The Grand Capital (Part III)

Our walk is not much better than our carriage ride — silence punctuated by feeble attempts at conversation. The awkwardness is only compounded by the sound of so many pedestrians engaged in lively talk about things as benign as the weather, and I cannot help the sinking dread that comes when my mind imagines a life as the boy's wife, where every morning can't be much different. We have just finished our second circuit of the park when Arthur stops in his paces beside me, the coachman holding our small belongings nearly slamming into his back. "Monsieur?" he says. "Do you require something to drink—?"

"I'm really sorry about my father," Arthur blurts. "I didn't expect him to pick a fight in front of everyone like that. That must've been so uncomfortable for you."

The coachman withdraws his proferred flask, his already irritated expression becoming something that verges on hostile. I wave the man away and mutter an apology that I hope he doesn't hear. "It was Monsieur Kaplan who started the fight," I tell Arthur. "You shouldn't apologise for faults that aren't yours."

"No, I… I do. This… It happens all the time when Father's with me. He's not usually so high-strung in public, it's just…"

"He feels protective of you."

"… Yes. I think so."

"That must be difficult." My expression softens. "I'm sorry that he doesn't consider your feelings as much."

"Is that…? Are you perhaps making a joke, Madame?"

"No…? Why would you assume that?"

"… It's nothing. I'm just… not used to people saying that, I think. Thank you very much for your understanding, Madame."

I take a step back and consider his face, which he is once again hiding from me beneath a polite bow. "Monsieur?"

"Yes?"

"We've been walking in circles around this park for nearly half an hour now."

"I… Has it really been so long? Time truly does fly by when you're in good company—"

"None of that. I don't like spending my days on idle walks any more than the next legless dame, but it does help acclimate me to the magic of my prosthetics… I just… thought to ask what you might prefer to be doing with this time instead."

"Erm, me? Why would you ask that?"

"Because I don't know much about you and would like to start." I give him a wry smile. "Your father is keen enough to put us in each other's company that I think it's a worthwhile investment to learn, at least, how we each prefer to spend our respective afternoons."

"I… don't know if…" He swallows his fear and finally meets my eyes. "No, I'd love to show you. I'm just… afraid that you'll think poorly of me for it."

"I have known far worse men than you, Monsieur. You have little to worry yourself over."

"Alright… Alright." He straightens himself and stares off at the direction of a nearby boulevard. "Then would you mind accompanying me on a small errand of mine, Madame? It might offer you that glimpse into my interests which you seem to desire."

I grin at him in fondness, and the three of us set off for a destination that only he seems to know, and we are several turns in when another question occurs to me: "Do you ever miss Artigny, Monsieur? I know that you remained here for a few years after graduation."

"I don't." He gives a shy laugh. "I would have studied abroad if I were given the chance. Aldshire was my mother's first choice."

"Your mother was Wreathlander, yes?"

"In many ways, she still is." Arthur's eyes gloss over as he stares at the uniform windows lining the road. "I've always wanted to visit, but… I just never had a good reason to. It looks so different from Artigny in all the photos."

"That's a shame."

"It's life." He stops before a rather nondescript store and instructs the coachman to hold the door open for me. "After you, Madame."

"Monsieur—" The coachman perks up as he glances inside. "Forgive me if I am mistaken, but is this not—?"

"A gunsmith's." I cannot help the laugh that escapes me. "What a… striking window into my own past, this is. I would not have pegged you as one so bloodthirsty, Monsieur." Arthur beams at my words for a reason I don't understand.

"Must not be a very good shop," the coachman mutters, "if he can't attract a single customer besides us."

"It's not usually so quiet here," Arthur steps inside, "and don't let Etienne hear what you just told me. He's quite sensitive about that sort of thing."

"My ears are also quite sensitive, Monsieur," comes a booming voice from deeper inside that makes Arthur flinch. "If you are quite done gossiping, close the door lest the mosquitoes take it as an open invitation for lunch."

The interior of the shop is as stark and uniform as its façade, and were it not for the model firearms being displayed upon the walls, you might have mistaken it for a hospital room — one that is at least upfront about its closeness with death. The proprietor Etienne hobbles over from his spot behind a counter and wastes no time presenting Arthur his wares, but the boy simply waves it off: "I need a replacement for the last pistol I bought."

"Ah." Etienne winces. "Broke already, did it? I tried to warn you that nobody buys that model anymore, 'cept for the smugglers and the brigands."

"No, I erm, I lost it. In a river. When it misfired…"

"Then let's hope the ducks don't accidentally blow their heads off with it, eh?" The balding man guffaws to himself as he digs around behind the counter again. "So who's the lady? One of your fraternist friends?"

"Etienne."

"What? Not every day that one walks into my store and looks like she's just come home." He gives me an appraising look before something seems to click in his mind, and his eyes widen. "Madame Desvaux, I believe? Are you here to buy, or are you here on behalf of your brothers?"

"Erm, her… brothers?" Arthur asks.

"Pierre and Emil run a firearms manufacturing operation," I tell my companion. "Wouldn't have expected someone from the middle of the city to have heard of them, though. Did those two give you any trouble, Monsieur Etienne? Tried to force some subpar goods on you?"

"In fact they did." Etienne laughs again. "I have to assume you're here in a personal capacity then."

"I am."

"Then you're going to love this." He shakes Arthur by the shoulder. "Your friend here recently purchased one of their arms and fell in love with it."

I quirk an eyebrow at Arthur, whose face is frozen with embarrassment. "I find it hard to believe that anyone would willingly purchase one of those death-traps," I say.

"It's the branding that they're good at." Etienne slaps a flimsy-looking, overly-decorated pistol on the counter before me. "Just take a closer look and you'll see what I mean."

I don't have to because I find the offending feature immediately. "Manufacture d'Armes de Dame Blanche," I read the macaron stamped into the handle. "Mle 1870— They're calling it the Dame Blanche? What is this?"

"Guessing you haven't heard. They renamed their arsenal."

"After me?"

"Well I mean, you're family. Hardly the most surprising business decision."

"They hate associating with me, though." I snap my eyes to Arthur's. "You bought this because it was—?"

"It was affordable!" he defends himself.

"There's always someone willing to buy their stock." Etienne yawns as he rummages through some more drawers and produces even cruder copies of the same gun. "I always try to warn them, but I reckon they think I've just got a grudge or something."

"Good Lord… Kaplan was right that price wins over quality, I suppose. How long since they changed the name?"

"A year, year-and-a-half?"

"Erm, Madame," Arthur tries to cut in. "I can buy a different gun if you would—?"

"I'll pick out a better one for you." I turn back to Etienne. "I've had a nice go of the Ostojski Azylia, 1868?"

"Got it in the back." Etienne nods approvingly. "Cash or credit?"

"How…" Arthur gulps. "How much for it?"

"Seventy."

"Seventy?!"

"It's cheaper than you'll find anywhere else."

"Madame, I…" Arthur gives me a nervous smile. "I don't know if I'm willing to commit so much of my funds to a, ahh…"

"It's a good pistol."

"I— I have no doubt about that! It's just…"

I narrow my eyes at the shoddy gun in my hands. "How much are my brothers selling this for?"

"Twelve on average," Etienne says. "I price it at ten to be safe."

"Ten…" I return the pistol to him. "Can you afford one priced at… eighteen, Monsieur Arthur? Assuming Etienne here stocks a Lyulkovi 1859 at market price."

"Just so happens I do." Etienne scratches his chin. "It's a bit on the dustier side so I'll give it to you for fifteen."

"… That is acceptable." Arthur squares his jaw. "I shall take good care of it."