Martin hurried through the streets toward the Military Quarter. He wasn’t in any danger, but word had finally come to him from Jacques that his men had made progress on researching the servant of the beautiful goddess’ revolver. He was to meet Jacques in front of Manton and Sons and escort him to a specialist. Jacques had brought him to numerous specialists in the mundane, like stevedores, sailors, and now duelists, but this was the first time he was going to meet an expert in the occult.

  However, he found himself stopped a few blocks short. A man who seemed to be waiting at the intersection stepped in front of him suddenly. His hair and beard were scraggly and unkempt and his left eye was bloodshot and seemed to drift astray from wherever he was looking. His hands were thrust into his coat pockets and the right pocket bulged out slightly as if the man was gripping something.

  “Oy, Martin. Been awhile,” the man said, his voice anything but friendly.

  “It has. Hasn’t it?”

  Subconsciously, Martin cursed. This was exactly why he had feared going into the Military Quarter to begin with.

  “You don’t seem pleased to see me,” the man continued.

  “You don’t sound pleased to see me either.”

  The man let out a low laugh.

  “You don’t remember me do you? You son of a bitch.”

  Martin took half a step back and moved his own hand behind his back, readying to draw his Faceless dagger if needed.

  “I’m afraid I’ve lost some memories of my time in the service. If we met in the navy—”

  “Lost your memories,” the man exploded. “I’m sat here every day reliving the hell you left Robin to and you’ve blissfully forgotten the whole thing. I ought to gut you where you stand.”

  “If you’d care to duel, I know a good dueling ground not too far from here.”

  The man laughed again.

  “Duels are for officers, and you’ve long since lost that honor. But don’t worry, I’ll give you what you’re due soon. Be seeing you, Martin.”

  Without another word, the man turned around and walked away, hands still in his pockets. Martin watched him as he continued down the street and turned towards the Church Quarter. He mentally ran through the list of men the real Martin had served with, but he had only names and few descriptions. The name Robin he remembered, but who the man in front of him had been, he was completely unable to guess. He stood there only a moment longer before continuing on his way to Jacques.

  “What’s wrong?” Jacques asked when he came into view. “You don’t look nearly as excited as I expected you to be.”

  Martin briefly explained his run in with the man.

  “Hmm, well, there was always the chance this would happen. You’re not the first Faceless Man to bump into an acquaintance from their mask’s past. I’ll look into it tonight, but for now, let’s see a man about a revolver.”

  Martin followed Jacques through the Military Quarter to one of the busier shopping streets. While not as crowded as some of the shopping districts in other parts of the city, the street was still busy with servicemen and their families. The two men threaded their way through shoppers and onto a side street that was far less busy. The signs on these shops were faded and hard to read and the windows made little indication of what was inside. Jacques led Martin to one of these shops with a simple drawing of a gear on the sign. He knocked three times quickly and then twice more slowly before opening the door.

  Martin followed and found himself in a small shop. There was a large counter at the opposite end, but no other tables to be found. All the goods were hanging from the walls or ceiling through the use of hooks and strings. The goods included flasks, pistols, knives, eating utensils, compasses—almost anything a soldier or sailor might want to supplement their supplied kit. There was no dust, but Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that none of it had been touched for years.

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  “Greetings, Oddscog,” Jacques said.

  Behind the counter sat an elderly man with white hair. He jumped down from his stool, disappearing for a moment behind the counter, and then reappeared in front of Jacques for a hug. He barely came up to Jacques’ waist, but his beard hair flew out wildly and down to his own waist. Martin imagined he had more hair on his beard than Martin had on his whole body.

  “Bout time you came round. You brought me an interesting one this time,” the man stopped talking, catching sight of Martin for the first time. “Who’s this one?”

  “Oddscog, I’d like you to meet Martin. He’s the one who helped me acquire this particular piece. Martin, meet Oddscog. He’s one of the finest appraisers of Cosmic goods in the world. If there’s something about mysticism he doesn’t know, it’s probably not worth knowing.”

