Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets

by Alessio Lanterna

Oh, crap, I’ve got to meet the insignificant Nohl Cohl in two hours. Better switch my phone off before he realises I have absolutely no intention of going. Prick.

  I get to the visitor’s entrance at Lovl’Atheron Tower just after eight. The effect of the modest dose of Onirò has almost faded away. From a certain point of view, this is a good thing, even though, initially, it seems like a tiny tragedy. In theory, the skyline of Nectropis was supposed to be crowned by eleven spires, about a kilometre high, the residential homes for the elf dynasties and, in the centre, the Civic Tower. For one reason or another, the Civic Tower was never completed, and there’s a sort of hole there. In my opinion it looks much more genuine this way. The Federation of Free Peoples has never been anything like its description in the constitution, “an equal brotherhood of all free and independent sentient beings”, blah blah blah. It’s always been one big board game for the elves, that’s what. The city profile simply describes the real state of affairs.

  Each dynasty takes care of a bit of everything, from banking to heavy industry, as well as the media, supermarkets, means of transport, and unbeknownst to most naïve residents, organized crime. They are extremely up-to-date as far as the latter sector is concerned, especially as they get such a good return from it.

  The hall of public relations annoys me. It’s unnaturally clean for a place where, every single fucking day, thousands of people queue up coughing, sneezing, dropping litter and trailing in shit from outside. If they didn’t use magic to clean it, it would be a pigsty. In front of some of the windows there is already a queue of morning clients. Without bothering to find out if I’m at the right window, I choose the longest queue, for the sadistic pleasure of pushing in and seeing the look on their faces. I slap my badge on the window and introduce myself.

  “I’d like to talk to someone about the Inla Lovl’Atheron case.”

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but this window is for—“

  “Call someone. I’ll wait.”

  She’s used to seeing all kinds of people and she knows instantly there’s no getting rid of me, so she picks up the phone and dials an internal number. Five numbers, an excellent indication as to how many people there are in the tower. Looking up, I spot a small sign above the window explaining its function, it also explains why it’s so popular.

  ILLEGAL PARKING FINES—COMPLAINTS OFFICE.

  Ah yes, that’s it. The council administration subcontracts a whole series of public services to various companies, in an effort to cut costs. Following the “contest” and approval, someone from the council receives a pleasantly fat envelope, while, surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, the elves (the practically inescapable winners) succeed in transforming some business, which is seemingly devoid of economic appeal, into a veritable goldmine. Fines are particularly well-suited to pointy-eared privatisation. I can just picture our anonymous tax-payer filing a suit against an elf dynasty to get a twenty-crown fine annulled. Instead, he comes to this place, just like the imbeciles standing behind me, complains, listens to some scripted spiel, he might even be invited to submit the complaint to a judge, in the end he’ll go home cursing and promising himself that’s the last time he pays a fine when he’s done absolutely nothing wrong, though knowing full well, deep down that it won’t be. This thought perks me up no end.

  The woman arches her eyebrows when, after a short interlude, the person on the other end of the line tells her something which is clearly unusual. She hangs up, turns to face me, and looks at me like I’m a very rare beast indeed. Moistening her lips, she leans closer to the sheet of glass between us and whispers conspiratorially.

  “His Excellency Lovl’Atheron in person will see you immediately, Lieutenant Arkham,” she announces, hardly believing her own words.

  “Um. Good.”

  For a second or two, we stare at each other, awkward and confused. I break the silence. “Where should I go?”

  She points to a door discreetly located next to Public Teletransport, a small brass plaque says ‘PRIVATE’. She looks at it as though seeing it for the first time, having worked for years in the same place. Feeling rather uncomfortable, I thank her and say goodbye. She watches me go as if I were a ghost.

  The teletransport room is small but welcoming. There are a couple of comfortable-looking chairs, a neat pile of newspapers on a coffee table, a colourful vase of flowers and a relaxing symphony is playing in the background. Altogether it resembles a dentist’s waiting room, a dentist who specialises in upper-class gnashers. Teletransport is practically instant, however this doesn’t mean that whoever is at your destination can (or wants) to receive visitors immediately. I’m about to sit down when I notice the headline of the Nectropis Gazette, the newspaper on top of the pile. Stupid fucking wanker.

