Detective Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf

TERRY NEWMAN

HarperVoyager an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Terry Newman 2014

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

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Terry Newman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Ebook Edition © October 2014 ISBN: 9780008101206

Version 2014-11-27

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1: The Two Fingers

Chapter 2: Tree Friend

Chapter 3: On the Beach

Chapter 4: Surf Elves

Chapter 5: Mrs Hardwood

Chapter 6: Truetouch

Chapter 7: Wet Work

Chapter 8: Rosebud

Chapter 9: The Evening Forget-Me-Not

Chapter 10: Petal

Chapter 11: Hardwood House

Chapter 12: An Unexpected Lunch Date

Chapter 13: The Homely House Bar and Grill

Chapter 14: Walls Around the Citadel

Chapter 15: Of Dragons and Natural Selection

Chapter 16: Here There Be Demons

Chapter 17: The King of the Desolate Wastes

Chapter 18: A Dark Horse.

Chapter 19: Little Hundred

Chapter 20: A Fire Down Below

Chapter 21: A Matter of Business

Chapter 22: Rescued

Chapter 23: Elf Queen

Chapter 24: Alderman Hardwood

Chapter 25: After the Fire

About the Author

About the Publisher

1
THE TWO FINGERS

Thunk!

The arrow hit Alderman Castleview in the middle of his right eye socket. A promising start. I took careful aim and let fly again.

Thunk!

The second arrow caught him just below the temple.

Thunk!

The final arrow buried itself plumb centre of that famous winning smile. I smirked and awarded myself a bonus point before retrieving my darts.

The picture of Alderman Castleview had occupied pride of place on my dartboard ever since he had announced his intent, the previous spring, to redevelop the Third Level and cause yet more traffic nightmares. I sat and tilted back my chair before taking aim again – but, to be honest, my heart wasn’t in it. This time I left the darts abandoned in the wood and walked over to the window instead. I leant against the ledge and took in the view.

On a good day the sixteenth floor of the Two Fingers building just poked clear of the smog that wound round the High Summer Citadel. This was a good day and I watched it from my office on the sixteenth floor.

I have never found anyone who could adequately explain why this office block was called the Two Fingers, as there was, in fact, only one. Some said the answer lay wreathed in legends, others said that the first block had simply been pulled down. Perhaps the stonemason did have bigger plans, but had forgotten his kickback to the Dwarfs Construction Guild. Nobody knew and nobody really cared, apart from me, but then again I cared about a lot of outdated edifices – like law, justice and good government. Down below I followed the various people going about their late-afternoon Citadel business. The Citadel, the city on a mountain: actually a giant granite extrusion located near where the River Everflow meets the sea. One last, remaining lonely outcrop of a mountain range, lost on the horizon like a melody in a dream. A city gift-wrapped by five towering walls, with gates that have not been closed since the songs were fresh, and you could still tell who the heroes were by their shiny swords and better complexions.

With characteristic humour, most of the population referred to the place simply as ‘The Hill’. And today The Hill was sweaty and irritable.

A nasty undercurrent of violence had been evident throughout this, the hottest summer on record. The Citadel Press, the Hill’s main news scroll, was working itself up into a lather of indignation and turning umbrage into an art form. Elections were scheduled for the autumn and all sorts of worms were crawling out of their holes. But today the heat had defeated even them. The sun was raising bubbles in the road-coat like the boils on a goblin’s back, and the parchment pushers, the slogan shouters – all the ranters and ravers – seemed content to give the rest of the population some time off and sulk in whatever shade they could find. The sun was beginning to go down; nevertheless humidity was still in the nineties, which meant I was as cool as a goblin on a twenty-league route march.

I pushed my chair back from the window and sighed. It was the time of day for important decisions – more coffee or the office bottle – in the end coffee won out. I would twitch ’till midwatch; but I already knew there was little chance of sleep on a night like this. I got out of the chair and stretched, marking how the muscles in my back creaked and moaned a bit. They take to inactivity like a dragon to gargling extinguisher foam.

In common with other dwarfs, I was born to wield an axe of some variety, whether it be pick or battle. Although not particularly conceited, I am quite at home with my physique. I am tall for a dwarf, which makes me about the height of a short man – but then again we all know dwarf heights have been increasing in recent years. My mother says it’s the free school milk. Musculature? Well, my current ‘party piece’ is cracking nuts in the crook of my elbow, an activity that always impresses the ladies, be they of the dwarf variety or otherwise. And, furthermore, like the rest of my kin, I have a wrestler’s shoulders; the dwarf that needs shoulder pads in his suit jacket has yet to be born. A lot of men, particularly those more used to the company of gnomes, often forget that dwarfs and gnomes do not frequent the same tailors. Not that I have anything against gnomes; we dwarfs are simply just not built to the same scale. This has come as an unwelcome surprise to more than one would-be assailant, on a dark gloomy winter Citadel night.

I picked up the bones and walked over to the mirror, re-tied my plait in the family knots and ran a hand over my chin. I could do with my evening shave – us dwarfs have that sort of make-up. I pumped some water into the small basin and splashed my face. I do not keep much in the way of furniture in the office – some might call it sparse, I like to think of it as minimalist. The small hand basin is the only amenity, and for the rest I have to walk along the corridor.

The room is somewhat dominated by my desk, which came with the room and looks as if it was poured out of the same mould as the rest of the building. ‘Monumental’ is an understatement. Its legs are enough to qualify as a tourist attraction in themselves. The desktop is inlaid with a green leather that might have been taken from the butt of the worm that won the Battle of the Forgotten Mountain. Fortunately the desk has two chairs; both similarly worked, as finding a good match would have been impossible on this side of the Big Sea. I had added a chest and a small cupboard. The chest I used for papers and the cupboard contained a change of clothes, my little stove and, most importantly, all I needed for the preparation of coffee. The grinder was a new electric model. I still preferred my old mechanical one and the comforting ritual that went with it. However, far be it from me to spit in the face of progress, as it had actually been a present from a rather special lady. It’s a noisy business though, and with the grinder on full, I almost missed the knock on the reception door and the whole economy-sized parcel of grief that came along with it.

I shouted a simple ‘Come-In!’ I know … I know … over-familiar, but it was out of regular office hours, and I was feeling kind of wild.

The face that peered round my inner door was pretty, but in a world where ‘pretty’ tends to be a rather over-subscribed commodity, you might not think to look at it twice. If you did, however, there was a certain something around the eyes that could come back to haunt you at the most inappropriate times.

With the face there also came a mass of sandy-coloured hair, back-combed in the style that was everywhere that year. Her frame was not large but quite compact, and she radiated an air of both vulnerability and independence: an intriguing combination. She could look me straight in the eye, which, although as I mentioned I am tall for a dwarf, made her quite short for a woman. I recognised her as a receptionist from an office along the corridor.

‘Are you busy, Detective Strongoak?’ she asked.

‘No, come in, take a seat.’ I waved vaguely with the grinder.

This was the first time I had seen her out of work-wear. She had on shorts and an oversized tabard-shirt sporting the legend: ‘Surf Elves – Really Out of Their Trees!’ Surfing, I knew, was the unicorn’s horn as far as the elfin elite were concerned: bronzed, blue-eyed young lords and ladies with enchanted boards that seemed to float forever above the waves. Like most elfin activities, it had now caught on with the Citadel men and women too. It was a trend I did not subscribe to. We dwarfs have an affinity with water a rain-wear manufacturer would hock his treasure trove to patent.

‘The name’s Liza, isn’t it?’ I said, casually, after she had settled.

‘That’s right, Detective Strongoak, Liza Springwater.’

‘Well, would you like some coffee, Liza?’ I paused with the scoop held over the percolator, pleased to have gained an attractive drinking companion.

‘What I really would like is some help.’

‘Sure,’ I said, thinking that there was probably a chest or two that needed the application of some dwarf muscle. The sort of job I’m only too willing to help out with, especially if the grateful party has been blessed with extra helpings of cutes. Liza certainly had plenty to spare. In fact, she could probably have started a market stall and made a good living supplying cutes to women who think that men just go for the physical attributes that are easier to record with paint and brush. Not that I’ve anything against them either; far be it for me to play favourites.

‘Can it wait until after some coffee, Liza?’

‘I don’t know, Detective Strongoak,’ she said, very seriously.

I added an extra scoop to the percolator anyway, and set it on the small stove, which I lit with a flint. I adjusted the flame before we both passed out from heat exhaustion.

‘They can never get the temperature right in this building,’ I added, rather unnecessarily.

‘I know, too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. Our office is freezing from the moment the first snow starts to fall.’

‘What is it you do there, Liza?’

‘Nothing very exciting: take messages, scrollwork and some dictation. Occasionally I get a trip out if the boss wants a smiling face. Hers only being suited for scaring off ogres.’

‘I’ll remember that. Just might come in handy one day, in my line of business.’

The water was finally warming to my satisfaction, so I sat down on the business side of the desk and put on the understanding face I usually reserve for widows and orphans.

‘Now, perhaps you had better tell me all about it.’

For a moment I thought she was going to cave in on me, but she had come this far and did not intend to back down now. I sort of admired that. ‘It’s about this boy I’ve been seeing, Perry Goodfellow.’