  “You’re full of shit as always,” Oddscog said, not sounding displeased in the least. “Pleasure, Martin.”

  “Likewise.”

  Oddscog walked back to the other side of the counter and hopped back up onto his stool. From under the counter he produced a cloth wrapped object.

  “Quite the interesting one, subtle in the way artifacts from the Beautiful Goddess typically aren’t.”

  As he spoke, Oddscog unwrapped the package, revealing the revolver.

  “It’s definitely an artifact then.”

  “Yes.”

  Martin had learned more about these items from Jacques recently. Objects affected by the power of the cosmics had two classifications. Trinkets tended to be items temporarily endowed with cosmic power. As a result, their effects tended to be weaker and could only be used a few times before they expired. Artifacts were items permanently enchanted with the power of a cosmic. As a result, they tended to be far more terrifying in their abilities, and much more devastating in their price.

  “That’s correct. I had a few of my boys test it out on a pig. Any bullet fired from the revolver becomes corrupted.”

  “Corrupted?” Martin asked, trying to remember anything unusual about the bullets that had nearly hit him that night.

  “Yes. Corrupted with a kind of spiritual poison. Even a flesh wound is enough to cause the infection. We shot the pig in the leg, just a minor wound, but in hours we found it completely drained of vitality, as if it had been sucked dead by a vampyr.”

  “What a dreadful curse,” Jacques muttered.

  “Seems unnecessary for a weapon designed to kill.”

  “Some things bullets can’t kill, son.” Oddscog said solemnly, “a curse like that is placed to deal with things like that.”

  “And what of the price?”

  “As prices go, it’s fairly tame. Increased vanity.”

  “Vanity?” Jacques asked, one eyebrow raising, “So that’s why she carried a pocket mirror.”

  “It’s not that simple of course. It’s more than just increased pride in one’s appearance. The longer the revolver is held, the more sensitive one becomes to perceived slights to one’s looks or abilities. I had one of my boys carry it for a day while the others… questioned his manhood, and by the end he could barely resist drawing the revolver on them.”

  Jacques turned to look at Martin.

  “Seems fitting for a man of your reputation.”

  “Not anymore,” Martin said, but a part deep inside of him was already imaging drawing the revolver on that man in the street earlier.

  “In your opinion, Oddscog, is there any other deeper curse or any reason Martin couldn’t carry it?”

  “I couldn’t find any evidence of a deeper curse through any of my tests. As to whether he should carry it, that’s entirely up to him. From my point of view, for most uses its power is unnecessary, and might even complicate situations that need a more inconspicuous touch. How well he can manage the curse may come down to his own temperament and smart allocation of when to carry it.”

  “Thank you, Oddscog.”

  Jacques turned back to Martin.

  “Well, you’ve got two choices. I promised the reward of this skirmish to you, so the revolver is yours to take, if you want it.”

  Martin was tempted to reach out and grab it now, but held himself back.

  “What’s the other choice?”

  “Your other choice is to offer it to the Faceless God. With this offering along with your contribution in the battle, you’re likely not too far off from being rewarded with more power. You could end up being able to maintain a second mask or receive some other gift from our Lord.”

  Martin glanced at Oddscog as if he wasn’t sure he should be hearing this, but seeing Jacques was unconcerned, he tuned the old man out to weigh his options. He wanted more firepower for sure, but Oddscog was right, the power that came with the revolver seemed ill suited to his current role. He had spent a long time now as Martin, fighting down the urge to unleash his inherited temper. The last thing he needed was fresh powder in that keg. Martin made his decision.

  “I’d like to offer it to the Faceless God.”

  “A wise decision,” Jacques said, rewrapping the revolver and depositing it in his coat pocket. “One that calls for a drink. My thanks as always Oddscog. I’ll have the payment sent through the usual channels.”