A clinging haze of tobacco smoke blanketed everything in Captain Brasko’s office. The source of the pollution was the smoldering orange tip of a cigar that grew brighter each time Brasko drew in an anxious puff. The rotund man’s thick fingers tapped on his mahogany desk in the familiar beat of a drumline setting the pace for soldiers on the march. It made sense, considering that, like Dax, Brasko was an ex military man.
“So let me make sure I understand this,” the Captain began in an authoritative baritone, “The two elves in cell fourteen stormed a cheese shoppe, kidnapped a goat, and then held it hostage?”
Dax sat across the desk in the world’s most uncomfortable chair. He was convinced the torturous seat was part of Brasko’s scheme to prevent officers of the Watch from bringing problems to his desk. The chair’s narrow seat and thin cushion made him want to stand, but the canny old bastard kept the room so filled with smoke that a dragon would choke itself out on the haze that clung to the room’s ceiling.
“Broadly speaking, that's an accurate portrayal of the incident, Captain.” Dax spoke as quickly and concisely as he could manage. The faster he got his debrief out of the way the faster he could escape this nefarious torture chamber.
“After the perpetrators discharged a 33 manavolt Wand of Lighting, twice, you distracted them while Officers Olivia and Nyx neutralized the culprits,” Brasko leaned forward as he took a long drag from his cigar. The dull red of its cherry began to glow with the orange of a newborn sun while the Captain made a show of rustling through some of the scattered papers on his desk. A plume of nauseously sweet smoke erupted from the portly man’s lips and it was all Dax could do to stop himself from falling into a hacking fit when it washed over him.
“They succeeded in that operation by,” Brasko drug the pad of one fingertip across the paper he’d shuffled to the top of the stack to pointedly read the sentence verbatim. “Shooting the targets in the ass with tranquilizer darts.”
As the older man leaned across the desk, his gray eyes scrutinized Dax over the rim of a set of glasses that were far too small to fit his watermelon shaped head.
Dax straightened his shoulders as a hint of uncompromising steel entered his tone. He had already suffered through a goat’s wrath directed at his nuts. That particular indignity was acceptable in the line of duty. Listening to Brasko question the methods of his subordinates, was not. “With all due respect sir, there had already been significant destruction of property. Because of the clear and present danger to civilians, and a goat, I authorized my Officers to use any means necessary to defuse the situation. Since Officer Nyq is certified to administer the Loosey Goosey toxin, it was the logical choice for him to make.”
Captain Brasko stared menacingly at him as he lazily brought the cigar back to his lips for another long drag. Only then did he lean back, the shifting of his weight causing his gaudy chair to creak alarmingly. “In any sort of standard hostage encounter I would be inclined to support the use of extreme measures. But this wasn’t a standard encounter was it, Sergeant?” The sound of his pudgy fingers hammering angrily on his desk reminded Dax of orcish war drums. “Can you think of anything that made this encounter particularly abnormal?”
Dax folded his long arms across his chest as his eyes narrowed in irritation. “I’d say the goat, sir. Its not everyday that you have to rescue a goat. Even here in Dalthan’s Rest. I’ll have to check my files, but I believe that was a first.”
Captain Brasko’s entire face grew slack as his dull gray eyes blinked incredulously. The moment passed and suddenly his thick jowls rippled with rage as spittle showered the papers strewn across the desk. “You cheeky bastard,” Brasko growled, slamming his open palm onto the desktop. “Elves, dumbass. There were elves in that bloody cheese shoppe and now there are elves in one of my jail cells!”
Brasko’s voice grew louder still as he ruthlessly snuffed out the lit cigar in an overcrowded ashtray. “Do you know what that means?,” he continued, mashing the cigar so hard that it sent an avalanche of gray dust over the side of the tray and onto his expensive mahogany desk. “That means now I have elves coming to retrieve them. Duke Prisee Summerson is on his way down here personally to collect his daughter. You know, the one that got shot in the ass with a poisoned dart.”
Dax threw his hands up in exasperation. “Why is everyone so preoccupied with where they got shot? Is it a fetish thing?” Dax narrowed his emerald eyes as he considered the man across the desk. “It is a fetish thing, isn’t it?”
As he watched Captain Brasko’s face take on the purple coloration of a ripe plum, it occurred to him that calling out his boss’ kinks might have been unprofessional.
