The rooms were small, and none too clean, but boasted actual beds and a tiny window each. Two of them even had doors, though neither locked. Storm took one of these with the little birds, Belius the next. Into the first of the open rooms, the corporal was carried, raving now about wolves and beets and ogres and statues.

The wolves were supposed to take the last room, but the white followed the corporal’s litter and the old grey announced his intention to find a stable for the horses. Storm ordered three troopers to accompany him in the event that the ogre had had friends. The bunch of them were well gone before he thought to wonder how the old wolf was going to handle the bargaining.

Belius was hard at work when Storm came in, surprised to see Keeli the girl huddled beside the bed instead of Keeli the wolf. She was holding a cold rag against the corporal’s forehead, a look of utmost worry upon her pale face.

“He did it,” she explained, pointing to the mage. “So I can help with Luka. See?” She pointed to a small aperture suspended in the air through which poured bright sunlight.

“Simple trick, really,” the mage was distracted. “Modified communication spell, actually. Ah,” he leaned back and looked up at The Tairn, “I don’t suppose you’d want to handle this? It’s a fairly long and difficult spell, all things considered, particularly with the sort of equipment and components I have to hand. You might find it easier to do than to watch.”

“The only thing I’d be able to do for him would be to watch him die,” Storm shook his head. “I’m a fair field medic and I know some herbs, but with wounds like that and without a med lab, I might as well be a supply clerk.”

“But the wagons...?”

“Wagons? What about them?”

“The wagons. You... I.... No, never mind. I’ll see to the wound.”

Shaking his head, Storm retreated, looking for his little birds. Then he thought better of it. The way they’d been looking so wide-eyed since entering the station, he surmised they knew as much about the place as he did. Besides, what he needed now were supplies and a map, not to mention weapons more suited to his current requirements. They weren’t likely to be much help there.

There was no sign of either the trader or the troopers out in the street, nor were there any notable commotions anywhere around to mark their location. Small favors. Looking up and down the shadowed street, dark even in early afternoon, Storm chose left arbitrarily.

He had a rough idea of what he was looking for, and, thanks to Koli’s having ignored his idiotic order to destroy the slave master’s gold, possibly sufficient funds to procure at least a decent portion of it. He even had a vague notion of how much money he was holding thanks to a quick lesson as the trader was chewing on his ear over throwing needed resources away.

As to its purchasing power, he was somewhat less informed. Couldn’t be helped.

There was no boardwalk. Hell, there was no order. Whomever had showed up had built wherever they’d felt lucky, and the street was only a street by virtue of the worn ruts of countless hooves or feet. No single language populated the signs hanging from the buildings, although each had a picture of some sort carved in it. At a guess, he passed another inn, three taverns, a magic supply house, three armorers, and what was either a veterinary clinic or pan-species whorehouse before he spied a sign that might interest him.

The proprietor was a human woman, he thought at first, or possibly a human man. Maybe some sort of troll. There was no obvious way to tell and he didn’t want to look too close. “I’ll need some rough use clothes that fit,” he told it. "And something warm enough for the coming winter. Oh, and some heavy clothing for my ladies, they’re about....”

An hour later, and considerably lighter in the purse, he stepped back into the street, clad in the fashion of the land. A woolen shirt of bright blue to match Thrush Dancing’s eyes and a long vest of dark brown leather to match the new pants that didn’t threaten him with castration at every move. He’d retained the stolen boots, for they’d shaped themselves to his feet finally. Atop his head, he wore a great slouch hat, one side of the brim pinned to the crown and a long plume the green of Swallow Courting’s eyes depending to the rear. Just like the antiquity fairs back home when he was a kid.

The little birds would have their new finery delivered before he got back if the clothier was to be believed. He still wasn’t sure how they’d feel about covering up all of that bare skin. Truth be known, he wasn’t sure how he felt about their covering up all that skin.

The next shop he ventured into was crowded and not overly lighted. He supposed that gunpowder and oil lamps didn’t mix too well. Upon the wall behind the counter hung ten or so long guns, mostly matchlocks and five or six pistols, mostly wheellocks. Upon the floor behind the counter stood an aged man with bright eyes and a halo of wispy silver hair. Eyes that narrowed the instant he caught sight of Storm’s face and the nature of the mask.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted the old man in his miserable Turaleean. “How’s business?”