She paused, as if expecting some comment from me. If so, she was disappointed; all she got was that same old noncommittal look and the background music of the bubbling percolator. This must have been good enough, as she continued:

‘He’s disappeared. We were due to meet last week, but he never turned up. When I still hadn’t heard anything from him the next day, I called the inn in Old Town where he worked. They said he had collected his pay and cleared out. They didn’t know where he went, unfortunately. A week’s gone by and I’ve yet to hear a word. I’m concerned, no … actually I’m worried sick.’

She stopped and we sort of stared at each other for a while. I got up deliberately and took my time pouring the coffee. ‘No milk, I’m afraid, but I could probably find some sugar.’

‘No, thank you. Black, without, will be fine.’ I passed her a mug and we both sipped through the, almost, too prolonged silence. Finally I said: ‘You know what I have to ask?’

She shrugged. ‘Sure, I wouldn’t be the first girl to be kicked off the unicorn, and I’m not saying that Perry is any sort of hero. There have been other women in his past and there might well be other women in the future, I can’t say; but I know Perry, Master Strongoak. And I can tell you this, whatever the reason, whatever the cause, there is one thing he would never have done, and that is leave without saying goodbye.’

It was a pretty speech, verbs and everything – the full fellowship. If Perry had run off with some other woman, I, for one, was willing to bet that he had made the mistake of his life. When the wolves come howling round my tree, this is one lady I would not mind being up there with me.

What could I say, though? The heart is a strange sorcerer, which casts its spell in the unlikeliest places and kills them on a whim. Something like that, anyway. The Lizas of this world are being lied to every day and crying their eyes out every night, unlike tough hard-bitten dwarf master detectives. They are far too canny to have trod those dangerous paths – ah, sweet Elester, where are you now with your coal-black hair, ruby-red lips and pilfering fingers in the Old Town Pension Trust? Oh yes, serving five years for fraud after I found the evidence in the false bottom of your bedside bridal hope chest. After all, dwarf, elf, human or gnome, none of us are immune. Shoot, I even saw a goblin once get mushy over a piece of skirt he picked up in a bar – and he wasn’t even trying to eat her.

So it was my turn to shrug. ‘Some people just don’t like goodbyes.’ After all, I’d had more than my fair share and I’d never got exactly fond of them. Taking another jolt of coffee, I put down the mug and reached for the security of my pipe resting in the ashcup. Something was making me edgy. Painful Memories or was the coffee simply too strong?

Just put it down to the weather and move on, Nicely. ‘I can afford to pay you, Detective Strongoak. I have some savings.’

‘We can talk money later,’ I replied, convincingly dismissive. ‘I offer special good-neighbour rates.’ I paused for a moment, hoping that didn’t sound suspect and scratched my chin.

‘Thank you, Master Strongoak.’

I got up, decision made and topped up our cups. ‘One thing I insist upon, call me “Nicely”. All that “master” business went out when my forefathers traded in their pickaxes for steam hammers.’

‘Nicely. I like that. It suits you. Is it your proper name?’

‘My proper name has rather more consonants than folk, other than dwarfs, can get their tongues round.’

‘So, why ‘Nicely’?’

‘Well, I could tell you, but then I’d only have to go and make you swear a blood oath with your lips sewn by spider silk under a sickle moon … and we all know how tiresome that can get!’

‘I think we’d better leave it then, thank you, Nicely.’ She relaxed a little and laughed for the first time. It was an attractive laugh, like water falling in a cave lit by magic torches.

I needed to lay off the weed and find me a lead. It didn’t pay to get too sentimental.

First I reached in the drawer to get out the papers that made it all legal – next I would concentrate on obtaining the necessary background concerning young Perry Goodfellow.

Magic torches, bah!

The sun was dropping over the Third Level wall by the time Liza had left. I poured the last of the coffee into my mug and went to the window, watching the sightseers and lovers making shadows on the battlements. I bit the brew – the coffee was too strong and too stewed. I poured it into the basin, watching it drain down the hole and begin its long journey to the bay. Tonight there would be a few fishes sharing my insomnia.

2
TREE FRIEND

My wagon was in the smiths, having its shoes changed. There was also a small steam leak that I just couldn’t locate. The condenser was struggling but she was losing power on hills, so I just had to bite the bullet and lay out the big buckskin to get her fixed. In the end, and in the vain hope that some exercise might burn off the caffeine and use up some surplus energy, I decided to exercise the beggar’s nag and walk down the Hill to Old Town.

Tidying the desk by sweeping the contents into a drawer, I picked up my jacket, hung the ‘Back Much Later’ sign on the doorknob and shut up the store. I took the lift to the lobby. Old Jakes was on reception and we had a quick word, concerning the optimal watering of geraniums and the pros and cons of mulching, before I headed out into the late-afternoon heat.

If I was to get to the bottom of Perry Goodfellow’s disappearance, his last place of employment sounded like a good place to start. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for but hopefully it would be big and obvious and preferably have ‘clue’ written on it in large letters.

The walk gave me some time to review the facts regarding the life and career of Perry Goodfellow, as Liza Springwater had just related them to me. Liza and Perry had met on the beach at the Gnada Peninsula the summer of the previous year. They had been strolling-out ever since. Perry worked at an inn as an odd-job man and runner. The duties could not have been too onerous as he seemed to spend most of the time surfing. The picture Liza had brought with her, now sitting in the top pocket of my suit, showed a tanned, relaxed individual with curly black hair. It was taken on the beach. Under one arm he carried a surfboard, in his other hand he held a gold chalice. This, I was reliably informed, was the Gnada Trophy, the big prize of the surfing season, and he’d beaten an elf called Highbury to win it. The Gnada Trophy had disappeared along with Perry and this was upsetting various surfing folk. To be frank, it could have been a giant’s eggcup for all I knew, but a job’s a job.

Passing through Black Guard Bar – the unofficial entrance to Old Town – after a quick word with a helpful local, I soon found Perry’s inn. Although Fourth-Level, it was on the right side of the Hill. It also had all the right timbers in all the right places, and anywhere else it would have been called The Dragon and Ring, or something equally folksy. Here, with admirable constraint, the sign declared it to be simply The Old Inn.

At the tail end of a hot day the lobby was a cool drink of water. A large ceiling fan irritated little piles of dust with each slow pass, but they lacked the energy to commit and settled happily after every sweep. Large wooden pillars supported massive wooden beams that could in turn have supported the odd army or two on the upper floors. Small, densely stained glass windows leaked in the evening sun; the light concealing as much as it illuminated. Although the place had obviously seen better days, it had escaped the rampant modernisation that had ravaged higher-level inns more effectively than the goblin hordes had ever managed.

The reception was empty. I hit a bell to no avail, whistled for a short while, then wandered through to find the bar. Empty tables greeted me but I noticed an aproned figure, bent over, stacking shelves with fresh bottles. I shouted a well-pitched hello. On hearing me, he straightened up, and up again, and even when he reached the rafters he did not so much stop, as throw a curve down the rest of his body. To say I was surprised to see one of the Tree Folk working in a Fourth-Level inn was something of an understatement. I had occasionally seen one of the tall, unmistakable figures striding around the Citadel, but mostly only visiting on business. They still lived in their northern forests, or what the logging industry had left of them. With their unbelievably long nut-brown limbs, craggy weather-beaten faces and huge bushy heads of hair, the colour of copper beeches, it was easy to see why many superstitious folk took them to be real live talking trees. Not the dwarfs of course, they never would have fallen for something so stupid – well, not recently anyway. The Tree Folk remain one of the strangest of the many different Citadel inhabitants.

‘Ho hum,’ he said slowly, that being the only way that Tree folk do things. ‘I must tender you an apology, there is no receptionist to assist you at the moment. The manager enjoys a … ah … lie down in the afternoon and portions of the evening. Are you after a room for the night? If it is light refreshment or a drink that you require, then I should be able to be of some service.’

His voice was polished ebony, dark and smooth, but with incredible weight. To listen to him was to hear the wind blowing on and on through the branches of a forest that covered half the world. He continued, ‘I am afraid you have caught us … somewhat distant from our best. We are … ho hum … as you might have realised, somewhat short-handed.’

‘Well,’ I said, climbing onto a barstool, ‘as getting caught short is something we dwarfs generally get accused of, I’ll just go with the drink for now.’

‘Excellent notion, I must say. Very good, very good indeed. What would be your fancy, Master Dwarf?’

‘Let me have a look here,’ I responded, picking up the drink roster. This had not escaped the more depressing aspects of modernity. The list was depressingly hearty, playing on the fashion for all things pastoral. It contained more types of foaming flagons than any sensible drinker could ever require, all harking back to an earlier age that probably never existed, and the endnotes were punctuated by more ‘thees’ and ‘thous’ than you would hear at a village idiots’ convention. I put it down with a sigh, and did my best to look the barkeep in the eye. ‘And what would you recommend, Tree-friend?’

‘Tree-friend, eh?’ he said, his sad green eyes the colour of sunlight on a fading forest glade, looked around the supporting timbers. ‘These are all the woodland folk I have for company now, and a sorry lot they are for conversation. Sad, very sad.’ As if by way of confirmation, the silence settled in on us like a weight. ‘At least, Master Dwarf, they have left you your mountains and mines.’

I knew just what he meant. We paused for a moment: a moment that might have been caught in amber, and buried beneath a mountain for half the lifetime of the planet, only to be excavated by dwarfs and looked at in awe on winter nights beneath cold stars. Then, he shook himself like an oak in a fall storm, and laughed; the sound rolled around the rafters and the moment was gone in a pixie’s smile.

