"Sanctioning another dungeon in Northridge? That will leave them with"—pausing to check his paperwork, Lord Constance found what he wanted—"two. Correct?"
"Evidence packet two-A details the dungeons currently active in the area. Eliminating the rot goblin dungeon will leave them with three. Evidence packet three-A are the active accounts for the city, which show it supporting and growing simply from the two primary dungeons that have agreed to assist."
Glancing over the packets and seeming to judge them simply by weight, Constance looked at Brevity. She looked entirely too ready to pounce—like a kitten with a ball of unsuspecting yarn. "Spit it out, Brevity. Don't make me ask stupid questions if you have answers."
"A dungeon destroyed by another dungeon seems to regrow after a one-year delay. The gnoll dungeon listed in two-A is new. At the time of my inspection, it had one floor and only a handful of minions. With this fact, I estimate there is a high chance that sanctioning the rot dungeon, using the dragon dungeon's resources, will result in another dungeon appearing in a year."
"Verified with your own eyes, of course?" At Brevity's nod, Constance hummed. "That changes much. I would turn down a sanction for any city to reduce them to one dungeon. I would generally deny any to reduce them to two—but this will leave them with three, and the chance of a fourth growing."
The look he gave her spoke volumes. Brevity's career as a person of note and honor would be completely lost to her if she were lying about having seen the gnoll dungeon. "The facts I have witnessed are in those—"
"I trust your word, Brevity Delling. You have a fascinating client. Now, there was another matter you wanted me to look at?" As he spoke, Constance placed his mark on the paperwork legitimizing the sanctioning of the goblin dungeon.
"That was taken care of by a fortuitous meeting with the Prince." Slipping her copy of the paperwork into her case, Brevity couldn't help but smile to herself. "Thank you again, Lord Constance."
"I am merely the vessel dispensing the rule of law. You provided every scrap of information I required to carry out my duty. Did you really speak to a dungeon?" The last Constance asked without any air of authority—just a curious ex-adventurer.
"At first I needed an interpreter. Travis has since gained the ability to directly speak to anyone he has a presence with. He sounds like a young man struggling to keep all his friends safe and strengthen his rights. Which is something I do need to talk to you about. He seeks to be considered as a person within the kingdom." Brevity waited to get a surprised look from Constance, but it never came. "You think it will be hard?"
"Brevity, I believe it would be impossible without a royal exemption. Given your recent connection, that may not be too far a leap. If I were in your shoes, I would attempt to strengthen that connection." Rising, it was all Lord Constance's voice that came through, "That is my full opinion as both your professional colleague, and a lord of the court."
----------------------------------------
Stewart Gallant shifted in his seat again. It wasn't that he disliked trains specifically. He had things to do and the train would get him where he needed to do them, but the time spent waiting for it to get there was agonizing.
His company, though, was absolutely intriguing. The half-elven lawyer had a fascinating history of hard work to keep the gears of the law courts grinding, and his information spoke of many successes in her career.
The other was a complete enigma. A problem that his mind was finding itself distracted with. Elanor, formerly Elanor Fitzgerald, was a composed young woman that seemed to have a core of iron within her. She was armed, he had to admit, to the teeth. The guns she carried looked fantastical to him, and her hand practically jumped to the handle of the one on her left hip whenever she got startled. "May I look at your gun?"
"Huh? I mean, of course." Carefully drawing her revolver, Elanor thought a moment before pulling the retaining pin, swinging out the cylinder, and emptying it of rounds. "Here," she said, locking the cylinder back in and passing it over.
Almost dropping the gun while staring at the steel-cased bullets, Stewart could appreciate that she'd rendered an unusual weapon safe before handing it to him. "You don't have to load it from the barrel?"
"No. These are what Mr. Tinpot, our gunsmith, calls steel-cased rounds. They use a pressure sensitive runestone inside that detonates when the hammer of the gun strikes the back of the case."
"They're disposable?"
"No. The runestone used is a repeating one, but not so fast that it would cause a double explosion." Holding out one of the rounds, Elanor watched the man look carefully over it. "That red-tip means it has a little blob of gold as the bullet, that holds a tiny pin of adamantine."
It was stunning. The exotic materials involved, along with the knowledge to assemble them, would make every single bullet cost in the order of fifty gold—if it weren't already priceless. "And the yellow one there?"
This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
"It has a second runestone, not as sensitive as the propelling one, that acts as the bullet. When it hits a target and stops—that's when it will go off." Passing over one of the explosive rounds, making sure the bullet was not aimed toward the man, Elanor showed him the runestone markings. "My patron has an expert wizard working for him."
"I find myself regretting not spending more time in Northridge, specifically its dungeons. Who did you say your patron was?"
"Mr. Travis. He's the dragon dungeon in Northridge."
It was both nonsensical and explained much. He looked at Elanor with renewed interest. "You are a pledged minion of the dungeon?"