  “The Seventh claims an illustrious victim—LOVL’ATHERON MURDERED—Inspector Cohl, MP: we’ve got a lead”.

  Stupid fucking wanker, I think again while I reach for the newspaper. But before I can, my surroundings turn into something else. Someone must be very anxious to see me.

  I loathe teletransport. Every fucking time I nearly fall over like a lush, without having had a drop, and sometimes I feel queasy afterwards for a full ten minutes.

  The place I find myself in now is a lot different from where I was a moment ago. There aren’t any tables or chairs here, because obviously those who descend don’t wait for anyone. Instead I’m on a large terrace which slopes towards the sky. In the distance I can just make out the silhouettes of other elvish spires, arrogantly dominating the skyline, lashed by the rain. Contrary to what people say, the rain doesn’t fall on everyone in the same way. I’m not getting wet. It’s as though there’s an invisible dome a few metres above me, the raindrops inoffensively roll off and plummet towards the city. The urge to look down is overwhelming, even though I’m still afraid of heights and there’s no visible parapet between the terrace and a drop of dozens, maybe hundreds, of metres. Down there I glimpse more towers, less imposing, they emerge from the darkness like the spines of a sea urchin sticking out of the sand. Further down, if I squint, I can make out the maze of streets, buildings, walkways, pipelines and God knows whatever else makes up Nectropis. Where millions of people lead their hectic lives like a swarming mass of ants who have lost their proverbial sense of discipline. In nearly forty years, never have I seen the city from so high up. I’m on top of the world. A slight sense of euphoria creeps over me, and I wonder if this is how it feels to be a God. You look down on mortals from the sky, with the detached eye of an entomologist studying a new species of roach, not so terribly different from the others to make it really interesting, but sufficiently different to require the development of a new insecticide. Is this how Valan Lovl’Atheron, after a thousand years, observes the city? Is this how, without even realising it, he also looked at me, when he scrutinised the tangle of worms at the foot of his ivory tower? No doubts there. I swallow. The person I am about to meet is more similar to a God than to an insignificant mortal such as myself. Who can say if the reverential terror which is tearing through my gut like a blade is the result of another enchantment, or simply renewed, spontaneous awareness? The euphoria from before fades into a memory.

  I feel like swearing to relieve the tension, but the words die in my brain even before they make it to my throat. A God is far too near to risk it. So I make do with spitting down below, hawking up some catarrh. I watch the yellowish blob make its way through the rain, and hope with a slight smile it hits someone.

  “Everything all right?” enquires a fresh voice from a girl behind me, with affected concern. She’s wearing a long silk dress decorated with floral motifs, the asses claim this type of thing is traditionally elvish, mere mortals normally call it a dressing-gown. Also the modesty of mortals appears to be completely out of place, up here, in fact, Miss Pointy Ears seems to be blissfully unaware that her traditional dress is moving slightly in the breeze, and opens. Or maybe her innate sense of charity allows me a peek at her impeccable nudity.
Have I already mentioned the fact that elves have no hair on their bodies from the nose down? Precisely, no hair. It takes me a while to pull my gaze away and up to her face, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Amused, she delicately bites her lip. Her resemblance to Inla is striking, obviously, given the relationship between them. Each dynasty doesn’t number more than a few hundred elves in total. Rabbits might be immortal but they’re practically sterile. “Yes,” I reply, eventually, adding a second, more decisive “yes” to rescue the first feeble assent. The girl is presumably the same age as Inla, but she looks like a schoolgirl, while her sister looked more like a mature woman. It goes without saying that the girl before me was emptying dicks long before my mother was born, something I strenuously force myself to remember when I have dealings with asses. Next to her, a globe of soft light bobs up and down, seemingly devoid of any material component. Its suffused light further enhances—as if there was any need—the captivating silhouette of her body. How many men would recant the Gods just to screw this beauty? I’d be the first.

  That’s not what you’re here for, she tells me mentally.