‘A drink, you said, Master Dwarf. Ho hum. Well, let me tell you, the ale is no better than the barrel it is kept in, and that I would not burn for kindling. The wines have not travelled well, or very far for that matter, and the manager waters the distillates at night when he thinks I am sleeping. However, the good news is that I have another little speciality of the house. One that is not advertised on the roster, but is kept tucked away behind the bar for those occasions that require it.’

He pulled out an old-fashioned stone crock that wasn’t bigger than an ale truck, but not that much smaller either. ‘Now, this the manager knows nothing about and so I can give it my wholehearted approval.’ He decanted a modest measure into a highball glass. ‘I find it is best to take these things a little at a time, Master Dwarf.’

As if to put a lie to his own advice he crooked it over one elbow in the time-honoured fashion and took a draught that seemed to go on forever.

I approached my drink with a little more caution. I had heard of the gravy the Tree-friends made. Some sort of fancy water, I imagined. At first sip it did indeed seem like the purest, coolest water that had ever bubbled up from a woodland spring. I took a large mouthful and it felt like standing under a mountain waterfall. I finished the glass and it felt like getting hit by a whole damn ocean.

‘What do you call this?’ I gasped like a drowning man. ‘I thought it was supposed to be some sort of Woodland cordial?’

‘Not unless they come with fifty per cent alcohol,’ he said, a smile spreading across his face like sunshine in a forest glade.

He refilled my glass. ‘I can see that there is some other matter that you wish to unburden yourself of.’

I briefly wondered whether to play it cute or clever, before concluding I had left it one drink too late to be clever and, despite my mother’s protestations, I suspect I may never have been what you might call conventionally cute. I put on my serious face and played it straight down the line. Well, that was what I was aiming for anyway.

I flashed my badge: ‘Nicely Strongoak, Master Detective and shield-for-hire. I am looking for a body by the name of Perry Goodfellow.’

‘Strongoak,’ he said, with extra weight. ‘A good name, but hardly dwarfish.’

‘No, it was a given name.’

‘Elfish, then?’ He looked a bit surprised, if I am any judge of these things, which I am not, and if emotion can be read from a visage as implacable as a roof joist.

‘Yes, the family were elf-friends.’

‘Good, very good. I have been to Tall Trees, where the elves have now settled. I liked it well enough, but I think perhaps the elves now care less for the trees than the homes that they have built in them. However, that is as maybe. Time always sprints ahead and leaves us stranded in its wake. I am Grove. I have had other names … but Grove will do for now.’

I let him continue at his own pace until he arrived back at where I wanted. ‘This Perry Goodfellow, would he be in any trouble?’ he rumbled.

‘No, but a young lady of his acquaintance was rather concerned at the speed of his departure.’

‘And this lady, she is who exactly?’

‘One Liza Springwater.’

‘Good, very good,’ he said again, making up his mind. ‘I thought I might have misjudged you there for a moment, got you confused with some form of snark. However, I met Liza a few times, oh yes, took to her quicker than many a woman of these later years. There was something very … unmanly … about her, if you follow?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted, ‘something about the eyes.’

He nodded agreement, like an oak tree moving in the breeze. ‘And Perry, he is as decent as they come. A bit wild, but he is young, and good wood often grows on the most wayward bough. I was … hurt when he did not say farewell.’

‘You too?’

Grove gave this simple remark ample consideration; summers came and went and whole mountain ranges wore down. He scratched a twiggy chin. ‘I take it he did not say goodbye to young Liza Springwater either?’

I murmured my affirmative.

‘Not good, not good,’ Grove continued. ‘I did not know that.’ He took another long pull on the crock. ‘If I had known, I would have been more concerned. I would have searched for him myself, not that I would have much idea where to start looking these days. Still, there are a few friends I could perhaps have contacted, to whom the name of old Grove might still mean something. Yes, I still have a few names that I can call upon if assistance is ever required. As it is, I am very glad that Liza has the sap to organise the hunt.’

‘You didn’t know that Liza had called here?’

‘No, she must have spoken with the manager and he has failed to pass on the intelligence – a petty revenge, probably – I do not think he took too kindly to my questioning him about Perry’s departure. Seemed to think it was not my affair. Hurhm! He was almost … curt. Finally he admitted that Perry had collected his wage, cleared his room and left very quickly. I should not have trusted the man, but I was sure, if he was in any real trouble, Perry would have come to me for help. He always knew he could come to me for help.’

‘And since then, no letters, no messages?’ I began.

‘Not a word.’ Grove’s concern began to be evident. ‘I think I have perhaps been guilty of letting myself go a bit to rot. It is easy to stop thinking when you get out of the habit.’

Who was I to argue? ‘Not thinking’ – at times I’d nearly made a career out of it.

‘Did Perry ever bring any elves back here, for a drink maybe?’

Now Grove certainly did look surprised as he replied: ‘Elves? No, never. I’m not sure he had any particularly close friends amongst the elf kind.’

‘Did he ever happen to mention any? Does the name Highbury mean anything?’

Grove slowly nodded his large shaggy head. I half expected to see a warbler or two pop out to see what all the commotion was about. ‘Yes, the only elf I ever remember him mentioning at any length, the young lord called Highbury who obviously thought far too highly of himself.’

Time was moving on and I tried not to appear too hasty or, the ultimate sin, too curt.

‘Would it be possible to give his old quarters the once over, if they’re not occupied, of course?’

Grove gave a slow nod. ‘We have not employed a new runner yet, so I do not think that will be any problem. The manager may think otherwise, but as he is not here and I am busy stacking shelves and the master key is lying on the bar, I cannot think what there is to stop you. However, I did clean out his sleeping quarters rather thoroughly, and I did not find any traces of any goods Perry may have forgotten, but then again I was not really looking for any. It is room 4-15, top floor.’

It was a lot of steps, but I felt my legs growing to meet them; marvellous stuff, that gravy the Tree-friends make.

The room itself was small, but bright and airy, and sparsely furnished. A large rug in that whirling pattern the gnomes do so well dominated the floor, with two large chests serving for storage, and a smaller chest of drawers by the bed for personal items. The large bed was wedged tightly to the wall. It stood on iron claws that barely lifted it from the floor. It all looked depressingly spotless. Grove clearly, somewhat unfortunately, took his work very seriously. I searched around anyway. The chests were as empty as Grove had promised, the drawers likewise. Nothing obvious under the mattress or the rug either. Grove, however, was not the most flexible of individuals, so I bent down to check under the bedstead as well. It was of a sturdy wooden slat-box construction and attached to the wall along one length rather than freestanding. At first sight there appeared to be a whole lot of nothing of interest underneath, but a dwarf has more refined senses at his disposal than just sight. A dwarf’s nose is an appendage of great sophistication, having evolved through generations of applied excavation to recognise precious metals and gems. You don’t believe it’s true, then try passing off phoney coinage to a dwarf and you’ll soon need to be looking for a new place to put your hat. People marvel at the vision of an elf but can they find an uncut diamond underground in the dark?

Now, with my head stuck under Perry’s recently vacated bed, I was getting a very clear signal of ‘gold’ coming in from the nose outpost. It didn’t take me long to realise that a false wall under the bed had been crudely added and behind that must be the source of the gold. This had ‘clue’ written all over it, just as I hoped.

I do not know if I was simply distracted by the smell of treasure trove, or maybe it was the drink, or perhaps I was guilty of not yet giving the case the attention it deserved … either way, I didn’t hear the swish of the mace until the briefest of moments before it took me with it into the dark that has no name. It’s like the dark that has got a name, but it was rotten to its parents and they disowned it completely, which has made it a whole lot meaner.

A rhythm section began playing on my skull’s back door – a good solid bass thump with fast persistent beating timpani. Nothing too refined involving brushes or sticks with tapered shoulders and fancy tips, just good solid mallets that displaced thinking with a pulsing cavalcade of agony.

Carefully I opened my eyes. I was lying on my front on the rug. I tried to focus on it, but the gnomes’ handiwork just made my head spin, so I tried my sleeve instead. When that didn’t work I compromised and concentrated on my hand. As I raised it into view, a few tiny grains of sand caught the last of the evening light and fell onto the patterned flooring.

The different percussive elements at play in my noggin became identifiable: the beating was the blood returning to the pulpy spot on my head and the thumping turned into Grove’s footsteps coming up the stairs four at a time. He burst into the room.

‘Axes and blood, I thought you were gone too long!’

Grove helped me carefully to my feet. Whatever had been under the bed was long gone, as was my attacker. Grove then picked me up and carried me down the stairs, which would have been embarrassing if I could have got there any other way. As it was I didn’t complain. He put another large glass of his special gravy inside me. This made me feel, not so much better, as just rather less. A third, however, had me wanting to go hunting dragons with a fruit knife. Instead we opted to go looking for managers, as they were now suspiciously overdue.

