I stopped atop the roof to change quickly from my adaptive white shirt and brown pants into a black shirt and pants, with a red vest similar to what I saw most men wearing in the city. The adaptive clothing seemed to pattern itself out of whatever the normal outfit near where I entered a world was, meaning it was simple linen and homespun. That worked fine in Borava and the Darkwood, but here in Panja, it made me stand out as someone from one of the smaller villages. The cotton clothing I’d bought in the city blended in better and gave me some anonymity.

To add to the disguise, I tied back my hair with a red ribbon that more or less matched the vest and slipped my hatchet beneath my vest, strapping a simple rapier in its place. I didn’t really know how to use the weapon, but then, I sincerely hoped not to need it. I moved several houses down, clambered down a brick chimney, and stepped confidently out into the street. As I walked, I held my chin high, kept my back straight, and jammed my heels into the ground with each step. I looked neither right nor left but plowed ahead as if I knew exactly where I was going – which, thanks to my explorations, I did.

When most people think of disguises, they think of wigs, makeup, or even those amazing full-face masks you sometimes see in the movies. First, I have to tell you, those don’t exist, at least not on Earth. A person in a mask looks just like that – a person wearing a mask. Our faces are ridiculously expressive, using about twenty different muscles to pull our skin, lips, eyes, and mouths all over the place to demonstrate our thoughts and emotions. Slap a mask over that, and suddenly, you’ve got a face that doesn’t move. It doesn’t smile or frown; the eyes don’t crinkle; the cheeks don’t crease or dimple. It looks wrong and artificial, and the best you might be able to do is pass for someone else at a distance assuming you know them well and can emulate their voice and body language.

Second, while makeup and wigs do work, they aren’t always necessary. When you’re looking for someone, your brain is trying to match a person to a specific pattern. We tend to notice things like hair and clothing first because our eyes pick out colors and shapes best. However, the human eye – or omeni, I guess – picks up far more subtle cues, like a person’s gait, the set of their shoulders, or the fact that they look furtive or out of place. By changing your hairstyle, clothing, and the way you move, you can hide in plain sight from all but the most trained observers, which my watchers obviously weren’t.

Even so, I took a slightly roundabout path that gave me multiple chances to look back the way I came and see if anyone followed me. I trained my powers of observation pretty well over the years, and I could usually pick out an incongruency in my surroundings with a quick scan if I was trying. I actually spotted several strange loiterers along my trip, people who hung out in one place a bit too long and almost aggressively ignored everything going on around them, but none seemed to take note of me, and I never saw the same one twice. Of course, with good surveillance, I wouldn’t – a solid team would never let me lay eyes on the same person twice, so I’d never know they followed me – but these people didn’t seem good enough for that, not with how easily I spotted them.

I made my way first to the docks, down to a tarred and white-windowed building with a single flag flying out front. The blue flag depicted a pair of golden leurik heads facing one another, their mouths opened in a silent, mutual roar. I went to the door, resisting the urge to check my surroundings once more, and walked inside without knocking. I knew the room beyond already, with its single wooden desk and three doors leading deeper into the building. A man sat behind the desk, his dark brown hair gleaming with oil and his white shirt and black vest crisp and neat. He peered up at me, taking in my clothing and bearing, and he smiled at me ingratiatingly.

“Good morning, sir,” the man spoke in a servile voice, standing to meet me and offering his hand. I glanced down at it and then ignored it. After all, the haughty rich man I portrayed wouldn’t have so much as considered shaking a clerk’s hand. Realizing this, the man flushed and quickly lowered his arm to his side. “What can I do for you, today?” he asked, his tone if anything even more fawning than before.

“I need to book passage to the capital,” I said in as offhand and uncaring tone as I could manage, not even looking at the man as I spoke. “I understand that your company occasionally carries passengers and cargo of quality – with few questions asked.”

The man’s eyes lit up as he saw his chance for some extra profit, but he kept his face carefully neutral. “Absolutely, sir! The Golden Leurik Company is known for its swift ships, ample cabins – and the discretion of its captains.” The man smiled. “Might I ask how many people will be traveling, and when you would wish to leave?”

“There will be two of us for certain, myself and my huntmaster,” I waved a hand at the man as I spoke. I’d spent much of the past week listening to and watching the wealthy merchants and passengers who came and went along the docks, and I had the performance down fairly well. “My sister may come, as well, if her little entertainments don’t interfere.” I smiled brittlely. “You understand, I’m sure, how one must do what one can to stave off boredom at times.”

