“How much longer are we going to be walking, can you tell me that at least?” I whined, probably for the twentieth time that day. Morlo took it as patiently as ever, seeming to enjoy himself as he answered without so much as a glance back in my direction or a thought on my behalf.

  “No.”

  I had expected the answer of course, largely because it was the same answer I’d already received probably twenty times before. That did not make it sting any less, nor did it let my ego weather it any more.

  What worsened things, as you might expect, was Vara.

  Whatever the months had done—or hadn’t done—to change me, they’d had a great effect on Vara. Having known her for a while, I didn’t miss that she still had the quietly smug confidence she always did, that same twist curling her mouth at the corners, that same glint colouring her eyes. What was mainly different was how openly it now manifested.

  Live as a merchant in a country town and you don’t learn to hide yourself the way a peasant does, particularly a peasant woman. There’s a danger to being noticed by the poor, and like most dangers it strikes the fairer sex much harder than it does the one capable of lifting heavy things.

  Except Vara wasn’t acting like a girl in danger anymore.

  That is perhaps the most direct example I can give of how much Morlo’s presence had differed in effect for her compared to me, though I didn’t know the full reasons for why just yet.

  Vara did, and she seemed to be taking no small amount of pleasure in how little I knew compared to her. Every time I looked her way I caught sight of a smug grin that left me more infuriated than before. This may have come as quite a surprise to Vara, as I am now fairly sure she was just keeping a neutral face. You may be thinking that this imagined slight was the sign of an immature misogyny on my part, to be so uniquely, casually pissed off by a woman for something as insubstantial as a look I thought she was giving.

  Anyway, we continued walking.

  Gruin walked, too, which was bloody impressive considering his condition. Grynkori, as he told me, were built for long distances more than short, and everything that made him bad in a sprint seemed to be making him good here. That didn’t come as a surprise to me of course, having spent so much of my last few months walking around with him. And I took no small amount of satisfaction in watching the surprise on Vara’s face as she kept subtly staring, waiting for him to stumble and give in to his wounds, always having her expectations dashed.

  That was about the pace of my journey at the time, smugness, irritation and a general sense of prevailing boredom. The fear was always there, too, of course, and mounted more with every step we took to whatever it was Morlo the Great and Terrible had planned. It struck me only then how appropriate that miserable get’s name was.

  That I had nothing to worry about but that is an indicator that this is one of the high points in my life, at least for the next few months. I didn’t appreciate that at the time of course, and remained thoroughly miserable until we were finally closing in on our destination of Arvharest.

  Arvharest. A nice city to look at, I must admit. Impressive. The walls were high and angled in a new-age configuration made to stave off cannon shot, not that I recognised that at the time. As we drew closer though even I could make out a certain modernity to the place. Arvharest is perhaps the most advanced Anglysh city of all, purely in terms of industry, and makes its fortune through the endlessly recent development that is black powder.

  That is to say, that Arvharest is rather wealthy. Particularly compared to the ever-bitter manufacturers who make their money from sets of plate armour.

  Oh who am I kidding, it’s the same people owning both technologies.

  “Guns,” Morlo grunted as we approached, looking truly disgusted for the first time since I’d met him.

  “What’s the matter with guns!?” Gruin growled, affixing the Thaumaturge with one of his more intimidating glares and, as I might have expected, thoroughly failing to intimidate.

  “Primitive, clumsy, oafish shit,” Morlo spat, “didn’t need guns back in my day and you still don’t. They’re a crutch for the people too idiotic to master the basics of Thaumaturgy. I’d sooner have people picking up a staff and actually developing a few skills than defaulting to some mindless facsimile.”

  It seemed undiplomatic to point out how few people actually could afford to learn Thaumaturgy, even without my knowing at the time how much of that came from the influence exerted by Thaumaturges to ensure the process was as expensive as possible so that they could profit off it.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Okay, so we’re heading to Arvharest then,” I snapped, “now will you—”

  —”you didn’t figure out our destination over the last few days?” Vara cut in, with a smirk. I ignored her.

  —”now will you tell me what your bloody plan is?” I demanded of Morlo, mustering the most fearsome glare I could manage as I did.

  Morlo was as affected as ever, save that he seemed somewhat amused rather than just totally indifferent. He turned to me slowly, taking his time just to show that he could, and responded in a clearly mocking voice that I nonetheless had no recourse for retaliating against.

  “Do you know what is found in Arvharest, Kyvaine?”

  I realised only then how infrequently—not at all?—the Thaumaturge used my name, and felt a revolted shiver run down my spine at hearing it uttered here. Too close and faux-friendly for my taste, evoking all the same feelings as a smiling bear.

  “Gun…Guns,” I replied.

  He smiled wider.

