Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy

Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy Christopher Byford Enter a world of sin and fantasy in this collection of fantastical stories!Welcome to the Gambler’s Den where every night is a party, and every day is a battle with the law…Den of ShadowsWhile fighting off poverty in the blistering desert heat a travelling casino offers one night of solace. One chance to change your fortunes. But once on board there is more to the show than meets the eye: enter Franco, the elaborate ringleader, Wyld the stowaway thief and Misu the fire breathing showgirl.In a kingdom ruled by the law Franco ensures his den remains in line. But when he’s faced with saving the fate of the train, and those on board, he may be forced to break his own rules. Life on the den isn’t just a job but a way of life and once you’re in you’ll never be able to leave.Den of StarsThe Gambler’s Den lies in ruins, its staff scattered across the Sand Sea, all but a memory of the minds of its past patrons. But when the Morning Star appears, ruled by a mysterious figure known only as the Hare, the comparisons can’t be helped. Who is this larger-than-life character? Why do the showgirls wear masks? What are they hiding? The answer…they should be dead.Franco and Misu were safe only in their anonymity, but with Franco gone Misu must find him – jeopardising all they have built. In order to save the man she trusts Misu must put her faith in the villain.Wilheim does not forget disobedience lightly, and Misu’s was a great betrayal, so now he will call in his debt, and his revenge on the staff of the Morning Star.Den of SmokeThere is always someone ready to take the title villain…Jackdaw may once have been a part of Wilheim’s gang but now he’s looking for a new life, a free life.But will he be able to shake his past for good, or will he end up in a worse position than he was before?Readers love Christopher Byford:‘Definitely recommend this book, it has something for everyone’‘Beautifully Descriptive’‘full of mystery, intrigue and felt a little bit magical’‘Christopher Byford has created a world that had me blown away!’ Welcome to the Gambler’s Den where every night is a party, and every day is a battle with the law… Den of Shadows While fighting off poverty in the blistering desert heat a travelling casino offers one night of solace. One chance to change your fortunes. But once on board there is more to the show than meets the eye: enter Franco, the elaborate ringleader, Wyld the stowaway thief and Misu the fire breathing showgirl. In a kingdom ruled by the law Franco ensures his den remains in line. But when he’s faced with saving the fate of the train, and those on board, he may be forced to break his own rules. Life on the den isn’t just a job but a way of life and once you’re in you’ll never be able to leave. Den of Stars The Gambler’s Den lies in ruins, its staff scattered across the Sand Sea, all but a memory of the minds of its past patrons. But when the Morning Star appears, ruled by a mysterious figure known only as the Hare, the comparisons can’t be helped. Who is this larger-than-life character? Why do the showgirls wear masks? What are they hiding? The answer…they should be dead. Franco and Misu were safe only in their anonymity, but with Franco gone Misu must find him – jeopardising all they have built. In order to save the man she trusts Misu must put her faith in the villain Wilheim does not forget disobedience lightly, and Misu’s was a great betrayal, so now he will call in his debt, and his revenge on the staff of the Morning Star. Den of Smoke There is always someone ready to take the title villain… Jackdaw may once have been a part of Willheim’s gang but now he’s looking for a new life, a free life. But will he be able to shake his past for good, or will he end up in a worse position than he was before? CHRISTOPHER BYFORD was born in 1980 in Wellingborough, England. He learnt to walk whilst holding onto a Golden Retriever and fondly remembers the days of BMX bikes and conker matches. He left college to suffer as an IT Manager for a small multinational before, in his words, escaping to Gloucester. After working for some large tech companies he seized the opportunity to become a full time author. It was the best thing he’s ever done. Also by Christopher Byford The Gambler's Den Series Den of Shadows Den of Stars Den of Smoke Den of Shadows Collection Christopher Byford ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES Copyright (#ulink_f5bc7435-01a9-5515-ba86-99368afb97fd) An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018 Copyright © Christopher Byford 2018 Christopher Byford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. E-book Edition © December 2018 ISBN: 9780008314446 Version: 2018-11-01 Contents Cover (#uff405e66-49d9-56df-9640-af922aa40b32) Blurb (#ud1ffc025-5137-506e-a556-4f7049d92363) Author Bio (#u9a1448c4-3057-558e-bade-f6462af3aff3) Also by (#u0042b716-18f0-5727-948a-6b49554b35a1) Title Page (#ufbe5b588-640f-5e6c-bdca-40e268dd0be9) Copyright (#ulink_5963a853-a733-5964-947e-d31e3ed183da) Den of Shadows (#ud38f575f-34c7-59ef-ab29-e1839c5a6b70) Den of Stars (#litres_trial_promo) Den of Smoke (#litres_trial_promo) Bonus Chapter (#litres_trial_promo) Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Den of Shadows Acknowledgements (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73) Den of Shadows was the product of grit, determination and outright stubbornness on my part but like all things, required the input of others to become what you read now. Not thanking these individuals would be inappropriate. My father, Allan, who seeded the concept for Den of Shadows in my youth despite being completely unaware of this. My wife Emma. No greater muse could there be for someone such as I. You helped me forge the underlying concept into something respectable. Corinne, Hayley & Debs, for providing much needed spirit for some characters. All the great team at HQ for their hard work, especially Hannah who saw something worthwhile to share to the world. And to you, reading this now. Thank you for coming along for the journey. To all those who proved that chance, luck and good fortune can pay off, no matter the stakes. For my mother and father. Chapter One (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73) The Arrival Everyone in Surenth deserved one fine time regardless of their status. Not that any who lived in the region would confess to expecting such a thing. The lush green kingdom of Eifera was a paradise compared to other nations. Rolling hills were peppered with mountain ranges, bountiful forests harboured lakes and rivers, with abundant wildlife that ascended to the fabulous. Everything was plentiful and living was joyous. This delight all came at a cost. Rather than allow the beautiful landscape to be scarred with quarries and pits, the nation decided to source its raw materials in a place already awash with natural ruin. Far southwards, past the mountain range that served as a natural partition, where the climate grew drier and the living much harder, was the region of Surenth, home to the Sand Sea. The moniker came about from the expanse of desert that ran through the lands from top to bottom. It was enclosed by numerous natural deficits: canyons that dipped and rose, forcing the shifting sands to be contained in a natural, mountain-flanked basin. The Sand Sea was the first thing anybody saw when venturing into the region and also undoubtedly the last. The only people who ventured to Surenth did so with the intent of making their fortune or with the intent of never being seen again. Its grizzly reputation as a dangerous, lawless place did plenty to encourage fireside stories and children’s tales, used mainly to scare and rarely to entertain. It was difficult to venture to or from the terrain, even more inhospitable to live in. It was a blank space on many a map and remained that way for quite some time, until the settlers formed a route, establishing the frontier. The prospect of money to be made encouraged rushes for every ore imaginable, coaxing scores in convoy to the most prosperous locations to begin building settlements. Mines followed soon after, using the concept of blasting out the rock with dynamite to reach any metals the land harboured. Whilst dead on the surface, Surenth was found to be concealing an abundance of riches beneath. Seams of ores, metals, and minerals were corpulent. To collect, all one had to do was survive the land, which was a hardship in itself. Outposts became settlements, settlements ballooned to villages, and villages to towns. This was not always the case, of course, but those depending on accompanying trade routes seemed to swell the quickest. This in turn brought all manner of problems, mainly transportation – which is why the First Grand Surenth Railroad threaded itself as best it could between points. The Sand Sea itself was served by routes when possible, but its expanse and inhospitably restricted plenty. Where the locomotives couldn’t haul, sand ships – colossal steam vehicles clad with caterpillar tracks – ventured through the expanses. Trade became testament to survival, though with the exchange of money came the greed of those unwilling to earn it in the conventional sense. Lawlessness was rife. Those who ran the towns had little regard for the common folk or were as corrupt as they came. These were open secrets and ones nobody dared address in the open – lest they found themselves sharing the desert with the sun-bleached bones of the locals. Disillusioned, people simply carried out their work as intended, drinking away sobriety at the end of each hard shift and repeating the process until death. Even then, new hands were not hard to come by. There was always someone so blinkered by the goal of making wealth that they would take to the mines for a pittance. Fortune was fickle in Surenth. It gave bounty with one hand and stole it with the other, interchanging as it so pleased. Rustec was one of these places that fortune had seemingly shunned for good. Hardship after hardship fell upon it with no sign of stopping. The wells were infested with some sort of sickness. Then the livestock was stricken with illness. Some lawless folk decided to cause an inconvenience by relieving the local bank of its money and two tellers of their lives. And all of this in the space of a month. The latest blight to hit Rustec was being announced with a volley from the town whistle. It had blown shrill for the last three minutes and showed no sign of stopping. As it had the time before this, the time before that, and no doubt many more that would come after today. Factory workers rushed to secure their workplaces. People ran through the streets to their homes and shuttered their windows, fastening them tightly with hammers and nails. Some felt comfort in prayer. There wasn’t enough time to fully prepare, of course – there never was. All they could do was hunker down and hope for the best. Sandstorms that were brewed in the Sand Sea were devilish affairs. They moved quicker than any others ever known and had a curious tendency to make one feel that the world was coming to an end. When it finally passed in large drifts, it congregated in alleyways, making some nigh on impassable. Doorways collected their share, forcing emerging residents to either heave them aside or resort to leaving via windows. Immediately everyone fell into routine. Shovels were retrieved and the digging began, clearing roads and pathways, whilst freeing anybody who had become trapped in their houses. Horses were attached to carts and loads of sand were hauled out to the outskirts and dumped back from whence it came. The trappers’ market had been completely overturned with a number of animals unaccounted for whilst others lay dead in their cages. Their journeys would have to be written off as losses. The market square itself had escaped most of the damage, despite the stalls themselves being completely absent except for the tatters of some cloth overhangs. Routes both by foot and rail in and out of the town had been completely blocked – a considerable inconvenience being that regular shipments of food were essential to the locals’ survival. Without the trains delivering goods, Rustec, like many others in the region, would suffer greatly. At the final count, four lost their lives – all morning drinkers who were comatose by the time the town whistle crowed. Thankfully, as dust-storms go, this was one of the milder ones. By mid-afternoon, most of the town was cleared and the large train tracks that came from the northern territories had been made accessible again, so the supply deliveries could resume, if a little later than planned. Rustec’s train station got away relatively unscathed. The gothic sand-lime brick assembly and deep platform awnings were complemented by iron columns with sturdy spandrels. The combination of these ensured that a good deal of the sand was deflected from the tracks themselves, making the clean-up reasonably painless. In fact, the only damage it suffered was when the station clock that was attached to one of these awnings was blown down, inflicting a crack upon its face. The stationmaster had set himself up a rickety ladder and proceeded to rehang the timepiece when he noticed the commotion out front. With everyone so concerned with the damage, nobody had noticed the single addition that had been made to the front of the station house. Its attention was first gained by a passer-by who queried why a street urchin stood stock-still in the daytime instead of putting their hands to greater use. When they had noticed what the child was paying attention to, they immediately followed suit. A crowd grew as word trickled out of the finding and by the time the stationmaster emerged to query the fuss, there was a fair congregation. Big news travelled rapidly in such a small community. Hanging from the protruding iron gas lamp near the entrance, the subject of curiosity fluttered slowly. It spanned four by ten hands’ length of well-woven cloth and was tasselled with gold accents. The material itself was dyed in a royal blue with shimmering gold edging that harboured ornate decorative elements. For some, it was grandeur on a scale never witnessed before. None of this, however, took away from the brush-scripted proclamation. It had been completed by hand judging by the minor imperfections, but it was worded in the way one would write a dear friend an invite. Except this invitation was to the entire town. Congratulations citizens! I have the utmost pleasure in informing you that the dreary days of boredom will be a thing of the past! Let the streets ring in celebration and of joyous rapture once again! Forget your woes, bring your purse and, on the first of the month, await my arrival at your station no later than 6 p.m.! With regards and well wishes, Your Servant - F When word got out of its presence, scores craned their necks upward to speculate as to the exact nature of its presence and who this ‘F’ individual was. Naturally a few claimed to have the answers and promised to provide them on payment of drink, though the only thing they earned was disdain from their peers. The stationmaster was quite taken aback at the attention and had insisted they removed the addition on account of it being a hazard, but the outcry was so great he had no choice but to concede. There the invitation stayed and was scrutinized. The first of the month was only five days away and this was an unfathomable time to fill with speculation, but somehow the people managed. Gossip was rife over factory floors, where even the chattering machines failed to drown out the latest guesswork. There was not a stallholder you could talk to or a drinking hole you could indulge in without the mysterious invitation becoming the main topic of conversation. Even the most grizzled of labourers found themselves accommodating such talk. Rustec was abuzz with rumour. Just exactly where had that flyer come from, and who was this entertainer making such promises? More to the point, why would they visit this wind-ravaged dustbowl? Things reached such a fervour that the town’s own mayor had to issue a statement urging calm, but this did little. The people of Rustec had scant offerings to look forward to, so something so theatrical ensured a wildfire of excitement to blaze between households. Children had become frenzied, running around the streets in playful packs. The community was energized in a way it had never been before, brushing away years of toil with thrill. The dawning of the day came and with that sunrise the expectations of the locals reached their height. Despite it being a day like any other, anticipation made time pass at a crawl. The heat remained scorching. Excitable rail station staff each conjectured whilst unloading deliveries, taking bets on whether the entire situation was an elaborate ruse. The markets were heaving with people, experiencing a surge in popularity as word had spread to some of the minor settlements nearby. Trapping parties had returned in possession of the more unusual creatures that roamed the wastelands, sure to bring a good price upon their sale, all the more likely with the influx of curiosity seekers. The town was filled with excitement and these high spirits had rubbed off on every aspect of the population’s day-to-day routine. People worked hard to make the time pass faster, ignoring the chimes of clock bells until the afternoon waned. When the sun did begin to fall on the horizon, everyone gathered in the town station – a bustling and murmuring crowd. Bodies packed every platform, stared from every window, and even resorted to climbing onto the rooftop for a better view, though a view of what they still did not know. The station clock bell chimed six times, prompting total silence. The announcement seemed premature as the time ticked on. Thirty seconds reached sixty. A minute became five. Doubting whispers began. Then, in unison, the people saw it. Excited cheers emanated as those on the platform turned their sights down the tracks. On the horizon, a small shape hugged the railroad that carved through the canyon, a trail of white following with each contour before speeding out and into clear view. Plumes of thick steam belched into the fading sky. The locomotive’s wheels pounded the rails in urgency, racing to its destination. Dust-storm or no, the train was never late. It had the most urgent of appointments to keep. * * * On board, the carriage’s interiors were veiled in darkness. Lamps had been extinguished, leaving a line of silhouetted figures standing in well-rehearsed placements, patient and silent. As the man strode through, he flattened his jacket lapels, rechecked his cufflinks for the umpteenth time, and resisted the urge to view those he passed. They were perfect, down to the smallest detail. Of course they were perfect. They were employed to be nothing but and had been educated well to maintain this quality. ‘We’re landing in five minutes everyone.’ He spoke firmly, with conviction. ‘Let’s give these nice folk something to talk about.’ The train’s rhythmic puffing subsided on approach, slowing as the locomotive advanced to the station and began to crawl alongside the platform edges. It blew no whistle, instead announcing itself by presence alone. The awe this vehicle inspired was borderline divine. Bright reds along each carriage emitted a vibrancy that many had forgotten out here in the desert. Paint normally became ruined by the extreme temperature changes, making it destined to crack and peel after its eventual submission. It was why any machinery in Rustec fell afoul of the environment and before long was thrown into a corroded heap. No such toil had taken this train though. One would have mistaken it to have rolled off the factory line that very day. The boiler exhaled in a glorious hiss; pistons creaked and groaned as the locomotive brought itself to a halt. The lavishly decorated vehicle exhaled steam as if it was a proud, generous creature who blessed everyone with its presence. A large swathe of white stars and red flares whipped in large contours along the gilded carriages. Striking italic letters spelt out the vehicle’s name. The Gambler’s Den It would be easy to conclude that this was just another train despite the theatrics, if the revellers didn’t take in those wonderful letters. The Gambler’s Den was nothing more than a myth in these parts – one that nobody believed to actually carry truth. Those who had heard the name from far-travelled traders, or from a drunk who bragged he had actually seen it, held their collective breaths in astonishment. Some called it a circus. Some referred to it as a carnival. Both were incorrect, for it was something much more grandiose. Each carriage, of which there were seven, held on to the front train and to one another in line. Each window was bestowed with gold leaf, extravagance oozing out of its structure and design. Shadows were witnessed moving inside but the low sun prevented any possible identification. The locomotive yawned a blast of steam over the platform that took to the breeze and covered all onlookers. When the steam took it upon itself to drift away, spotlights snapped from the carriage rooftops, swinging skyward, outward, and then back in again to aim at a single point atop carriage three. The lights struck carefully placed mirrors, launching a bevy of prismatic beams that decorated station and spectator alike. Standing within a halo of white stood a man, tall in stature and very much delighted at being among these wonderful individuals. His suit was that of regal finery, a formal decorated jacket with gold that chased lapel, pocket, and seam, clearly well tailored and thus of considerable expense. He was a man – mid-twenties from many guesses, though in truth in his late twenties – dressed smartly with a hint of eccentricity. He had a mane of auburn hair slicked back to a contour. A small, well-groomed goatee beard coupled with stubble caused the women in the crowd to fawn over his smouldering good looks, a feat encouraged by his charming smile that was frankly overkill. As he surveyed the faces, the now silent people gazed on in anticipation. The warm night breeze carried their communal anticipation to the man and he relished every lingering moment. He finally spoke. ‘People of Rustec, we are lucky to have generated such attention from your fine selves. I must say this turnout warms my heart in a way you cannot possibly imagine. Why, might you ask? Because I am in the presence of greatness. Each and every one of you keeps this wonderful town full of merriment, with your devotion and your labour! Why, without you, the mayor would simply have to be content with sitting in the dirt on his lonesome.’ This drew a ripple of laughter, surprisingly so from the mayor himself, something that brought about a stunned raise of the brow from an aide. ‘Out here in these hardships and yet you each endure them. What does this make you if not great? The word was invented for every face that looks upon me; though be aware I look at you with reverence. That is why I am here. You must all have questions and I am the one to answer them. Tonight, I am the servant of you magnificent people!’ While his arms were thrown upward, the carriage’s interiors sequentially snapped in illumination, bursts of light drowning out the meagre station gaslights. The spotlights swung back leaving only a single pair upon the flamboyant announcer. A sudden volley of fireworks took to the sky, sending up glittering reds, blues, and greens. ‘My name is Franco Del Monaire,’ he declared with the utmost pride. ‘I am called many things by many people. I was once, like your fine selves, a working man. Oh yes, I worked, and I toiled and like yourselves found little amusement in this world. Do you not feel the same?’ A cheer went up from the audience. ‘Fine people of Rustec, very fine people, do you not deserve amusement? You work your fingers to the very bone, slaving for that day’s wage. Do you not deserve to be rewarded? Do you not deserve to be entertained on this very night?’ Another blast of agreement came from the crowd, encouraging another smattering of colour to paint the twilight sky. The Gambler’s Den itself shuddered with action. Doors spilt forward from each carriage. From the last, a line of girls emerged, beautiful in appearance, attired in flowing crimson satin dresses, drawing attention to their bosoms. They stood aside their transportation and curtseyed in unison to the transfixed mass, impeccable smiles on each face. One of the carriage’s walls was disassembled, revealing a bar stocked with every type of beverage one could possibly wish for. Game tables decked the carriage’s interiors, covering every vice designed to part people from their money. Never had the mass seen such a sight. Such opulence! Such decadence! And it was for them. Only them. ‘Your pleas have been heard, fine people. In Her infinite wisdom She saw fit to direct us here, to you all, for this very night. Tonight, it was decided that you shall all be rewarded for your toil! We have the duty, nay, the pleasure to entertain every single one of your number!’ Cheers exploded as the man caught sight of the children hurriedly clapping before their parents. ‘It makes no difference how much lines your pockets! Your age and standing is far from our concern, as these are mindless trivialities. All are welcome through our doors! Drink, relax, and gamble in our company, my kind, new friends! Our delight is your indulgence! You are all our guests, here, at the Gambler’s Den this night!’ The announcement was punctuated with sequential spats of fireworks that ran above one carriage to the next. As Franco swung himself forward in a long, respectful bow and the air burst above him in stardust, Rustec communally erupted in delight. To be a showman of this magnitude took quite a considerable amount of presence and it was this trait that ensured Franco was mobbed no matter where he went. From the drinking tables on the platform itself, people would rise from their seats as he roamed about, responding to his encouragement or sparse conversation. Smiles adorned every face he saw, even the ones who had lost their money on foolhardy wagers. Hands repeatedly jutted out for shaking, every single one reciprocated warmly by their host. Thanks was given, constantly, and Franco accepted with utmost humility. Glasses were thrust in cheer, and those were met with cheer in return. Even declarations of affection were handled appropriately. The occasional flirtatious or outright scandalous suggestions were thwarted yet handled in a way that the offender felt no animosity. Quite the opposite in fact. Advice on the games was relentless, no matter which carriage he ventured into. When should one double down in Blackjack (‘a soft 17 if you wish to put me out of business’)? What numbers are the best to cover on the roulette table (‘all of them if you can afford it, but split over what feels lucky’)? How best to deceive at liar’s dice (‘never tell your spouse the truth and it’ll come naturally’) and countless more were answered. They were all questions he had provided answers to in the past, to other patrons in other places such as this; but all gained the impression that it was the first time such a thing was queried. The spectacle was in full swing. The train platform was awash with tables, packed with those enjoying both drink and company. The wealthy sat shoulder to shoulder with the poor with complete disregard for social standing. Money knew no such barriers and those across the spectrum made and lost theirs without prejudice. Worker and dockhand aside bank teller and accountant. The mayor himself drank boisterously, surrounded by pitmen – their coal-dusted overalls mirroring their unwashed faces. Flat caps were tossed into the air on the chorus of songs, the lyrics only broken when the mayor slipped and fell upon his backside, an accident he took in good humour and was helped back on his feet from. The only outcome from this was the demand for more drink, paid by the town coffers no less. The showgirls of the Gambler’s Den performed their roles impeccably. They waited the tables and poured the drinks, with naught a drop spilled and never an order wrong. They ushered and bantered, turning cards and dividing chips. Encouragement was served to those who succumbed to losses and congratulations to the ones who luck had sided with. All this was done with professionalism and a beat of lashes to encourage the slacking of purse strings. After all, as Franco would dictate, everyone was going to lose their money at some point. You may as well do so half drunk and at the mercy of a pretty smile. Any who were not hosting game tables were working front of house, gliding among their designated tables with trays of drinks. Each turn and sway was made with precision; every bat of the eyelashes and response a heady concoction that added to the ambience. While Franco provided his presence and luck played the cards and rolled the dice, the women in his employment very much bound the show together with their hospitality. Inevitably, the occasional letch or more intoxicated reveller would make an inappropriate advance or comment but these were quickly retracted. It only took a nod of the head for the train’s security to stroll over and correct any social mistakes. Apologies were quickly administered. Tips rose sharply. Come the strike of nine, three of the showgirls took to a makeshift stage and performed acts to rousing applause. One, freckled and adorned with a shock of red curls, demonstrated the mysterious art of hypnosis on the first individual who offered assistance. He himself loudly dismissed its effects until complying with the suggestion that he should forage around the platform like a chicken. The second performer, taller and raven-haired, showed a particular aptitude for ventriloquism. The spectacle brought riots of laughter as she proceeded to manipulate the conversation between two volunteering sisters to reveal secret absurdities. The final presentation in this extravaganza was reserved for the woman who differed from the others. She seemed to have an authority over the showgirls, seen at times to whisper suggestions into their ears. Instead of the uniformed dress that the others sported, she wore a variation with flair, extra lace here, a flow of ribbon there, punctuated with a slit up the skirt itself. On her command, the lights of the carriages faded to a low warmth. The beat of drums began to emanate from an unseen player as the woman took a handful of cast-iron torches and set them alight with the stroke of a match. The flames streaked through the air, lingering, tracing shapes, which gained in speed and complexity as the drums followed suit. Swiping a bottle of liquor from the bar carriage, she took and held a mouthful before launching a ball of flame into the night sky. The audience gasped and cooed as this was repeated. The air ignited violently, in each direction, with each spray from her lips. Some harbouring more nervous temperaments felt unnerved from the sudden rush of heat assaulting their faces but cautiously applauded when appropriate. As a finale, a torch was brought to her lips, then pulled away as the eruption started, launching the bellow skyward with frightening intensity. The woman bowed when done and the drums fell silent. Silently, and under hundreds of watchful eyes, she stood in profile and arched her form backwards. Each of the torches was slowly lowered with the flickering flame that plagued them extinguished with a clap of her mouth. When each was done, she straightened her back and bowed once more. The carriage lights were restored to luminescence. Expectedly the applause was deafening. There was no formal closing ceremony, though warm words were informally given. Midnight was celebrated by the star-clad sky being painted with gaudy, but spectacular, explosions. The hours crept on, thinning out attendees. The numbers simply dwindled the longer the time went on. Some made their retreat due to empty pockets. A good many ventured home when they had clearly consumed too much drink. Others simply couldn’t tolerate the hour and found the solace of a bed far too alluring. The night had been filled with good cheer, fine alcohol, and gracious company, ensuring that the Gambler’s Den legacy was secured for some time yet. When the last glass was emptied and the final cards played, the morning light had yet to begin breaking over the horizon. Come the morning, Rustec was still. The normally busy desert docks were silent. Huge transport ships sat in sequence with no stirring. The daily market was nowhere to be seen. Most were suffering from the aftereffects from the night before. Many had overindulged in food and drink, hangovers were being nursed, and the clean-up had begrudgingly begun. The moon remained in the sky, as did the morning stars, which would retire under the veil of light within the hour. The Gambler’s Den itself slowly began to show signs of life. Near the back of the train was the personnel carriage where the employees slept, a boxcar for storage, and a sweeping observation car at the end, outfitted as a lounge. Franco emerged from his personal carriage, half-dressed and scratching through his unkempt hair. The night had gone very well. As usual, small towns like this were full of those who needed entertainment and whilst money was difficult to earn, the philosophy of giving the people what they wanted, which Franco lived by, had paid dividends. The showgirls had now arisen and were set into the routine of cleaning up under the lazy light. It didn’t take long for the dusty station to be devoid of litter and broken glass, defying the fact that the evening’s festivities had even taken place. A few stragglers who had lain out on the platform benches or fallen asleep in the chairs were gradually awoken and encouraged to attempt the journey home. Surveying the scene, Franco sucked on his cigarette until taking the decision to bravely venture onward. He passed under the entranceway and covered his eyes as the sun set his vision awash with white. Finally, when his eyesight returned, he blinked in the sight of Rustec’s streets that remained perfectly quiet. It brought a measure of vanity – as, for Franco, it meant a job well done. Nothing signified a good time more than half of the locals comatose come the working day. Now all he had to do was tie up loose ends. He turned back on himself and spied the invitation banner that fluttered in the breeze. Rather than be pleased he muttered an obscenity. How in the name of all of the worst things in the world was he supposed to get to it? It hung some twenty feet in the air, curled around – what was that? Franco covered his eyes again. A gas lamp? Someone had hung their grand invitation around a gas lamp of all things? Why not have it sit in the mud or have a horse urinate on it while we’re at it? The shocking lack of theatricality gnawed at him but what else was expected when you slipped money to nobodies to hang the announcement up? The more pressing matter was how he was going to get it down. Seeing that the youth of the town didn’t get to participate in the drinking nor games, they ventured through the streets as usual. A street child clad in tatters sauntered past, stopping and taking stock of the local celebrity with open-mouthed awe. ‘You the train man?’ the child meekly probed. ‘Aye,’ he answered, still deliberating his conundrum. There was a pause. ‘That yours then?’ the child asked, pointing at the material fluttering with licks of wind. The damn thing was taunting the pair of them. ‘Aye,’ Franco repeated himself, a touch more sour than before. ‘It’s pretty high up.’ ‘That it is.’ In a glimmer of inspiration Franco took to his knee, producing a silver coin from a pocket, which mesmerized the child with its reflection. ‘How do you fancy earning this?’ he rasped, mouth still occupied with smoke. The child hadn’t seen so much money in a long while, and only spoke to ask how. Five minutes later Franco carried the invitation banner over his shoulder whilst whistling a tune in contentment. Simple problems were solved with simple solutions, he deduced. Sliding back the door to his private carriage, Franco tossed the banner down in an empty space. The lavishly decorated interior was awash with red velvet and gold trim. The furniture was kept to a minimum, consisting of an elegant bed, a desk, and two sofas. Exotic materials, trinkets, and mementos littered the place: souvenirs from exotic places far from Rustec, far from any civilization, were pinned or placed. It was an enigmatic affair though sorted into some semblance of order when scrutinized. The single desk was littered with the contents of other people’s pockets, weighing down stacked charts made by those who excelled in cartography. For those who desired order and neatness in their lives, this car was a literal nightmare. For Franco, it was home. He took the handle of a mug filled with coffee. A quick draw on the drink revealed it to be cold, though that mattered not with a headache such as his. This tranquillity was interrupted as a sudden rapping at the connecting door drew his attention. ‘Are you awake yet?’ came a voice. He ground the stub of his cigarette into a makeshift ashtray. ‘If I wasn’t then you just made sure of that. You’re under the impression that I slept.’ Misu made a small smile as she entered, swinging the door to a close behind her, examining her boss’s shirtless physique with a glance. It didn’t go unnoticed. ‘I confess, I did see you taking a stroll on the platform. Walking around like that will distract the other girls, Franco. You should be more modest with what you put on display. They’re only human, you know.’ ‘And yet you show no concern for your own wellbeing. That is quiet telling. Like a swan who points out the rest of her flock to a predator to spare her own life.’ He cockily swigged from the coffee once more until it was emptied. Misu covered her smirk with a hand, retrieving a clean shirt from the back of the sofa and tossing it to him. ‘Put that on. You should stop fantasizing about what you cannot have, my dear manager. That sort of attitude could become the end of you. I have news from our dear driver that he is ready for the off on your word. The girls are waiting your inspection.’ Franco begrudgingly pulled the material over his head and wrestled with the cuff buttons. ‘A little keen, aren’t they? We still have some time. We still have, uh …’ He trailed off under the realization that his pocket watch was absent from his trousers. Instead, Misu filled the gap. ‘Two hours,’ she flatly stated. ‘Exactly, we have another two hours. Seems awfully impatient of them.’ ‘I keep them prompt and organized. You said you expected no less of the women in our employ.’ ‘That does indeed sound like something I would say.’ He loosely brushed his hair into some sort of shape with his fingers, changing the subject. ‘How were the takings last night?’ ‘A little on the low side but nothing too worrying. We’re still down but I don’t see that continuing as a trend given where we’re heading next. I’ve already amended the books so they’re ready for the safe. That is, unless you want me to do that as well?’ It was a bone of contention that Franco didn’t trust anybody with the safe key other than himself. It was kept on his person at all times. He had decided before any others were employed he would be the only one to have access – as much for everyone else’s protection as his own. Nobody would be tempted to take something they shouldn’t and as a result, he wouldn’t have to wildly speculate as to the culprit and sow discord among the ranks. Misu, however, didn’t see things quite like this. As she was tasked with maintaining order among the showgirls, her role was quite considerable and weighty with responsibilities. She could assist in deciding where they were to visit next. In fact it was her numerous contacts that they used to send the invitation banner to whichever location was decided on. So it was unfathomable that she was denied the ability to put away a little money. It was an insult, nothing more. ‘Nobody opens the safe but me. We’ve been through this before. Don’t take it personally.’ He knew it was difficult not to. He moved on past and held the door open for her to leave the carriage. She did so after a scrutinizing glare. The pair walked the length of the carriages, ensuring everything was ready for pulling off. They began with the end lounge car, which had been a point of congregation for smokers. Cherry-red wood was lacquered into a deep crimson, with every panel adorned with carvings, telling stories long forgotten by craftsmen now dead. Teardrops of glass from the mounted chandeliers were impeccably bright, their dusting not overlooked. Bookcases and shelving were already cladded with lattices to prevent anything moving in transit. The billiard table had been secured in its place by fastening bolts and the accompanying stock of balls had been put away. Everything looked in good order, checked with the occasional test of strength or run of a fingertip. They moved through to the boxcar, which shunned decadence for practicality, strictly off limits to all but staff. Provisions, packed into shabby crates, were stacked high to its roof. The tables and chairs had been disassembled and wall-mounted, secured with ties. The other cars, lounge ones mostly, which accommodated plenty of attendees yet showed no sign of tarnish. Seats ran in formation at a slight angle, facing wide windows that swallowed views whole. Even so, surfaces were polished, carpets swept, and windows cleaned. As Misu and Franco advanced, any of the showgirls in attendance wished their good mornings and waited for any critique as to their handiwork. It wasn’t forthcoming. It never was. Misu was right to boast. The bar had been restocked, a wall of bottles in dizzying scope and complexity that ensured patrons were well inebriated no matter their tastes. The bar area itself, disjointed from an outer wall, was joined by reams of seating. The bar doubled as a makeshift kitchen, though it was too small to feed attendees so instead remained for staff use only. Everything was predictably spotless and with this predictability came boredom. Franco’s mind wandered. ‘You didn’t tell me the girls had new outfits.’ ‘Cheaper than you think, I assure you, so please do not fret. Besides, it came as a nice surprise, did it not? I can still pull one over you, manager.’ Misu nodded her acceptance to another showgirl they passed, who curtseyed back in relief. ‘It’s a shame that we don’t have a show on tonight. I rather like that little red and black lace number of yours,’ he said. ‘You like anything that shows my cleavage, like any man, and whilst that is flattering in a funny sort of way, it’s not exactly what a girl looks for. Aim a little higher if you’re attempting to be charming.’ As they moved out of the car and stepped out onto the connecting platform that straddled the coupling, they turned to face one another. This game was growing tiresome for them both. Playful jibes were no longer getting the desired effects. Stakes had to be raised as much as the blood if there was any chance for a payoff. ‘You’re not performing at this moment, so you can rest spitting fire. Answer me honestly: what exactly does a woman desire, huh? Security? Authority?’ Franco asked with hint of heat before standing toe to toe, having the advantage of a good foot of height. ‘Maybe it’s money. Maybe it’s the prestige. Maybe it’s this charm that you spoke of. Maybe, just maybe …’ Misu bit her bottom lip gently, feigning lust. ‘Maybe a woman should tell me what she desires so a man doesn’t need to resort to guesswork.’ His lips, mere millimetres away, puckered gently as he pressed against her to reach for the connecting door handle to the final car. She watched him with a flick of the eyes as he did her in return, waiting to see who would be the first one to succumb to their baser instincts. Despite this display being nothing but teasing, of which she was equally as guilty, there was always the taint of frustration when one of the pair brought the game to a premature end. Their bodies slipped against one another as he passed and this time it was him who finished things. ‘You have soot on your lips,’ he lied. ‘Stop dawdling, my dear, we have work to do.’ With a coquettish grin, Misu complied. There was hardly any send-off for the Gambler’s Den’s departure. They left before the majority of locals managed to recover from their heady experiences, which only added to the venture’s mystique. Tales had to spread to be of value, and that couldn’t be done if the train dawdled in one location for too long. The locomotive hauled itself out of the station, its heavy wheels spinning and steam plume from the chimney venting into the clear sky. Children running along the platforms did their best to wish it well on its travels. The sentiment was reciprocated with a sharp toot from the train’s whistle that whipped the youngsters into a frenzy. Tales of what they witnessed would carry well into adulthood. The train began to pull out from Rustec, but as it followed the track past the flat-roofed houses, a lone figure gave chase, vaulting over gaps between the residences, ducking beneath cluttered washing lines and over timber decking. The figure was dressed all in beige, and adorned in a heavy poncho. A mask covered the lower part of her face, while her hazel eyes calculated distances with precision. Over her shoulder was a weighty knapsack, its burden not visually apparent as she darted from rooftop to rooftop. The Gambler’s Den leant in to a bend, running it parallel to the buildings, providing a straight line for the approaching individual. As she sprinted her last, a hefty leap sent her skyward, crashing down onto the boxcar gable. Hugging the car roof, she crawled her way to a trapdoor, flicked the latch, and slunk inside, her motions smooth and catlike. The beige-clad figure pulled down her facemask and shook out dirt that had collected in the poncho folds. She was young, too young to be up to such nonsense, but necessity had forced many a person to make rash choices. This happened to be one of Wyld’s less regrettable ones. Franco was waiting patiently, arms defensively crossed, and sitting among the clutter. ‘Were you seen?’ he enquired. Finally when the woman managed to take enough air to speak, she shook her head. ‘Never am. Wasn’t this time. Won’t be next. You needn’t fret.’ ‘Did you get what you were after?’ Franco pressed the next question with equal urgency. Wyld smiled, gently opened the knapsack and revealed a small gem-encrusted object that was tucked safely in the bag’s leather folds. ‘You would have figured that they would have locked this thing up better. Honestly, security is so lax nowadays it’s hardly a challenge. I somewhat wonder why I even bother sneaking in.’ ‘If you’re going to steal whilst you tag along with us, I think I should charge you a higher rate for passage. You understand my concern that you could become a liability?’ Franco placed his hand out, fingers beckoning in gesture for his cut. Wyld reached into a pocket, producing a small leather pouch that jangled with coin. There was no need to examine the contents when passed over; the weight and size matched her overdue payment. ‘I keep my part of the bargain – no need to remind me. I stay invisible and do nothing that would bring attention to your precious train.’ ‘Just as long as our resident thief isn’t caught. Remember, if you’re not with us when we leave, then you’ve lost your ride. No need for the hostility; it’s all business.’ Franco pocketed the payment. ‘Thank you for your contribution. Breakfast will be in an hour. You are more than welcome to join us in the dining car.’ For the next five days, the Gambler’s Den weaved through the arid, rocky landscape. Franco spent most of his time dissecting various maps and charts. The region, whilst sparse, was not devoid of deep canyons, jutting mountains, and other such geographic features. Routes required revising, especially with the current dangers. He made numerous pencilled scribbles. Most were symbols drawn while attempting to calculate arrival times: something at the forefront of his mind. This thought process was broken as Misu knocked on his carriage door and entered, looking fresh-faced as usual despite the stifling heat. She placed a glass of cold water on the table next to the maps, sipping a drink of her own. Her eyes wandered, then returned to Franco as he heavily picked up the glass, twirling it so the ice cubes struck the sides of the glass. ‘Thank you,’ he exclaimed. Misu took a seat on the leather sofa, patting her flamboyant red lace dress down over her thighs. They watched one another for a moment. ‘How are the girls?’ Franco asked, placing his glass back down but not before wiping the condensation from the table surface. ‘The girls are fine. They’re enjoying the downtime if anything. It’s unusual for a show somewhere new to be without incident. The Rustec gig was somewhat boring.’ ‘Boring is good,’ Franco said, stretching out on his own sofa and raising his legs up so he could lie with his head tilted back. ‘Boring means we will be welcomed back. There’s nothing worse than when a bunch of lecherous idiots get drunk and manhandle the girls. We have a reputation to uphold. Can’t be doing that if we’re seen as a haven of sin.’ Misu nodded in agreement and sipped her drink. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing at the abundant paperwork beside him. Her eyes drifted to the scrawled notes, the numbers, and the proposed destination. Franco groaned, attempting to stifle the dull throbbing in his forehead. It wasn’t a question best answered. ‘A solution, I suppose.’ ‘Looks to be more of a detour. Tell me honestly, is this another treasure hunt?’ ‘You could say that.’ ‘Not from Wyld, was it?’ Misu scowled. ‘Technically not. She may have mentioned things in passing, but I did the legwork.’ ‘And Rustec?’ she said, speaking more firmly, placing her drink down. Franco considered his words carefully. ‘A few of the locals may have had my attention. You’ll be surprised how talkative people can be after a few drinks. Stories get told, rumours spilt.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I knew it. The last thing we need is trouble. You of all people used to repeat that – until that rat came along. Keep it all legitimate, you preached, and now you’re looking into things like this. Don’t get yourself involved in her lifestyle. It’s not your business.’ ‘I’m not. This is a side venture. It’s strictly a one-off.’ ‘Rubbish!’ Misu exclaimed. ‘It’s never a one-off with you. There’s always something else to steal your attention. If it’s not this, it’s some other idiotic cause. You should put your efforts in the business rather than some silly chase for whatever the hell that is.’ By now she had risen from her seat, and her voice and tone had risen too. ‘You don’t even know what this is. Do not lecture me.’ He scowled, shielding his eyes from the sun coming through the carriage window behind her. ‘And certainly don’t be doing it on my train.’ This was painfully ignored. ‘I don’t need to know what it is because I know what you’ll end up doing. I know it’ll lead to us running around for a few weeks chasing some trinket on a whim. Her whim, may I add. These things never end well and I refuse to sew up another bullet wound on account of your stupidity.’ Misu pulled her black hair into a ponytail before fastening a clip around it. ‘Watch your tongue when you speak to me,’ Franco said, giving a stark warning that this matter was over. ‘This isn’t your call to make.’ She snatched her glass and proceeded to storm out. Before she did, she pulled open the door to the connecting carriage and looked behind her. ‘Then you can make it on your lonesome. Damn you. Focus on us, Franco. Not some fantasy.’ And with that she left. Franco watched the door slam, the sound of the hissing engine and wheels on tracks falling quieter. The carriage rocked back and forth in slow momentum. He ran a hand over his face, fingers trailing down his damp neck to his shoulder. The indented scar where he’d been struck by a bullet some months ago was a stark reminder that Misu spoke the truth. He was comfortable with the Gambler’s Den. He led a nomadic life, one blessed with freedom – an alarmingly rare commodity. Those aboard depended on him to make the right choices. They looked up to him but not because he wanted them to; it was because they needed someone to give orders. Franco was never good at taking orders so he couldn’t relate to their views, but he did understand that everybody needed a leader in some form. However, he hadn’t set out for the Den to become what it was – an extravagant travelling casino. The rundown steam engine was a wreck when he first set eyes on it, rusting away in a derelict yard. Abandoned and gradually being absorbed by the rising sand, Franco was offered the opportunity to take the Den and fix it up. There was not much else to indulge in, unless criminality was your thing. Home was depressingly void of excitement, forcing laborious graft from any and all. But Franco hated the prospect of working in the mine, or being stuck in the smelter until injury or death allowed respite. No, for him it was a hobby that had expanded beyond his expectations, and soon became something far more important, something others in his position would fail to attain. It became a way out. The first time the train staggered into life had given him a feeling like no other. Valves spluttered, choking on the sand, before purifying them with titanic blasts of steam. Each creak and groan within its behemoth-like frame led to another task to resolve: a split in its funnel, the almost melodic pounding from the boiler when fired up. The poor thing was falling apart, but it was nothing that hard graft couldn’t resolve. Each time the Gambler’s Den ran, the ride got smoother. The breakdowns became fewer and further between. Franco was not an engineer, far from it in fact, but his grandfather was keen to get the lad’s hands dirty and adopting this train was like adopting a child. It would always have to be cared for – he was constantly reminded, by the words emanating from beneath the grease-soaked whiskers of the old man – and he wouldn’t be around for ever. That was a sobering truth. Gentle trips from outpost to outpost, nothing taxing at first, felt exhilarating and the braver the ventures became, the more people wanted to join him. So many were desperate to abandon homes with limited opportunities or leave their history behind them in a haze of steam and dust. Franco provided escapism for those who did not want to be found any more. Whilst he secretly resented that, was he so different? He got to his feet, leant on the frame of a window, and looked out. The scenery was the same as before – barren and desolate. A pack of feral dogs chased the train over the waste ground, one oddly staring at Franco as he contemplated it. The sun beat down. The dust was choking. To others, the world was not worth exploring, as it seemed that in every direction they went it was the same picture – sand and more sand. It consumed everything relentlessly. Every village, every town, even the very horizon embraced its vastness, enough to scrub ambition from all those in it. How many times had he heard people complaining about their lives, about their circumstances out here? Far too numerous to count. Escape. All people stated that they wanted to escape. Not leave, but to escape, as if the Sand Sea had imprisoned them and was solely responsible for their difficult lives. The more the train ran, the more Franco realized that he could do just that. * * * Misu stormed through each carriage wearing the most terrible of scowls. That arrogant fool, she thought. How condescending of him to pass me off! The Gambler’s Den would grind to a halt if I wasn’t organizing people whilst he obsessed over these follies. She burst into the residence carriage of the showgirls, a number of whom jumped in surprise at the loud entrance, prompting others looking out from their rooms. They buzzed around Misu, who shook in annoyance with fists clenched. Her insistence that she was fine was brushed aside in a collective embrace. The showgirls enfolded their superior, the mother of their family, speaking out against Franco and citing how his opinion was worthless. For them, seeing Misu frustrated was becoming a depressing regularity. * * * Wyld had taken up residence in the storage car. Her trunk was hidden among a series of props that were erected on demand for various shows. She grasped at the padlock, its keyhole just for decoration. Her fingers jabbed the trunk’s base in sequence before she twisted the padlock itself in various ways. It clicked open from the momentum. The trunk lid fell open. Inside, beneath a false compartment, was a bevy of various lock-picking tools, small firearms, and knives. From the very bottom, wrapped up in a blanket, Wyld produced a golden statue: a winged effigy of unusual splendour. He stood proudly, lance aloft and gloriously gilded wings spread outward. It was a religious figure, one of many who held significance, especially to those living in a region where few had little more than their faith. Ungloving a finger, she ran a fingertip down the statue’s face before whispering a small prayer. From her knapsack she pulled out a similar sculpture, similar in design but larger in build. The score from Rustec mirrored the one already in her possession, though it exhibited a catalogue of differences. She only paid it a glance in comparison to the affection portrayed to the one from the chest. Tenderly binding them with the same fabric, Wyld replaced her prizes, closed the trunk, and made herself comfortable for a much-needed sleep. * * * Franco was less content. The glass of brandy that he had poured to make the night warmer was empty, despite filling it up for the fifth time. He traced the line drawn on the regional map with his finger, tapping the named destination closest to their location. Sheets of paper with additions scrawled all over did nothing but raise concern. Financially the Den was in trouble. The recent suppression on trading routes to the south was forcing oil and machine prices upward. With a hiss, he acknowledged the amount of additional shows the Den would have to perform – unless there was another way. If only they could be outlaws, to steal what was needed without a care in the world. It was a thought others shared. Bandit groups were rife and roaming unchecked through the trade routes. Even private security groups were having trouble repelling them from shipments passing through. It was only the large companies that had the resources and manpower to successfully repel any attempts on their sand ships. It was hard not to resort to black-market trading, as the Den would be in a perfect position to carry goods past district checkpoints. The most Franco resorted to was imbursement by Wyld who, he was under no illusions, was paying her way with dirty money. Hers was as good as anybody else’s and, thanks to her dubious nature, the income would be steady, on her part at least. What other choice did he have? His fingers trailed over the track paths that wound over the mountain ranges on the dog-eared map. By taking the route passing over the handful of deep canyons that separated the Sand Sea, they could make it to Windberg. There was a town before the canyon crossing, and one after that would add a few days to their travel, as well as trading posts scattered nearby in case of any unexpected need to obtain supplies. Naturally there was a possibility of this route becoming precarious, so Franco decided it was best to ask advice from someone more knowledgeable than he – the Den’s driver. With strong strides and whilst grasping the map tightly, Franco left his carriage and made his way outside. Dust filled the air. It was not enough to be choking but sufficient to steal breath. The mighty Gambler’s Den, as it powered over the landscape, was a sight to behold. As it rocked gently side to side with momentum, a smile momentarily broke through the stern gaze that Franco had cemented on his features. Each piston that pulled, every wheel that spun, the glorious machine was, in a word, magnificent. Ever so lightly brushing his fingertips over the steel surfaces, Franco showed the compassion he had for his beloved vehicle. He felt like a youngster again, witnessing its first breaths of life after being relegated to scrap, a feeling that he wished would not part ways with him until death saw fit. As he proceeded around the carriage walkways, the thunderous roars became louder. Large plumes of steam billowed high into the air and dragged overhead with speed. The clattering of train tracks smoothly merged into the wise words from the past, words that were spoken by the only man Franco was willing to receive advice from. They patiently reminded him to treat the Gambler’s Den like a woman. Give it the stick when it falls out of line; give affection when it behaves. Franco’s grandfather was a man who ran on tradition and the old ways, including the archaic attitudes regarding the opposite sex. It was no wonder that his wife had left him. Still, his gravelly voice – slightly slurred by a ritualistic mid-afternoon vodka – brought comfort, just as much as they did when he was a child. Back then there was no greater mechanic. To the young Franco, there was no greater man. ‘I try, old man.’ Franco patted the carriage’s side affectionately, a weary sigh escaping. ‘I try.’ Chapter Two (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73) Postponement Velencia was a once-thriving trading town, but like so many others in the region, when train tracks carved shorter routes from A to B, business slowed. For most, it was a sign that life was for living elsewhere. The most determined stayed behind until even they were convinced by the populace’s mass exodus. Velencia deteriorated in time and eventually became abandoned. Empty businesses stood in Main Street and its residences dissolved into husks. The Sand Sea had swept in and began to erode the structures away, blistering paint and carving wood and brick alike. Large drifts piled in doorways and alleys, and over time layer upon layer of sand was deposited. Unlike Rustec, there was nobody to shift it away, leaving the town partially concealed by its environment. When a dust-storm threatened from the north, there was no option but for Franco to request a diversion. A looming blanket of rust was seen far in advance over the horizon and all that could be done was to make haste to the nearest shelter, or the closest thing resembling one. The Gambler’s Den was still a couple of hours away from anything resembling a settlement, which made the decision easy. To be caught in the middle of nowhere by the large storm would be disastrous. The lack of any natural formation to take shelter in – such as a gully, recess, or the like – was problematic. Exposed, the best-case scenario was that the train would have to be freed from a thick covering of sand to continue, but that was hilariously optimistic. Unlike a sandstorm, he clarified to the showgirls who asked the difference, a dust-storm normally carried much more violent winds. Franco had witnessed a good few of these first-hand and was right to secure the locomotive for its impact. With no other option they would need to take refuge in the remains of Velencia. When the Den pulled up to the broken platform that was, remarkably, still intact, everyone got to work. Large canvas covers were fastened around the train, protecting anywhere the sand could cause a nuisance. Already the breeze had picked up, attempting to wrestle them away into the air. The girls and even Franco himself bolted the ropes to the train’s frame tightly, double-checking for any signs of slackness before retreating inside. Watching from one of the exposed windows, each of them observed a mass of orange plumes swarming in the distance. It hung silently, arching, almost motionless. Surrounding tumbleweed that dotted the landscape lurched sideways in unison, quickly consumed in quiet ferocity. Day descended to night, with the wind rattling though every air vent. Misu busied herself lighting the oil lamps, flooding the carriages with subdued illumination. ‘Best get comfortable, everybody,’ Franco proposed, relieving a bottle of red wine from a wall rack. Its cork was stubborn but not enough for someone with hours to kill. ‘It’s a nasty one out there. It looks like we might be a little late for our next show.’ Few spoke. It had been a while since they had seen a storm this large and violent; they knew between them that all that could be done was to wait it out. The suggestion was made to play cards to pass the time, a few of the girls partaking in a few hands while the time idled away. Victories were not cheered for fear of setting off the tinder atmosphere between the two most imposing presences in the room. Hours trickled by, but whenever Franco suggested something new to pass the time, Misu loudly sighed, distracting herself with whatever was at hand. A coin. A coaster. Her fingernails. Everything held a sense of fascination when it competed with Franco’s voice, thanks to their quarrel. Sure, there were other cars she could retreat to, but that took effort and there was a risk of inadvertently bumping into that stowaway in the process. No, the best she could do was to ignore him, right here, in full view of everyone. Maybe then he would get the message. She claimed a book from one of the many glass-covered cases and buried herself in its contents. The carriage clock chimed hour after hour until the day was lost. Still the storm blew with identical ferocity and all that could be done was to continue waiting. Franco eventually did more than wait; he drank. He drank the bottle of red, three bottles of white, and took to measures of scotch to keep it going in the evening. All this was routine, for when he couldn’t sleep he drank and when anything troubled him, he resorted to chasing the answers down the lip of a bottle. Stretched out across a sofa beside the bar, this indulgence was politely ignored by the company he kept. Eventually most retreated at his attempts of small talk, leaving him alone with just a collection of bottles and bittersweet memories. Before long his mind drifted to his youth, dragging his feet through some godforsaken scrapyard at the demand of his grandfather. Somewhere, in a place where the fatigue and inebriation collided, the past turned lucid. * * * As far as he could see was twisted metal. Stacks varied in height: some small collections, the product of an abandoned attempt at sorting. Others were climbable hills of steel and iron. There were parts of vehicles, redundant machinery that had long since been outdated, all the way to fragments of the immense sand ships that rolled through the region to deliver cargo in bulk. These parts, from simple sheet-steel panels, to cogs and pistons, took up the most space, sprawling skyward, the biggest being a steam flume that dwarfed the pair in their presence. How these materials found their way here was varied. Some were naturally corroded by the elements, whereas others exhibited signs of man-made damage. From impacts to bullet holes, each told a story, too numerous to pay attention to with any sort of vested interest. After all, the pair had a job to do. Vehicles littered the yard too. Since the advent of steam machinery, progress had leapt ahead of the initial designs. Trains, the once proud workhorses of those who populated the Sand Sea region, were the biggest casualties with a plentiful number being scrapped in places like these since their usefulness had been replaced with cost-saving or convenience. Some were recent, seemingly fresh out of the factory – without signs of damage, whereas others were perforated, rusted messes that the desert was slowly consuming. All these were present for the goal of breaking them down and selling the material off to smelters. That was seemingly the plan at least, as it had obviously been some time since anything was taken to the breaking yard. The owner had let the last of his assistants go when swinging the hammer and axe was beyond their years. ‘Gramps? Hey, Gramps!’ the youth called impatiently. When no response was forthcoming he scraped up a length of piping and launched it at the figure atop the mound. Franco’s grandfather, whom he had affectionately called Pappy throughout his younger years, straddled the cusp of a mountain of wreckage, surveying the surroundings. His work overalls were oil-stained and frayed, mirroring his cantankerous features and his thick, white beard. At this height he could find what they were looking for with his spyglass that extended out in a telescope of brass. Or, at least he could if the boy would stop complaining for five seconds. The pipe fell short, though made quite the din, achieving its desired intention. Pappy withdrew his visual aid and scowled. ‘I don’t get it. What are we doing out here?’ the youth whined. Like any teenager, there were scores of places he would prefer to be. ‘I’ll repeat myself once more since you seem to be incapable of listening to me. I had a tip-off that this graveyard happens to be home to something of considerable worth, not that the owner knows it. He owes me and I need an extra pair of hands to collect it. Since yours are unburdened with a day’s work, I figured I could put them to use. Everybody benefits.’ ‘Except me.’ Pappy sighed, attempting to keep his composure and scanned the yard again. ‘Yes, Franco, except you,’ he called. ‘This entire thing is an elaborate ruse to make your existence that little bit worse. Stop pouting. I didn’t say I was going to keep you all day, did I?’ ‘We’ve been here for ever.’ ‘It’s only been two hours!’ Pappy retorted. Franco compressed his features in annoyance. ‘Yes, and it feels like for ever!’ The old man retracted his spyglass and began hooting with joy. Suddenly he skidded down the pile of wreckage, sending components tumbling down with him. The wave of materials spilt out around Franco’s feet like noisy water, loudly announcing Pappy who rode its crest on his backside. He landed with a thump and sprung to his feet – shockingly spry for a man of his age – before increasing to a jog. ‘Come on, lad, get moving; time is a-wasting. I found her!’ Franco followed half-heartedly, kicking whatever found his boots rather than making a route around. Behind the next two elevations a small maintenance shed was hidden away. It wasn’t much to look at; the roof had partially collapsed, its doors no longer existed, and every window frame was devoid of required glass. This wasn’t important though. The real treasure was what was inside. Franco made his way around to the entrance, or what was once defined as an entrance. Buried train tracks that supplemented the circumference of the yard itself split off and lazily ran into the neglected interior. Inside, straddling the tracks, was a pitted, decaying mass of metal. It was clearly the corpse of a machine long abandoned, well past its glory days. Its wheels, despite age, still held strength, propping up a sandblasted frame. ‘Is this it? This is what we made our way out here for?’ Franco asked, decidedly unimpressed. A handful of pigeons watched from the bare rafters above, cooing at the intruders. ‘Can you not see it?’ Pappy questioned, strolling into the structure. The overpowering stench of dust, oil, and grease that assaulted the senses were obviously a delight for Pappy. For Franco, it just made him jerk with each violent sneeze. ‘It’s a wreck.’ ‘That’s all it is to you?’ ‘I think your eyesight’s going, Gramps. I thought you were going to impress me with all this talk. Instead, you’re excited about this. This.’ He gestured wildly with his hands. He concluded by putting a boot to the driving wheels in turn, three identical spindled beasts that matched his height almost perfectly. Flecks of corrosion fluttered away from every impact. ‘Young eyes, I swear. If all things were run by fourteen-year-olds, we would all meet a terrible end,’ Pappy mumbled to himself. Allowing himself a treat, he pulled himself up on the handrail to the vehicle’s footboard, a square of corrugated metal that covered the front wheels before the vehicle’s nose. He scrubbed away some of the deposits of filth with a leather glove, revealing a hint of its previous paintwork. It was oddly reassuring. ‘This wreck, as you so eloquently put it, is the Eiferian 433, an Alamos D-class locomotive and a real beauty of one too. See, these things were the workhorses of the Sand Sea before the sand ships began to move shipments. Unlike this thing here, they carry more loads and weren’t consigned to tracks so plenty of the trains like this were scrapped. They run others on the lines of course, much faster they say, but the Alamos … in its heyday, kid, they were a thing of beauty.’ ‘It pulled ore?’ ‘And plenty of it. Everything needs something to burn to fuel it these days. Time was, whenever you looked into the Sand Sea, you would see these on every line built.’ He ran his fingers down the boiler, tracing every pit and groove. The patina, long blasted away by the winds, left bare metal exposed. ‘Sounds nice, Gramps. Shame it’s seen better days, I mean, but still.’ ‘Haven’t we all?’ The engine cab may have been blanketed by dust but this mattered not to Pappy. He stepped inside, trying not to let his excitement run away with him. His hands drifted over the knobs and pipes, most tarnished with age but seemingly in acceptable condition. Memories dictated movements. He gently tested levers with a tug this way and that. The firebox took more encouragement, though it finally opened. Large metal jaws exposed the heart of the locomotive, once an all-consuming fire, now just a recess harbouring darkness and ashes. Franco watched all this play out. Never had he seen his grandfather so keen, a curiosity considering that he was the one raising him in his father’s absence. There were always arguments, mostly revolving around Franco’s troublesome friends and wayward attitude. Pappy scorned more than he complimented, knowing no better than to mimic how he himself had been brought up. Dirt was wiped clear from the engine’s pressure gauge, its numbers clearly visible through smeared glass. ‘The 433 wasn’t just any old train, Franco. It was my train. I used to work it, this exact one, over forty years ago. You can’t imagine how excited I was to hear that it was here – cast aside like junk, but I was excited nonetheless. Back then I worked hauling coal in the east on one of the smaller lines to the smelting plants. Tough, dirty work, my boy. Would break someone of your frail constitution, as you are now at least.’ ‘Day to day on this thing? Doesn’t sound so terrible to me.’ ‘You may come to regret those words.’ Pappy chuckled. ‘So what’s the plan?’ ‘The yard owner owes me a debt.’ ‘What sort of debt?’ ‘The kind that you want to pay off immediately,’ Pappy coyly answered, ‘and he was mighty desperate too. This delight is now our property. Part of the arrangement is that we also get to use this here workshop for however long it takes to get it restored to working condition. That and we have claim of whatever can be of use on the premises. It will be a venture well worth the undertaking.’ ‘We?’ Franco said, clearly not sharing the enthusiasm. ‘This is your endeavour, Grandpa, not mine. Don’t be roping me into this none.’ ‘Yes, we. Us. You and I. Was I not clear in pointing that out? Do you have something better to do? Elsewhere to be?’ ‘Yeah I do. I’ve got ambitions,’ he boasted with juvenile pride. ‘Please! You’ve got nothing but bad decisions under your belt, hoisting up those britches that are far too big. What are your plans outside of causing a ruckus with those who disagree with you?’ ‘Does it even matter to you? It’s not like you’re my father or anything.’ ‘No, but like I repeat every year, I’m the next best thing you’re ever going to get and should he miraculously drift on past, I’ll gladly pass the mantle.’ Franco huffed, kicking a spent can of paint over in frustration. ‘This is stupid. Don’t you think I deserve a say in all this? Don’t I get, I dunno, a choice?’ ‘No, you don’t,’ Pappy snarled, ‘because I’m sick of hearing about the mischief you’ve been getting up to. You’re better than those rapscallions out there, troublemakers who steal purses from already downtrodden folk. Do you want to live picking pockets or brawling in gutters? You’re better than that, Franco. I raised you better than that and I’ll be damned if I’m going to watch you succumb to such foolishness. If you are incapable of making sensible decisions, then I’ll have to make them for you.’ Franco immediately recoiled. The pigeons loudly took to the sky in surprise. Anger was not a stranger to Pappy, but to see him so fiery about his grandson’s wellbeing was unique. That passion was normally reserved for betting on horses or debating the state of local ales. ‘Fine. I get it, I get it,’ the youngster conceded. ‘Do you? Because if you don’t make something of yourself now, you’ll die a very sad death out here, alone and with no one to grieve for you.’ ‘All right! All right, stop; you don’t have to go on,’ Franco squawked, ‘but why would you want to go to the effort of getting it running again? It sounds like a job for a younger man.’ Disappointingly this was correct. Pappy lacked the strength of his youth, physically at least. Help was indeed required, which is why Franco would be another pair of hands in the endeavour, an apprentice of sorts. Age was against him and this was apparent from the occasional pain in the joint or strain of eyesight. What was the alternative though? Endure the remaining years in abject poverty? No. He’d promised the boy better once and no matter the hardship, he would make good on that. He’d fixed such a beast on the go with little assistance from associates, learning every facet with vigour. Resurrecting one from scrap should be a straightforward affair. The Eiferian 433 loomed over the pair, patiently slumbering. ‘The same reason why you act up when you could be doing something productive. What compels you to do that? Honestly.’ Franco was unsure whether to take offence or not, but he deliberated and answered truthfully. ‘I don’t really know.’ ‘Exactly,’ Pappy agreed, ‘we both have things that run in our blood that we can’t quite explain.’ * * * Franco lay slumped, fingers still coaxed around green frosted glass, the last pouring collected at its base. An occasional mumble left his lips but they were nothing particularly coherent. He didn’t deserve Misu relieving him of the bottle so it wouldn’t spill on the carpet, but taking pity on him, she’d returned it to the bar counter. Neither did he deserve the blanket draped over his person to keep out the cold, but it was provided. For a moment she questioned whether she’d caught a mumble about time in his comatose state, though with the affray outside still taking place, she dismissed it. Leaving the lamps burning out of consideration should he wake, Misu left in the pursuit of rest. As winds battered the Gambler’s Den, their troubled manager slumbered in the carriage with nothing but his dreams as company. Chapter Three (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73) The Hardest Word ‘Mister Rosso. Good morning.’ Franco strolled out into the sun. The morning sky was a brilliant blue, clear and devoid of a single cloud. It was hot but lacked humidity, a dry heat that ensured that it would be, on all accounts, a perfect day. At least it would be if he wasn’t nursing the results of last night’s drinking session. His boots fell into a disturbed drift of sand that had collected against the carriage side, recently dug away with accompanying shovels propped alongside. Rosso snapped a pair of goggles from his eyes. He nonchalantly tossed a wrench into a rusted toolbox beside him, and groaned, part amused and part in pain. An hour of squatting, addressing the temperamental valve gear, had knotted his back, forcing him to rise and flex himself from side to side. The goggles slapped onto the toolbox; its lid closed with a kick. He cracked old knuckles, scarred fingers complaining of decade’s worth of toil, a sentiment echoed in the deep lines on his face. Short hair was fading from auburn to grey, a process seemingly more advanced in the sun’s full glare. Rosso had taken over driving the Gambler’s Den almost five years ago, a task that was fraught with challenges, though he would describe it far less eloquently. It took a rougher sort to keep the locomotive happy, one who used individual grit as much as oil. With Rosso at the helm, Franco could freely concentrate on the entertainment, which suited him fine. Standing to attention beside Rosso was his boy, just seventeen with the arms of lazy youth. Rosso had requested that the boy come with them in the hope of teaching him a decent, honest profession. He tended to the firebox mostly, heaving coal into the boiler, which was as fine a job as any. The pay was minimal and as such the decision easy. When Franco strode past, the boy lurched, back straight and arms flat to his sides as if on parade. His father knocked the wind from his chest with a sharp slap to the stomach. ‘In Her name, you blasted fool. Stop that, will you? You look like a damn statue. A statue of an ass of all things. Good morning, Franco. Slept well I presume?’ he grunted in a deep, gravelly tone. Franco gave a pained sigh. Blast those talkative women. ‘You’re referring to the drinking.’ ‘Yes, that would be what I’m talking about in no uncertain terms.’ Rosso laughed before adding sarcasm. ‘I never thought you to be a lightweight.’ ‘Remind me again, what was that spiced rum you wanted me to hold for you for the night off? Pricy, came in that nice bottle. Really pretty label.’ ‘Ah yes. The Shellcoof Black. Good stuff by all accounts,’ Rosso recalled, knowing full well where this was going. ‘Keep up the attitude and I’ll drain it down the sink,’ he threatened, deadpan in tone. There was a serious, uncomfortable pause before smiles cracked through. The boy, though, was slightly rattled. ‘In answer to your question,’ Franco continued, ‘I would sleep better knowing that we’re getting back on schedule. Are there any problems given yesterday’s interruption?’ ‘Apart from being stuck in this shit-hole for longer than desired? Thankfully none. The boiler is burning fine, the small drifts are already dug away, and the tracks ahead seem to be uncovered. We’ve had your security boy Jacques helping out all morning so you pretty folks could indulge in a lie-in. Doing manicures. Rubbing feet. Waxing hair. Whatever you are getting up to in there while we do, you know, the work.’ Rosso heartily chuckled to himself. Franco had not been in the engine cab for quite some time now, not since he traded overalls for smart suit jackets. Their repartee, which occasionally happened at great length and usually over drink, was legendary. It was all false of course. Franco could never forget how to operate the Den and, arguably could look after it better than anyone else, but Rosso was, to him, the best substitute possible. The youngster, knowing that it was inappropriate, sniggered behind a hand, only to receive another bearlike hand to the stomach to correct his demeanour. ‘Dammit, lad, that’s your boss. He’s the one who gives you coin, you ungrateful cur. When it’s in your hand, you can piss and squander it on whatever you like, but show some respect in his presence because I ain’t seeing you rich enough to grow a pair yet.’ ‘Of course, Pa. Sorry, Mister Franco.’ He bowed meekly. ‘Forget that, son, your old man is just being his stubborn self. None of the work, huh?’ Franco considered that for a moment. ‘If you’re too busy to eat, I’ll tell Kitty to put the skids on your breakfast. From what I understand she insisted on cooking up something special to show our appreciation, but with all this backbreaking labour you’re describing you couldn’t possibly take time out, could you?’ Franco rubbed his chin, beaming, clearly enjoying the banter. Rosso grinned back, showing a ream of crooked teeth. ‘Driving the Den is a harsh affair, boss. We couldn’t possibly pull off on an empty stomach. That is, unless you might want to get grease on those smooth, well-tended hands. I’m assuming you remember how to regulate pressure again? Or is pressure just a word used when balancing the books?’ ‘Baseless accusations aside, how soon can we leave?’ ‘Come now, when we’ve only just got here? I thought you wanted to stay a while, take in the sights.’ As if on cue to illustrate the point, a wild dog trotted over the loose sand, carrying a freshly caught rat in its jaws. It took a moment to pause, eyeing up the change in scenery as if to decide whether these new arrivals were a threat to its freshly caught meal. Having assessed them enough, it continued onward. ‘Well, sight. Singular. But to answer your question, I’ll get the boy to make preparations. We’ll be good in under an hour. Any change in destination?’ ‘No, straight on to Balvalk.’ ‘Aye, I know it. If we ride right, we’ll make it in under three hours.’ ‘Good man. See that you do.’ Franco produced a silver coin and offered it to the boy beside him who tried, with difficulty, to act nonchalantly. ‘As soon as we arrive, buy yourself something to unwind. Your choice, not his. And make it worthwhile.’ The youngster blushed and voiced his thanks. True to his word, Rosso pulled the Gambler’s Den from Velencia station on time and set off through the yellow sand drifts, heading for the mountain-scattered horizon. Balvalk was, by all criteria, the town that Velencia wished it could have been. Built by a wealthy investor who decided that creating a settlement would be a decent pursuit, it was Balvalk’s creation that caused Velencia’s strife. The significant investment, and influence with its neighbours, fed its expansion at the expense of others, bypassing a good handful of towns with a newly laid track. Three times the size with more than double the amenities of others, Balvalk was a cluster of roads with small flat-roofed edifices sandwiched between multiple-level structures. Inns, taverns, stores embossed with bright lettering and dramatic graphics. However, despite its fortuitous beginnings, Balvalk was in decline. Trade was moving out of the region. Contracts were being fulfilled in the larger port cities and where the work went, so did the people. But wealth remained a priority, which was admitted by those you spoke to. It was a town where pizzazz and status were paramount, even in light of current affairs. A perfect location, Franco believed, to hold the next event. Franco’s pre-show encouragement was almost completely ignored. Misu placed herself at his side as routine, though her mind was clearly elsewhere. Silent nods acknowledged changes in the lighting cues and anything else of note – minor revisions at best. Mechanical affirmatives emerged from the showgirls, not wanting to inflame the situation any further with questions. Everyone stood in formation, a line down the carriage, with not a word said. The chandeliers gently clattering at the carriage’s rhythmic sway filled the noiseless void. From outside eager faces from the stacked platform buzzed past windows, their speed lessening as the locomotive eased to a final stop. Spotlights silently turned upon the platform. The carriage was bathed in white. The entertainer took a slow, calming breath to steady any possible nerves. ‘Let’s have a good show, everybody,’ Franco insisted. The sentence was barely finished before he strolled out to rapturous applause. * * * A cacophony of fireworks joined the starlight that evening and, true to form, Franco led the evening’s entertainment without a break in expression or tenacity. Strutting between tables, his aloof mingling was natural, joining patrons with shakes of the hand and self-indulgent repartee. Roulette was full of cheering patrons, some excitably waving over more drinks. The card tables were equally occupied, with regional variations of poker, blackjack, and pontoon. More than once he was asked to kiss the dice for luck, and when the numbers came up, was gracious enough to inflate the payout for those at the table. Generous, they called him. A gentleman, they praised. He bathed in his celebrity, playing his part flawlessly. A showman. An entertainer. A host. Though a problem, an invisible one to revellers, was eroding this veneer. Misu, whenever spoken to, gave one- or two-syllable answers, most of them monotone. The normal interaction between them, a fluid exchange of opinions, of conversation, was reduced to glances and bluntness. The cause was obvious, stemming from her disapproval over finding other avenues of income. It was her problem though, right? Her reaction. Misu needed to grow up. She was, after all, just another employee. It was Franco who called the shots and she needed to not overreach herself. If only that was true. The crux of the matter and subsequent cause of Franco’s guilt was that Misu was anything but just another employee. Far from it. Time and time again she had proven herself to be steadfast and headstrong, keeping her areas of responsibility well managed. He never had to prompt nor apply pressure, ensuring that their professional relationship flowed more smoothly than thought possible. Her inclusion in the Gambler’s Den was one of the most fruitful – calming too. Whenever he found scant time to relax, Misu always seemed to be a part of the procedure. It was why she and she only invited herself into Franco’s personal carriage whilst it remained out of bounds for anyone else. No, their relationship was anything but ordinary. She was a confidante in the times when he needed to spit frustration. She was a balm when times became painful. And it was precisely these reasons why Franco felt the pangs of guilt. His gaze fell on the woman, keeping the pretence of satisfaction. The gilded smile was impossible to class as fake unless you were aware of what stirred beneath. Misu always was good at hiding things. A talent, he assumed, where the harshness of reality could be locked away for a spell and the illusion indulged in. Succumbing to reason, he produced a heavy sigh, knowing full well what he was about to do. ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ He struck his hands together in succession, drawing attention. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your time please. I must share with you all a truth. It would be easy to witness this spectacle, this extravaganza and believe it is the work of just one man. I am not so proud to admit that is not the case. I introduce to you, the ever lovely Misu, the companion at my side who endures the wastes, the hardships, to bring this show to all of you.’ A spotlight swung off routine. Light set her awash in a white halo. Misu’s cheeks flushed with red at this unexpected attention. She curtseyed politely to applause. What is he up to? her expression said. ‘Now, Misu has been feeling, well, many things considering I am her manager, but sadly for the most part, she believes herself ignored. Unappreciated. Imagine that hardship for a moment, if you could.’ The crowd collectively sighed in sympathy. ‘Now, this is no fault of your own, my fine people. The desert is harsh to travel and we cross it with strength to bring you delight. Your smiles are worthwhile but the toil … the toil can beat the best of us. This woman is the one who keeps me sane.’ Franco wagged a finger. ‘She ensures more things, many things than you experience now. For instance, she ensures the games are managed!’ The crowd cheered, raising their drinks in hand. ‘She keeps the kitchen stocked!’ Another cheer. ‘She keeps the girls in their finery!’ A louder cheer this time, especially from the men who whistled in approval. ‘But more importantly than that –’ Franco thrust his finger in the air, with every person lingering on his words ‘– she keeps the bar populated with the best alcohol you could ever find and convinces me to keep the prices low!’ The cheer was followed with rapturous applause. They chanted Misu’s name over and over, a number of patrons patting her back and thanking her in person. She accepted each and every one, nodding and grinning, warmly shaking the hands of those who offered. Through the sea of faces, elevated up on the train platform – three sets of steps up – Franco threw out his arm. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your appreciation please, to our ever-shining gem of the Gambler’s Den!’ The torrent of cheers, repeating Misu’s name over and over were deafening, and from his place above them, Franco gave a wink and smile, ensuring full well that Misu knew how much she was valued to him. Maybe speaking the words was difficult, the right ones especially, and he wasn’t prone to delivering heartfelt monologues. Others indulged in such familiarities. They were welcome to them, but Franco rarely had the time or the patience. But she knew. Come the dawn, the Gambler’s Den once again came to life. The clattering of iron pans broke the pale morning’s silence. The dining car was thriving with action, with the noises shortly joined by the hissing of bacon rashers, the pungent aroma of brewed coffee, and the accompanying smells that gave a tired person life anew. The kitchen, though grand in no way or special on any account, buzzed with life even at such an unsociable time. Plates were passed between the showgirls, who had already tended to the platform and packed the show materials away into storage. From the outside you would have never imagined such revelry had emerged from its doors. All was now hidden away in the visage of the fine old train. The girls each gossiped, taking seats at one of the many tables, and prepared themselves for the day. Franco looked around him at the smiling faces, the jokes and cheers, and smiled at each of them in turn. The culminated stress of the last few days had flittered away – much to everyone’s relief. It felt comforting to see everyone relaxed once again, the dirt of their journey and profession scrubbed away somewhat by a camaraderie that they all shared. It wasn’t family. Franco refused to call it that as he had, in the past, referred to others not of his blood as such, resulting in it being used as a form of blackmail. Those who forged the title of family demanded sacrifice, devotion, all under the guise of manipulating what one should do. No, family wasn’t the word to use. This was different. This was nice, in a sense. But family it was not. He took a plate and thanked the one who handed it to him. The woman delivered a smile that had never faltered after her hiring. She called him boss, as respectfully as any of the others. Misu strolled past, a plate of her own balancing on fingertips, before seating herself opposite Franco. She had decided on a lighter option than what the man before her chose, picking at a small portion of cherry tomatoes, cockatrice eggs, and greenery, which she assumed to be a form of cliff pepper. Chickens didn’t fare so well out here and thanks to the domestication of its larger and much more dangerous relative, cockatrice eggs became a staple foodstuff. Franco had ordered that there was always to be an ample supply of food so local delicacies were picked up whenever the train stopped. The tomatoes were shipped out from the west where the climate was more temperamental, an extravagance for anyone to indulge in, let alone those under his employ. For most under his roof, the chance to eat so well was extraordinary. The showgirls came from every background – impoverished, well-to-do, all across the spectrum. Their reasons for joining were their own (escapism, adventure, and others) but each could agree that nothing beat such decadent food, or the traditional tastes of home no matter where that may have been. A full stomach, in Franco’s words, would ensure a full performance. Franco chewed slowly as they eyed one another silently. Clearly she was waiting for him to begin a dialogue and he did so, placing his cutlery down. ‘Eggs good?’ * * * Misu tilted her head, mouth still half full. Eggs. After the conflict between them, the best point of conversation he could muster was about eggs? ‘The eggs are fine,’ she revealed, taking the last of them from the plate. ‘The eggs are always fine.’ She heavily swallowed and gestured with a dainty fork. No, this wouldn’t do. ‘I’m sorry, eggs? Eggs. I just wanted to clarify you’re talking about eggs and nothing else at all. It’s not, like, a metaphor for something that I have clearly missed. Maybe about you being an ass and me clearly provoking you for being such a bloody fool?’ Immediately she recoiled upon giving voice to her anger. Turning away did nothing to help the embarrassment. Franco shrugged blankly. ‘Wow. Good thing I didn’t enquire about the tomatoes.’ The pair laughed at the absurdity, causing more than a few glances in their direction. ‘Food has been a concern of late for you. Are we still on the lookout for an actual cook?’ ‘We should be. I’m not altogether keen on this stopgap who you hired last month.’ ‘Kitty,’ Misu prompted. ‘Yes, her. Don’t get me wrong, she fills the role well, but Kitty’s one of the girls and was brought on to be such. I don’t like the idea of someone with a split job. It prevents one from dedicating themselves to a single task. Makes things messy,’ Franco stated. ‘What would the chances be that we just happen to stumble upon someone looking for work who is talented in the kitchen? Most of the girls are unfamiliar with the majority of what we bring on board. Kitty has been the only one capable of actually cooking it. I’m assuming that’s because of her farm upbringing – growing and whatnot. Not everyone has had such exposure.’ ‘I still think it would be a good idea.’ Misu gave a modest laugh, watching the short blonde girl whizz between cupboard and counter, brandishing pan and knife in turn, a content country song passing from her lips. ‘It would be frivolous. With Kitty about, what’s the point? I’ve heard no complaints, nothing but praise in fact. Seems to be doing good and nobody is going hungry.’ ‘Yet.’ ‘Yet,’ Misu repeated. ‘Or poisoned.’ ‘Yes, or poisoned.’ Misu glanced to the plate of bacon and flat bread that Franco had almost managed to finish, finding the hypocrisy to be almost amusing. She grinned, in answer to which he patted his lips with a napkin, balled it beside him, and returned the expression in kind. Misu flexed a finger to the plate. ‘That right there tells me that we should see how it plays out. Trust in my recruitment and give it a chance. Okay?’ ‘We’ll do it your way.’ Franco eased a yawn. ‘I’m glad you see sense. How are the finances after last night? Generally, I mean,’ she asked. ‘We’re not broke yet.’ ‘Not this week at least.’ She paused then winced meekly. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that.’ ‘Sure you did. It’s fine though; I don’t mind you prying. You’re right. Not this week.’ Franco grinned and she reciprocated. ‘Good to know.’ Misu paused. ‘I was wondering where you were at the close last night. I had to give your speech, you know. I’ve not done that in a while.’ ‘Some people wanted me to play nice, talk to them, that sort of thing. Got dragged away for far too long.’ Franco yawned, recalling the events and their associated tedium. ‘Anyone important?’ ‘Local mayor, some friends of his. Nothing that couldn’t wait but they insisted I bantered at the table. Then he wanted me to meet his daughter in an attempt of matchmaking, not that they had the courtesy to inform me first. The stories, damn their mouths – they talked seemingly for ever! If I hear one more tale about how Balvalk was once great I may very well shoot this head of mine. It’s not great. Greatness never lived here. It just needed a place to piss and hung around a spell before moving on.’ ‘And the daughter?’ ‘Not my sort.’ Misu snorted in amusement. ‘Do you even have a sort?’ ‘I’ll tell you one day. You can keep guessing until then.’ Franco thanked a woman who passed and balanced his plate upon a stack of others she was on her way to clean. ‘I have no need to guess. You missed the commotion though; I’m sure you’re disappointed at that.’ Misu hung a cigarette between her lips and snapped off the contents of a matchbook. She held the flame in place, drawing slowly on her poison before shaking the fire to reduction. Her flute of grey smoke evaporated quickly. ‘We had a little trouble but nothing fancy.’ ‘Oh?’ ‘Some drunk accused one of ours of counting cards. Got rowdy and smashed a bottle. Glass everywhere.’ ‘Heavens.’ ‘Nothing more than a mess. Jacques calmed him down enough for the constabulary to haul him away after.’ ‘A relief to hear. That man has paid for himself ten times over. The benefits of having some strong-arm help.’ ‘Careful, Franco, you’re in danger of sounding like you actually care.’ ‘Mistake noted. What are your plans for the day?’ ‘The girls and I are going to the bath-house in town. I’m assuming that we can be spared some walking around money after last night? A little shopping would keep the spirits up.’ ‘But the bath-house?’ he queried. ‘A little publicity for us, dear. Some pampering – I’m sure you won’t mind.’ Appearance was everything for the Gambler’s Den, and Misu knew full well what effect the parade of showgirls had on bored locals. Their appearance, especially in a pack, caused a sensation wherever they ventured, guaranteeing a higher turnout before a subsequent show. A higher turnout would result in a higher profit – at least one would assume so. * * * Franco pondered Misu’s request but remained cautious. He recalled the time where they were almost mobbed in a market square, or the time when some young men became far too aggressive in their affections. To him, it was not worrying. It was being wary of negative perceptions, despite how mechanical and callous that sounded. He had to consider these things, as the others sure wouldn’t. Why let sensibilities interrupt something fun? Misu leant forward with a pout. