A Bullet Or Two

Chapter 1.1: The Gunsmith of Bourgerdown

Bourgerdown. The broken town just north of the capital of Farhilm. One that almost made itself a landmark on the map with its expanse of red clover and ox-eye daisy meadows, until it mowed them down with numerous scythes for days and nights. All to make way for new inns, taverns, and markets. It's one piece of notoriety vanished, along with any tourist that had previously visited to see the red, purple, and white petals.

Delilah hated the town.

She avoided it as much as she avoided the cosy coffee houses on the street corners of East City. They were too colourful for her to stomach and too deprived of real living nature for her to take one comfortable breath of air. Whoever thought destroying the meadows would bolster Bourgerdown should get his hand hacked off. He had robbed the town of the only thing that made it appetising.

Delilah had spent nearly a month there at the Baron's request – her knowledge of the place was more of use to him than any of his other subordinates he had said. Jonnie joined her a week or two earlier. For carrying the merchandise, or some other silly lie.

He lounged in the rickety chair across the table, rocking back and forth on its hind legs. A glass in his hand emptied as he chugged down another pint of ale. Delilah blew the strand of brown hair against her lip away. "You've really gone all out for this, huh?" He said, continuing to rock back and forth, although now, his mossy eyes looked only at her, the glass empty on the table. She smirked and rested on her hand. Redder lips, some blush on her cheeks and a few curls were not what she thought going all out was. "Better than looking like I slept on a bench."

A deep chuckle emerged from Jonnie. A sound she only heard when he was isolated from the rest of her step-father's guards. Her smirk engraved further in her cheeks.

The front legs of his chair met the wooden floor, a place they hadn't touched since the two had arrived at the tavern the hour before. Jonnie pulled himself closer to Delilah, his bare arms taking up the brunt of his weight as he leaned across the table. She had persuaded him to roll his sleeves, to look more like a working man than gentleman. Yet, she knew it was more so for her pleasure. If he were supervising her, like she thought, then she might as well humour herself. They kept their voices low, almost to a whisper. The tavern was small. Its five or six tables covered the ground floor, with only two occupied other than theirs, and the few square feet to the back of the room was left empty, a space for the musicians when they could be bothered to show. The whispering was necessary.

"You sure you wanna do this?" Jonnie asked.

"Baron needs me to, you know that. Just...do not wander off." She could not be left alone again. A glance around the room made her gulp. Still not many people there and if the job took a turn...

His eyes rolled. "You know I won't. Not again."

The silence was heavy. His job was to keep her safe - supervise and report - but she knew...she wanted to believe his concern was not as artificial as that. Not after the last job like this. She tugged her neckline further up, positioned the sleeves slightly off her shoulders, and stood up.

---

The seats beside her at the bar were empty, except for an unconscious drifter that occupied the furthest away – and by furthest away that meant only a couple stalls down and still close enough to hear his deep snoring. The barmaid tried to keep herself busy. Scurrying back and forth between the four unoccupied tables, cleaning them repeatedly even though they remained untouched. Occasionally she would stop at the corner table and offer Jonnie another drink. She had hardly spared time to interact with Delilah at the bar, other than to pour her a half-pint of ale and ask about how Delilah was finding her time in Bourgerdown.

The tavern was a perfect location. It wasn't too far from the gunsmith's home, nor too close, it was situated just on the outskirts of the town, right next to where the meadows had once been. The view from the windows had been lovely when Delilah was young. Baron had taken her ten-year-old self there for a few months in the summer. The longest time the sun had shone without rain. Daisies bunched in her hands as she had skipped back to the tavern one day, ready to give them to her Mother and new father as a belated wedding gift.

Down the road was the station, where the two could board the train in the morning with little interference. It was by all means the perfect location both for the gunsmith to spend his evenings with pretty travellers and for Jonnie and her to escape from the horrid little town whenever they wished.

As the night hurried on, Delilah drummed her trimmed nails against the polished wood. Her lips felt like they were cracking, yearning for more bitter ale to soften them. Four nights consecutively without a trip to drunken paradise was unlike him, especially when throughout the past month she had found the gunsmith lying in his own vomit at least three times a week. Delilah glanced to Jonnie in the corner, he shuffled in his seat, impatience wearing him down as they waited and waited. This was not going in her favour. Upon barging into her room at the inn, he had requested every detail about the gunsmith collected so far. Exact details about where he was at certain times, what he did throughout the day, all the way down to how long he spent in the bathroom. Of course, Delilah had all the answers. A year of no work had not wiped away all the protocol hammered into her memory. Yet, the one time the gunsmith chose to deviate from his daily schedule was the day she put her plan into action.

It never went in her favour. Every job something would go wrong. When she hesitated to open the front door of the manor in Bloomsdale, Jonnie merely nodded to her. Nodded and then grabbed the sack filled with the Duke's money as he marched to the back door. She followed. A dog on a leash that had failed to catch its prey. She had not realised that the guards would change schedule, that they would be by the front door, not the estate gates.

Delilah hated that Jonnie always ended up saving the job.

Small glances transitioned to completely looking at him and her pulse quickened. One glass sat empty. A third clenched in his hands. He must hate her. Truly. Instead of being with his colleagues, his friends, family – whoever yearned for his company back home -he was here. Guard duty for the pretentious rich girl, too scared to work alone. Her step-father's money was the only incentive. Delilah flicked at her nails, unsure whether to turn her eyes away or continue watching him.

Too late.

Their eyes met.

She could not place the look in them. Concern? Annoyance? They all looked too similar. However, his shoulders seemed to release the longer their gaze lasted.

Perhaps the gunsmith's wife was keeping her husband confined at home. Or at most trying to.

Three empty glasses lingered on the bar. One more drink than Jonnie had consumed. Her vision was starting to blur, and her limbs felt heavier as she slumped on her stall. Perhaps it was for the best that the gunsmith was late. She could escape for another night. Postpone the inevitable situation she was tasked with getting herself in. It had only been a year since the last time. A year-long pause in her career. Another to bring her back from the disaster she had caused and to reassert her worth in Baron's mind. Her hands shook more and more. One more drink. She needed to order one more. Jonnie would scold her when they returned to their rented room, but right now as she dreaded the touch of another man, she needed that drink.