We found him unceremoniously dumped, tied up in a storeroom, assailant unseen and unknown. A busy officious man, he wanted someone to blame. He decided I would do, which I didn’t need, so I quickly helped myself to what passes for fresh air at that time of year in the Citadel. Before I departed I pledged to keep Grove informed of my findings. Grove, in turn, said he would pull in a few favours and see if there had been any word concerning young Goodfellow’s departure. He would also try to get more information from the manager, when he was in a better mood. Grove slipped a small bottle of his special gravy into my pocket, in case the pain returned. We shook on it. He had the kind of grip that reminds you of how tree roots are supposed to be able to split stone, given the time and the inclination, but he held my calloused mitt as carefully as a first-time mother holds a baby. I felt so secure I almost burst into tears. Then again, three of those drinks will do that to anybody.

Things were beginning to buzz and the nightworms were moving when I left The Old Inn and hit the cobbles. Lights appeared on everything that wasn’t moving and quite a few things that were; blue elf lights of iris-popping purity, yellow dwarf lights, homely and welcoming, and red wizard lamps, glowing with hidden power and slightly sinister, like a prophet with a hard-on. And everywhere multicoloured gnome lights – instant party-time for Hill folk. Evening vendors were out early to catch those homeward bound. Spice sausage and burnt-blood pudding, cold taffies and the prince of pickles, a heady cocktail for the nose and instant indigestion for the over-stressed Citadel shuttle worker. And all mixed together with the smoke and choke of too many folks, in too little space, driving too many wagons. Representatives from every corner of Widergard: men and elves, dwarfs and gnomes, goblins and trolls, most minding their own business, some minding other people’s business and no small number looking for business.

The night-time Citadel clocking on for the summer evening shift.

The roads to Old 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.

3
ON THE BEACH

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 were still reasonably clear I gave it a go.

The suspension bridge looked like a web spun by one of the monster spiders of legend, dew still shining on the mighty struts and wires. Traffic was building up in the other lane as I drove across the bridge that spanned the Everflow Chasm. Down below I could see the rapids where the Great Troll was said to have met his end and the massive rocks that legend dictates are his remains. As tradition requires, I spat for good luck and sailed right through without any problems. Maybe tradition has something going for it after all.

It’s always a relief to be out of the summer Citadel and the air tastes better with the ragtop down. There are still small pockets of greenery to be found and these get more common the farther from the Hill that you travel. By the time you hit the Gnada Peninsula things look pretty good. Of course, it is no coincidence that the holiday homes of the White and Wise are all found in this region; the White and Wise, and the Surf Elves too, of course. I spotted an attractive-looking provisioner’s called Dolores and, hungry after having missed a meal, stopped off for some warm breakbread to go with the flask of coffee I had safely stowed in the glove compartment. There was a black Battledore ’83 pulled up in the wagon-park gently letting off some steam. That was a serious beast: expensive, big, and fast enough to give my Dragonette serious competition on the straight. I’d take him on the corners, though.

I opened the door and the smell of fresh baking hit my nose in a tidal wave of scrummy. I breathed deeply and tried not to dribble – never an attractive feature in a dwarf, dribbling, even without a full beard. There was only one other customer ahead of me – a man – and, well, he did not look like the sort to be out for an early morning drive in his Battledore ’83. I nodded politely and he ignored me impolitely, refusing to make eye contact. Force of habit made me give him the once over, but between the pulled-down brim of his hat and the turned-up collar of his coat there wasn’t much to see. His posture spoke volumes, however. I don’t think I’d ever seen anybody stand that straight without artificial aids. He certainly looked like an ex-foot soldier to me. Throwing some coin onto the counter, he snatched up his purchases and left, not waiting for change. My eyes followed him as he exited, jumped into the Batttledore, gave it some steam, and headed back to the Citadel with an unpleasant squeal of tyres.

The girl serving, dressed in a fetching white apron, smiled at me and shook her head. ‘Not a local,’ she explained.

‘As long as he’s left plenty of that wonderful-smelling breakbread!’

She assured me there was plenty and I stocked up for the duration. ‘You can’t be over-provided for’, has become my motto. I paid up and, resisting the urge to nibble, got back into my wagon and carried on to the north coast.

The sun was well risen over the hills before I heard the sound of breaking surf. I drove on down a well-maintained side road and soon got my first view of the sea. This was not the South Side with its oil refineries and petrochemical works that make the Bay area unfit for bathing; this was the real thing.

Large rollers tumbled in from the Big Sea onto a shoreline that mixed large sandy beaches and small hidden coves in the most tasteful manner. Wooded slopes ran down to the shoreline from the summer homes of the councillors and other High Folk. No tent sites or holiday camps here or any of those nasty work-related activities.

Well, at least it keeps the sea clean.

I followed the directions that Liza Springwater had given to me, found the beach road and drove down it carefully, mindful of the Dragonette’s springs. I spotted some buildings with a flagpole and pulled up nearby. It was busy on the strand, even at this early hour. Plenty of boards and riders were out taking advantage of the morning swell – both elves and men, and their ladies.

I carried on driving to a less-crowded part of the beach, where one lone surfer, garbed in a canary-yellow wetsuit with a matching surf cap, was slowly paddling out past the breakwater. I parked and walked across the sand dunes. At this moment I did not want an audience; even in my lightweight linen attire I felt conspicuously overdressed.

I sat on some driftwood and admired the surfer’s dexterity. A slim figure, obviously elf, with that deceptively tough, almost impossibly willowy frame that gives them a grace many other folk envy. I’m no elf expert but from the height, around the size of a tall man, I’d guess the surfer was a Higher Elf: the Lords and Ladies of the Hidden Lands. The Lower Elves tend to fetch up a smidgen shorter, are more compact, and have much more humble origins. I’ve heard it said that somewhere there are Middle Elves, but they’re far too embarrassed about the name and don’t get out much.

The elf was dancing the full length of the board, poised between the wind and water. Despite myself, I couldn’t help but be impressed. If only the whole exercise wasn’t so, well, wet.

Suddenly the surfer was knocked off the board and didn’t appear to get up. I ran across the wet sand to the water’s edge, though I wasn’t sure what help I could offer. Fortunately I was saved any difficult decision. A yellow surf-capped head bobbed up close to the shore, further down the beach, and swam the last few strokes in to retrieve the errant board. I guess those light elfin bones make drowning almost an impossibility.

‘You all right?’ I hollered across the roar of the surf. I got a nod as the wetsuited figure picked up the board and headed in my direction.

‘Mind if I have a word, son?’

‘I can think of a few, Master Dwarf,’ replied the young elfess, taking off her surf-cap and letting her long blonde hair flow before I had a chance to correct my error.

‘Sorry, lady – my pardon. It’s a bit difficult to make such distinctions with all the surf gear on.’

This got me a stony glance from those fierce sky-blue elfin eyes. Clearly I hadn’t really clocked the way she filled the suit either. I went on anyway.

‘I was just hoping that you could help me with an enquiry concerning Surf Elves.’

The sky-blue eyes turned stormy and the knuckles of the hand holding the board turned white. It appeared I had compounded my error. This was not going well.

‘If you are another quill-stiff from the press, then the words you are looking for have existed in the common tongue since the earliest ages.’

I took a deep ozone-filled breath and sighed. ‘Look, lady, I’m no scribe, just a dwarf detective with a job to do, and a bruise on his head bigger than a troll’s wart. Now, I have said my apologies, and if you accept them gracefully, I have fresh breakbread and a flask of coffee in the wagon. So if you have not yet broken your fast, I would be delighted if you could join me.’

It was quite a speech for that time of the day, and the young elfess looked at me closely before her face broke into a grin. ‘All right, Master Dwarf Detective, glad to see you are not too big to admit your shortcomings.’

I let her have that one, it seemed only fair, and matched her grin. Together we walked back up the beach to where my Dragonette was perched like some strange mutated dune insect. I laid out a rug and she threw herself down on it.

‘So, apology accepted, Master Detective. I admit these wetsuits are not exactly flattering to the figure.’ She unzipped the front of her suit, and released the more than adequate form constrained within. I was glad she had on another bathing top underneath. Axes and blood, of course I wasn’t really.

‘I am rather hungry,’ she continued, shaking loose her hair and sending my blood singing. ‘So I will join you and your provisions. However, I am not sure whether I can be of any assistance. Contrary to appearances, I am not a subscriber to the Surf Elf philosophy.’

I mused over that one while I fetched the provisions from the wagon’s trunk. We set up breakfast on her board and for a while just munched on the light, fluffy rolls and sipped coffee, whilst we took in the ocean. I had to admit it was some sight. Sky and sea of a blue they just cannot quite replicate in house-paint colours, sand like dusted gold and gulls soaring like spirits freed from the Necromancer’s Pits, crying out thanks for their liberation … or, more precisely, just their desire for some breakfast.

‘Good breakbread,’ I said finally.

‘Yes, from Delores, if I’m not mistaken. Best breakbread on the Peninsula.’

‘Know the region well, do you?’

She wasn’t fooled by my mock innocence. ‘Back to work already, Master Detective?’ she said, her eyes still fixed on the ocean. ‘Don’t I even get a chance to finish breakfast?’

I looked her over surreptitiously. My work did not lead me to mix with elf folk much. My clientele was mainly at the opposite end of the social spectrum. One thing I had noticed, though, was how different, and yet how very much the same they were – especially the ladies. Some had curves that would make a tree blush, but others, well, here was this tall, fair, blue-eyed lass with pipe-cleaner arms, every bit as elf-like as some twilight enchantress. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve not got a fey fixation like so many of my kin, but neither am I made of stone. I’ve read all about those tricky scents they give off, but we’re all mortal. Or, rather, only some of us are, I reminded myself.

