Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets (18 page)

“What game is it?” I like video games even if I never have the time to play them.

“
Black Hurricane II
. The one based on the Mot Cyncal books, you know?”

“I know the name.”

“It’s a blast! You can be an eburn soldier, and choose between dead or alive.”

Yep, the Archmagus is just the type who spends his days partying and playing video games. Dasson looks a lot younger than his actual age, which is obvious if you think about it. He could easily pass for a nerd at a relative’s wedding without the mad t-shirts with the demented, incomprehensible writing on them. If I explored the house I’m pretty sure I’d come across cartoon character cuddly toys and stuff.

“Beron said you wanted to ask me about something important, but he didn’t go into detail. Ah, would you like something to drink? Or are you on duty?”

“No, I’ll pass, thanks. Our mutual friend made me try a disgusting drink that’s given me a headache.”

“How is he? Haven’t seen him for months, the last time was when I took my computer to him to uberise it a bit. I was surprised when he called me just now.”

“Uberise?”

“Yeah, you know… um… strengthen it, using runes.” His cigarette flares by means of a simple spell, which Dasson executes mechanically, like any other smoker would do with a lighter. It’s an impressive trick, I should learn it, someday. Very theatrical.

“We were in the same dorm, you know?”

“I think I’ve seen you around.”

That’s not true, of course.

“We were all rooting for you. You, the human, were as good as the elves at willpower magic. It was an absolute disgrace they kicked you out. Bastard elves…”

I wish they’d all stop reminiscing about the good old times at the Academy. I spend quite enough time as it is brooding about the past, and I don’t need any help, but it looks as though the world has made a tacit agreement to interfere. Alchemy is the best school for humans par excellence, and a mere mortal doesn’t make the headlines. Every economic sector has a need for alchemists, whether it be designing preservatives for jellied chicken or acids for heavy industry, other races don’t seem to be able to keep up with the speed of humans’ adaptation to sudden changes within the market. In the runic engraving field, despite the fact that dwarves always excel, there are also lots of very skilled humans. In contrast, willpower is basically the domain of the elves. The entry examinations and scholarships are always formally open to everyone, but the asses cheat by gauging them on the knowledge accumulated by their own kin over the course of almost fifty years of mental preparation. Since this doesn’t stop particularly gifted students getting through, the teachers compensate by blocking them in every conceivable way. The two elf students who were caught with me while we were trying to resuscitate the corpse were suspended for a year (a trifle for someone who doesn’t have to die), while I got my scholarship revoked without much discussion.

“Creating a zombie in the sixth year…”

“Right.”

My tone of regret is unmistakable. Maybe I relaxed because I can detect sincere admiration in Dasson’s voice.

“I’m sorry, that just slipped out.”

“Never mind. Listen, I need to get in touch with someone. Beron said you might be able to help me.”

“Uh-uh.” He breathes in, nodding. “Who would that be?”

“ Screech.”

“Oh. Seriously?”

I nod.

“I think that would be tricky. You’re a federal agent, while he’s, well…”

His gaze falls briefly on the crystallised video game, which blocked in the precise moment Dasson was getting ready to spray a group with bullets.

“Yes, but I’m not interested in
him
. I don’t intend to arrest him or anything, I just want to talk to him. Does he trust you? How well do you know him?”

“I’ve never actually met him, every now and then we chat online,” he confesses hesitantly, maybe wondering if he’s confessing to a crime. As if I cared.

“Ah, so you’re not sure actually it’s him—“

“No, no, it’s definitely him, no question. We don’t talk about video games, and… well, you know, you can’t
pretend
to know certain things.”

“You could avoid telling him I’m a guard.”

“No offence, but I don’t want any trouble with Screech. All I can do is tell him what’s going on and then he can decide for himself.”

“Okay, I’m in.”

“Wait here, I’ll go and see if I can catch him online. Play the game if you want, I’ve just saved it anyway.”

The alchemist goes out of the games room and leaves the young housekeeper to make sure I’m comfortable. In the end I get her to bring me a cup of coffee and I try to continue the game that was suspended, but, ignoring the buttons, I keep jumping for no reason and shooting everywhere, the eburns slaughter me easily. It’s a good thing he’s just saved the game. I start a new campaign from scratch, which includes a brief explanation of the controls. Dasson comes back just when I’m starting to get the hang of it.