“Fair ‘nough,” the oldster replied phlegmatically after a noticeable hesitation, his eyes fixed on the steel of Storm's face. “Body could complain but it wouldn’t do much good with the lot as hangs ‘round here, would it?”

“How’d you come to be here if you hate it so?” Storm tried to sound casual.

“Hah! King’s man are ye t’be askin’ so many questions?” the old man’s voice took on some heat.

“So far,” Storm held up his hands, “I’ve only asked the two. As it happens, I was a king’s man once. But that was a long, long way off, and it’s starting to be a long time ago into the bargain.”

“Aye, well don’t we all have our crosses to bear.”

So much for the friendly approach. “Alright, here it is then: I’m looking to make somebody rich and I want to make sure it’s somebody I can trust.”

“Aye, and if I had me a copper penny fer every out at the seat adventurer who wandered in that door spouting that very thing, I’d already be rich.” The old man’s face pinched even tighter.

“Point taken,” Storm acknowledged. “My problem is that, once I tell you the secret, if you’re the wrong one, I’ll be out the secret. Still...what do you know of steel?”

“Steel? I know enough.” suspicion still dominated the old face.

A flash, a swish, and the combat knife sprouted from the wood of the counter with a hard thwack. “Take a look at that and tell me I don’t hold a secret or two worth bargaining for.”

The old man had barely flinched as the knife was thrown. He must have been a hard gentleman once

At the moment, his eyes were glassy, reflecting the steel of the knife blade — steel the likes of which he’d never seen, set into a finer-grained, warmer metal he couldn’t begin to identify. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from the knife and directed it to the man with the strange face, half of which was nearly the same stuff as the knife. “This the secret?" he asked. "You gonna tell me how to make this?”

“No,” a curt shake of the head. “That secret I don’t own. The one I’m talking about will be more useful and far less costly to turn into profit.”

The old man looked again at the knife, thinking hard, then at the face with that glowing blue eye. Little enough the stranger wanted so far. Just some background, and who could blame him, really. The dregs that called the station home one couldn’t trust with a broken shovel. And if the secret were half as good as the steel....

“Very well then,” he turned from knife to man. “I was once chief armorer for his royal heinie Shelador the worst. I held that position for twenty-two years under his father and six under him, and never a complaint from anyone until young Shelador decided that, if sixty sheh was a good charge for his favorite pistol, why, two hundred must be three times as good.

"By the time the palace mage had grown him new fingers, I’d a date to become one of his stone pigeon perches. And since this station is one of the two or three places in the world I can avoid that date, here I am. Some days I almost long to be a roost, more’s the pity.”

“You wouldn’t mind if I checked the story out?”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Hah!” the old man snorted, ire up. “Check all ye will, for ‘tis no secret. Half the vermin in the station have threatened to turn me over for the reward one time or another. Only thing stopping them is the rewards upon their own foul pates.”

Storm leaned back against a powder barrel, examining the old man carefully. His life had hung, more often than not over the years, on instant decisions, and his impression of the old man was that he could trust him. He hoped he was correct, for he hadn’t seen another gunsmith in town and he was woefully short on funds.

“I’ll want you to make me some pistols and a long gun or two in exchange for the secrets I’ll be trading. And I’ll want your word that no one else will ever see the likes of them again.”

“You don’t want much, do ye?” the old man snorted.

“Nevertheless,” voice even.

“Oh, aye,” the old man rolled his eyes theatrically. He could always contest the debt if the secrets turned out bogus. “But I’ll have the secret before ye get the pistols.”

“You’ll have to,” Storm chuckled lightly, “for without the secrets, you’ll not be able to make them. But I need your most sacred word that these pistols will be the only ones of their kind, and that you’ll not use what I’ll tell you of them until I give permission, though that be years away.”

“Now what good a secret I can’t use for years?” the old man demanded.

“Oh, you’ll have plenty you can use today. Just not those.”

The old man did some hard thinking, looking the stranger over carefully for signs of mischief. There were none. “And ye won’t be wantin’ any gold?”

“Well, hey,” Storm spread his arms. “Suppose I ask for a commission on every one of them you build.” he laughed. “That make you feel better? Tell you what — once I tell you the secret, if you think it’s worth some coin, you give me some. I won’t mention a figure, but leave it to you. Same with the commission. Deal?”

“After?”

“After.”

“Aye, then, it’s a deal,” he held a powder-stained hand out to shake.

Storm took the wrist beyond the hand and shook thrice, sealing the bargain. “I’ll need some paper and a pencil— uhm... something to write with.”

