The group finally broke for the day, agreeing to meet with Lyceum personnel one more time in the morning before setting off on their venture. This gave everyone an opportunity to hit the marketplace and load up on items deemed personally necessary for the journey.

Rip headed straight toward his favorite gun merchant, still set up near the back and far from the more heavily trafficked front part of Weapons Row.

“Ms. Peat, how are you today?”

“Oh! Sergeant Coulter, how may I help you?”

She looked up from the back of her booth where a young boy valiantly loaded drum magazines with bullets. By the looks of the pile on the table nearby, Rip thought he must have been working at it for hours.

The boy’s fingers looked raw, and Rip noted blood on the tips. The drums were not particularly difficult to load, but many of the stick magazines grew progressively more difficult to top off. And it appeared the boy had loaded many, many stick magazines.

“You see, Jerry? I told you Sergeant Coulter is a customer.”

The young boy, Rip estimated him at 12 years old, maybe 13, looked up from the dreary task and his face brightened.

He left the magazines and bullets behind, running up to the front of the booth.

“Are you really from another world? Did you take down two black airships? You’re a sergeant? But you’re a subject of Umbria now, right?”

He smiled at the sudden burst of youthful enthusiasm.

“Yes to all of the above. Let me look at your fingers, I’ve got something for that.”

The boy held out his bloody hands and Rip reached into one of his wallets filled with healing potions.

“Let’s see. I’m unsure if you need to drink it or just apply a drop. We’ll find out.”

Rip carefully poured a little liquid on the bleeding fingertips.

Jerry gasped and held his hands in front of his face, wiggling the healed digits.

“Look, Mari! All better.”

“What will those boffins think of next?” Marigold said. “At least, I presume this came from the Lyceum.”

“Yes, I’m not sure they’re on the market yet,” Rip said. “Anyway, why don’t you keep this bottle? I think they loaded us up with everything they have for an upcoming mission.”

“Oh? Going back down under Chelsea again?”

“You know about that?”

“Sergeant Coulter, your every exploit is dutifully reported in all the papers. Jerry and I do keep up. Although, I only have time for the Trumpet, myself.”

“Yeah, that’s a good one. I appreciate their coverage, they seem pretty balanced.”

She smiled, seemingly pleased he liked her favorite newspaper.

“Well, if I am to keep this pre-market item from the boffins, I’ll have to give you something in kind. What can I do for you today?”

“Actually, I wanted your opinion on enhanced ammunition.”

He reached into his other wallet and pulled out a box of 50 rounds. Mirabel’s eyebrows shot up.

“Hm. It’s hard to tell just by looking. Supposedly there are tests you can run on inanimate objects. But again, if the boffins gave this to you, we can safely presume these are, in fact, enhanced. I must say, enhanced ammunition is quite rare.”

“Probably because it’s so expendable, I imagine.”

“Quite right. This box can be shot up toot sweet. Also, there is some concern about firing it in mundane weapons.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’ve read reports of Thompson sub machineguns jamming when trying to rapid fire enhanced bullets. My father had just the solution, though. Wait one moment.”

She went to the back of the booth and started digging through some wooden crates.

“What’s it like to climb up into one of those black airships and kill everybody onboard in cold blood?”

Rip looked down at the wide-eyed boy staring up at him with worshipful eyes. He racked his brain for an appropriate response.

While he appreciated the positive vibes, he did not feel right inciting bloodlust in the kid.

“I, uh . . . don’t recommend you try it.”

“Here we are,” Marigold said, returning with two hefty revolvers.

Rip thought they looked thicker than normal guns. They were certainly bulkier than usual.

She said, “These were a one-off run by Webley and Sons. The company only made a hundred of these. They’re heavier than most other revolvers because even though they are mundane, they are designed to shoot enhanced bullets. They are top-breakers, like all the others. Ordinarily, Webleys shoot the .455 Webley cartridge, and some have been produced that shoot .38. But these have a modified cylinder designed specifically for the .45 auto. And with half-moon clips, you can quickly load them three at a time.”

She held out her hand, and Ripley gave her some bullets.

“It makes it easy to reload if you have the bullets already clipped. Jerry, take these and load up the rest of this box, please.”

The boy reluctantly took his eyes off Rip. Frowning, he began fitting bullets into the thin metal half-moon clips his sister gave him, but he did not complain out loud.

Watching him work, Rip had a thought.

“Do you have any speed loaders?”

“What are those, Sergeant?”

“They look sort of like a revolver’s cylinder, holding the bullets in place. They have a plunger in the back that pushes them out and into a revolver. So, they let you load six bullets in one smooth motion rather than one at a time.”

Marigold’s eyes narrowed as she mulled over the description.

“We do not have such a device. This is from your world? I know someone who might be able to fashion what you have described.”

“Good. I’ll buy some if you can make them. Now, how much for the heavy Webleys?”

“They were my father’s. He never shot enhanced ammunition in them, though. He procured them in a card game in Liverpool from a Swedish sailor when he was young. In fact, these guns are what sparked his interest in the arms business. He was quite enamored with them.”

“I see. Well, I can’t take them, then. They’re family heirlooms.”

He pushed the gun back on the counter.

“On the contrary, Sergeant. I think Father would have very much liked you to have these. For one thing, someone will finally get a chance to fire the ammunition they were made for.”

She pushed it back toward him, then put the second one down on the counter next to it. He looked at the determined expression on her face and slowly nodded.

“Okay. How much do you want for them? And don’t say I can have them in exchange for the healing potion. That elixir is not worth that much.”

After a round of negotiation, they settled on a price. Rip bought a pair of shoulder holsters to carry the Webleys. Then he bought even more ammo, and several 100 round drums Jerry had spent the day loading.

Everything went into the wallets, except for the holsters and Webleys, which he put on under his jacket.

He bid farewell to Marigold and her little brother, then wandered around the marketplace to pick up a few more necessities.

At last he decided there was one last thing he did not want to leave without buying, and he wanted to bring along enough for everyone going.

He found what he was looking for in a booth near the middle of the marketplace. It looked like a tactical gear shop, decked out with goggles and gloves and other similar accessories.

The proprietor, a middle-aged man with a long gray beard smiled at him from his stool in the middle of the space.

“How can I assist you, my good fellow?”

Rip pointed to the items hanging on the back wall of his booth.

“I’ll take every gas mask you have.”