Detective Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf. Terry Newman
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Town were as packed as I had ever seen them. Citadel guards, in warm-weather outfits of short-sleeved tabards and dark visors, were directing traffic with the air of tired magicians, to the music of a thousand overworked steam-powered fans. I was making far better time than anyone stuck in a wagon, boilers and tempers overheating. Old Town is not actually any older than anywhere else in the Citadel, the Hill being built all of a period, as it were. It just so happens that the High Council thinks it’s a good idea to corral all the visitors and tourists into one particular area – makes it easier to get at their bulging purses. I pushed my way through rubber dragons, battle-axe keyrings and various other tasteful knick-knacks until I ended up by a small pavement inn at the corner of Twelve Trees and Mine, and it was there that I ran into the march and the reason why traffic was backing up.
Demonstrations were the big thing of that year’s election campaigns. All the major parties had been out and about, airing their views and bad haircuts. Near riots had accompanied some of the more volatile pairings as rival supporters met and clashed. This march, however, was not of that ilk. This was forged from a different metal. In front of me a new force in Citadel politics was flexing its muscles.
My progress interrupted, I got myself a glass of something dark and sticky from a roadside vendor and sat and watched the free entertainment. I could see the placards above the heads of the watching crowd, carried by members of the newly convened Citadel Alliance Party. The placards were all very neatly written, on good parchment, stretched over well-constructed frames. The message seemed to be one of co-operation and ‘getting folk together’. The majority of demonstrators, though, were men, although the leaders seemed to be Lower Elves. They’re the elves that don’t get invited to all the very best elf parties, but they still look down their collective perfectly shaped noses at the rest of the population. There were even a few dwarf brothers who should have known better. They all walked neatly by, two by two. Everyone wore the shirts of the party’s sky blue, all neatly ironed. There was no ranting and no raving and indeed an unnatural silence fell upon the normally vocal bystanders as they passed. Nobody shouted, nobody even heckled from the sidelines. The few children that cried out of turn were hushed by their mothers. The whole march passed by without an incident. This worried me more than anything else. I immediately finished my drink, and left, feeling distinctly uneasy.
The crowds began to thin and I soon found myself walking through the Wizard’s Gate, one of the huge sets of ironclad doors built into the walls that separate the different levels of the Hill. The imposing blackness of the gate and the impressive strength of the cladding had been somewhat spoilt by a scribbled legend in faded white paint informing us that ‘Bertold loves Lucer.’ I hoped that Bertold’s intrepidity had been rewarded all those years ago and that Lucer had succumbed to his charms (and climbing ability) and they were now happily living in domestic bliss in the Bay suburbs. Well, that’s assuming the wizards had not found him first and made something far less appealing out of him, of course.
I started humming the children’s skipping song:
Walls of the Citadel,
One to Ten,
One for the elves,
And one for the men,
One for the wizards,
And the Keepers of the Trees,
One for the dwarfs,
But none for the pixies.
Round and round the Hillside,
Round and round the town,
Keep them hid,
Or the walls come down.
It was a surprisingly subtle little rhyme piece, with a built-in offbeat on the pixie line deliberately contrived to lure the unwary into the twirling rope. I had never worked out why, when there were only five walls to the Citadel, the children’s song said one to ten. Still, you’re on a hiding to nothing if you go looking for the truth in children’s nursery rhymes.
My rooms are in a converted armoury on lower fifth; not particularly fashionable, not particularly smart, but very secure. In my line of business you do not wish to encourage home visits.
I waved at Bes, the watchman at the desk, and made for the lift; the effect of the Tree Friend’s gravy was wearing off. My quarters are at the very top of the building, not handy if the lift is out of action, but giving excellent access to outside space.
Being an ex-armoury, at least the place is basically of extremely sound construction with good thick walls and strong foundations. Taken together with my very own battlements, it has a lot going for it. The front door I had added myself. It is made from ironwood with riveted brass banding, to discourage those more adventurous callers. The locks are of the best dwarf construction and guaranteed to three thousand feet. Still, as I pushed the great door back, I promised myself one day I really would do something to make the place just a little more homely.
I moved one pile of papers and introduced it to another matching pile, and carried a tray of dead dishes through to the scullery. With trepidation I approached the cold box. It didn’t look great, but at least it contained something that was green in all the right places and still had enough nutrients for a body that had, after all, developed in a world largely lacking in sunlight. Sometimes this works to a dwarf’s advantage – we synthesise many of our own vital factors, which means we only have to drink fruit juice through choice (usually fermented and then distilled) and as an added bonus we don’t get many colds. Our make-up also means that we grow body hair at a rate that requires we shave at least twice a day, especially when in female company, lest you risk complaint. Furthermore, we need to take in a lot of iron. This explains some of the more, well, bloodthirsty stories you may have heard about our eating and drinking habits. Many are exaggerated, of course. Many are not.
There was also a large stash of coffee beans in the cold box, which was a relief. Coffee has an important, if not pivotal role in Nicely Strongoak’s life. In the morning I drink it white and frothy and in copious quantities. At midwatch in the day I tend to take it filtered. As the shadows lengthen I take it black and percolated. Come night it’s as dark as the pit, measured in thimbles and would stir a petrified troll. I made a double and poured out an apple brandy to accompany it.
A bit of a breeze had now picked up and, despite recent temperature extremes, out on the battlements it was about as perfect as it can be without being taxed. Feet up on a crenel, I took in the view. I watched the molten silver of the river Everflow run across the plain of Rhavona and join with the opal iridescence of the bay. Small boats struggled upstream against the tide, engines chugging and smoking, their paddle wheels making spray that caught the sun, throwing up prismatic jewels. I lit a pipe and sat musing for a while about the missing boy and his most attractive lady and must have nodded off … wakening to find a night sky and a sudden chill in the air.
I went inside to put my head down and do the sleep business properly.
I collected my wagon early the next day. It’s a racing-green Dragonette ’57 convertible; the last model with the little wings and the air-trimmed front end. Daddy’s pride and joy, with marble interior finish and leather ragtop. It did my heart good just to touch her. Sceech the grease goblin had done a good job on the shoes, and I took off in a reasonable frame of mind. I had slept pretty well and though I didn’t feel like a million crowns, well at least I didn’t look like buried treasure. Silver linings and all that.
The morning rush had yet to start and I made it round the Hill in record time. I decided to cross the Everflow at the Troll’s End Bridge. Normally I would avoid this like the plague, as it is one of the worst bottlenecks in the Greater Citadel, but as the roads