“Of course, sir,” the clerk nodded. “Do you have any preferences on the type of ship or the time of day you’ll leave?”

“Nothing in the morning, obviously,” I snorted. “I don’t rise until at least three hours after dawn, and my sister often sleeps off her festivities until the early afternoon. Perhaps something in the evening? There’s a certain romance to sailing out beneath the moons and stars.”

“There certainly is, sir,” he nodded, flipping through a ledger before him. “I do have three available berths on the Gleaming Eye, leaving tomorrow an hour before moonrise.” He made a face. “However, that ship is one of our faster ones, and space aboard it is a premium, I’m afraid. To give you three cabins – at such short notice, at that – will be fairly expensive.”

“Cost isn’t an issue,” I shrugged. “How much will it be?”

“Four silvers per cabin, sir.” His eyes glittered. “Plus, a two-silver fee for a late booking.”

“Is that all?” I said nonchalantly, hiding my secret wince as I reached into the purse concealed beneath my vest. Typically, passage to the capital cost about half that – and I’d never heard of a late charge. However, the noble I played wouldn’t know that, and more importantly, he wouldn’t care. However, he also wasn’t stupid. I produced five gleaming silver coins and laid them down on the table. “There you are.”

The man stared at the coins, his face confused. “Sir – the total comes to…”

“I’m quite capable of adding,” I snapped, cutting him off. “However, I understand that it’s customary to pay a small amount upfront to guarantee our cabins, then we pay the rest to the captain upon arrival. That’s satisfactory, yes?”

The man’s eyes dimmed, and his shoulders slumped, but he kept his face calm and controlled. That was a typical arrangement, one that protected both the passenger and the company. If I didn’t show, they kept my silvers and didn’t have to feed or care for us during the voyage. If I did, they wouldn’t deny our reservation because they’d want the remainder of their money. However, by paying the money to the captain directly, I basically just destroyed his chance to skim any off the top. Instead, the captain would pocket the extra – and that was fine with me. I’d rather the guy in charge of the ship be appreciative of my generosity than the one who wrote down the day’s transactions.

“Of course, sir,” he bowed his head. “As I said, the Eye departs tomorrow, an hour before moonrise, from berth twenty-five. Do you need directions? I could show you the slip…”

“Not necessary,” I said airily. “My huntmaster will locate it without difficulty. That’s what I pay her for, after all.”

“Understood, sir. In that case, please arrive between thirty minutes and an hour early to allow for your baggage to be brought aboard.”

“I’ll be there before the ship sails,” I replied flatly.

“As you wish, sir,” he nodded. “Thank you…”

I ignored him as I turned and left the building, closing the door behind me and concealing my grin. The clerk had fawned all over me, never once realizing that he’d seen me three times before. He simply couldn’t associate the haughty noble and the humble laborer who’d come to his door, begging for work. Of course, he’d barely even looked at me during those visits; he certainly never called me “sir” or offered his hand.

It was just another example of what I called, “Clark Kent Syndrome”. I’d heard people complain before about the fact that no one recognizes Clark Kent as Superman, even though they looked more or less the same, but those people didn’t understand how human brains work. People see what they’re expecting to see, and it takes training and focus to look past that. No one would look at Superman and think, “That guy reminds me of a random reporter!”, any more than they’d look at Kent and think, “I wonder if he’s a superhero!”. Without a reason to connect the two in their minds, no one would consider comparing them – just as the snotty little clerk never considered comparing me to a lowly laborer.

My steps led me back through the city, around the market square and to a small shop I’d discovered by asking around subtly for a few days. The two-story, white-and-chocolate building might have escaped notice if not for the heavy bars over the windows and the steel-reinforced door. I tried the handle and found it locked, so I knocked on the door and waited a few seconds for it to open.

A virtual wall of muscle stood before me. The man in the doorframe towered over me by at least a foot, and one of his legs might have weighed as much as my body. He wore a chainmail vest that hung to his knees and gleaming steel armor over his forearms. He also held a short but broad spear in one fist and looked ready to use it.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice sounding like it came from the bottom of a barrel.

“I understand that this is a weapons shop,” I said after only a moment of hesitation. The man’s appearance threw me off for an instant, but I recovered quickly. He wasn’t the biggest man I’d ever seen – and I’d had to kill several of them in the past. Powerful people seem to prefer large men as their bodyguards, after all, and those bodyguards rarely like it when you assassinate their steady paycheck.

