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And then I blinked, and almost fell back a step, as the Gun Shop’s owner, or manager, or high priest was suddenly right there before me. A respectable-looking middle-aged man in a respectable suit, with a broad square face, retreating hair, and rimless eyeglasses, he looked more like an undertaker than anything else. Which was only appropriate, I suppose. He had that quiet, remorseless calm that comes from dealing with death on a regular basis, and his warm, professional smile didn’t touch his calm dead eyes at all. He nodded briskly to me, then to Chandra. My skin crawled. It was like being noticed by some poisonous snake or spider that might strike at any moment. He was an icon of suffering and slaughter; cold-eyed, cold-hearted, always ready to cut a deal, everything for sale but nothing on credit. And why not? You didn’t come to the Gun Shop for a gun. You came to get yourself an unfair advantage, a weapon so powerful no-one could stand against it.
“Good to see you at last, Mr. Taylor,” said the storekeeper, in a voice like every salesman you’ve ever heard. The ones who don’t have to try too hard, because everyone wants what they’ve got. “Always knew you’d drop in, eventually. Everyone does, eventually. And Mr. Chandra Singh, renowned monster hunter. How nice. You may call me Mr. Usher, if you wish. What can I do for you?”
“Are you a god?” said Chandra, honestly curious.
“Bless you, no, sir,” said Mr. Usher. “Nothing so limited. Gods may come and beings may go, but the Gun Shop goes on forever. I am the human face of this establishment. An extension of the Gun Shop, if you will. Because people find it easier to discuss business with something that looks like people. I am the Gun Shop.”
“So . . . you’re not really real, then?” Chandra persisted.
“I’m as real as the Shop is, sir. And the Gun Shop is very real and very old. Many names, but one nature. Ah, sir, the old jokes are still the best. I always find a little humour helps the medicine go down more easily, as it were. I see you have a broken weapon about your person, sir. A most excellent and powerful sword, sadly now in two pieces, its very nature abused and shattered. Such a shame. Would you like me to repair it for you, sir?”
“No he wouldn’t,” I said quickly. “Tell him, Chandra. He could do it, but the sword would never be the same afterwards. And you really wouldn’t want to pay the price he’d ask.”
“I am quite capable of making my own decisions,” Chandra said stiffly. “The sword was entrusted to me, and I allowed it to be broken. I have a duty to see it repaired. If it can be repaired.”
“Oh it can, sir, it really can,” said Mr. Usher. “I know all there is to know about swords.”
“Including restoring its true nature?” I said.
“Ah,” said Mr. Usher, reluctantly. “Well, no. You have me there, sir. I deal strictly with the material, not the spiritual.”
“Then I ca
“As you wish, sir.” Mr. Usher turned his attention away from Chandra to concentrate on me. “Mr. Taylor, what brings you at long last to the Gun Shop?”
“You know why I’m here,” I said, keeping my voice cold and unmoved. “It’s your business to know things like that. I’m here for the Speaking Gun.”
“Oh yes, sir,” said Mr. Usher, reverently. “Of course. A most remarkable weapon. Older than the Nightside, they say. Certainly older than I am. A gun that is so feared and worshipped it’s practically a god in itself.”
“I destroyed it, not long ago,” I said.
“Why bless you, sir, I don’t think so. Oh, you may have put an end to its story in the here and now, but it still persists, in other times and places. It will always exist somewhere, in the Past or some Future time-line.”
“How can that be?” said Chandra, frowning.
“Because it’s fished for,” I said. “It’s always being looked for, stalked, and possessed by various talented individuals with more ambition than sense. Like the Collector. You have heard of the Collector, Chandra?”
“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 begi
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.