Plundering Worlds: I Have a Shotgun in a Fantasy World-Chapter 72: A Small Gift

The visitor was already in the front receiving room when Aldric led Kael in.

Lord Garrick Holt rose at once.

He was past sixty, broad through the shoulders. His coat was dark and precisely cut, the fabric thick enough to hold its shape.

He inclined his head. "My lords. Thank you for receiving me."

Aldric stepped forward and clasped his forearm.

"Garrick. You didn’t waste time." He released him and gestured toward Kael. "This is Kael. Word reached you quickly."

Garrick turned fully to Kael. "Captain. Word reached Greyfield this morning. Congratulations on your engagement."

Kael inclined his head. "Thank you, Lord Garrick." 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

He leaned slightly toward Aldric. "They all know?"

Aldric’s mouth curved faintly. "If they didn’t this morning, they will by nightfall."

Kael straightened and faced him again.

"Blackstone is a hard posting," Garrick said. "You’ve held it well."

"It keeps a man busy."

"I imagine it does." Garrick’s gaze lingered briefly. "The north has a way of tempering men. My son died there. Have you heard how?"

"What was his name?"

"Janson Holt. My only son."

Kael inclined his head once. "I was assigned to the investigation." His tone did not change. "The circumstances surrounding his death were connected to an organization calling itself Sanguis."

He met Garrick’s gaze without deviation. "That is what I can confirm."

Aldric stepped in without haste.

"The matter is still under review," he said evenly. "If there are developments, Greyfield will be informed through proper channels." He allowed the words to settle. "For now, we should not turn a visit of congratulations into something heavier."

Garrick inclined his head. "My apologies. This was not the purpose of my visit." His expression settled again into courtesy. "You have my congratulations, Captain."

He inclined his head once more and turned. The servant had the door open before he reached it.

A moment later, the room was quiet again.

Aldric exhaled softly and moved back toward the table.

"Don’t hold it against him. Janson was his only child. His wife’s been dead for years. He put everything into that boy."

"I watched him grow up," Aldric went on. "Proud, stubborn, a bastard more often than not. But he was all Garrick had."

"No father should have to bury his son."

Aldric gave a short nod, and the matter was left there.

---

[Rathmere – Street – Afternoon]

Carts moved along the main commercial road, iron rims striking the stone where it dipped and rose. Kael kept an even pace, measuring the width of the street by stride and noting which warehouse doors stood open and which were barred. Guild marks, sun-faded but maintained, ran high along the walls, and iron rings were fixed at regular intervals beneath the loading bays. The air carried leather, tallow, and the dry rasp of metal being filed somewhere out of sight.

Further south the buildings rose a story higher and the shopfronts grew more deliberate. A cooper tested the rim of a barrel with his palm while a woman counted coin at a narrow counter set against the wall, sliding each piece into a wooden tray before closing it. A boy passed between doorways with folded cloth balanced over both arms, careful not to brush the stone.

He stopped at a narrow shopfront between a leather goods dealer and a mapmaker.

The sign above the door was no wider than his forearm. In the window, three objects were set apart with deliberate spacing: a glass bottle with a silver stopper, a folded length of green-grey cloth, and a small lacquered box stamped with a geometric crest.

He went in.

The interior was cool and smelled of cedar and something floral. Display cases along both walls, items set on small stands with cards describing their origin. The proprietor was behind the counter—a man in his fifties, hair gone grey at the temples, wearing a good coat that had been carefully maintained for many years.

He looked at Kael once, taking in the coat, the height, the posture, and drew his own conclusions before coming forward.

"Good afternoon. Is there something specific you’re looking for, or would you prefer to browse?"

"A gift," Kael replied. "For a woman."

"Of course." The man’s tone shifted slightly—not warmer exactly, but more directed. "Occasion?"

Kael considered the question. "No particular occasion."