“It is. You looking to buy?”

“Would I be knocking on the door if I wasn’t?” I snorted. “If I just wanted to look around, I could go back to the market square.”

The man grunted. “Fine. Come in. Just know that I’m watching you, and if you try anything funny…” He bumped the spear shaft on the ground. I wanted to roll my eyes, and since the noble I was playing would have, I went ahead and did it.

“Yes, yes, very scary. Now, let me in before I change my mind and go elsewhere to spend my money.”

He gave me a dark look that I studiously ignored. A moment later, he grunted and stepped aside, and I walked into the dark, low-ceilinged room – and stopped, staring in awe and delight.

Guns surrounded me on all sides. Pistols, muskets, even a few of what looked like shotguns lined the walls and rested in display cases. Polished wooden stocks and dark metal glowed in the light of the sealed oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. The air smelled of oiled metal and burned black powder, and I breathed deeply, inhaling the familiar scent. Nostalgia swept over me. I hadn’t even realized how much I missed gun shops – and guns in general.

“Good afternoon, sir,” a sprightly voice spoke. I turned toward it and saw a slim, wiry woman standing behind one of the glass counters. A metal cage separated us, and I glanced around once more with a frown. Every firearm was either behind glass or chained to the wall. A click behind me made me spin toward the door just in time to see the big guard pull a key out of the door’s lock and slip it into his pocket, sealing me inside.

“Is there a reason you’re locking me in?” I asked, my hand drifting slowly toward the sword at my hip. Again, I didn’t really know how to use it, but I figured as long as I put the pointy end in the other person, I’d be okay. And that guard’s chain mail offered lots of little holes I could stick the point into.

The big man shrugged. “Store policy. You don’t like it, talk to my boss.” He gestured toward the lady behind the counter. “Or leave.”

I hesitated, honestly torn. I wasn’t particularly afraid of the man or the situation. Her cage wouldn’t stop my Twilight Lance, and his armor wouldn’t do much against a Twilight Strike. I could take her out, first, just in case she had one of her guns ready to go behind that counter, then cut him down pretty quickly. My hatchet or the Imperial dagger hidden at the small of my back – I didn’t trust the Pretmaraji not to have our bags searched – could cut through the glass and chains securing the weapons, as well. I felt fairly in control of the situation.

At the same time, I didn’t really know what sort of protections the place had, or how good the guard might be. In a world of magic, security had to take spellcasters into account. I’d seen the Vanator using that golost material; what if the cage or chains were made of the same stuff? What if the guard’s armor and weapons resisted magic? I doubted that the material was all that common, but unless the Vanatori hunted down anyone using it, it had to be available at some price. I might not be as safe as I thought.

“I’m curious about the extreme security,” I finally said, keeping my voice neutral and my hand off my hatchet – but letting it hover near, reminding the pair that I could draw it swiftly if needed. “It seems like overkill, really.”

She smiled at me apologetically, although the expression of regret didn’t touch her eyes. “I’m sorry about that, but it’s a necessity for anyone dealing with guns or black powder.”

“Why?” I asked curiously.

“Because my wares are very dangerous,” she smiled at me, tossing her head so her blond, graying hair stayed well away from her dark eyes. “And very valuable. Enough guns or powder in the wrong hands could be dangerous, as you might well imagine. That’s why I’m one of only two licensed firearm merchants in the city.”

I briefly wondered who the wrong hands might belong to, then quickly dismissed the thought. A group of bandits with rifles would obviously be far more dangerous than that same group with bows or crossbows. A band of insurgents with cannons represented a much greater threat to a city than one with catapults – and that same band with black powder and metal pipe could create nasty bombs if they wanted. It made sense for the authorities to regulate the sale of these weapons.

“I’ve heard that sometimes valuable items are resold by – less than scrupulous people,” I noted. “What stops someone from buying these weapons that way?” The question was a serious one. On Earth, I never purchased guns from a licensed dealer. They tended to be sticklers about things like paperwork, identification, waiting periods, and the like. Fortunately, anyone could buy a firearm without leaving a paper trail thanks to the internet and machinist shops. That was how Skye worked; she bought old and used guns anonymously for cash, took them apart, and replaced any worn or damaged parts with her shop. She then resold those restored weapons for cash to people like me – after removing every serial number from every part, of course. There was no way for law enforcement to track a weapon like that back to either Skye or me, and the original seller had no clue who might have ended up with it.