"No. He has a way to talk to anyone in the city now, sort of. He complains about it not letting him just talk to anyone, because he has to be focused on them first, but I think that he can talk at all is a relief to him. Could you imagine how it would be, stuck in one location and only able to talk with a few select people?" Turning her head from the bullets she'd been contemplating in her hand, Elanor looked up at Stewart and felt a thud that had nothing to do with the train they were riding.
Her eyes, Stewart noticed, were intense and focused, and seemed like they were scanning his face and measuring him for something. He gulped. "How long does it take to reload?" he asked, trying to find a safe topic for a prince to talk to a young now-common woman.
The metaphorical spell broken, Elanor let out a sigh. "Too long. I can fire six shots faster than it takes you to count to ten, but then…" She held out her hand for the gun and round she'd passed him. When she got them back, she put bullets in all the chambers and closed it.
Elanor popped the gun open again and started the laborious task of removing what would be six empty cartridges, then loading them back in one by one. When she was done, she spun the barrel and sighed. "I don't do that if there is a seventh target."
Intrigued, Stewart asked, "What would you do?"
"Draw a weapon and the small shield hidden on my back." Elanor had the pleasure of seeing Stewart laugh. Raising a hand to her chest, she balled it into a fist and punched the armor beneath. "Another of Travis' artisans made me some specialized armor. It will stop an edged weapon and bullet well enough, though I don't wish to test it with any of the red bullets I carry."
"You're wearing adamantine armor?" Now it was shock that overcame Stewart.
"In a manner, yes. There is a heavy cloth behind it on most of my torso, but there are thin plates of adamantine with a mesh of very fine wire holding it all together. It's light enough I don't feel like I'm wearing a breastplate, but resistant enough to allow me to fight to the end."
The vehemence intrigued Stewart. From what he'd gathered, Elanor had only had no more than a month or two of training in Northridge, but she spoke as if combat and death were everyday things. "You're that loyal to the dungeon?"
"Mr. Travis, yes." Elanor was slightly upset at Travis being referred to as simply the dungeon, and sought to put that right. "No one wanted to give me work or take me in because of what my fam—my former family had set me up to do. Mr. Travis gave me equipment, gave me a purpose, and paid for my training."
"I'm curious about your training."
"Travis wrangled his system to make me a priest of the dungeon, which lets me calm and inspire his minions and, because I am not one of his minions myself, I can get experience from them and he gains experience when I die trying to complete one of his mini dungeons. He provides me with talismans, of course." Unconsciously, Elanor ran her tongue along the inside of her mouth searching for missing teeth that weren't, of course, missing.
"Oh." Priest could mean a lot of things to a lot of people, Stewart knew, but some had specific ideas about what priesting entailed. "So the dungeon creatures you said you're traveling with…?"
"Are part of my party. We know each other's tactics, and they become stronger by fighting at my side. There are two bloodied wolves, a cave scorpion, and a wyvern. Bite, Bark, Snipsnap, and Ripper respectively. Ripper has been flying above the train, taking only brief naps. She really needs some rest soon, though."
"We'll be in Hearthhome in several days. I will use my authority to allow you to have your minions free of their confines and let your wyvern rest. Please don't make me regret that." The names were descriptive, Stewart was sure, but Elanor being their master while away from their dungeon was another curiosity.
Looking out the window, Stewart watched a marker rush past. He knew how to read their distance measures, and how fast the train could cover the distance they stated. They would be aboard the train for three days. He couldn't help but smile a little, given the stimulating company he shared the ride with.
----------------------------------------
[a brave young priestess' journal]
Well, Miss Journal, we are on our way home again. I am no longer my family's child, nor am I their political toy. I have a piece of paper signed by a prince! A [blotched word] prince. Sorry for that. I shouldn't say such things, even to you Miss Journal.
He was very interested in my gun. He had a pistol as well, but his was a simple, single-barrel one.
I'm nobody's fool, Miss Journal. He looks at me the way I've seen men look at women before. I find myself looking back. He's the crown prince, Miss Journal. I can't feel those kinds of things for him now I'm not even a noble.
I wonder what he'll say when he sees Snipsnap? Of all my friends, she seems to scare people the most. I have no idea why, when she's the one most likely to go to sleep if you pet her. Most people don't put their hand out to pet her. I wonder if he will?
He seemed a little surprised I am a priestess. I don't know why he would; being a priestess is the best thing ever… I heard a little purring just now, Miss Journal. It's true, though. Knowing that the hot sands will keep me warm no matter how cold it is. Thank you, Lady Sandwalker, for allowing me to find a new home within my new home.
I should go Miss Journal. Sleep isn't far away. Miss Brevity is already asleep in her chair. I might get up and fetch Snipsnap from our wagon; she doesn't like the cold very much, and if I pray to Sandwalker, she will let me heat my friend up.
Available at: https://www.royalroad.com/profile/220350/fictions
This story is released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. If you are paying money to see this or the original creator, Damaged, is not credited, you are viewing a plagiarized copy of the story.