re right, I take it back, but the sentiment still remains.’
‘Shall we say “material germane to your investigation” instead?’ he continued.
‘You can, Truetouch. Me, I don’t use gold-coin words when I can be straight with a body.’ I poured myself another large helping of gravy and soaked some of it up while the elf considered his options.
‘Look,’ I said finally, feigning disinterest, ‘as the old Da use to say: if it’s getting too hot, get off the dragon.’ And, indeed, it was actually hot in the bar. We were both sweating like goblins. I glanced around. The place had pretty much emptied.
‘Maybe I can help you take me seriously. Have you a quill?’ I passed him my pen, wondering when everyone with blond hair and pointy ears would finally learn to speak the common tongue like the rest of us. He fished out a scrap of card from the inside pocket of his rather lovely linen coat. He scribbled something rapidly and passed it over to me. It was a picture giveaway from a pipeleaf packet, a horse of all things. On the script side, in one corner, he had written an outer Citadel number. ‘Give me a blast on the horn at this number tomorrow at midwatch and I assure you that you will not be disappointed.’
‘Why wait until