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Prologue. The man who killed the past
When someone needed to describe Odisyotl, the word "gray" was quite enough. Not in the sense that the city was unremarkable — it is the largest port of the northern archipelago, after all — but in the most literal sense. Under an eternally gray sky full of clouds, buildings of gray stone rose, roads covered with gray asphalt stretched, gray waves of the bay beat against gray concrete piers. When it started to rain, slanting gray streams whipping from the clouds were added to all this. The only exception was, oddly enough, cars. Perhaps it was an unconscious protest — but the people of Odisjotle were very fond of brightly colored cars. Ruby red, light green, ultramarine cars filled the main highways during rush hours, which made them look like colorful ribbons, traditionally used to wrap holiday gifts. The black police car looked out of place among them, like a piece of coal thrown into a pile of gems.
Sigi Hoffmainen, as Chief Inspector, was at the wheel. Leafing through the papers given to him just before his departure, he entrusted his young partner.
— Have you read everything? — Sigi asked without taking his eyes off the road. Despite the working siren, not all drivers hurried to give way, so the inspector had to be on the alert. He did not want to throw work to his colleagues from the highway patrol.
— Yeah, — growled partner, Leif Bjarnison. The guy got his inspector's badge quite recently, and so far he took his job very seriously. Now he shuffled the sheets he had already read in order to take them up again.
— So, we have an elf-foreigner's corpse on our liner and in our port. Any other details?
— Not much, — Leif sighed. — The deceased is someone called Hoelmar Victor Aurelison, a storyteller by profession. Do you know anything about it?
— I've never heard of it, — Hoffmainen shook his chin. — But judging by the fact that the corpse in the first-class cabin is rather profitable job. What's more?
— Patrol arrived first, examined the crime scene. They said on the phone that it looked like a suicide.
— Yes, the opinion of the guys in caps is very valuable to us, — the chief inspector snorted, changing lanes to the left. Turning off the siren, he turned to the port.
The ocean liner "Crown of Ice" towered over the dock like a black-and-white rock. Such can be seen in the fjords — when the snow covers the entire upper half of the rock, but cannot stay on the smooth stones closer to the water. The bow of the ship was decorated with a "slingshot" of flagpoles — on one the native banner of the kingdom was languidly flying, on the other, the striped flag of the People's Democratic Republic was also reluctantly, as if lazily splashing. The liner ran between Odisjotl and Elvart on a weekly basis, and and taking to consideration the strained relationship between the two countries, such a gesture of courtesy was practically necessary. Right on the pier was a black patrol car, decorated with a scarlet flasher and a white "Police" lettering along the side. Ludrian workers were dragging some boxes past her. There were many of these small, thin lizard people in the city, but it was almost impossible to see them outside the port. That's why Leif stared at them with interest, but his older comrade with dislike. Two decades ago, Inspector Hoffmainen managed to take part in the Second East Ludrian War as a light infantry sergeant, so for him the sight of upright bipedal lizards has awoken not the most pleasant memories of humid forests filled with traps and hostile natives.
— Sir. — The patrolman, who was on duty at the passenger ladder, threw up his hand to the visor. Sigi simply nodded to him, and the policeman, without further ado, led the inspectors to the correct deck. In front of the cabin door where the murder (or suicide) took place, another uniformed officer was on guard. For some reason, a ship's steward hovered next to him — very sad and dejected.
— Is he a witness or else? — Siggi nodded at the steward.
— Yes, sir, — the patrolman replied. — Found the body.
— Any other of them?
— No, sir. We interviewed neighbors from other cabins — no one heard or saw anything.
— This is not enough. Fine, let's see.
The dead man lay face down in the middle of the living room. Leif, of course, had seen elves before. In photographs and drawings. And it cannot be said that now he had a chance to see a living elf for the first time — since Mr. Aurelison was, without a doubt, dead. The Chief Inspector didn't put on gloves, he just squatted down beside the body and examined it. An ancient dagger stuck in the elf's chest. The dead man's right hand was still clutching the handle resting on the floor.
— Yes...— drawled Hoffmainen, straightening up. "He could well have thrown himself at the knife. But with the same success he could be stabbed and laid in this position. Leif, what else do you see interesting here?
There were enough interesting things. Directly in front of the deceased a gilded frame on a stand stood — and it was empty. Some kind of fringe ran along its inner edge — probably, a canvas was cut out of the frame. Nearby on the floor was a silver ice bucket, which contained soot. With the same soot on the white wall of the cabin, someone brought out a few incomprehensible words.
— Is that... elvish?— Leif suggested timidly.
— Yes, it is, — his senior partner confirmed.
