The Dragon Engine by Andy Remic

a social context; here, nothing was contraband. In fact, every contraband was available, and only the Pit was the safest place to buy and sell. Even Skalg’s Educators were wary of travelling the Pit. It amused Methodrox greatly to see them enter in threes or more.
    Now, Methodrox waited for his contact. He sipped his ale, barely taking any in, despite the intoxicating and addictive flavour. Ale was part of his blood, but not today, not on this night, not with this mission. This mission was everything.
    Methodrox watched the dwarves in the tavern, and some watched back. All were armed, many armoured. By the bar there came uproarious laughing, which erupted immediately into violence. Fists were flying, at least five or six people involved in the sudden vicious brawl. An axe flashed in the lamp light, and a head was detached from shoulders with a sodden thump. In a few minutes it was over, and two dwarves dragged the headless corpse from The Slaughtered Warrior and dumped it in the street.
    Methodrox watched, hand on his own knife, eyes narrowed lest he in some way become dragged into the fight. Unlikely, but always a possibility. Fights in the Pit had a way of getting out of hand extremely quickly.
    A slim figure slid in through the door. He was hooded, nothing suspicious there, and tall for a dwarf. He had to stoop a little to avoid bumping his head on the beams. He moved quickly, neatly, a dwarf who was a master of his own actions.
    Methodrox leaned back a little, eyes following the newcomer who made his way to the bar, good boy, and ordered a flagon of ale. The man glanced around with interest, and Methodrox felt his eyes glance over but show no emotion. And yet the connection was there.
    He took his ale from a rough-looking barman with arms the width of most dwarves’ thighs, and tattooed heavily with blurred images of female dwarves showing breasts and open quims. He sipped, casual, and moved through the raucous crowd until he reached Methodrox’s table.
    â€œYou have a spare seat. Can I sit?”
    â€œBe my guest.”
    He sat. Sipped ale. Pretended to not be interested in Methodrox.
    â€œYou enjoying your evening?”
    â€œGood fight before. Shame the dwarf had to lose his head.”
    â€œOccupational hazard.”
    â€œIn a tavern?”
    â€œIn Zvolga. In the Pit.”
    Methodrox nodded. “I’ll second that.” He paused and studied the newcomer. “You seem like a handy fellow. Are you looking for work?”
    â€œA labouring dwarf is always looking for work.”
    â€œI have a delicate task. How are you with precious stones?”
    â€œI have a delicate hand.”
    â€œFor this, you will need to be delicate and yet brutal.”
    â€œI can be both of those things.”
    Methodrox finished his ale. “Count to a hundred and meet me outside.”
----
    T he streets were warm , the cobbles dry. It was five minutes since the last Dragon’s Song, and warm air still pulsed, lantern flames bright.
    The newcomer emerged, and Methodrox set off, not checking behind himself. He moved into a narrow maze of four-storey high, leaning slum buildings, the left-hand side carved from the mountain, the right free-standing at a variety of shifted angles. Cheap. Dangerous. Abandoned. Dwarves crowded the streets, dressed in poor garb, many clutching bottles. The Pit was nothing if not a den of poverty, violence and alcohol. Young dwarves with scabbed faces, dressed in rags, sat in doorways, begging, daggers with dried blood in their boots. Whores stood in other doorways, promising they were clean, lips painted bright red, eyes dead like those of a corpse.
    Through all this Methodrox weaved, hand on his knife, axe on his back. He made a series of complicated cut-throughs, down narrow dark alleys, under bridges, over stinking, open sewers which got worse, more polluted, the deeper into the Pit one travelled.
    Eventually, they came to an old DumpShaft, from a time before