The proprietor nodded, as if this were the most natural answer. "And the lady—her tastes? Does she favor practical things, or decorative?"

"Practical."

The man moved along the case and stopped near the far wall. "We have several pieces that carry both qualities." He indicated a small lacquered writing box—fitted interior, a compartment for a pen, another for folded correspondence. "Traveling stationery case. Rosewood lacquer. The fitting is brass." He named a price.

Kael looked at it. The number settled hard against what he had in his purse. He let his gaze rest on the brass hinge a moment longer than necessary.

The proprietor watched him. He was good at his work—he didn’t fill the silence with pressure.

"I have eighty silver."

The man’s expression did not change. He gave a slow nod. "I understand." His hands remained lightly on the glass.

He moved to a different section of the case—smaller pieces, their price cards turned down. After a moment’s consideration, he selected one and set it on the counter.

A letter seal. Brass, with a dark wood handle polished to a low sheen. The stamp face was blank, ready to be cut with a personal device.

"This is forty-five silver. The handle’s ebony—dense, slow-grown. The brass is solid, not plated." He set it down between them, turning it once so the light caught the metal. "If you take care of it, it will outlast you. A century would not trouble it."

He paused, just long enough.

"It can be cut with whatever device you choose. Or left plain."

Kael picked it up. The weight was right. The grip sat well in his hand.

He thought about the pen he had given her. The ink. The things she chose to write with, the care she took in how she arranged them.

A seal was the next step in a correspondence. The thing that closed what the pen had written.

"I’ll take it."

"The lady will find it useful."

The proprietor wrapped it in a square of plain cloth, tied it with a thin cord, and set it on the counter. He took the coins Kael counted out and checked them without comment, then slid the small parcel across the glass.

Kael picked it up and left.

He slipped the parcel inside his coat and stepped back into the street. He adjusted the cord once, though it needed no adjusting, and allowed himself the smallest breath through his nose. Something unfamiliar stirred in him—faint, insistent.

---

[Elira’s Family House – Dining Room – Evening]

The lamps were already lit when Kael entered, their light steady along the length of the table. Silver caught the glow without glare, and the candles stood at even intervals between the dishes.

Elira sat at the far end. When he took his seat, the conversation shifted slightly and carried on. The meal followed its course with quiet efficiency—soup, then roast, wine poured once and left to breathe. They spoke of shipments coming up from the south and the condition of the northern roads after the thaw. Kael answered when addressed and listened to the rest.

When the table was cleared, chairs moved back in a low, orderly scrape across the floor. The company dispersed without ceremony.

"Well? What do you make of the town?"

Kael looked toward the gate where the street beyond lay in shadow. "It’s built for movement. Goods pass through it without delay, and the people leave space where it matters."

Aldric inclined his head. "That suits it."

---

[Rathmere – Greyfield Manor – Night]

"He has reached Blood Awareness."

Tom blinked, slow and unfocused. "I don’t... know what that is."

Garrick’s voice did not change. "It means he did not come from a stable yard. No man reaches that height without backing."

He let the words fall.

"He was never what you claimed. And you told me he was nothing."

"He was," Tom forced out. "When I knew him. We worked side by side. He was nothing."

His head shook weakly. "You’ve mistaken him."

"Then either you were blind," Garrick said evenly, "or you meant for something to happen when you gave me his name."

"I meant nothing." He shook his head, once, then again, faster. "You’re wrong. It can’t be him. I knew him. I knew what he was."

Garrick’s voice remained level. "You gave me that name when I was looking for someone to blame."

He let that settle. "You knew I would follow it. You knew what I was like then."

"I ask you once more—what did you intend?"

Tom had no answer that could survive the question.

Garrick turned toward the door.

"Continue," he said to the man waiting outside.

The door opened at once. A hand caught Tom by the shoulder.

Garrick stepped out without looking back.

The door closed.

A moment later, a muffled sound carried through the stone—hoarse, indistinct, cut short.