Detective Nicely Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf (17 page)

I asked to see whoever was in charge, and the lackey led me through a small maze of reception rooms to a large hall where various folk were milling around trunks and handbags. I realised that this must be the coach party I had followed down the canyon. The jolly old retainer backed nervously away, saying he would fetch my bag. He had obviously decided that I must have been a lost sightseer. This was probably as good a cover as I was likely to find. Although I was not on any list, word of my pleasant face, winning manner and facility with the axe must have preceded me, because I soon found myself in a pleasant, and private, guestroom. Unfortunately, it was only on the ground level, but it had its own plumbing and a good view down the canyon; maybe tourism was not so bad after all. I had time to make use of the facilities, and after the best part of a day spent driving, it was gratifying to wash away those bits of the wastes notably attached to dwarf-hide. I felt good when I got out of the shower, and even better when I put on a fresh suit (seersucker – so called because the prophets just love that material, easy to wash and no ironing). Another lackey appeared with the good news that drinks were about to be served in The Great Hall.

The Great Hall was just great. Drinks were not so wonderful; too sweet, and very weak. I do not think my fellow guests were overly worried, though. Quite a few of the local nobility were about, and the sightseers seemed to lap it all up. Considering the amount of trouble the Citadel had gone to so that the folk all had equal representation, this struck me as a tad ungrateful. Here were the Citadel men and women, and even a few well-heeled gnomes (no dwarfs, I was pleased to note), all bending the knee as if they had been born to it. I circulated a bit and managed to get some of the top boys and girls to one side. I learnt a lot. I was told all about Baron Goodfew’s designs on the laundry room, and about how Princess Littlelight was likely to make a serious bid for the total control of the ballroom and how Prince Idleless was certainly not to be trusted as he had been seen in conversation with the Guardian of the Well. Yes, I learnt a lot. By the end of it I needed a real drink. I caught the eye of a lackey. ‘Hey, any chance of something with a bit more of a bite to it?’

The lackey was tall and thin with a very, very, long nose. Mind you, that description seemed to fit most of them. He looked all the way down this nose and said: ‘The correct form of address to someone of my rank is “your high lord”.’

Fine. ‘Hey, any chance of something with a bit more of a bite to it, your high lordship?’

‘Certainly, Sir. I will see if we have anything to offer the more discriminating pallet.’ He returned with a couple of small glasses containing a green liquid. I took one. Maybe it was just my imagination, but I think it smoked slightly. I took a bite and it bit back. After I finished coughing I thanked his high lordship and congratulated him on the brew.

‘Thank you, Sir. How about a cheesy biscuit?’

‘I must say, you just don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for a cheesy biscuit.’ I helped myself to a few and washed them down with the contents of the other glass. ‘Sure packs a punch, that.’

‘I will pass on your congratulations to the gardener. He calls it Green Death, an interesting mixture of distillates of aniseed and spearmint. I am glad you like it. The Baron Guardfield will be most pleased, I am sure.’

‘Baron Guardfield being the gardener, I suppose.’

‘Correct, Sir.’

I scratched the stubble a bit. ‘I suppose everyone round here carries a fancy title, even a gardener who dabbles in making illicit gravy?’

‘Oh, most certainly! If you consider, with the number of royalty around and the limited space, even in a mountain of this size, it was inevitable that the number of servants would run out, and the lowest of the ranks would have to be conscripted.’

‘I had better watch myself then; don’t wish to give offence to some nobility. I might even forget to curtsy for the king.’

‘And which king would that be, Sir?’

I was somewhat taken aback by this. ‘Well, I meant the King. As in the King of the Desolate Wastes.’

‘That could be one of a number, I’m afraid, Sir.’

‘How come?’

The high lord scratched his nose in a most unlordly manner. ‘As I recall, there are at present something over fifty who go by the title.’

‘Even bearing in mind the current trend towards job sharing, it sounds a little crowded at the top. I thought in general that one was usually the appropriate number for such a position.’

