A few days later, Martin bid his goodbyes to his team at the dockyards and made his way to a slightly less familiar side of town. Two days prior, one of Jacques’ faceless boys had appeared before Martin on his way home to give him directions to a shooting gallery in the military quarter of the city. The military quarter was on the opposite side of Alderbridge, sitting between the royal quarter and the church quarter, and comprised a large private bay used for the royal navy, training grounds, headquarters and barracks, and various recreational facilities and shops marketed toward her majesty’s armed servants. While not against the law for common folk to enter that part of town, it was rarely done unless escorted by someone currently enlisted, for fear of stumbling upon drunken soldiers or just some enlisted man who had been cooped up too long and looking for a fight.

  Martin, as a former sailor, had sufficient background to wander around the quarter on his own. His training with Jacques had covered the basics of enlistment and given him a plethora of facts and stories he could rely on. Some faceless man had even infiltrated the Navy records to verify where Martin had served and under which captain and officers. Jacques had drilled him on the facts until he could spit them out effortlessly, as if they were really men he had spent years serving under. Still, there were far too many variables for Martin’s liking. If he bumped into a random enlisted sailor he had served with and failed to recognize him, it would be too easy for his cover to be blown. As such, he had avoided the military quarter just to avoid any unexpected complications.

  As he entered the area for the first time since assuming Martin’s form, he kept his head slightly down and covered with a broad hat. His eyes kept constantly moving, looking for anyone giving him more than a casual glance while at the same time trying to keep to himself, occasionally crossing the street to avoid walking through groups of soldiers or other passersby. Soon enough, he arrived in front of an unassuming shooting gallery. A weathered sign above the door read “Manton and Sons Shooting Gallery and School.” The occasional sound of pistol fire that could be heard from the street dispelled any lingering doubt as to what the building was.

  When he entered, he found Jacques standing next to an elderly man with a mane of curly grey hair. He leaned on a cane as he talked animatedly with Jacques. Jacques caught sight of Martin as he entered and waved him over.

  “Well met, Martin. I’d like you to meet Mr. George Manton. Mr. Manton is a retired army officer and the owner of this establishment, and has kindly agreed to teach you the art of firearms.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir, and my thanks in advance,” Martin said respectfully.

  George gave him a nod of agreement, seemingly happy with Martin’s tone. “Good. Respectful. That’s the kind of attitude that makes a good student, something Jacques assures me that you are.”

  Martin gave Jacques a glance.

  “George doesn’t take many students these days,” Jacques said by way of explanation. “He’s also got a bit of a bias against Navy men, it seems.”

  “Not a bias,” George protested, “a measured opinion regarding the efficiency of their shooting methods.”

  “Well, the training they gave me certainly didn’t seem to stick. I’m hoping to start over under a proper teacher.” Martin said, hoping to get in front of any trouble George might be bringing against him.

  “Good. Less to unlearn. Let’s come now, I’m not getting any younger. If we wait any longer, my left eye may go completely blind.” George let out a laugh as he said the last bit and started to shuffle towards a staircase. “Junior, watch the front. I’ll be trying to teach a Navy lad to shoot.”

  A young boy so small that he looked like he would be launched off his feet if he fired a gun poked his head out from behind the counter. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good boy.”

  Martin and Jacques followed dutifully behind George, who took the stairs as fast as his weak leg and cane would allow.

  The gallery consisted of a lobby where members could check in as well as purchase gunpowder, bullets, and other necessary supplies. Past the lobby was a large locker room for members to change and store their belongings while they were on the range. There was only one locker room for men, as ladies were strictly forbidden in George’s establishment. With the Virgin Queen reigning as long as she had, some deep-seated prejudices were slowly fading, but women were still, by and large, prohibited from sport shooting. Continuing past the locker room would lead to the large communal shooting gallery, where most members would practice. However, George led the two of them up to the second floor, where the gallery was divided into five individual practice ranges. Each was separated from the other by thick walls and could be closed off to prying eyes by a locked door.

