The next day an older more familiar place came by, more information provided to build up a better mental image of the situation. The client was from out of town, male, non-resistance. No names given, which was probably for the best. He was not however, part of the normal sphere of influence. The location for delivery was somewhere in the loading end of the district. Meet at the alley corner and go from there. Another raise of a curious eyebrow, but Gale never the less still worked upon the project.
Gunner had taken some of the ideas of the Liberator and applied them to this next piece. Having it disassemble for one was always a favourable boon for users – it meant cleaning was considerably easier. The barrel and handle as such could be removed with a turn of a few screws. The second point was the use of percussion caps, the few test sessions that had been done proved their effectiveness – even when in somewhat damper conditions where the flintlock failed. Additionally, they were proving easier to make than she first thought – she could forge all them cold with a hammer, a premade metal ring with a ten millimetre diameter and a small iron bar barely eight millimetres across. All that was needed then was appropriately thin copper sheeting.
By the time it came about for the meeting, the pieces were made and the final touches were taking place before the assembly. The smith closed up in the evening, toolbox hooked under one arm - quieter than normal due to the cloak and mask stuffed within. Gloves creaked around the hands, the forge securely locked up. At the base of the back and behind the coat the Liberator was nestled, something comforting with the cool that pressed against their spine. Head down, they met at the alleyway before being guided into the twisting tunnels of the undercity.
The mask was donned, the cloak brought up around the form. It was the half-life, a masked ghost that traversed the tunnels, exchanged and changed by guides. Beneath it all a sense of time was lost, melding into a single stretch of time. It was all important, all necessary – to keep everyone safe. If the Seventen found out what she was capable of they would not rest. The biggest risk of them all, and so the gunsmith lived a half-life, a false life of being a simply humble creature beneath the boot of their current superiors.
It was the price for freedom.
Upper a ladder now, the next set of hands claimed them and guided them on. The whistle pitched noises of factories and labourers, the industrial machineries that went on through the night. The soot district never truly slept. Workers always worked, and rulers always ruled – as was their right. Another turn, it was in through a narrow door now and into a low lit room. Oil lanterns, a soft glow, through to another room until at last the meeting spot was reached. There was one other in the room – Dancer, able to read the sign language performed as Gunner – a table, a pair of chairs, and a tall, metal barrel. The fact that it seemed to be filled with sand and had a target painted on it did not miss their attention. Another was the notably thick walls, the humdrum of loud machinery being drowned out.
Pulling one of the chairs round to the other side, the toolbox was placed onto the table, form leaning back into the chair. A hand signed at the other Cadet, “Evening Dancer.”
He smiled, signing back, “Evening Gunner. Exciting is it not?”
“It is interesting. Do we have a name?” There was a long pause, before a shake of the head. The hollow eyes of the mask fixed onto him, before an exaggerated shrug escaped the cloak, “Never mind. We shall call him Client.”
There was a knock on the door, but Gunner chose not to react to it. They saw Dancer sign at them, “Someone is at the door. Shall I get it?”
The Gunsmith nodded, silently adding, “Let us get to work.”