Chapter 137: Buying a Gun

His schedule for the week was packed tight.

On Friday, as Mr. Holland saw him out the classroom door, he mentioned in passing, "The holidays are coming up. Next week is our final private tutoring session for the term, so get your questions organized ahead of time."

Richard nodded.

His Latin tutoring had stretched from before the Cicero Cup all the way to the present, long since transitioning from competition prep into a pure expansion of rhetoric.

Mr. Holland's recent lessons no longer focused on classic speeches like "Pro Murena" or "Against Catiline".

The material had steadily advanced to Tacitus's "Annals" and Suetonius's "The Twelve Caesars".

The style had shifted from rhetoric to history, the difficulty stacking higher with each session.

This weekend was also his final tutoring job for the term. Once classes finished next week, the Christmas holidays would begin.

Tom recited the eight endings of the second declension three times in a row without a single stumble.

When Richard closed the textbook, the boy couldn't hide his smile. He stole a glance at the honeycomb-shaped cookie on the desk.

"Correct," Richard said, pushing the cookie across to him.

Tom grabbed it and stuffed it into his mouth. After a couple of chews, he mumbled a cheek-bulging, "Thank you, sir."

Charlotte stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, looking from her brother's stuffed cheeks to Richard.

She stepped aside. "Mr. Williams, may I have a word?"

Richard followed her into the small study at the end of the hall.

It was a modest room, walled on three sides by ceiling-high mahogany bookshelves. Every shelf was packed full.

Charlotte took a wax-sealed envelope from a drawer.

"This is the final payment for your tutoring fees this term."

She handed it over.

"Now that today's lesson is finished, Mother insisted on packing an extra portion of Christmas pudding for you. It's in the basket by the door."

"The pudding was her own idea. She made three large portions—two for the family, and the last one for you."

"Please thank Mrs. Dawn for me."

Richard tucked the envelope into his inner coat pocket.

Charlotte then slipped a business card out from under a stack of galley proofs.

The card was matte stock. Printed perfectly in the center, in a serif font, was a single line:

Charlotte Dawn, Editorial Assistant, Northern Literary Review.

Below that was the magazine's address and a telephone number.

Richard held the card. "You work at a magazine?"

"My mentor introduced me after I graduated. I've been there for a year and a half."

Charlotte's tone was light.

"Our magazine isn't large. Its circulation mainly covers a few northern industrial cities, along with annual subscriptions from lecturers and older professors in the Imperial Capital's classical studies circles."

"Sales aren't high, but every issue is read thoroughly."

She rested her hand on top of the proofs.

"We have a column called 'A Young Pen,' dedicated to publishing writers between the ages of fourteen and twenty-two."

Richard raised an eyebrow. "For students?"

"For anyone that age," Charlotte corrected. "Factory apprentices, new prep students, children helping on family farms... As long as the article meets the standard, we print it."

"The pay isn't high. Prose gets around eight shillings to two pounds an article. Poetry is paid by the line."

She tapped the proofs.

"But publish with us, and your name gets noticed by admissions offices at several higher institutions in the Imperial Capital."

She looked up at him.

"During the prep screening process, chief examiners often have dozens or even hundreds of candidate files piled on their desks. They only pick a dozen or so for interviews. Beyond transcripts, they look at published works."

"A short essay in a literary review makes them remember your name far better than a letter of recommendation."

Richard tucked the card into the back of his notebook.

"I'm not sure what I could even write right now."

Charlotte turned and took a thin bound booklet from a drawer.

The cover was light gray, stamped with silver lettering: Northern Literary Review: Annual Bound Edition.

"Take this and leaf through it."

She handed the booklet over.

"The articles in here all have different styles, but they share one common trait. They're authentic."

"Authentic?"

"Writing about things you have truly experienced and truly thought about."

"Our editor-in-chief has a saying: 'The youth of the north lack authenticity the least. Born beneath the smokestacks of mines and factories, they breathe it in every single day.'"

Richard took the booklet, testing its weight.

It wasn't very thick. The cover carried the distinct scent of ink peculiar to a proofing room.

"I mentioned your speech from the Cicero Cup to the editor-in-chief," Charlotte added.