  “Grandfather ith waiting for you, officer.”

  There’s something tremendously suggestive about the way she says “Grandfather”. Like she’s about to cream her pants. If she was wearing any, of course. With a graceful gesture, she points to the entrance to the furthest part of the spire, a wide marble doorway decorated with exquisite bas-relief foliage and, once again, flowers. When we get there, the seemingly immovable double door opens as though weightless, and reveals the private apartments of the Lovl’Atherons. A glimpse of heaven.

  Enormous carpets cover the whole floor, tapestries and curtains adorn the walls. Soft cushions are scattered all over, along with elves. Naked or semi-naked, some are puffing on long-stemmed pipes and blowing plumes of smoke up towards the hazy vault, illuminated by the ubiquitous, yet discreet, dreamy globes. Others are talking politely, in low voices, while others are engaging in romantic effusions of various intensity, oblivious to the issues of gender or privacy. The smell of sex fills my nostrils and momentarily shuts down my brain.

  “Thee thomething you like?” asks the hare teasingly, after a long pause.

  I’ve got all the four balls I need to enjoy the show, thankth very much. But I can’t say a word, and she sniggers. Something in my trousers probably answered for me.

  “Come through now. Grandfather ith alwayth very tied-up…”

  She gently pulls at my sleeve, breaking the spell, a spell containing no magic. When I leave the ante-room I have the distinct feeling that, as from today, no fuck will ever be worth it. Fortunately I have an extraordinary ability to bounce back after psychological trauma.

  Valan receives me in a room which is markedly less affected and intriguing. My guide, whose name I ignore to this day, leaves me one last lingering look, half curious and half eager. I imagine it’s all because of my ‘exotic’ scruffy beard. Yet another victim of my proletarian appeal. The thousand-year-old elf enters by parting a vermilion curtain at the end of the room. To begin with his tunic is closed, and rather than a dressing-gown it looks more like a cassock embroidered with gold thread. Despite the fact that his face is visibly etched with the passing of past eras, he is more similar to an agile fifty-year-old than an anti-apocalyptic old bag of bones. He performs every single movement which such solemnity, behaviour which would be utterly out of place anywhere else. Inappropriate for anyone outside of the Lovl’Atheron family.

  I’m not deemed worthy of his gaze until he lowers himself onto his throne, resting his forearms on the arms of the throne with a wide, measured, circular gesture. Only then do I realise that I got out of the chair I was sitting on during my brief wait. Suddenly, as though waking from wandering in his sleep, his eyes come to life and he gives me a polite smile. I sit down again.

  “Yes. Lieutenant Arkham,” he addresses me, with no trace of a lisp. He doesn’t need to look important. When he talks, he enunciates every syllable, as though he’s not entirely sure I can hear him properly. “Federal Guard. Actually, I was expecting a visit from the local garrison, judging by the newspapers.”

  Asses place great importance on displaying refined language, the elders particularly. I can’t find fault with this habit, I’m guilty of it myself sometimes.

  “I see, your Excellency. I’m a friend of Inspector Cohl, and I’m assisting him with the investigation,” I say, hesitantly. It’s not enough, so I add, “He’s new here, so he thought it would be a good idea to ask for some extra help from someone with more…expertise, for such an important case.”

  That’s better. Flatter his ego.

  “Expertise. Yes. I’ve heard rumours about you, Lieutenant Arkham. Some blood relations claim that Lieutenant Arkham is a trustworthy man.”

  ‘Blood relations’ means ‘elves from another dynasty’. ‘Trustworthy man’ on the other hand means the same thing regardless of race or who is saying it. It’s the equivalent of ‘man of honour’, ‘thug’ or ‘heavy’, but it’s not a vulgar term. Let’s say it’s used by gentlemen.

  Taking it on the chin, I console myself with the thought that He has heard of me.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr Lovl’Atheron.”

  “About Inla.”

  No, about the lottery numbers.

  “Exactly. I’d like to know if—“

  “Go ahead.” He gives me permission to speak, interrupting, as if my words reached him after a delay.