“Ye’re going to write me a note?”

“I’m going to draw you some pictures.”

“Oh, aye, but I can see where that’ll be worth a whole pot o’ gold!” But he brought foolscap and a quill, rummaging behind the counter until he came up with a small jar of ink.

Storm stood for a moment with eyes closed, looking inward, accessing the large store of data recorded in the memory chip behind the mask. “Ah, there they are...DaVinci’s wheellock... snaphaunce... there.” his eyes popped open, startling the oldster somewhat, and he dipped quill to ink. “Look closely now,” he invited “This is the secret you can use right away. It’s a lock.”

“A lock?” the old man shot back. “I already make the finest locks in the land. What need have I for another?”

“Just look. See, with this one, the cock is what raises the spark, not the wheel. The spring acts directly against the cock, so you can haul it back with a thumb instead of having to wind it with a key that can get lost. As it falls, it draws sparks from this raised piece of the lid here, the frizzen, pushing it up and out of the way at the same time....”

Dubious at first, the old man’s jaw slowly sagged as Storm drew him a fairly concise diagram of a classic flintlock. By the end, he was on his feet, quivering and eager to test the thing out, for already he could see that it would work.

“—and it’ll work for pistols, rifles, or even simple fire-starters,” Storm was saying. “Even cannon,”

“Aye, me fine young lad,” the old man’s grumpiness was gone completely. “But what’s a rifle?”

Storm smiled broadly. “The next secret.” And he started telling the old gunsmith about cutting grooves into a gun barrel to impart a stabilizing spin to the projectile and how to do it, and how one could, by altering the rate of twist or number or depth of the grooves, alter the stability for different weights or calibers.

From rifling, he moved on to the better secrets, and by the time he’d finished with the secrets the old man was forbidden to use except for Storm’s own pistols, the old man was struck near dumb with joy, promising him gold, his home, his horse, even his granddaughter fresh as the driven snow and beautiful as the winter palace at solstice. Storm insisted he’d settle for the agreed upon terms.

Two turns, the old man had promised. Two turns minimum, for he’d have to build the tools to build the pieces. But he’d pressed what he claimed to be his entire and not inconsequential fortune into Storm’s hands before chasing him out the door and locking it behind, eager to be about the business of the building.

Counting the gold, Storm whistled. Good thing the secrets had been good, for the old man had, indeed already been rich. Plenty here to outfit the journey to the mountains even with the prices he’d been seeing. And speaking of which, there was another interesting shop.

The sign above the door hadn’t been recognizable, but fortunately the cartographer had had some samples displayed in his front window. Storm stood now at the counter, trying to explain what he required.

The cartographer was a manlike creature perhaps three feet tall. Well-proportioned, bearded and bespectacled, he stroked his bearded chin and puffed upon an enormous meerschaum filled with fragrant tobacco.

“Ye’re in the wrong shop.” he insisted to the tall man after he got hold of himself and recovered from the shock the steel face had given him.

“You’re a cartographer, aren’t you?” Storm asked.

“Of course I am,” the meerschaum belched smoke. “Finest in th’ land.”

Storm shrugged. “Then I’m in the right shop.”

“But this is a breelin’ shop.”

“And...?”

And...?” the breeling was taken aback. “Ye’re a man child! Hie yerself off ter th’ man child cartographer.”

Storm tilted his slouch hat back and crossed his arms, tilting his head in a way Koli would have understood perfectly. “Are they any better than you?”

“Phaugh!” the breeling flung his arms wide, the stem of the meerschaum nearly dislodging a pile of tight-wrapped scrolls from a low shelf. His jaw gaped as he struggled to take in the question. “Better is it? Than me? My maps are th’ finest in Turalee!” he shouted. “And beyond! Th’ gods themselves would be satisfied with none but my maps, had they need of maps! Those ham-handed blunderers across th’ square dream of my maps, they do, but canno’ manage even poor copies!”

Storm smiled. “Then I’m in the right shop.”

The breeling bristled, pacing back and forth. “Ye’re here to steal, then? Think ye to filch my great maps wi’out paying? Nothin’ to it, ‘e says to himself, robbing a poor old breelin’.” “I’m thinkin’ t’won’t be so easy as ye think,” he warned menacingly.

Storm shook his head in wonderment. All he’d done was walk in the door. “Look,” he held up forestalling hands. “All I’m after is a map. I want the best, and I’m willing to pay for the best. If you can’t produce....”