"He reviewed it and agreed. If you're willing to write, he's willing to publish you. One to two thousand words—prose or a short review is fine."

Richard thought for a moment.

"How much time do I have?"

"The deadline for the first spring issue is March 15th."

Charlotte took a pencil and scribbled a date on the cover.

"If you're confident, mail the manuscript to me by the end of February. I'll look it over first and let you know if anything needs revisions."

Richard nodded.

"Thank you, Miss Dawn."

"Just call me Charlotte."

She set the pencil back on the proofs.

"You've been tutoring here for a while now. You can drop the formalities."

...

By the time Richard left the Dawn Family residence with his basket, the afternoon light was washing over the brick walls.

He dropped his things off at home, then took a twenty-minute bus ride to the freight yard.

It was as deserted as before. The stone perimeter walls were tinged blue with winter frost.

At the end of the alley, the side door to the Branch Office sat ajar.

Nearing the third-floor office, he could hear a tea kettle hissing inside.

He knocked twice on the cracked door and pushed his way in.

"Sit, sit, sit." Old Biggs didn't even look up. He was crouched under the desk, rummaging for something. "You're early today."

Richard set his satchel by a chair.

"I brought those chestnuts."

"Oh-ho, you actually brought them!" Old Biggs squeezed out from under the desk, a wide smile plastered across his round face.

"From the old man on Grafton Street?"

"Yeah."

"The large twopence bag?"

"The large twopence bag."

Richard set the greaseproof paper bag on the desk.

"You're a man of your word."

Old Biggs tossed a chestnut into his mouth. After two chews, his eyes narrowed.

"Mhm... This guy roasts them better than anyone else. He doesn't use ordinary charcoal."

"It's elm charcoal," Richard said.

"How do you know?"

"I asked."

"...You actually asked."

Old Biggs offered him a chestnut.

Richard peeled it and ate it slowly.

They sat quietly at the desk for a moment.

The chestnut carried the smoky flavor of a charcoal fire, finishing with a faint hint of sweetness from deep within the starch.

After eating for a moment, Richard cut to the chase.

"I came to buy a gun."

Old Biggs wasn't surprised. "You finally remembered."

"I've been thinking about it. I just wasn't practiced enough these last two months."

"Alright. I need to call the boss."

He reported the request to the inspector squad leader.

With authorization secured, he grabbed a key and unlocked the iron cabinet set against the wall.

Inside sat a neatly arranged row of gun cases. They varied in size, holding everything from short-barreled handguns to long-barreled revolvers.

"The Branch Office issues three models of sidearms to trainee inspectors."

He pulled three cases from the cabinet and lined them up on the desk.

"Take a look first. No need to rush."

The first case held a short-barreled revolver.

Its frame was short, with a contoured grip and a six-shot cylinder.

"The Webley Police Model, modified," Old Biggs said.

"Unlike those massive military-issue chunks of iron, this thing only weighs one pound eight ounces. Moderate recoil, effective range of twenty-five meters."

"Twenty-five meters? What is that enough for?" Richard frowned.

"It's enough to shoot a pickpocket ten meters away in an alley. It's enough to blast an evil creature coming through a door."

"Any farther than that, and you wouldn't hit your mark anyway—even if the revolver's accuracy held up."

Richard nodded. That made sense. He was just a rookie who had been shooting stationary targets for a few months.

The second case held a long-barreled handgun.

"Enfield No. 2."

"The barrel is two inches longer, giving it an effective range of thirty meters."

"The trade-off is weight—two pounds one ounce. Plus, the frame is too long to hide in a pocket."

"Wearing it in a belt holster works fine, but carrying it like that on the street draws attention."

Richard weighed it. It was significantly heavier than the Webley.

The weapon in the third case looked completely different.

Its frame was flat, designed for a magazine.

"This is new stock." Old Biggs showed a rare hint of pride.

"The Branch Office just started issuing these this year. It's a new design out of the Imperial Capital. They call it an 'automatic pistol.'"

"Automatic?"

"You fire a shot, and the gun ejects the empty casing and chambers the next round on its own."