“Look, Cap, there’s no reason this handover has to be difficult,” Dax began, his voice pitched in the same soothing, placating tone that had failed miserably in the hostage situation earlier. “Let’s just spring the kids out of the cell early and have them escorted to the lobby. Some duke isn’t going to want to talk to either one of us. All he cares about is dragging those little rebels back up the tree.”
“The best thing we can do is make it as easy as possible to complete this handover. The faster he’s gone, the faster we can all get back to things that don’t include worrying about elves.”
Though he felt confident in his plan, the malicious gleam in Brasko’s eye sent an itchy sensation of foreboding crawling through him like a nest of icy spiders dancing across his skin. “Right. You’re completely right, Sergeant. I don’t know what I was worried about when I have capable personnel like you and your team to handle situations like this.”
The icy spiders began sinking fangs of pure dread into his clammy flesh as he sat bolt upright in alarm. “Now, Cap, you run a tight ship around here and there’s dozens of qualified officers…”
“Of course there are,” Brasko broke in smoothly, flashing him a wide, predatory smile that displayed far too many teeth. “But there’s only one who’s both familiar with the intricacies of Sylvareth and the nuance of this particular case. Given the gravity of the situation, letting anyone else handle the transfer of our prisoners to the elven authorities would be borderline negligence on the part of the Watch.”
“Oh come on..,” Dax sighed, tilting his head back to stare up at the ceiling in defeat. While Dax watched the lingering smoke shift and swirl above him, the Captain rummaged through his desk until he’d located the stamp he needed to authorize the transfer. Two quick thumps of the rubber sigil notarized the appropriate paperwork that was summarily passed across the desk into Dax’s reluctant hands.
“There you are, Sergeant,” Brasko said, his voice sweet as spun honey despite the thunderous scowl written across Dax’s face. “I trust you to oversee this situation personally. Likewise I’m sure you can answer any questions the duke might have concerning how his daughter was apprehended. I’d be happy to handle any inquiries myself, of course, but I have an emergency budget meeting at city hall.”
“Good job today, Sergeant,” The Captain said as he rose to his feet. A genuine smile tugged at the corner of Brasko’s lips as he reached across the desk to shake Dax’s hand. “Dalthan’s Rest, and the Watch, are lucky to have you.”
A resigned sigh slid past the tall detective’s lips as he finally escaped the clutches of the torture device Brasko called a chair. “I’m glad the city is so eager to show their appreciation by giving me a chunk of overtime pay. I haven’t clocked out yet, sir, and you know how talkative elves can be.” This time it was Dax’s turn to flash a smile that was a bit too wide as he clasped his boss’ hand.
Captain Brasko’s mood shriveled up like a grape beneath the noonday sun.
********
“Look, all I’m saying is that I don’t think its in my best interest to be around this bigshot elf when he finds out I’m the one that tranq’d his daughter.” Nyq said as he trotted down the hall beside Dax. The rogue made no attempt to disguise the pleading tone lacing his voice. The short man with dark, disheveled hair actually clasped his hands together in supplication as he looked up at Dax. The pale blue eyes he directed toward the Sergeant were swimming with unshed tears. “Gods as my witness, after I took out the girl’s partner I tried to miss her. I really did. I figured I could watch her and Olivia roll around on the floor for a while before you and Munch finally showed up. But your damned bad luck rubs off on everybody.”
Dax wasn’t sure how he felt about the lack of divine retribution when Nyq revealed his nefarious plot to have the two women wrestle for his entertainment. Olivia, who was marching down the hall at his other side, had no such problems expressing her feelings on the subject.
“Nyq, you sleazy rat bastard,” Olivia hissed as she leaned around Dax to cast a withering glance Nyq’s way. The lithe woman lifted a hand to stab a finger threateningly toward the rogue while her viridian eyes flashed with barely contained fury. “I could have hurt that kid. Then what kind of mess would we be in? Darting her scrawny ass is one thing. Taking her back to daddy with a crushed larynx is something else.”
The Sergeant had to admit that Olivia had a point. They were all walking on eggshells over this elven fiasco when the damage was comparatively minor. If they’d done more than harm the rebellious kid’s pride the politicians would have certainly gotten involved. At that point, it wouldn’t matter if their operation had been completely justified. Someone would have been forced to fall on their sword to appease the elven nobility.
