I watched her carefully. She blinked several times, regaining her composure, then met my gaze head-on.

  “So,” I finally said, breaking the tension, “you’re my new shadow.”

  “You really haven’t lost your touch, have you?”

  “Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” I said flatly. “Spill it.”

  She tilted her head slightly, measuring her words carefully. Then, with the practiced ease of someone who had rehearsed this a dozen times over, she answered, “Elise Marlowe, I represent the Western Rail Consortium. Officially, my purpose here is to assess the viability of new trade routes through the region by negotiating land contracts for the new railhead to the Dunsby mine 30 miles northeast of here.” A faint, sardonic smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Unofficially, I’m involved with certain political movements. Suffragettes, labor unions, anyone looking to tip the balance toward equality and shake up the status quo. Women’s voices in commerce and governance are overdue, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I let out a quiet chuckle, shaking my head. “And here I thought I was the one juggling too many roles. You’re an industrialist, a political agitator, and a spy all rolled into one?”

  She gave a small, deliberate shrug. “It keeps me busy.”

  I folded my arms, studying her. The cover was solid trade, infrastructure, and politics, all blended into something that would grant her access to the city’s inner circles. She’d have an excuse to speak with powerful merchants, city officials, even the nobility. It was the kind of cover that gave her reasons to ask pointed questions without drawing suspicion.

  “And your contacts in the city? Who are you working with?”

  “You, mostly. This little corner of society has been vastly underutilized in recent years.”

  She glanced around the dimly lit back room, her eyes lingering on the shelves lined with various herbs and potions. “And what about you? Have you maintained any sources since you left the service?”

  I shifted uncomfortably, not eager to dive back into that part of my past. “A few,” I admitted reluctantly. “Mostly old comrades who can’t quite let go of the game. We keep each other informed, nothing formal.”

  “Good,” she replied, her tone approving. “We need all the eyes and ears we can get.”

  The faint jingle of the bell over the front door signaled Malcolm’s departure. I moved to the window and tilted the slat just enough to catch a glimpse. Malcolm’s coat flared as he stepped into the street, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

  I watched Malcolm disappear down the lane, boots slapping through a shallow puddle, the collar of his coat pulled up like he thought it made him invisible.

  “He’s going to The Brittle Beast,” I said, letting the slat fall back into place. “Local tavern. His uncle Morgan runs it.”

  “Friendly place?”

  “You’ll either love it or leave with a limp. Sometimes both.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like my kind of spot.”

  “I figured. Malcolm’ll be jawing with Morgan for a bit. You want in?”

  I grabbed my coat from the peg by the door. Elise followed me as I locked up the shop, the doorbell jingling softly as it swung shut behind us. The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp stone and wood smoke as we stepped onto the cobbled streets. Snowflakes drifted lazily down, catching in the flickering glow of the gas lamps.

  The gas lamps gave off just enough light to make shadows twitch. Elise fell into step beside me, heels clicking sharp against the cobblestones.

  “Is he one of us?”

  “Morgan? He’s one of the few left I’d still bleed for.”

  I snorted. “He used to work deep-cover jobs so long, he forgot his real name half the time. He once pretended to be a cobbler for six years just to catch a smuggling ring. Came out of it with best pair of boots I’ve ever owned.”

  “Committed.”

  “That’s one word. Mad’s another.”

  The Brittle Beast came into view, leaning so far it looked like it wanted to kiss the building across the alley. The swinging sign creaked in the wind, iron-braced and rusted. A mangy cat lounged on the sill, eyeing us like it was passing judgement on us as we approached.

  I pushed open the door, and the warmth hit first, followed by the smell of ale. Malcolm was already at the corner table, halfway through a pint, nodding at something Morgan was saying.

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed as he pulled out a chair for us. “Well, shit. You brought company.”

  I slid into the seat opposite him. “Morgan, this is Elise Marlowe. She’s as sharp as a switchblade and twice as dangerous.”

  Morgan’s sharp gaze flicked to her, then back to me. “You bringing in strays now, or is this one of those nights where I regret letting you through the door?”

