The Junction City Ordnance Works smelled of hot cutting oil, graphite lubricant, and melted brass.
Giles Croft stood before a self-running check bench. It rolled a polished metal dart between his fingers.
The dart was fifteen inches long, three inches thick at the waist, machined from dense heavy dark metal-hardened carbon-iron.
Around its midsection was a soft brass driving band, designed to engage the rifling lands of the rail-lance barrels.
Beside Giles stood three elderly guild weapon-masters from the newly annexed provinces, their velvet tunics stitched with gold hammers.
Guildmaster Justin of the Royal Armory looked at the metal dart with unconcealed disgust.
“Where is the holy stone carving?” Justin demanded, shaking his grey head. “Where is the prayer of unerring flight carved into the fuller? Where is the drop of consecrated oil on the tip?”
Giles set the dart down into a sight comparator bench.