‘Right, sorry, your ladyship.’ I knocked the ball back into her half. ‘Let’s just finish breakfast, then I’ll go drown myself. It should be easy. We dwarfs swim almost as well as some elves surf.’

‘That last wave was just bad fortune,’ she cried, defensively. ‘If I had not been distracted by the sight of an overdressed dwarf, in a cheap linen suit, walking down the sands, I would never have lost my balance.’

‘Now that I object to,’ I said, butting in. ‘This suit is by Gaspar Halftoken, and was hand-cut by at least a dozen gnomes!’

She gave me the full-beam elf smile for the first time, and I felt something go fluttery inside. ‘Gaspar Halftoken! In that case, Master Dwarf, I am very sorry. It is a fine suit.’

‘And the name is Nicely,’ I said, handing her a card, ‘Nicely Strongoak.’ She took the card and examined it closely. Satisfied, she replied:

‘Well, I am Thelen, and I will answer your questions if you answer me one first.’

‘Fire away,’ I said.

‘Who are you working for?’

‘A young lady who has lost a boyfriend; I thought at first he had just ditched her, but now I am not so sure.’

She picked up a handful of sand and let it slip through her long graceful fingers. ‘This boyfriend, not Perry Goodfellow by any chance?’

‘The same. Did you know him?’

‘By sight and reputation. One of the best surfers around – had to be to win the Gnada Trophy.’

‘So it’s that prestigious?’

‘Sure.’ She shrugged. ‘Mind you, not everyone feels the need to enter competitions.’

‘Like you?’

She regarded me solemnly. ‘I know you have never surfed, Master Strongoak, so it is difficult to explain. Out there it’s just you and the big blue ocean. Total communion, total involvement. When I am on the board I feel free, like I imagine they felt in our ancestors’ times, when the world was still wide and the sky unbounded. That’s what it’s about, not trinkets.’

‘But Perry thought differently?’

‘I suppose he thought he had something to prove. He was very aware of the gulf that many say exists between the elves and the men of the Citadel.’

‘Go tell it to the gnomes, lady.’

‘Sure, but gnomes do not go surfing.’

‘Did anyone bother to invite them?’

‘Yes, an interesting point. That would really upset Highbury. Gnomes on his precious beach.’

‘And who is this Highbury?’

‘He is the self-appointed leader of the Surf Elves faction.’

‘Faction? I thought the Surf Elves were really just something invented by the tabard-shirt manufacturers.’

Thelen began picking up small pebbles and throwing them at a piece of driftwood, punctuating her speech with each direct hit. ‘Oh no, Master Dwarf, it’s about more than T-shirts. I would not grace it with the name of philosophy, let us just call it an attitude. An attitude of elfin elitism calculated to annoy most right-thinking members of the community.’

‘And it annoyed Perry?’

‘I am not really sure; as I said, I did not actually know him well. When he came to the Gnada and started surfing, I think at first perhaps he was flattered by the attention of the elves. It was obvious that he was a natural on the board. Later, when he started getting rather too accomplished for the likes of Highbury and his friends, he may have felt their displeasure.’

‘Would it have been enough for him to have quit the beach and run out on Liza, perhaps to prove himself elsewhere?’

‘See this board, Master Strongoak,’ she said, knocking our breakfast table and appearing to change the subject. ‘It is made of myrtle, a superb wood. It is wonderfully light, but extremely hard. It can be worked, but only by a craftsman, and in consequence it is very expensive and only the elves can afford them. Perry Goodfellow might have done a lot of things for one of these, but he would not have left his lady for a goldmine full of them. It was just not in his nature. And remember, he wasn’t the only one with something to prove.’

‘What, Highbury and the Surf Elves?’

‘Yes. The relationship soured on both sides. He had, after all, won the Gnada Trophy, and was, incidentally, the first man to do so. The Surf Elves like having followers, but they are not so keen on being on equal terms with mortals. And Highbury, well, let us say he has ambitions which encompass more than simply the sporting arena.’

‘You sound as if you do not altogether approve?’

She scored another direct hit on the driftwood. ‘No, I do not approve. I do not like elites, elfin or any other variety. The Surf Elves strut around with their air of superiority, and their silly blue shirts and badges, as if the whole of Widergard was arranged for their convenience. It annoys me considerably, as well as giving the rest of us a bad name. We are all in this place together, there’s no Never-Neverland left over the Big Sea, and so we had all better get on with each other. The last thing we need is a group of blue-eyed, blond egoists running around, causing racial tension and getting up people’s noses.’

I had to agree with her. I would feel the same if it was young dwarfs. Mind you, half the population of the Citadel don’t want to look like young dwarfs, but that’s their problem.

‘But this Highbury body, elf or not, he is, after all, just some kind of dune drifter, isn’t he? I don’t know what these ambitions of his may be, but at best he is just a half-baked athlete.’

‘Do not underestimate the appeal of the Surf Elves,’ Thelen responded. ‘These half-baked athletes, as you call them, have a considerable following among the younger men and women of the Citadel. They are, after all, the modern heroes in a world where heroes are thin on the ground, and have been since the times that men dismiss as myths.’

I thought about this for a bit. The elfess had a point. Since the voting age had been lowered, the Citadel youth seemed to have had an inordinate effect upon the proceedings of the place.

‘How did this Highbury take Perry’s victory?’

She laughed beautifully. It made me want to run off and become a comedian, just to perform for her and hear it every day.

‘Lord Highbury Evergleaming was absolutely furious. He had won the Gnada Trophy the previous three years and was beginning to consider it his own property. He went into the Surf Elves’ beach dwelling and did not come out for a week. It was wonderful.’

Her laughter was replaced by a look of concern. ‘And now Perry is missing and presumably the Gnada trophy with him?’

I nodded to her: ‘It seems that way.’

‘I know which one will concern the Surf Elves the most! Highbury wants that cup back on his trophy shelf. ’

Thelen got up with an ease I wish I could match. She turned to face me. ‘So, Master Detective, as you can probably gather, I will be delighted to help you in any way I can, especially if it adds to Highbury’s discomfiture.’

I got out one of the little leather-bound notebooks I use for this sort of business – a hangover from my days in the Citadel Guards, but good practices are best not forgotten. I soon had all the background on the Surf Elves that I needed. I left the lady with my business card and drove down the beach. She offered to teach me to surf. I said I would keep that in the cold store.

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.

‘Just answer the question.’

‘A young man of dubious honour and undistinguished parentage, who worked for a living in an inn somewhere in the Citadel.’

‘And an excellent surfer, so I hear.’ When that did not elicit a response I continued: ‘But why do you question his honour?’

‘I heard he additionally moonlighted as a runner for some dubious industrialist. From what I gather, he left there under somewhat clouded circumstances.’

‘Meaning what, exactly?’

‘Meaning, I do not make it a habit to listen to the gossip of mortals.’ He had managed to expel most of what he had swallowed from the Gnada and was re-emerging, cocksure once more. ‘I think that is about your limit on the questions, Master Dwarf.’

‘Just one more, Goldy. Can you tell me where Perry Goodfellow is now?’

I thought I saw a trace of relief pass over his face, a small cloud passing over his sunny personality. I sucked on my teeth. I know elves are not supposed to be able to lie – ‘live elves don’t lie’, as the saying goes – but there is more than one way of not telling the truth, and I didn’t trust this guy further than I could throw a troll – four strides, I know, I’ve tried it. He fixed me with calm blue eyes. ‘No, Master Dwarf, I do not know where Perry Goodfellow is.’

That seemed to be as reasonable a time to leave as any. I went back up the beach to collect my clothes. Nobody was there to offer me a towel, so I took one anyway, from the little elf who had been so obliging to Highbury. He was staring at his pole-axed hero, disbelief written large all over his face. I tried to offer a conciliatory smile, but nothing was going to mend that particular broken heart.

Dusting the beach from between my pinkies, I got back into my wagon. I checked the reflection in the vanity mirror: hey, looking even better for a touch of those ultra-violet rays, Nicely, but still, I left the Gnada with the nagging feeling that I had missed something very important.

5
MRS HARDWOOD

It was well past midwatch when I made it back to the Two Fingers. The bright, sunny Gnada morning had turned into sweaty, sullen Citadel afternoon. The roads were choked with steaming wagons and their steaming drivers. I was not in the best of tempers, still plagued by a nagging doubt, and hardly ready for the surprise I found waiting for me on my return.

I had already let myself into the office from the corridor before I noticed someone in the reception room. Opening the adjoining door to invite them in, it being the help’s day off, I found myself taking a breath even deeper than Highbury had mustered out on the beach. If you were to think I was unused to seeing stunning women, dripping jewels and wearing the latest in high fashion, waiting in one of my rooms, well, you would be right. She unwrapped legs longer than my treasure house deficit and stood up.

‘You keep irregular hours, Detective Strongoak.’

‘The sign on the door says “waiting”, lady, but it ain’t compulsory.’

‘It does not seem likely to encourage custom.’

‘Custom tends to find me, one way or another.’

‘Are you going to at least invite me in?’

‘Lady, the place is yours.’ And it probably could be, with just one little stone from one perfectly manicured finger.