‘The problem is which one.’ The nose got itself a thoroughly good going over. I watched in fascination as it reverberated gently to a halt. ‘Unfortunately,’ continued the owner of the proud proboscis, ‘when it was decided that we should take up residence in the Fortress, there were rather a lot of kings. The King of the High Mountains, for example. The King of the Lost Mountain, the King Under the Mountain, the King Over the Mountain, The King by the Side of the Mountain, the King …’

‘I get the idea,’ I interrupted.

‘And that is just the beginning of the mountain set. We then have Witch Kings …’

‘Which kings?’

‘Yes, very droll, Sir. I believe that one went down big in the Blue Age, and the Green Age and even some of the Red.’

‘Sorry I brought it up. So, little chance of finding the real King of the Desolate Wastes?’

‘Oh, every chance. As to whether he’s the king you are after, well, that’s another matter.’

‘Who said I was after a king?’

‘My mistake, Sir. I do not know what put it in my mind. Of course we have lots of dwarfs visiting at this time of year, especially carrying a battle-axe in their luggage. Just look, there’s one now. Oh, no, my mistake, it’s the hat-stand. Strange, not another one in sight at all; how peculiar.’

‘All right. Let’s just say that I wanted to meet a king with an interest in horseflesh. Hypothetically.’

‘Well, hypothetically, of course. Let me think.’

‘By the way, is it permissible to tip nobility?’

‘Certainly not! Waiters, however, I am given to understand, look at things very differently.’ I dropped two crowns in his tray.

‘And what a delightful sound they do make. If rather a hollow noise.’

I added a couple of friends to keep the others on the tray from getting too lonely. They disappeared with an ease a magician would envy. ‘Well, hypothetically, I suggest kings 1418, 1427, 1434S and 1434N.’

‘The kings are numbered?’

‘Oh no, those are their room numbers: floor 141, room 8, floor 142, room 7, floor 143 …’

‘I get the idea,’ I interrupted.

‘Well, we have to keep track of them somehow.’

‘And S and N?’

‘South-facing and north-facing.’

‘I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour.’

‘Oh, do not be concerned about that, Sir. You have something much greater than nobility.’

‘Oh yes: and what’s that then?’

‘Gold, Sir, gold.’

Bearing this in mind, I went into dinner. And what a merry affair it was. Mead was sloshed, chicken legs gnawed and thrown to the waiting dogs (Earl and Lady Rotfang and family, in cheap skin jobs). Just like the good old days. Many a merry chorus was raised: songs of great valour and songs of impossible quests, songs of lost princesses and songs of the slaying of giants. For a short while we were all back there, except of course we weren’t. Because the songs were all written long after the events. Valour really has little place on a battlefield, where one’s only preoccupation tends to be splitting the enemy’s head before he splits you. Impossible quests tended to be impossible because they could not be done, and consequently they did not get done. Lost princesses were generally lost because someone very important did not want them found. And the last thing I heard from the boys who know these sorts of things, the most recent theory about giants was that they all died out due to a particularly nasty little bug that went round. And that is irony, folks. Still, for a while there we were all heroes, and why not? Just do not get to believe your own press.

The whole thing wound up very quickly, the top boys and girls seemed very keen on getting their shut-eye, and I was soon back in my room. I checked my luggage. The trusty axe was gone. A small token was left in its place, stating that the axe was redeemable from the weapons rooms (Axe Annex) on departure. I lit a pipe and waited.

Taking a flashlight and my handy Get-to-Know-the-Fortress Tourist Guide, I left the room. The guest quarters were on the bottom floor. Kings apparently warranted something a bit more lofty. I needed to climb the mountain. Without too much trouble I found what I was looking for: The Endless Staircase. Another marvel of dwarfish engineering; a stone spiral that wound from the lowest dungeon to the very pinnacle. The guide said the exact number of steps had been long forgotten, although each Winter Solstice there was a charity event open to anyone tempted to try to count them. Me, I took the lift.