  I offered a mock scowl in response, loosening my scarf. “And a good evening to you too, barkeep.”

  Morgan set down the tankard and grabbed two more. “What’ll it be then? The usual for you?” he nodded at me, then looked at Elise raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “A mulled wine, if you have it,”

  “Coming right up,” Morgan said, turning to prepare our drinks.

  Malcolm took a sip of his ale, his gaze still fixed on Sara. “I guess there’s always something new to learn, even here,” he mused.

  “That’s the truth,” I agreed, eager to shift the conversation to lighter topics. “So, tell us about your latest projects. Heard anything interesting from your colleagues at the college?”

  Malcolm seemed to relax a bit, glad for the change in topic. He launched into a detailed description of a mechanical device he was developing, which could potentially revolutionize several industries across the kingdom. As he spoke, his enthusiasm was palpable, and Elise seemed genuinely intrigued, her earlier reserve melting away into a genuine interest.

  Morgan returned with a platter. Roast beef, thick as a book spine, potatoes fried in duck fat, and a dark gravy. He dropped it on the table with a grunt.

  “Eat. You’re all too thin and talking too much.”

  “Thanks, Morgan,” Malcolm muttered, already reaching for a slice like it might vanish.

  Morgan grunted and slid the mulled wine in front of Elise. “Try not to spill on the tablecloth. It’s the only one without bloodstains.”

  She raised the mug, sniffed it once, then took a sip. “Smells like cinnamon. Tastes like regret.”

  Morgan barked a laugh. “Good. Means I got the mix right.”

  Malcolm didn’t even pause between bites. “This, this is incredible.”

  I dug in. The potatoes were fried to perfection, and the gravy had a smoky depth that probably owed its complexity to something Morgan never intended to share.

  “So this device of yours,” Elise said between bites, “you’re saying it regulates pressure entirely mechanically? What about irregular surges?”

  Malcolm nodded, mouth still full. “There’s a delay-spring mechanism. It bleeds off excess through a secondary chamber here.” He wiped his hand and pulled the notebook back out, flipping to a grease-streaked page. “This bit right here. Dual pistons. Pressure hits critical. This triggers a bypass.”

  Elise leaned in, chewing absently. “You could use that on the front couplers for brake control, too. I’ve seen wrecks where the boiler failed and the whole system collapsed like a drunk noble at a brothel.”

  “Exactly,” Malcolm said, getting more animated. “With this setup, you could strip out half the redundancies. Means lower costs, fewer spellwrights, and no risk of enchantment feedback.”

  Morgan slid into the seat beside me with a fresh tankard in hand, watching them go back and forth like a fencing match. “Look at that. Kids these days bonding over industrial innovation. Warms the heart.”

  I raised my glass. “Give it another ten minutes and they’ll be planning how to overthrow the Ministry of Transport.”

  Morgan smirked. “If they do, tell them to burn the records office first. I still owe those bastards fines from ‘42.”

  Elise didn’t look up. “Noted,” she said, sketching something in the margin of Malcolm’s notebook. “Also, your piston angles off by three degrees here. That’ll cause backflow under heavy load.”

  Malcolm blinked, then laughed. “You’re right. Damn.”

  We lingered around the table, dinner settling warmly in our bellies and conversation flowing as easily as Morgan’s ale. Malcolm’s stories from the city grew increasingly animated, peppered with technical jargon.

  “So, you see,” Malcolm continued earnestly, waving a hand and nearly knocking over his ale, “if we can increase the steam efficiency by even fifteen percent, we’ll transform the entire mining industry. It’s revolutionary!”

  I nodded sagely, giving Elise a sideways glance. “Hear that? We’re drinking with a revolutionary.”

  She laughed, quick and easy, and tilted her head toward Malcolm. “Careful. Revolutionaries don’t usually last long around here.”

  Morgan plunked down another round, smirking as he caught my eye. “I’d say keep your talk of revolution quieter, but lucky for you lot looks like the taverns already cleared out for the night.”

