The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(55)

‘I think it’s safe to say I was seen,’ Othello muttered. ‘But with my beard shaved, they might not have taken me for a dwarf, just a very short man. It was dark and crowded and everyone was drunk. Most of the people who saw me probably died in the explosion.’

‘It was my idea to go,’ Fletcher added, as Othello shrunk under his father’s gaze. ‘But how were we to know that there was going to be an attack? We just wanted a look at the front lines.’

Uhtred opened his mouth, then grimaced and closed it again.

‘Be that as it may, you three are on very thin ice,’ he said, though his expression had softened.

‘Can you keep it down?’ Jeffrey mumbled, clutching his head. ‘I’m dying here.’

‘Serves you right,’ Uhtred grumbled, though he handed the boy a flask of water from his hip. ‘Get this down you. We need you on top form for the mission tomorrow.’

Othello groaned aloud at the mention of the mission and Uhtred rounded on him again.

‘Forgot about that, had you? The future of Hominum depends on you, both to unify the nation and to destroy the goblin threat. I dread to think what King Harold would say if he knew what happened tonight.’

Fletcher hung his head in shame, but part of his mind was busy wondering how Uhtred would react if he knew that a sleeping gremlin was in the rucksack now hanging on the bannister to the cellar stairs. He had no idea what he was going to do with the little creature, and Othello hadn’t been much help. Jeffrey, on the other hand, was oblivious, having gone into a stupor immediately upon entering the carriage.

Uhtred glanced at Fletcher’s pistols and then sighed, removing one from its holster and sighting down it.

‘Did my son at least teach you how to load and fire these while you were out there?’ he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

‘Well … with the explosion and everything …’ Fletcher mumbled, avoiding Othello’s eyes.

‘You won’t be able to practise in the jungle, they’ll hear you miles off,’ Uhtred said, exasperated. ‘There won’t be time tomorrow either. This place is soundproof enough, though it might hurt our ears a bit. Nobody on the street will hear us.’

At the far end of the cellar, a pile of broken furniture had been unceremoniously stacked against the wall. In the centre, there was a red-cushioned chair facing outwards, an ideal target.

Without hesitation, Uhtred pulled the trigger and a long tongue of smoke erupted out from the gun’s end, the sound more a crack than a bang in the confines of the cellar. A smaller puff of smoke curled from where the flint had slammed into the gun, igniting the powder within.

The cushion simply vibrated slightly, but Fletcher could see a new hole in the threadbare fabric, just off the centre.

‘Not bad,’ Uhtred said, cocking the flint back again. ‘Now, watch closely.’

He removed a small cartridge from his back pocket, a cylinder of yellow paper that was twisted shut at one end. He gripped the twist with his teeth and tore the top open, revealing a fine black powder piled inside it.

‘You pour it into the square trough where the flint meets the steel of the pistol when it snaps down, known as the pan,’ Uhtred said, trickling a small amount of the powder in. ‘Hence the phrase flash in the pan.’

Fletcher watched with avid eyes as Uhtred pushed the remainder of the cartridge into the end of the pistol.

‘Then, you put the whole thing into the barrel, and use the ramrod to shove it down to the base.’

Uhtred pulled a slender stick of metal that poked out from the wooden stock of the pistol, just beneath the barrel. He rammed it down the end a few times, making sure that the cartridge was wedged tightly inside the gun. He replaced the ramrod in its holder, then pointed the barrel at the cushion once again. The whole process had taken less than fifteen seconds.

‘Now, you have a go at firing. Remember, it has a bit of a kick!’

Uhtred handed the weapon to Fletcher. The gun was heavy in his hands, and his arm wavered as he raised it, sighting down the barrel. It was different to the bow, the point of focus too far ahead, the weight unbalanced, all of it on his one arm.

He fired, closing his eyes as the puff from the firing pan burst out, the clap of noise as loud as the Anvil attack had been. He could not see if he had hit anything, for there was too much smoke, but as his ears stopped ringing and the smog cleared, the cushion appeared as it had before.

‘Where did it go?’ Fletcher asked.

Slowly, a chair leg in the top right corner of the room wobbled, then broke away with a splintering sound, a bullet wedged in the joint. Othello chortled as it fell to the ground, far away from where Fletcher had been aiming.

‘Well. Maybe aim for the chest instead of the head,’ Uhtred laughed, slapping Fletcher on the back. Fletcher sighed and pushed the pistol back in its holster.

‘Right, clothes off,’ Uhtred snapped, clicking his fingers.

‘What?’ Fletcher asked. What was Uhtred talking about?

Then he looked down at his uniform. The front of his brand new jacket and trousers were splattered with soot, mud and splashes of blood from the massacre. Even Othello’s uniform was stained with the same, from when he had dragged Fletcher to his feet. In contrast, Jeffrey’s was fine, despite his bout of vomiting.

Fletcher shrugged and slowly took off his weapons and clothing, until he and Othello were shivering in the cold air of the dusty cellar, wearing nothing but their underwear. Uhtred chuckled at their miserable faces.