“Olivia’s right,” Dax said as the trio turned right and began descending a spiral staircase built from chiseled granite. The footfalls of their boots echoed against the magically sculpted stone as they followed the twisting stairs. Nyq and Dax lead the way with Olivia a step behind them. “You’ve been through the Gender Sensitivity course three times, Nyq. Three. You know you’re on thin ice with HR. What do you think would have happened if you’d fooled around and gotten that elf girl hurt? Or, even worse, what if you managed to somehow get Olivia roughed up?”
“Nobody was going to get hurt, okay?,” Nyq said pensively as his pale blue eyes darted from Dax, to the woman behind them, and then back again. “Olivia’s an ex-marine and the toughest person I know. Man or woman. The only person in the Watch that might beat her is you, Sarge. And only because you cheat.”
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Dax had some very strong opinions about being called a cheater. His lips pursed into a thin pale line while he listened to Nyq drift further and further away from reality. “I figured they would have rolled around on the ground for a while. Maybe a bit of hair pulling and some snarling until Olivia finally exerted her dominance and started stomping on the elf girl.”
“Oh officer!,” Nyq said in a shrill voice that had both Dax and Olivia blinking in confusion. “It makes me feel a certain kind of way when you stomp on me like that!” Oblivious to the appalled looks he was receiving from his audience, Nyq continued with an impression of Olivia that was even worse than his horrible mimicry of Margo’s voice. “Call me Mistress! Now your filth is smeared all over my boot. Lick it off!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Dax caught sight of Olivia’s twitching fingers drifting toward the wand strapped to her thigh. “Nyq, you can’t…” Dax struggled to articulate his words before finally giving up with an explosive groan. “What the hell, man. Seriously. Aren’t you married? What would your wife think about these creepy fantasies you have about other women?”
“I’ve been happily married for eight years, Sarge,” Nyq replied, tilting his head to one side as he regarded the other man with a look of utter confusion. “What does that have to do with anything? Just last night she brought home a guy she met at that new vampire bar, ‘Everybody Sucks.’ After we got all our toys ready, we…”
Nyq let out a startled yelp when he suddenly shot forward as if he’d been fired from a ballista. The sound of his surprise turned into a warbling cry of pain as he rolled, end over end, down the staircase. Little more than a helpless ball of flailing limbs, Nyq struck the wall with a bone rattling thud before his momentum took him around the bend and beyond sight. The wound of the rogue tumbling down the stairs was still echoing in the stone passageway when Dax turned around to face Olivia. Neither said a word as the furious woman casually lowered the leg she’d used to kick Nyq in the back.
“He deserved that,” Dax said, after the racket of Nyq’s noisy descent had finally fallen silent. He watched the woman beside him while she calmly smoothed her pristine uniform back into a state of perfection. Once she was satisfied, she gave Dax a nod and the duo resumed their trip toward the cell block.
“He’s a dirtbag,” Olivia proclaimed in a tired voice. “But the truth is, asshole or not, the man is good at his job. Sometimes Dalthan’s Rest needs a dirtbag with a skillset that the rest of us in the Watch never had the need, or desire, to develop.”
“That’s a remarkably mature attitude to take, all things considered,” Dax replied as they rounded the corner to find Nyq standing at the base of the stairs with his head tipped backward and his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you need me to do anything?”
“I’ve got it under control, Sarge.” The sugar sweet smile she offered him was alarmingly at odds with the fury he could see flickering in the depths of her gleaming eyes.
“Hey! What the hell was that?,” Nyq said as the other two members of the Watch approached. “You bloody kicked me. And I think you broke my nose.” Dark splotches decorated the front of Nyq’s green uniform. Considering how dirty Nyq’s attire tended to be, Dax had no idea how many of the stains were recent additions.
“Did she break it?,” the wounded detective asked as he leaned forward to let the sergeant assess the damage.
Before Dax could dispense any medical expertise, Olivia’s hand blurred through the air. The brutally efficient strike ended with her fist rudely introducing itself to Nyq’s nose with a sickening crunch. The rogue’s eyes instantly rolled back as he collapsed onto the floor like a marionette who’s strings had been cut.