“No can do.”

“What do you mean?”

A virtual mercenary takes advantage of my momentary distraction to stab me noisily. Game over. I place the remote on the floor and stand up to face the pessimistic archmagus.

“Categorically, no. I’m sorry.”

“That ‘I’m sorry’ sounds a lot like ‘I don’t want to’.”

“In fact I don’t want to!”

“Can you explain that?”

I think I sound a tad more aggressive than I’d like to, judging by the brief flash of panic in Dasson’s eyes. He runs his hand through his hair and his tongue over his lips.

“ Screech wants me to come with you, so we can
finally meet in person
.”

“So?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it! I don’t want to get into trouble with a Lich! No offence, but
no way
.”

Obviously things have gone so smoothly so far that another irrational snag is the least I can expect. He’s fretting like a recalcitrant child, listing all the excellent reasons why he should live and stay away from any form of trouble. I listen to him with a hand over my mouth, though I’m not really concentrating on what he’s saying. I’m actually trying not to breathe while I think about how I can persuade him and avoid satisfying my instinct and shout insults at him. I can’t just push my gun in as far as the gut with this one. This technique works well with cockroaches, but not so well with those who have money to take you to court. I’m not even on duty anyway.

“Come on, Dasson. I just want to talk. And you’re an archmagus, not some random loser. You’re not exactly defenceless.”

“Are you kidding me?! I’m an alchemist, an
alchemist
!” He jabs his own chest for emphasis. “A chemist with magic! I don’t create fireballs, I don’t become invisible, and I don’t evoke elementals… I design pharmaceutical products, Father!”

“I’m an officer of the Guard, Dasson. What, do you think I want to get myself killed, like that, for no reason? With everything that would come afterwards? My colleagues know I have to talk to him,” false, but credible and reassuring, “and then, if I wanted to get myself killed, why would I drag you into it?”

It’s a sound argument, he thinks about it and appears to calm down.

“Anyway, you don’t fool me.” I put a brotherly hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve got some miraculous bottles of something or other stashed in the fridge. Don’t you try and tell me you’ve never made anything, not even just for the hell of it.”

“Yes… there is something…”

“See? We almost certainly won’t need it, but, if it makes you feel better… don’t forget that I’ll be there too, and I won’t be alone.”

It’s time to show him how well-endowed I am. He jumps when the Altra appears right before his nose, then he looks at me in disbelief, finally he looks at her, in admiration. He strokes her delicately as though a stronger touch would shatter her.

“Incredible…” he murmurs, a dozen runes, perfectly balanced. “Is this the work of Master Tubgorne?

“Nobody else could equal it.”

“Pure genius… and this? I don’t even know what those three are…” He points at the barrel. I let him stroke it once more, tracing a longitudinal engraving with his finger, then I put it away with measured slowness, smiling a determined smile. There’s nothing quite like magic when you’re trying to convince a wizard.

“I don’t know…” He’s still against it, but he seems more tempted than reluctant now.

“You kind of owe me, Dasson.”

“How so?”

“If you know Screech well, that means you’ve had dealings with necromancy, too. And I suspect more than me. The difference is that I’ve paid. I get shot at for two thousand crowns a month, instead of living in my villa on the Sixteenth. Come on, help me out here. I’m just trying to do my job.”

This is actually the truth, as unbelievable as it sounds. Maybe it’s thanks to this accidental sincerity of my words which makes Dasson finally give in, nodding gravely.

“Great, you’re a star,” slap on the back, beaming smile, “you’ll see, it’ll be a brief, harmless adventure, For once,” I indicate the giant screen on the wall, “it’ll be away from TV.”

“I’ll find us a couple of shots.”

The rendezvous with Screech’s lackeys is in a loading area near one of the ramps on the Ninth, the place is so deserted that it is tempted to make a break for it itself. Here I am, tonight as well—this morning —no sleep for me. Although, ironically, I feel more rested now since this whole business started. In order to “feel better”, before leaving, Dasson threw the contents of a dozen strange coloured vials into a blender, and swigged the whole lot in one go. If the City collapsed on top of him, he’d probably step out of the rubble brushing dust off his clothes. When he realised that I’d dropped off while he was mixing his battle cocktail, the archmagus insisted on giving me a double dose of one of his inventions. I’d never tried a rejuvenating potion before, seeing as the prices of six-month ones are sky-high. The cost of making a rejuvenating potion increases exponentially with the increase in the regenerated age: just for the hell of it, some of Dasson’s colleagues calculated that if the whole of the world’s GDP was invested, no more than a thirty-year potion could be produced. Using one hundred and thirty-two—he explains—of those invented by my companion here, doesn’t produce quite the same effect, but it’s close enough and the price is affordable to the privileged classes intent on investing in longevity.