— Do you read Elvish?
— Of course not, — Sigi snorted. — Who learns Elvish these days, apart from elves themselves? Any elf knows several human languages.
— Experts will arrive soon, but they are just coroners... — the young inspector said slowly. Rubbing his chin, he examined the mysterious black letters. — At the city university, someone should know the language. At the Department of Linguistics or History. We should give them a call...
— It's worth calling, but not to the university. — Hoffmainen suddenly grinned wryly. — Let's go to the office...
When he got to the phone, the chief inspector dialed a number that, judging by the length, was an ordinary city number, not from the emergency services. He listened to beeps for a long time, then said into the phone:
— Hey, are you sober now? Are you? Well, tell me, what was the name of the god of rain and wind among the Ludrians? Well? No, not like this. On the letter "K". Eight syllables. Yes, right. Now I believe you. Yes, I'm exactly piece of that. I need help. There is nothing wrong, just a piece of advice. No, not by phone. Will you come? In the port, the "Crown of Ice" liner. Meet me at the ramp. Yes, investigation. Yes, they will pay. Police Department. Okay, I'll pay. Yes, my salary is enough. Good, I'm waiting.
Hanging up the phone, he explained to his partner:
— An old friend of mine. We came across after the army. While we wait, let's check if there is a person among the passengers who could know Elvish.
They didn't have to wait long. Three quarters of an hour later, a dark blue sports car stopped at the barrier blocking the entrance to the port, once expensive and fashionable, but now turned into a well-groomed, but obviously worn-out wreck. Such machines with chopped hull contours were popular about thirty years ago. The watchman left the guardhouse, looked in the window from the driver's side, listened to something. Shaking his head, he raised the striped beam. The car drove inside, braked near the pier. The door clicked open. And Leif caught his breath for a moment. An elf got out of the car. Elf woman. The most real and, unlike Mr. Aurelison, alive. Inspector Bjarnison had heard before that elven women were almost always unbelievably beautiful, but he thought it was a tale. Like the fact that all northerners have beards. However, Sigi's friend fully confirmed this tale. By human standards, for Leif she was somewhere in mid thirties or so. The elf was dressed in a white blouse with a red tie, a blue formal suit with a tight skirt above the knee, tight black stockings and dark red shoes with a small but noticeable heel. She carried a small purse over her shoulder, thin-rimmed oval glasses on her nose, and black leather gloves on her hands. The lapel of the jacket was decorated with a gold brooch in the shape of a vine. The woman's wavy blond hair fell freely on her back, only at the temples the strands were gathered into thin braids that covered her head like a wreath, connecting into one at the back of her head.
— Good afternoon, gentlemen, — she said in a high, melodious voice as she approached the policemen.
— And you too. — Sigi smiled. In a month of joint service, Leif had not yet seen his senior comrade smile like that — sincerely and openly. — Meet this partner of mine, Leif Bjarnison.
— Detective Valria Anna Valthritdotir. — The woman smiled too — an incredibly charming soft smile — and held out her hand to the inspector. — The official consultant of the city police. Nice to meet you.
Leif returned the handshake and...shuddered, meeting the detective's eyes. For a second it seemed to him that the elf had completely white eyes. Like covered with cataractas, even without pupils. But almost immediately he noticed that the pupils were still in place, and they were surrounded by faded violet halos — as if the iris had faded in the sun.
— What a cute boy. — Still smiling, Valriya turned to the Chief Inspector. — That's rare in the police. You spoil them quickly. For half a year they lose their sparkle in their eyes, they start smoking and drinking no worse than me.
— Fru Walthritdotir, I'm not a...
— I don't care how old you are, boy, — the elf interrupted Leif, waving her hand. — I'm older anyway. Don't be offended. Better show me what's happened here.
On the way to the cabin, Sigi quickly told the elf everything that he knew, and that the police could find out on the spot. The deceased was seen at breakfast. He left there alone. He communicated with several people, one of whom could know Elvish — he turned out to be a professor at Elvart University, Hans Ebenrare, a historian.
— First suspect, — Sigi immediately pointed out.
— Is anything valuable missing from the cabin? — the woman asked.
— We don't know. There is still no inventory.
In the first-class cabin, the detective took only a brief glance at the body of her fellow elf, then immediately strode to the wall with the inscription, clattering her sharp heels. She folded her arms across her chest and stared at the crooked and lopsided black letters for a long time. Finally, she said softly, without turning around:
— Where is this professor?
— Twenty-fifth cabin, two doors from here, — said Sigi. None of the passengers were allowed ashore.