  “More important than guns. Money. As pitiable and shitty as those new firearms are, there’s a lot of money going into their creation and purchase, and the people who have that money, unlike most places, tend to not be aristocrats. That makes it easier to actually deal with them.”

  It took me a second, from my time spent with Gruin no doubt, to realise that he actually meant make deals with them, rather than euphemistically discussing an act of mass homicide. What little relief I brought from that was overshadowed by the far greater relaxation of not marching my way towards another fight.

  Or at least, not as far as I knew.

  Arvharest, despite its supposedly modern culture, was somewhat mediaeval when it came to security. We all learned this as we approached the front gate and found ourselves soon facing down a row of gun-barrels. I wasn’t nearly as scared of these as I ought to have been, my inexperience shielding me from the fear that knowledge would have brought.

  Vara and Gruin were not so lucky. I saw their fear as it tightened expressions, or rather I saw Vara’s. Gruin was clearly aware danger rested ahead of him, but seemed as unable to process that into the human emotion of terror as he always was. The best way to describe him was prepared for a fight.

  Mentally, that was. His body certainly wasn’t. I estimated he had about two fast steps and three swings in him before collapsing. The rest of us, of course, were far healthier, and had those gunmen decided to take their shots I had no doubt we’ve have managed a whole three shots and no swings before being perforated and falling down to spasm and die in pools of blood.

  “Who goes there?!” called one guard, sounding about as confident as a man who was in control of whether that eventuality happened or not. I sneered up at him, tried to look tough. If that situation had turned sour, I’d have been the first to die. As usual, I was luckier than that.

  “Morlo, the Great and Terrible!” Morlo called out. He was being about as modest as ever, and I winced in anticipation of seeing the old man shot to death out of spite, but instead a sudden wave of horror seemed to wash over the gunmen on the wall.

  Those on foot, at the base of the door, took a hasty step back as well.

  I was left to ponder Morlo’s name, and how far it seemed to have gotten, while the leader of the guardsmen disappeared from sight. My pondering didn’t take long, but was still nearly interrupted by how fast the gate ended up opening. Morlo strutted on through as smug as ever.

  Seeing Vara as she continued to tremble beside me, I felt a bit smug too.

  “Scared of some action?” I goaded her, “I’ll protect you, don’t worry.” If nothing else, the vitriol of our journey together had cured me of my pathological need to impress her. That isn’t a sign of maturity on my part, if she’d continued fluttering her eyelashes I imagine I’d have still been wrapped right around her pinky, but if nothing else it restored a bit of my freedom.

  Vara’s answer wasn’t a sign of maturity on my part either, but it was a sign of immaturity on hers. To my eyes that was just as good.

  “You couldn’t protect me if there were ten of you in plate armour,” she snapped. It was the certainty she said it with, and the fact that she was so clearly bothered by my barb, that added a bit of weight to her words. I found myself studying Vara. Just what had she seen while I was busy backpacking across the country?

  Well, I’d find out that much a lot sooner than I imagined. In the meantime I was treated to my first sight of Arvharest.

  Now reading this as you are, a few decades after the fact, you’re probably not going to appreciate how awestruck I was by that experience. Many of the features that distinguished the city then have been more widely adopted now.

  At the time, I’d never seen anything like Arvharest. Its streets were wider than I knew what to do with, seeming to me like gaping maws without the teeth. The pavements weren’t cobbled, but…well, paved. Broad, narrow, uniform slabs of stone carved or cast or molded so that even the drunkest man in Anglyn would’ve been hard-pressed to turn his ankle on them.

  I saw tall buildings everywhere, not just the vanity projects of the city’s wealthiest nobility but a common feature of the whole place.

  And of course, I saw the guns. It was hard not to. If the people of Arvharest were proud of one thing in all the world, it was inarguably their guns. I have to admit, they have reason to be.

  Every hundred paces, it seemed, there was another piece of iron propped up on the outer wall. Varying in size, in length, in bore. All of them were massive. I’d seen cannons before, but only once or twice. Those days they were still expensive things and you’d rarely find more than a few fielded by one side of a pitched battle.

  Unless you were the people of Arvharest, that was. Supplied with quality iron from Rogrid, the gunsmiths of this city had spent generations sharpening their craft and the fruit of those labours was lining its outer wall before my very eyes.

  It wasn’t until later that I’d actually see the things in action, but even thinking they were just compacted trebuchets—the idiot that I was—I knew I was looking at serious defensive power.

  “Bloody munds,” Morlo growled, “so obsessed with making loud bangs that they’ll funnel their whole city’s wealth into it.”

  I didn’t quite get his hatred of gunpowder just yet, but I would do soon enough. It all comes down to realising that Thaumaturgists and technologists are in competition.

  “Onwards,” Morlo snapped, “we’re nod here to gawp at the guns. We’re here for a chat with their makers.”

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