"You don't have to cock the hammer. Just pull the trigger and you can keep shooting."

Old Biggs racked the slide to demonstrate.

"The magazine holds seven rounds. Effective range is twenty-five meters. Recoil is a fair bit lighter than a revolver's."

Richard studied the gun.

He knew what an automatic pistol was, but he was somewhat surprised to see one in the Albion Empire.

"It's brand new. There must be flaws, right?"

"Of course. The failure rate is relatively high." Old Biggs made no attempt to hide it.

"Our Branch Office issued twenty of these this year. Four have already broken down in six months. Jamming is the main issue."

"This particular one hasn't jammed yet, but nobody can guarantee it won't next month."

Richard's eyes lingered on the flat frame.

Seven rounds, consecutive fire, low recoil... For a rookie with unpolished marksmanship, every single one of those specs felt like a lifeline.

Old Biggs saw right through his hesitation.

Before Richard could speak, the chatterbox continued.

"I bet you're turning it over in your head. The automatic pistol sounds more appealing, right?"

Richard didn't deny it.

"You're young. Everyone likes new toys."

Old Biggs lifted the automatic pistol from its case and weighed it.

"But this thing's novelty is exactly its fatal flaw."

He laid the gun flat on the desk and tapped the slide.

"For daily street patrols, catching a thief, or dealing with a drunk, it works flawlessly."

"But if you ever follow a squad across a certain line and catch a glimpse of the other side of the veil..."

His tone remained breezy.

"Then this guy becomes nothing but a useless block of iron."

Richard waited for him to continue.

"The Near Shore layer interferes with machinery." Old Biggs was uncharacteristically serious.

"It's not the kind of pulse interference that just snaps your machine to a halt. This interference is subtle."

"The ether layer and the material layer sit too closely together over there. When those tiny gears, springs, and rails inside try to work, they stop following their intended tracks."

"You get a little extra slip between the parts, a little extra friction, a little bit of 'I can't put my finger on it, but it's just wrong.'"

"Is it broken? No. Does it work fine? Also no."

"The more parts a piece of gear has, and the tighter the tolerances, the worse the interference."

He gestured at the revolver with his thumb.

"A revolver is easy to manage. The structure is so simple that if you took it apart, you'd recognize every single piece. The cylinder, firing pin, trigger linkage—all running on three springs and three pins. In a place like the Near Shore, you could shoot this thing all night and it might jam once or twice at most. A quick smack gets it working again."

He pointed at the automatic pistol.

"An automatic pistol is a completely different story."

"Recoil spring, striker spring, extractor, sear, disconnector... For every single shot, a dozen internal actions have to execute flawlessly."

"If any one of them falls even slightly out of step, it jams."

Old Biggs raised his hands and mimed an explosion.

"If you're lucky, you rack the slide, clear the chamber, and try again. If you're unlucky... the chamber blows!"

"Three years ago, a senior operative went down an old northern mine shaft with a Hunter squad. One of the Hunter girls thought revolvers were too slow to reload, so she paid out of pocket for an automatic pistol even flashier than this one."

"And then?" Richard asked.

"It jammed on the second shot," Old Biggs said breezily.

"She was running when it jammed. She didn't bother to check it and just squeezed the trigger again."

He tapped his own right wrist. "Her right thumb and half her palm—gone."

Richard looked down at the automatic pistol.

Old Biggs treated the grisly story like casual bar talk, biting into another chestnut.

"So you see: complex machinery, the Near Shore, and a rookie. Put those three together, and it never ends well."

"There's an old saying in our line of work: 'Behind the veil, the simpler a thing is, the longer it lives.'"

"Blades live the longest, which is why Hunters still use them to this day. Next come crossbows, single-shot matchlocks, and flintlocks, and only after those come revolvers."

"Automatic pistols, machine guns, repeating rifles... Those things are meant for the world beneath the sun."

Richard's fingertips lingered on the Webley's grip.

But Old Biggs clearly had no intention of letting the subject rest there.

He picked up the teapot, refilled his cup, and poured a little more into Richard's.

"Speaking of which, I've got a bit more to say."

Richard smiled wryly. The man hadn't stopped talking to begin with.