Here among the bellows and the furnaces he works. Barely noticing the roar of the flames, the deafening hammering, the sweltering heat that sears every exposed inch of skin. To some it is a scene from hell, to him; just another day’s work.

There was not a room in the Kevan family home that did not warrant use of the word 'opulent'. Even this one, despite its lowly purpose, was richly decorated, its walls painted to depict historical scenes, its doors hung with soft, cloth curtains, its floor polished and, at one end of the room, a magnificent chair of polished, black metal. It was on this chair that Kevan Tal now sat, looking down at the figure who knelt on the floor before him. Conversation was through an intermediary of course, but it was still an honour for a ‘worker’ of any sort to be summoned into the presence of one of the nobility.

That said, if any craftsman was likely to obtain an audience with a noble, then it was a Gunsmith. Part artist, part artisan and yet producing an item of furious practicality, a status symbol as much as a tool. It was not so unusual for a gunsmith to be retained for some personal commission, and such a commission might well have specific requirements, the sort of thing that was best discussed as close to face to face as social boundaries would allow.

Through an immaculately attired attendant, Kevan Tal conveyed what he desired to the gunsmith who, again through the attendant, asked a few questions, made a few suggestions and went over any prospective problems. It was as well to get these details out of the way now, it was very unlikely that the gunsmith would get another such audience until the commission was complete, and Kevan Tal was a man who always got what he wanted.