4

       SURF ELVES

      Thelen had directed me to the right part of the beach; the Surf Elves’ headquarters were the collection of ranch-style huts built into the dunes I had previously spotted. The surrounding sand was covered with dumbbells and weights and everything else for the body beautiful. The Surf Elves were easy to spot with their pointy ears, perfect noses, clean, lean, hairless limbs and cheekbones higher than a juiced-up eagle. Some still wore cropped blue beach jackets that sported a crossed leaf-and-sword motif. This was also the design flying on the flag above the huts. I had seen it sprayed up round the Hill all summer without taking in what it stood for.

      I didn’t like it.

      The device had a nasty military feel to it. From what I could gather there wasn’t much about these guys to like at all. My opinion was not about to change.

      I drove the Dragonette onto the Strand, chancing any injurious effects of salt spray on the bodywork. I took out a spyglass from the glove compartment and scanned the area. It was interesting to see Higher and Lower Elves up close together. The differences, especially in height, were obvious, but they still shared that undeniable quality of elvishness.

      There were a lot of boards out on the water and the riders all looked good at what they did. I tried to identify young Lord Highbury. It wasn’t difficult. I spotted him as soon as he came out of the surf. Who else would expect or court a round of applause? The admirers were elves with some of the Citadel’s better-looking men and (mostly) women. Even from that distance he had that elf glow, like gold straight from the forge, as if lit by internal fires. Overrated, if you ask me.

      I got out of my wagon and propped myself up on the hood of the Dragonette. I had managed to attract quite a crowd myself until Lord Highbury realised he was in danger of losing his audience and sauntered off in my direction. Nobody had yet felt inclined to break the silence and I wasn’t exactly feeling verbose myself, so I just continued to help myself to some of those negative ions I’ve read so much about – turns out, they’re overrated too.

      Highbury approached. ‘Good morrow, Master Dwarf. It is many years since one of your race was seen on the Gnada Peninsula.’ The guy spoke like someone from a badly scripted rolling picture.

      ‘I like to stay open to new experiences,’ I replied.

      Highbury shook himself lightly and water fell off as if by magic. I wished I could do that. However, dwarf body hair has an absorbency index roughly equivalent to that of blotting paper. One smaller elf, who had been standing by with a towel, looked so crestfallen I thought he was going to burst into tears. As if sensing his distress, Highbury took the towel and made the young elf’s day, if not his life. He only wiped his hands though; a gesture I felt was solely for my benefit.

      Highbury continued: ‘Your race is not, however, renowned for its love of water.’ This race business was beginning to get to me already.

      He handed back the towel as if bestowing some kind of gift, then ran a hand through his expertly mussed blond locks. I thought the smaller elf was going to swoon. Taking my time, I got off the Dragonette and examined it for imaginary marks, before I turned to face the elf lord again. ‘Well, you know what these legends are like. You should not believe anything unless it’s carved in stone.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Highbury, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘Perhaps you have come to surf, then.’ His fan club appreciated this example of their leader’s wit. Another round of applause. I mean … please!

      I scratched my stubble thoughtfully. ‘No, perhaps I’ll just have a swim.’ This soon shut the lords and ladies up. Highbury was equal to it, though. ‘A swim!’ he said. ‘Truly, wonders do still walk Widergard – a swimming dwarf!’ He winked at his audience, something elves actually find very hard to do. ‘Perhaps you would care for a little race, then?’

      What I did not care for was where he put his emphasis, and I thought of a place where I would like to put his board. The renewed applause that greeted his suggestion soon stopped, though, when I accepted his challenge. Highbury’s blue eyes took on a steely look. ‘Then how about a wager, oh Son of Stone, on this swim?’

      ‘Why not? As long as I choose the distance.’

      ‘Even better, I will give you fifty strides’ start to the water, but be careful, as the beach drops away very suddenly.’

      ‘Oh’, I said patronisingly, ‘I’ll be very careful.’

      ‘Then what shall we wager?’ He was playing to the crowd again. ‘I think if I win I would rather like your fine suit.’ And the crowd was loving it. I, however, was playing for slightly different stakes. ‘If I win, I think I will settle for the answers to a few simple questions.’

      This strategy caught his attention and he looked at me strangely. ‘Agreed. Perhaps, then, we should find you some beachwear.’

      ‘It’s all right,’ I said, walking over to the dunes. ‘I don’t think you boys would have anything my size.’

      Cheap shot, but frankly, what had they done to deserve better?

      I carefully folded up my beloved Gaspar Halftoken hand-cut linen suit and left it by the weights. I was wearing boxers, the big baggy kind with pockets. They had a rather natty little green-dragon design. As I strolled back I dared anyone to laugh; mercifully no one did.

      ‘Now, Master Dwarf,’ said Highbury. ‘What about a destination? We usually go around the yellow buoy, but the choice is yours.’

      ‘How about here,’ I said, taking the small hand weight I had picked up while disrobing, and throwing it like a disc over the crashing surf. It skipped like a stone for a bit and then sank. Not a bad throw; not as good as the throw which won me the Darrow Games, and is still I believe in the record books, but good enough.

      ‘And just to make sure we do not have any cheating, we will make it the first one to bring back that weight. Now,’ I continued, before anyone could raise a complaint, ‘I will take that fifty strides you so sportingly offered.’

      He was a trier; I’ll give him that. Even before I was over the shock of the cold water he was past me. A wonderfully relaxed crawl, grabbing handfuls of water with no apparent effort. I was stuck with the rather ineffectual breaststroke I had been forced to learn when on Bay Patrol with the Citadel Guards. Mandatory, I’m now glad to say.

      Highbury must have attempted to reach bottom at least a dozen times before I even made it to the spot where the weight went down. I saw his blond head bobbing up and down like a frenzied fisherman’s float. Such a shame; those wonderful elfin bones that make them so light and nimble, and do such wonders for the legs and cheekbones, do also make them so incredibly buoyant. Pity, really. We dwarfs, on the other hand, tend to sink like bricks. Add to that lungs like a blacksmith’s bellows and night vision that would shame a cat – well, it was so easy I didn’t even have to use the spare weight I had hidden in my shorts’ pocket – just in case.

      By the time we both got back to the beach, Highbury’s blue eyes were bulging from exertion and his style was a bit more ragged. I had to help him out past the tide mark and he lay there panting.

      ‘Now, elf,’ I said, brandishing the weight for all to see. ‘I think you owe me a few answers.’ Still gasping for breath, he nodded his head. So, I said: ‘What can you tell me about Perry Goodfellow?’

      ‘Why?’ he managed.