The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(50)
Briss clapped her hands excitedly, then reached behind and began to pass packages to the members of the team. Fletcher couldn’t help but tear open his own immediately, the soft give beneath the brown paper wrapping telling him exactly what it was – a uniform.
He shook it out and held it up to the light, amazed by the deep blue of the cloth that it had been made from.
The jacket was chased with silver thread, with an open collar and wide lapels in white. It was long enough to go past his knees, just as his last jacket had been, but the material was thicker.
‘It should be long and thick enough to keep you warm at night, and light enough to keep you agile,’ Briss said, fiddling with her dress in embarrassment. ‘It’s wool, so it will breathe well, but I also rubbed oil in to keep it waterproof, though wool is naturally water resistant itself.’
Fletcher saw that the others were holding up identical clothing.
‘It’s perfect,’ Fletcher breathed, ‘and it’s the blue and silver of the Raleigh house, right?’
‘Yes,’ Briss laughed. ‘I’m glad you noticed! At first I was going to make it green, so it would blend with the jungle, but we need the world to be able to see you through the scrying crystals. Remember, this is about winning hearts and minds. A colourful uniform will help everyone identify your team.’
‘That’s so true,’ Fletcher said, shrugging on the jacket and examining the matching trousers that came with it. ‘I wouldn’t have thought of that.’
‘I also made you boots,’ Briss said, pointing to a row of thigh-length moccasins that Athol had left on the table. ‘Made with elven leather, soft but durable. The very best kind.’
Sylva smiled at that remark, bowing her head in cheerful acknowledgement. The team thanked her profusely, while Athol rocked back and forth on his feet, eager to open his own packages.
‘My turn now,’ Athol said, before Briss had a chance to respond. ‘I know you already have a bow and falx, Sylva, so I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you except for some blue-fletched arrows – your team colour.’
‘That’s OK,’ Sylva replied, though there was a hint of disappointment in her voice. ‘My weapons belonged to my father, so I think they’ll do.’
‘Good, good,’ Athol said distractedly, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. ‘Cress, I already made you the torq and seax for the Tournament, so you’re all set with close-combat weapons, but I’ll be providing you with a crossbow tomorrow, some blue crossbow bolts and a sword for Jeffrey. Didn’t have room on the cart for them.’
‘Bah,’ Cress huffed, sitting down heavily. ‘I was looking forward to my new weapons all day!’
‘Now, Othello,’ Athol said, beckoning his friend over.
He pulled a package from the pile and Othello tore it open eagerly.
‘This is a blunderbuss,’ he explained, as the gun was extracted from an oily cloth. ‘It’s loaded with buckshot – small spherical balls that will spread out when fired. You won’t get much accuracy from it, but you will have some serious stopping power. A berserk bull-orc might run through a normal musket ball, kill you and be halfway home for dinner before it realises it’s been shot, same with arrows and crossbow bolts. It’ll die eventually, sure, but that won’t do you much good. Hit it with a handful of buckshot and it’ll go down like it’s been struck by a sledgehammer.’
Othello held the firearm up to the light, revealing a weapon that was very similar to a musket, but with a shorter barrel and a muzzle that flared open like a trumpet. The metal was burnished to a bronze sheen, and the wood was the dark grain of polished teak.
‘I hesitate to give it to you in a covert mission such as yours, but if your cover is blown you might as well use it,’ Athol said, stepping out of the way as Othello lifted the weapon and sighted down the barrel. ‘Just be aware that if you shoot it, they’ll be able to hear the gunshot from miles around.’
Othello’s face was a picture of joy as he reverently laid the blunderbuss on the table. Athol’s expression was identical, and he wordlessly handed him a leather gun-holster that could be slung over Othello’s shoulder.
‘There’s also a battle-axe for you,’ Athol said, pointing at a package beside him. ‘I took it off the rack – one of your father’s finest. No time to personalise it, unfortunately. I chucked a few hurlbat throwing axes in there too.’
‘Thank you, truly,’ Othello said, his voice hitching. ‘You have outdone yourself with that blunderbuss. My father has taught you well.’
‘Ah, well, he would have made it himself if he wasn’t so busy with the council. Luckily, he managed to get your tomahawk back from the Pinkertons after the trial – he’ll give it to you when he sees you off.’
Othello sat down, shaking his head with a rueful smile.
‘Now Fletcher’s turn … unless you want to go to sleep, Fletcher?’ Athol winked. ‘This can wait until tomorrow if you want.’
‘Very funny,’ Fletcher said, eyeing the pile of packages behind Athol. Could they really all be for him?
‘I must admit, most of these are just me re-gifting you your possessions, courtesy of Arcturus,’ Athol said, setting aside several large packages. ‘He kept them safe for you while you were in jail. Your bow, khopesh, scabbard, scrying stone, money, clothes and arrows are all in these. He also wanted me to give you this.’