By the time Merlin and Wintrell's carriage returned to Halewick's boarding house, midnight had settled over Storshallow. The lamplighters had long completed their rounds, and the quiet streets bore only the distant hum of mechanical carts ferrying late-night goods and the occasional murmur of a patrolling watchman. Above, the three moons hung in silent accord, their crescents etched like pale scars into the deep blue expanse.
Merlin stepped down first, then offered a hand to Master Wintrell. The scholar's shoulders were rigid with lingering tension, though he tried to maintain composure. He touched his cravat absently, as if still feeling the weight of the interrupted rendezvous with Viscounti's palimpsest. Merlin caught the faint tremor in the older man's fingertips: tonight had rattled him more than he would admit aloud.
Inside the foyer, Mistress Halewick's lamp still burned. Though she was not there to greet them—retired to bed, most likely—Merlin took comfort in the familiar scent of beeswax and lemon polish. Wintrell locked eyes with Merlin before heading upstairs. "We will speak in the morning," he said quietly. "For now, rest. We must consider how to proceed… safely."
Merlin inclined his head, waiting for the scholar to vanish up the stair before he retreated to his attic room. Sleep came fitfully, filled with half-formed dreams of masked intruders and ink-blotted manuscripts.
Morning brought no easy relief. When Merlin rose, he found the boarding house subdued. Bertha hummed softly in the kitchen, frying thin oatcakes and steeping tea, while Annabelle arranged flowers on the dining table. Mistress Halewick inspected the hallway rug, ensuring its fringe was perfectly aligned. Everything was normal, save for a taut undercurrent that Merlin suspected only he truly felt.
After attending to minor chores, Merlin made his way to Wintrell's door. At a soft knock, the scholar's voice beckoned him in. Wintrell had slept poorly—faint circles lay beneath his eyes—but he wore his usual tailored attire. A map of the city was spread across the desk, corners weighted by ink pots. On a side table lay a small black pouch, something new Merlin had not noticed before.
"We must consider our safety, Merlin," Wintrell said, pacing slowly. "If last night's intruder dared break into Viscounti's estate, there's no telling what might happen on open streets. We must protect ourselves."
Merlin's heart quickened. He knew that open conflict was not something a mere boarding house assistant should invite. "Master Wintrell, we have no guards. And I… I have no weapon, nor skill with one."
Wintrell stopped and faced him. "I prefer not to resort to violence. Knowledge should be a scholar's defense. But the city grows tense. I've considered acquiring a firearm—for deterrence, if nothing else." His voice held distaste, as though forced to contemplate a lesser path.
A firearm. In Storshallow, firearms were not altogether rare, but owning one was no trivial matter. Unlike the simple blades some travelers carried, firearms were regulated by both guild charters and city edicts. They ranged from sleek, single-shot pistols to more elaborate, repeater-based designs that combined clockwork components with chemical propellant. A firearm could cost a small fortune, and to carry one openly required permits, background checks from the local precinct, and annual taxes to maintain legitimacy.
Merlin knew this from overheard tavern talk and reading city notices posted in the plaza. The Overlords allowed firearms but controlled their dissemination with strict licensing. Most ordinary citizens could not afford the fees, let alone the initial purchase. Even a humble single-shot pistol, known colloquially as a "sparker," could cost several silver crescents—nearly a month's wages for a laborer.
Wintrell seemed to read Merlin's thoughts. "The laws are strict. To purchase a firearm, one must show identity papers, letters of reference, and pay a hefty sum. It might be easier for me—I have funds, and as a visiting scholar of note, I can secure the necessary recommendations." He sighed, drumming fingers on the desk. "But you, Merlin… I trust your discretion and calm head. If I buy a firearm, I'd want you trained in its use. That might require additional funds and time."
Merlin frowned inwardly. He possessed no wealth—he earned a modest salary from Mistress Halewick, just enough to cover room, board, and a few personal necessities. He was paid weekly, in small copper and silver coins. Most of his earnings vanished into daily living costs. The idea of affording his own weapon was laughable. "Master Wintrell, I appreciate your confidence, but I have neither the means nor the status to obtain a gun on my own. My wages here are modest at best."
Wintrell nodded curtly. "I understand. That's why I'll handle the bureaucracy. But understand this: a firearm is no trivial trinket. Owning one, even in my name, places a burden on you. The city watch keeps records. Should you discharge it improperly, it would invite scrutiny. Are you prepared for that responsibility?"
Merlin swallowed. Responsibility indeed. But after last night, remaining defenseless seemed foolish. "If you believe it necessary, Master Wintrell, I will learn. I can train quietly, perhaps at a private range or under an instructor's supervision."
A faint smile touched Wintrell's lips. "Good. I admit, I dislike the idea, but circumstances force my hand. The Overlords' edicts are clear: no unregistered firearms, no concealed carrying without special dispensation. I'll see what strings I can pull. Meanwhile, I'll give you an advance on your pay for any incidentals." He gestured to a small purse of coins on the desk—silver crescents and a few gold crowns glinted softly. "Take this. Use it for traveling expenses, training fees if needed. Consider it an investment in our shared safety."
Merlin's eyes widened. He'd never held so much coin at once. A handful of gold crowns alone could cover months of modest living. "This is… generous," he said softly.
Wintrell waved away the gratitude. "You've proven reliable. I value that. As I delve deeper into these mysteries—old gods, artifacts, veils between worlds—I attract attention from those who would rather keep the truth buried. I must ensure we can defend ourselves if words fail."