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  In the room was a long range with a human-shaped target. The floor was marked with lines at fixed intervals. On a folding table near the door sat an ornate box.

  “Ah damn, my boy forgot the ammunition. I’ll go grab it. You take a look at the box and start familiarizing yourself with your weapon.”

  Martin went over to the table and opened the lid of the ornate box. Inside, he found a pair of single-shot pistols, as well as the various tools needed for the maintenance of the gun. There were also tools for casting and molding bullets.

  When George had shuffled out of earshot, Martin whispered to Jacques, “Dueling pistols? I thought I was going to learn how to use a revolver like that woman used.”

  “In due time. George was one of the best duelists in the city back in his day, so that’s what he’s best equipped to teach. Besides, I still have some of our people looking over that woman’s revolver. There’s more to it than meets the eye, and I won’t hand it over to you until I’m satisfied it’s something you can handle. Now focus on that pistol and make sure it’s ready to fire by the time George hobbles back in here.”

  “Don’t worry about me, but you best be careful not to use that kind of word when he’s in earshot or he’ll have you stand down range from me.”

  George returned shortly and, with another “good,” showed his approval of Martin’s setup of the dueling pistol. He launched into an explanation of the dueling culture in Alderbridge. The one in Martin’s hand was an older model, with a slightly rifled barrel. Dueling pistols in Alderbridge commonly were smooth-bored, ostensibly to allow for the True Creator’s hand in the duel, but George put it down to simple cowardice. Continental duelists, he claimed, still used more accurate rifled pistols.

  Rather than starting with aiming as Martin had hoped, George’s first actual instruction to Martin had to do with the formality of the duel, inspecting the other duelist’s firearm, taking their positions, and walking an agreed-upon number of paces, usually between ten and twenty, before turning to take their shots. Throughout, Martin was silently asking himself if any cosmic opponent would take the time to arrange a formal duel, but seeing as Jacques did nothing but watch on silently, only taking a sip of a concealed flask when he thought no one was looking, Martin had no room to object.

  Finally, after nearly thirty minutes of lecture and rehearsal of the steps, plus being handed a written copy of Alderbridge’s standard dueling rules and swearing to memorize them, Martin was at last allowed to pick up a firearm.

  George walked Martin through loading the percussion cap pistol, taking aim, and firing.

  “To start with, aim for the heart. The head is a tempting target, but the body is a bigger target. Even if you miss, you’re still more likely to hit something.”

  Martin took aim, steadying his breathing, and fired.

  The shot clipped the outline of the head, sending a sliver of wood flying.

  “Well,” George said, “At least you hit something.” Jacques laughed as Martin muttered a curse. “Don’t mind. That’s not bad shooting for a Navy lad.”

  The old man hobbled over and made some adjustments to Martin’s form, placing his hands on his hips as he guided him through rotating and aiming again and again. Jacques called out the occasional joke or sarcastic remark throughout. Martin found George’s manner of correction somewhat abrasive, but it seemed to work. After another couple of rounds, Martin was able to comfortably place a round into the chest of the target, which was beginning to look more and more decrepit after each volley. George called an end to the day’s session when the target looked as if it would break apart with just one more shot.

  He let Martin go with a final lecture about the glory and danger of dueling. The pistol was Manton property, so Martin carefully cleaned the piece and returned it to its case. Martin did George the favor of carrying it down the stairs to the front desk—he couldn’t shake the feeling his son would fall over if left to carry it by himself.

  As Martin left Manton and Sons with Jacques, they passed a group of former sailors. It was starting to get into the late evening now, but they had started their night early and were now quite drunk. Martin and Jacques smoothly crossed the street to avoid bumping into them and quickly forgot about them. Neither man noticed that one of the men stopped and looked back.

  “Martin,” he growled.

  The man’s drunkenness quickly disappeared, and his fist clenched around the bottle he held. His one good one remained fixed on Martin’s retreating back. The other, long damaged, looked out into the distance, lost in a memory the Faceless Man would soon come to learn about all too well.