She strode across the room like an expensive racehorse. Her hair was as black as the deepest dwarf mine, and piled up high in a topknot, with some escaping down like a mane. I was willing to bet that pulling out just one pin from the complete, carefully contrived concoction would cause a whole cascade down her back. Thoughts like that can put a fire in your grate on long winter evenings.

‘And how was the beach, Detective Strongoak?’

‘The beach was just fine.’

‘Is that why you brought so much of it back with you?’

I looked down at myself. Yes, she had a point. Offering her a seat, I got myself behind the business end of the desk and tried to instil the proceedings with just a little dignity.

‘Look, lady, this is a lot of fun, and I’m sure we could keep it up all day, but how about you just tell me what the matter is and I’ll tell you if I can help?’

She ignored the offer of the seat and decided to keep on prowling.

‘But Detective Strongoak, I was so enjoying it, and I do tend to want more of what I enjoy.’ Finally she parked a perfectly formed rear on my desk and leaned towards me. ‘You do believe that, don’t you, De-tec-tive?’

I must admit until she said it I did not know the word had so many syllables, but she pronounced each one perfectly and each one sounded like a sin. But she didn’t know who she was dealing with; after all, I’d just had my Citadel Guards 100 strides swimming certificate updated.

‘Lady, I’ll be willing to believe that Princess Panaline and the Dwarf Brothers were just good friends, if you’re footing the bill. Negotiations have yet to reach that point though, so how about I peel you off my lapels and put you into a seat?’

This I did with the maximum of grace and the minimum of bodily contact. She still seemed unwilling to get to the point. From her new vantage point she surveyed the rest of the room.

‘You do not decorate your offices in the height of fashion, Detective Strongoak.’

Fashion was obviously something she knew all about. She was wearing a dark-blue dress that buttoned at the front like a man’s double-breasted jacket. The effect was disorientating. Her long elegant hands held white pixie-lace gloves. She played with them, her only trace of nervousness.

‘Discussing hem lines would also be fun, lady, but I have a living to make.’

‘And what sort of living would that be?’

‘It keeps the wolves from the tree and fills the occasional pipe.’

‘Your manner is a trifle short, Sir,’ she observed, putting her gloves upon my desk.

‘I’ve heard them all before, lady. So come on, why don’t you put your cards on the table as well as those gloves, which you can’t quite stop yourself fiddling with?’

I am not quite sure why I was doing the tough-guy routine, except that maybe she was expecting it. Certainly I seemed to have passed some unseen test, because she finally got to what was on her mind.

‘My name is Hardwood; you may have heard of my husband.’

The amount of emotion I revealed wouldn’t have filled a pixie’s purse. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him.’

Who hadn’t? Hardwood was one of the wealthiest industrialists in the Citadel, a real financial wizard. He owned half the petrochemical plants that added so much to the Bay area – and the Bay itself. The word was that he bought Councillors and traded in Aldermen, being one himself.

‘But then again, I’ve heard of Dofu the Dragon Herder.’

‘I don’t think Dofu the Dragon Herder ever owned the Hardwood emerald.’

‘No, I don’t believe he ever did.’

‘Well I do, and it’s gone missing.’ She dropped her head, making her expression unreadable.

‘Lady, if that means “stolen”, then you should try the Citadel Guards. The Cits aren’t quite the fools they are made out to be.’ I got up out of my chair and walked round the desk. I slowly sat down on its edge in front of her.

‘If “missing” means something else, then I think you probably want one of the big First-Level outfits, because this sounds out of my league. Why choose me? Apart from my big brown eyes, of course.’

Face still hidden, she said: ‘I need someone who knows about gems. Who can recognise the real thing.’ That sounded reasonable.

‘And,’ I added, lifting up her face to meet my own.

‘And,’ she said, as we matched lights, ‘I need someone who can be discreet. I cannot risk a large company. As I said, the stone is only missing. It disappeared from my home and no one from outside could have stolen it. I just want it returned and I am willing to pay.’

‘What makes you think that whoever “missed” this sparkler for you will want to part with it?’

‘I just think they will; I think they will. With the right middle-man, or middle-dwarf.’ Something in her expression had gone overseas and she was as unreadable as the goblin alphabet. Decision time for dwarf detectives. I flipped a mental half-a-crown and it came up shields – all right, Nicely!

I got up off the desk and sat back on the hired help’s side and opened a drawer. ‘I’ll get a contract drawn up.’

‘Is that necessary?’

‘Oh yes, I have tax returns to fill in so that I can give the Citadel authorities something to laugh about at Cit Hall. Also I’ll need a list naming all your staff, plus any that have left in the last year, and their reasons for leaving.’

She said she would have it ready the next day, and if I wanted to come round to Hardwood House at cocktail time she would see that I received it. I promised to bring the contract round at the same time and told her, while she was at it, to lay on lots of those little cheesy biscuits. She said she preferred to lie on mattresses but was willing to try anything once. We left it at that: points even, Nicely to throw next.

6
TRUETOUCH

I probably should have enjoyed a quiet supper and gone directly to bed or maybe practised my paper-folding skills, but, still edgy from the beach, I put the wagon into first and headed on out. If a stone like the Hardwood Emerald goes missing, it has got to turn up somewhere. However, the kind of collector who dabbles in that sort of gem is not likely to advertise in Stones and Stonemen, but the merchandise still has to be moved. There are middlemen with minders, negotiators and evaluators. Leaks happen. When in doubt go and listen to the talk on the streets – but if there was any talk, it can’t have been in the five languages I spoke. In the end, of course, I didn’t have to go looking for trouble; it found me. I have a talent for trouble.

I was sitting in a skin joint named the Gally-trot-a-Go-Go keeping a pot of muddled ale company. The owner of this establishment dedicated to the disrobing arts, one Snatchpole Sidling, owed me a favour. I had sorted out some trouble for him, a little problem with under-age gnomes, fresh from Little Hundred, trying to improve their knowledge of other-race anatomy. I hoped that he might be able to clear the debt tonight. He always kept one finger on the Citadel’s pulse, but it was not yet payback time. Snatchpole had not heard a single whisper from his various sources about the illicit marketing of an expensive piece of pre-loved treasure trove.

Some bored-looking ‘Jane the Wad’ was taking her clothes off on the platform, with all the enthusiasm of a patient about to undergo an unwanted internal examination from a physic with cold hands. She was billed as Elsie the Enchanted Elfess, but with a wig like that she was not fooling anyone. Certainly elfin clothing is not renowned for quite so many frills, garters, bows and inspection vents.

The music came courtesy of a three-piece band that probably thought they were a four-piece band, judging by all the gaps they were leaving in the tunes. Still, the drink was good, although I would not be willing to guess what the paying guests were consuming, and how much it was costing. I had seen and heard enough, and certainly drunk enough, when I noticed a halfway familiar elfin face enter, scanning the stalls. I was on my way out, but I put my hat down again. The young elf saw me at about the same time and came over in a hurry. He was wearing a lightweight linen summer coat with pearl buttons over a raw silk scoop-neck top and ankle-hugging five-pleat trousers. Very natty; he had certainly not been dressed by his mother! But the confidence displayed in his dress was not matched in his manner. The normal elfin air of self-possession had been replaced by something approaching nervousness.

‘You are hard to track down, Master Dwarf.’

I finally placed him, one of the Surf Elves; Highbury’s young towel guardian. ‘I get around,’ I ventured, not at all sure what he might want from me.

‘Can we go somewhere to talk?’ he continued, glancing around, fingers playing with loose change in his trouser pocket and his foot tapping impatiently; as worried as an elf is ever capable of getting. I looked around too; was there something else agitating him? Something other than Elsie the Enchanted Elfess, now down to her silks and satins?

‘What’s wrong, don’t you like the surroundings? Snatchpole spent a small fortune getting exactly that right combination of glamour and grime.’

‘It is not the sort of place an elf should really be seen in,’ he said, obviously not fooled by Elsie the Enchanted Elfess’s ample charms, finally being revealed in all their glory. I thought of mentioning this fine example of elf femininity, but my essential good nature got the better of me. After all, this could be the break I had been waiting for.

‘I take it that this is more than a social call, elf?’

‘Perhaps we can leave that conversation until later, somewhere else?’

I nodded and followed the young elf out, missing Elsie’s finale and what in the business I believe is called a ‘bowstring’. The things women will put on to attract a mate, when really just a smile is all they need to wear. Elsie certainly wasn’t wearing one of those as she slipped behind the curtain.

At the door I threw a salute to Snatchpole and then together the elf and I went to collect my wagon. It was parked nearby and it was only a short walk. The elf seemed to relax as soon as we were out in the open air and when he saw my wagon he got positively animated.

‘Dragonette ’57? That’s the last model they made with the wings and the air trimming, isn’t it?’

I nodded an affirmative.

‘They should never have gone over to foils, big mistake. Dragonettes were never the same after that.’

So, the elf knew his way round a wagon and also dressed with dash. I was beginning to warm to him, but would never put something like that in writing.

I opened the door for him and he ran one hand appreciatively over the milkwood trim with a contented sigh. Yes, definitively warming to him. We drove off together into the clammy, clinging, high-summer Citadel night.

Now he had started to talk it was hard to shut the elf up. After a few more comments on the current sorry state of wagon production and some observations on how badly traffic was handled in the Citadel, I got a detailed elf-centric analysis of the economic woes of Widergard in general, and then, finally, an introduction.

‘My name is Truetouch.’