“There,” Olivia said in a voice as cold as winter rime on a windowsill. “Nothing to worry your little head over anymore, Nyqi boy, because now we all know its broken..”
The lithe woman gracefully plucked Nyq’s discarded handkerchief from the floor to casually wipe her fist clean. When she finished, she absently let the scrap of silk slip through her fingers to flutter its way down to the floor. A quick step brought her around Nyq’s crumbled form and into the hallway beyond.
“You coming, Sarge?,” Olivia asked demurely.
“Yeah. I’m right behind you.” Dax let his eyes linger on the rogue for a split second before he shuffled after the departing spitfire. “Nyq isn’t the only one who needs a counseling session,” Dax muttered under his breath.
“Did you say something, Dax?,” Olivia said, turning back to face him with a lopsided smile that sent a chill rushing down his spine.
“Nothing, Livvy. Nothing at all.”
********
“I’m a grown woman. I don’t want to be turned over to my father. I’m a person. A living, breathing creature. I’m not a bar of gold that can be traded between the oligarchs and the authoritarian regime,” Margo grumbled. Less than enthusiastic about the details of her release, the beautiful young elven woman had been sulking ever since she set foot in the lobby.
Margo, and her accomplice Zif, still wore their sleek black ensemble, though they’d long since been divested of their hoods and masks. Both had been understandably eager to vacate the cells they’d occupied, but their willingness to cooperate with authority evaporated when they learned that they were to be transferred to Duke Prisee’s custody. The increasingly desperate resistance of the two elves led Dax to wonder if this was a case of simple teenage rebellion or if, perhaps, there was more to the story than he initially thought.
“Oh for the love of all that blooms, let it go, Margo,” Zif said in an exhausted tone. Unlike Margo’s otherworldly perfection, Zif’s brief stay in the city’s jail had left his pale skin marred by dark circles under his eyes. “What do you expect them to do? They’re not going to deny the Duke. Even if they did, what would happen next? We’d spend Gods know how long in that dirty jail cell. I don’t want to spend another minute locked up in that forsaken cave, Margo. There were fleas down there. Fleas. I’ll have to burn this outfit and probably shave my head when I get home.”
“You get used to the fleas,” Nyq chimed in. Since they’d collected him after picking up the prisoners, he’d been on his best behavior. It wouldn’t keep the rogue from another mandatory trip through gender sensitivity training, but it might keep Olivia from murdering him in cold blood. For now, anyway.
“Why are you so worried about returning to your father’s estate?,” Olivia asked. While she stood, rigidly at attention, her deep green eyes flickered from one side of the lobby to the other, constantly scanning the spacious chamber for anything out of the ordinary.
“You don’t know what its like up there in the branches of the World Tree,” Margo whined as she spun towards her potential ally. “Everyday there’s a luncheon party that you simply must attend otherwise you have no idea what the theme for that night’s ball is going to be. Life is so hectic.” Margo said, growing more animated with each word. “One day its the ballet. The next its an art exhibit, or a music recital. Spoken word poetry is all the rage these days as well. There are so many obligations! If we didn’t have servants preparing our food and washing our clothes, Gaea as my witness, we wouldn’t have time to eat and we’d spend our days dressed in filthy rags!”
“Exactly,” Zif said, applauding his cousin’s succinct description of the issues plaguing elven society. “Well said, Margo. The plague of spoken word poetry has swept through Sylvareth like a brush fire through a fallow field. It must be stopped.”
“We should return to the days of quiet reading circles!,” Margo said as her eyes flashed with the vibrant light of social revolution. “It is so exhausting to spend all day talking about our social engagements while the staff handles the party preparation. Why shouldn’t we be able to enjoy a few hours of literature shared in companionable silence!” The elven woman suddenly thrust a closed fist into the air. “Down with the poet's tyranny!”
“Here, here!” Zif called out, thrusting his fist into the air in a show of solidarity.
The exuberance of the elves began to subside when they began to take note of the stoney expressions of the three detectives standing nearby.
“I think its time to get the two of you back where you belong,” Dax said with a brittle smile curling his lips. The two elves hadn’t noticed the other members of the Watch slowing down to listen to Margo’s rant, but Dax and his team had. Over the course of her fiery address, many of the curious looks being cast toward the young elves had shifted from passive interest to open hostility.