“Produce?” the breeling shouted. “Of course I c’n produce, ye daft bastard!”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Prob—!” the breeling smacked a palm against his forehead in consternation. “Look here, big head,” he addressed Storm from between two fingers. “Me fine establishment is a breelin’ shop, yes? Breelin’? Are ye a breelin’? No? I thought not. That is th’ problem!”

“You mean man children aren’t allowed to buy your maps?”

That stopped the old breeling. It wasn’t exactly as though man children weren’t allowed to buy his maps. Not exactly. His other hand joined the first against his face as he struggled to sort out this new situation. He spread two fingers from the new hand to peer up at the peculiar figure crowding up his shop and considered.

No man child had ever come into his shop to buy a map before, that was all. To the best of his knowledge, no man child had ever bought anything from a breeling before. Take, yes. They took what they could when they could, just as breeling raiding parties did from them. But buy? “Buy?”

Storm held up his purse and rattled the contents.

The fingers closed again and the old cartographer thought it through. Man children were smelly and clumsy and ill-mannered, but gold had no species. He puffed hard on the meerschaum two or three times and removed the hands, stepping back behind the counter. “Maybe we can talk.”

He listened carefully to the odd man’s requirements, nodding from time to time. Once the request had been fully explained, he withdrew the pipe and exhaled a long plume of smoke into the cloud that perpetually filled his shop.

“No.”

Storm was taken somewhat aback. “No?”

“Oh, tis not ter say I could’na make a map such as yer describe, merely that I’ve not made such thus far.”

“So you’ll make me one then? How much?”

“Ach, but t’isn’t the cost in gold I’d be concerned with were I you, sor,” the creature’s eyes twinkled, his animosity completely forgotten. “But the time involved. I’m a craftsman, y’see, and me name upon a map or chart means something. To do a map of the known world, well.... T’would take me five year and more afore I’d lay name to it. Perhaps ten.”

“Five year—” Storm sputtered. “How do you stay in business if it takes so long?”

“Ach,” the little man scolded. “Speak not ter yer elders in such fashion. Do I tell yer how to adventure? I’ve me apprentices making the maps I sell, fer they’re only copies of maps well established.

“The making of a new map, though, is a quest no less arduous than your seeking of treasures upon the land. I’ve to study what’s known and surmise what’s not. I’ve to draw and compare, lest one portion is to a different scale than another. Oh, aye lad, tis a fabulous quest ye’re after starting me out upon, and one I’d never thought to undertake until this moment. But it won’t be doing you any good, I’m thinkin’, as ye don’t look the type to wait so long as the twelve or fourteen years it’s likely ter take.”

Storm was scratching his head at the long tale. The little man made cartography sound exciting. “What would you suggest I do, then?”

“Ach, but yer should purchase the maps fer each area ye’ll be journeying to. What need for a great big map of all when yer can use smaller maps of each region and see that much more upon them each fer th’ larger scale?”

“How much smaller, and how many would I need?”

“Fer the whole of the known world? Have ye a stout cart, lad? Nay, I’m thinkin’ that ye’ve a destination in mind, haven’t yer? T’were myself, I’d buy the maps I’d be needin’ only, and leave the rest of the known world ter abide.”

“That would make sense if I knew my full path,” Storm allowed. “Trouble is, I’ve only the first step known to me.”

“Ach, and that’ll be as good a place to start as any I’ve known. Where are yer off to lad, and know that a cartographer is as sworn to secrecy as any priest of the gods.”

“Phenos Sirvil.”

The little man collapsed back into his chair with a whoof! scattering smoke eddies throughout the shop. “Phenos Sirvil is it? Why not one of the moons? Or the sun?” the little man gesticulated wildly with the pipe. “Know yer aught of Phenos Sirvil. Or even Phenos Dun as ye’ll have to pass through even to begin yer journey?

“Lad, yer pullin’ an old breelin’s leg, yer are, fer no man child has ever gone inter the lands of the mountain people and come back out in less than six pieces.”

Storm shrugged down at the breeling, a small grin tugging his lip. “I’m just the one for it, then, for they tell me I’m no man child that’s ever been. Now which maps will I need, and how much?”

His next destination after leaving the breeling's shop, scroll case looped over a shoulder and packed tightly with parchment charts, was one he’d have found had he not asked the gunsmith for a recommendation and directions, but it was no less important for that fact.