Merlin carefully pocketed the purse. The weight of the coins was reassuring yet sobering. "I'll see what I can arrange. Perhaps a private instructor in the back lanes near the craftsman's district. I've heard rumors that some retired watchmen teach marksmanship quietly, away from official scrutiny."
The scholar nodded, relief passing over his features. "Excellent. But remember: subtlety is key. We cannot appear as if we're raising arms for rebellion. We merely seek personal protection."
Merlin agreed. Then he ventured a question that had nagged him: "Master Wintrell, what do firearms cost? Even a basic single-shot pistol?"
Wintrell pinched the bridge of his nose, recalling figures. "A modest 'sparker' pistol might run ten silver crescents—a month's wage for many. Better models, with reinforced barrels and finer craftsmanship, can cost three times that. Ammunition and maintenance also add up. The city imposes a firearms tax each year, perhaps five silver crescents, plus the licensing fee, about two more silver crescents. And that's if you have a reference from a registered patron. Without connections, you're looking at bribes or months of waiting."
Merlin nodded, absorbing the information. He remembered how money here worked: a copper mark bought bread or a cup of tea, a silver crescent covered modest meals for a day, while a gold crown could pay for a week's comfortable living. The purse Wintrell gave him might hold a few gold crowns, enough to start this process, but he must be frugal. If rumors were true, some black-market dealers sold unregistered firearms—dangerous contraptions prone to misfires, and dealing with them could invite severe punishment if caught. The official route, tedious though it was, offered legality and fewer risks of malfunction.
Wintrell began gathering his papers. "For now, focus on making inquiries discreetly. Tell no one of this. Mistress Halewick would not welcome the idea of a gun under her roof without cause. The Overlords send inspectors sometimes. We must keep everything aboveboard. Understood?"
"Understood," Merlin said. He thought of Mistress Halewick's stern gaze, how she insisted on propriety. Guns were no rarity in Storshallow, but most who carried them openly were city guards, guild enforcers, or licensed messengers guarding valuable parcels. A mere boarding house assistant carrying a firearm might raise eyebrows.
After their talk, Merlin made his way downstairs. The routine tasks of the day beckoned: delivering a note for Wintrell to a scribe at the library district, fetching fresh candles from a nearby vendor, and helping Annabelle rearrange guests' laundry. Yet beneath each ordinary action lay the knowledge that he would soon seek a firearm instructor. He'd have to ask discreet questions among the craftsman's guild: maybe a friendly tinker, or a blacksmith's apprentice, might hint at where a reliable teacher could be found.
While stepping out to run errands, Merlin passed along the boarding house's front stoop. The city greeted him with its usual symphony: mechanical carriages humming along the main road, children playing chase around a lamppost, a street vendor hawking hot chestnut pastries. This was a city where both wonders and terrors coexisted—steam-driven contraptions, whispered legends of lost gods, and now, the looming threat of whoever tried to claim or destroy that palimpsest.
He paused at a public notice board near the corner bakery. Paper announcements fluttered in the breeze: one advertised a fencing instructor's services, another sought apprentices for a runic foundry. Buried among them, Merlin spotted a small printed card, yellowed at the edges: "Retired Watchman offers private lessons in marksmanship. Discreet. Inquire at the sign of the Red Lantern, three alleys down from the clockmaker's tower." Perfect. He had a lead. He memorized the location and moved on, careful not to linger.
The city's regulations on firearms had their reasons. Long ago, Storshallow experienced riots sparked by artifact smuggling. The Overlords responded by tightening their grip on all weapons. That was part of life here: to hold power, or even the means to defend oneself, required navigating officialdom and tradition. And as Merlin made his rounds—purchasing candles with two copper marks, bartering with a parchment vendor who accepted a silver crescent for a small stack of quality sheets—he felt the weight of the purse in his pocket. Money might not buy him knowledge of cosmic truths, but it could secure survival tools in a city that shielded its secrets behind risk and red tape.
When Merlin returned to the boarding house at midday, Annabelle served a light lunch of vegetable broth and bread, her hazel eyes flicking over him with gentle concern. He realized he must maintain an untroubled mien. The last thing he wanted was to involve the other staff in these affairs. He thanked her warmly, took his bowl, and ate quietly in a corner.
Betram, the handyman, grumbled about a rusted hinge upstairs, ignorant of the turmoil beneath the boarding house's calm façade. The merchant guest, Davren, hummed a tune over a mug of spiced tea, engrossed in his own affairs. Mistress Halewick supervised quietly, missing nothing out of place.
Merlin folded the cloth napkin carefully when he finished. The world around him remained stable and ordinary. Yet, he knew that when night fell again and Wintrell consulted his notes from the palimpsest, the wheels of fate would turn. Perhaps, by then, Merlin would have arranged to meet this retired watchman. He would learn to handle a weapon—a strange skill for a reincarnated man who once took safety for granted in another world.
Stepping away from the dining area, Merlin reminded himself: he was no hero, just a careful player in a dangerous game. Knowledge was power, but so was the ability to defend oneself. In Storshallow, to seek the hidden truths of gods and artifacts meant risking one's life. And so, as the afternoon sun slanted through stained-glass panes, Merlin embraced this new responsibility. He would find a way to obtain a pistol and learn its use—all without jeopardizing his fragile standing or provoking the city's watchful eye.
This was the cost of caution, in a place where knowledge and shadowy enemies danced too close for comfort.