To her credit, Margo sensed a shift in the general mood. The elf turned toward Dax and asked softly, “Is spoken word poetry terribly popular down here on the ground?”
Her question sent his thoughts grinding to a halt. It wasn’t the words, but the naive sincerity behind them that left him utterly flummoxed.
Fortunately Olivia spared him the struggle of finding a response that was politically correct. “I don’t think its the poetry so much as everything else, ma’am. Its not a lifestyle those of us down here can relate to.”
Margo’s gorgeous face scrunched up as if she’d eaten half of a lemon. Her twinkling eyes flickered furtively between Dax and Olivia for several heartbeats before her pink lips parted to offer a reply.
Whatever she was going to say was lost forever when the doors to the lobby crashed open and four lanky elves draped in the red livery of House Summerson rushed through. Each of them had a shining brass trumpet that they raised to their lips in unison. By some unspoken cue, the quartet of elves began to play, filling the chamber with the opening notes of the Sylvareth national anthem.
As the music rolled over the shocked audience, a half dozen athletic dancers leapt and dived past the trumpet players. Dressed in leotards, the mix of male and female elves tumbled and spun through the room in an elaborate dance. Ribbons fluttered in their wake as the lithe performers spun around each other and the members of the mystified audience who were frozen in bewilderment. Magical illusions of butterflies and birds flitted through the air in a riot of color surrounding that swept through the lobby and down the adjacent halls.
Four young children crossed the threshold next. No older than seven or eight, each one was dressed in a long white dress and armed with a basket of flower petals. Dax only knew what the baskets held because the kids began scattering petals across the floor as they advanced into the lobby, creating a veritable carpet of red, white and pink.
Directly behind them were four burly figures dressed in armor made from lacquered wood. Seeing a team of Sylvan Enforcers step into the Watch barracks sent Dax’s hand drifting toward the wand holstered against his thigh. The rest of the nonsense he managed to tune out, but he knew from experience how dangerous an elven warrior could be. A quick glance to either side reassured him that, despite the chaos, Nyq and Olivia were focused on the threat that the Enforcers represented.
Finally, as the notes of the Sylvareth anthem faded away, an old elf with gray hair and a smooth staff of pale wood stepped through the open doorway.
“I present His Grace, Prisee Summersun,” the ancient elf said In a stern voice obviously aided by some form of magical amplification. The master of ceremonies then lifted his staff to strike the floor with three sharp taps. “You may kneel.”
As one, every elf in the lobby turned to face the door before falling to one knee. Whether they were a child, a warrior, or, in Margo and Zif’s case, a recent prisoner, all of them sank to the floor in a unified show of reverence. They were joined by a handful of Watch officers with confusion written plainly across their faces. It was unusual for members of the Watch, or anyone else in Dalthan’s Rest, to find themselves in the presence of elven nobility. Being unsure of the proper etiquette in such a meeting was completely understandable.
Dax, however, was well aware of the appropriate protocol. He did not kneel, nor did the two detectives flanking him to either side. Like Dax, the two officers with him watched the final member of the procession step through the doorway and begin walking down the carpet of flowers laid out before him.
Duke Prisee wore a red doublet the color of a summer sunset with a set of trousers to match. White ruffles surrounded his neck and wrists, as if a lace volcano had erupted inside his shirt. An elaborate topknot sat atop his head, preventing his blonde hair from obscuring the sharply chiseled features of his handsome face. Like his daughter, Duke Prisee’s otherworldly beauty was on display for all to see.
Unlike his daughter, the Duke’s flawless features were marred by a disdainful sneer that he directed toward the crowd. His expression of confident superiority only grew more pronounced when he caught sight of his kneeling daughter. The languid way that the elf noble changed course to cross the lobby towards them sent the stab of a blossoming migraine digging through Dax’s skull.
“Who is in charge here?,” the older elf said as he scurried after the Duke, his voice dripping with the same sort of contempt that was written across the noble’s face.
Dax felt two hands press into the small of his back. Before he could react, a sudden shove sent him stumbling past the kneeling prisoners. After he regained his balance, a quick look over his shoulder showed both Olivia and Nyq offering him a thumbs up and a pair of shit eating grins. It was nice to know that the two of them could still work together in the face of adversity.
Left with no other choice, Dax could do nothing except straighten his back and turn to address Margo’s father.