Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets Read Online Free Page A

punch ups in the dwarf district always attract crowds of tourists and onlookers who, apart from serious cases of congenital stupidity, do not normally join in the action. Simply speaking, a dwarf would never “stoop” to fighting with people from other races, with the natural exception of ogres, who are inevitably at the origin of sporadic battles involving real combat or improvised knives, axes and hammers.
     
    Leaving the ring road I turn into a narrow one-way street lined with various shops, but no pubs, thank God. I park crosswise between two squared vehicles perfectly aligned along the pavement. The buildings rise from the ground as far as the ceiling which is punctuated with powerful street lamps. The old neon sign—TUBGORNE’S—is already switched off, but there’s still a light on inside. I scan the goods in the window with bored indifference while I finish my cigarette. Beron Tubgorne, in my
expert
opinion, is the best rune engraver in the whole city. I met the hairy son of a little bitch at the Academy of Magic, when he still held the Chair of Engraving. One hundred years previously he had received an award from the institution for his creation of an original prototype of a hybrid elemental combustion engine, one of the crucial inventions for modern magitechnics. A stab of nostalgia hits me right in the gut as I think back to my time at the Academy. Master Tubgorne was expelled when his affair with one of the students, a female dwarf, came out. Beron decided to marry her all the same, but his early retirement and subsequent excess of free time (which translated, fatally, into excessive brawling and gambling accompanied by his wife) ruined him completely, despite his wealth generated by numerous patents belonging to the dwarf. Poor bugger. The day I saved him from a loan shark, I became a kind of uncle in his eyes. Opening the shop was a way of getting back on track.
    Without thinking, I flick the cigarette butt onto the pavement and instantly regret it. An elderly dwarf couple, solemnly plodding along arm-in-arm, flinch in horror.
    “How dare you, you lout?”
    “Can’t you see there’s a bin?!” This is the wife, with a tone of voice you would use with a backward child. She’s wearing a brown scarf wrapped round her head, covering her hair. Someone ought to explain to her that it went out of fashion a good few decades ago. She’s five hundred years old if she’s a day.
    “That’s what street cleaners are for,” I reply, shrugging. They are momentarily stunned by my indifference, I take advantage of this brief awkward interlude to dive into the shop and leave them to their resentful muttering. The bell above the door heralds my arrival.
    Inside is rather bare compared to human standards. I linger to have a look at the goods. On the right, some shelves have a tidy display of various items for sale, particularly utensils, strengthened by runic inscriptions. A torch with no batteries with a hundred-year guarantee here, a pan which heats up without the aid of fire there, a mobile phone with constant reception in pride of position on the middle shelf, all with price labels, obviously more expensive than your common-or-garden torches, pans or mobiles. Then, on the wall to the left, there is an impressive poster of all the runes people could choose from for Beron to engrave and the prices of each. This kind of work was always the main source of business for the shop. At the back, the counter stands between the clientele and the entrance to the workshop and the basement. I’m about to head towards it when a cavernous voice from the other room stops me in my tracks.
    “We’re closed.”
    I fold my arms with a smirk.
    “We’re closed,” repeats Beron, showing his face. “Oh, hello there, sonny, it’s you” He greets me with a smile.
    “For the love of Owl, Professor, I’m thirty-seven, stop calling me sonny.”
    “Hey! No swearing in my shop, cheeky. I’ve told you before…”—waving his