The long pointed ears of the elf, peeking out from the lush golden mane of hair, lowered, pressed to the head. Without saying anything else, the detective quickly walked out into the corridor. The police rushed after her. Reaching the door with the copper number "25", the woman knocked on it with bent fingers.
— Who is there? Police? — asked a wary voice from behind the sash.
Valria took a step back, resting her shoulder blades against the wall of the corridor. Taking a deep breath, she rushed forward and slammed her shoulder into the door. The thin sash gave way — with a crunch the tongue of the lock flew out of the groove, the door swung open inward, hitting the person standing behind it. The detective stormed into the hallway, where an elderly, overweight man was writhing on the floor, groaning and holding his face.
— Gotcha, you bastard! — the woman pressed her knee into the stomach of the lying man, grabbed his shoulders with her hands. At the same time, the detective's narrow skirt was indecently pulled up. — Where did you hide it?
— I do not understand what are you talking about! — murmured the owner of the cabin. — How dare you... Oh!
Valria leaned over sharply and bit the man's ear. She growled hoarsely:
— You killed an elf, you piece of shit. But what's worse, you killed the storyteller, a part of our past. I want to rip your throat out, you round-eared mayfly shit, and I still haven't done it just because of these two officers waiting in the hallway. But if you carry on being silent, they will close the door and leave for a smoke. Do you understand, mayfly?
— In... in... in the bedroom... hid among his papers! the scientist stammered. — A big black tube...
— That's much better, — the elf said calming down with amazing speed, in a completely even voice. She stood up, dusted off her knees, pulled up her gloves. Nodded to the cops:
— Continue on your own.
Soon Professor Ebenrare came down the gangplank in handcuffs, escorted by a couple of patrolmen. The inspector and the elf watched this from the upper deck.
— You really... don't like humans that much, do you? — Leif glanced sideways at the woman. She pulled out a metal cigarette case from the inner pocket of her jacket, took out a simple cigarette from there, lit a lighter from the lighter brought by Sigi. She suddenly laughed.
— Of course not, Inspector. I like humans. Seriously, I spent my whole life among you, you are closer to me than my elf relatives.
— And then what...
— Just quoted a few of our racists from a thousand years ago. About round ears and "mayfly" — they came up with this.
— So you played. — The young policeman let out a sigh of relief.
— A little. Still, this bastard thought that some picture is worth more than the life of its owner. He deserved a thrashing. And he really killed the storyteller.
— Are storytellers important to elves?
— Yes. They are... something between chroniclers, skalds and antiquarians, who keep the past of our people. And we have nothing but the past left.
— How did you understand that it was time to take the pirate by the beard? — Sigi hid the lighter. — What was the inscription on there?
— An attempt to portray a suicide note. — The detective leaned against the bulwark and shrugged. — Like, tired of life, he decided to burn the last find and commit suicide. In general, it sounds stupid, but ... it was also written ...
— With mistakes? Leif suggested.
— Perfectly correct. — Valria shook her head, exhaling a puff of tobacco smoke. — Only using expressions from two different dialects. The principalities of the elves are closed little worlds, where the language has changed a little bit for the centuries of isolation. In the inscription on the wall, "fire" was written in one dialect and "death" in another. A native speaker would never write like that. Linguist too. But someone who knows the ancient language superficially... for example, a historian...
The patrol car with the arrested man had already left a long time ago, but they were still standing near the gangway, looking at the port, listening to the whistles of steamers and the cries of seagulls.
— Why are your eyes white? — Leif suddenly asked, realizing that a couple more minutes, and he would not be able to muster up the courage for this question.
— Because I'm very old. — The detective looked at the inspector with a good-natured grin. — Have you ever heard how elves grow old, young man? I will not become gray and wrinkled with age, but my eyes are fading little by little. Grey, if you like. When they completely fade, I will fall asleep and not wake up. This is elven old age...
— What is your...
— You're talking to a woman, young man. — The elf narrowed her eyes slightly, but a soft smile still played on her lips. — A lot of. In that picture that the professor stole — do you remember what was depicted?
— Yes. — Leif shuddered, remembering the black and red stains on the canvas.
— I saw it myself. Do you want to listen to the tales of the old elf? About the last knight-queen of the continent and about the first queen-sorceress? About the fire in the sky and the death of dragons?
— Of course I want, Fru Veltritdotir!
— Well then, hand over the report — and take me to the Ludrian restaurant. — The elf flicked her cigarette overboard. — At your expense, of course, Inspector. Otherwise, I won't expect such a thing from your senior colleague... A drink and a portion of fried pork in sweet and sour sauce is on you, and a whole evening of entertaining stories is on me...
End of prologue. The next stop is five centuries earlier.
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