The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(51)

Athol handed him a familiar-looking package, and Fletcher laughed with delight when he saw what it was.

James Baker’s diary and the spellcraft book had been neatly tied together with twine. Somehow, Arcturus had managed to rescue them from his cell. As Fletcher took it, he saw a note was pinned to the top:





Fletcher grinned from ear to ear. The mysterious benefactor who had put the books in his cell had been revealed. Although he now knew that they were not half-brothers, Arcturus had done more for him than any brother could. Fletcher owed the man so much.

‘I should have given that to you last,’ Athol grumbled, noting Fletcher’s joyous expression. ‘Anyway, here you go.’

He held out a weighty package, which Fletcher set carefully on the table, then tore open.

A pair of pistols shone in the flickering light, one with an elongated barrel, the other with two shorter ones. The longer pistol had a Salamander engraved along the grip, the detailing intricate – more the work of an artist than a gunmaker. The other had a Gryphowl design of equal beauty, with a wing pointing down each barrel.

‘Captain Lovett called on us earlier and helped me with the design. I hope you like it,’ Athol said, rubbing his callused hands and watching Fletcher’s face anxiously.

Fletcher hefted the Salamander pistol, careful to keep his finger off the trigger.

‘It’s amazing,’ he breathed, rubbing the polished wood with his hand. It had a reddish tinge, and was smooth as silk.

‘I’m so glad you think so,’ Athol said, breaking into a broad grin.

Athol stepped forward, taking the weapon and holding it up to the nearest torch.

‘This one’s a prototype. The inside of the barrel is “rifled”, with a groove that spirals down the inside and gives the bullet spin. You’ll find it fires further and more accurately than any musket, but it’s harder to load.’

Fletcher began to peer down the barrel, then thought better of it as Athol twitched it away and lay the weapon aside.

‘This is another prototype,’ Athol said, picking up the next pistol. ‘Two barrels means two shots, but twice the reload time, so there’s no rifling for this weapon. The barrels are smoothbore. Othello will show you how to load and fire these later down the line.’

‘And you should name your guns,’ Othello said, his eyes still focused on the gleaming metal of the blunderbuss. ‘This one is called Bess.’

He reddened slightly, as Cress grinned at the name.

‘Childhood crush,’ he admitted, his ears slowly turning pink.

Fletcher laughed, then turned to his own brace of pistols. For a moment he considered naming them after his parents, but it felt wrong somehow. No, the engravings were the key.

‘Blaze and Gale,’ he said, brandishing each pistol. ‘Blaze for Ignatius’s fire and Gale for how Athena can glide on the wind.’

‘Fine names,’ Sylva agreed, nodding her head solemnly.

The guns weighed heavily in his hands, and he felt the power behind them. Capable of ending a life, just by pointing and shooting. Formidable weapons indeed.

‘Aim for the head if it’s an orc and be careful of the noise,’ Athol advised, pushing Fletcher’s hands down so the pistols pointed at the floor. ‘Now, your final gift. I had to make some last-minute adjustments when Captain Lovett told me you had taken up Electra’s offer, which is why we were a little late.’

Athol opened the package himself, revealing a long leather band, with a collection of straps, holsters and toggles along it.

‘This is your harness,’ he said, pulling it over Fletcher’s head and adjusting the straps. He tugged and pulled here and there, then stepped back to admire his handiwork.

‘That’ll do just fine. Let’s get you all set up. Holster those pistols, will you? You’ve got me all nervous pointing those things around.’

Fletcher slid his pistols into the holsters that were now at his sides, feeling the balanced weight of the two on his hips. Athol tore open the packages behind him, and Fletcher felt his bow and quiver clipped to his back, and the khopesh’s scabbard added to his belt. Finally, the dwarf nipped around and slotted four of the vials that Electra had given them in a bandolier along Fletcher’s chest.

‘Perfect,’ Athol said. ‘You’re armed to the teeth but you’ll be able to slip through the jungle like a wraith with this thing on, nothing falling off or jingling.’

‘It is perfect,’ Fletcher said, looking around for a mirror to admire himself, but failing to find one. He contented himself with looking down at his chest, gripping the handles of his pistols and feeling the power behind them.

‘I don’t know how to repay you Athol, or you, Briss. I have some money – I won’t be needing it in the jungles. Let me do that at least.’

‘Not a chance,’ Athol said, pushing his hands into his pockets.

Fletcher took the purse from one of Arcturus’s open packages and tried to hand it to Briss, but she backed away with her palms in the air.

‘Just survive,’ she said simply, putting her arm around Othello’s shoulder. ‘And keep my boy safe.’





22


It was late afternoon when Fletcher awoke, the light from the sun filtering through the upper windows of the tavern. Ignatius purred softly on Fletcher’s chest, his tail twitching as he dreamed. He had deliberately moved from his customary position around Fletcher’s neck to deny Athena such a prime location. The Gryphowl had seemed annoyed by the little imp’s antics, and Fletcher had wisely chosen to infuse her to avoid a confrontation.