For an old codger he's not 'alf bad (part 1)

Alice, as well as the two rescuees, kept a low profile for the rest of the week while we tried to sort out our next move. Arthur was hard at work making the first prototype of the revolver, with Eleanor spending even more of her time smithing to develop the metal implements necessary, so I had had little to do except keep an eye on the church’s investigators.

As I had expected, the priest was not convinced of Arthur’s innocence, and I caught him snooping near the Amaranthus shop on several occasions. However, from eavesdropping on their conversations, I had found that the goons following the priest around didn’t share his mistrust, and all seemed to have decided Arthur innocent in their minds. Though I knew we were still in a precarious position, it was relieving to have some more breathing room.

Outside of spying on the investigators, the only thing he really had to spend my time in was working in Eleanor’s shop to give her more time to focus on the actual smithing aspect of her job. I had hoped it would speed up the development of the first of the guns, but what I didn’t expect was for the combined efforts of Eleanor and Arthur to get the first one finished before the week was out.

“You… finished the first one already?” I asked incredulously.

“Aye, my lad, þough I cannot attest to its effectiveness. It be’þ þe very ferst of it’s kind, and þe werk ys not my best, so I can make no garantees þat it functioneþ as þou hopest,” Arthur replied.

“You ain't tested it yet?”

“As þe one who broutt þe desyn to me, I þautt it fitting þat þou shouldst have þe ferst chance to fyre it. And consider also, myne old bones may be resilient enuff for handiwerk, but to control a hand cannon is someþing else entyrely.”

“Ah- yeah, that’s prob'ly for the best actually.”

Arthur and I were on the way from Eleanor’s shop to his own, after he came to summon me towards the end of the day on Golday, this world's equivalent to Friday. I knew Eleanor’s craftsmanship was top-notch, and she’d stated that Arthur was even better, but even so, to complete the invention of a brand new weapon in less than a week was, to put it bluntly, utterly bonkers. I wasn’t sure if they were both simply workaholics or actually superhuman.

Though, having spent some time with both of them as of late, I was beginning to suspect the answer was ‘both.’

Dusk had started to fall, and the streets were emptier than I had come to expect. Apparently a lot of workers took Golday afternoon’s off, causing most shops to close early and the streets to vacate long before the end of the day. I can’t say I wasn’t a tad bitter that world stuck in the pre-industrial she had a standard two-and-half-day weekend while Earth was still stuck with a measly two. For a country that still practiced slavery it was ironically quite worker-friendly in a lot of ways. Y’know, so long as those workers were seen as people. An unfortunate distinction to have to make, but all too important in a place like this.

“þe weapon is lyke to be laud, and þe streets be'þ kwyet, so we will have to move to a place kwyte a bit more secluded to test it,” Arthur said in a hushed tone.

“How far was you thinkin'?”

“Half an aur's walk, þough perhaps a tad longer wiþ bones as old as myne.”

I had hoped to get back to the inn to keep Alice company this evening, but this unfortunately had to take precedent. The trial of this world's very first repeating gun. A potential gamechanger to all of warfare.

We arrived at the Amaranthus premises not long later, and Arthur beckoned me over to his workshop, where a work of art was sat. Considering it had been made in just five days, the revolver sat on the workbench was a thing of beauty. A wooden handle with a black leather grip, attached to a metal frame that had clearly been delicately assembled out of a great many parts. It was evidently a work that had been made with blood, sweat and tears from both Eleanor and Arthur, and it finally sat there before me in it’s finished form.

An eight-round revolver, almost too big to be considered a handgun, and crafted with the touch of a master.

“Take it in hand, boy. Tell me hau it feeleþ to hold,” Arthur urged. I wordlessly did as he said, wrapping my left hand around the handle, the leather grip serving to make it feel comfortable against my palm. It was heavy, but not so unwieldy. Checking that it was as-yet unloaded, I put my thumb to the hammer and slowly drew it back. It didn’t feel stiff or clunky, and the hammer was perfectly within my thumb’s reach. In fact, everything about the gun felt like it was made for me specifically.

“It’s a perfect fit,” I muttered to myself.

“It appeareþ almost nachral in þy hand, doþ it not? As if 'twere an ekstenshon of þyself. But let us not dillydally here, ‘tis all well and good for't to look pretty, but we must enshure it be'þ in working order, must we not?”

“R-right, yeah, let’s get moving.” For a moment there I was so impressed with the craftsmanship that I forgot I’m actually supposed to use the bloody thing instead of using it as an art installation.

I put the revolver, plus eight rudimentary-looking bullets, into my inside pocket and followed Arthur out of the shop