‘Nicely Strongoak, but you probably caught that on the beach when you were with your Surf Elf buddies.’

‘Yes, Strongoak – a good name.’

‘Didn’t elves ever consider that, maybe now, they should, just perhaps, consider investing in some last names as well?’

This earned me a somewhat restrained laugh.

‘My dear, Detective Strongoak, it is the duty of an elf to give names to things, not to be named ourselves.’

I had to laugh. ‘Hardly an attitude to endear yourselves to the postal service?’

‘Perhaps not. But have you ever seen an elf post a letter?’

I tapped the steering wheel, more than slightly irritated. ‘Well, didn’t elves ever consider that, maybe now, they should, just perhaps, stop being such almighty, self-important, pains in the posterior?’

Truetouch didn’t have an answer for this one. 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 tomorrow? What’s the game, Truetouch?’

‘The game is bigger than you can imagine, Master Detective. Much bigger! Tomorrow I will have something in my possession that I think you will be very pleased to see. It will more than recompense you for your services and should warrant a bonus too. Just as long as you can keep me safe!’

Truetouch was looking around him, his sky-blue eyes darting back and forth. The remaining customers were not paying us the slightest attention. I wondered who he was looking for: friend or foe? Beads of perspiration were gathering on his brow, like spray from the sea. He was not looking at all well. Mind you, I wasn’t feeling too great either. Something was not as it should be.

I looked Truetouch in his clear elfin eyes. The eyes were big, blue and round. The biggest bluest eyes I had ever seen. They got bigger and rounder, as large and inviting as two swimming pools shimmering on a hot summer’s day. It was so warm I almost felt like going for a dip. I was trying to remember why this might be a bad idea, but it was too late and I could already feel myself diving, down, down and down. The swimming-pool eyes opened even wider with surprise and slowly, slowly … I went under.

7
WET WORK

I was drowning. I was seated behind the steering wheel of my wagon, seatbelt tied, and I was drowning. There was salt water in my mouth and I was sinking fast.

The plan would probably have worked with any other race, but there is not anything you can put in a dwarf’s drink that he will not recover from after that initial splash of cold water. I grabbed a last lungful of air as the water reached the roof and the drowning-clock started running. I tried the door, but the weight of water was too much. Then a little voice from inside reminded me: I drove a convertible. The catch on the roof would not work, though, and even dwarf-muscled hands could not get the material to part.

I had one chance – if only they had left me my hand axe.

It proved easy to find. It was in the head of the young elf sitting next to me with a shooter in his hand. His lovely linen coat had not passed the evening intact after all. Truetouch had gone west in a big way. If I was not to join him I had to do something fast.

Removing my axe was not pleasant, and even my capacious dwarf lungs were beginning to scream as I went to work on the roofing. The material now tore easily; mercifully I keep my axe sharp. Wielding it was a bit harder though, but I quickly made a hole just big enough to squeeze through. I slipped the axe strap over my hand, pocketed the shooter, and struck out for the city lights that were glimmering through the water above. I barely had the power to make it to the surface, but reserve tank banging on zero, I finally broke the surface and could put some puff back in the machine.

My beautiful Dragonette had been run straight off a quayside and I was not that far from the shore. I would make it in one piece; if the various poisons that our industry pumps into the Bay did not get to me first. They had made a mistake there, whoever had sent us for this unwelcome dip. They should have just pushed the wagon off a cliff somewhere and let us both fry.

However, that maybe would not have fitted with the little picture that they were trying to paint. Instead, they tried to fit me too closely in the frame. They had tried to be too clever and when you try to be too clever … you get unlucky. That was their first mistake; the second was making me angry. I’m not exactly saying we were kindred spirits, but there was something about Truetouch that I’d liked, something other than his taste in summer outfits. The elf had come to me for help. I had not actually struck the deal and now I never would, but there was an obligation there and dwarfs take their obligations very seriously. Somebody was going to find out just how seriously. The split skull of the helpless Truetouch was now Illustration Number One in my Big Book of Nightmares and it was going to take some work before I could rip the picture out and throw it away.

It was a long walk back to the armoury. I went by the back streets, and little-known staircases, as I could not afford to be seen. It gave me plenty of time to try to think, but powders and a dunking don’t promote my best work. What did Truetouch know about Perry and the Surf Elves that could get him wraithed in such a spectacularly unpleasant manner? We had both been drinking the same wine, unless it was Truetouch who had slipped something in my glass and had subsequently been betrayed by whoever wanted me out of the way. It was possible, but was it likely? Who had been the target here and who was the innocent bystander? The questions rattled around my head but answers … there were none.

I made it to the armoury unseen; the new doorman was fast asleep on the reception coach. Dawn was just sending its first outriders around the Hill walls, announcing it was going to be another hot one. By that time a combination of intensive seething and the still warm night air had dried me off completely so I would not be leaving any telltale pools. My damp suit would never be the same, though. Exhausted and still befuddled by the liquid macing, I slowly climbed up the back stairs and finally made it to my rooms. Letting myself in quietly, I found a hastily scribbled note that had been pushed under the door. Two words only: ‘RING RALPH!’

I rang Ralph, but he was not at his desk. The desk duty officer asked if I wanted to leave a message. I hesitated; a message would get logged – did I want that? I decided it could do no harm, and so I told him that Nicely Strongoak had called and could he get back to me. I needed coffee so badly my taste buds were considering suing for abuse. I saw to the percolator and then went and stood under the shower until I felt that my pores were free from the filth of the Bay. I came round a fraction and had just slipped into a robe when there was a knock on the door that immediately spoke to me of the Citadel Guards. I opened up and there stood Sergeant-at-Arms, Ralph Fieldfull.

‘Little late for bathing, isn’t it – personal hygiene problem?’ he remarked, and came on in uninvited, followed by an impressively uniformed scout he offhandedly announced as ‘Telfine’.

Not that Ralph needed any invitation. I had known Ralph since our earliest undercover days in the Citadel Intelligence Agency. After that he went public and entered the Citadel Guards. I had tried it for a while, but then entered the private sector. Ralph made it to Sergeant-at-Arms in record time, but then got stuck. The rumour was that he could not be entirely trusted – trusted to do what the department dictated, rather than what the law required. Me, I am still working the same streets, but at least I know which side the bad guys are on – most of the time. The young scout had a razor-shaven, flat-top ‘yes-sire’ haircut and a manner that demanded a tickle with something sharp. He was obviously well on his way up the soapy staircase and keen to make an impression with the gold badges. About as benign as a nettle poultice, he knew all the right handshakes, went to the right parties and was not going to get stuck at Sergeant.

‘Maybe he’s been for a dip in the Bay?’ the scout said, not as stupid as he looked.

‘It’s been a warm night,’ I said, drying my plait and doing my best to ignore the scout and concentrate on Ralph, to attempt to gauge the wind direction, as it were. ‘Looks like he’s been warned about our visit,’ popped in the eager scout again.

‘Now who would want to do that and why?’ I wondered aloud, following them into my rooms.

Ralph threw himself on my old settle. It groaned a little, unused to the extra weight. He carefully took off his cap and put it down next to him. Married life and three children had added the inches to his waist, but he still had the rugged features of an outdoors man. I sat on a bentwood armchair I had made myself during my recovery from the knifing that had left the scar that looked like the results of a botched second-rate kidney procedure. The scout just paced. He was good at pacing. He obviously equated pacing with good detective work. He would probably pace his way to the top-of-the-tree and then drop dead two days after retiring. His tombstone would read: Citadel Guard Commander Telfine. ‘He came, he saw, he paced.’ I tried not to stare at the bathroom door and the damp suit, with Ralph’s note in the pocket, which lay behind it.

‘Understand, you’ve been trying to reach me, Nicely.’ Ralph took out his pipe and offered me his pouch, but my lungs still contained a bit too much of the Bay. I finished tying my plait.

‘Sure, I called you on the old horn a couple of times, wanted to report my wagon missing.’

‘What time would this be?’

‘Can’t say exactly. I was scouting various drinking holes last night, must have got in a shade after midwatch. I tried to sleep, tossed around for a while – hot and bothered – and then decided a shower and some coffee might help. When I got up, I glanced out of the window and noticed the wagon was missing. That’s when I first tried to reach you. I tried again after my shower and when you still weren’t there I left a message––’

‘We weren’t there,’ the scout interrupted, ‘because we were busy pulling your wagon out of the Bay!’ He seemed to think this had earned him a point or two.

‘Oh dear,’ I said, concerned. ‘Barrel-riders, I suppose, probably kids. I hope it’s not in too bad a condition.’

‘It’s in better condition than the occupant!’

Ralph smoked his pipe. He smoked with a determined air, giving it his full concentration. It must have been taking all his attention, because in the meantime he was letting the new boy give me the whole story. But Ralph just sat there, impassively, while the scout made every mistake in the book. Maybe even funny handshakes were not going to make this man’s career after all.

‘Well, it is quite a difficult wagon to drive, the Dragonette,’ I remarked, matter-of-factly. ‘Very fast.’

‘Fast, nothing!’ The scout stopped and glowered down at me. ‘This particular barrel-rider was the passenger and he did not get injured going into the Bay, not unless an axe fell onto his head from the vanity mirror! A dwarf axe, from the looks of it, rammed into an elf head.’

‘And you have the axe?’ I asked.