“The resale of firearms and gunpowder is highly illegal,” she said easily, although her expression hardened. “Those who are caught either buying or selling them end up spending a couple of decades performing hard labor – if they’re lucky.”

“And if they’re unlucky?”

“Then they die when the inferior gun or poorly made powder they bought explodes the first time they fire it,” she said coolly. “As I said, my wares are dangerous, and a flawed gun is a greater danger to its user than their enemies. A slightly warped barrel, a loose powder pan, or badly mixed powder can all cause a gun to explode, and losing a finger – or a hand – is a typical result of that sort of thing.”

“I suppose it’s good that I came here, then,” I nodded. She was right; a poorly made gun was more dangerous to its wielder than anyone else. That was the danger of buying from someone like Skye: if they had no clue what they were doing, their work could cost you an eye or a finger.

“Very good,” she agreed. “Speaking of which, what are you looking to purchase today?”

I walked over to a case filled with what looked like flintlock pistols. “I’d like a brace of pistols, a rifle, and powder and ball for both.”

“Of course, sir,” she smiled, walking around behind the cage to stand behind the case. “What in particular are you looking for?”

“I need a reliable weapon that won’t misfire on me if it gets a little damp or dirty,” I smiled, crouching down to examine the pistols. “Something reasonably accurate, with rifling if possible. Nothing fancy or flashy, just a weapon that will shoot and hit what I want when I pull the trigger.”

“Then you’re looking for defense, not something like a dueling weapon?” she asked. I nodded, and she smiled. “That’s not a problem. Here, take a look at this.”

I spent the next hour handling various firearms, feeling their heft and testing their action. While the antique flintlocks had nowhere near the complexity of the pistols I typically fired, they still required a certain amount of engineering. The quality of that crafting varied wildly from weapon to weapon, of course, since this world didn’t have mass manufacturing. Many of the pistols didn’t break crisply, meaning the trigger hung up slightly before dropping the hammer. Others had too much take-up, the slack in the trigger where pulling it didn’t make the hammer drop, requiring me to pull them too long before they fired. Sometimes the trigger wouldn’t reset cleanly, or pulling back the hammer didn’t cock the weapon fully.

“You know firearms,” she observed at one point, and I shrugged.

“I’ve picked up a few things,” I hedged. “I’ve never actually fired one of these, though.” That much was true; I never had shot a flintlock before.

“I can show you how to load and fire one before you leave,” she reassured me. “I have a shooting range in the cellar you can use to practice.”

“How often do you have to teach people to use these?” I asked. “And why bother? If they don’t know what they’re doing…?”

“Then they injure themselves, and people blame my product,” she finished. “I try to make sure people at least know how to load and shoot their weapon before they leave – as well as how to clean it and maintain it. It encourages others to come buy from me, as well.”

“I can see that,” I allowed, hefting a new pistol and sighting along it.

None of the pistols had rifled barrels, sadly, drastically reducing their accuracy beyond thirty yards or so. I did find one long rifle I liked, though. I purchased plenty of powder, lead, extra flints, and paper, as well as a molding kit to make more musket balls as needed. When I finished, the store’s owner took me into the basement, where she had a short firing range set up, and I learned how to actually fire a flintlock. The process was ridiculously slow compared to firing a modern handgun, of course – I had to half-cock the weapon, pour and ram powder into the muzzle, insert a paper-wrapped ball and jam that down there, then open the pan and pour more powder into it to get it ready to fire – but all that only took about twenty seconds, far faster than winding a crossbow. The good part of that was that I could pre-load a pistol, keeping it in the half-cocked position with the powder pan closed, and it would stay ready to fire for quite a well if it didn’t get too wet.

When I left the store, poorer by several gold pieces, I had my fancy, new weapons rolled in a wool blanket that concealed their nature – and a fancy, new skill to go with them.

SKILL GAINED: WEAPON FOCUS (FIREARMS)

RANK: ADEPT 7

BENEFITS: +1% ATTACK AND DAMAGE PER SKILL RANK, REDUCE PHYSICAL ARMOR BY 1% PER SKILL RANK, INCREASE FIRING SPEED BY 2% PER SKILL RANK.

I found an alley and changed back into my regular clothes, heading back to the market square to find Renica and Viora. I didn’t much care if the watchers saw me carrying a blanket roll; as long as they didn’t know where I’d been, it should be fine. One more day, and I’d be out of Panja, at sea and hopefully out of the reach of whoever attacked the Cathedral.