  “Thank you. I’d like to know if you have any idea as to how Inla could have ended up on the Seventh Level. It certainly isn’t normally frequented by members of your noble dynasty.”

  He exhales deeply.

  “Inla has always been a disagreeable girl. In the past she allowed herself to get involved in an embarrassing sentimental relationship with a descendant of the Feltu’Atherons. Recently she was involved in some common disturbances, exceeding the limits of immoderation and deviating with behaviour bordering on subversion. The other elders and I commanded her to resume a demeanor which was more in keeping with our coat of arms, nonetheless she blatantly refused.”

  Well, well. As long as she’s taking apart in incestuous orgies next door, everything’s fine. But a relationship with another dynasty and a protest on the street, dammit, that’s blasphemy.

  “So what measures were taken?”

  “We didn’t take any measures. She asked to leave the dwelling of her forefathers,” he says, indicating my surroundings with an eloquent, regal wave of his hand. “And we provided her with an adequate allowance for her new life. Since then I haven’t heard anymore about her, neither have I been remotely interested in her fate. Nonetheless, I must confess, that I continued to hope that she would repent and remember and retrace her steps.”

  Moving. Dammit, usually, these caustic comments come out of my mouth instead of sitting there in my brain. My head could end up exploding in a cloud of toxic gas.

  “I see.” I clear my throat. “So, you can’t tell me anything about her current company.”

  Because eight years might seem “recent” to you but it sure as hell isn’t to me. For fuck’s sake, I still thought I would get married eight years ago.

  “Nothing at all,” he answers, definitely.

  “But you did mention a relationship with a Feltu’Aterhon. Who was it, exactly?”

  He assumes a pensive expression. “Gilder was his name. I seem to recall that he was a source of constant bewilderment to his dynasty.”

  It’s time for one of my brilliant ideas, something that will rip the mask off this old con artist. Everything is going far too smoothly, according to my infallible instincts.

  “I really hate having to bring it up, well, it’s a rather…unpleasant issue, I feel.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but he slightly widens his eyes.

  “I understand from what you say that this girl was headstrong, a bad apple, let’s say…”

  And I bet it never crossed you
r mind that the family was in any way responsible, right?

  “I wondered if, by chance…if by any chance she had any particular…vices.”

  “Of what nature, Lieutenant Arkham?”

  I lower my eyes, feigning embarrassment, and fiddle nervously with the lapel of my raincoat. I wish my nervousness was pretend too. The thing is that at the Academy there were whisperings of certain spells which were so extraordinarily powerful that they could reveal the thoughts of others. The professors obstinately insisted that it was just a legend, but everyone knows that there’s a grain of truth in every legend. And if anyone really knows about a similar enchantment, Valan is definitely on the shortlist of plausible candidates. Which would instantly transform my bluff into a death sentence.

  “Well, sir, I can’t find a delicate way of telling you this, so I’ll just say it. Certain clues appear to point to the possibility that Inla had a…” I swallow. What an actor! “…a sexual relationship with her killer.” Dramatic pause before letting the bomb off. “An ogre, sir.”

  His eyes fly wide open, his face flushed. He tightens his fists so violently his knuckles whiten. This gesture could wipe me off the face of the Earth. Then, with the same sudden mood-change he displayed before, once again Valan assumes the solemn expression from a moment ago. No polite smiles this time.

  “It is inconceivable to my mind. Absurd. Even for…”

  His sentence fades away. Perhaps it isn’t quite so inconceivable.

  “No,” he eventually decrees. It must be impossible, in any event.

  This is no consideration. It sounds a lot like an order. Even a rather unpleasant promise, if the truth be told. The living fossil surprises me again with another mood swing, and a new polite smile lights up his face.

  “Lieutenant Arkham is a trustworthy man, they tell me,” he reaffirms amicably, “and the Lovl’Atherons know only too well how to reward the deserving. As you almost certainly know, the electoral campaigns which will decide the new mayor are looming. The old magistrate will be defeated by the competition, and it is a fortunate coincidence that candidate Niuto, holds the humble advice from this conservative old elf in extremely high esteem.