‘No we don’t, as you very well know, which is why you’re still sitting there and not sucking in air in the Citadel slammer!’

Yes, this one was a real charmer. I caught Ralph’s eye and lifted one brow. The scout was stomping around now like a hobgoblin on heat.

‘Do you know what happens when an elf dies on the Hill, dwarf? What happens is we get more shit coming down on our heads than you would if you lived on a dragon’s flight path. So don’t you get cute with me! We’ve got a dead elf, and he was seen earlier leaving the Gally-trot-a-Go-Go, talking with a dwarf, so you look like a pretty good fix for his murder. What happened? You two argue, so you axed him, lost control of the wagon and ended up in the Bay? I think maybe we should just take a little look round here.’ He headed for the bathroom and the incriminating suit with my wet axe on top.

‘I think that is probably enough, Scout Telfine,’ said Ralph, in the nick of time. ‘You cannot go searching the rooms of law-abiding folk without a warrant, and as for the accusation, I think you will be very lucky if Master Strongoak here does not post charges,’ Ralph added as he arose from the settle, intercepting Telfine and firmly shutting the bathroom door. ‘He is a licensed detective and an ex-member of the Citadel Guards himself. I think the best thing we can do now, scout, is offer an apology and ask Master Strongoak, politely, if he would kindly give us details of his whereabouts last night, so we can do some checking before we go around wielding accusations like irate pikemen.’

The scout, stopped in his tracks, looked at us both. ‘I get it, some kind of old boys’ act, is it? I’ve been warned about you, Fieldfull. Well, I’m telling you, I wasn’t just shat from no fellhound. I’m not going to end up stuck at Sergeant-at-arms!’ With that he charged from my rooms, slamming the door behind him.

‘Talented lad, should go far,’ I remarked.

‘Can’t be far enough.’ He sat and sucked at his pipe again. ‘It’s the quality of applicant we get these days. I blame the rolling pictures, they make the job look glamorous, instead of what it is: an exercise in hobyah herding.’

‘Was ever that way.’

‘All the same, Nicely, I am going to need that statement from you.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You check with Snatchpole, the keeper at the Gally-trot-a-Go-Go, he’ll be able to tell you it wasn’t me.’ Ralph eyed me up slowly, picking up his cap from the sofa.

‘I guess you know what you’re doing, but Telfine, my much-esteemed junior colleague, is giving it straight from the bow. There is going to be some real heat about this from the elves, so you had better stick around the Hill for a while – and I could do with that statement sometime soon – very, very soon.’

‘How soon?’

‘Now soon.’ He stood up and stretched, stifling a yawn.

‘Sure thing,’ I said. ‘Now tomorrow soon enough?’ I asked. He nodded and gave in to the yawn before getting up to leave.

‘How’s the wife and kids, Ralph?’

‘Still need clothes and three square meals a day.’

He paused at the door and turned back round. ‘Don’t spit in the eye of any dragons, Nicely. Hear me? It’s looking like it might be a bad time to be out there without a magic sword.’ And then with a last wave, and a last yawn, he was gone.

I collected my over-stewed coffee and sat slowly back down, trying yet again to get my thoughts in order. Who exactly had axed Truetouch? Could it have been the hooded stranger and his goblin chums? Was Truetouch about to dish some dirt on Highbury or did he know the whereabouts of the missing Perry Goodfellow and the Gnada Trophy? Thelen had said Highbury wanted to regain the trophy pretty badly, but neither of these reasons seemed to warrant such a permanent sanction as Truetouch had received. And what light did any of this throw on Perry’s disappearance? Plus, where is The Lost Gold of Galliposs, how deep is The Bottomless Pit of Doom and if you’re being stalked by letters of the alphabet, do the ‘i’s follow you around the room? These and other such imponderables I would have to leave until the morning.

I managed to catch a few hours’ sleep. I obviously needed them, because it was only after I rolled off the bed that I remembered the number written down for me by Truetouch. I rummaged through the damp pile of clothes – Gaspar was going to have a fit, he was very protective about his stitching – and finally I found the dead elf’s pipeleaf card. As I feared, the ink had run and the number was all but illegible. I reached for the horn and tried a few combinations of digits that might once have been inscribed on the card, but with no joy.

The card itself, though, was interesting. I made a large coffee and examined it closer. It was indeed a pipeleaf card, the kind they give away free in a packet of pipeleaf and children then trade. It had obviously been carted around for some time, and had seen better days, even before its trip to the Bay. Number 16 in a series of Famous Track Winners. It portrayed a large black horse with a distinctive white mark on its muzzle. The legend read: ‘Rosebud’. I suppose the mark could have passed for a rosebud, with a little imagination. I waved it dry and pocketed it thoughtfully. It was not much to go on, but, by Hograx the Uneven’s hairy one, it was at least a clue and that’s what us detectives love most of all. Give us a clue and we’re as happy as a pixie in a poppy field. Unless, of course, it turns out to only be a bit of waste paper lurking in an elf’s favourite coat.

My musings were rudely interrupted by a blast from the horn on the table behind my head. I picked it up: ‘Nicely Strongoak, Shield-for-Hire,’ I said, forgetting for the moment that I was not in the office.

‘I saw your race with Highbury. It was wonderful. I cannot remember the last time I laughed so much.’

Even in my sleep fug I recognised the voice at the end of the line as belonging to Thelen, the elfess from the beach. The thought of her laughing made my toes curl and the rest of me feel much better. ‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘How did Golden Boy seem to take it?’

‘Livid, apoplectic. We have a very good word in elfish for it; unfortunately it does not translate.’

‘Shame, maybe you could teach me it, in case I run into him again.’

‘That’s why I was calling. Did you get the information about Perry Goodfellow that you required?’

‘Yes and no. Why?’

‘I was wondering if you would relish the opportunity for another go at Lord Highbury?’

‘Lady, I think you might have got the wrong idea about me. I’m always left foot forward when I dance.’

She laughed down the horn. ‘I meant keep him on the boil, as it were. And no, I don’t think I’ve got the wrong idea about you at all, Master Strongoak.’

‘Fine – sounds interesting then. What did you have in mind?’

‘A friend of mine has two tickets for a big Charity Ball; all the White and Wise will be there. Unfortunately my friend has been taken ill and I wondered how you would feel about accompanying me tonight. I have it on good authority that a certain other party will be there.’

‘And me without a thing to wear.’

‘I am sure you will think of something, Master Strongoak. You strike me as pretty resourceful.’ She rang off before I had a chance to ask how she had found my home number. I am not listed in the books and I do not print it on my business cards. Interesting.

I finished my coffee and went to the closet to see what outfit I could get ruined today. I chose a suit in tan buck leather, so light you wouldn’t raise a sweat at a troll’s barbecue, but suitably restrained for a visit to Citadel Central Archive.

The Citadel Central Archive entrance is on the Second Level, but the vaults themselves, dark labyrinths, delve deep into the mountainside. When I first came to the Citadel I would visit the archive if I felt homesick. Leaning on the revolving door, I entered and passed through the entrance hall into what has become known as the Widergard Gallery. This large round room is the hub from which the various tunnels that contain the Citadel records radiate. The Widergard Gallery – now only containing the information stall – still has on its walls the famous friezes. The whole history of Widergard carved in stone. Or rather the official history, with dwarfs featuring far too infrequently for my liking and the pix never getting a look-in. I do not blame the mason, though, as it is expertly hewn. You’ve got to love rock!

Unlike many of the Citadel buildings, the lighting here is excellent. Sconces line the tunnels and downlights mark the intersections. The whole effect is subdued, but studious. I am sure they must have had dwarf help. I found a tome on famous gems. I looked up the Hardwood Emerald and was surprised at the paucity of the entry. The ring was very old, that much was certain; made by men in some time lost in antiquity, when all such rings were said to be ‘magic’. The story went that it was given to the Ancestral Hardwood at the time of the Old Wars, for some forgotten act of valour. Strangely, there was not a single picture, so I went searching for the stacks concerned with the Great Citadel Families.

The entries chronicling the Hardwoods and the current Alderman Hardwood were not that much more extensive than those concerning the emerald of that name. Much was alluded to but little documented. I was surprised at his range of interests, and not just in the business world – not simply a financial wizard, it appeared. More fingers in more pies than a blind man in a bakehouse.

I carried on searching and found an interesting article in a low-circulation, once well-respected, but now defunct periodical called The Green Book. The scribe, one Renfield Crew, implied that Hardwood was the backer of more than one slightly suspect political figure, with ideas not exactly contrary to the interests of big business. No big surprise there, but these politicos were also often a few gods short of the full wolf pack. Some of their views made the Great Despot of Dangenheim look like an expert in man management.

Interestingly, The Green Book had ceased printing the month after this article was written. Coincidence, or something else?

I scribbled the scribe’s name down and kept searching.

There were no recent pictures of Mr Hardwood; he had made privacy into an art form. The one picture I could find, taken many, many years ago, showed a young man in sporting attire who obviously could not wait for middle age. From his youth Hardwood looked like he was longing for the air of wisdom and sagacity that only advancing years can give. The long Hardwood face was crying out for the first whiskers of a beard and the hairline was already waving its goodbyes. Even his knees looked uncomfortable without the comfort of a cover of good tailoring. How he had ended up with a woman as incendiary as his current wife was anybody’s guess.

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