The plan was for a bit of simple breaking and entering; nothing would be taken, just a quick look around while Their Majesties slumbered. I had just drawn a blank on floor 141 when I heard voices – and not just any voices. I immediately knew them to be goblins, and even more surprising, sounding somewhat refined as well. I ducked behind a pillar, just in time. Two sets of footsteps approached. I held my breath.

‘Stop dragging your feet, Cribbage. We’ve only got all night.’

‘I know, I know. Give a goblin a break, won’t you, Gabbage? And me with my terrible bunions.’

‘I said you should have had them seen to, Cribbage. It’s those heavy boots you wear.’

‘They were handed down to me, you know, Gabbage.’

‘Of course. I handed them down to you. Straight after we removed them from the poor sod stuck in the tree. So, is this the right room?’

‘Does it really matter, I ask myself?’

I heard a door creak, then a shout, a new voice: ‘Assassins, assassins, in the dark!’ I tensed, but unarmed against the two large grunts, I did not fancy my chances. The goblin named Cribbage spoke: ‘No, we’re not.’

‘Pardon?’

‘We’re not assassins.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘We’re here to take you to a place of safety.’

‘Oh right, I’ll just pack a few things then.’ The voice was cut off by a gurgling noise followed by a thud.

‘Enjoy that, did you, Cribbage?’

‘Yes, I believe I did, Gabbage.’

‘Leading the poor lad on like that. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

I watched them drag the body away. They wore tabards with a strange insignia: a white rose held in a white hand, with blood trickling down from the clenched fist. Below it were the letters BRA. Shaking my head, I made my way to floor 142 and the next king on my list. I hoped I had seen the last of this unpleasant pair, but our paths were not to be separated that easily. I had no joy on floor 142 either. The king obviously had an interest in horses, but I’m not sure it was strictly legal. Certainly immoral. I blame it on the inbreeding.

On 143 I heard voices again:

‘So Cribbage, he was in league with the duke’s brother to remove the countess and thus put their niece once-removed first in line for complete world domination of the sewing room. So, he had to go. Now do you see?’

‘Sorry Gabbage, I still don’t get it. You just tell me who to throttle.’

Hidden behind a chest, I heard another door creak and another shout: ‘So, you butchers, creeping up on me in the dead of night to do your deed.’

‘Nope, not us.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You have us all wrong. We’re the shiny heroes, come to take you to sanctuary.’

‘Honest?’

‘Honest.’

‘No joking?’

‘Cross my heart.’

‘No little white lies?’

‘Do we look the sort?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Trust us.’

‘I’ll just grab a few things … urgh.’

‘It’s quite good fun, Cribbage. This leading them on.’

‘I thought you would like it, Gabbage, if you gave it a try.’

‘I like the look of relief that floods over their faces, just before your hands get on their throats.’

I managed to slip further down the corridor, to 1434S. This king’s interest in horses seemed to revolve principally around their ability to jump particularly large fences. Not Rosebud’s speciality at all. So I made my way round to the north of the mountain, hoping that the goblins would have left. No such luck.

‘And naturally, Cribbage, a position of influence in the potting sheds would be a big step forward for the baron and could even lead eventually to a toe-hold in the summerhouse, but first he had to get rid of Viscount Brig.’

‘No, it’s no good, Gabbage. I’ll have to sit down sometime when we are quiet and work it out with a bit of paper and a pencil.’

‘Here we are then, Cribbage.’

‘Villainous scum! Come to slit my throat, have you?’

‘Nope, we are here to escort you to a place of safety.’

‘Don’t give me that. I have heard all about how you lull your victims into a false sense of security with your smooth talking.’

‘No, straight up. We really are here to help you.’

‘Do not come a step nearer. Back, I say. One step nearer and I will jump. I will not give you the satisfaction. If die I must, let it be by my own hand.’

I heard a distant cry, which faded into the distance.

‘That’s torn it, Cribbage.’

‘One hundred and forty-three floors has done more than torn it, Gabbage.’

‘No, I mean it’s put the cat among the pigeons.’