The effect is rather unexpected. Taking just six months off your age is a heady feeling. According to Dasson, who is desperately longwinded when he’s put under pressure, people have no idea how much the daily grind weakens the body, as the damage is spread over time and diluted. But when the fatigue from half a year is magically lifted from your shoulders, one second later, you feel like roaring. The wound above my eye vanishes into thin air. My new friend definitely talks too much but he’s certainly generous.

A stray dog lazily follows an olfactory trail along the wall. Me and Dasson watch him with no particular interest, it returns the favour and does the same. Eventually, a white van comes to a stop in the clearing, at a moderate speed. The brakes screech slightly when it stops and three brawny men emerge from behind the sliding door on the side of the van, leaving the fourth one to sit smoking at the wheel. They’re all as pale as death, with machine guns slung over their shoulders and the chilling eyes of serial killers.

“Hey boys. Has your tanning salon closed down?”

The one who must be the boss puts on his angry face and takes a few steps forward.

“Dasson and Arkham?”

“That’s us, yes,” replies Dasson. “We need to see your boss.”

Nooo, and here’s us just passing through by accident. Two flunkies frisk us, but they take our mobiles and completely ignore the gun. When they’ve finished, the only one who seems to possess the gift of speech hands us two dark hoods.

“What’s going on?” asks the archmagus suspiciously.

“It’s a hood, mate. It goes on your head,” he explains patiently.

“Ha ha, very funny. I thought we were guests.”

“Boss doesn’t like it when guests find their way back to his house. He’s very protective of his privacy.”

A sharp glance from me nips Dasson’s excessive reaction in the bud, he slips his hood on without so much as a look in our direction. Me and the head killer Iook at him in bewilderment, not sure whether to laugh or hit him, when he stands there stock still with the hood on and his arms folded.

“Erm… maybe it’d be better to wait until we’re in the van,” I suggest, trying to be polite, but he takes it as a complaint directed at our escort.

“In fact, it’s not at all practical…”

One of the thugs is not amused in the least and vigorously accompanies him inside the van, the hood is still on Dasson’s head.

“Your friend can’t hack it.”

“I’ve only just met him.” I excuse myself before following him and putting on my travel headwear.

It takes us a while, the driver takes an intricate, contorted route to make sure that we are confused and also to lose anyone who might be following us. The only thing I can do is count the number of ramps we go down before we arrive at our destination. Our journey comes to an end in a covered car park, which according to my calculations is on the Sixth Level. They make us get out and allow us to see again. We zigzag between the cars strewn around the place until we get to a rusty old goods lift, with an instantly noticeable and instinctively credible sign saying OUT OF ORDER which, it goes without saying, is fake, despite its good intentions.

Gradually we start to descend, I’d say that we go down a level. I bet that if Dasson knew where we were he wouldn’t be so relaxed, so I don’t say anything. Then, at a certain point we start to hear a rhythmic
unz
noise, as if we were near a club, and at first I try and remember where the ogre clubs are, to work out our position. But the noise is getting more intense as we go farther down, until it becomes clear that the club is actually where we’re headed. Ah, perfect, Lich’s techno club.

I loathe techno.

Brutal strips of strobe lights flash rhythmically and slice the blue-tinted darkness, creating the impression that the crowd is moving from one still to another. The place isn’t large, but it’s certainly packed with wildly gyrating club-goers who exchange generous sprays of sweat with each other at every convulsion. In the middle a raised section of the floor dominates the room like a tiny acropolis. Trying to catch a glimpse of the inside is like looking through a sheet of alabaster, you can only make out vague silhouettes, one of which is undoubtedly Screech. My personal tastes aside, the place is definitely superior to those on the Fifth Level and wouldn’t look out of place on one of the first double-figure levels. Apart from some details of course.