“I am not a rube,” said Chandra, with some dignity.
“Can you locate the Speaking Gun, either in the Past or some accessible Future time-line?” I asked Mr. Usher, and he gave me a polite but pitying smile.
“Of course, sir. Wherever or whenever the Speaking Gun may be, it is still always on a shelf here somewhere. I am in constant contact with every weapon ever made or believed in. I have them all here, from Excalibur to the Despicable Word. Though, of course, you’d have to be particularly gifted, or cursed, to be able to use either of those two items. I can provide anyone with anything, but getting it to work is up to the client.” He smiled his mirthless smile. “Ah, many the customer I’ve known, with eyes bigger than his stomach, if you follow me, sir.”
“I want the Speaking Gun,” I said. “I can make it work.”
“Of course you can, sir.”
He turned and started unhurriedly down his endless hall of weapons, leaving us to follow after. I stuck close behind him. It would be only too easy to get lost in a place like this. Chandra stared about him, almost hypnotised by the endless shelves of endless weapons. I could hear them calling out to me. Singing swords of legend, rings of power, future guns with AI interfaces, pieces of armour still haunted by their previous owners. All of them asking, pleading, demanding to be taken up and used.
“You see,” said Mr. Usher, “I have it all. Everything from the first club, fashioned from a thigh-bone by some forgotten man-ape, right up to the Darkvoid Device, which wiped out a thousand star systems in a moment. I can provide you with anything your heart desires. All you have to do is ask.”
“And pay the price,” I said.
“Well, of course, Mr. Taylor. There is always a price to be paid.”
I was beginning to have second thoughts. I had no doubt that if anything could stop the Walking Man in his tracks, it would be the Speaking Gun, but . . . I still remembered how the Gun had made me feel, still remembered what using it even briefly had done to me. Just to touch it was to dirty your soul, to burden yourself with almost unbearable temptation. And even more than that, I remembered seeing the Speaking Gun grafted on to the maimed arm of a future incarnation of Suzie Shooter, by my future Enemies. Sent back in time to kill me, to prevent the awful future world they lived in. The same people I was trying to save, now. Sometimes I swear the Nightside runs on irony.
I had thought that by destroying the Speaking Gun, I’d saved my Suzie from that horrid destiny. Would bringing it back into the Present make that particular Future possible again?
“What is the price?” I said abruptly to Mr. Usher. “What do you want for the Speaking Gun?”
“Oh, no price for you, Mr. Taylor,” he said, not even looking round. “No price, as such, for a renowned and important gentleman such as yourself. No, just... a favour. Kill the Walking Man. He really is terribly bad for business, with his limited and inflexible morality. Even though both his wonderful guns came from here, if he only knew . . .”
I decided not to pursue that. I didn’t think I really wanted to know. But still . . . kill the Walking Man? He had to be stopped, and stopped hard, but who was I to remove such a vital agent of the Good from this world? He did kill people who needed killing. Mostly. He was wrong about the new Authorities, but I still thought I could talk him out of that if I could just make him stop long enough to listen. And even the Walking Man would stop and pay attention with the Speaking Gun aimed right at him. Anyone would. But if he wouldn’t, couldn’t, listen . . . Then I would kill him if I had to. His view of the world, of the Nightside, of people . . . was too limited. I had to think of the greater good.
And no, the irony of that wasn’t lost on me.
Mr. Usher came to a sudden halt and stepped aside, indicating a particular spot on a particular shelf with a theatrical wave of the hand. I recognised the small black case immediately. I looked at it for a long moment as my breathing speeded up and small beads of sweat popped out on my brow. My hands had clenched into fists. I knew how the box would feel if I picked it up—eerily light and strangely delicate, though nothing in this world could break or damage it. The case was about a foot long, maybe eight inches wide, its surface a strangely dull matte black, a darkness so complete that light seemed to fall into it.
Seeing that I had made no move to touch it, Mr. Usher took the case off the shelf and offered it to me. Holding it didn’t seem to affect him at all. I still didn’t want to touch it. I leaned forward and pretended to examine the only marking on the lid of the case, a large letter C with a stylised crown inside it. The mark of the Collector, the only man ever to own the Speaking Gun and not use it. Because for him, ownership was everything.
“Open it,” I said, and Mr. Usher smiled broadly.
He lifted the lid of the black case, and there it was, nestling in its bed of black velvet. The smell hit me first, of mad dogs in heat and the sweat of horses being dragged screaming to the abattoir. The stench of spilled blood and guts. The Speaking Gun looked just as I remembered. It was made of meat, of flesh and skin and bone, of dark-veined gristle and shards of cartilage, all held together with long strips of pale skin. Slabs of bone made up the handle, surrounded by freckled skin, that had a hot and sweaty look. The trigger was a canine tooth, and the red meat of the barrel glistened wetly. It was a thing, the ultimate killing tool, and it was alive.
Chandra Singh leaned in close beside me for a better look, and I could sense his revulsion.
“Is that really it?” he said finally, his voice hushed and strangely respectful.
“Yes,” I said. “The gun created specifically to kill angels, from Above and Below.”
“Who would want such a thing?” said Chandra. “Who ordered it made?”
“I don’t think anyone really knows,” I said. I looked at Mr. Usher, but he had nothing to say. I looked back at the Gun, in its case. “I’ve heard Merlin Satanspawn’s name mentioned, but he gets the blame for most bad things, on general principles. Then there’s the Engineer, or the Howling Thing . . . There is a name marked on the Gun somewhere—of its original manufacturers, Abraxus Artificers.”
“Ah yes,” said Mr. Usher. “The old firm. The sons of Cain, solving problems since the Beginning. They’re responsible for many of the more impressive items on my shelves.”
“You know them?” I said.
“Not . . . as such, sir. I know my place.”
The Speaking Gun stirred in its black velvet. I could feel its rage and hate. It remembered me, and how I fought to use it rather than have it use me. I hoped it didn’t know that someday in its future, I would be the one to finally put an end to it.
“Close the lid,” I said, and Mr. Usher did so with an elegant flourish. I made myself take hold of the case and slipped it quickly into a pocket inside my coat, next to my heart. I could still hear it breathing. I looked at Chandra.
“Time to go,” I said.
“Quite definitely,” he said, sounding distinctly relieved. “This is no place for a holy man.”
“You’re not the first,” said Mr. Usher equitably. “And you won’t be the last.” He looked at me. “See you again, sir?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Suzie would love this place. Perhaps I’ll bring her here for her Christmas treat.”
We’d only just left the Gun Shop when my cell phone rang. It still plays the theme from the Twilight Zone. When I find a joke I like, I tend to stick with it. Walker’s voice sounded urgently in my ear.
“The Walking Man is on his way to the Adventurers Club. He’s coming for the new Authorities, and even my best people are barely slowing him down. Tell me you have something that will put him in his place.”
“I have something,” I said. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“How very typical of you, John,” said Walker.