  Morgan made his rounds, flipping chairs onto tabletops and putting out lanterns, leaving just enough glow for us to see by.

  The fire crackled low now, more ember than flame, but it kept the room warm. We were the last ones left, and the silence had settled comfortably over us like an old blanket.

  Elise stood, smoothing out her cloak. “I think I’ll take that room upstairs now.”

  “Second door on the left, Key’s in the dresser. Sheets are clean, unless the bard from last week had fleas.” Morgan said with a wink, jerking a thumb toward the narrow staircase by the hearth.

  She gave him a crooked smile. “If I find any, I’ll know who to blame.”

  Morgan snorted. “That’s fair.” busying himself with the last bits of cleanup, his gaze flicked meaningfully toward me. We exchanged a brief, silent look, the kind only two old spies could ever really master. He’d sensed something off. I’d need to explain later, but now wasn’t the time.

  She cast one last glance our way before disappearing up the stairs, her footfalls light as ghost-steps. The moment her door clicked shut, Malcolm straightened in his chair.

  Morgan finished locking up and slid into a chair beside us, the heavy wood creaking beneath his frame. The tavern was silent now, save for the crackling fire. Malcolm leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, eyes bright with barely contained excitement.

  “Since we’re finally alone,” Malcolm said quietly, “I brought something back from the academy. Figured it was better to show you both as soon as possible.”

  Morgan raised a heavy eyebrow, a slight smirk hidden beneath his beard. “This sounds like trouble already.”

  Malcolm shook his head earnestly. “Not trouble, well, maybe trouble. Depends on how you look at it.”

  I folded my arms, giving him a skeptical glare. “Out with it, then.”

  Malcolm glanced quickly around the empty tavern, then reached into his satchel beneath the table. Carefully, he pulled out something wrapped in oilcloth, setting it gently onto the table before unwrapping it with exaggerated care. The cloth fell away, revealing a strange metal device, sleek, compact, with a polished wooden grip.

  Malcolm laid it out like a holy relic, then produced a small tin of cartridges, brass casings with lead tips.

  “I call it a firearm,” he said, pride creeping into his voice. “Spent months working on the ignition mechanism. One pull of the trigger, one shot. No cranking, no winding, no enchantments, spring-loaded striker, rotating cylinder. Powder’s clean, and stable. The mix came from what I learned in the shop.”

  Morgan met my gaze again, this time more somberly. That same look we used to pass back in the field, when someone brought news that changed the game.

  “Does anyone else know?” I asked.

  Malcolm hesitated. “A few instructors. But I haven’t shared the design.”

  I stared at the pistol. Compact, elegant, deadly. It didn’t look like much. But then again, the worst things never did.

  Morgan leaned forward and picked it up with a care. He turned it over in his palm, thumb brushing over the engraved trigger guard.

  “How many shots?”

  “Six,” Malcolm said. “I’m working on something faster, something that feeds itself, but that’ll take time.”

  Morgan set it back down gently. “Hell of a thing to carry in your pack. You planning to make more?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “Eventually. The cartridges are the hardest part. If only I knew of an alchemist willing to lend a hand,” Malcolm said, shooting me a pointed, hopeful look.

  Morgan’s deep voice rumbled quietly. “The kingdom would tear itself apart. Knights, lords, mercenaries, all chasing after a weapon that can pierce armor from a hundred paces. And the people caught in the middle.”

  Malcolm swallowed, holding his nerve. “Uncle, it’s coming either way. Better to be out in front of it.”

  Morgan caught my eye again, his gaze firm and knowing. “The lad’s right about one thing. Someone else will figure it out, eventually. Might as well be us.”

  I reached out, picking up one of the cartridges and rolling it thoughtfully between my fingers.

  Morgan gave me another look. He didn’t have to say it. You sure this boy’s ready for what he’s stirring up?

  I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t say that. Instead, I leaned forward, tapping a finger on the polished grip. “Let’s take it out to the quarry tomorrow. I want to see what it can really do.”