The air of neglect was palpable.
The room smelted of disinfectant and polish, and they could both see the evident signs of some hasty and halfhearted cleaning. But cobwebs still clung to the corners, by the old mock chandeliers. The carpet was dirty, with spots of oil and grease marking the delicate floral pattern.
Tenbos waved a hand. “A sorry thing these days, but mine own. Feel free to wander and look at anything.”
“They been fired lately?” J.B. asked, picking up a poor German replica of a Genoan wheel-lock pistol.
“No. I haven’t” The words trickling away. “I did once butthere is no ammunition now kept up here.”
“Why?” Ryan asked, squinting along the chased barrel of a superb saw-handled dueling pistol, still carrying the maker’s gold cartouche on the breech plug. “Parker?” he said.
J.B. joined him, taking the blaster with an almost religious awe. “Beautiful,” he breathed. “William Parker of 233 High Holborn, London, England. ‘Massive magnificence,’ someone called it. Walnut stock. Nine-inch smooth-bore octagonal barrel. There’s the sighting groove out into the tang of the false breech.” He pointed with his index finger. “There. Look at the lovely plates, silver, here, protecting the stock by the barrel cross bolt. Single set trigger.”
Ryan watched and listened in silence. J.B. wasn’t the most talkative of men, and to hear him whisper this eulogy of the gun maker’s art was extraordinary. Baron Tenbos was also transfixed, standing and making his slow and painful way around the room to join them.
“Must date from around 1812. Possibly a year or so later.” He tested the action. “See, there’s no adjustment for ‘let-off’ on the trigger. Wonderful swan’s-neck lock. Bit fragile if you’re in a touch-and-go fire-fight. Safety catch here behind the cock. Bolts the tumbler. See. Ramrod beneath.”
“I swear that you must know more about firearms than any man living, Mr. Dix,” the baron said. “Would you not like to remain here for a month or so and put my guns back into shape? Categorize and label them all.”
“No. I’ve made a promise to a friend, and that is worth more than all the blasters in all of Deathlands.”
Ryan had known his companion for long enough to be fully aware what that cost J.B.
The Armorer laid the pistol down on its rack. “This is a wonderful weapon. But that cheapjack German copy of the wheel lock is total shit. Why?”
“Why both in the same room?”
“Yes.”
Tenbos sighed. “Because I became lazy, Mr. Dix. A wretched reason, but the truth. Though my lack of health was something of a factor in this. Perhaps you might give me the incentive to begin again.”
“Worth it, for the good stuff.”
“Why no ammo?” Ryan asked again.
“No ammo means no risk to me.”
“I would’ve said you had some good men in your sec force. Where’s the threat?”
Tenbos took a long, slow breath. “By now the poison will have begun to seep into the ears of my people. Two strangers in the ville. Perhaps their intention is to chill our beloved stepfather, the honored baron, and usurp his rightful successors. That has started already.”
Ryan didn’t say anything for a moment. He looked at the Parker flintlock, its stained copper powder horn below it in the glass-topped display case. “Why not simply remove the problem?” he said finally.
“Not my way, Cawdor. I did what I did to their mother and brother in a bloody rage.”
“You had cause,” J.B. protested.
“Perhaps. But that dodges the bullet, doesn’t it? That night, when I visited the two cold corpses in our small chapel, I swore I would not take another human life. I have managed to cleave to that oath.”
J.B. had turned and picked up the pistol again. “You said there was no ammo.”
“Ah.” The baron’s fragile smile was back in place. “I couldn’t fool a gunsman like yourself. Some of the weapons carry a single charge. Most do not. That Parker is one of the loaded guns. But let us make the most of our small time together, outlanders. Let me show you around.”
The whole collection was much as J.B. had spotted, a strange mixture of rubbish and wonders, an occasional gold nugget glittering among the coal.