‘They look a bit too large and vulture-like to be pigeons, Gabbage.’

‘No, Cribbage. We cocked up. We really had come to save him.’

‘Oh yes, I forgot.’

While they were busy at the window, I made it past the open door to room 1434N. I slipped the lock and tippy-toed in. Finally, I had hit pay dirt. At first it seemed like any other suite, slightly larger perhaps. The unlit corridor had a number of rooms leading off it. Two rooms were characterless and uninteresting; my torch illuminated precious little beyond the fact that royalty accumulated as much junk as everyone else. The third was different. On a large chest by the door was a photograph of a woman with long black hair standing by a black horse, a horse with a white mark on its nuzzle. The torch barely wavered as I picked up the photograph, but waver it did. She was younger, quite a lot younger, but there was no mistaking the cheekbones of the woman I now knew as Mrs Hardwood.

‘I suggest you turn on the light, Sir. It will save on your batteries, which, I am given to understand, are quite an expense these days.’ The voice was old and tired, but had a certain quality, one that I can only describe as ‘majesty’. I found the light switch, and turned to find the voice’s owner.

He was seated in a large armchair that all but swallowed him. He was short for a man, and his clothes had seen better days, but he sat in that chair as if it was a throne and his gaze did not leave my face for an instant.

‘My wife, you know.’

‘Your wife?’

‘In the photograph that you are so interested in. My wife.’

‘Your wife, a queen?’

‘Yes, a queen. That’s the nub of it, I suppose: a queen. If she had been
the
queen, it might have all been different. She might still have been here, if she had been
the
queen. But all the other queens, it was just too much for her, I suppose.’

‘May I ask your queen’s name?’

‘Queen Celembine. King Lustafor and Queen Celembine; I thought it had a good solid ring to it, obviously not good enough.’

‘And Her Majesty is no longer in residence then?’

‘Oh no, long gone, long, long gone. Or at least it seems like it now.’

‘No divorce, I suppose?’

‘Damn right, Sir. We may be little more than a footnote in history now, but we do not behave like commoners.’

‘And the horse?’

‘The horse? Oh, Rosebud, I bought it for her as a wedding present. Amazing turn of speed. Doted on him they did, her and that little rider.’

‘Rider?’ I said excitedly.

‘Yes, strange little chap; very winning manner, though, in every way. Cannot for the life of me think of his name.’

‘Courtkey?’

‘Perhaps. Honestly don’t recall. He loved that horse, though, more than any person around here. He never seemed to get on with the other men in the stables much. Doted on the horse though, just like my queen. Or did I just say that? He left when she did. Damn horse was the only thing she took with her. Didn’t even bother with the jewels and all the other presents I’d bought her. Just took the horse, and the rider, I suppose. Never saw any of them again anyway. Might as well have disappeared up the Great Crack of the Lord of the Stone Giants.’

‘I don’t suppose you have a picture of him, do you? The rider?’

‘Now why would I have something like that?’

I felt like saying, maybe to help a suspicious dwarf detective, but I let it pass. ‘Your queen, by any chance was her maiden name Merrymead?’

‘Why yes, Celembine Merrymead! My, but you ask a lot of questions for a common thief. If that is indeed what you are. I took you at first for one of the court assassins.’

‘Court assassins?’

‘Yes. Can’t miss them. Unpleasant chaps, wear the Insignia and BRA: By Royal Appointment.’

‘You have goblins on the payroll?’

‘Yes, unfortunate necessity, I am afraid. As you may have noticed, royalty is rather thick on the ground here. In fact rather thick everywhere as it happens and, given the rate at which some of them breed, and their instinctive desire to achieve positions of influence, I am afraid assassination seems to be the simplest solution.’

‘Oh yes, of course.’

‘Well, we can hardly manage to hold a war, all living under the same pointed roof, as it were. Not like the good old days. Well, that is our story, or mine at least. Now, how about yours?’

‘I think for this I had better sit down as well, your majesty. We may be some time.’