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Franco hesitated, only for a moment, but relinquished any concerns. Let them have their moment to dissipate the recent stress, he decided. ‘Of course I don’t. Make sure you’re back by dusk though. We’re hauling off then.’ ‘A late one? You’ve not done that in a while.’ ‘We’re going to be an extra day as it is on account of a detour. Red Points is starting to get busy with hijackings according to the wire. I would rather we kept ourselves in a measure of security even if that puts us an extra day over sand.’ The newswire had been abuzz in recent weeks. His venture into Balvalk’s post office confirmed that bandits were becoming increasingly brazen. He had scanned the noticeboards, taking in the bevy of warnings adorned with noticeably large print. Robbery this. Hijacking that. Ransom notices here and there. Pockets of lawlessness were widening out in the region, forcing organized travel routes to be changed with uncomfortable frequency. And there was significant cost. The Gambler’s Den was a lucrative target to any raiding parties and sadly replacing bullet-bitten panels was straining the coffers. ‘There’s that caring thing once more.’ Misu stubbed out her cigarette. ‘My, Franco, we’ll make an honest man out of you yet.’ ‘I doubt it. Never been much for honest folk.’ ‘Are they problematic?’ Misu quirked a brow. Franco accompanied her rise to leave. He spied Rosso feverishly devouring his breakfast with copious amounts of coffee on a nearby table, accompanied by the boy who timidly pecked at his food in comparison. ‘Slippery,’ he replied. ‘At least with the rough cut, you get what you see.’ Distracted, Franco manoeuvred himself around the bar and rummaged beneath the counter. Settling upon a distinctive glass bottle with a rather attractive label, he hoisted it out by one of the fixed glass handles and deposited it before their resident driver. The pair subsequently stopped their eating. ‘That is a pleasure,’ Rosso admitted, clearly relishing the thought of taking the cork from this beauty and draining it dry. ‘For making good time,’ Franco declared, ‘though please do show some restraint; you still have to get us to Windberg.’ Chapter Four (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73) Windberg Windberg, from the outset, resembled a normal port town – only it was much grander. Unlike most of the other settlements, the sprawling docks were much larger as it sat upon one of the main shipping lanes across the Sand Sea, an expansive of desert that had been previously impossible to traverse. That was before man’s obsession with machinery ensured their domination over this natural void. Massive ships moored themselves here, immense steam-powered boats adorned with giant caterpillar tracks that towered over the rugged buildings and heaved with cargo containers. When these pulled into dock, the ground violently shuddered under each heave of caterpillar tread. Goods, ore, oil – there was no cargo that the ships didn’t haul. Naturally these were obvious targets for bandits as holding one to ransom could amass a fortune. It soon became common practice for the shipping companies to employ mercenaries, who would protect the transport from any bandits who tried their luck. Local bars attracted every kind of pay-hungry outcast from all around, who either had a talent for protection or became desperate enough to cut a living from such a dangerous profession. But this trade brought crime and with that, trouble. The city of Windberg needed the law to be tough and assertive. The criminal element would have easily thrived unchecked if not for the swift motions of those in charge. To keep the public happy, elections were held for those who deemed themselves up to the task of keeping Windberg safe. For sure, some who offered their service were questionable in their dealings behind closed doors, but they were brushed aside by a population tired of gun-runners and back-alley thugs. The people demanded change and their wish came true. The people got Sheriff Alex Juniper. Juniper was not a man known for his compassion. Many ignored the rumours of brutality against criminals that found themselves thrown into cells on account of his results. Illegal fraternities were raided, back-alley trading crushed, and contraband impounded. Petty thieves, roaming thugs – these were now unheard of in Windberg. The streets were deemed safe for everyone and had been for the past couple of years. Of course, there still existed a handful of racketeers, but with the local difficulties, their operations were driven either underground or fronted by clubs or bars, the gloss of legitimacy thick and misleading. Alex Juniper was one of those rare people who could not be bought. For him, being the sentry of order was a calling from the Holy Sorceress herself and no amount of kickbacks could encourage him to turn a blind eye to the unsavoury. Those messengers who hand-delivered plain, bound packages full of bribe money were spared jail so they could deliver his own. They were sent back, usually with an arm broken, to tell their boss that the attempt was a failure and would always be so. Whilst Windberg was a relative sanctuary to those who abided by the government of man and the teachings of the Holy Sorceress, its outskirts were less protected. Rolling waves of sand and cliff ensured that bandits had too many caves to hide in, allowing them to ambush passing carriages, and no matter how many posses were sent out into the wilderness to bring in gang leaders, those returning were always fewer in number than when they left. It was in these outskirts after a good couple of hours’ travel where a straggle of brigands tried to stop the Den’s arrival. They rode hard on horseback, pounding through the desert wastes, shoddily aiming pistols that cracked with every shot. Most were just for intimidation. It wasn’t the intention to hurt anybody, yet, as ransom on those possessing such a fine vehicle could be lucrative, though some shots did strike against the carriage sides. Franco separated a window blind between thumb and forefinger, catching a look at these rogues thrashing their animals in the morning sun. Vermin, he cursed, deciding to rise from his seat and walk the length of his carriage to the telephone intercom. With sharp prods of his finger the trumpet receiver was brought to his ear and he waited for the crackling voice to come through. The boxcar, nestled between the end observation car and the showgirls’ quarters, had come alive. Inside, a phone rattled in shrill alarm. Bustling within was the organized retaliation by the showgirls, who, in this instance, had the responsibility of returning fire. The top of the carriage had a section that swung over, revealing a rudimentary cannon that launched shells, shells that burst over the sand and tore through the unfortunate horse and rider caught in the impact. Each shell was loaded into the cannon’s breech, supported by a drive mechanism; two of the showgirls slid one at a time into a stuttering belt loader, while another showgirl called directions as she stared into a lowered periscope. The carriage rattled with each boom – a tremendous kick that sent vibrations down to its floor. Between the feminine bodies, the train’s head of security pressed through, easing each aside to reach the ringing phone. Jacques released the conical ear piece and spoke into the mounted receiver. ‘Yes, boss?’ ‘Mister Jacques,’ Franco said, watching another rider fall from the carriage window. Sand erupted in heavy plumes with each shot. ‘There seem to be people firing at my train.’ ‘That there is, sir.’ Jacques gestured to the women inside to continue the retaliation. ‘I would guess it be on account of the money we’re carrying, that with it being our lot and all.’ ‘Indeed.’ ‘Pay them no mind. We are already all over it.’ ‘I’m relieved to know that is the case. I shall leave things in your more than capable hands.’ Capable they were indeed. For months now, Jacques had provided the protection that the Den had required. It was not his brawn that made him unique, though few could take a punch from him and keep composure. Nor was it his handiness with firearms, though his aim was keener than most who brandished weaponry. What Jacques brought was presence. It would have been easy to hire someone to be brutish. With such desperation in the region, ask anybody to rough up another for a solid wage and there wasn’t a soul who would say no. It was pure luck that Franco met Jacques, emptying a bottle of Black Peanut glass by glass in one of the more respectable taverns. He had been a young man born into wealth, though discovered the humility of scarceness when a fire took his belongings and family. Unlike most others in similar circumstances who either begged on the streets or worked in mills for a pittance, Jacques earned an honest trade working at the market. Although only twelve years old, his literacy and accountancy skills had made him an asset. When old enough, he had taken the running of the stalls day to day, shifting any goods that were offered by suppliers for a quick turnaround, before destiny interrupted. By chance, Jacques witnessed a well-dressed gentleman being relieved of his purse by a pickpocket of impressive skill. Calling into the throng caused the criminal to escape but for some reason Jacques gave chase. Sprinting through snaking alleyways that were always slick with sand, he eventually cornered the thief and demanded his ill-gotten possessions. A knife was quickly thrust towards Jacques, which he was not quick enough to dodge, and it instead sank into his shoulder. It was the first true experience of physical pain he had suffered, though this was hastily ignored. In response Jacques tossed the thief against the alleyway walls until he hung limp over his shoulder. It was surprising for the purse owner to offer Jacques a job upon his return. Sure, he could have kept the money but not everybody stole given the opportunity. Principles counted for a lot and Franco, who happened to have been the victim in this whole affair, approached Jacques with a job prospect. He needed a trustworthy hand and Jacques needed money. It was an ideal arrangement. Another crack of a revolver. Another hollow thud into the carriage side. How much was all this going to cost? Repeated entanglements were a monetary blight on funds and costs were already skyrocketing. How much more was he supposed to tolerate? The entire farce was eroding his patience. Enraged, Franco slammed his drink down and pulled down the carriage window. The revolver, which had rested upon the table, was now gripped and bucking wildly in thunderclaps. Franco barked in anger at the nearest horse-riding bandit whilst firing rapidly. The rider spun from the saddle and rolled into the dirt, this loss finally being enough for the bandits to turn back. ‘Will you refrain from shooting at my train please?!’ Franco bellowed as loudly as his throat would permit. The bandits began to pull back. Reading the bold sign that sped past, Franco saw it was only ten miles until they’d arrive in the safety of Windberg. It could not come quick enough. Misu had sat in the same carriage, sorting paperwork, or at least giving the impression that she had been doing so, but on Franco’s umpteenth glance, he noticed she was mechanically shuffling the same papers over and over again. She stared blankly, looking at the drink bottles that populated the bar where she was seated, her face multiplied by the reflections. ‘You seem fascinated by those invoices. Don’t seem so entertaining to me.’ Misu blinked away her trance, readjusting her now numb buttocks on the stool. ‘Those outside don’t have you rattled, do they?’ he enquired. ‘Not at all, I’m just working out what to do with all this …’ Her words trailed off as she quickly reviewed the pages, as if she had never noticed them before. Franco immediately noticed this hesitation. Misu was never this cagey in his presence. Maybe when they had an argument she would stop talking to him, of course. Sometimes, when he had taken to playing with patrons and gambled too frivolously, she gave the cold shoulder. And yes, that time when he accidentally implied she had put on weight did warrant blanking all of his requests – but this? This was out of the ordinary. ‘File it, surely. That’s the routine. Are you sure you’re okay? You seem a touch unlike yourself.’ His fingers drummed on the bar counter. ‘I’m peachy, dear. It’s just been a rougher ride than usual and I feel a little queasy.’ Misu beamed, finally paying Franco her full attention. The smile was close to believable and easily able to hoodwink anyone else into believing all was fine. Franco was immune to such diversions but decided to play along if talking was far from her mind. ‘If that’s all it is … If you could be so kind, just make sure you’re ready with the manifest when we reach the station. We’ll be in Windberg very soon.’ Franco took his leave to his personal car to finish the last of the arrangements. Misu’s face faded from his sight. ‘Oh and I forgot,’ he added, turning back, ‘word on the wire is that it’s customary for Bluecoats to give a hard time to all arrivals due to criminality in the area. So tell the girls to play nice.’ * * * As Franco left to discuss his own affairs, Misu slumped down across the bar and rubbed the bridge of her nose. A tired, exasperated gasp left her throat. Why did it have to be Windberg all places? The mere name of the city coaxed her stomach to churn. Alex Juniper was known for many things. The first was his uncompromising stance on illegal trade. Unlike anywhere else, the sheriff had formed a task force dedicated to the interception of goods smugglers – forcing anyone to think twice about planning a route through his jurisdiction. The second was his formidable temper, hence the moniker Axe, though nobody dared to use this in his presence. He was the law here, as much as it was defined and sometimes a little over. Sometimes getting the job done was a messy business, fraught with all manner of unpleasantries. Were they necessary? To the sheriff, they were more than that. They were mandatory. Someone like Franco – dangerously aloof, unpredictable, and brazen – and with the Gambler’s Den in tow, could only result in trouble of the worst kind. And Alex Juniper would be ready for him. * * * Harold Wigglesbottom walked the length of Platform 4 and back again. He checked his gold pocket watch, secured to his breast pocket by a chain, and tutted once more. Punctuality was important to Harold, as Windberg Central Station needed to run, in his verbose opinion, like a proverbial clock. Trains came and passed through Windberg with alarming frequency, bringing passengers, cargo, and post, so it took just one delay to hold everything up. Delays were not favourable to him, a perpetual annoyance that few took seriously, so when the arrival at Platform 4 was five minutes overdue, it caused nothing but irritation. He snapped the watch case shut and slid it back inside his vest, walking back with ledger in hand towards the accompanying constabulary referred to as Bluecoats. Harold was familiar with the law, and the routine of spot inspections for new arrivals, but even this display was significantly more heavy-handed than was customary. It seemed that their dear sheriff had been expecting the new arrivals. Lucky them. * * * By the time the Gambler’s Den had finally pulled in, the security had reorganized into formation, jostling Harold for floor space, with others cautiously securing every exit. Harold recorded the train number in his ledger, elbowing those in his way aside for a view of the platform clock, on his platform, in his station. Sheriff Juniper watched the carriages haul past to a squealing stop, bursts of steam erupting out. The heaving beast – gilded and proud – dwarfed the men who stood in preparation on Platform 4. It was an unexpected welcome for Franco, who stepped out from his carriage, followed by Misu and Jacques. A bevy of showgirls sauntered from the back carriage, dressed in all their finery and chirping with excitement. They froze in surprise. Any dealings with the law usually resulted in one of two outcomes: bribery or arguments, and so they were right to be cautious. It was Harold who approached first. He moved his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a chubby finger, jowls shaking as he asserted an authority above the Bluecoats. ‘Welcome to Windberg, sir. Nature of business?’ ‘Nothing but entertainment, my friend. Yours and ours.’ Franco, dressed in a long azure coat with gold trim and a red cravat, reached his hand out to Juniper’s approach. The gesture was unreturned as the sheriff brushed past. His concern for the vehicle was too absorbing. ‘Any cargo we need to declare? Hazardous, livestock, et cetera?’ Harold asked. ‘Clean as they come.’ ‘Good news. Your signature.’ Harold thrust out a thick, floppy, suede-covered book and a pen. Franco beamed as he flawlessly scrawled his name. Juniper was not happy. He wasn’t impressed with the presence of the train in his city, or with its owners or the business it touted. It reeked of suspicion. A gut feeling had turned his stomach the moment he had heard of its arrival and this was always a sign that trouble was afoot. ‘Where have you come from?’ came his first demand for information, flat and imposing. ‘Ashdown.’ The sheriff nodded, impatiently biting the inside of his cheek. In truth no answer would suffice nor subdue any suspicions of wrongdoing. ‘I want to see your stamps.’ Misu immediately handed over the logbook with a trembling grip, showing the time and date the Gambler’s Den arrived at each destination. Alongside each were the verified imprints from each corresponding stationmaster, authenticating claims of the route. Pages were flicked back and forth. ‘It says here you went through Rustec a week back. You never mentioned that,’ Juniper accused. ‘You never asked … We just passed through, gave the small-town folks there a reason to celebrate. Can you clarify what this is about, sheriff?’ The logbook was slapped shut and passed back. Alex paced alongside the carriage and inspected its veneer. ‘Word on the wire was that there was a break-in at some museum in Rustec. Some relic was stolen. Very valuable. Expert work by all accounts.’ ‘We heard that too. There’s some sticky-fingered folks out there,’ Franco returned, not liking where this was going. ‘You wouldn’t have heard anything else, would you? Anything specific? An enterprising man like yourself must hear things in your line of work. Numerous things I suppose.’ Juniper finally acknowledged Franco and sized him up. As expected, Juniper was barrel-chested and weathered in appearance. The gaze that brought the truth in many an interrogation failed to intimidate Franco, who passed it off. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he replied. The sheriff ran his hand over the steely veneer of the nearest carriage, tracing each bullet hole in sequence. Only now was Franco able to assess the damage of their little run-in. Not to mention calculate the approximate cost. ‘Run into some trouble, did we?’ ‘We get just as much as anybody else.’ Franco shrugged. ‘The Den just knows how to defend itself.’ ‘No unlicensed weaponry I hope.’ ‘Perish the thought, sheriff. Papers for them all.’ ‘Talking of papers, I want to see the gambling licence for this vehicle. It’s not exempt from gambling laws just because it’s on wheels.’ Misu was already prepared. They had been pressed by the law many times. None of the houndings ever resulted in an apology, but something close. The Den was legal front and back. Just because they dealt with large sums of gambling money didn’t mean that the paperwork wasn’t in check. Misu offered over the leather-bound wedge of paper, which was snatched and blindly passed to anyone in reach to review. It was looked at, quickly. ‘They were stamped two years back in the capital.’ Sceptical, Juniper reclaimed the documents. He brought the pages closer and eyed the imprints for any indication of forgery. ‘We’re far from there. Most folk would attempt to hoodwink us with fakes.’ ‘Luckily we’re not those kind of folk. As down and honest as the day we were made, much to our misfortune.’ Franco chuckled half-heartedly. Alex stared longer this time, more intently, searching his hardest for any sign of tampering. ‘I assure you, all is in order.’ Harold was eager to check every stamp and the validity of travel himself, though had to take the sheriff’s overriding word. Acknowledging that, from what he could witness, everything was legitimate, Juniper placed the paperwork roughly back into Misu’s hand. She scowled at his flat, childish response. ‘This is a clean city with good people. Be sure that you don’t get involved in anything unlawful. If there’s one thing we don’t abide by, it’s troublemakers.’ ‘Trouble isn’t something we make, friend. You have no need to worry,’ Franco assured him before leading his party down the platform. ‘In our business, such a thing is unprofitable.’ * * * To find oneself in Windberg was almost bewildering after spending time in the trade outposts. A city – and not just any city – the most expansive and extravagant city squatting on the cusp of the Bad Lands. It was a sprawling, claustrophobic beast. It was a city that could comfortably hold a good few thousand people but accommodated plenty more with the ever-expanding shantytowns. In its rush for growth, districts resembled haphazard constructions. Wealthy ones, boasting fine multi-storey erections, simply punctuated the contrast to reams of terraced dwellings threaded by maze-like streets of the poor. Just stepping out of Central Station revealed a sea of activity, people moving like the flow of a stream, all with something to do or a place to be. Gothic architecture loomed overhead, immense stonework and sculptures, watching over cramped alleys that harboured mischief. The poor sat openly begging, the fortunate delighted by the clatter of coin in their begging bowl. Carriages, some pulled by horse and others steam-powered, ebbed along to their destination, sometimes dangerously fast, forcing those in their path to quickly scurry aside. Civilization had rooted itself deeply here and showed no indication of regressing. No sooner had Wyld emerged from the Den, than she slinked into the shadows and walked familiar alleyways to attend to her own business. It was her nature to avoid the crowds when feeling guilty and the weighty lump in her side bag seemed to ooze that feeling. She kept her head bowed when eye contact was made, turned back as soon as the law was in sight, and swept into every shadow much like a fox. * * * Muddick’s Curiosity Shoppe lacked any genuine curiosity for those who entered. A person never found themselves walking through the door not knowing exactly what they wanted. Every wall was stacked with knick-knacks, the ceiling blanketed in hanging lamps of every size and colour possible. The store resembled more of an unsorted warehouse than a place of business. Muddick himself was sat behind a walnut counter, though sat was too generous a word. The old man slouched on his stool, lazily scanning the day’s paper. Flecks of tobacco escaped the suckled cob pipe that bellowed smoke. Tobacco lined every glass jar behind him, crudely labelled but of the highest quality – good tobacco, not that wet rag that got passed around as a good smoke. Again he wetted his lips, flicked to the next page, and traced each word with bony fingers. Whilst his eyesight may be failing, obvious from the absurdly thick glasses that had already half slipped down his nose, his hearing remained as sharp as ever. It picked up the jangling door chime as the door eased open. He heard the latch click back behind the person. He counted each footstep as they approached. One. Two. Three. The hollow rattle of the beaded curtain that the customer passed through. Four. Five. Six. On cue he breathed out the last inhalation of smoke, and flicked his eyes upward. ‘Aha,’ he cooed. ‘I was wondering when you would turn up. I saw your handiwork in here.’ Muddick flicked the paper to its cover, pointing to the enlarged lettering. DARING MIDNIGHT ROBBERY OF THE EPILIM MUSEUM! PRICELESS ARTEFACT STOLEN! Wyld pulled at the neck of her poncho, dusting some of the loose sand that had deposited itself in the folds. ‘Priceless is it now?’ She smirked. She looked proud of herself, much like a cat would with a mouse in its jaws. ‘I thought everything had a price.’ ‘Some prices are far from the reach of others, hence the term.’ Wyld reached for the canvas satchel on her waist, carefully revealing the stolen artefact and placing it on the rough counter. The gilded gold leaf ran the china egg’s circumference, then spiralled into intricate floral patterns, leaves flanked by perfectly cut gems of ruby and topaz. Along its surface was the very clear depiction of a man, or what seemed like a man. He was taller than other men who stood before him, for they were kneeing with hands gesturing towards each other. The taller figure was depicted with a halo of gold crowning his head and engraved blocks of what seemed to be feathers. It was enough for the shopkeeper to part with his pipe and place it beside him on a copper tray. ‘Not a fake?’ Muddick asked. He didn’t need to, but this was just a formality and everyone received such scrutiny no matter their track record. ‘The real thing,’ Wyld replied. Muddick pressed in an eyepiece before shunting himself over the object. After a series of grunts and huffs, he concluded that Wyld was telling the truth. The eyeglass popped out and he placed his spectacles back into position. ‘You have others?’ ‘I have plenty.’ ‘Are you offering this one to me?’ ‘It depends what you can tell me about it for starters. Then we go from there,’ Wyld replied, ever so matter-of-fact. ‘Made in the Vallanteij period,’ Muddick mused. ‘Six hundred years old or so. Exquisite leaf work, ever so delicate considering the subject matter. The stones are princess cut, brilliant clarity with no imperfections. No damage at all during its transit, which is ever so remarkable and will boost the resale considerably.’ ‘No, no, no!’ Wyld interrupted. ‘I don’t care about that. Tell me about the piece, the imagery.’ Muddick raised his well-crinkled brow. ‘Clearly it’s an Angel being depicted, a protector of the Holy Sorceress. Iconic. It’s common for relics to depict singular Angels; the regions have their favourites from lore and such. Look here, these beneath are people revering him, arms outstretched. There’s something to the left of him, this cuboid design is depicting something – a rogue Spirit most likely as it follows the design found in ruins of the era, depicting Mazalieth, Brohnmeath, Alpo, and Limit and such. Normally you find this design on pots of celebration, but this seems to be a piece resembling an offering. It’s small, very lavish, and only depicting this singular Angel.’ ‘Which one?’ Wyld asked. Muddick paused. ‘Which Angel does it depict do you think?’ Wyld repeated, just as seriously as before. It was quite an unusual request and very precise. ‘Does it matter?’ ‘It matters to me,’ Wyld flatly replied. Begrudgingly, the old man continued his assessment, squinting. ‘I’m not sure. He is not fair-haired. He is not decorated. The wings, I expected to be grander considering the nature of the piece. I must confess, I do not know. The Angel of the water maybe, at a push, if I had to guess. The portrayal is quite … unique.’ ‘A guess is good enough.’ Wyld smiled. ‘I never took you to be the religious sort. I won’t presume to know your plans.’ Muddick retrieved his pipe. ‘But I strongly suggest you be careful if you’re looking for excitement out there. We’ve had an outbreak of gangs encroaching on one another’s territories. Whilst arrests were made, things have been on edge for the past month now and with the law being so active, you couldn’t even get a look at the Vault let alone ransack it.’ ‘Oh?’ Wyld paused, clearly quite curious at this revelation, placing a coin between them to encourage the flow of information. ‘Please, do tell me more.’ * * * Jacques had spent the better part of the morning haggling for supplies. It seemed to be that every store or stall was determined to strangle every coin from his purse, coin that was needed to stock the Den with food and other such necessities. Costs were rising and business could have been better. Shopping whilst being dressed in all his finery meant negotiating prices was a difficult affair. Three carts, all pulled by shop boys, heaved along the road in a rattling convoy behind him, flanked by the Den’s showgirls. A procession of attractive women like this turned many heads, with some of the braver men approaching to try their luck. The girls were professionals and teased as only they could, suggesting that the men come to the performance and maybe they would share a drink together. Coy flicks of the hair and the slow batting of lashes brought a flush out in the cheeks of the brave. Jacques chuckled to himself. Never had he known such a talented collection of deviants, each hired by Franco to seduce on a whim. The carts groaned to a stop outside Central Station, their manpower now beginning to unload crate, barrel, and sack into the street. The giggling procession of showgirls sorted through tobacco and coal and bread, until finding the luxuries packed away. A box of sweet liquorice was hastily unwrapped from a bag of confectionary, its bow pulled loose and the contents passed around. The girls found no better way to celebrate their arrival to a new city than to find its local delicacies. Jacques organized the shop hands to Platform 4, taking the service doors up a succession of stairs and was about to take a sack himself until a familiar shape approached in the glare of the midday sun. Misu advanced, head down and obviously troubled in her thoughts. She moved on the wind like the scattered sands that haunted every roadside. Burdens straddled her shoulders, riding her conscience like a mule. The usual elegant air that the woman exuded had drifted away and despite being dressed in her finery, it was all for nothing. She may as well have been a stone covered in flowers. ‘If it isn’t our Jewel herself,’ Jacques stated. The canvas sack over his shoulder was adjusted with a quick pat. ‘Have you attended to your business?’ Her hazel eyes squinted in question. ‘The girls told me that you went to see some old friends,’ he added. ‘Others with your looks and demeanour. My word, what a sight that would be.’ All Misu could do was fumble through the lie as best she could. ‘Yes. Old friends, you know. People who we could be if things were different.’ ‘And you neglected to invite me.’ His bravado was a welcome balm to the unspoken troubles. ‘Well, is there any chance of you helping us get all this on board? There’s another delivery to come too. We may have just used up all of the carts.’ Burlap sacks were piled up, crates stacked, and before long the Den was restocked with necessities. Alcohol was deemed to be one of these – bottles clinked as each crate was placed in a storage car. Conversation between Jacques and Misu turned to prices, the rocketing cost of oil, and Jacques’s bartering skills. In the end he’d saved quite an amount of coin by smooth-talking. Luckily for him most shopkeepers had their daughters working the stores and for one as charming as he, a kind word here and there ensured a saving. The difference was soon brought up, and while it was believed that Franco would want it returned, Misu had a far more attractive suggestion. The prospect of the showgirls visiting the nearest silkery was enough for Jacques to hand it over. It was, in his excitable words, for the greater good. Though more urgent matters postponed this visit. At the steps of the station loading bay stood the delivery boys and their carts, all unpacked and waiting for the pair’s arrival. Time was, as they say, money, and any delay did not help some of the goods that easily spoiled in the midday heat. ‘Hey! What’s the holdup for?’ Jacques patted the shoulder of the closest courier, no older than thirteen at his guess. The boy declined to speak but instead gestured through the loading doors where the Gambler’s Den’s storage cars were swamped with attention. Among the heaving throngs of blue-suited constabulary flanking the train stood Franco, disillusioned and barking angry. He was obviously arguing, tossing his arms about, though withheld himself from any pointing. Misu and Jacques kept their distance, busying themselves until he marched over, red-faced and furious. ‘A warrant!’ Franco spat, waving the papers in a fist. ‘The sheriff came back with a damn warrant to check us over from top to bottom.’ ‘You couldn’t refuse him?’ Jacques asked as he approached. ‘Did my head of security just ask whether we could hold back search papers?’ ‘No,’ Jacques hurriedly corrected. ‘I mean, could you have, you know –’ His suggestion was coupled with a rubbing of thumb and fingers. Bribery. It opened many doors in this line of work. Some downright expected it as part of the job. ‘If I could of, I would have,’ Franco dismissed, pacing the platform and eyeing up every constable acting sentry. Alex Juniper stepped down from the carriage and patted its side, more patronizing than anything else. Placing his hands on its exterior was a clear sign of defiance to Franco, one both clearly acknowledged by each party. ‘Quite the costly one you have here, son,’ Juniper stated with a hiss through his teeth. ‘No expense spared for sure. Quite the coin to deck her out I would say.’ ‘What are you getting at, sheriff?’ Franco asked. The pleasantries were now over. ‘If it is an accusation, please do come out with it. My time is valuable.’ Juniper stepped before him, towering over Franco, his height clearly a good half foot in advantage. The steel at his hip rattled in its holster with every stride, a dangerous reminder of the severity of this matter. ‘Your time is worthless while I have your little travelling show here, and it will be a spell until we’ve thoroughly searched it. Your floozies can be on their backs, on the clock, when I decide. I think we’ll have to take a while as …’ Juniper scanned each face before him, assessing the guilt. Misu gritted her teeth in frustration, fists clenched and almost shaking. ‘Given the company you keep, I think it’s best that we are thorough.’ Franco stuffed the warrant into his trouser pocket as a revelation struck. ‘Of course. You think we had something to do with that business in Rustec, don’t you?’ Juniper sneered, a creeping, horrid smile that twisted his features and stressed wrinkles of age. ‘That’s an accusation there, not one that we have made. You are assuming things, Franco.’ ‘You don’t need to play this game with me. I’ve dealt with your kind before.’ Beneath his mousy auburn fringe, Franco had made an unspoken challenge. It was risen to immediately. ‘Dealt with my kind?’ Juniper seethed. ‘I assure you, lad, you have not seen the likes of me. So you can keep up with that smart talk all you want. Until I’m happy that every inch of your vehicle is on the level, consider it impounded.’ Misu cursed in disbelief. ‘We’ve got a show to do tonight! You can’t do this!’ ‘Don’t be telling me what I can and cannot do in my city. Unless you want to waste more of this valuabletime of yours, I suggest you get out of our way and find somewhere to sleep for the night. Don’t be going too far, mind. I’ll surely be wanting to talk to you after. Men!’ Juniper called to those in earshot, each boot striking in attention. ‘You have orders that if anyone interferes with your search, clap them in irons and drag them to the cells.’ Misu pressed herself against Franco, whose eyes and mind were elsewhere, and made an attempt of reassurance. It was for naught, as he brushed away her hands and concern, and left to find time with his thoughts, alone. She watched and wrapped her arms around herself for comfort. This was a disaster. * * * The sheriff was content with how things were being handled. Children with toys rattling into his city – who did they think they were? Rolling carriages of debauchery and sin. They were the reason why Windberg was in such a state; they were the reason why lawlessness was so rampant in this region. The line had to be held and he, as he reminded himself once more, was the only one with the resolve to do it. * * * Strolling down the steps from the train station, Juniper was observed from the gloom of a shop alleyway with scrutiny. With hood up, Wyld waited for him to pass into the busy crowds. She emerged, moving past street vendors and stallholders. The increased placement of constables was terribly off-putting. Her fingertips subconsciously caressed the illegal effigy in her knapsack, for reassurance if she was honest. This was not a good turn of events and it would be hours until darkness provided the comfort and safety of the shadows once more. * * * Rumours of the impounding of the Gambler’s Den spread through bar and tavern, making the promised invites that had been pinned up on communal message boards surprisingly void. Some did turn up at the station, hoping for a show, but were instead met by the locked station gates and unimpressed constabulary. Afternoon soon gave way to dusk, dusk to twilight and still no fanfare. Even the most keen individuals, almost giddy with anticipation, sloped away, disappointed with the outcome. The stars were supposed to be joined with fireworks, but instead remained as uneventful as always. The streets were supposed to be set alight with a carnival atmosphere, but instead harboured the nightly drunken vagrants. The evening was as typical as any in Windberg. * * * When the moon had risen high and begun its downward descent, Franco remained the only one of the Den’s party who found that sleep had eluded him. It was not for want of trying, though the bed seemed too firm, the sheets immensely itchy and the heat, the heat, it was as if the innkeepers were attempting to boil him alive. With the train off limits, this was the first time in years Franco hadn’t slept in his own bed. It may have been promoted as one of the best beds in the entire city, but Franco’s back keenly argued this with a flurry of sharp pains that climaxed with abandoning any attempts at slumber. Instead, he ventured down into the foyer and slumped on a barstool, ordering glasses of what passed for good alcohol. Everyone else was asleep, he assumed. They had all eaten together, though in awkward silence. Misu was the only one brave enough to question the change in performance schedule, though it was soon apparent that such a discussion wasn’t to be had. Jacques had decided to leave his employer to his thoughts. Without his own bar to drain, Franco had to make do with the one that the inn had to offer, if one could call it a bar. It was woefully stocked with dusty bottles, most second-rate scotch and vodka, with few names he could pronounce and thus ignored. Franco gestured for the eight-year-old bottle of sour mash, tossing back glass after glass until his fingers began to numb and his troubles slowly faded. Beside him sat a waif of a girl, clad in a sand-dusted poncho. She muttered for a glass of the hardest stuff in the house and caressed the beverage in cupped hands. Both she and Franco failed to make eye contact, but after taking a long sip from his own tumbler, he finally spoke, eyes still focused on some unseen point past the racks of, presumably, long-spoilt wine. ‘Please tell me you had nothing to do with this,’ he asked, shaking his head. It warranted a draw on a newly rolled cigarette, and a slow, patient exhalation. Wyld re-seated herself, running her finger over the circumference of her glass before taking a sip. ‘I saw the commotion when I returned,’ Wyld murmured, cautious that anyone might be overhearing their conversation. Officially, Wyld was nothing more than an unknown stowaway. A ghost. ‘I thought it would be best to distance myself from you all, just in case.’ Not good enough. ‘The sheriff exclaimed that they were searching the Den because of the company I kept. What did you do, Wyld? Where did you go?’ He placed his glass down, firmly, totally missing the accompanying coaster. ‘Nothing, really. I mean, I got –’ She paused. ‘A valuation.’ ‘On what you –’ Franco glanced to the bartender and hushed himself slightly. ‘You acquired?’ ‘I didn’t see anyone following me.’ ‘I think it’s safe to assume that they did.’ ‘Listen, Franco. This isn’t a game; I know that. I was careful. This is what I do. I don’t get tailed.’ Franco ground his roll-up into a nearby ashtray, fighting the urge to start a second. ‘Well, you need to be better, clearly. If they find whatever you’ve stolen?’ ‘I don’t get how that would be my fault considering that it’s your trunk they’re in. I said I needed it locked away; that’s what you produced. Stop being jittery. That thing is as secure as it gets. If someone attempts to open it without the correct pressure triggers, they’ll have to take an axe to split it open.’ ‘Would your contact talk?’ ‘Even if he gave me up, he would have plenty of jail time ahead. It’s not even on the cards.’ Wyld sipped her liquor away, before delivering her bombshell. ‘I found out something of interest.’ ‘Don’t you think you’ve been getting us in enough trouble already?’ Franco relinquished the urge to have another smoke, striking a match in a violent snap. ‘The payoff would be big.’ ‘I am assuming such, to get you out of this hole you’ve been digging. You already owe me for the ride.’ ‘I have your cut of the last job.’ ‘You took it to the Den?’ Franco hissed between clenched teeth. ‘While it’s surrounded by the law?’ ‘Of course not; don’t be an idiot. It’s safe. Stashed with someone I can trust.’ ‘It had better be. I’m keen to get it to the bank. The last thing I need is that to go missing.’ ‘This Vault that I told you about …’ Wyld quickly changed the subject. ‘Listening.’ ‘It’s in a small compound just on the outskirts. I’ve found out what’s inside and it’s –’ Wyld stifled an inappropriate giggle with a hand. ‘It’s a treasure trove. All of the contraband that the law takes is locked away.’ Franco lowered his smoke once more and contemplated this, draining his glass dry. With such ruthless enforcement, if such a thing existed it would be plentiful for sure. It was, after all, why they had travelled here to begin with. ‘Such as?’ ‘Weapons are a certainty.’ Useless. Selling them would bring no end of trouble. ‘In which we have no interest.’ ‘What I was about to say is that any imported goods without paperwork would have been stored there. Relics, spices, treasures. All the other good things are included too.’ ‘The shiny.’ Franco narrowed his eyes. ‘Unfortunately, there’s a problem.’ ‘There always is.’ ‘Rowdy locals ensured that the law around here are somewhat headstrong in doing the right thing. As you’ve found out. I mean, sure, the bad guys are around but most keep a legitimate face running delivery businesses, bars – things like that. They still exist. There’s one in particular who keeps coming up, some character called Wilheim. We may end up, well, making him look bad, if you get my meaning.’ ‘Pissing off the locals is rarely a sound idea.’ ‘Exactly. Word is that we really don’t want to get on the wrong side of him, not that I know if he has a proverbial good side or whatever.’ ‘The law around here,’ Franco moved on. ‘What are the chances of bribing a few to look the other way?’ ‘Impossible. When he took over, this Axe fellow immediately dismissed anybody suspected of being on the take. He takes things very seriously indeed. More’s the pity.’ Wyld finished her drink and rested the glass down. ‘What you’re saying,’ Franco summed their discussion up, ‘is that we have come all the way out here, on your very good word, with no chance of a payoff. This grand plan of yours is, in fact, impossible, and we have wasted fuel and food to discover that.’ Wyld pouted, disappointed at this admission of defeat. ‘That’s a rather blunt way of putting it but if you want to cut the deck like that.’ Stool legs squeaked against the floorboards as Franco rose, patting himself down for his wallet and, when finding it, leaving it on his person. He looked down to the woman beside him, keen to express his frustration as vocally as he could muster, but decided to hold his temperament in check. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I have to try and salvage something from this visit. There are people who I need to pay, with money I don’t have.’ ‘Hey, come on, we could still do this. I didn’t say it was impossible,’ Wyld whined. ‘Enough. I don’t want to hear another word.’ Franco tapped the bar to gain the tender’s attention, and when obtained, gestured to the empty glasses between them. ‘These are on her.’ Chapter Five (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73) Bargaining Chips Lau Benge Repair Yard was one of the many small enterprises set up in Windberg to capitalize on the damage that trains sustained in the Sand Sea, natural or otherwise. There was nothing specifically unique about it. Its prices were no more expensive than anywhere else. Equally, its labour had no better or worse reputation in comparison to its competitors. The only reason why Franco chose it was because it was the closest. Squatted in the desert docks, the yard was adjacent enough to the wharf to perform service to the multitudes of vehicles that trundled past, mainly haulage trains that tugged lines of ore to the city’s smelting plants. Work was plentiful, as the excursions crossing the Sand Sea with multiple wagons stacked with ore were demanding. A single immense maintenance shed, its peaked roof rising higher than the surrounding warehouses, sheltering that which was brought inside by five sequential lines of track. Surrounding the maintenance floor were raised sections of limestone, a good fifteen feet from the ground with a circumference of safety railing. Up here, above the noise of hammering and drilling, was the yard manager’s office. ‘An Alamos D locomotive?’ the yard manager queried, reclining back in a swivel chair with balding fabric. ‘That’s a little in the past isn’t it? I think you might be better off looking in a scrapyard for pieces of one of those. If you’re just looking to patch up a few holes in the body, that’s simple enough but anywhere else will be a mighty chore.’ Franco sat opposite, the gulf between them filled by a simple pine desk that had since become a place to stack disorganized paperwork. The office was functional – open plan, windows out to the factory floor – though the decoration was shabby. Something resembling an engine squatted in the corner of the room, accompanying pistons scattered beside it. It wasn’t exactly the kind of environment he was used to. The two men couldn’t have been any different. Franco was clad in an emerald tweed suit with an open-collared white shirt. He was exuberant and fetching. The yard manager wore grease-stained blue overalls, or Franco believed them to have been blue at one point. They smeared patches of oil on the already abused furniture. Whereas Franco was well groomed by impeccable routine, the individual opposite looked like he had dunked his head into an ash pan. Clumped, straggly black hair jutted out without composition, a perfect accompaniment to a slightly lopsided moustache. ‘Luckily the boiler wasn’t hit, though the engine cab took a couple of slugs. The damage is mainly on the rear carriages. They look mighty unsightly. Can you produce the panels here if I get the plans?’ The yard manager folded his hands into a triangle. The chair squeaked with the new distribution of weight. ‘Well sure, that can be done. If we do them you’ll not notice the difference in the finish neither. Though one thing does surprise me. Why would one come into this here shop and ask about a train that’s borderline antique? Especially when there’s plenty of better alternatives out there.’ ‘Forgive me, I’ve not introduced myself properly.’ Franco began to wind up a well-versed introduction, though was interrupted with a raise of the hand. ‘You needn’t do so. Owner of the Gambler’s Den, right? Please, Mister Monaire, don’t insult us both. Your fame greatly precedes you. I saw that magnificent train of yours some years back way out west when you ventured thataways. I never imagined I would see you here, but who am I to second-guess your motives.’ He reached over, warmly shaking Franco’s hand – perhaps a little too energetically. ‘Who indeed.’ Franco played it predictably humble, secretly wiping his hand into a handkerchief. ‘I’m glad my name coaxes such praise. And, one would hope, a discount as well?’ The suggestion coaxed a laugh before being brushed aside. ‘Oh that’s optimistic. Kudos for trying though. Times are tough for everyone out here, Mister Monaire. If it was up to me I would have it fixed up for you at cost. A courtesy for what you do for folks out here. God knows we appreciate it.’ ‘How quickly can you do the job? As you’re well aware, we run on a particular schedule.’ ‘The boys and I can start in a fortnight.’ ‘Two weeks?’ Franco repeated with a gasp. ‘A little excessive for a couple of carriage panels, don’t you think?’ ‘Previous work I’m sorry to say, not helped by being a couple of hands down.’ Franco mused long and hard about this. Or at least he gave the impression that he did so, coming to an equally false realization for the onlooker’s benefit. He had already planned for such a situation before venturing inside and should needs dictate had a proposal prepared to expedite the repairs. ‘I am an impatient sort. How about I make you an offer,’ Franco bargained, withdrawing a small golden card from a pocket. ‘You tell whoever’s job is up next that there will be a small delay. I’ll get the materials and the labour for ten per cent less than you quote. You have your boys turn up bright and early within the week …’ The manager looked considerably perplexed until the card was passed over. He scanned it, quite taken aback with its contents. Embossed across the front in well-constructed print were the following words: YOU HAVE BEEN CORDIALLY INVITED For one night of extravagance at the Gambler’s Den By personal invitation of Mister Franco Del Monaire himself ‘And I’ll show you, and your workers, the time of your lives. All on me.’ With hand outstretched, Franco leant forward on the lip of his chair seat, watching the manager come to a decision. ‘Mister Monaire.’ He tightly gripped Franco’s hand with delight, unable to restrain himself. ‘I think you have yourself a deal.’ Strolling out onto the shop floor, Franco took stock of the sight of the work line, seeing exactly how much was indeed outstanding. Three locomotives sat in various states of disrepair, occasionally stripped back to their bare components, mostly covered in a combination of supporting pulleys from the overhanging steel beams. The labourers at hand seemed an able bunch, who busied themselves in routine. A contingent moved across some iron monstrosity that he couldn’t quite identify, hammering heated metal that shook in flurries of sparks. The noise danced from one end of the yard to another in crescendo. He ransacked his jacket pockets, feeling around for a scrap of tobacco, a roll-up, anything to take away the shakes, but only found disappointment. * * * Unexpectedly the men lowered their tools and began talking among themselves. They turned their attention to the shadow that strolled through the yard entrance with a click-click-click of her heels. Boisterous displays of bravado as well as offers of entanglement were flatly ignored, noticed instead by the foreman who objected noisily. Instead of sweet words, he launched a fiery tirade from the gantry he stood on. He ended with the demand to get back to work under threat of docked pay. The woman tutted, raised her head up, and folded her arms across the chest. ‘This is where you’ve been hiding out?’ Misu called as the hammer strikes from the workers began anew. ‘Hiding – not at all. I’m doing business. Though I must ask why of all places you decided to come here to get your skirt train covered in oil.’ ‘I followed you,’ she stated, climbing the steps, which were numerous and quite an annoyance, onto the raised platform. ‘Figures.’ He made himself comfortable leaning on the guardrail, acknowledging her standing alongside him. Misu attempted, at length, to determine what Franco was so keenly observing but found nothing in his eye line except roosting pigeons. ‘Penny for them?’ Misu offered, tapping her nails against the rail itself. ‘Oh no, I pay your wages, so I know you couldn’t afford what I’m thinking.’ ‘Poor in pocket but rich in spirit.’ The woman pursed her lips. ‘Where did you hear that?’ ‘Just something I picked up once. Why? Does it confuse you?’ ‘No my grandfather used to say something similar …’ He trailed off. Despite her patience, Franco needed prompting to continue. ‘You know, it’s weird. Whenever we get to talking, somehow you always bring him up. That’s not strange in itself, but whenever you do so, you do this whole absent thing and it all gets a little peculiar.’ Franco nodded deeply, trying to process what the woman was saying, but he found his process of thought muddled. The pigeons that had taken residence in the roof spaces distracted him with a burst of fluttering. Downy feathers fell though dust-thickened air. ‘That.’ Misu jabbed him with a finger. ‘That there is exactly what I’m talking about. Where do you go when you do that? You’re right in front of me and then suddenly you’re someplace I can’t see.’ ‘Thinking.’ ‘Obviously. I’m going to need a little more than that.’ Franco took stock of the workers’ yard. For an environment that required plenty of light, the interior collected a sizable amount of shadow. The skylights that ran the length of the roof did their best to diminish this but could only fare so well. This yard wasn’t too dissimilar to the old maintenance shed that he and the old-timer had claimed as a second home. All it needed was a folded-in roof and an infestation of mice. ‘Do you believe in chance?’ Franco enquired, curiously solemn. ‘You’re asking if someone who helps you run card games believes in chance?’ ‘Not like that. I mean on a grander scale. Things that were, I don’t know, supposed to be?’ ‘I’ve never thought about it.’ Misu nodded delicately. ‘It’s never been something to dwell upon. My life hasn’t exactly gone to plan, but there are far worse places to be and situations to end up in. Do you?’ ‘No. I can’t stand the idea of not being in control, that something is pulling my strings to reach a destiny I can’t influence. I’m a lot like you in many ways. People like you and I are supposed to live in fancy houses, wear fine clothes, and drink finer wine. A place like this is still alien to me: the noise, the smells. When I’m dealing with the mechanics of the Den, all of this, I can’t help but feel out of my depth. My grandfather pushed me into this life. It wasn’t originally mine; I just inherited it all. I owe him somewhat and I’m occasionally reminded of the fact. Yet I cannot for the life of me think of anything else I would rather be doing. Curious, no?’ ‘Can’t we visit him? Pay it off for good?’ ‘It’s too late for any of that. Some debts can’t be paid. It’s not in their nature. That’s the problem.’ Misu slinked backward, bathing in the midday sun that the skylights radiated. ‘I have some idea of what you mean.’ Franco stared out to the workers, who struggled with a series of chain pulleys, easing a boiler back onto one of the smaller trains. Each of the grubby workers coordinated their movements with yells, peppered with the occasional physical threat to one another. ‘Pappy and I slaved in something resembling this shed whilst fixing the train up. Did so for a handful of years getting the Den running again. It was just as filthy, maybe more so than this place. Can you imagine that?’ ‘I honestly, honestly, can’t.’ Misu pouted. ‘And that suits me just fine.’ ‘She was a beat-up wreck in dire need of fixing. I didn’t know what I was doing. He had to teach me every facet of the job. The first time we got the Den running again, it was like nothing I had ever experienced. I was in my mid-twenties, had slept with a handful of girls, and nothing even came close to that feeling.’ ‘Delightful analogy, dear,’ Misu flatly retorted, watching the birds above call to one another. ‘All of a sudden I had adopted this new life. Without my grandfather beside me to push me, I needed others to do so. I needed people I trusted to see this thing through. I needed people to keep me steady.’ Something broke in Franco’s voice, which Misu had never witnessed before. It was a vulnerability – small but considerably telling. Abandoning any notion of what was appropriate she allowed her hand to drift upon his. It landed in reassurance, flexing tightly. ‘Tell me about it.’ ‘What?’ ‘I want to know what the fuss is about. If you put it like that, you owe a woman’s pride to indulge in every sordid detail.’ And so, Franco obliged, baring all. * * * ‘How’s it going, slacker? That coupling rod braced back up?’ Pappy was growing impatient at how long such a simple task was taking. Franco had both hands tightly wrapped around the length of a wrench handle. He jerked downward, giving his hands respite for a second between heaves. Begrudgingly the bolt gave slightly each time, tightening over and over. Though there was still more give left in it, forcing Franco to redouble his efforts. Without warning the wrench slipped from the bolt head and swung through the air. ‘Bastard!’ Franco cried out, waving away the burning that plagued his hands in turn. ‘It would be braced back up if you stopped asking me every five minutes! Do you have any idea how awkward these bolts are? They were sent to test me, I swear.’ The old man rested an arm on the engine cab in disbelief. He had spent the last few hours sweeping and polishing, driving away the accumulated build-up that haunted every pipe, handle, and gauge. Whilst not clean in the conventional sense it was easily suitable for the first attempt at coaxing the locomotive to move. ‘Really? You’re asking me that? Of everything you’ve done, including rebuilding that pain-in-the-ass left cylinder, you expect me to believe you’re bested by a bolt of all things?’ Pappy quipped. Didn’t the boy remember how long he’d spent living on the rails? Repairs were commonplace. There was no complaining about broken this or impatient that. Either you learnt how to fix the vehicle, quickly, or you stayed to watch the crows circle in impatience. ‘Bested nothing! It’s just being difficult is all; doesn’t want to get set in place.’ Franco took stock of his tool and tried once more. It was unthinkable that a single bolt was going to get the better of him. There was a series of increasingly strained heaves that climaxed with a torrent of abuse at the offending fastener. ‘Quit being soft then! What did I say? Brandish the stick when it misbehaves. Do I have to come down there and show you how to correctly do up a bolt? Shall we start at the beginning while we’re at it? Lesson one. This here that you’re looking at is what’s called a train …’ Franco hunched over himself, tossing the instrument into a nearby toolbox. It’s introduction knocked it onto one side, spilling the rest sideways. ‘Yeah, all right, drop the sarcasm, old-timer. It’s on. That’s the last of them. Let me get my breath back and we’ll get it lowered back down.’ Franco gasped, tossing his leather gloves aside. His palms burnt, indented with the recess of the tool despite adequate protection. ‘After I check it,’ Pappy insisted. ‘Yes, after you check it. It’s like you don’t trust my handiwork …’ Franco peeled his vest from his torso, tossing it to the dirt. The afternoon sun had been scorching, making him a fool for slaving away for so long. Curse this heat and curse those damn troublesome bolts. He swiped at a water tap head, dragging out the connecting hose for relief, dousing his scalp in water. ‘Trust, nothing. It’s sensible to double-check another’s work. Prevents accidents.’ Water sprayed from Franco’s lips, bringing relief. Using the tap, he filled up a pair of tin cups and drank his, hungrily, speedily reaching to refill it once more. The second was passed to Pappy, who sat himself down on the side of the engine steps. ‘What do you think about tomorrow?’ Franco sipped from his cup. If he was honest this whole affair was making him feel quite queasy. It wasn’t the hardships of learning every aspect from scratch, though they were taxing. It wasn’t the sheer urgency that his grandfather demanded they worked with, though it was significantly draining. No, the unease came about whenever Franco envisioned attempting to start the train up. For six years it had been simply a shell, an abandoned husk seemingly rooted to the scrapyard by its own fate. To envision it in movement was preposterous. All this dedication would amount to naught. Doubt was beginning to gnaw away at him despite the accomplishments made. So what if it didn’t start? They had done everything possible to coax a second chance of life from the locomotive. It was almost depressing to think that after such toil things were in the hands of fate or some other unscrupulous force. At least they had given it a shot. At least they had tried. Pappy nursed his cup, keeping his own concerns silent. Unlike Franco, he didn’t fret over the chance of the train being nothing. His mind was set on logical solutions to possible eventualities. ‘I think we’ve done all we can do, but if the old girl doesn’t want to start, we gotta encourage her. What’s with your face?’ ‘Don’t know what you mean.’ ‘The hell you don’t. You look about as sour as a bottle of milk left in the noon sun. Out with it. Not getting second thoughts, are you?’ ‘Never. Just anxious, is all.’ ‘We’ve come too far to back down now. We both have. See, our lives have been set on a course like these here rails. No deviation from any of that – even if you wanted to. You’re fixed on your destination, Franco. Ain’t nothing you can do but to just shut up and accept where you’re heading.’ Pappy burst into a series of rasping coughs. Franco watched him finally suppress them with large gulps of water. ‘Curse this infernal dust,’ he griped, spitting whatever had collected in his throat out into the sand. Franco smiled, taking another mouthful in turn, though he felt his expression descend to a frown behind the tin. The walk of the yard tracks was done by gaslight, uneventful bar crossing some of the more excitable rats. Sleepers and rails were swept when they saw fit, for a drift of sand could cause problems for the virgin voyage – if it happened of course. These concerns were spoken about seriously and with equally serious length. Franco questioned almost every part of the locomotive, contemplating most imaginary difficulties with concern. Pappy reassured him with strict mechanical logic when the assumptions of failure were a possibility – no matter how remote. He explained in as much depth as needed why this wouldn’t break, that wouldn’t burst, or why something or other wouldn’t come spinning off in motion. For most of these reservations, it was enough allowing Franco to move on to the next. For the ones where imagination had gotten the better of him, Pappy simply returned various insults, their tameness appropriate to the thought’s complexity. By the time the track was walked it was already past ten so the pair agreed that the night would be best spent sleeping in the yard. There was already a good provision of blankets, and docile wild fowl that strolled the plot were easily caught for food. Fire spat and crackled, launching spiralling embers into the night. Metal skewers were adorned with meat, dripping fat onto the coals with erratic sizzles. A wolf called for a mate far out in the desert, its call carrying far into the night. Insects chirped to one another, some taking to their wings and buzzing past the open flame. Franco turned a skewer, scrutinizing to see if it was ready yet in the light of the fire. Disappointed, he set it back. ‘Cards?’ Pappy offered to pass the time, producing a well-worn pack from a satchel. ‘I’ve never learnt.’ Old features compressed in confusion. ‘Not a single game?’ ‘Not a one.’ Franco looked blankly, feeling as though he had committed some grand crime. For all intents he may as well have. To his grandfather, cards were a rite of passage for any young man, as much as their first drink and taste of a woman. ‘How have you lived this long and not learnt how to play a few hands? Next you’ll be telling me that you get drunk from a single bottle.’ ‘Big talk from an antique who has never used a razor. I have never seen you without a beard. Bet you were born with it. The agony that your poor mother endured …’ ‘It’s better than the scrappy thing that you call facial hair. I bet it’s taken you years just to get it that far.’ Franco snorted, conceding. ‘All right, all right, just cut the deck, old man, and teach me how to take your money.’ After ten hands, the rules were finally beginning to settle, as was Franco’s luck. When the last of the pocket change was used, the pair resorted to the carcass bones of their now spent meal to settle hands. The gruesome pile of makeshift chips was stacked greatly in Franco’s favour. Pappy swore, stating that the concept of beginner’s luck might actually be accurate. Begrudgingly he dealt the next hand. ‘Spill a story about the old days,’ Franco said. ‘You’ve never actually told me about when you worked on the tracks. Sort of kept that one secret from me growing up.’ ‘Not deliberately, you understand. You never wanted to listen so I never took the time to tell. It worked out fine.’ ‘I’m listening now. You spent days out in the desert, right?’ The cards were turned and scrutinized. This time the old-timer avoided a bad hand from the outset. ‘It was difficult, for sure. The firm would scoop up anybody to take to the trains, burn them out and then send them out the door. You needed grits to hold out against what they put you through. There was five of us contracted, taking us from the east mining routes to the mills that were springing up down south. It was relentless. Dragging tonnes of ore day and night normally resulted in us in sleeping in the cab to take shifts. Brothers were we, tight as tight we could become. They were blood and there were times when that fact kept us alive. We looked after one another. We were family.’ ‘So it was all good?’ Franco drew from the deck. Pappy wiped spilt water from his steely whiskers, laughing at Franco’s words, taking another card and raising the ante by a pair of rib bones. ‘Oh no. I said we were family. Have you ever seen a family that didn’t argue, or have one who didn’t want to kill another?’ It was a fair point and one Franco dwelled upon for a moment whilst watching the old codger ramble on. He had been a thorn in his side since he was a youngster, stopping him from doing this, doing that, but these were actions always undertaken out of love in lieu of absent parents. ‘We ate, we slept, we argued. It was not unusual to find the cab filled with cards, a veritable gambling den it were. Money changed quickly, from one hand to the next. It was all we could do to be entertained when left out here. I was young, stupid – not too much older than you are now. Those days they got anybody with a back to break to build what you see now, and plenty got broken in the process. Fat lot of good it did. This region is still a dustbowl. Plenty die out here without a coin, without a hope, and without a measure of enjoyment in their lives. And let me tell you something …’ Pappy folded his hand without warning. He slapped his cards down and beckoned Franco to claim the pot. That he did, with the grandest of smiles, unaware that the cards may have been something quite different than what he had been told. ‘… nothing soothes the soul quite like them.’ * * * The dawn chorus of birds was soon joined with the sharp scraping of metal. Over and over the spade bit into a mass of coal, transferring it from its place on the adjoining tender to the locomotive itself. Franco grunted with every scoop that was fed into the train’s gut. ‘Okay, pile it in; it’s doing good,’ Pappy crooned, checking dials and easing valves with precise turns. Coal clattered by the spadeful, tossed into the hellish heat of the firebox. The coals burnt white-hot, brilliant in their illumination, coupled with a swirling wash of tempered flame. It was quite incredible and mesmerizing to behold. Franco had heard stories of such fires turning metal into raining slag, where it could bend like rubber or drip like water. But to see it was quite extraordinary. To feel it was akin to standing at the precipice of the end of all things. Over and over the shovel worked, scooping from the tender behind, where scant measures of coal sat where it would have previously been filled to a height that dwarfed both men. ‘What are we up to?’ ‘Pressure is at one-seventy. Keep it going,’ Pappy encouraged, making his adjustments. Another few heaps were tossed into the train’s stomach, which it consumed in delight. Finally Pappy signalled to stop with a wave of his hand. ‘That should be enough; close her up.’ With a heave of a latch the firebox door was brought shut, two slides of metal scissoring together and sealing the blaze inside. Finally Franco could take his first breaths without his throat being scorched by the hot air. Sweat soaked his face. His skin itched and was reddened. He recalled an old children’s story about a creature that lived out in the dunes, swimming under the desert like a fish. When it breathed, it was as if the sun itself resided in its core. It was a fable for sure, but oddly poignant and Franco assumed that if it was a truth, then it would have been quite similar to this here boiler. For a brief moment it could have been mistaken that Pappy’s hands lingered on the Johnson bar. Even to Franco it seemed that his cracked lips trembled in a silent prayer before heaving the bar forward. Pipes juddered. Steam blasted outward, dousing the ground in a blanket of white. ‘Hold the cylinder cocks and seal ’em up when I say so,’ he ordered. Franco got himself ready. The train juddered slightly in response. ‘Okay, now,’ his grandfather confirmed. Pappy reached forward and freed the engine brakes. The train shuddered once more, conversing with thick eruptions from its chimney. Smoke arced into the brilliant blue sky, chasing lingering clouds that rode the wind. Pappy reached up and pulled the throttle bar forward a little and shudders ran along the cab floor. Franco took to the window, half leaning over the side. He stared downward. Sure enough the rail sleepers began to edge along one by one. ‘We’re moving.’ He exploded with joy. ‘We’re doing it; it’s moving!’ A mighty surge of steam enveloped the train’s sides as it took its first breaths of a new life. There were spluttering gasps as the locomotive found itself once again, familiarizing itself with every pipe, wheel, crank, and piston upon it. Grease and oil massaged bearings, slowly making their movements supple. The Eiferian 433 advanced gradually, carefully, shaking off the restraints of its hibernation. It was once again alive. * * * ‘I’ve never known joy quite like it,’ Franco stated, his attention firmly back in the present. Misu had hooked him by the arm as he accompanied her back out into the street, letting the daily bustle carry them along the pavement. Their pace was relaxed as they ignored the concerns of the legal trouble that had plagued their arrival. ‘Not since?’ Words failed him. Instead he nudged her playfully with a shoulder. Misu’s fingers gripped into his jacket, dragging out the serenity for as long as it could last. For a moment she noticed a scruffy-looking trapper watching from across the street, clad in a leather apron, a garment used for skinning the caught wild beasts of his trade. He watched with piercing eyes, seemingly taking great notice of the pair, or simply enjoying a brief cigarette during a lull in the day’s work. Misu’s clenched Franco’s arm that little bit tighter. Rather than walk the rest of the way to the station, Misu had suggested that they take the penny tram to rest their already overworked feet. Its network of rails climbed through steep streets, connecting district to district, mainly to provide locals an easier, and speedier, commute to their destination. Plus it was a moderately scenic tour, which Misu pushed as worthwhile. Windberg, though eccentric in construction, had plenty of sights to observe, she preached. The town clock was large and ornate, the centrepiece dwarfing the square that held it. A cathedral’s spire announced its edifice, peppered with stained-glass windows, their imagery both abstract and figurative. When asked how she came to know all this, Misu’s face fell. She stated that she had ventured this way once a very long time ago, though declined to elaborate further. As they boarded the tram, two dockhands who had clearly just finished their shift rose to relinquish their seats, though stopped at Franco’s instance that he and the woman accompanying him would stand instead. The ground trembled as a sand ship rolled alongside a wharf, a mighty thunder from its horn announcing its arrival. For most, ships of this size would only be seen in water, though here, with heaving caterpillar treads and belching flumes that spat soot into the clear azure sky, their coming and going was commonplace. Their routes, normally cutting through scorching the Sand Sea itself, allowed the transport of immense amounts of cargo in relatively quick time. Where trains were limited by terrain and line, these leviathans of the desert succumbed to no such constraints. Eclipsing the sun, the ship’s shadow fell upon two entire streets, darkening the structures therein, and crept across the road to cover everyone who watched this whole spectacle. Others in the streets continued about their business, quite unfazed by this whole affair, being that they were of regular occurrence. The tram clattered through this obscurity and back into the brightness of the day. Misu lowered herself to take stock of the vehicle through the glass. ‘Have you ever thought of upsizing?’ ‘To something like that?’ Franco recoiled in surprise. ‘I can’t even count how many decks it has. Even if I had the money we would need three times more staff and don’t even get me started on the running costs.’ ‘Some fancy paintwork, lights making it shine like the moon itself. Come on, don’t tell you me you can’t picture it.’ ‘I can already imagine going broke in what we have, thank you very much.’ ‘Still, handsome though, isn’t it?’ ‘You and I have very different ideas of what sets a heart aflutter.’ The tram rocked and its little bell jangled as it pulled into each stop, its simple wooden construction awfully quaint yet perfectly functional for its task. An influx of bodies ended up pressing Misu and Franco together, holding straps from the ceiling to ensure balance. ‘Look, I don’t pretend to know everything about your grandfather nor the circumstances …’ Misu hesitated, apparently attempting to articulate her thoughts correctly ‘… but you’re our manager and we follow you. You’ve done your best with this whole thing. Don’t convince yourself otherwise.’ ‘Have I?’ Franco stared back, shocked, as if he had confessed to a great wrongdoing. Of course there was more he could have done. The times spent in frustrated dialogue could have been quelled if he had listened just that little more. He needn’t have been so difficult when it came to negotiating, letting one of the showgirls deliver bad news to local traders because he made the excuse of being indisposed. By his own admission he could have been less of an ass. ‘There’s not a single person unconvinced that they couldn’t do better in hindsight.’ She sighed, rested her head against his chest, eyes folding to a close. ‘That’s something I’ve yet to be blessed with, so let’s just accept these choices and leave it at that.’ Reaching their stop, the pair were surprised by Jacques who had been sitting outside the rail station for some considerable amount of time. Upon seeing them disembark he waved with urgency, sprinting over to the pair who clearly misunderstood his eagerness with an unchanged pace. With a fistful of documents, Jacques drove them into Franco’s chest for review. ‘What’s this?’ The papers were unfurled and scanned. ‘Write-up papers, boss. The Bluecoats are done. They’re letting everyone back on the Den.’ Chapter Six (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73) High Rollers When the Gambler’s Den was finally cleared to be boarded, Franco found himself the last to arrive. The showgirls had already begun to work though the mess, sorting spilled papers, making the overturned beds, hanging the multitude of dresses and gowns that had been carelessly thrown onto the floor. Nothing had been claimed as evidence of wrongdoing and scant items were damaged in the vigorous search for hidden trapdoors or compartments. The residence carriage was totally pulled apart. The dining car tables had been tipped over. The storage cars were in a huge mess with every table, chair, stool, and game disorganized. There was work, much work indeed to do, and everyone set about it without a word of complaint, as the Den was their home and its upkeep was performed diligently. Young women brushed Franco aside as he surveyed the intrusion, their rearranging, replacing, tidying, a breeze of movement. He had already checked his private car, which was left in a shambles, though not much different than the condition he had left it in. Thankfully the trunk that Wyld had used to store more evidence than Juniper could imagine was untouched, still tucked into a dusty recess behind the tables. With no sign of tampering Franco could finally rest easy. ‘The bar is done, though I’m not convinced some sticky-fingered Bluecoat didn’t lift a couple of bottles of Honey Fae.’ Katerina pouted and slanted her hips. A flare of flame-red hair, still in perfect curled ringlets, draped around her shoulders, framed features that usually gave warm smiles. Now, however, all she could do was scowl as she went about her business. Dainty freckles that decorated her cheeks scrunched closer to one another in disapproval. ‘It’s bad enough that they can do this, but helping themselves to liquor? That’s unacceptable. Can’t you do something?’ Franco put his weight against the newly polished bar, minding to not to undo Katerina’s good work. ‘I think we should consider ourselves lucky,’ he said. From behind him, one of the older girls, Corinne – tall and slender – carried a pile of folded towels to place behind the bar. When done, she chipped in, reaffirming herself as an elder sister of sorts, though not by blood. ‘Of course, you weren’t with us when we passed through the Western lines. This was nothing in comparison. Lawmen, they claimed. They wanted bribes, they tried to pilfer goods, and some tried to use us girls. One peculiar bunch demanded a couple of girls as permanent payment of passage.’ ‘They what?’ Katerina squeaked in alarm. ‘No word of a lie. Wanted wives. When refusing, Franco had to talk his way out of handing us over – along with a week’s takings – with a barrel at his temple.’ ‘And?’ ‘I’m still here, aren’t I?’ Franco sighed. ‘Quick-tongued wizardry only gets you so far. It’s why we have security with us. Muscle fares better when words fail in negotiation. He sorted things.’ Jacques was quietly sat at one table and puffed himself out in pride at the comment, remembering the encounter fondly. ‘He sorted things?’ Katerina queried. ‘I showed them the error of their ways.’ Jacques grinned. Franco patted him heavily on the shoulder. ‘You showed them the soles of your boots, is what you did.’ ‘It’s why you pay me the big bucks, boss.’ A slip of a girl – petite with an almost nauseating purr to her voice – skipped up to Franco, scowling with such determination that it was impossible to take the effort seriously. Kitty had finished in the dining car, tidying her sanctuary of the kitchen space and was moving some of the equipment to storage, holding the contents in a worn cardboard box. She dropped it onto the polished bar surface, pulled a spatula from the contents, and jabbed Franco over and over. ‘You best not consider giving any of us up. I, especially, will be unhappy with you,’ Kitty taunted, every word punctuated with a thrust of her wrist. ‘Easy there, firecracker, that would never be the case!’ Franco laughed. ‘Good, because I am warning you.’ ‘You’re warning me?’ he cooed. ‘With words and all.’ Kitty grinned, cheeky and rambunctious. The flat of the utensil bit a line into his waistcoat. ‘And also with this.’ ‘You have my word I will never use you as currency,’ Franco agreed, patting her blonde hair in reassurance. ‘Any more,’ she added. ‘When have I done so previously? How is that even a thing?’ Corinne slipped the box back to its owner and shooed her along the carriage to the next task at hand. ‘Back to work with you. Less talking if you please,’ she insisted. All objections were ignored as Kitty went on her way. The carriage was organized, every decoration in perfect placement, as if it had never been disturbed. ‘She still has a smart mouth, that one,’ he mumbled as Corinne strolled back towards him. He straightened a glass-shaded lamp before him, turning it this way and that until it looked right. ‘Isn’t that why we picked Kitty up? I think the exact word you used at the time to introduce her was pluck.’ ‘Suppose so.’ ‘Then take the rough with the smooth. We can’t be entertaining all the time. Little country girls like her take a while to refine.’ ‘You make it sound like I’m whoring you all out.’ Corinne’s gaze hardened. They both knew that should Misu have heard him use that word – that despicable, horrid word – she would have administered a slap across his face. There were comparisons at times that the showgirls who worked at the Gambler’s Den were for hire, mostly by patrons far too drunk to keep their sensibilities. That was not the service they performed and Misu would enforce this to those who thought differently, defending their reputation. Working girls had no qualms about being touched if the price was right, but placing your hands on the girls at the Den could result in Jacques’s intervention. ‘Sorry. Poor choice of words, but you get my meaning.’ Franco exhaled. ‘There’s a difference between entertaining and warming beds. That’s not our business.’ ‘I apologize.’ ‘You have no reason to.’ Corinne passed him to find a new endeavour. ‘The sheriff was out of line. Don’t dwell so much; it’s not what we do. You’re no pimp. Let people lie to the eye. If one cannot think for themselves then their opinion is worthless.’ While the Gambler’s Den was still technically impounded, the embargo was lifted for any shows, though they required a mandatory Bluecoat presence. How much of one was not elaborated on. The papers served on its owner used very open terms such as requirement and discretion. Soon, decorated flyers appeared on message boards announcing that, finally, Windberg would get the show that it deserved – though its announcement was sadly subdued. The newswire echoed the statements, causing a brief frenzy of excitement in the populace. If the show could not utilize surprise, then they would capitalize on rumour and excitement. Come sunset, Windberg Central Station was exposed to the fading sky and packed with excited crowds. Platform 4 was barricaded off behind velvet rope. Tables were all laid out for patrons with flickering candles on each. They all buzzed and jostled as, from behind the rope, Franco gave the introduction, with the utmost bravado. Music thundered triumphantly, as he played to the crowd, prompting cheers and claps, striding back and forth like a peacock. He even managed a slight jab at Sheriff Juniper in his welcoming speech, causing an uproar of laughter. These were not shared by the Bluecoats who separated the masses and the entertainment. They instead wore disapproving looks. The sky burst with a cavalcade of colours as Franco pulled the barricades away. With the showgirls welcoming all to indulge, the revelries began. The people of Windberg drank and gambled and danced the hours away. There were no disturbances, no arguments or accusations of cheating. The only situation of note was Jacques having to escort a few individuals who had drunk too much off the train – and even they took their exit jovially. The showgirls put on their performances, coaxing awe and applause. The Gambler’s Den cemented itself in local lore once again. Franco kept his word and spent a good deal of the night with the employees from the Lau Benge Repair Yard. They were, expectedly, a rowdy bunch and drank more than their fair share of beer. Despite the impression that Franco would be taking a loss with how much it cost to provide the hospitality, the truth was quite the opposite. The repairs would have been considerably more, leaving him very much up on this particular arrangement. Though good-natured, the group did cause Jacques some concern and he found himself keeping a closer eye on them than most. The only thing out of the ordinary was Misu’s conversation with the high rollers. ‘Who are they?’ Misu asked Kitty as she approached the bar, relieving her of a tray of empty glasses. She gestured with a nod of her head to the end table. ‘They’re not exactly our usual crowd.’ It was true, they weren’t. Ever since their arrival, the pair of gentlemen had caught her attention. Their clean tweed suits were impeccable, unmatched and untarnished with matching bowler hats. They had begun the evening dispensing charm to the serving and showgirls, alternating between all who came near. The tips were generous, exceedingly so, which made any attention all the more focused. Kitty chirped in surprise to Misu’s question, playing with a blonde curl in the hope she would be next to be noticed by the patrons. Her blue eyes sparkled as she spoke, matching her fresh face in excitement. Kitty had not been part of the Den for long. She was picked up in a little town out in the mountains and practically begged to come along, much like Katerina. It was the adventure, she clarified to whoever would listen, that she craved. It was either that or remain on her parents’ farm until she died a spinster. She was bright but had not yet fully realized that the men were attracted to her youthful innocence rather than her opinions, a harsh truth she found difficult to accept at a table. ‘Well-suited men should be who we aim for. My, if we could attract more of that sort,’ she cooed in a voice dripping with naivety. ‘Mind on the job, girl, mind on the job,’ Misu teased. ‘Do you not wish to be whisked away by such a handsome gentleman?’ Kitty queried. ‘I prefer to be thankful for the employment I have. Keep those dreams in your pretty little head. That’s where they belong.’ Kitty chuckled to herself, patting Misu’s arm, who reciprocated the gesture. Corinne busied herself by pulling another series of brown bottles from under the counter and balancing them on a silver serving tray. It wasn’t her remit to educate the girls on etiquette, especially ones like Kitty who seemed to be more trouble than she was comfortable with, but still she found herself playing an almost older sibling role to the younger ones. She was one whose inexperience was blindly apparent, and whose curiosity could become an irritant to patrons. ‘They’re big spenders those two,’ Corinne stated, popping each cork in succession. ‘Been quaffing liquor since they arrived – good stuff too. They opened a bottle of Eiferian Blue Reserve half an hour back. The only one I know who drinks something so pricy is Franco himself. They’re high rollers too. I heard a mention of a couple of hundred on the last hand they played,’ she stated, before shimmying over to a pack of customers who cheered at the alcohol’s arrival. Misu picked up a bottle and quickly checked her appearance in its reflection; she brushed in any loose strands of hair and sneakily readjusted her bosom. She brushed her fingers around Kitty’s hip as she sauntered past. ‘Then it would only be suitable to make sure these fine gentlemen are well catered for, would it not?’ A woman like Misu knew how to approach men. A small saunter to her hips, a wry smile, a sparkle in the eyes and purse of the lips normally resulted in a marked increase in tips, and everyone wanted a little more spending money. So when Misu approached these high rollers, distributing the bottle’s liquor into each tumbler with her full bosom overshadowing the pile of chips, their attention was equitably obtained. The nearest of the men tipped his bowler hat and scaled Misu’s form with a slow climb of his eyes. He whistled equally as long, pressing his back into the seat and placing his cards down. ‘My word.’ He smiled, grinning beneath a ginger goatee. His cards were slapped onto the table before him, the result of a rare, failed bluff. ‘What do I spy here? What a face. Eyes of the Holy Sorceress herself – look at them. Please, would you do us the honour of gracing us with your company, miss?’ Chair legs dragged along concrete as a seat was offered out, the ginger one giving a smile that only an older man with aged charm could give. His wink was coquettishly ignored. His ginger moustache fluttered momentarily as Misu eyed up his gold. The pocket watch chain draped to his breast pocket was an instinctive focal point. The thick bracelet at his wrist was elaborate yet cleanly stylish. The wealth on this man was easy to assess. The way the tweed suit fitted him was nothing short of perfect, with the material and stitching utterly flawless. The leather wallet, clearly placed in view as cards launched over it, was stuffed with notes that would have easily amounted to the hundreds, if not tipping a thousand. His friend, though dressed in much darker colours, mirrored the resplendence. Oiled hair was slicked back, a sharp brow egging on Misu’s agreement. ‘How could I refuse such an invitation?’ As if it was her right to do so, Misu slipped her arm over the ginger man’s hefty shoulders, draping herself over him and watching the next hand unfold. ‘What is the game, gents?’ ‘Poker. Five Draw,’ the man in the darker suit revealed, tossing another red chip into the stack. ‘Is there anything finer in this world?’ ‘We cater for all games of all types here at the Den, though Poker is considered one of choice by our patrons.’ ‘And are you a fan?’ the darker-dressed man asked. ‘I’m familiar with the cards though am not one for a game myself. I prefer watching the beauty of chance at work. Roulette, I’m especially fond of.’ Misu watched as the ginger one folded after a far too brave a bluff. The deck was cut once more, cards skimming into two piles. ‘You gamble well?’ Misu enquired. ‘Gamble? No,’ the dark-suited one stated without looking over his raised cards. ‘Win, though? All the time.’ A pair of Kings forced the ginger fellow to relinquish the pot with a playful groan. Misu cleared her throat and watched the cards slice over the table felt. The darker man made subtle movements, though the speed of the cards as a result was quite surprising. ‘A talented flicking of the wrist. What are your other skills?’ she asked. The darker man grunted and played his cards with a grin. ‘Taking Flenn’s money.’ He gestured with a slim finger towards his friend who slid over a pair of notes after losing the pot once more. ‘I’m awfully good at that.’ ‘If only you were just as invested in your work. I bet the boss would appreciate your newfound passion. Maybe even reward you for such.’ There was a bustle of laughs across the table as Misu refilled each emptied glass in turn. ‘Business is it? I’m not sure if we allow that here. It takes something from the atmosphere, if you catch my meaning.’ They eyed each other, returning grins. ‘Exactly. Drink?’ he offered. ‘I shouldn’t do so.’ ‘There are plenty of things we shouldn’t do in a lifetime, but this is not one. Come, I insist.’ He gestured once more. Relinquishing, Misu took the liquor and nodded in turn. ‘And you’re too fine for me to object. To the good health of you both.’ Flenn smacked his lips after a long, slow draw of the glass’s contents. ‘And to yours,’ he said. It was common for the girls on the Gambler’s Den to find their favourite patrons at each destination. This was, of course, all part of the grand ruse. Pretty girls at a man’s side were more than likely to encourage good business. Plays of hands become much more daring in attempts to impress. Stakes were raised, unspoken possibilities of companionship for the night were implied but never fulfilled. The girls knew the tricks, the wordplay, the innuendos, and the playful press on the customer. It all ensured that the men’s natural bravado was encouraged and they parted with the one thing, the only thing, that mattered. Money. Without that money, the Gambler’s Den could not travel. Its upkeep was quite an expense. Without money for supplies, it would be easy to find death in the desert – especially on the Sand Sea routes to the south. Without money, wages could not be paid. Without money, as with almost all things, progress would come to an immediate halt. So Misu, as experienced as she was in picking a patsy, attempted to ensure that the number of notes in the wallet before her was substantially decreased. In doing so, she lowered her guard. There were another few plays of cards, buffs called, wealth lost, before conversation resumed once more. ‘Speaking of talents, pretty thing,’ Flenn casually mentioned. ‘Surely you have many of your own. Care to share them?’ ‘Ah, none of note or of any relevance, sirs.’ ‘Apart from that spectacular display of breathing fire. Who would have possibly imagined that someone so pretty harboured a skill so dramatic! Now if someone dared to impart a tale that they saw a woman like yourself do such a thing, why, I would accuse them of being a liar and stake as much as I had in my pockets on the fact!’ She laughed at the compliment, cheeks flushed and red. ‘My, that boss of yours must juggle concern knowing full well that you could set him aflame with your very lips. I’m guessing he carries a pail of water wherever he goes. Sleeps with one beside him too for good measure, I’ll bet!’ Flenn laughed, loud and bold. This seemingly offhand comment shifted the tone somewhat, turning Misu’s temperament a shade cooler than it had been previously. ‘Mister Franco is a fair employer. Pays well. Keeps us amused. Why would I want to be employed elsewhere?’ ‘Why indeed?’ She sipped from her tumbler during the pause, noticing a tremor running through her wrist. Her fingers were shaking. Why were her fingers shaking? ‘I bet a woman like yourself is pursued for such talents. Plenty of suitors.’ ‘Not as many as you would think, sir, but you are one for flattery.’ ‘Nonsense, a man would kill for a woman like you at his side. I can see it now, searching through the Sand Sea itself for a sign of your living, maybe even employing others to do so. And what an entourage they could be.’ Misu’s throat clenched in trepidation before she wheezed a response. ‘Aye, they would. If one imagined.’ ‘Lucky that I am the imaginative sort. Some would. Most would, I think. I couldn’t envision any who would not. But my feelings tell me something – with this imagining of mine – that someone already has.’ He waved a chubby finger. ‘Why, I can imagine our employer doing so. You remember him, don’t you? Big puppy-dog eyes. Straight jaw. Quite the temper. Never able to let anything go. Especially runaways.’ Misu clenched her glass tighter, trying mightily to stop her hand from shaking more noticeably than it already was. Flenn turned aside and patted his thigh. ‘Sit,’ he offered. Before doing so, she paid a casual look behind her, but none of the others were watching. Tables were waited, games were tended. A plea from her eyes for help went unnoticed. Flenn raised a brow, continuing. ‘Be speedy now. Donovan there is not known for his patience.’ The last of the cards cut the threat-heavy air. Donovan amused himself by slouching back, the threatening hilt of his knife produced from his hip. She sat, as instructed, still gripping her glass, her skin drained of all colour. Her eyes flicked for Jacques though he was nowhere to be seen – cavorting for the patrons maybe, either way not doing what he was paid for. No, nobody was helping her out of this rapidly souring situation, a situation constructed by her own actions – seeded long ago. Things had caught up to her, without warning, without introduction, just like she feared they would. The nightmare had finally come true. ‘I’m sure that we don’t need to remind you that Mr Wilheim is not a patient sort. He’s asked us to simply remind you of your, shall we say, obligations.’ ‘I won’t go b-back to that m-man,’ Misu stuttered. Her tumbler was placed, with difficulty, onto the table. ‘Luckily Mister Wilheim is generous and stated that you were not to be marked as a sign of good faith. Your disappearance has not roused his anger. However, there is a condition. He is willing to overlook your indiscretions in exchange for a simple task. Complete it and he will leave you be. Refuse, and we have free rein to reclaim you.’ ‘Please refuse, my girl,’ Donovan exclaimed. It was immediate and disturbing, tainted with a relish for his dirty work. Misu glanced over the lines of his jacket breast, noticing that it was a size bigger than needed, and no doubt concealed a few more knives in the inner pockets. These men were not intending to negotiate. Of course they weren’t. Wilheim never negotiated. He would deliver the terms and you accepted, graciously. If one failed to do so, the repercussions would be so severe that you would never do so again. If you ever had the chance afterwards, that was. Misu attempted to keep her composure, asking as nonchalantly as possible, ‘Wilheim. What does he want me to do?’ When their talk was over, Misu made her way back to the bar carriage, overly concerned that her expression may give away her current state. Just for a moment her legs buckled, though she was saved by bracing herself on the bar so that her slip went unnoticed. Not to Jacques though. Jacques tilted his head and looked over her shoulder to the table she had just served. He walked between them to block their line of sight. ‘Is anything the matter? Are you all right?’ Jacques enquired, shielding her from the patrons. ‘Of course I am. Why would I not be?’ ‘You seem disturbed by the gentlemen at the side table. I just saw, is all. They didn’t handle you did they? We have rules for a reason. Just say the word and I’ll enforce more appropriate behaviour.’ ‘No, no, all is fine.’ Misu patted her clothes straight, skilfully blinking the tears back. From behind Jacques, Donovan tilted his chair back on two legs and winked playfully, threateningly. ‘Everything will be all right,’ she uttered. * * * With the Gambler’s Den being the focus for the residents, and the considerable police presence that was on the streets, Wyld found it easier to move undetected in the city. Strange, she mused, that so many constables would be sent to observe the evening’s entertainment. Did they expect a riot to break out, or for the patrons to form some unruly mob? Bizarre. Still, with the streets empty, it made moving through the city, out into the shantytowns, all the easier. The directions that Muddick provided were, sadly, somewhat sketchy. They reeked of generality. Entire roads were missing from the crude drawings, scrawled down with aged hands. Thankfully they were not so bad that she totally missed the intended location. It was detailed with a large cross in the middle of a plot of land. She found it in the darkness, a chain-link fence running around a circumference of scrubland – a space undisturbed by the increase in makeshift housing. Nothing hinted at its presence but the Vault was here, hidden inside an inconspicuous two-storey structure, waiting to be plundered. Chapter Seven (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73) Slow Decisions Franco sifted through invites that had been delivered that morning over a cup of strong black coffee. Most of the envelopes were slit open, scanned, and placed in catalogued piles, though almost all were likely to be rejected. A good number were invitations to social events, sudden parties by popular folk keen to get someone so elusive and debonair at their function. Celebration this, party that. All of them were superficial nonsense for the wealthy. A handful of requests were for Franco to be a potential suitor for daughters – the girls to be introduced with utmost urgency. Each approach was charming, formal of course, and besieged with compliments that were ultimately meaningless. None of these merited consideration in the slightest, even when skimming through the occasionally accompanying photo. Each piece of mail was devoid of value, with exception of the one he tucked into his jacket pocket. * * * Misu yawned, sitting herself in the lounge car, leaning her legs lengthways across a red velvet sofa. Immediately she yanked a drawstring on the curtains, letting them fall to a close, relieving the onset of a headache. She picked through each letter in turn as Franco sipped slowly on his morning poison. She mimicked his verdicts. The re-sorted letters made newly designated piles with the same dismissal – though unlike Franco, Misu carried the baggage of the evening’s events, baggage that dictated her hand movements. ‘How did we do last night? From all accounts, everyone was kept busy and the bar had good takings. I didn’t see the books by the close. Were the games on par?’ Franco nodded jubilantly. ‘It seems like Windberg is a haven of bad gamblers – not that I’m complaining, mind you. Lessens our money troubles somewhat and everybody enjoyed themselves. Yes, we did well.’ ‘Well enough for a bonus?’ ‘I said we did well; I didn’t say we did great. By well, I refer to the fact that we can now cover repairs and pay off a few debts. Should all that go belly-up I can at least resort to my back-up plan.’ ‘Which is?’ ‘Fancy being married off? Plenty of lonely rich men would turn a blind eye to you fleecing them,’ Franco offered. ‘You know I’m susceptible to flattery. Please, I may not be able to control myself,’ Misu replied, deadpan, looking over the table’s contents, and deciding what it lacked was a drink of her own. She called for one of the girls to bring her a water with ice. The girl promptly did so. ‘There’s a number there for you. Some by name. Most even got it right this time.’ Franco gestured to the separate assortment of paper placed delicately aside. ‘I don’t know if I should be relived or disappointed,’ Misu whined. She withdrew the first envelope addressed to her and took a letter opener to its seal. ‘Catching eyes, breaking hearts. See anything you like?’ One of the letters was waved between them. ‘Hah! This here is asking the permission of my father to arrange a marriage. I assume he means you, old man. Oh now, that is funny.’ Franco almost spluttered on his coffee. ‘Old?’ he repeated, placing the bone china cup onto its matching saucer. ‘I said I’d marry you off, but now I’m thinking I could just straight up sell you to some dapper gentleman.’ ‘And how much would you get for me?’ Misu leant on her hands, blinking her deep hazel eyes. ‘Not enough for the trouble, that’s for sure.’ The pair laughed in unison, flicking between the reams of envelopes and opening them in turn. Misu slid one of the letters from the middle of the rejection pile. It was plain, with no gilding, no fine handwriting or extravagant print. It had a name, an accompanying address, and a simple request inside. It was also addressed to Franco directly. Its seal remained unbroken. ‘Here. You missed one.’ She slid it over. ‘Looks like it could be interesting.’ * * * Strange, he pondered, that was quite unlike him. Franco rectified the oversight by finishing his morning drink and reading the letter’s contents aloud. Mister Monaire, Naturally I assume your time here in Windberg will be short and taken up with your events and other dealings, but I hope you will find the time for this. I have a proposal for yourself that will, given time, be a fruitful endeavour for all parties. I am aware of your reputation as a businessman and your unique venture could increase both our fortunes. I invite you to meet me at Pilgrims Smoking House, in Six Trees, for a discussion on this most important topic. Just send word of your interest and I will make arrangements to meet. Kindest regards, Donovan Kane Franco was half inclined to crumple the paper in his palm. ‘Why is it that people want to approach me with crackpot business ideas? I am not a bank. If I had anything to invest, I would invest it here.’ He sighed, tossing the paper aside. Misu recovered it, slapping it on the table once more. ‘And why is approaching you such a bad idea? You clearly have a mind for such things and you’re encouraging others with your reputation. I fail to see any downside.’ ‘The last time I met one of these charlatans, they wanted me to add a couple more carriages to the Den. Do you know what they wanted me to fill them with?’ ‘What?’ ‘Dangerous animals.’ Misu hooted in amusement. ‘Animals? Like some sort of –’ ‘Travelling zoo.’ Franco finished the sentence. He waited for her laughter to subside, the idea inviting far more hilarity than was necessary. ‘I’m sorry. I was just thinking of you cleaning out cages with a broom.’ Misu subdued her giggling. ‘That in mind, I think I’ll give this a miss. Mister Kane can be left waiting.’ ‘We need money,’ Misu reminded him, knocking the ice around her tumbler. ‘Yes, I know that.’ ‘So, it wouldn’t hurt you to just speak to one of these people. You never know, it could be profitable. The answer to your problems.’ ‘Problems?’ ‘Money,’ Misu clarified. ‘You really think that?’ ‘There’s nothing to lose, is there? Except a morning of you cluttering up the Den with your sour-faced self.’ ‘I’m not sour-faced.’ He puffed up his lips in defence. ‘There, you see? You’re doing it now.’ Misu leant back and waved him aside. ‘Go and see this guy this afternoon and talk. You may even have some fun while you’re at it.’ ‘I have plans for later. It wouldn’t be convenient.’ Misu took hold of Franco’s cup and measured the remaining coffee with a squint. She swigged the last quantity with a tip of the neck, skimming the cup back over. ‘There. You’re done. Your busy schedule is now free. Nothing else to do this morning?’ ‘I suppose not.’ ‘Then problem solved.’ * * * Pilgrims was a tucked-away smoking bar, where men normally congregated to discuss affairs of the day and drink in the evening. Its seating was simple, its d?cor rustic and weather-beaten, with the lines of tables leading through the alley to its entrance. Patrons puffed on supplied hookahs that burnt tobacco and filtered the smoke though a water-filled basin. Its walls were covered by tin advertising signs, eroded by a combination of age and the elements. Even at this time in the morning the tables were busy. The chatter was light-hearted as Franco edged past, looking for his contact among them. A wave from the back caught his gaze, from a smartly dressed individual with short, slick black hair. He wore a light beige suit in contrast to his olive skin, and rose on Franco’s approach, shaking his hand firmly in welcome. ‘Mister Kane.’ ‘Please, Mister Franco, call me Donovan.’ Franco scooted the chair backward with a squeak before folding his hands on the table. ‘Thank you for your time. I was worried you wouldn’t take me up on my offer, but I needn’t have fretted. Here you are.’ Donovan snapped his thin mocha fingers together ushering over a waiter, who took an order of sour mash. Franco declined, being that it was far too early for such indulgencies, though late enough to smoke. The hookahs that adorned the centre of every table were tall and slender, constructed of steel and glass. Patrons sat relaxed, in the midst of morning discussion, taking turns to draw the hose between and exhaling the contents in the air. They burnt with a mixture of flavoured tobaccos. Donovan filled the one at their table with another spoonful of shisha from an accompanying plain bowl. He took the hose in hand and placed it to his lips, drawing in the vapour with a patient breath. When done, he handed it to Franco, who obliged out of politeness, though immediately began to splutter at the strength of its contents. Its potency was enough to make his eyes weep. Donovan watched intently and laughed. ‘An acquired taste, my friend. Forgive me, maybe something lighter is more agreeable to your palate.’ Not such a bad idea, though the second inhalation found his throat without burning as much. The length of pipe was passed back across to Donovan, who puffed away, quite contentedly. ‘A little exotic, nothing more,’ Franco said. ‘Exotic,’ Donovan repeated with a toothy grin. ‘Yes, yes it is.’ He paused, assessing Franco with chestnut eyes. ‘Anyway. Let us talk about business, for that is why you are here.’ Donovan took his newly poured drink and soothed his throat. ‘The Gambler’s Den. The famous travelling show. What a reputation you have. You can’t go anywhere, and I mean anywhere in this region, without hearing the legend. You bring joy to the masses, Mister Monaire, and that is quite the achievement.’ ‘Thank you for your kind words.’ ‘May I ask –’ Donovan withdrew the pipe slowly ‘– how long have you been doing this?’ ‘Three years, give or take.’ ‘Three years.’ Donovan nodded his head back. ‘Barely any time at all, but you have your enterprise and your wealth, I suspect, all made in just three years. The Den has a considerable value attached to it, does it not?’ ‘I doubt many would deem it valuable in a conventional sense.’ ‘Monetary, of course. If that is conventionally enough.’ Donovan oozed confidence. Franco wasn’t blind to what he had walked into, identifying a predator on first sight in a place where he feasted on others. Pilgrims had an appearance of legitimacy but the muscle behind the bar and situated by the entrance eliminated that notion. This exchange was being watched, but for what reason he was still uncertain. ‘Considerable,’ Franco agreed, playing the game. ‘Considerable. Yes, I expected no less.’ ‘Would you like to elaborate on your proposition now?’ ‘My what?’ ‘Your proposition.’ ‘It’s not mine in any sense of the word, Mister Monaire.’ He lingered on an exhalation. ‘I speak on behalf of a benefactor who is impressed by the work you do. I appreciate that you would be unable to discuss figures – but to him, that is not of concern. What he has taken to, is your freedom. You take your business from town to village and you put on a show. People forget their cares. For a handful of hours, everybody’s life is made better.’ ‘That we do.’ ‘You do indeed!’ Donovan cheered, clapping his hands together. ‘What you achieve cannot be bought. Or at least that’s the impression folks have.’ ‘Maybe.’ ‘But we know business, do we not? Everything, everything in this world has a price. Tell me, Franco, are you familiar with the term franchise?’ ‘I’ve a notion.’ ‘And an interest in being one?’ ‘No.’ Franco leant back. ‘Just one Den is enough. Having any more running about would bring me to an early grave. It’s a hardship to manage just the one.’ ‘Quite the pity, but understandable. Still, this does not detract from my benefactor’s proposal. The reputation you have with this train of yours is invaluable. It is this that he wishes to obtain.’ ‘I’m sorry, obtain?’ ‘He would like to make an offer to purchase the Gambler’s Den from you.’ Donovan’s face fell into seriousness. ‘Please state your price.’ ‘Excuse me, I think there’s been a mistake,’ Franco said, rejecting the new offer to smoke from the pipe between then. ‘You think that I’m willing to sell?’ Donovan emptied his tumbler of alcohol and sat it on the table’s veneer. ‘If it is concern for your staff that worries you, there is no need. Current employees’ contracts would be honoured of course, with no change in salary or conditions. Security is so hard to find these days, would you not agree? It is such a charity to be provided. There would be very little in the way of changes to your operation if that is of a concern. I assure you, the man who I represent – his reserves are inexhaustible.’ ‘I imagine they are.’ Franco mulled over this for a moment. ‘May I know the name of this generous individual?’ ‘It was decided that he should remain anonymous.’ A waiter strolled alongside them, taking the glass away without a word. ‘In case an agreement was not made.’ Clearly, Franco assessed, this man was not getting the point. It wasn’t a case of money. ‘Let me put this another way. I have no intention to sell my train. I believe there has been some sort of mistake and I’m afraid you are wasting your time.’ Donovan leant forward, hunching himself on approach. His thin mouth slipped out every world like a viper’s hiss, direct and in warning. ‘I disagree. Like I said, everything and more importantly everybody has a price, especially with the life we are accustomed to. Freedom and security are traits that are never given, only bought, and if you have nothing to pay with, then they cannot be assured. We know all about the Gambler’s Den, Franco. Trouble follows you wherever you go, and we assume this not to be, shall we say, coincidental. No, coincidental it is not, but unfortunate, most definitely. I believe you have difficulties these days with scores of outlaws. These bandits as they are called – thugs no less – they are innumerable, no? Relentless.’ Franco gave a cold reply. ‘We’re a good score for them.’ ‘Again, most unfortunate. And it is with this that we come back to the concept of security. Maybe not so much for your train there, but for your employees. It would be terrible if they were accidentally harmed by these brutish individuals.’ Donovan licked his lips before sitting back again. ‘Weighty for the conscience.’ Franco was unable to ascertain if this was a suggestion or a threat. Certainly there was a sinister nature about Donovan Kane, which had been seemingly dressed up, hidden behind a good suit and clean shave, but to what extent Franco had difficulty discerning. ‘The people, the business …’ Franco drummed his fingers on the wood before scooting his chair back and standing up. ‘It’s one and the same to me. Thank you for your time, Mister Kane, but I assure you that the Gambler’s Den will always remain my property, though I am flattered by your interest. It has been a pleasure.’ ‘Franco!’ Donovan called out. His doing so coaxed a pause in Franco’s movements who was well aware of the sentry, who now looked for any sign of required interference. ‘These are harsh times, Franco, where a fortune is won and lost in the smallest of moments. Please do consider this proposal. It’s an opportunity to alleviate any future hardships and a wise choice to make.’ * * * ‘I don’t understand why you’re angry.’ Misu watched Franco peel the shirt from his skin, push it into a linen basket, and remove a fresh one from his wardrobe. It never occurred to him that Misu might watch him, a little too intently whilst changing, but he had seen her in a worse state of undress and never thought twice about it. The private car was decidedly off limits to anyone without his permission to enter, though Misu had earned the exception by acting as a confidante. She sat with legs dangling from his bed, which was a large affair with bright red satin sheets and matching d?cor. The pillows were always plump, the mattress perfectly between soft and firm, a place to truly enjoy one’s sleep. It was unlike Misu’s single bed, which lacked such comforts and privacy. ‘Buy, Misu.’ Franco scowled, brushing his hair in a full-length mirror with hard, violent swipes of the brush. ‘He wanted to buy me. I cannot imagine a notion more annoying.’ He placed the brush down, with no small measure of noise, and walked to her, pushing every golden button through its accompanying hole. ‘Not so much you, but the Den itself,’ Misu corrected him, patting his hands away. Franco had missed a button in his frustration and seemed not to have noticed. Delicate fingers casually corrected this. ‘There is a stark difference.’ ‘Not to me there’s not.’ ‘Not to you, of course.’ ‘I am the Gambler’s Den,’ he replied. ‘It is me.’ ‘You are many things, dear,’ Misu rebutted. ‘But a train you are not. Don’t take it personally. Money is money and an offer is an offer. Nobody has wronged you.’ When done, Misu rose and playfully slapped his cheek to knock away this mode of thought. ‘I’ll go find Jacques for you. He’s been ready for the last hour. Look, I understand your ego and all but selling the Den – would it really be the worst thing in the world? Think about it.’ * * * Franco puffed his cheeks out but before he could begin complaining Misu had already sauntered off. He didn’t want to think about it, it wasn’t thought-worthy. Selling the Den? Preposterous notion. Franco pulled on his vest and coat, taking a look at himself in the mirror. Something looked back at him, something quite foreign. Dulled eyes. A permanent frown. No matter, there was no time for any of this. He was already late for his next appointment. Preposterous, he agreed with himself. Chapter Eight (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73) The Vault Wyld was still reeling from Franco’s scolding. She may have been just a youngster in his eyes, perhaps with no business to be tagging along with them, but whatever his dismissals, she knew this trip was not for naught. It was a grand score. All it required was a little muscle to pull it off. Why could Franco not see that? All the while their relationship – one fraught with stealing and the need to pay for her share of travel, food, and protection – remained strained. Franco never said, nor hinted that he trusted Wyld – something that puzzled her. Wyld was no bank robber, no part-time crook or whatever accusation anyone might insult her with. She was, in her own words, just trying to make her way and doing what was required to ensure that. She had never mugged a person, never taken a life from greed, anger, or spite. Compared to the majority of folks she had encountered, Wyld’s conscience was relatively clean. Sure she carried a gun, a pair of snub-nosed revolvers that held sentimentality and offered protection in equal parts – but out this way, most had to. Whenever aimed, they were always just a threat, never seen through as the girl lacked the stomach for such a grisly affair. Bloodshed was for other folks for other reasons. No, where Wyld excelled was in stealth. There was no place she could not slip into. Day or night, no matter the location, she could sneak inside and retrieve what she deemed fit. It was a skill tempered by the life of a vagrant. She, like many children out in the outpost towns, had been abandoned and forced to scratch through the dirt for survival. Just beyond the Sand Sea, in a town named Esquelle, and with a younger brother in tow, her criminality began with stealing bread from markets to keep away the threat of starvation. Before long, she was stealing to order, living with a ramshackle community of other youngsters, all sharing their merchandise. That was, until she met her saviour. Wyld never deemed herself religious. Tales of the Holy Sorceress were for other ears, for people who could afford the luxury of bedtime stories. Redemption never walked through the drift-soiled alleyways with the pimps and beggars. Clemency never sat itself at a back-end tavern and ignored the drinking and whoring. She had learnt long ago that prayers were hollow words. The day she met him was the day everything changed. Strong in presence, kind in action, he protected Wyld from a host of undesirables, endangering himself in an act of compassion, a lesson devoid from her upbringing. It was the day her life found reason, and when he left her, a void grew, needing to be filled. Squatting upon corrugated iron sheeting, Wyld scanned the small compound opposite with a retractable telescope, mentally mapping the layout and guard placement. She was perfectly safe. The nearby shanty structures created a structural puzzle to navigate. Schizophrenic passages gave way to ramshackle homes, or to dead ends in some cases, a maze of poverty that would be perfect to aid retreat should things go wrong. The compound itself was lightly protected. Three men on the outside in uniform took turns to walk the circumference every hour, paying attention to the surrounding chain-link fence, patchily laced with barbed wire. In the middle, some hundred yards from the fence, a two-storey brick building, of unremarkable design, was housing at least another six men, plain-clothed, some passing windows, the others congregating in some sort of room upstairs. The alarm was rudimentary, a bell connected to the outside, with some cabling passing through the outer wall to somewhere unseen. There were no dogs, thankfully, as dogs were a staple danger of this work and unlike people they could not be reasoned with. Wyld’s eyes faltered momentarily. She lowered her telescope and gazed into the distance. A whisper, sweet and strong like cherry liquor, haunted her thoughts. It was some advice given when she was far more headstrong, when her saviour tried to show her the benefits of patience and observation. You’re too headstrong, kid. Take a breath. Don’t rush. You’ve got all the time in the world. The words lingered as Wyld blinked back a tear. He wasn’t behind her. She knew that. It wasn’t worth turning to check, but she did so anyway, only to view what she expected – nothing. All the time in the world. If only that was true. She would have given anything for more time with him: the man who sheltered her in her younger years, who taught her the meaning of everything. No, time was cruelly robbed when he vanished – the man who had served as her protector from the bitterness of life, her guardian in a manner of speaking. It’s why she moved from the south, shadowing his footsteps and funding her travel any way possible. To hunt him. To find him. To get an answer as to why he left her to fend for herself. But this was no time for sentimentality. She raised the brass eyepiece once more. A breath steadied her rogue emotions. All the time in the world, she repeated to herself. When the guards separated for their individual checks, eight hours of observation had paid off. She slinked, catlike, from rooftop to rooftop, sliding down guttering and sprinting to the fence. When there, she climbed, effortlessly to its apex, pressing the barbed wire aside with thick leather gloves and vaulting over, landing perfectly. Another run, now to the building. She quickly slid downward, forcing herself beneath a closed window, the passing visage of a guard keeping her down. Now pressed against the outer wall, Wyld held her breath, waiting for the boots to faintly echo past until it was safe, before she slid the glass aside and ventured inside. She pulled a small facemask up from her beige poncho, covering her nose and mouth as she glided from corridor to corridor. The entire structure was decorated in aged tiling, from floor to ceiling. Gaslights were placed spottily, giving plenty of shadow to hide in. What little of that new devil electricity made it out here must have been used for the alarm alone. A roar of laughter emanated from above her – a collection of men playing cards off shift. Six at a guess from the unique voices. Moving into the middle of the building, Wyld stopped immediately, staring at the impressive sight presented at the end of the central passage. Protruding from the surface, in grand size, was an immense vault door. Circular in appearance, with a large turn handle at its heart, the tarnished steel spoke volumes of its age, though even at its creation it would have been mightily impressive. Twenty years at a bet, she figured. A mental calculation revealed she had another twenty minutes until the next guard passed, so time was not as forgiving as she hoped. Racing to the door, Wyld fingered her way over to the lock, gauging the scale of work based on size and type. The combination dial was awfully imposing, tarnished black with embossed gothic numbering, though on the bright side, there was no need to obtain a key. Wyld got to work, pressing an ear against the cold metal, spinning the drive cam and gently feeling the wheels inside contact the drive pin. Each small click was scrutinized until each unique snap indicated the combination was being matched. There was nothing as perfect and particular as the mechanics of a combination lock. Simple, effective, a masterpiece of engineering. The world made sense when Wyld caressed the craftsmanship of such things. Machines were easier to be in the company of than people. Simple actions. Easy decisions. No backchat. Another click. A heavy clunk. All that was left for the fence to drop and the bolt slide out. Wyld pressed her ear, firmer, against the metal, holding in every breath possible, listening to the final reverberation from its mechanism. Click. Click. Click. Click. Pop. Wyld narrowed her eyes. Pop? That wasn’t a noise she was familiar with. It was not a click, not a clunk, nor one that belonged on the end of an attempt to open a vault door. Again she turned the dial between thumb and forefinger, comforted by the return of the familiar clicks. And suddenly, the pop returned. This time, with three others. Wyld pulled back, with the stark realization that these noises did not come from before her, but outside instead. A sudden burst of commotion reverberated all around. From outside gunfire cracked and burst. Voices yelled. Screams of death accompanying them. Then the shrill chime of the alarm exploded throughout the halls. Wyld gripped her ears, hammer striking metal so fast, so violently that it pierced her. Still, despite this, she sprinted, fast, skidding to a stop at a window. A shot pierced the glass, if by accident or by aim she did not know, but its impact caused a sudden lurch and duck aside. The bells still rang, the voices louder, their owners making their way through the corridors. Outside, when Wyld braved a look, ten men flanking a horse and cart stood in a cloud of dust, freshly fallen bodies scattered nearby. Wyld may not know who these men were, faces disguised and brandishing obviously outlawed steel, but she knew what this was. This was a missed opportunity. Gunfire snapped violently as Wyld hurried herself to an exit at the back of the building, in running catching sight of the intruders packing the Vault door with explosives. Clearly they were not to be subtle in this endeavour, fighting off the guards who peppered the surroundings with sidearm fire. In her retreat Wyld raced over the stone floor, sliding past any conflict before the back entrance was in sight, though before it could be claimed, a blow took the girl off her feet and she crashed onto the ground. Her gaze, now focused on the ceiling, was awash with sparks but she could see the figure lunging towards her, club in hand that struck and split tile where her head once lay. Wyld wailed in surprise, after having rolled onto her side to evade the strike from the guard who assumed that she was one of these new intruders. He roared loudly, yanking his revolver from its holster and firing into the ground, chips spraying aside. On her side Wyld kicked out in a scramble, catching the gun barrel and sending it into a skim across the floor. It was clear that she hadn’t intended for a confrontation of this magnitude – something that the guard sensed and capitalized on. He fell, with his full weight, onto Wyld, forcing every scrap of air from her lungs in a pained exhalation. Hands swung in punches, trying to force through the girl’s guard. This little runt wouldn’t escape this, he promised himself in a red mist. In this desperate struggle, as Wyld’s head rolled side to side, her arms buckling under the impacts, she reached for something, anything in her grip that could grant her freedom. A crack was muffled by cloth and flesh, as the guard gasped aloud and life escaped his body. He slumped aside, eyes still bugged in disbelief, a shock of red flooding over his blue tunic, pooling on the floor. All Wyld could hear was the panting of her own breath. Her hands, still trembling, were clenched tightly over one of her revolvers, a virgin shot smoking from the barrel, with spots of the victim’s life tarnishing her own clothes. She had killed a man. Not just any man. A man of the law. She was a murderer, simple and clear. Never had she done such a thing – such a horrid, brutish thing – and the shock burnt through her limbs, making every movement weighted and every thought nonsensical. For this, she would be hanged by the neck and they would be right to do so. Escape. She had to escape. As she heaved against the back door with one shoulder, the building quaked violently as the Vault door was blown asunder, powdering her hair with brick dust. Daylight embraced her in warmth as she sprinted as best as she could back over the fence in a mad scramble. It wasn’t until she had hid herself sufficiently into the shadows of the shanties that she dared to look back, a cheering posse making their getaway on horseback, with a cart of goods pulled behind at speed. Now, she allowed herself to finally breathe, watched casually by locals from their dilapidated windows. They had seen this kind of thing before. They nonchalantly closed shutters or deliberately ignored the commotion. They had no reason to trouble themselves with whatever this was, leaving Wyld to find solace in hiding. Chapter Nine (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73) Wise Men Jacques had never deemed himself wise. Clever, yes, observant, for sure, but wise? Wise wasn’t his thing. Wise was a quality for folks with big glasses, who spent all their time reading books, wrangling numbers and the like. Wise was, to him, an insult – a proclamation that a person was focused on small complexities rather than indulging in the world at hand. So when Misu had playfully called the head of security wise, he wrinkled his nose and pouted in disappointment. She didn’t mean anything by it of course, but when realizing that it may have caused offence, she explained that it wasn’t a word that should be taken in the wrong way and the reason she needed his wise council was because she was concerned about Franco’s next endeavour and he needed company, wise company, to steer him from any lapses in intelligence he may suffer. * * * The Den was still impounded so Franco made it his business to ensure that it wasn’t damaged in the search. Secretly his paranoia was gnawing away at his conscience. Wyld had been with them for a month. Who knows what she had stashed in the storage car. Whatever it was, it was hopefully something that the law did not find. ‘Wise?’ Franco chuckled, walking out of the station clad in his long brown leathers protecting his smart attire, animal-skin boots clicking down each stone step. His green vest was finely tailored, a trail of brilliant buttons rising from belly to collar almost dazzling in the equally brilliant noon sunlight. His crisp white shirt beneath was clean – not scuffed with dirt. ‘Misu certainly did think so.’ ‘She’s never been one to comment on anybody’s intelligence.’ ‘Maybe she needed someone to compliment on such a quality.’ Franco pouted. ‘A quality I lack?’ ‘I’m implying nothing, boss, not a thing. Just repeating what I was told.’ ‘For the best.’ ‘So, what’s the letter?’ Jacques asked, pointing to the folded paper protruding from Franco’s vest pocket. Ever since it was delivered that morning Franco had read it and reread it, even all through breakfast when he was focused more on its contents than eating. ‘A request from someone. They heard word that we were in town and asked for a visit.’ ‘An admirer?’ ‘Even better,’ Franco replied. ‘An old acquaintance.’ The pair took the tram to the western residential district, where tight streets of cobblestone terraced houses seemingly jostled one another for space. Doors and windows seemed decidedly cramped, as if they were being squeezed from the masonry. Carts rattled down the road, noisily, the clopping of horseshoes on stone creating a rhythm of strikes. Franco stood in the doorway of a residence identical to the rows of those he had passed before, equally unspectacular. He rapped the door and beamed at the old gentleman who cautiously opened it. ‘Franco, what a pleasure,’ the owner croaked. ‘I didn’t think you would come. Please, come inside, welcome.’ The house was surprisingly comfortable despite being somewhat sparse. The furniture was mostly wooden, the d?cor a collection of simple materials and aged fabrics, sentimentally kept and repaired if needed. It was comfortable, though Jacques muttered that the seating was far too hard for his liking. ‘Mister Follister.’ Franco shook his hand, now far bonier than he recalled. The old man clearly struggled to compare the Franco he recalled to the one before him, his eyes squinting in effort. It was quite the transformation, Franco knew. Well dressed, well groomed, clearly moneyed. Where did that scrawny boy go? Had it really been ten years, give or take? ‘Call me Larrs, please. You’re a man yourself now. Never thought I would see the day.’ ‘Of course, Larrs.’ ‘It warms my heart to see you once again.’ ‘Likewise.’ ‘Please, make yourself comfortable; take a spell if you would.’ His smile was toothy and kind, his hands lingering in the embrace before slipping away. Larrs shuffled into the kitchen from which he returned with a pot of tea. It danced noisily on a tray that rattled with every step before being placed down with care between them. ‘I heard you were in town. News was that some show had made a noise. It’s not every day we get a commotion like yours arrive and I guessed it was your troublesome self.’ Franco sipped his tea before deciding to drop in some sugar from the bowl beside the pot. ‘A different kind of trouble from when you last saw me, I assure you.’ He stirred his tea. Jacques squinted deeply in question, catching the old man’s gaze. ‘Do not be distracted by this pizzazz.’ The old man grinned, reaching from his chair and patting Franco’s chest. ‘Trouble followed this one many a time.’ ‘Jacques, my Head of Security,’ Franco said by way of introduction. ‘A pleasure,’ Larrs said as they warmly shook hands. ‘Likewise.’ ‘So you were talking about trouble?’ Jacques chuckled. ‘My boy was always a rambunctious one. The stories I could tell you of him and Franco here getting into scrapes. Once, those two broke into the railway yard to scavenge spares for this heap of rust Franco’s grandfather was looking to renovate. The first I knew of it was the law at my door and those two creeping in the back with a trolley of oil-dripping parts! I gave them such a telling-off! My boy would never do such a thing, I said. He wouldn’t dare do such a thing for the fear of me tanning his backside, I said.’ ‘I’m sure at the time it was a sound idea.’ ‘Hah! You convincing someone else to get involved in your schemes? Whoever thought of such a thing?’ Franco leant back and exhaled slowly in reminiscence. ‘And I remember getting my backside spanked red raw,’ he added, taking a sip from his cup. ‘Your younger brother got the same and rightly so. Leading all us youngsters into trouble. How is that rascal?’ Larrs cleared his throat as his voice broke in reply. ‘I’m afraid he passed.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear.’ ‘He had his time, so he said. Kept saying that when you’ve done all you need to, you shuffle off. The Angels have him now.’ ‘He always was the impatient sort.’ Jacques seemed surprised at such candour between them, especially regarding such sensitivities. ‘So where is that son of yours now? Is that what you wished to discuss?’ ‘Aye, lad.’ ‘I expected Ketan to tackle me to the ground. I was hoping to at least show him what those scraps amounted to. Is he working or drinking? One or the other. Hell, maybe even both!’ ‘If only I could be so blas?.’ Franco placed the cup down and listened intently. ‘Opportunities are rare here, lad,’ Larrs continued. ‘We can’t all be waiting for a train of chance to bring us fortune. When you left with your grandfather, it did something to Ketan. I don’t know, I saw him get more impatient with things. His temper took control. I’ll never get out, he would always say, that is, before he fell in with the bad ’uns.’ ‘Define bad.’ Jacques inadvertently slurped the last traces of his drink. ‘Wilheim. He runs The Lavender Club by the east tracks – someplace they show pictures and peddle bad drink. They do much more besides, but I’ve never seen the law approach. Paid off maybe or some sort, but we all know what goes on there. Some arrangement made, no doubt.’ ‘What kind of more?’ Larrs’s breath quickened at the mention of that name and he was in obvious discomfort. Every word after seemed unusually burdened. ‘Anything you need, you can get, but the price is high as you can guess. Shipments tend to go missing around these parts. Plenty of bandits. Travellers need to be careful.’ ‘I think we met some of them.’ Jacques laughed softly. His amusement wasn’t reciprocated. ‘Ketan never was the type to be mixed up with those sorts. Never was the type for anything until you left,’ Larrs continued. ‘Is he there now?’ ‘I doubt it,’ Larrs replied. ‘Apparently he spends time propping up the bar in some shabby thing near the docks. The Water Hole I believe it was. It’s just as rotten on all accounts.’ ‘Worth checking out?’ Jacques asked. ‘Depends if you’re looking for trouble.’ ‘Seems to be there’s no getting away from it.’ Franco removed the letter from his jacket pocket and slipped it on the table between them. ‘Is this why you asked for me?’ ‘You could talk sense into him maybe, if you had the time. I would be grateful.’ Larrs swallowed his pride as firmly to his gut as possible. ‘I would be grateful indeed,’ he repeated. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘He’s … he’s all I’ve got left these days. Look at me, lad, I’m not as spry as I once were. I’m too old to be clipping ears and tanning hides. Ketan is a good boy, but these folks will be the death of him.’ Franco, despite leaving his past behind, could never neglect it entirely. He saw his difficult upbringing as a rite of passage and endured hardships that forged his iron resolve, and for that he was unexpectedly thankful. In all honesty – if honesty was something that Franco wished to indulge in – he had no choice but to accept this appeal. Larrs had steered him right in those old, delinquency days. Along with his grandfather, he had helped raise him right. ‘I understand.’ Franco nodded sagely. ‘Jacques, if your throat is dry, could you do with a stronger drink?’ * * * Despite Misu’s request for him to keep Franco on a sensible path, it would be impossible to sway him from this new agenda. Then again, Jacques had no desire to. Sure, the shows were enjoyable to manage and in an ideal world they would never have to stray and assist in such personal endeavours. But what he and Franco felt failed to be suppressed by words. The red blood of men was pumping in exhilaration and this task was something to satisfy it. It was, in a word, exciting, and just enough to fleetingly forget the monotony of day-to-day business. ‘Always, boss,’ Jacques replied. ‘Then let’s make a move.’ * * * With Windberg established as one of the main trading routes across the Sand Sea, its docks were sprawling and massive. Cranes arched high above on each lengthy jetty, packing and unpacking cargo from sand ships with dockhands running around to accommodate each crate and drum. Warehouses of every size and shape and complexity dominated the south district. Trade was plentiful in animal and textile goods – and especially in raw materials. Iron and steel came from mines and foundries, train lines carrying row upon row of carts at a time. Oil came further afield. It was pumped from the large ships, most hiring private groups of security to ensure the cargo reached its destination. Some ships would roll in pitted with bullet holes and with punctured hulls, maybe even sustaining a few human casualties. You had to be crazy to attempt to hijack a sand ship – not that this was a concern for those trying. Repelling these was dangerous work, requiring a rotation of private security teams, most of which congregated at the local dock bars. They were ideal places of congregation. Cheap drink, likeminded folks, and if you needed some muscle to protect a shipment, they could be easily found and the agreement bartered, all in the same place. Of course, goods regularly went missing in transport – something Sheriff Juniper had failed to get around to stamping out. Some warehouse security was easily bribed, or even in league with one or two unscrupulous operators in the city. Some merchandise found itself in the back rooms of these bars, ready for collection by paying parties. Either way, security and lawlessness went hand in hand. Attempting to separate the pair was fruitless. It was one of these bars Franco and Jacques made their way to, navigating each sanded street and pressing through reams of workers transporting the most recent shipments. Horses pulled carts in, the nearby market traders peddling as much as they could in bulk, turning streets narrower into jostling rivers. Down a side road, sat a building much like any other. The brickwork was pitted and scarred from blasts of sand, iron railings rusted and shedding paint. The sign itself, once proud and new, had text reduced to semi-transparent lettering. Jacques snapped a cigarette alight between his teeth, taking in a slow, powerful draw. They paused to read the sign above the door. Beneath the name The Water Hole was a crudely attempted image of an oasis, equally scorched by the elements and equally ramshackle. Inside wasn’t much better. Simple wooden furniture, straight wooden bar, bottles lined up behind – though the selection and quality was severely lacking. Their arrival was noted by a couple of grizzly regulars, rough and unwashed, playing cards with little enthusiasm. The bartender, equally unkempt, watched with scrutiny all while Franco ordered two whiskies and the pair seated themselves in a corner. Jacques stubbed his cigarette into an ashtray and chuckled to himself. ‘Nice place, huh?’ ‘That it is.’ Franco hid his vision behind a pair of smoked oval spectacles, eying up the premises before adding, ‘Sarcasm, right?’ ‘Sarcasm it was, boss.’ Jacques rasped his tongue over a rolling paper filled with shag tobacco. ‘What do you think? Could we buy this place?’ Franco sipped from his glass, watching the barman who, in turn, kept his attention very much on the door. ‘Only for the purposes of demolishing I’m guessing.’ ‘A dash of paint, replace the glass, and have someone a damn sight prettier to coax punters in. I think it could be a prime place for business.’ ‘Because trade seems to be going so well.’ A roar from the pair playing poker forced a pause for a moment as cards were slapped down onto a table and the call for another round from the excited winner was announced. ‘How did the meeting go this morning? Misu mentioned you met someone,’ Jacques said, changing the subject quickly. ‘Someone wanted to buy the Den from me.’ ‘How much?’ ‘Excuse me?’ ‘How much did they propose?’ ‘The actual figure wasn’t brought up. The discussion never got that far. An offer was made by proxy.’ ‘Bad pitch then.’ Jacques paused, looking into his glass. ‘You get a name for who was putting up the money?’ ‘None,’ Franco huffed, ‘but I’ve got a notion.’ ‘Are you considering it?’ ‘What kind of question is that? Of course I’m not – it would be all kinds of crazy to do! The madness of yourself, Jacques, honestly.’ ‘No offence, boss. Just sounded worth, well, contemplating.’ ‘Misu said that too. I’m beginning to think you’re in cahoots.’ ‘Cahoots nothing. Ain’t no shame in thinking of endeavours new – especially when you have a considerable plenty in waiting.’ A sudden, tremendous blast of a two-tone horn signalled another ship rolling into the docks, its momentum reverberating the very ground and forcing standing glasses behind the bar to momentarily dance until it stopped. The bartender checked his pocket watch before opening a storeroom behind him, leaving a turned wrought-iron key protruding from the lock. The ship’s horn blasted anew, causing the ground to vibrate with tremors. ‘Notwithstanding this place, you’re not serious, surely? Questionable profit to be made I would say.’ Jacques chuckled. ‘Why not? Invest in a little rut like this. Settle down in a shoebox house, a nice wife, screaming children you only have to see on the weekends. Isn’t that the dream of every man?’ ‘Not this one, that’s for sure.’ ‘Present company excluded then, you have to agree that the idea is satisfying.’ ‘It’s plenty of food for thought; I’ll give it that.’ Jacques sombrely drummed his fingers onto the table in anticipation. Something was making him curiously uneasy. ‘You ain’t the settling-down type,’ Jacques added, starting as his ears picking out a close, obtuse noise from among the sprawling throngs outside. ‘When I figure out what kind of man I am, I’ll be sure to make you aware.’ ‘I’ll be planning your funeral accordingly then. What would you like on the stone? Gunshot in the back by treachery, was it? Or shot in the front by our little canary?’ ‘Misu may be grumpy with me from time to time, but she wouldn’t do that.’ ‘And why would that be the case?’ ‘I’m just too pretty to die and she knows it.’ Jacques broke a smile before it sharply faded. In that moment, a bevy of horses pulled up outside, snorting as if lightning had struck their hides. Six pulled a carriage behind, secured with a canvas marked by the occasional bullet hole. Men straddling another half-dozen horses arrived. They dismounted and tied up reins before unloading the carriage’s cargo. Orders were hollered, liberally sprinkled with swear words and threats, as four of the men rushed inside, struggling under the weight of their prize: a mightily gilded casket in brilliant emerald green, with a sizeable padlock. Franco tipped his head in question and watched this development quite intently. The bartender beckoned the group behind the bar, to which the gang obliged. ‘Back here,’ he said, flustered. ‘Back here, in Her name, be quick about it will you.’ The men were agitated, the remains of facemasks at their necks, with sweat at their brows and urgency in their eyes. Franco knew men like these. Hired goons, semi-professional thugs making a living doing difficult jobs. Selfish men who thought nothing to pull the trigger. Bad men. Franco gave no sign that he sniffed the air, though he caught the stench rising from them. Black powder and blood. This was probably due to one of the gang holding his arm, and another hobbling behind. Through their clenched grips, blood seeped from their wounds, just enough to redden their clothing and stifle breath. These men too were rushed out of view by the bar hand, just a small boy of twelve rushing from the back room to wipe up any evidence of their arrival and lead the horses around back. Within minutes their existence was reduced to the occasional raised voice from behind the drink-laden shelves. Jacques drained his glass, deciding it best not to have it refilled. ‘Quite the time to be here, boss.’ He spoke carefully, so that anyone else in attendance wouldn’t hear. One could never be too careful as to how many in attendance were just drinkers and how many were paid to keep their eyes and ears open. ‘Seems like the old man was right about this place. Nothing going on here but shady back-room dealings.’ ‘That’s a little hypocritical, isn’t it?’ ‘I prefer my dealings to be in the open,’ Franco added. ‘Just away from the prying eyes of some.’ ‘Our little tag-along Wyld excluded, of course.’ ‘Of course,’ Franco agreed. The back-room door exploded open. Floorboards shook and pounded from heavy boots as the men dispersed, some upstairs to the box rooms where for a small payment you could have a bed for a spell, some out the door, while one with a freshly bandaged leg propped himself onto a barstool. Those who passed patted his shoulder in turn, referring him by name as Two Bits, sometimes patronizingly. It wasn’t the most glamorous of nicknames, slightly insulting in truth as two bits, or coins, didn’t buy much in the way of luxuries or service. The man ordered a drink with his payment being his tone. Whisky was given, hurriedly. The first glass was gulped down to better the temper; each subsequent glass was slammed down with frustration. His cheeks were dirtied from a hard ride, his face flushed and hands shaking. Franco tapped his finger gently, gesturing with his eyes to his companion. Jacques’s brow raised in question. ‘Ketan,’ Franco silently mouthed. When things seemed reasonably settled and Ketan’s presence felt less threatening, Franco slid his chair back and strolled, quite merrily, to the bar. He stood silently, beside his old friend who nursed his drink like the only woman who would love him. Eventually Franco leant forward onto the bar with a devil-may-care grin. The bartender looked at them cautiously. ‘Another rye,’ Franco said gleefully. ‘And a glass of the good stuff for limpy here. He looks like he needs cheering up. That piss-water he’s sipping can only do so much.’ Ketan struck the bar loudly with a fist. ‘Think you’re funny, you sonofabitch?’ he said, turning on his stool with violent rage. ‘How about I cut that mouth of yours somewhat wider?’ Already he was on his feet, a switchblade firmly in his grip with the blade extended. It was scant inches from Franco’s face, in danger of scoring his best feature. Then, Ketan stopped and sank away, stepping back with his eyes bugging out in astonishment. ‘What? Franco, is that you?’ ‘In the flesh before you, though not for long I’ll wager.’ Ketan hurriedly retracted his blade, bringing relief to the barman who was now regretting recent dealings to ensure his business’s security. ‘Yeah. Sorry about that, sorry … I just … It’s been a long time.’ ‘I think you need to calm yourselves.’ Jacques prompted the barman. ‘Can we get those drinks please? Thanks.’ Franco took a seat beside Ketan, shadowed by Jacques who observed attentively. ‘It’s been long, Franco. Too long, you know.’ ‘I’m here now aren’t I?’ ‘And I see you.’ Ketan surveyed his friend, disapproving of every facet. ‘Nice teeth, fancy suits, and how. How much did all that set you back? Look at this – shiny buttons and everything.’ Ketan’s hand was patted away by the suit’s owner, who ensured no stray threads were pulled at. ‘You’ve come a fair way away from the train yard.’ ‘Looks like we both have. How have things been?’ ‘Tough finding work.’ Ketan drank slowly, relishing the taste of fine liquor for as long as he could, as it wouldn’t be repeated any time soon. ‘Isn’t it always, but I’m moving along. Making pay as best as I can. Can’t complain.’ ‘Not even when being shot in the leg? And for what, ten per cent?’ ‘Six.’ ‘Six.’ Jacques whistled slowly in disapproval. ‘You are getting stiffed.’ Ketan stopped his drinking, taking a handful of pistachio nuts from a bowl and breaking their shells in turn. ‘Who’s this?’ ‘A friend,’ Franco said. ‘Like yours, only he tends to stick around.’ ‘Clever.’ Ketan grabbed some nuts from the nearest bowl. ‘Thanks,’ Jacques muttered. ‘Wasn’t a compliment.’ Ketan chased the nuts with a new mouthful of drink. ‘What’s the real story here? You never carried a blade; you never got involved in dirty-handed work,’ Franco said. It was true, for a time. Ketan used to avoid conflict as best he could, normally being the getaway man or shifting goods around when needed. Truth be told he was very apt at such things, but he never had a taste for the violence, at least he hadn’t some seven years back. Yet to them both, this was a lifetime away, and time much like the desert sands, covered and uncovered much. ‘Been speaking to the old man, right? Never could keep his mouth shut.’ ‘Maybe so, but he’s worried. You’re running in black-market gangs now?’ ‘What of it?’ ‘That was never our style!’ Franco protested. ‘Our style? Our style?!’ Ketan repeated in an outburst, causing everyone in the bar to turn in unison. ‘Coming in here, speaking about ours. Just look at you.’ This time Franco was surveyed with something he hadn’t been subjected to for some time, and could have lived a good life never seeing again. ‘You don’t know my style and you don’t know who I am. You think you can just talk to me like the years mean nothing? You think that you have some kind of right because we got bloodied noses together for a time? You’re not family, Franco. We ain’t that blood.’ ‘I went to find a calling. Do something proper of sorts,’ Franco objected, quite amazed at this reaction. ‘You left!’ Ketan shouted. ‘You locked yourself in that crappy yard with your pappy, shunning the lot of us, working on some scrappy little ride. The next I hear you was already making your way to pastures new without even the notion of a goodbye. You left us; you left me. Dress it up however you want but leaving is what you did. Nothing more.’ Jacques slowly reached across to his holster on his hip, though Franco’s small, otherwise unnoticed gesture, told him otherwise. The fingers retreated. ‘And then you wander on in here,’ Ketan said, ‘talking to my father, talking to me like you’re so above it all, above everyone else. Talking about ours. Damn you. Money doesn’t give you the right, Franc.’ The shortening of Franco’s name caused memories to surface. ‘You need that rolling palace taken away from you, bring you down to the rest of us. Find your roots.’ Franco’s demeanour changed. He was wrong to come here, wrong to see someone he used to call a friend, and exceptionally wrong to expect welcoming arms. But for what reason was he rejected? Just because he was discontented with scratching the ground like a chicken, to take the harsh days and call them the norm, should he be scorned? Franco had built a life for himself, maybe not the most ordinary but it was a life, a good life and one he learned to relish every day. In the time he had spent in this life, he had realized that Ketan was not some grand figure from his youth. True, he was a friend, once, but the longer this tirade went on for, the closer Franco came to the conclusion that Ketan wasn’t the person he once was. He was less than that. Ketan was just another crook. A small-time bandit, and a poor one at that, seeing that he’d taken a slug to the leg. Franco had dealt with enough crooks in his life to know where they all ended up: in unmarked graves that the desert claimed. This would be Ketan’s fate, undoubtedly, and he had no time for such persons, old friend or not. ‘You best be careful. That sounds like jealousy,’ Franco said. ‘Sounds like actuality to me. I got a good thing here. I don’t need the likes of you lousing it up.’ ‘I can see.’ Franco dragged his stool back, loudly. The bartender retreated. He had seen this kind of exchange before and it normally ended up with sweeping splintered wood and broken glass. ‘And I can see that talking will get me nowhere so this is all time wasted. One last thing, though, what do you suggest I tell your father about this little chat?’ Ketan sank the last of his drink and swallowed it away. ‘Tell him to mind his damn business – the same thing you should do.’ With a flick of the wrist he skated the empty glass between them. ‘Thanks for the drink.’ Franco took these words with their leave and ventured out into the early afternoon sun. A blaze of light forced him to shade his eyes, standing aside from the workers who busied themselves back and forth in plumes of golden dust. ‘Well that could have gone better,’ Jacques muttered. ‘You’re not wrong there.’ ‘Despite you being friends and all, we may do well not going back. The place is a nest of villainy and your pal is agitated. We’ve got enough heat on us as it is. I think this best be left as is.’ * * * Unbeknown to the pair, they were being observed from across the street, through the dust by a lone constable. He manoeuvred naturally and gave no cause to hide his presence, clad in a royal blue duster with badge pinned to his breast, he had been ordered to survey The Water Hole on patrol for anything of interest, and interest he had discovered. The constable had witnessed the whole thing: the delivery of the goods, the thieves responsible and more importantly, he had seen Franco – owner of the prestigious Gambler’s Den – at the scene, making a quick leave upon the goods’ arrival. The only conclusion he could make was that those on the Gambler’s Den were somehow in league with those running the whole affair. And when he reported back to Alex Juniper, it was exactly the information the sheriff had wished for. Chapter Ten (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73) The Gambit Revelry was for other people. Not for Wyld. Despite being an unregistered passenger she was not restricted in her movements aboard the Gambler’s Den. Franco’s trust in her was uncommonly generous, so when meals were served, an invitation for her to join the others was always extended. This was mostly declined. Rarely did she make an appearance elsewhere, for venturing to the other carriages encouraged sly glances and speculative whispers about her person. It was not out of malice, for the most part at least. Wyld was simply an aspect separate to what the showgirls were used to and she became the subject of gossip. There was no use in fuelling idle rumour, so should Wyld take up the offer of a meal, she collected it when the others had finished theirs and the dining cart was empty. In contradiction to her own feelings on the matter, Kitty kept the ovens warm on the off chance of this happening, as per Franco’s demands. She served the food with much less care, never making small talk and certainly not wishing to engage in substantial conversation. Kitty trusted Wyld even less than the others did. Maybe it was the boisterousness of her youth, but she was outspoken in regards to their resident tagalong. Mercifully, this time Kitty simply did her job. She shoved a plate of pungent curry in Wyld’s hands and kept any comments to herself. Silence accompanied Wyld’s meal from the first bite to the last. She pushed the bloated red larrson beans into a heap, finding their bitterness unpalatable. She had taken to her hammock, positioned in one of the storage cars, hidden among tables and amusements, nestled in a little space she had called home for the last few weeks. It was cramped for sure, dusty, and compared to the residence carriage the showgirls resided in, almost insulting, but Wyld didn’t need luxury. Never had. A poky spot, a place to lay her head was all the comfort she needed, or had ever been used to. Wyld had been caught as a stowaway by Jacques when she was train hopping. She had mistaken the Gambler’s Den for a simple passenger hauler. Confronted by Jacques, her quick thinking and impressive negotiation resulted in passage in exchange for payment and regional information. She would have her independence, space for her belongings, but she was to remain hidden and, as Franco very strongly stated, any trouble would result in her expulsion. Just recalling that conversation resulted in her teeth grating back and forth in frustration. How insulting, she grumbled, to infer such a thing. How long did he think she had been doing this? A week? Two? Try a lifetime, she could have retorted with, right into his patronizing face. That would shut him up. She rocked her hammock side to side, swigging from a bulbous brown bottle in light, careful gulps, smacking her lips each time. Assorted memories rocked with her, a series of nagging visions that Wyld had earlier spent time staring at. Trouble didn’t usually follow her. Like everything else she encountered – opportunities, men, and wealth – trouble usually neglected to show its face in her presence and for that she had been thankful. But the incidents in the Vault greatly disturbed her. Wyld had been caught up in the break-in, a messy, amateur affair with the theft of contraband under the noses of the law and deaths on both sides. Things had never gone so wrong before. Sure, there had been a handful of tight spots she could recall but not like this. Nothing had been like this. It was a harsh lesson to be taught and definitely one that wouldn’t be easily forgotten. Trembling fingers gripped the bottle neck as, once more, the sullen look of the policeman she had shot lingered, bearing down on her with all his weight. Damn those eyes of his. Drink, she told herself, and chase the spectre away. It didn’t work. Instead she tried to be rational. One of them was to meet their end and it was only due to the good graces of the Holy Sorceress that it wasn’t her. Grace. A faster finger. An instinct to stay alive. Wyld couldn’t tell which specifically to attribute her survival to. Another mouthful was taken. A silent curse was made. She was living as a vagabond, previously just ruining lives but now she had stepped into the world of taking them. She confessed in her thoughts to being a murderer. No matter how justified her act may have been, it was a line she once promised herself she wouldn’t cross. In her youth she had witnessed folks killed for scraps of food, for unpaid debts and, shockingly, simply for the fun of it. This all predictably made an impression and whilst it was sensible to carry iron for self-defence, it had been to threaten only. Wyld had never been prepared to pull a trigger, let alone do so with lethal intent. One life, twenty, did the actual body count make any difference? She would be branded a killer either way. It was painfully difficult to justify, forcing her to question whether this journey was even worth it. On her stomach sat the statue, staring back at her with a frozen expression of judgement. The effigy claimed, or more accurately, stolen, sat proud upon its rounded base. The poky, squatting gold form of an Angel, with brilliant wings outstretched, was embedded into the face, surrounded with symbols from a language best forgotten and a time now ignored. Years had deposited scratches on the once brilliant metal, no doubt helped by the conflicts it had seen and the hands it had passed through. The finely crafted golden features made her curiously anxious the longer she observed them. The ill-gotten items had been treated as stock and their reverence ignored, though this one was the exception. Unlike many of her acquisitions, it was curiously respected. Wyld’s fingers lifted the piece to what little light the lamp made. ‘Is it worth it?’ Wyld whispered to the figure, searching the Angel’s gold visage with her eyes. Momentarily she wished for an answer to be given, no matter how implausible it seemed. Oh, how she wished it could speak to her. She pressed the cold metal against her forehead, questioning – among other things – if anybody even cared. Then she set it back down. A slow striking of the car door diverted these thoughts. Katerina lightly slunk inside when invited, very much respectful of the personal space of the car’s inhabitant. She cooed a hello, waving a bottle of red wine and a glass, watching Wyld’s hammock rock to a stop. ‘Good evening, I don’t mean to impose on what you’re up to.’ Katerina scanned her surroundings, trying to work out what that may have been but obviously came up with nothing. ‘I was wondering if you would like to join us. We’re all playing cards and would welcome another hand.’ ‘Sorry. I figure I’m just not your sort of company. No offence and all.’ ‘None taken I assure you. I just thought it would be nice to invite our resident ghost. I rarely see you and thought that it must get pretty stuffy in here by your lonesome.’ Wyld cracked a smile in approval. ‘It’s appreciated, thanks. It’s nice to know that I’m not invisible to everyone. I get some disapproving looks from time to time so I just try to stay out of sight and all. I stand out too much among the make-up and –’ she gestured to Katerina who probed for a place to sit ‘– all that flair.’ ‘You’re telling me. The dresses can be a bit much. Having to keep up the pretence can be draining.’ ‘What pretence?’ ‘The boss says we have to keep the image of who we are at all times, especially away from the Den itself. I get it. I really do, but it can be such a chore. We’re on display all the time and that’s fine. It can just be tiring.’ ‘Enough to leave?’ ‘Heavens no.’ Katerina gave a warm chuckle. ‘The girls here, well, we’re family, you know. You don’t walk out on your family. May I?’ Katerina pointed to a pine trunk strapped with rough iron, finding a lack of a proper chair. ‘Be my guest.’ Wyld wearily sighed and took another gulp from her bottle. You’re right, she thought. You don’t abandon your family. So why did he? Katerina took a meek drink from a glass and gestured. ‘What about yours?’ ‘Some white rum from in town. Local stuff. It’s fancy –’ ‘No, I mean your family. Where are they?’ ‘That’s pretty much non-existent,’ she said. ‘Orphan of the streets like many others out there. I never got to know my family. If I did nowadays, I would sock them on the jaw.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Don’t be.’ Wyld snorted. ‘Nobody else is.’ They both drank more, bolder, unsure as to how to continue the conversation. ‘I envy you, you know?’ Katerina eventually stated, refilling her glass, halfway this time. ‘That’s just the drink talking.’ ‘No, I’m serious. You live so nomadically. Wind in your hair. You’re free, you know? Nobody to answer to.’ A blaze of red curls hid her features before eventually being moved away with a palm, replaced with an immediate smile that seemed suspiciously one of reflex and illusion. ‘Except Franco,’ Wyld added, swigging once more with a stifled gasp. ‘Except Franco. But you know what I mean.’ ‘It’s nothing that couldn’t be fixed. There’s no harm venturing out to find a little purpose.’ ‘There are some folks – you are very much included in this – who are well suited to adapting to challenging lifestyles. They thrive in such environments. It’s in their very being I guess one could say. Now, when it comes to me, I’m the opposite. I like my comforts. I am accustomed to them, have been all my days. The Den is my compromise for wanderlust.’ ‘What were you before all this? Did you have a job or something?’ Katerina broadly grinned, genuinely excited to discuss such things. Rarely had she had the opportunity to do so. ‘I was a seamstress. I suppose I still am as I make alterations for the others if their garments need adjusting and I fix the clothes too. I even sewed up Franco when he caught a bullet. That was a first. But I didn’t actually need to work before, I did it as a hobby.’ ‘Moneyed family?’ Wyld pressed, slightly concerned that this was too personal, though she was answered promptly. ‘Unfortunately so,’ Katerina said. ‘I had a childhood out of a book. Several books actually. Have you seen those family paintings that nobility have, hanging over fireplaces? I was the child with the pout who wanted to be doing anything else other than posing.’ ‘Sounds like a fine time to me,’ Wyld countered. ‘I’ve always wanted to be invited to one of those fancy shindigs where there’s food for miles and the conversation is as pleasant as hornet stings.’ ‘Not fine enough, I assure you. I heard that the Gambler’s Den was in town from my father. He promised to take me and when I saw Franco perform I was smitten. I knew there and then I wanted that life: the show, the performance, the fireworks, the applause – oh the applause! I approached Misu and she interviewed me that night. I must have done something well because I’ve been here ever since.’ ‘If I had a family like yours, I would spend some of that wealth in tracking you down,’ Wyld said cautiously. It was a fair point. If one had money then there was nothing you couldn’t accomplish or obtain. ‘Fortunate for me that my father just doesn’t care then, isn’t it? My mother was more the free-spirited type. He was,’ Katerina corrected herself hurriedly, ‘is a bore. Talking about boring, I’m blabbering on about myself like I’m in fashion. What’s your story?’ Wyld swung her legs over to a more suitable position. Given her standing on the Gambler’s Den, or lack of it, reason dictated she should be wary of what she said. Reason also suggested drinking more and damn the consequences. The second of these took precedence. ‘I’ve been travelling for months from the south. It’s not been easy. Don’t know if you’ve got romantic notions of such travels but when a hot bath is a luxury, you know you’re doing something wrong.’ ‘How do you afford the rooms? It must be costly.’ ‘Money is no concern. Sold everything I owned before leaving, which got me not too far admittedly, but I sell things to make ends meet.’ ‘What kind of things?’ Katerina narrowed her green eyes. ‘Our things?’ Wyld unfurled her still-clasped hands, reached forward, and passed her acquisition over for inspection. Katerina examined its surface. It was presumably old but still in impeccable condition. Her eyes searched stoic features of the effigy. She handled it gently, careful not to inadvertently damage it. The statue’s blank eyes stared back. Wyld wondered whether it prompted the recollection of stories from youth, dramatic tales of sacrifice and danger, for Katerina as it did for her. Clearly impressed by both its appearance and unexpected weight, Katerina passed it back. Wyld placed it beside her on the hammock with considerable care. ‘Where did you get it from?’ ‘I stole it.’ ‘You’re a thief?’ ‘No,’ Wyld protested. ‘I’m not that. I acquire things to order for shadier clientele. I don’t know if it has a title.’ ‘The title would be a thief.’ ‘Only without the –’ ‘The fact that you are, by definition of the word, a thief?’ ‘Something like that.’ Wyld sighed wearily. Why was she trying to garnish her actions, or even justify them? Who, exactly, did she have to redeem herself to? She was a thief, but one born of necessity. That was the justification and it would have to be good enough for her conscience. ‘Where did it come from?’ ‘Some dust-ball museum out west when we passed through. For such a rarity you would have assumed security was paramount, but you would be wrong. Quite the disgrace I assure you.’ ‘Shocking. Is it valuable?’ Katerina enquired. ‘It’ll outfit you girls with pretty dresses three times over.’ ‘Really? How many would you say you’ve, uh, acquired in your time?’ ‘I’m not sure. Over twenty artefacts maybe, if I had to guess.’ Katerina’s mouth moved as she made a conservative estimate of the total. Her eyes widened. ‘Wow. With all that, you could,’ the showgirl barked in excitement, ‘you could buy this train!’ ‘Suppose so. It’s all going to be sold off soon. Buyers can be tricky to come across but we’re in luck here. Windberg has a decent market for such things, surprising given how hard the law is coming down. It’s always best to flog the lot as you never know when the next opportunity may arise. Case in point: we have a sheriff sniffing around like a dog in heat.’ ‘And the money? That’s a considerable amount.’ ‘Goes in the bank where I can’t misplace it.’ ‘Any plans with it?’ ‘I have debts to pay, especially to your boss,’ Wyld reflected. ‘As for the rest, I’m sure I’ll be able to find a use for it one day.’ ‘But why the Holy Sorceress fixation?’ ‘Why what?’ Wyld’s brow arched. Katerina pressed her lips together, concluding a common theme in what had been acquired. ‘All museum pieces from what I heard. Sorry, but the news on the wire gives it away. I read the papers too. Every place we’ve been, you hit the same sort of joint. Everything you go for is religious. Do you only steal those sorts of things? Is that your niche?’ It was a fact. Every single item was an effigy, no matter the medium or size, and they all depicted the same subject. Every trinket, every piece was a relic, something that Wyld knew full well. She had just never expected to be quizzed as to why. It wasn’t coincidence, despite being passed off as one, but to elaborate on the reasoning would be just asking more questions, the likes of which would be nauseating to converse about. ‘They’re just more valuable,’ Wyld dismissed with a half-truth. ‘Age is indicative of worth.’ ‘Not if my father is anything to go by.’ They both sniggered in unison. With her bottle now empty, Katerina coaxed a refill from Wyld’s, sniffing the rum before letting its warmth slide down her throat. ‘You live an uncertain life – not that there’s anything wrong with such a thing. It sounds pretty charmed by all accounts though personally I would struggle with the regular illegality.’ ‘A sense of normality wouldn’t go amiss admittedly. A life like this lacks security. I’m living every day back to back without real guidance. The wind blows me in the direction that I guess to be correct. Half the time I just need answers.’ ‘What to?’ ‘Plenty of things.’ Wyld callously took a mouthful. ‘What if you could get those answers? What then?’ The bottle slowly popped from her lips and she tilted her head in curiosity. ‘I don’t follow.’ Katerina waited on her words for a moment, giving consideration as to how to structure them appropriately. She moved a hand to the lacy folds of her dress, reaching into a pocket and wrapping her fingers around the shape inside. ‘There is a prerequisite to being hired for the Gambler’s Den. We’re required to perform, showcase our talent as it were. We’re not just pretty faces despite what the punters may believe. Everyone has their niche. For example, Misu breathes fire –’ ‘In every sense of the word from what I’ve established.’ ‘Corinne parades the art of ventriloquism.’ ‘What might that be?’ ‘Tossing one’s voice in different directions. Yours truly has a couple of talents but one of the more peculiar ones is this.’ Katerina removed a box of cards from her person, playing cards at first glance, until the adorning artwork revealed their true nature. Its simple cardboard sleeve was draped with arcane impressions of the night’s sky, cluttered despite being tasteful. These were for anything but play. ‘Fortune-telling? Where did you learn that?’ The cards were removed from their housing and sliced repeatedly in cuts as she divulged the answer. ‘My dear old mother. Sit down, she would say, and she’d teach me under the oil lamp. To my understanding it was a family tradition, one she was keen to keep alive. All things come and go in a lifetime, but curiosity about one’s future never wanes. That’s what she used to tell me. Money and fame can be found in such a thing, if both were your fancy.’ ‘It’s an old practice …’ Wyld drew at her chin in concern. ‘You sound sceptical. Tell me you’re not one of those who calls it blasphemous.’ ‘Not at all. I knew a street vendor who did told fortunes on the side to earn bread money. Though I’m unsure as to this format you’re using. They were all chicken bones and crystal balls. I put it down to his settler blood.’ The cards were placed down on the carriage floor and fanned out with a wave of the hand. With another they slinked back together just as quickly. Apt hands worked their magic to create a spectacle of the cards being presented yet this was just for show with the design to easily impress. ‘What you encountered was a charlatan. Those displays are just for roping in passers-by. This, on the other hand, is an art handed down from time immemorial.’ Wyld scoffed and though she meant no offence she had deeply rooted opinions on the matter. ‘Cards?’ ‘I could give you their long, proper name but yes, for want of a better term, these are cards.’ Wyld leant over her hammock, ensuring that she didn’t move her weight to send her falling out, a feat easier said than done considering how much she had drunk. ‘What’s this imagery? All I see are stars.’ ‘Close,’ came the reply. ‘They’re constellations. See, these cards in this part of the deck contain the constellations we can see in the night sky. It’s a widely held belief that they tell a story as a whole, but separately, the order in which they appear can be indicative of an individual’s life.’ Wyld flexed a finger to a point. ‘Why has this one got the moon in it?’ ‘Those with the moon are part of the major set. Those cards are, for want of a better word, a little more noteworthy. By the formation of the cards and what we present, we can build up a picture. Get some of those answers.’ Wyld took a sip of courage. ‘Okay then, you’ve convinced me. I’m game. Even false hope is better than no hope at all.’ ‘If you would please cut the deck and hand me three.’ Wyld obliged, passing them over face down. Katerina drew a handful more, placing them in various spaces between them, some overlapping one another, forming a distinctive cross pattern. As the first card revealed its secret design upon flipping, the opening revelation was uncomfortably precise. ‘You’re looking for someone.’ Wyld wrinkled her nose. ‘What if I said I wasn’t?’ she tested. There was still a chance all this was going to be a deception – no matter how pleasant the company. ‘Then I have to say I don’t believe you.’ ‘And if I insisted?’ ‘I would ask why you were lying to me.’ ‘Then you may be correct. Maybe there is someone,’ she finally confessed. ‘Elaborate. Tell me about them.’ ‘Isn’t that your job while we do this?’ Katarina chuckled. ‘That’s a common misconception for a reading of this kind. It just helps, is all. I’m not trying to prompt you to give me information if that’s what you are suspicious of. It greases the wheels. Makes it all go smoother. Any qualities that I can envision of this mysterious person?’ ‘Opening up isn’t something I do well. I’m not drunk enough for this.’ ‘That makes two of us.’ Katerina reached over and filled her glass once more, taking in its scent. ‘So it’s clearly a man. That’s painfully obvious given your reaction.’ Wyld leaned back, taking a bigger mouthful. She nodded. ‘Complicated. Handsome.’ She paused. ‘Lips of an Angel.’ ‘Handsome is good enough for me.’ Katerina smiled. ‘Good enough for plenty of women out here.’ She took another swig from her drink, coaxing another refill with a shake of the glass. As Wyld leant forward and poured, Katerina’s face fell somewhat. She analysed the collection of cards in their particular order. On one, a crested moon straddled the sky above five stars – the furthest one to the left much brighter than the others. ‘You’re looking for this man. You’re not searching for him in the conventional sense though; that’s the curiosity. There’s more to it than that. You’re tracking him like one tracks a wild beast. It’s what brought you here, to us.’ Wyld reflected on the accuracy of this accusation. She shadowed his footsteps in whatever hole he passed through; offered bartender and stallholder coin in exchange for insight. Scraps of information were procured from those who claimed sightings – some greatly embellished for personal gain. After all, his presence set many tongues wagging. Someone hauling around a reputation as large as his made it almost impossible to remain incognito. Maybe she had resorted to tracking him much like a hunter would stalk their quarry. So what? Maybe there was no other way. She began scratching at the bottle label with her fingernails, peeling it from a corner until enticing a rip. ‘You lived together, years back. The bond was close, very close in fact. You trusted him. There was a time when you relied on one another to survive. Together the world wasn’t so harsh. You were a compass to one another, pointing to personal serenity.’ Katerina spread two cards apart, calculating their meaning. Her voice lowered a shade. ‘You loved him.’ Wyld blinked momentarily as the words cut through her. ‘But, I’m sorry to say, he loved you as one would have loved their sibling. That is a shame. But it is still love and that is a blessing in itself. It is still a bond.’ Wyld tried not consider this as an insult. Despite wrestling with her own conscience for months now, she still came to the same conclusion that Katerina had voiced. Was she not attentive enough? Had she not tried to ease his restless mind when he spoke of troubles and burdens of duty? Had she not provided him with enough reasons to stay? ‘You’re angry at him too.’ ‘You need the cards to see that?’ Wyld tossed down a mouthful, hissing through her teeth to relieve the liquor’s sting. ‘Of course not, but what you harbour is not rage. It would be quite easy to confuse it as such given the nature of this situation. It’s the pursuit of answers. A desperation I suppose it could be called.’ ‘Is there anything in all this that at least gives me direction?’ The crossed arrangement of cards slowly revealed themselves with every question. ‘You’re on the right track according to this. He was venturing north, far north in fact, very much alone and with regret. Leaving you wasn’t a decision taken lightly.’ Another flick of the wrist. Another three cards turned over to reveal themselves. ‘You’re missed. Very much so. Despite what you may think, your time together was something that fulfilled you both. It’s rare that two people stumble upon one another and find what they need. Compassion. Direction. Things that make us whole.’ ‘Will I find him?’ Wyld’s hand trembled around her drink as she tried to steady her voice. ‘Is all this for nothing?’ Cards turned and sighs were offered. Wyld dissected each facet of the cards as she saw them in the hope of gaining hint as to their meaning. Katerina delivered a slew of disappointment. ‘If I tell you that you will, it’ll incite you not to drive yourself onward as hard as you have done up until now. If I tell you that you won’t, you’ll be inclined to give up. So on that front, I cannot say.’ ‘Can’t or won’t?’ Wyld wrinkled her nose, finding her temper to be shortening. It would be cruel to yank away this hope now, even if it was false. ‘Pick one. But know that what I’m saying is for the best and not to be difficult. A line has to be drawn somewhere and I’m afraid it has been decided that this is yours.’ Katerina took the last card between her fingers, spinning it around for Wyld to see. A new moon surrounded by seven stars with three sporting grand depictions in yellow. It meant nothing to the observer though was impressed with its ominousness. ‘What’s that one?’ ‘The Mithany, more commonly known as The Flower. This card and ones like it mean the end to what we discuss. Past this point things are unsettled, but it also infers something else. This card right here offers hope. Maybe hope for the future in general. Maybe hope in your endeavours that you will catch this man. Hope, maybe, that you will be at peace with your past.’ It was offered over and claimed by Wyld who examined its face. ‘You can keep that.’ ‘Won’t it mess up your deck?’ Scooping the cards back together and sliding the pack into its decorated sleeve, Katarina scoffed. ‘No. I’ve got like a hundred of them. Makes things personal for the reader. People love that little touch of a souvenir.’ Letting the atmosphere defuse, Katerina allowed Wyld to wipe her eyes and process what had been said. The glass was refilled but this time only to its equator. The bottle finally had run dry. ‘How was that? Are you okay?’ Katerina enquired, watching Wyld delicately nurse her spent bottle. ‘Accurate. Scarily so. You’re very good.’ Wyld was rattled. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to … you know. This.’ ‘He was a bastard to leave me,’ Wyld confessed, blowing out air. It had been the first time she had spoken with anyone about all of this and frankly it had been a relief to share. ‘But bastard or no, I’ll find him. And I’ll get him to explain why he did so.’ Katerina cheered boisterously and a little too loudly. ‘Now that I will happily drink to. To fleeing men!’ She struck the bottle with her wine glass in a toast. ‘Doesn’t sound like any man I’ve ever known. All mine have been focused on settling down, fathering many babies. Nobody wants an adventure nowadays. The world is too dangerous they say. It’s a trial to keep safe, to keep ends met. Why anyone would want to complicate that by wandering is hard to understand.’ Katerina raised her glass. ‘But I get it. And it’s not beyond you. I hope you find him soon. May your journey reach a fortunate conclusion, Miss Wyld.’ And in thanks, Wyld toasted back with her empty vessel. * * * Windberg’s evenings were opposite to its days. Streets remained mostly empty as the effects of toil were sedated with drink and revelry performed behind closed doors. Even the docks that were usually a frantic stream of wholesale traders and cargo pullers were deserted, waiting for the chaos to begin all over again at the dawn of the morning sun. Of all the districts, it was unsurprising that Redside – with more taverns and inns than people at points – was more active. Situated a good fifteen-minute walk downhill from Windberg Central Station, business was always good from the constant turnover of travellers passing through, so meeting someone here would raise no suspicion. Or, at least, that’s what Misu hoped. For the unawares, the hangouts were all the same. The district was dilapidated in parts, well kept and spacious in others, a patchwork of enterprises no less. If you were informed enough on the city’s criminality, those who wished to remain hidden, or protected, could be found. Misu wasn’t oblivious to her followers during the daylight. A woman in her profession was familiar with some of the more unwanted attention garnered over her service, so when her travel through the markets during her day-to-day routine was observed, Misu always ensured she was never alone. She had company and, at some times, welcome protection in the form of Jacques. But this time, just for tonight, she lacked any such luxuries. She headed to places she’d sworn never to return to. Ghostly footsteps from long ago caused a shudder to run down her spine. And there, in the gloom, she found what – or more accurately whom – she was looking for. * * * Flenn counted his blessings. For him, it was by pure chance that they saw one another, especially after their blunt conversation during the show. It was their visit that haunted the woman, perfectly, he believed, as per his instructions. Luckily for Flenn, Donovan accompanied him, cold and just as pleased, congregating in the alleyway between The Sand and Track – for reasons known only to themselves. With rapt attention, each watched her approach. She stayed away from the street gaslight and was dulled by the moonlight, bathed in shadows. ‘I’m not a believer in fate and the like,’ Flenn announced with arms outstretched. ‘But I’ll say that our encounter must be one of chance. Would you not agree, Mister Donovan?’ ‘That it must,’ Donovan acknowledged, sauntering before Misu and inhaling her scent. ‘Opportune indeed.’ ‘I’m not blind. I know you’ve been watching me and I’m telling you to stop,’ she stated, firm in tone, though with a fissure to her voice. Their response was a chuckle between them, sharing unspoken amusement at such brashness. ‘I’m also here to tell you,’ Misu tried to demand, ‘that I won’t do this any more. Tell Wilheim that the deal is off and he’s never to come near me again. Or you. It’s that simple; we’re done.’ ‘Oh, done are we?’ Flenn loudly spat between then. ‘And you can make this decision, can you? This is your final word on the subject? I could tell him, but I know what he would say.’ ‘He wouldn’t like it in the slightest,’ Donovan added. ‘Not a bit, I would think,’ he agreed. ‘It wouldn’t be sensible to tell him such a thing.’ ‘Do you know what he would want?’ Donovan nodded repeatedly. ‘A change of mind, methinks.’ Misu tried to sprint, but failed in her shoes, designed for fashion and not mobility, especially taking the heels into account. A leg launching away in a slip sent her to the ground most ungraciously, and it took no effort for Flenn and Donovan to catch up with the woman. The pair was used to their quarry fleeing. They were also used to them not making it very far. ‘On your feet, kitten. Let’s be having you.’ Flenn’s fists clenched cotton, hauling Misu to her feet by her attire. Clearly every touch of his fingers disgusted her as he patted her pale cheeks. Every patronizing word cut through with thick, penetrating sarcasm. Wilheim’s men had not been expecting an opportunity like this. The woman had always kept herself around others in public, cleverly near constabulary when perusing the markets or shops. They had watched keenly, shadowed her movements closely, all while remaining out of sight. Wilheim expected them to deliver his message, though a better word for it would be ultimatum, with the sort of persuasiveness those entrusted to such work were known for. Toe to toe, Flenn towered over Misu’s frame. Her nostrils flared as his hand ever so gently stifled her breaths. ‘Let’s not be dancing any more, girl. You’ve had your little dandy despite Wilheim being far from patient. You know what he wants and he’s going to take it. You have no alternative and certainly no wiggle room for bargaining.’ ‘I said I won’t do this any more for him,’ Misu whimpered, trying hard to retain her composure; however, her bravado had been quickly eroded away. No pithy quips. No snide remarks. Misu was bared to her predators. ‘You don’t get it still. There is no time to give. No extra chances. No more waiting.’ Donovan fidgeted with the leather sheath at his hip, drawing his palm around his knife handle. He was clearly getting bored of talking. Talking rarely solved anything. Words were only an exchange of threats and force, no matter how well camouflaged. Everything was a foreplay to violence. ‘I don’t think she’s going to cooperate, do you?’ ‘I think she’s spinning us a yarn. Don’t like being spun, me. Makes me frustrated. Makes me angry, if you get my meaning.’ Flenn’s thick fingers constricted in turn. ‘There – you’ve gone and done it,’ Donovan teased, seating himself on a crate. The metal was produced from its housing, an event that Misu was acutely aware of. Donovan used the blade tip to pick at debris beneath his fingernails. ‘I don’t care what you think, I won’t –’ Donovan interrupted. ‘I think we need to stop you talking for good. What do you think the boss would say?’ ‘He would have your hides if I was harmed,’ Misu said, attempting to negotiate, but again this was unsuccessful. ‘Not what I heard. Maybe he’s getting old. He wants things done and doesn’t care about the methods. Never been much of a method man that one. Likes results.’ Flenn snickered cruelly. ‘It has been a while, hasn’t it? You didn’t even recognize us at the table. I dare say you’ve developed some humility, little one. I recall all your barbs at our persons, unwarranted slander if I recall. Looky here now though. Not as untouchable as you used to taunt.’ Thick, searching fingers groped at Misu’s breast. ‘Very touchable indeed.’ He licked her cheek, in a long, eager draw. * * * Slow footsteps echoed in the night, the soles of well-kept leather striking paving stone getting closer and closer as a figure walked up the alleyway. They stopped, yards from Wilheim’s men and their quarry. The scattered gaslights were too far away to cast light on the figure. All turned in unison, trying to make out if it was the law or just a random fellow who found himself witnessing business that he would do better to forget. Misu attempted to wail for help, but the moment she tried, her restraint was pulled firmer, curbing the outburst. ‘Step away from the lady,’ the voice demanded, male and clearly in no mood to discuss it further. The demand was ignored, so it was repeated once more, sterner. ‘I paid my money,’ Flenn called. ‘I take what’s owed.’ Donovan rebuked any claim to the contrary, placing the cold steel on a thigh in warning. ‘We have a business transaction, don’t we, dear?’ Misu failed to object, or speak in general. Her eyes welled with tears. ‘She’s no streetwalker and you didn’t give her a coin. It’s painfully clear that she has no interest in what you’re offering, so I’ll repeat myself. Step away.’ Donovan narrowed his eyes, hopping from the crate with the weapon in hand. He slowly sauntered up the alley towards the intruder, waving the blade in gesture and threat. ‘None of this concerns you, slack jaw,’ Donovan claimed. ‘Turn around and forget what you saw. You’ll live longer for it.’ ‘You know …’ the shadow paused, as if wrestling with the decision ‘… I just can’t bring myself to do so. Wouldn’t be proper, you know?’ * * * Misu searched her memory, a burst of familiarity registering at the words. That voice. She knew that voice! She attempted to croak his name – a warning, anything, but it failed and came out as a grunt. Donovan lunged forward, thrusting the knife into the alleyway’s darkness, following each jab with a lunge, a swipe, and then repeating the sequence. The stranger jumped aside each time, weaving away in the blackness. When Donovan paused, his opponent kicked the weapon away to the gutter and delivered a pair of punches across the cheek. ‘Nice knife.’ The shadow offered his compliment with a grin, now in close proximity to his prey. His hand slipped to his back and in a flash unsheathed his own weapon from oiled leather. It drove deep into Donovan’s thigh, parting flesh and striking bone. Donovan screamed, but only just before a forearm sent him onto his back, steel now protruding from the limb coupled with a trickle of blood. ‘Mine’s bigger,’ Jacques quipped. Foolishly Donovan wrenched the weapon away with a shriek, a spurt of blood hurriedly contained by fumbling hands. Jacques shook the sting from his knuckles, gesturing to the heap before him. ‘Now you be keeping pressure on that there wound, you hear? You haven’t got time to go another round otherwise you’ll be losing too much blood to keep your heart beating. And we wouldn’t want that now, would we? This girl here would be a silly thing to perish for.’ He turned to Misu with a look of thunder. Disappointment was interlaced with disdain. ‘A very silly thing.’ Flenn reached for his revolver only for it to be knocked free. Blows rained left and right, violent waves on rocks of forearms. When an opening emerged he jabbed in time, following with left and right hooks. A few matches of bar boxing gave Flenn some talent, giving his strikes weight, but he was slow and sloppy. Jacques weaved and kept his arms up, slipping under each fist that stopped just out of reach. When secure enough with his delivery, Jacques punished Flenn with a bevy of punches, breaking his nose with a burst of crimson. Enough time was given, seconds in reality, for Flenn to comprehend his beating before Jacques pulled a forearm to his throat and kicked his legs away. Flenn squatted, face flushed red, gasping. ‘Now, the right thing would be to apologize to the nice lady,’ Jacques demanded, pushing him forward in the restraint. Before he gave his response, each gurgle of defiance was choked away but when he spoke it wasn’t to give the smartest of answers. ‘N … n … never!’ Jacques breathed deeply through his nose, keeping his quarry steady. ‘You’ll think better of it when you wake up.’ After driving his elbow into the base of Flenn’s skull, Jacques stepped over the limp body between him and the woman who had caused so much trouble. Misu trembled but not from the night air. She withheld thanks, knowing full well that things were about to get much, much worse. Escorted to the station, every street felt like a walk of shame, where prying eyes judged her for every misdeed. This was, of course, false. Nobody paid notice as she ventured back, cheeks reddened with tearstains. Their business was their own. Naturally busy with wherever the day took them, figures brushed past in a daze. Every so often Misu peered past her shock of raven hair to ensure that Jacques was accompanying her. Of course he was. Despite his silent footsteps, he remained in her shadow, ensuring she would return home with no detours. Every step up the station was a mountain, at its summit: scorn. When finally reaching Platform 4 she silently stopped, as if weighted. Looking at the once-inviting doors of what she called home, she felt she could vomit. Indeed, she covered her mouth as if she were about to succumb to such a thing. Her nerves had bested her and for good reason. She turned to her sentry and pleaded for him to reconsider. ‘Please,’ Misu whimpered. ‘Don’t, just don’t make me do this. Please.’ Jacques took a moment to grunt a response. He wasn’t heartless, but this situation was terribly complex and needed someone else’s illumination to resolve. ‘Sorry, lass. It’s not my call to make. You have some explaining to do to people and if you don’t – I will fill in the blanks with everything that I heard. Come, they’re waiting for you.’ When he had decided that she had readied herself appropriately, Jacques shuffled his feet behind her and inside she went, her bodyguard following and locking the door to the showgirls’ residence carriage behind him. As she brushed aside a beaded curtain, its clattering informed the occupants of a visitor. The showgirls – all ten of them – immediately rose to their feet, if they were not standing already. Kitty pushed herself through the collecting bodies, a struggle as she was shorter than the rest. She left her hand of cards upon the table, a collection of tips from the previous night’s takings being played off against whoever was brave enough. Her intention was to wrap her arms around that slender body, link them together and embrace Misu in relief. She had been worried. They all had been of course since Jacques announced he was leaving to find Misu. It was all people could think about and when potential worries were brought up, they were dismissed, stating that such things were nonsense, that everything was just fine. But it only took one second to notice that things were clearly not that simple and certainly not fine. Jacques moved past, watching keenly without so much as an utterance, and seating himself at Kitty’s space. He glanced firstly to the terrible hand she had been lumbered with and then back to Misu. He clearly expected a verbose explanation. ‘Misu, what is it?’ Kitty asked. She examined the soulless face of the other woman, shocked and devoid of its usual lustre. Her stature was hunched and her demeanour – no matter how authoritative it had always seemed – was cracked. ‘It’s nothing. Nothing at all. Please, can you … Can you not ask me?’ ‘But we were worried about you,’ Kitty objected, curious about Misu’s standoffishness. She tried to explain their concerns. ‘You’re sneaking out on your lonesome. Jacques brings you back and … Why are you so upset? Did something happen?’ Misu’s charade broke, causing a trail of fresh tears to trace down her cheeks. ‘It’s nothing – not a concern for any of you,’ Misu lied, trying to firmly denounce any speculation. This, expectedly, failed. Coos of concern emanated from the girls, doing no favours for her poise. Corinne crossed her arms, stepping between the pair in a subconscious gesture of protection. She was utterly, utterly unconvinced. ‘Rubbish.’ ‘Please don’t do this. Don’t shut us out,’ Kitty called from behind Corinne, interlinking her fingers in desperation. Everyone congregated around Misu, wrapping around one another in a loving embrace to the point where Misu was unable to move. All of the showgirls had noticed her odd behaviour and wanted her to understand that she was loved, no matter the cause of this peculiarity. For most, she was the closest thing they had to family. ‘No. No!’ Misu fought for some space, forcing them to ebb back like a waning tide. ‘What I do is my own business. I don’t invite you into my affairs because they are mine. Thank you for your concerns but I do not need all of your meddling. I am quite capable of looking after myself.’ Corinne scowled, a thunderous grimace that one would expect to be directed at a liar. Or, possibly, a traitor. She reached out and took Misu’s wrists, holding them forward. Red lines crisscrossed up to each elbow, where nails had been dragged down flesh. Corinne’s grasp was powerful enough to make Misu’s first attempt at withdrawing them fruitless, forcing the second to snap them back with force. All of the girls allowed their eyes to linger on the welts, moving as one. ‘That doesn’t seem to be the case.’ Corinne withdrew, having proved her point though gaining no advantage from it. Katerina struggled to make sense of what was unfurling and found herself, much like Kitty, pleading for sense. ‘We love you, Misu. Please, listen to us.’ This was met with the same rejection. Misu snarled her response, letting her voice rise with her anger. ‘All I hear is prattle,’ she burst out. ‘Needless prattle and I will not tolerate it. This is the end of the subject. Am I clear?’ Katerina refused to be ordered in such a way and certainly not in these circumstances. ‘Just answer us one thing. Where were you just now?’ ‘I went for a walk. I couldn’t sleep and I figured the night air would help. Why is that so unusual? Why is any of this so unusual?’ Her shallow, nervous laughter filled the void as she focused on Jacques who sat quite still. He gave no response to this attention, not that Misu wanted any, but what if he was to speak about what happened tonight? It didn’t bear thinking about. Katerina’s face sharply fell. ‘That’s a lie,’ she mumbled. ‘What?’ ‘That’s a lie.’ She spoke louder this time, more confidently, her lips flushed red. ‘And you know it.’ ‘It looks like they can see right through you. I think it best if you confess what you were up to, before I begin to get impatient,’ someone called in male, rough tones – exactly what Misu was afraid of hearing, and with good cause. The line of women broke and parted slightly to make room for the owner of the voice. But it wasn’t Jacques who spoke. He had remained, as silent as he had been upon entering. Hidden out of sight, Franco had been present the entire time. He poured himself another single malt and waited for his answer. He looked different while reassessing many things about her character, and how much of a danger she now presented. After all, he had to take stock of the business, based on her explanation. Franco didn’t need to repeat himself, but did so, slower, firmer. Misu’s face fell tremendously. The jig was up. ‘This is unbelievable,’ she stammered uncontrollably. ‘It is,’ Jacques interjected, finally telling his part in all this. ‘Franco asked me to keep tabs on everyone. He told me something didn’t smell right about this here city. A good thing too. I’ve shadowed you for the last couple of nights. Your toing and froing was a worry. The safety of everyone here is paramount and no matter how quick you thought you were, I followed you, down every street, down every alleyway. I saw the people you conversed with. You’re lucky I did so tonight, else I expect you’d have been sliced to ribbons.’ Now there was nothing left to hide behind. Misu’s secrets were truly bared and she was frightened about what may become of her. ‘Tell me …’ Jacques lit himself a smoke to take the edge off the situation, if only for his benefit. ‘Those gentlemen from the night before. The same well-dressed ones, who had you by the wrists tonight against a wall. Who are they?’ ‘Associates.’ ‘Of whom?’ Misu hesitated, looking to Franco who remained utterly silent. ‘I won’t repeat myself, Misu.’ * * * It was Franco’s turn to speak and as he did so, the river of women parted further for him, letting him walk unhindered through the carriage, where the walls had become too tight and the air thick with deception. ‘She doesn’t need to. It’s pretty clear, of course. Something had been bothering me, something the sheriff mentioned when he gave us the business. He said something about the company that we kept, which is a feat considering we’ve never put a show on here before. See, it wasn’t Wyld who got us impounded; she’s too thorough to get caught. Ever since you found out we were coming to Windberg, Misu, you’ve been unhappy. Gave me the cold shoulder for no other discernible reason. Since we rolled in, you’ve been skittish and distracted. Somebody here has a history with you and given their brazen attitude with sending thugs, they must be pretty high up the food chain.’ Misu nodded. ‘I’m so sorry … he …’ ‘He who?’ Franco now stood toe to toe with her, a woman who he’d thought above all people he could trust. What a foolish notion, he concluded. It seemed like everyone was corruptible. Sentimentality was thrown aside. ‘Wilheim.’ That name. Of course it was Wilheim. Since arriving they had heard of no other party. Clearly whatever Wilheim was doing, it was enough to ensure that he was immovable in the eyes of the law. Either that, or he kept himself so far from the dirty work it was impossible to trace his association. ‘I knew it. Don’t even know the man and he’s all over my business.’ ‘I didn’t have a choice!’ Misu pleaded, arms outstretched. ‘He blackmailed me. Before you and I even met I was at his beck and call. I was at his mercy and he’s an animal, simply an animal. You don’t just walk away from a man like him. You just … you don’t. You have no idea what he said he would do to me. I wasn’t going to let myself be his slave any more. Do you get that? I wasn’t going to tolerate it so I escaped and fled, fled as far as I could. And then, his men found me. And it just got worse.’ There it was, the ugly truth of it all. It all made a terrible sense, one that Franco punctuated with his tone. ‘And Juniper knows this criminal. All the history that comes with him. The sheriff has been keeping eyes on you, and by extension, us. Because of your involvement with that man, we’re stuck here. Because of you, everything we have done is at risk.’ ‘You just don’t understand.’ Misu sighed tearfully. ‘Try me,’ Franco demanded, his voice rising in anger. ‘In fact, Misu, why don’t you finally come clean? I never took you to be one who turned to deception, but seeing as there’s a great deal of people here who you decided to screw over, I think you need to spill as to what it actually took.’ If that’s what it would take, Misu decided to talk. * * * She gripped on to the filthy sink as if it were her only anchor to a sensible world, a place where decisions weren’t steeped in regret and where her conscience didn’t berate her for being disgusting. It continued to jabber away, unloading all manner of insults regarding her behaviour. They were right of course but this made them no less stinging. Misu hung herself over the sink – a filthy sink in a filthy backstage cubicle barely bigger than herself. It was one of an identical strip that ran the length of the wall, illuminated sparely with gas lamps, which shadows wrestled against. Before her lay the usual tools of the trade, some hers, some the property of others: make-up, cigarettes, a half-empty tumbler of water, a completely empty glass of vodka with a lipstick-painted rim, nail file, perfumes, and a heaving tip jar. She dully spied the jar and attempted the mental arithmetic to deduce how much it contained. It wouldn’t be enough to go on the run with, not by a long shot, though it was not an untidy sum. It was dirty money sure, but no matter the conditions under which it was earned, she would spend it like it was made decently. Again she stared back at the mirror. A falseness gazed back with dead eyes and sullen lips, moving this way and that thanks to the bevy of drinks needed to be at peace with her work. And her employer. Misu carefully applied mascara to her lashes, willing her hand steady for just a moment to get the job done. The reflection mocked her with a sly giggle. ‘Silly, stupid girl,’ it whispered, ‘you’re a rabbit in a foxes’ den.’ Ignoring it, she traced a rose shade of lipstick over her lips, pressing them together to ensure coverage before it slipped from her fingers and skimmed around the dry sink. She glanced up to her accuser. ‘Do tell me what concord you have made to ensure you are free of their jaws? For foxes are the hungriest of creatures and rabbits are the tastiest of things. How did you manage to outrun the fox? Tell me.’ Misu knew it was the drink talking – that much was for certain. Or was she? Maybe she was going mad with this preposterous juggling act. Next she grasped the ornate perfume bottle and squeezed a couple of puffs on her skin. It was considerably pungent, not her choice of course. ‘Tell me,’ the reflection demanded more sternly as it banged against its prison. Misu jumped in alarm. She hesitated for a moment before reaching for the powder, dabbing it onto her cheeks. The reflection turned from snarl to smile. ‘Oh I forgot. You didn’t need to outrun the fox, did you? You just had to outrun everyone else.’ Misu clenched her free fist into a ball, the nails biting into her skin. Simply ignoring her conscience wasn’t working. Not this time. ‘How easy it was to trade their lives for yours?’ With a clatter, the powder brush was slammed down, wood striking wood – enough to draw the attention of anybody present. But there was nobody. Her anger was enough to warrant throwing a punch at the mirror, enough for her to scream and shriek and spit her justifications but there was nobody to justify them to. ‘Misu!’ someone called aloud, searching for the woman in urgency. ‘Misu, where in tarnation are you hiding this time? Get out here now!’ She said nothing and checked her appearance for any faults. It was as flawless as ever, from the outset at least, dare anyone brush aside the reams of make-up that she used as a cover. The reflection watched silently as from behind the trolleys of costumes and props, a flush-faced man searched the dressing room. Eventually he noticed the woman who made no effort to make herself apparent. He paced the floor in his impeccable grey shoes, which matched the ashen lounge suit and the tie that was pinned to his stocky frame. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ ‘Putting up my hair,’ Misu replied, slowly easing a pair of lacquered sticks into the inky curl-dripping bun. Her lack of urgency was downright frustrating, she knew. It was only now that she noticed the music playing from outside, the slow drone of a lone trumpet that was soon accompanied with others in its family. ‘I’m getting plenty tired of having to chase you around this joint,’ he grumbled. ‘Now get the hell out there before I drag you out myself.’ Misu sighed and waved a hand in dismissal. The mirror copied this perfectly. ‘You wouldn’t dare touch me, you stupid little cretin.’ He puffed his cheeks out in annoyance, much like a fish would. ‘Give me one good reason –’ he began but was immediately interrupted. ‘Because you and I both know that Wilheim would break your fingers.’ Misu examined her eyes, batting her lashes over and over. ‘Then your hands. Then your arms. Then your legs. And every other little piece of you that wasn’t busted, he would set upon, simply to ensure that you understood that I am not like any of the women beneath him. Now get away because you bore me.’ With another beat of the lashes, Misu adorned herself with a fake smile. It had been worn for as long as she could remember, a staple of her trade and her most treasured gimmick. The illusion was now complete. Skin resembled porcelain, her eyes subdued like steady rivers. He folded his arms, meeting her forked tongue with his own. ‘Then you can answer to Mister Fort himself. He’s been asking for you personally. Don’t think that these little attention-seeking displays haven’t gone unnoticed. Some day he will tire of your silly ways and get rid of you. You’re not special. You’re not unique. You’re just another under his employ who he will brush aside when he finds you of no use.’ Misu rose from her stool and checked her dress for any marks or imperfections. There were none. There never were. She took to the floor in her heels and made her way out. ‘Best you accompany me then, little man.’ Her heels clicked across the floorboards though she checked the mirror one last time on her exit. The visage had moved for a better view of her other, decorated with an oh-so-amused smile. ‘Run along now little rabbit,’ the reflection mocked with a parting wave, ‘the foxes need to feed.’ * * * The Lavender Club was an exotic establishment where people of all backgrounds could congregate and let their hair down after a hard day’s toil. From the outside the club resembled a place of revelry no different to any other in the city. Through its doors, though, it was quite a different tale. Close to its entrance the bar was regularly heaving – seeing that the drink was cheap, the crowd was mostly made up of labourers who craved more booze for their buck. They formed a rowdy throng running from the entrance, past the public bar, all the way to the steps down into the first tier – but then no further. The first tier had a number of long and round tables, favourites of those who frequented the club and performed their dealings audaciously out in the open. Wilheim’s club accommodated those of a criminal nature as long as they had sworn loyalty and paid tribute. These were the moneymen, the ringleaders, the gang runners of Windberg, who underpinned Wilheim’s shady dealings. They enforced his power. They were the fingers of his reach. As drinks were poured, deals were made, and dangerous strategies were discussed. It was a hive of the dangerous. It was, for Wilheim, perfect. The second tier led down to the open floor space before the stage. Star-covered black curtains flanked the stage itself, illuminated by a bevy of lights at its lip. Normally this would be accessible to the thugs and the terrible, but not tonight. Tonight was the weekly performance that was enforced with strict rules and even stricter muscle. Nobody would dare misbehave, nor speak about what they had seen. Everybody was familiar with the routine. Everyone was acquainted with the threats. One could venture past the burly men who flanked the stairways to the second tier only if you were part of Wilheim’s special clientele. These mighty individuals were welcomed personally upon their arrival, with a shake of the hand and hearty conversation as only Wilheim could offer. They consisted of men and occasionally women across the entirety of Windberg’s elite spectrum. Politicians, businessmen, and titans of new industries were in their midst: the wielders of power and substantial monies. The assembly settled in large, leather-backed seats, accompanied by a table, paperwork, and anything else they so desired. The finest smokeables were on hand and indulged in – as was the private bar, which was always liberally used. Each of the men was adorned with a woman who spoke with wisdom, laughed at his humour, and advised on dark matters that none should be advised on at all. These clients watched the stage intently with their collaborators, with the exception of one who was devoid of such company. Misu strolled from a side entrance out into the smoky haze. She walked with swagger and confidence, relieving a passing serving girl of two filled tumblers without a break in pace. The house band had begun their set, with brass and string melded in energetic harmonies. Though late, a lonesome man acknowledged her entrance. He watched her approach, fold her bare legs across the side of his seat, and plant her behind on the leather. ‘Drink?’ she offered, beckoning with one of the glasses. ‘I am quite comfortable, thank you,’ came the reply as he turned back to the stage and its matters. ‘Suit yourself. More for me,’ Misu exclaimed. She drained the first of the drinks with one almighty mouthful, drawing the glassware only when she saw her eyes at its base. The other was held on to, the brown sour mash stirred daintily with a fingertip. The man, heavily built and imposing, was by no means blessed with handsomeness but was still agreeable to look upon. His thick black hair, roughly swept back, would have matched Misu’s own if it wasn’t littered with small blazes of white at the temples. His jowls were just large enough to be pronounced, giving the impression that a frown was worn much more often than anything else. Judging from his hands, hefty and showing the scars of labour, Misu assumed that this was an individual quite at ease about getting his hands dirty. She licked her finger to cleanse it of drink. ‘Quite the display tonight, wouldn’t you agree? Mister Fort has truly outdone himself,’ she said, taking in the stage performance. Misu was right. It was. But for all the wrong reasons. A buck of the hips. A stamp of a heel. A toss of the head. The pout of lips. Serving alongside the music pranced a cacophony of women, impeccably dressed in their own unique style. Tassels hung down bare thighs, shaken suggestively as each woman rocked with her arms held high, like candle smoke dancing in the ghost of a breeze. Sequins and silks clung to skin, some more revealing than others, parading their femininity like cattle at market. Blonde curls were tossed side to side. Sweat wetted brows. Cleavage was pressed. Buttocks presented. Bodies pushed against one another, lingering at times, detaching immediately at others. It was a cauldron of burlesque, with twisting bodies contorting in performance, moving to the music the way they had practised time and time again. Those of importance took in this recital with silent depravity. Each participant on the boards was cold-eyed, gazing past every feasting patron as if they simply didn’t exist while they danced. To them, they may as well not. For everyone on stage, eyes were set upon the only individual whose opinion mattered, past the guests and into the private booth that housed the club’s owner. A unison of gasps from frozen poses signified the end of this particular performance, a respite for these first players before a second batch took over. Wilheim Fort slammed his hands together in applause, showing what most would take to be considerable pride in those who worked so hard under his roof. It wasn’t pride of course. It was nothing resembling that feeling, but as long as the pretence was there, everyone else fell into line. Others joined in with clapping, quite appreciative as to what they had the pleasure of witnessing. Fort unbuttoned his rust suit jacket, revealing a pale white shirt barely restraining the folds of his neck and the bulge of his gut, which shook with every strike. The first of the night’s purchases was made by a bespectacled gentleman who approached him, quite keen to rush a transaction. Money was paid. Contracts signed. Promises made. Property exchanged. Misu watched patiently for her time to speak, observing the man next to her taking in everything before him, entranced. It was a feast for the eyes and when he had digested the new bodies on display, she engaged with him once again. ‘Marvellous are they not? Every one a peach. Mister Fort is quite the collector. Only the best come through his doors, even some fair-haired beauties from the grasslands up north.’ Misu sipped at her drink. ‘My yes, quite a breathtaking assortment, though he is willing to let these particular ones go, at a price of course.’ ‘Have they outdone their usefulness? Whatever would I need with tarnished goods?’ He gave a snort. ‘Not in the slightest. Mister Fort has plenty of those willing to perform entertainment in every capacity. Immense talents as you can see – nothing but supreme quality. He doesn’t offer them dismissively. He’s giving you a chance to take home finery, to have them perform in your own establishments, knowing full well that they are the best.’ Misu purred, ‘I assure you, dear. They are the best.’ ‘You’re not like the others here, are you?’ he deduced. ‘You’ve not even told me your name.’ He assessed the body language of the other benefactors sitting nearby. The women were half draped, some with hands roving to coax sales by dubious means. By comparison Misu seemed less enthused, which provoked some curiosity. Misu’s lips parted in a smile and she ran her tongue over perfect teeth. ‘Do you want me to lie to you about what we do here? Maybe roll in your lap like some obedient pet? Could I secure your business with hot kisses, appeal to those baser instincts all men succumb to? The answer is, of course, no. That is not how the deal is to be done. You’re a man of good stature, meaning that you have experience of the transparency of others. To give you falsehoods would be a waste of my time and yours. All this you see here, I have no stake in. I take no money when it’s exchanged. I’m just here to broker any sales. Would my name even matter?’ Misu drank again, slower this time, while he watched silently. ‘And that way you know that I have no interest in deception and all decisions will be your own. I can fetch you one of these silly girls who cavort for attention if that is your preference?’ He reached for a cigar on the table before him and cracked a flame from a match. After a series of testing puffs, he rasped, ‘I think you could stay.’ ‘Good decision.’ The bodies vied for attention before them. ‘Let’s say I’m interested. Elaborate on that one there.’ He pointed to a girl with baby-doll features and long legs, whose flurries of kicks sent her gold sequined dress to shimmer this way and that. Misu curled her mouth in agreement. ‘Ooh, Quinn. Decent eye you have. As you can see, she dances like a bird in the rain. She’s feisty, though like all wild things, she is made to be tamed. Sure one could be content with a horse that obeys your command but where’s the fun in that? Life is about challenge. It took a while for her to fall into the way of things, a significant amount of convincing. Now she’s aflame with spirit, agreeable, but might be prone to more emotional displays. Put that one in front of punters and I assure you, wallets will be opened as much as mouths.’ Misu’s companion tossed his head back in delight and erupted with a deep belly laugh. He clearly found Misu’s candour refreshing. ‘And that one?’ ‘Gypsy Dame.’ Misu tipped her glass to the performer. ‘She’s half settler as you can see from the skin. Now if you’re one of those types who has plenty of mill folk she would be an ideal take. I don’t know how she does it, but the way she sings is delightful, really. Seems to placate any of the more troublesome people though riling the blood in the romantics if you get my meaning. Why, just last week she had no less than three propositions of marriage. Not that these were seriously considered, mind. The poor thing is wed to her work.’ ‘Such a shame.’ ‘Agreed. What she needs is a nice place to call home. The Lavender Club really isn’t the place for her gifts. If you can provide that, then she’s a fine addition.’ ‘Who is that one?’ he continued, gesturing one last time. Misu’s eyes flickered, watching the sauntering figure clad in black lace and long tassels. The woman rolled her body before hanging her head back in profile. Unlike the others, this one caused a momentary hesitation. Misu knew full well who this was and every facet about her. ‘That is Corinne. She’s what we call a desert flower. A rarity. One of a kind. Corinne joined us hearing that she could make her fortune in Windberg with dance. Now, looking closely, you can see here that all these frisky movements are quick. There’s no thinking there. That’s ’cause it’s in her blood. That’s not learned; all you’re seeing is one hundred per cent natural talent. If you’ve got room for someone who can do that, she’ll bring in coin faster than she can drum the boards.’ Corinne suddenly locked eyes with Misu, causing the pair to exchange the briefest of smiles. More than that, she was the only damn one Misu could call a friend in this entire joint. Drinks were shared between, frank and honest conversation about dreams or the lack thereof. Wilheim claimed all things of a person and their fancies were no different. Corinne had a very peculiar skill, having learnt to throw her voice from a young age, useless on all accounts but still considerably charming. Surrounded by persistent malice as they were at Wilheim’s, good company was a scarcity. If it wasn’t for Corinne’s, there was no telling what desperate acts Misu might have resorted to. ‘You have my personal assurance that Corinne will make you your money back five fold. If I’m discovered to be a liar, well, may I fall down one day and break my neck.’ ‘Exquisite.’ He grunted, adjusting his trouser belt. ‘Ain’t she just?’ Without warning, the individual turned in his seat and diverted all of his attention to the woman beside him. His mind had obviously roved elsewhere, to places that made her uncomfortable. ‘And you? How much are you?’ ‘That’s a silly thing to ask,’ she scoffed, amused. ‘Why?’ Misu shuffled herself on the seat, quite averse to this question. It only came up a handful of times but it still charmed a disturbing chill down the back. The answer was always delivered to prevent misinterpretation. There was no playing hard to get. There was simply the truth. ‘Because I cannot be brought.’ Misu spoke flatly, watching Corinne deeply bow and make her way behind the curtain. ‘Us here, this side of the stage, we’re Wilheim’s own. We are not to be handled or bartered. That is not our task. Our designs are grander. It’s best that notion be forgotten, sir. For the best. We are his workers, his busy bees who buzz around and bring the honey to the hungry.’ ‘And if someone breaks that rule?’ he asked, placing an unwelcome hand on her thigh. It was removed, by the wrist, and dropped back into the man’s lap. She glanced behind to see if Wilheim had taken notice of this development. Wilheim sat contentedly on his throne, puffing away quite happily on a stogie. Those at his side waited for his commands, showing no emotion in response to the torrid display on stage, desensitized to flesh and fancy. Upon noticing Misu’s turn of the head, Wilheim paid the slightest of nods in acknowledgement, assuring her of the fact that he was always watching. Even if he wasn’t, there were plenty who would talk to gain scraps of favour. The club was a cage. Only the lucky ones left and the conditions under which they did so were far from dignified. ‘Then Mister Fort ensures you will be stung. And you do not wish to be stung sir; I promise you that.’ Before the last of her drink found its way to the rest, Misu examined its glass, delicately held in view by thumb and fingers. In its visage her face turned and warped with the contours, dipping down every recess and rising back to the surface when the angle and light saw fit. The likeness laughed. ‘Not on your life,’ she added. * * * A chorus of sobs rattled out from around her, though Franco remained expressionless. It was quite the story, but it excused nothing. ‘See?’ Misu whined. ‘I told you that you wouldn’t understand.’ ‘I don’t,’ Franco growled. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand how you could endanger everyone here on the Den because of your history.’ ‘If I told you that very day when you took me on, that I had the spectre of this man hanging over me, can you truly say that you would have been so eager to usher me on board? You were practically salivating over my shoes!’ Franco went to speak, but instead Misu raised her hand. ‘Let me finish that for you; don’t bother wriggling your way out of it. No, you wouldn’t. You would have brushed me aside for a prettier face, one lacking such traumatic baggage and complications. It would have spared you all this, right? Lucky, lucky you.’ Franco had given her much of the floor to explain herself but heard nothing of the sort – just a tale of bad dealings and horrid individuals. There were no excuses for this, though a part of him wished that one could be tendered, making this affair entirely justifiable. What hurt the most was her attitude regarding his reaction. ‘You could have explained the situation to us, to me.’ Thunder rolled off his tongue before calming. ‘I have to put up with you acting aloof for days, sneaking off to congregate with cronies, all under my nose! I was right to have Jacques shadow you. You didn’t come to me when you needed help. Me. Of all the people out there. I dare say we could have worked something out.’ ‘Because you’re such a damn beacon of charity to those who wrong you,’ came the defiant roar. ‘I trusted you dammit!’ Franco retaliated, just as sharp, causing the others to step back. ‘Oh and who could have ever trusted me but a fool?!’ * * * Misu stared him down, noticing the shock that decorated the faces of the others. Jacques was fluent in bad moves but even he had to turn away from this one. Her tone retreated to something more manageable but the damage was already done. Some semblance of guilt pierced her chest, but sheer stubbornness refused to reveal as much. Misu’s eyes finally flickered. ‘I … look, besides …’ she fidgeted ‘… it wouldn’t have been possible to bargain.’ ‘You’re right. Not anymore it isn’t.’ Alarming everybody, Franco took Misu by the arm and hurried her, forcefully, back to the carriage door. There were weak protests from the showgirls but none were heeded. They hurriedly followed their pair, almost stumbling over trails of silks and lace. The protests quickly became louder. ‘If you cannot respect the simplest of rules, then you’re gone. As is the case here.’ ‘Wait! Please, I’m begging you, please don’t!’ Misu sobbed, clambering at Franco’s vest collar in desperation at the carriage doors. She scanned the faces until reaching Corinne, who stood quite dismayed at what had just transpired. Yearning eyes pleaded for an intervention but the weight of the treachery left her powerless. Multiple apologies were ignored, and for her penance Misu was pushed backward, banished from her home and exiled by her friends. All because of bad judgement. Misu sat in a heap on Platform 4, holding herself in an embrace, sobbing violently. The gulps became so thick that words failed to emanate. The others would have, even despite this, rushed to her side, tended to her, for that was their way, but Franco barred the doorway with his presence. There was nothing else to be said. ‘We had an agreement, and that goes for each and every one of you on this train as I’ve told you: everyone is the same. You put the Den in danger and you’re out the door. No second chances. No pardons.’ Franco turned to address Misu who still remained in a crumpled heap. ‘Now go! This ain’t your home any more. Katerina, go into her room and pack up her things. Quickly with you.’ Katerina protested weakly, succumbing to tears. ‘I said do it! Get the whole lot, her clothes and all and toss them in the street! She’ll need them where she’s going.’ ‘And where would that be?’ Misu wailed aloud – a last, desperate attempt to change already set minds. ‘Anywhere but here.’ Franco had done all he needed to do and punctuated this fact by slamming the carriage door behind him. True to his request, Katerina had packed as much as she could into a pair of tan leather suitcases and stepped onto the platform with the others to console their manager. The girls embraced another, forming a cocoon of affection and arms. Sure, they remained angry with Misu but this wasn’t the answer, not at all. This was far too excessive and they said as much through choked words. They picked her up, as she had done for each of them many a time. They dusted her dress and rearranged her hair to make it presentable. Trails of mascara were wiped away, lingering hugs given, and kisses on cheeks administered. Goodbyes were spoken, emotionally, until the showgirls retreated, all watching from their carriage windows. When her sobs were stifled enough, Misu found strength in her feet once more. She left the station and stepped out into the night’s chilled embrace. * * * Back on the Den, however, the showgirls finally found their voices. Whatever the cause of this deception, Misu didn’t deserve such treatment. Nobody did. As Franco stormed back through the carriage, after bolting the doors from top to bottom, it was Katerina who challenged him first. The others followed in pursuit. ‘You can’t do this to her!’ Katerina objected. ‘It’s unfair!’ Kitty chimed in. Franco spun in a roar. ‘Did you just tell me what I can do on my train?’ he questioned, ferociously. ‘Franco, please! See sense. She’s scared. Are you are just to throw her out with nothing?’ ‘She didn’t have nothing. She has things.’ He was referring to the graciously given suitcase and packed clothing. He didn’t have to do that – something that was clearly being forgotten in their overfamiliar tone. ‘You don’t know what he was doing to her!’ ‘And you do?’ ‘Well no, not exactly.’ Katerina pleaded for him to see sense, or logic, anything. ‘This is absurd, Wyld’s stashing stolen goods in the cars and you’re kicking Misu out for some old guy who wants her as a pet? Why isn’t the desert rat getting the boot?’ ‘Wyld knows the risks. It’s why she’s not seen in public with us. It’s why she operates with discretion and she knows better than anyone: one slip-up and she’s out of here. Tell me, what if Misu brought a gunfight to us on account of all this, and half of you were shot dead?’ Corinne felt a bout of frustration rise in her throat. More than the others was she familiar with Wilheim’s cruelty, but this wasn’t the solution to someone driven to such desperation. Not by a long shot. ‘Then you would be out of pocket.’ ‘That’s not fair,’ Franco called. ‘Isn’t it? Isn’t it always what it comes down to? Money rules your head, Franco. I’m sure if it came to that grim circumstance you would find faces just as pretty to replace us.’ ‘You’re out of line.’ ‘No. You are,’ Corinne coldly delivered. ‘She’s family.’ ‘When have I ever said that we were that?’ ‘It didn’t need to be said. And you’ve clearly forgotten what that means.’ She gave a turn and ventured back down the carriage, shunting between seats with the clicks of her heels ebbing to nothing. * * * Not long after, the women performed an exodus en masse, finding somewhere, anywhere, to be than on than the Den. They desired far less stifling company and when they had taken their leave, all that was left was Franco and Jacques on a very empty train. Without noise, without heaving company, the Den was a shell of its intentions, the silence hugely foreboding. Franco looked around the carriage, the rows of empty seats, half-drunk drinks waiting for their owners to return. Despite the clutter, it felt sparse and soulless. Franco sighed wearily, sliding deeper into his leather seat, hoping it would swallow him whole. The two double bourbons inside him gave empty comfort. ‘And what about you? Was I too harsh?’ Jacques examined the hands of cards on the table before taking a sip from one of the tumblers, finding the contents far too sweet. ‘Not my place to say, boss.’ ‘Drop the formalities.’ ‘I understand why you did it, for sure.’ ‘Keep going.’ ‘I don’t quite understand your logic though.’ ‘You think keeping everyone safe is some sort of blight?’ ‘No,’ Jacques exclaimed. ‘I thought we were all family, and you toss her out. Goes against the whole family thing doesn’t it? I thought your Pappy said those he rode with was family. Considered it at least.’ ‘This small detail may have escaped you but I’m not him.’ ‘That you’re not,’ Jacques agreed. ‘You’re your own man with your own notions on the subject. But you have to admit, he had some bright ideas for what passed for camaraderie.’ Franco sat on these words and nodded slowly to himself in agreement. ‘You think I was too harsh.’ ‘Making orphans of our own isn’t family-like to me.’ ‘Have you forgotten the part where she’s thrown us to this individual to cover her own ass?’ ‘Who are you trying to convince with that?’ Jacques queried. ‘You heard her talk. On all accounts this Wilheim character is nasty to the boots and you’re dead set on punishing her. I think you’re under the assumption that she had something resembling a choice.’ ‘She did! Don’t use the excuse that fear prevented her from making any sort of better outcome. Misu is the furthest thing from weak. There is nothing that woman can’t do. I know her.’ The glass landed heavily on the veneer as he trailed off. ‘Or at least I assumed I did.’ ‘I don’t know, Franco.’ Jacques stretched himself to take his leave. ‘Fear does something to a person; I’ve seen it with my two own. Makes them not see quite right. Can’t blame a person for acting rash. With no way out, who knows what any of us would do?’ * * * Franco slept stretched across a seat one would assume only a cat would find comfortable. His rasping snore became a monotonous routine, one that would have woken Jacques, if it he wasn’t already fully awake, eyes staring into darkness as he lay with his hands behind his head for a pillow. He turned, murmuring in irritation, verbalizing every thought in a monotone grunts. He rose, in the darkness, to a bang and a thump. It was not in the lounge car where they were situated. It was the sound of a trapdoor banging from the next carriage down, a noise that echoed through one of the cluttered storage cars. Half-dressed and bleary-eyed, he moved to the door, silently stepped out into the night, and then eased open the handle to the next car along. He moved inside, to enquire after the owner. Wyld was not around when Misu had been expelled from the train. In fact, she had been missing for a good few hours beforehand, gallivanting with whatever criminality she needed to. Now, she had slipped in the under trapdoor, beneath the car, securing its bolt with a slap. Her eyes snapped to Jacques, assessing his entrance. The man stepped further in. ‘Most people knock you know.’ Wyld narrowed her eyes. ‘I may be unaccounted for, but that doesn’t mean I don’t exist. A little consideration if you please.’ ‘And for that, I apologize. This is important.’ ‘What’s the matter?’ Jacques cleared his throat behind a fist. ‘Misu is gone.’ * * * ‘Gone, gone?’ ‘Franco kicked her off. She’s been seeing some men without our knowledge, sneaking out at night, things like that.’ ‘Men.’ Wyld pouted, silently alarmed at this news. ‘I didn’t think Franco was the jealous type. He doesn’t own her. I didn’t even think they were a thing.’ ‘They’re not. You misunderstand,’ Jacques corrected flatly. ‘Not men like that. Wilheim Fort’s men.’ Wyld’s face fell in shock. Instantly Jacques was upon her. The reaction had given him all he needed to challenge her. ‘I knew it. You know something about this.’ ‘I don’t, I swear!’ ‘Don’t lie to me!’ Jacques stormed across the floor, every hollow thud of his boots a death knell. ‘I’m not! I know nothing about that woman Misu, nothing at all! I tried to speak to her a couple of times, but it was if she looked right through me. I accept those notions from you people. I know I’m not exactly the wanted type here. I know I’m expendable and the moment trouble breaks you’ll hand me over in a second to save your own behinds!’ She snapped her fingers in anger, surprising even herself at the venom. ‘You really think that?’ ‘I’m disposable, right? We all are. Franco just proved it. If you think I somehow know whatever game Misu is playing, because of the company I have to keep, you can think again.’ Wyld’s voice broke as she trailed off. Her blazing eyes momentarily softened. ‘But?’ Jacques probed. ‘But …’ Wyld turned and strode towards him. ‘I can tell you what I do know, and you only had to ask. When I sold something off, I had a long conversation with a buyer who told me everything. I know all about this Wilheim Fort character. You don’t do what I do without finding out the lay the land. I know plenty about who he is, his dealings – and I’m telling you, from what I’ve been told, you do not want to get tangled up in that mess. Wilheim is more shades of wrong than you could ever know.’ Jacques, now deflated of his anger, wearily sat himself on a crate of supplies where she quietly joined him. They both sighed, silently, before Jacques nodded in agreement to himself. ‘Then tell me everything,’ he said. Wyld did so, elaborating on every piece of fact and hearsay that she had acquired. Muddick, shuffling stolen goods through his premises, was the first to warn her of Wilheim’s presence when she arrived, cautioning her that the city was not to be trusted. Eyes were everywhere, as were knives, and encroaching on his operations ensured your disappearance. Businesses, hangouts, even individuals who were being bribed to ignore such things, Wyld had a treasure trove of information to divulge and did so, at length, until dawn cracked the sky to a pale glow. Chapter Eleven (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73) Show of Hand The night was cool, heavy with the day’s dissipated heat. The streets were empty apart from the occasional cheering of drinkers from the taverns that Misu passed. She walked in a slouch, shoes dragging over path and road. Drifted sand collected in deposits, forcing her to step around, each step slowly advancing down the road, though she had no idea where it would lead her. In the oldest district of Windberg, where buildings had been built on top of one another in ramshackle fashion, instead of being demolished to make way for cleaner developments, Misu stared at the local inns, hoping that one window wouldn’t be populated with a no vacancy sign. She had enough money in her possession for a few nights’ accommodation, but the further she ventured, the worse the premises became. Some of these cramped, dirty inns needed a stroke of new paint. The best for others would be repeated strikes of a wrecking ball. Misu cringed, passing a particularly rowdy establishment known as the Black Thistle, where a fight previously contained in its walls had started to spill out from its doorway. When the disagreement between two individuals exploded into a full brawl, Misu darted down the nearest alleyway to avoid any unwanted attention. A showgirl from the Den could be the focus of many, and the depravity of some. Misu calmed herself and trotted down the alley until the cheers faded and the police whistles stopped. And in the shadow, she saw the face of someone, who counted their good fortune. There was no energy to run, no attempt to cry for help. She was spent and could only form a whimper of shock as Flenn stepped out from a darkened doorway, still sporting a purple shiner that squatted on his left eye socket, a warning that Jacques had happily delivered. Every advance down the steps was angular, with weight being relieved from his left leg. When others of his type had scampered away after their beating, Flenn had remained behind, brooding on vicious plans, designing on his hate. Hate was chased with liquor, and there he had sat, in the cramped crooked alleyway, followed by equally despicable people who drank, and hated, as much as he. ‘Where are you going, little rabbit?’ Flenn sneered. A cackle emanated from his entourage behind him. ‘And where’s your friend?’ ‘Seems like she’s been tossed out,’ someone said. ‘Aye.’ Flenn’s eyes flashed. ‘That it does.’ ‘No –’ Misu attempted to speak. ‘Streets are cold, I would say. Dangerous too. Never know what folks walk these streets.’ ‘I think we need to find a home for her.’ ‘That we do.’ ‘Come along. I know someone who will take care of you. You’ve played long enough.’ An attempt at struggling was halted as thick fingers squeezed her cheeks. ‘Ah ah ah, none of that now. The boss said he wanted you back, but never said in what condition. You’ve already been trouble. I’ve killed men for a bad look. I’ve gutted others for a dirty word spoken, so don’t think I wouldn’t do the same to you. I can take you back without a hassle, untouched. Or …’ Flenn bent forward, eye to eye in challenge ‘… I can make you very ugly. Decide.’ Another whimper, this one the last, accompanied with a hurried shake of the head. Misu’s reward was to be pushed back, gasping for air and knowing full well that escape was impossible. ‘Clever girl.’ Chapter Twelve (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73) Rude Awakenings What was that noise? Marching feet, raised voices. Both things indicative of trouble – trouble that Jacques didn’t need to accompany his hangover. The sunlight was bad enough: a barrage of a thousand tiny needles that burrowed into his forehead via his fragile eyes, but this addition was overkill. How much did they drink last night? Could he even remember? The collection of empty beer bottles was evidence enough. Every slam and bang and crash and call served to do nothing to his already suffering demeanour. He peeled himself from a carriage seat and attempted to wince as the ring of the church bells had taken residence within his skull. Every step to the windows set them ringing, reducing the speed of his steps until the pain became bearable, and then Jacques caught sight of the cause. Alex Juniper positioned himself in full view with a handful of men, each keen-eyed and geared for trouble. Then, he called out to the occupants. ‘Mister Monaire, please do grant me a kindness and the pleasure of your company.’ Jacques squinted bleary-eyed past a curtain, fingering the material back. The train remained quiet, far too quiet for this hour as breakfast would normally be made and the showgirls would be serving coffee. Right, he recalled the night before. The showgirls. At some point the arguments became heated and they’d insisted on looking for Misu, no matter how long it took. It must have taken a while as they had yet to come back. * * * Corinne’s disapproving glare still burnt in Franco’s mind as he was roused awake, heavy-eyed and thick-headed. ‘What is the commotion?’ he whimpered, checking his body to ensure decency, though standing was a difficulty at this stage. ‘The sheriff is here? What in all the world could he be wanting?’ ‘Guessing, nothing pleasant. Bad timing as well. Want me to try and get rid of him?’ Again Alex Juniper called, looking over the windows for any sign of life in the vehicle. ‘I’m giving you a courtesy to step out, but you should know I could walk on and drag you out by them pretty shoes of yours. You going to come say hello?’ ‘That’s just brilliant.’ Franco eased his footwear on to comply. ‘He’s not after a friendly conversation I’d wager,’ Jacques grunted. ‘Are we going to be looking for trouble?’ ‘Not this time; just behave yourself.’ ‘Isn’t that an irony coming from you?’ The pair stepped out, hurriedly dressed and still red-eyed. Franco was fairly presentable, unlike his cohort who stood with shirt untucked and hair wild. An edge of concern unknowingly entered Franco’s voice, but he coughed it and the residue of fine rum away. ‘Sheriff. Awful loud ruckus you’re making just to say hello. Something I can do for you?’ ‘Since you asked so nicely. Hold out your wrists.’ Franco failed to muster an iota of respect in his response. ‘Excuse me?’ ‘I don’t think you need excusing; you heard me perfectly well. Hold out your wrists. Now.’ Franco conceded. His hands were bonded with weighted irons. All the while, Alex grinned contently. ‘Franco Del Monaire,’ the sheriff announced with so much delight he could burst, ‘I am arresting you for assisting the criminal underclass in their misdeeds and numerous murders, for associating with said people and the involvement of the robbery of contraband from this fair city. And on top of that, anything else I damn well see fit.’ ‘This is unfair. We had nothing to do with these things!’ Franco protested. Already he was being escorted away and Jacques was warned against intervention with the showing of billy clubs. ‘No, son. Being unable to lynch you where you stand in this great city of mine is a lack of fairness. This right here, this is just bad luck on your part. Or justice on mine. Take your pick.’ * * * By the time the girls had returned, they expected to find Franco scowling, reading a riot of words about the docking of pay or the show of respect for his authority. They were, of course, all ready for this, with Corinne insisting that she would be doing most of the talking as there was no barb she couldn’t refute. Yet as they walked into Central Station, Platform 4 was ominously quiet. Others who were passing through, or waiting at other platforms watched, as word had spilt that Franco Del Monaire had been arrested. What the girls found was their solemn-looking head of security, slouched on a carriage coupling. He was attempting to ease his pain with a bad Bloody Mary, with too little Blood and too much of the Mary. When able to, he answered every question put to him. He cited the details of Franco’s arrest, step by torturous step, until his drink was empty. Every protest by the girls was met with a deadpan response. The situation was, to use his exact words, utterly hopeless and he suggested they take some time to sleep. It had been a busy night, he stated with intense sarcasm, though it was true. The girls were led to every back-end hole that passed for a bar, or lodging, to find Misu. They asked revellers in the streets, patrons inside taverns, but always the answers were, depressingly, the same. Daybreak came and so they carried defeat back with them on the long walk back. They all took Jacques’s offer and spent a good few hours of rest. Wyld strolled back to the Den, her conscience and backpack a good deal lighter. It had taken all morning to negotiate a semi-decent deal with those Muddick had arranged for her to meet, and while she was burdened with less, the profit cut still stung. Twenty-four per cent. Twenty-four damn per cent lost. Other places had been happy with ten to fifteen but no, not here, not in Windberg. People had to be kept happy, she was told. Dues had to be paid and so the percentage was jacked up; otherwise it wasn’t worth their while to get their hands dirty. Still, money was money and when an opportunity rose to relieve herself of ill-gotten goods, Wyld was not so foolish as to ignore it. Rather than navigate the streets, she snuck through the station’s scrapyard, slinking past corpses of carriages and pallet-stacked parts before reaching Platform 4. On approach she observed the sullen faces and even eye rolling of the showgirls. They stood and sat in line, clearly disinterested in working. It was just past midday. Why was everyone lingering outside and making things look untidy? ‘Nothing to do?’ she enquired, prompting a handful of scowls from the showgirls. ‘Plenty to do,’ one responded flatly. ‘Unlike yourself.’ She leant over and whispered into the ear of another. Wyld didn’t need to hear the words. She could already tell that whatever was said wasn’t kind. Jacques snorted as he informed Wyld of the details. Each revelation caused her to furrow her forehead in question, though she refrained from asking anything until he had finished. Each query, mostly, revolved around the why more than the how – something that the showgirls believed Wyld could clarify. She was, after all, a spectre on this ride. Her presence was unacknowledged, her cargo blatantly illegal, and if anyone managed to catch her involved in such business, things would come crashing down for everyone. So it was assumed, almost unanimously, that Wyld had slipped up. Somewhere, maybe during the thievery, or maybe during an escape, she was seen and followed, incriminating them all. It was possible that one of her secretive contacts had ratted her out to save himself from jail time. Either way, the finger was pointed quite firmly at the Den’s resident stowaway, despite the evidence to the contrary. ‘It’s lies. I don’t believe a word of it,’ Kitty boldly dismissed. ‘We’re supposed to believe that Misu brought all this on us?’ ‘That’s what the boss said,’ Jacques grunted. ‘Well the boss is allowed to be all kinds of wrong, isn’t he? We all know who the real culprit is here.’ She fired an accusing glance to a sombre-looking Wyld who sat in a carriage doorway. They all turned in unspoken indictment. Wyld in turn looked up and around her. ‘It’s your fault,’ Kitty continued. ‘All this stupid running around, getting the boss to go this way and that. Robbing whatever you please. Misu is innocent and you, you little rat, you’ve brought this on us. Damn stowaway.’ The words were spat, venomously punctuating their boldness. Katerina placed a hand on her cohort’s shoulder to ease her back into line, a gesture quickly shaken off. ‘That’s not true!’ Wyld protested. Jacques, as much as he hated to admit one of their own was the cause of this trouble, felt no option but to quell this accusation, for as much good it would do. ‘Kitty, the boss said –’ ‘The boss said, the boss said,’ she mocked, waving her hands in gesture. ‘Well I ain’t believing the boss! My own sensibilities tell me the cause of this one. At least admit when you’ve caused a mess. Take ownership. You should march in that there police station and turn yourself in. That would be the right thing to do. Where did you hide all this stuff anyway?’ Wyld narrowed her eyes in response, though none of this was any of their business in the slightest. Katerina parted her lips to contribute but clearly thought it best to avoid antagonizing anyone further. Wyld kept her mouth shut. She didn’t owe anybody an answer. Kitty scraped her teeth back and forth in irritation. ‘Stupid trinkets. You have no shame, chasing the sun for junk. Getting others involved. Getting us involved specifically.’ Wyld took to her feet and walked before her accuser, keen to ensure that this would no longer be tolerated. ‘You should watch your tongue,’ she warned. Her patience had eroded to the point where she felt compelled to verbally defend herself, or put the youngster flat on her backside. Right now, the latter was an attractive prospect. ‘Should I now?’ ‘So what is your suggestion?’ Wyld held her arms out, wide and in invitation. ‘You’ve not given a single helpful idea. You’re just a talker. A stupid, yappy little dog who does nothing but make noise. Would you like to find the time to make a plan to get this sorted? Or are you planning to just scream at me until the time comes to apply another coat to them there dainty nails?’ Jacques slumped down on the platform, obviously finding their voices far too grating. Kitty flexed her fingers at her sides, clearly noticeable. ‘Would you like to see how sharp they are?’ Wyld took another step, closer now, ready for them both to make good on their threats. ‘Please do show me. I will smack your pretty face silly.’ ‘Enough!’ Jacques exploded, stamping his foot down. ‘Enough of this already! Kitty, hold your temper. Wyld is right, like it or not, she didn’t cause this. Grow up and accept that, or sit down and hush yourself. The last thing we need is you causing a ruckus and adding to this headache of mine. We need to work out what to do next.’ ‘Well, have you come up with anything? Has anyone?’ Kitty scowled in defeat. She complied, sheepishly, and sat down among the girls, with Corinne placing a confirmatory hand on the youngster’s shoulder. When Kitty sat, she skipped stones off the platform and onto the bare tracks opposite. ‘Not yet,’ Jacques admitted. Corinne walked over to Jacques, heels clicking on approach. He smiled wearily, the events clearly taking their toll on his demeanour. As always Corinne attempted to play mediator, for the sake of them all. ‘You can’t blame them for being frustrated.’ ‘I don’t. I just don’t want them screaming at one another like wolves. They should be better than that.’ Jacques eyeballed each of them in turn. Kitty stared at the concrete. ‘And neither do I.’ Corinne sighed. ‘But we do need to fashion a plan. We do need to work it all out. We can’t just wait for the inevitable. Has Franco even been charged yet?’ ‘I don’t think so. I’ve heard nothing more than what you know. It would be swift for them to do so on the same day.’ ‘So we do have a chance to defend him.’ ‘Against Juniper? That’s never going to happen.’ ‘Whatever we do,’ Corinne addressed them all, the frustrated and the melancholy. ‘We have to do things by the letter. We have to show the sheriff that we’re not what we’re believed to be. The Gambler’s Den is not home to degraded standards or troublemakers. We do it right. No fights, no scenes, nothing messy. We can get Franco back by having right on our side and being sensible. It is the only way.’ Wyld thought for a moment, wrapped in crossed arms, and spoke without thinking. Her voice was thick with resolve and her eyes burned with resentment. The law wasn’t clear-cut. There were no heroes or villains in this world, not in the troubles that she witnessed. Her poverty-stricken upbringing defined no right or wrong, just the ambiguity in between. People like Alex Juniper were not in the right in any sense. They just used the title as a shield. ‘Or we can just stage a jailbreak and run like the wind.’ The showgirls each looked at one another in turn and then to Jacques who let a thin smile pass over his parched lips. ‘Or –’ Corinne shrugged in defeat ‘– I suppose we could do that.’ Chapter Thirteen (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73) Wilheim Wilheim Fort was an appalling individual. The only redeeming quality he possessed was his intellect, which in Windberg only got you so far. In his younger days he had taken to accounting for some of the smaller shipping companies, before going so far as to falsify the books for tax inspectors. His reputation grew, and he quickly understood that criminality bore more profit than any legal trade could. Cooked books turned heads with some small-time merchants, where a bit of coin here and a bit of coin there resulted in enough for a venture of his own. Wilheim’s first was trafficking whatever he could. Agreements were made with sand ship captains, loading secret compartments with contraband of tobacco, arms, and other such illegalities. When docked they shifted their loads, in darkness, to where Wilheim found easy buyers. A hired back room became a storage shed, one became many and before long Wilheim’s empire expanded. Though like all criminals, he had a problem with his legitimacy. So much money was moving back and forth that the law was starting to take notice. He bribed some, threatened a couple, had one or two beaten and unfortunately ordered the execution of one particular troublemaker, though all through the actions of others, of course. Wilheim was smart enough to know that when you had to do something difficult, you made sure that you were not responsible. Assumed? Of course. Proven? Never. Dirty work was for the expendable. There was no lack of willing hands for such tasks. Uppity youngsters keen to prove themselves made it their place to take on the more dangerous, the more daring. The pay was handsome, or so they believed, and the chances to rise throughout the fraternity came up often as places regularly became available from loss or incarceration. Windberg demanded change and no matter how Wilheim tried to subdue it, the voices of the public were too loud and numerous to ignore. They were tired of some of the more violent results of his dealings, and those of copycats. Places of business were burnt down; fights in the street by hired gangs resulted in deaths. They demanded change, and Alex Juniper answered that call with an iron and unbendable resolve. With no other option, Wilheim decided to coat himself in legitimacy. Using his connections, he began to invest in small operations as a silent partner – legally. Multiple investors ensured his anonymity and before long, control via corruption had gripped most of the city. Those who avoided his influence soon fell under it by proxy, to a point where the law couldn’t even prevent it. Alex Juniper was aware, fully, of this corruption but had to bide his time to take action. Those who had taken action before were added to the lists of those missing, or those who had met with tragically unfortunate ends. Wilheim was, at his own acknowledgement, untouchable. He walked where he wished to walk, spoke to those he wanted to speak to with no regard for status or protocol, and lived a life of excess and debauchery. His couriers would trade under the table. His bookmakers would help swing horse races in his favour. His bars became hives of wickedness, where bad decisions were made that cost others profit and life. Sometimes one, sometimes both. * * * Wilheim licked his thick dry lips in slow relish, withdrawing the cigar that released ribbons of haze, and smiled in contentment, surveying one of these establishments, The Lavender Club, and those within. Every seat was filled with either the regular morning drunks or those on the payroll. Bursts of laughter sporadically erupted between groups of the worst kinds of people. Muggers, pimps, burglars, thieves – all congregated, formulating their plans over alcohol. Wilheim adored these mornings. Every illegal trade that passed beneath the law’s gaze resulted in him taking a cut, and a substantial cut at that. When you were the only business in town willing to deal in the illegal you could command whatever price you wanted. Wilheim’s cut kept him in his finery, thick suits, competent protection, and substantial amounts of thick jewellery that dripped from his more than ample frame. This entire bar was supplying bootlegged liquor, avoiding the substantial taxes imposed on drink in the city. Sure some suspected it – the locals who watched the deliveries under the veil of darkness knew it; but it was never proven. He rattled once more on his cigar, unable to contain a bold, toothy grin. Things were progressing in his favour and soon enough he could have this city, claim the very ground and everyone within. Windberg could be under his absolute control, a worthwhile goal indeed, given time. Dominating the routes over the Sand Sea would ensure a capital profit. * * * The woman at Wilheim’s side stood rigidly, as if she was expecting to defend herself at any given time. Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, though her clothing, a pinstripe grey blouse and walking skirt had not one crease out of place. Gold hung from her, decorated bands that her suitor had insisted she wear. Wilheim had decorated the woman with whatever he saw fit. Though despite this expense, Misu would always remain perpetually afraid in his company. ‘You needn’t look so concerned, dear. You’re among friends here.’ Friends. The word was hollow. ‘Please don’t be so condescending to me. These are your kind of people, Wilheim, not mine. I know what they are capable of.’ She ran her fingers over her throat – still tender from Flenn’s grip – and the additional swelling beneath her left eye. It was still bruised from last night, a violent, open-handed reminder of her treachery. ‘Condescending nothing. Relax and have a drink. I would say you’ve even earned it.’ ‘I’ve earned nothing.’ ‘On the contrary, my dear! Think of all that you’ve given me. Your fine self at my arm, and soon, the Gambler’s Den itself. The value of one of those is splendid. The other, not so much.’ Misu’s fingers dug into her palms in frustration. ‘You said you would leave them alone.’ ‘No, you assumed as much; I just didn’t say any different. There were no terms made. With its owner imprisoned for misdeeds, I assume the train will be put to public auction to aid the skyrocketing budget that restricts the sheriff’s actions. Then, finally, it will be mine.’ ‘How can you be so sure?’ ‘Care to think of anyone who would bid against me?’ He had a point. Misu’s sacrifice was for nothing. ‘Under new ownership, I’ll load up the Gambler’s Den with my men and we’ll go from town to town selling black-market goods under the veil of legitimacy. All the while fleecing the locals with rigged games. It’s the perfect venture. People will come from all around, toss us their money, and scuttle away. If you’re lucky enough I may even let you come along for the ride. I am, after all, the pinnacle of generosity.’ His jeers were cutting, every sentence a race of razor blades across skin. ‘You’re a villain,’ Misu stated in despair, a display of candid bravery that Wilheim quintessentially adored. ‘No, my dear, I’m not,’ he dismissed, reaching for his glass filled with a measure of dry red wine. ‘I just give those who are a place to work.’ * * * The two acting as security outside of The Lavender Club, who passed conversation back and forth without care, stood at the front doors, well dressed with weaponry quite brazenly displayed at their hips. Anywhere else, they would have scrutinized those who passed by, staring the inquisitive down to convince their footsteps to quicken. Curiosity was a dangerous thing as far as Wilheim’s assets were concerned. Here, in this city, there was no need to be attentive as trouble was rare. So when approached by a man, clad heavily in a duster with his head bowed, and a slip of a girl wearing a tan poncho, they suspected nothing, though a lack of familiarity in their faces prompted one to question their motives. ‘Morning.’ One nodded, narrowing his eyes between them. ‘G’morning to you,’ the man gruffly replied. ‘Intentions?’ the sentry asked, peering into the face of the young woman, who quickly glanced away, then back to reveal a crooked sneer as the tobacco-coated wafts of breath that were exhaled her way filled her nostrils. ‘See the boss.’ She scowled, emitting sass far beyond her years. ‘Is he expecting you?’ ‘Very much so I reckon. Got a bounty to collect.’ ‘I’m sure you do, but nobody gets on by just to say hello. I’ll check for you. Wait here a spell; won’t be long.’ The associate, now interested in this exchange, allowed his hand to drift to his hip in concern. Before he presented his revolver, drawn only as a precaution, it was knocked away. The girl launched into a flurry of strikes, sending her assailant to his knees. The other was knocked unconscious from a tremendous sucker punch from her cohort. Wyld shook the sting from her knuckles. ‘We really don’t have time for this,’ she commented, taking the weapons and tossing one to Jacques who checked the chamber and snapped it back into place. The iron was slipped between slacks and skin, covered with the duster’s weight. ‘Couldn’t agree more. You ready?’ Wyld nodded, passing without hesitation into the shadow beyond the doorway. Nobody inside heard the commotion. After all, who would? Their revelry was loud, so when the pair slipped between the tables of the packs of hooting thugs, they made it to Wilheim’s personal booth and the entourage of trusted individuals completely unnoticed. Wilheim noticed. It was his nature to observe everything around him. Security could not be taken for granted despite his numerous assets. An observant man lives longer, he would preach to anyone who listened, citing his grand ventures to be the result of such discipline, though blackmail and thuggery were conveniently left out of course. Among a smattering of bobbing heads, the two that tried, so resolutely, to advance on him were met with a question that neither expected. ‘How can I help you both?’ Within seconds the clattering of unclipped holsters and drawn-back hammers erupted all around as both sides drew weaponry, though Wilheim sat, quite undisturbed in his seat. Both Wyld and Jacques brandished weaponry in each hand, back to back and focusing on anyone foolish enough to look like they might fire. Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes a lifetime. Misu covered her mouth, terrified that her own breathing would start a massacre. ‘Now now, let’s not get all rambunctious,’ Jacques insisted, talking to the only one of interest to him. ‘This is a fine little drinking hole and nobody wants to be cleaning blood off the walls.’ A foolish youngster took a step forward in protest. ‘Your blood, you stupid –’ The boy had a barrel spun to him, its dangerous sting still cocked and loaded. ‘Not a drop of ours, no. I don’t think that will be the case, plus I’m not in for any sort of cleaning. If you’re finding this situation all too edgy, let me ask my friend here. What do you think, Wyld? Fancy putting those guns down for a moment to ensure this standoff is more one-sided?’ Wyld’s eyes passed over the sea of features before her, watching for any small flicker of bravery to emerge. ‘Not on your life,’ she growled. ‘Smart girl, and I have to say I follow her lead.’ Jacques slowly pressed the gun barrel against the boy’s temple, his other firearm never leaving the sight of Wilheim’s bulbous head. ‘Now get the hell out of our way.’ The boy retreated, pulled aside by others more senior and less outspoken. ‘Clearly these people have come here to converse.’ Wilheim adjusted himself on his seat, eyeing up the pair. ‘Such an entrance deserves them a little consideration, don’t you all think?’ The mass complied, and waited. ‘Wilheim, finally. Pleasure to be making your acquaintance. Nice place you got here. Shame for a few holes in the wall to ruin the d?cor, would you not agree?’ Wyld interjected. ‘What my associate Jacques here is trying to say –’ ‘I do not care about your names,’ Wilheim snapped, a surprising burst of authority in his voice. ‘Understand that who you are is irrelevant, but the fact you have the audacity to walk into my club and point iron at me, well that makes this affair interesting. Before you continue, let me tell you that this is already regrettable. This is my city, and there is nowhere you can hide where I cannot find you. What you are doing here is a waste of time and energy. Even if you think you’re invisible to the law, sideways dealing, selling stolen trinkets to those in the know, I assure you, you’re very visible to me.’ Wyld restrained a chill. ‘What will matter, in relation to the gravity of your mistake, will be the minutes after you have said your piece, and decided to carry out your choices. Those decisions will affect you, your friends, your loved ones, and anyone else who I deem to be associated.’ ‘Enough. I believe you have something that belongs to us,’ Jacques snarled, tossing his head to the girl at the fat man’s side. ‘You all right there, honey?’ Misu nodded in trepidation. Words failed her. She kept herself bowed, and the bruises hidden. ‘We’re taking her back,’ Jacques stated. ‘Just like that?’ Wilheim queried, taking a long sip from his wine until the glass emptied. ‘Just like that. Simplicity is a wonderful thing. It’s simply a choice of keeping us happy, or we lose our temper and make a mess.’ ‘Then who am I to object?’ Wilheim queried, amused, his disgusting gut straining to be released from his vest as his throat clicked and rasped in a chuckle. ‘Clearly you have the stronger resolve. This one is just a plaything though, no fancy of mine. Take her. But be warned, it’s not in her nature to stay in one place. She’ll scamper away. She’s a traitor, you know. And a whore.’ Wyld spun her gun barrel to the criminal, ceasing his outburst immediately. ‘Maybe so,’ Wyld agreed, thumbing the hammer back with a snap. ‘But she’s our whore, so she’s coming with us.’ Misu, taking all her time not to panic under the sight of a hundred eyes and a room of brandished weapons, manoeuvred to her friends. Her fingers dug into Jacques’s shoulder, reassuring herself that they were here and not a cruel illusion. She thanked them, meekly, hiding the bruise beneath her left eye with a ribbon of hair in shame. They withdrew, backing away through bodies that all waited, and watched, for a signal from Wilheim to subdue them. It never came. The closer to the daylight the trio got, the more anxious each brandishing thug became, and as they slipped out into the city streets, they each ran as fast as humanly possible but not before Wilheim spoke his last words. ‘You won’t live out the end of this day, you know?!’ he promised, sternly. ‘I won’t let you.’ Jacques could only shrug. Maybe that would be the case, but it wouldn’t stop them from damn well trying. ‘Well, those of us on the Den do like to take chances,’ he stated, and then vanished into the sun. * * * Nobody pursued. All waited for the command. Wilheim drew on his cigar, blowing a series of perfect rings. Not even midday and things were already moving in his favour. It was a sign, he concluded, taking another swig of a well-deserved drink, a sign that he was favoured from above. To the untrained and the rowdy, to which there were plenty in his company, this was a confusing delay. Surely this wasn’t going to be ignored, was it? People had been killed for far less. The tranquillity was ruined by a query, spoken by one brave enough to interrupt. ‘Boss?’ he called, gesturing in surprise to the door. ‘Aren’t we doing something ’bout this?’ Deliberately letting the seconds tick by, Wilheim puffed his last, grinding the cigar stub into a glass ashtray and finally ordered his decree. ‘They’re going to try and run. They need to get away quickly, making such a mess that they cannot return.’ Wilheim spoke the words that caused elation: ‘Let them take the Gambler’s Den and the moment they leave the station, I want it boarded, and everyone inside killed.’ ‘And what of Misu?’ ‘I said everyone, didn’t I? We have men in the Bad Lands who can make the Gambler’s Den disappear. Store it elsewhere and wait for things to settle down. Take as many as you need and run them down when it’s time. I want that train at all costs, understand?’ Wilheim grunted his last condition. ‘But I want it out of the hands of the law.’ Chapter Fourteen (#ud3cfe107-c58b-5017-8cfb-68c33a6b1e73) Lock and Key Franco was no stranger to incarceration. He had spent many nights in a cell, for reasons too numerous to recall. Suspected of everything. Convicted of nothing. Having to find comfort on a stone floor or wooden bench was once second nature when the legitimacy of his enterprise was called into question, and this time was no different, though it was a long time ago since he had to endure this kind of treatment. The cell looked like any other, the bars on the outside wall thick and imposing, with a wrought-iron door and slatted bars opposite looking out into the jailer’s office. The jailer himself was nothing out of the ordinary either. Gaunt in face, brash about his status and power, he had mocked Franco, repeatedly, kicking over his food at mealtimes, making crude sexual remarks about those in his employment. His ratlike features curled with glee every time, believing his prey was becoming increasingly agitated. Franco did no such thing. The slurs he had heard before, and every weak-willed turnkey felt himself a god. That was nothing unique in the slightest. But Alex Juniper worried him. Fiery, passionate, the man was clearly trouble. Dangerous, even. Considerably more so than his cellmate. Ketan sat opposite on the floor, stretching his legs out, checking on his healing wound. The dressing remained tattered; rough inconsistent stitches doing their work to hold the flesh together. At least the surgeon was competent enough to pull the bullet out, though with considerable bruising and not a small amount of pain. They had barely spoken since being thrown in together, waiting for the other to begin and letting time slip away. Finally, a product of his ego, Ketan made his thoughts known. ‘Oh how far you’ve fallen,’ he mocked, rubbing his wound over and over. ‘You’re not used to being down here with us normal people. Getting them nice coat tails filthy. Damn shame.’ Franco rolled a stone between his fingers, skimming over and around, an anxious tick he would perform with cards though in this case had to make do. ‘Sitting in the dirt clapped in irons? That’s no one’s perception of normal, you fool.’ ‘I would rather be in the dirt than have my head in the clouds looking down on everyone else.’ Franco limply tossed the stone, with little weight and force, hearing it crack against the cell wall, dangerously near Ketan’s head. He scowled in return. ‘Whatever did I say to give you that absurd notion?’ Franco grunted. ‘You did plenty.’ ‘I have barely been here! I went to find you because your father was concerned about these people you are running with and I can see he was right to be! Your shenanigans with these folk have got me and mine arrested!’ Again another stone was taken and thrown, snapping once again on impact. ‘Arrested. Clean for years and you force this on me.’ ‘Maybe you deserved it.’ Deserved? Was he out of his mind? How could Franco have deserved any of this? ‘What is wrong with you? What is this? Do you simply hate me?’ ‘There’s plenty of reasons to put hate upon you – a long, long list.’ ‘Or is it jealousy?’ Ketan’s nauseating, constant grin slipped slightly, giving a tell-tale sign. ‘Look at the hard truth there. You’re jealous. I made something of myself here, built things up and gained my reputation, and I didn’t need to turn over banks or shake down others to get it. That’s how it’s earned, not by waving iron in faces. There’s nothing down the barrel of a revolver but death and damnation. Thought you would have got that by now.’ ‘Absurd.’ Their exchange was interrupted with the jailer striking his baton against the bars over and over. ‘Quiet, the pair of you! Just for that you don’t get to eat tonight. Maybe that’ll keep those traps shut.’ Ketan scowled, gesturing to the guard to come closer to the bars. ‘Hey, you know I’m going to dig my way out of here, right? I’ll do so while you’re asleep. I’ve got the tools hidden away. Snuck them in, don’t you know. You didn’t even search us properly, idiot.’ The jailer scanned the cell, though saw nothing but the bare extremities that they were subjected to. What passed for a bed – a length of heavy, pitted wood – didn’t seem to have anything stored beneath it. There was nothing in the corners, gaslight illuminating enough of the cell to ensure nothing was hidden. ‘What would that be? You sitting on a shovel or something, rat?’ he cockily replied, calling Ketan’s bluff. ‘Oh yeah, I got your shovel.’ Ketan frantically searched in his pockets, and after a moment, showed his discovery. From a clenched fist he raised his middle finger in retort. ‘Right here, pal.’ The jailer scrunched his face together in annoyance, striking the bars once more. It was foolish to make him angry, especially since the held the keys for the only way out. ‘No breakfast either, is it? I can do that. Test me, lad, let’s see how far you can get. I’ll get you stripped naked and throw a dog in with you if you keep this up. Ass.’ He plodded back to his desk just out of sight and continued with his monotonous paperwork. Franco resumed their conversation, now with a hushed voice. He could withstand the threats, but having to be sentenced for crimes on an empty stomach? To him, that just wasn’t right. He tilted his head back against the outside wall, though this time his ears picked out the smallest of noises from the gloom. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ Franco continued, keenly focusing on small taps against the stone behind him, each one forcing his smile wider. ‘You’re jealous because you’re here rotting in this dustbowl and I went off to see things new. You lacked whatever quality is needed to better yourself so I left you, literally in the dust. You may hate me for that but I apologize for nothing.’ ‘Let’s say for argument’s sake –’ ‘Oh my.’ It was Franco’s turn to be facetious. ‘Do I love arguments.’ ‘– that you’re correct. So what?’ ‘So you shouldn’t be so built up, all angry, stupid, and threatening. Damn, Ketan, your father is worried about you. See sense in this! You don’t have much in this life, in Her name, it passes by so quick that you have to make something of yourself. Properly. Respectfully.’ ‘You’re a buffoon,’ Ketan dismissed, turning his head away. ‘And you would always call me that when I was right. And I’m right now.’ ‘Keep convincing yourself of that. I’m just struggling to find a reason why you’re still here,’ he said, his words venomous. ‘Why are you keeping me company in this fleapit? What’s that grandfather of yours doing, Franc? A little late to rescue you, isn’t he? Surely he must be on his way to bail you out of another mess of your making. It’s just like the old days. You, here, with me, doing our thing. Yes, he’ll come rushing in to take you away to a better life in a matter of minutes. You lucky dog! Why whatever would you do without him saving your ass? Except for standing on your own damned feet of course!’ Franco lunged forward, blinded by his own rage. A cannonball of a hook almost knocked Ketan’s head clean from his shoulders, throwing him upon the cell floor. Franco launched three more punches before restraining himself, but it was one too many. The cell guard barked for the pair to settle down from his desk, otherwise he would do things that they would sorely regret. Ever so slowly, Ketan sat himself upright once more, spluttering a chuckle through a split lip. ‘There he is. Nice to see you still have it in you. I had worried that you had gone all soft.’ The words were preceded by a spat glob of blood. His fingers probed his numb jaw. Franco’s first instinct was to apologize but as he stood – knuckles skimmed and bloodied – equally strong was the desire to finish the job. Fire still harboured in his muscles, still tense, still expectant of the next move. The apology was not forthcoming. ‘You don’t get to talk about him. Not now. Not ever. Are we clear?’ Fingers now moved to teeth, checking each in turn. Ketan licked the iron-tinged fluid from his fingers. ‘Yeah, we’re clear. Seems like that’s a sore spot for you. Guess things ain’t so perfect after all.’ ‘You don’t want to know.’ Franco slumped back down, against the outer wall, catching deep mouthfuls of air. ‘He was a good man. A shade of angry at times, which would scare me to the bones, but he knew full well what he was doing. Refreshingly honest too.’ ‘Did you forget what I just said?’ he asked, hoping that Ketan actually comprehended the demand this time. ‘Tanned my backside on more than one occasion if you remember.’ This conversation wasn’t going anywhere favourable. There was rarely a correct time to drag oneself through nostalgia, even in the company of someone who had known him since youth. Reminiscence was dangerous, fraught with scores of emotions that dulled the senses and buckled sensibilities. Incarcerated, all they seemed to have was time – the time until dawn and the old times that they had shared. Against his better judgement Franco indulged. ‘He never liked you being up to no good,’ Franco added. ‘Believed you were a bad influence on me. I can’t possibly guess where he got that from.’ ‘It was the other way around from what I recall.’ Ketan’s memory being much more precise on the matter of who led whom astray. ‘Scrapping and thieving. How many times did you dare me, or any others who we hung around with, to grab something from a shop and run like the clappers? We followed your every word. I recall the pair of us hopping into the steelworks and making off with whatever we could carry to sell on a corner. Never did find a buyer for that sewing machine in the end. When my dad was sniffing around I had no choice but to toss it. Met its tragic end off a bridge if I remember. Shame, it was pretty too.’ This was met with silence and not a small measure of guilt. ‘Anyhoo. Your Pappy. What’s the old-timer up to these days? Is he part of your travelling entourage?’ Franco pressed his skull to the brickwork, listening to the taps that had begun anew. The mere mention of that name brought back a torrent of frustration that drink had been recently failing to suppress. He slunk his head on resting arms. ‘You don’t want to know.’ ‘Try me,’ Ketan suggested, now quite curious and sincere. Old habits were rising once more. The better part of their time apart had been spent ignoring his past or, worse still, reshaping it with falsities when asked about it. Pappy had encouraged him to do better, to be better, but the seed still remained within him, once considered dormant or dead. He had been no better than Ketan all those years back, worse in fact if honesty was worth indulging in. This was one of the facets that frustrated him the most. The slumped man with a crippled leg opposite wasn’t an old cohort. He was a damned reflection of what could have been. Every bad choice and thoughtless reaction could have resulted in matters becoming very different. Almost out of obligation Franco regaled what happened to Pappy and did so with wet eyes. * * * ‘Thank you,’ Pappy managed in a croak. A glass of water was set on the table beside him with a dull thud, a tinge of red riding its surface. ‘Let me know if you need it again.’ Franco re-seated himself on a simple stool at Pappy’s bedside. This attentive routine was getting the better of him. His eyes had started to become weary and sleep was sorely needed, but his own wellbeing was of little concern. Since Pappy’s deterioration the stock car where they slept had been modified to accommodate his needs. Windows were almost perpetually darkened for he slept often, sometimes as long as a day at a time, only being woken to eat. Beside him there was always something to eat and drink, replaced daily and the old food and drink tossed to prevent any further infection. In motion the carriage rocked, a motion fond enough to be soothing when Pappy’s pain manifested, such as was the case now. ‘What I need is to get out of this damned, accursed bed,’ Pappy whined, patting the mattress with his all too noticeably frail hands. They were hands that had lifted and lugged, fixed and fitted. They had taken to the back of Franco’s head and his backside upon hearing of his misdeeds plenty of times. Now though they were alarmingly brittle in their old age. ‘You need plenty of rest. Conserve your strength. I’m handling things fine. I’ve not caused a single delay –’ ‘Last week, you were a good few hours behind on that cotton shipment,’ he nagged. ‘Rockslide. Like I explained, not my fault.’ ‘A couple of months back you took that absurdly long route around Abel Pass rather than go through …’ he began, eyes rolling. ‘To avoid bandits that had set up there which, again, was not my fault.’ ‘Do tell me, how is the new driver you hired coping?’ Franco cupped his hands together, squeezing. ‘Mister Rosso is doing just fine. It turns out he ran a C class back in its heyday so he’s had no problems. That is, unless you consider his rubbishing of some of our more creative attempts to get her up and running …’ ‘Good to know we have someone sporting familiarity. I should let you off, I suppose. You’ve done far better than I thought you would. I had this damned crazy idea that you would stick around and make something of yourself. Now look at you. You’ve learned this train aplenty. I still wish I could teach you the rest but let’s be honest between us … I’m holding you back. I can tell. I can see it in those eyes of yours,’ he croaked. ‘No you’re not, Grandpa.’ With a wheeze his head fell back upon the sack pillow and he stared deeply at the wood-panelled ceiling. ‘You’ve never been a good liar. You can grow all the hair on your chest that you want, but that’s the one thing that’ll never change. Don’t lie to me. You owe me that much.’ Another bout of coughing erupted from the depths of his person. A hastily introduced handkerchief caught the bulk of what was ejected, though some dotted the sheet in specks of red. It was withdrawn and dropped into a wicker basket beside him with all the others. ‘Listen, Franco. I won’t be enduring this sickness for ever and truth be told I’ve already grown tired from it. I want you to do something for me. In fact, I need you to.’ ‘Anything, you know that; you need only ask.’ Franco reached out and enclosed his grandfather’s hands with his own. ‘You won’t like it,’ came the reply. It was true. He wouldn’t. Unlike everywhere else, the region had plenty of places that could be considered the middle of nowhere. The Sand Sea itself was comprised mostly of nowhere, miles upon miles of nowhere in fact. This nowhere looked identical no matter the approach, surrounding towns and outposts, hubs and trading points with barren land fit for the wildlife and nothing more. This specific nowhere had a sense of meaning to Pappy. The Condor Highlander line was a rail route built to shuttle tobacco leaf from successful plantations in the south. In his youth, these trips were spent smoking some of the finest cigars he had ever had the luck of acquiring, mostly as kickbacks from the plantation owners themselves to haul undeclared cargo on the side. Crossing between ridges of mountains it overlooked the basin of the region, the vastness of the Sand Sea laid out before them like a blanket of saffron. Pappy had requested to venture this way one last time so Franco begrudgingly obliged. Boots cut into the dirt, pushing deep into sand and stone. The ascent wasn’t particularly taxing, luckily wind-blasted paths were cut into the ridge side forming a natural path. What was a different story though was the cargo. Hoisted over his shoulder, Franco carried his grandfather up the hillside, not once complaining or stopping. In fact he didn’t speak at all, concentrating on his breathing and mentally subduing the burning that ripped through his muscles. If he spoke he would think and if he thought, then the sheer absurdity of this farce would break him in twain like an axe to lumber. His foot buckled a spell as he caught it against a protruding boulder, forcing him to regain his balance with an outstretched hand. ‘Watch it. I don’t fancy my brains dashed across the dirt because you’ve been getting careless.’ Franco allowed himself to speak, trudging onward. His palm was scratched and raw. ‘Thank you, but I’m fine.’ Pappy grunted in annoyance, spitting from his undignified place. This was how one carried a sack, or firewood, not a person. Despite this, the old man’s hearing still remained keen, or so he thought. ‘Dammit, boy, I told you not to cry.’ ‘I’m not, it’s the sand,’ Franco contested. ‘Like hell it is. I can hear you sniffling from here. Liar. Pack it in.’ They passed the skeletons of trees, fractured rocks, and thorny bush that desperately clung to the inclines. As they made their way along the ridge side, the entire basin was laid out before them. Despite the abject desolation of the Sand Sea biting into the surrounding landscape, it still coaxed a degree of awe. At ground level all one could see was sand and rock. At this height the horizon itself laid the land before them on a grand plateau. An afternoon sky waned above them with the sun beginning its fall. A hand struck Franco’s back repeatedly. ‘Here will do just fine. Just here,’ Pappy demanded. ‘It’s perfect.’ Franco sorted through a canvas satchel, withdrawing a bottle of whisky and pouring a measure into their tin cups. The old man squinted his eyes to make out the label while this was done. ‘Cruden Black Blend. Well isn’t that all sorts of fancy. What did I do to deserve this? Am I dying or something?’ Franco’s hand juddered, just for second but enough to spill a little down his wrist. ‘Not funny,’ he stated, passing the cup over. Down in the valley the locomotive was poised, straddling the rail tracks that followed the natural contours of the land, rising and falling as it dictated. Steel reflected the dusk as a monument to the pair’s labour, as did the four combine cars that accompanied it. ‘What a sight … Beautiful isn’t she? I always said she was, even the day when I first laid eyes on her as a youngster. Do you remember when I dragged you through that scrapheap to find her?’ the old man reminisced, fighting off sentimentality. ‘Of course I do. It was the biggest piece of crap I had ever seen. I thought you had gone senile for a moment. It was a shambolic ore hauler that even time hadn’t had the decency to kick to pieces. That’s a red flag right there. Look at her now though. She’s all manner of pretty.’ He laughed at the absurdity, a collective of bittersweet memories soon curtailed as reality rudely reintroduced itself. ‘I expected you to ignore me when I told you that you would be helping. Go back to hustling folks on the street maybe in an attempt to make your way. I’ve never been so glad to be wrong. I have no shame in saying it, but these last few years with you have been the best ones of my life.’ He paused to blink back the wetness that coated his eyes. ‘It made me feel hopeful again that life weren’t as cruel as those sands that threaten to swallow us.’ ‘It’s been good for me too,’ Franco said, drastically swigging away to sedate himself. His heart was breaking, being here, talking like this. It was an agonizing pain, making him desperate to roll back the clock to a time when they were working on the train carefree. Before the old coot was slipping away. The sun hung heavy, finally letting itself take to the horizon and bleed its best into the cotton-white clouds, transforming them into hues of pinks and blues. The infinite sands blanketed the land before them, basins interrupted by numerous protruding mountain ranges that stretched out in all directions. Tranquillity reigned. Not a bird took to the sky, not a viper protruded from its nest. For the longest time either of them could recall, there was nothing to distract them from this one, wonderful moment. They each took a sip, neither appreciating the spirit’s flavour but instead marvelling at the landscape. ‘From up here you would never guess how hard everything is,’ Pappy reflected. Franco said not a word but instead drank deeper this time. ‘Your father said that to me once. Or something like that – may or may not have been the exact words but that’s the gist at least. He had a penchant for absurdities at your age, poetic ones mostly about how the world was weaved together.’ There was a pause before Pappy continued. ‘Do you miss him?’ ‘He was a fool who abandoned his son. What do you think?’ Franco snapped. The mood soured, though this was expected given the topic of conversation. It was something they never spoke of and given the circumstances Pappy felt compelled to change that. If they weren’t to discuss it now, then when? ‘You’re speaking out of anger. He’d have forgiven you for that.’ ‘I don’t care what he would have done. He’s not here. So what he may or may not have decided to do at this point of time is irrelevant.’ Franco huffed. ‘It was never that simple, not for him. It wasn’t an easy choice to make. He watched your mother struggle with the pregnancy – terribly ill she was, and what with us all having no money coming in … well, your father decided to do the right thing.’ ‘The right thing would be to stay put. To look after his family. Not to be gallivanting in places that no sensible people would go!’ Franco realized that his voice was rising. This was a wound forever raw and prodding at it, especially now of all times, did little to diminish that. He focused on his grip around his cup, tightly wrapping his fingers around it with such force that he expected it to collapse in on itself. ‘What kind of man doesn’t stay?’ ‘Sure, you say that now. I imagine I would be all fire like yourself in your position. The thing is, you’re young and unburdened, boy. Being a father changes a man’s prerogatives. With you on the way, there would be another mouth to feed and your father had no choice but to go off to the mines. Nobody else was hiring, you see? We owed money to people just to keep fed, people who you wouldn’t want to owe a kind remark let alone currency. They rattled your poor mother something fierce with threats. Your old man would fall through the door at times all beaten and blue. That’s no way of living. I know you don’t want to talk about it. You’ve never wanted to talk about it. That’s your personal business and I get that. But you don’t have to talk right now. You just have to listen.’ Pappy didn’t cry. Crying wasn’t in his nature. He had lived through times when crying wasn’t done, when emotion was a stranger to the working man, and all that mattered was words and actions. But with that said, for a moment he could have mistaken his own son staring back at him instead of the slumped, depressed figure of his grandson. The youngster had inherited plenty from the man he never knew, from the shaggy hair to his fiery temperament, traits that were making this conversation exceedingly more difficult than intended. Franco had grown from a difficult tearaway to a sterling individual, forthright and strong. Pappy was proud and despite never saying it, secretly hoped that his actions communicated his feelings appropriately. No, Pappy was not one to cry. But if he did, it would have been then. ‘Have you actually seen the mines, boy?’ His voice struggled. ‘Not heard of them, or been told stories, but actually seen them with your two own? It’s like walking into the abyss. First you take to a tin can that winches you deeper and deeper down to a place we were never supposed to go. The air down there is wrong. Daylight ain’t nothing more than a memory and you’re strolling through the guts of the land, graciously chipping away its innards. No wonder there’s so many accidents. No wonder they pay so much. Cave-ins, suffocation, all that mess. Only someone broken by desperation would willingly endure such danger.’ Franco’s teeth were bared, his shoulders rocking as he tried to control every shudder of sadness that set upon him. Pappy nodded cordially, imparting what he knew in the hope that maybe it would bring him some closure. ‘Some people don’t remember bad news. When it hits, everything seems to blur. You could tell them a million things and by the end of it they couldn’t recall a one. I’m not one of those lucky people as fortune inflicted me with something of a sharper mind, but I wish that wasn’t the case. I was looking after your mother as she carried you. You were large in her belly. She used to sing to you as you were in there and tell you handsome stories of your father. The letters he sent back were read over and over to you, normally in this poky kitchen we had. ‘As soon as the letters stopped, we assumed there was a problem with the post. Things were getting difficult out that way, train hijackings and all. The papers even warned of such things. Your mother, bless her, she was saying that it wasn’t normal, that something had to be wrong. Worked herself into a right state she did.’ Pappy drank deeply, attempting to banish the fog that years of negligence had accumulated. He cleared his throat, or did so as well he could, with noisy splutters. ‘I got the paper first thing in the morning – the first thing I do in my routine. Didn’t even look at it. Never do. Disputes between gangs were making food drops late, so getting anything substantial for your mother was proving difficult. What I did manage to get my hands on, with no small amount of negotiating, was some cockatrice eggs. Some trapper was raising young ’uns but had plenty to spare. These things are three times bigger than what a normal chicken lays – mighty tasty too. So I make my way home and your mother is there sitting at that kitchen table, singing settlers’ songs. I go to make us breakfast and she decides to read you the newspaper seeing as your daddy’s letters are still stuck.’ Franco closed his eyes, envisioning the scenario. From the gentle morning light that bathed the woman with luminescence to the smells of the eggs gently frying in a cast-iron pan. It was a tranquillity that Franco had yearned for but never attained. ‘She takes the paper, and says to you, that we’ll read the news and find out what’s happening outside these walls. She spoke the large headline without a single care: “Seventeen die in mine catastrophe.” ‘She then goes all quiet, talking to herself before suddenly wailing. Bless her, did she cry. I was all confused of course, so I read the paper to see what’s put her in such a state. It turns out that the mine your father was at suffered an accident. That tin-can lift I told you about, that they winch you down in, broke free from its cabling and fell straight down with seventeen pour souls trapped inside. The names confirmed Ederik Monaire, your father, as one of the dead.’ Pappy kicked the stones at his feet weakly, squinting at the ebbing sun that moseyed across the sky on its own accord. ‘Never seen a woman so distraught. You hear tales of such things but it breaks a heart to witness. Your mother loved him dearly. When the time came for you to make an appearance, she was already drinking more than I was comfortable with – something that became a frequent point of argument. That never changed. Suffering a burden like that can break people. Even the strongest among us can have it creep on up. Make people commit to terrible decisions on the pretence that it’s for the best.’ Franco licked his lips. The alcohol was having trouble settling in his stomach, keen to escape the way from which it came. A few deep breaths subdued this – for the time being at least. ‘Why did she leave?’ ‘Don’t know. She just left. There was a note that barely made sense, rambling about things, mad things, from what I recall. There was some crazed declaration about chasing the sun to find Ederik but who knows where her mind was at. The Sand Sea is a big place. If someone doesn’t want to be found, then they won’t be. You were just a babe in arms then and someone had to look after you, being that you were abandoned. That responsibility became mine and I looked after you as my own for evermore.’ Bitterness seeped in once more. Whilst it was easy to have compassion for the situation that his parents struggled with, the chain reaction of bad decisions that followed were far less acceptable. ‘You raised me.’ Franco swigged again, his mood as sour as his liquor. ‘Not them. You. I don’t see them here right now, reminiscing over how things transpired with big smiles.’ Something obstructed his throat. A long gestating rant that had been the backbone of bad behaviour and pity-seeking eruptions. The urge to launch his bottle into the sky was overwhelming. ‘It wasn’t what they intended, I’m sure.’ He cut Pappy off immediately. ‘Intended or not, this is the way it all went. Like you said, life is like a train on the rails, a destiny of sorts. I’m guessing that there are some who just jump from the cars without thinking of the landing. I don’t owe the folks a damn thing. Just you.’ With a sharp wheeze, Pappy took a spell to collect himself, giving Franco ample time to compose himself and lose the shakes. ‘Well I guess you know best on that front, lad.’ A flock of crows soared overhead, calling as if spooked by something unseen. Their obnoxious squawks abated as they took flight to the closest peak. Pappy kicked his boots in the dirt, displacing it before changing the subject to something more placid. ‘This idea of yours. This venture. Tell me about it again. What was the plan?’ ‘It’s nothing really.’ ‘You’re a man now. Speak like one.’ ‘We provide entertainment,’ Franco stated. It was embarrassing confessing to the designs he had for when the old man had finally passed, crude given the circumstances. Originally it was something for the pair of them to participate in – until tragedy dictated otherwise. ‘Entertainment of what sort?’ ‘It would be a delight on wheels. We would stuff the cars with tables, games, and all the booze folks could handle. The girls would entertain and we would make money on the tables like you wouldn’t believe. We would put on a show wherever we travelled.’ ‘Are the games honest?’ he enquired. ‘Nothing but. The patrons get to win. There’s none of that fixing. Who would want to play at a table where the dealer has sticky fingers?’ ‘These girls –’ he swallowed in interruption ‘– are they pretty?’ ‘Oh, the prettiest. They would have kind faces to bring about respite for the poor bastards stuck down the mines or suck in the mills.’ Franco finally laughed; envisioning the entire thing like had done many times before. ‘Ah, now I like the sound of that.’ ‘The bar would be filled with the finest rums and bourbons this far south of the trade line. It would be an oasis to the parched.’ ‘Like this here stuff?’ Pappy tilted the frosted dark glass to his parched lips. ‘Better,’ Franco promised. ‘Got a name for all this yet?’ ‘I’ve been kicking something around I guess …’ ‘Being?’ Franco took a swig to build up nerve before setting the cup in the dirt at his boots. ‘The Gambler’s Den.’ To his surprise, the suggestion wasn’t immediately rubbished – unlike most others he had pitched in the past. No, Pappy weighed it with a considerable amount of thought as he sucked on a roll-up. The smoke got the better of his throat, starting a coughing fit. When it finally relented he spat the fire out beside him and quenched it with the bottle’s own. His eyes reddened, Pappy continued as if nothing had happened. ‘It’s not completely terrible.’ He relented. ‘It’s good, honest work. You should pursue it. We’ve got plenty saved to overhaul the cars and it’s not like you have to pay for a pine box for me. It’s your train now anyway. Stick with it and it’ll take you far. You’ve got a good head on you. It’ll grant you the one thing that most others lack.’ ‘What would that be?’ ‘Freedom, lad. Freedom. It’s the only thing that’s worth a damn – the only thing worth seeking out from the day you’re born until the day you’re buried. Money drips through the fingers when you try to hold it tightly. There’s bad sons of bitches out there who do just that. They may fool themselves and others that it can be done but it’ll trickle out slowly or drain in a rush. Money is fleeting. Freedom, however … If you can be free, you can be poor in wealth but rich in spirit.’ A bevy of deep, vicious coughs interrupted, eventually suppressed with more whisky. ‘And I wish that for you more than anything else.’ There were a million things that Franco wished to confess. This wasn’t how he wanted things to end but as Pappy once told him, you can’t deviate from your life when you’re set along the path. There was no use in complaining and certainly no use in getting upset. Things were just how things were, whether by chance or construct of the divine. With head held high, Franco said the only thing that came to mind that could encapsulate his feelings. ‘Thank you. I mean … thank you, Grandad. For everything.’ A lingering, compassionate smile painted the pair, ruined completely with Pappy’s wave of a hand. ‘Now go. Get out of here, you hear? Get on board that train and don’t you dare look back else you’ll feel my foot meet your backside.’ Instinctively Franco’s fingers reached for the bottle to take with him. Briefly hesitating he retrieved it from the dirt and placed it at Pappy’s feet leaving both it and his cup beside it. A singular pat fell on Pappy’s shoulder heavily on passing. Nothing else was spoken. Nothing needed to be. They were each aware of what this moment was and both decided not to change it with further sentiment. The Eiferian 433 sat waiting for him in the stillness, an iron and steel sentry anticipating its new owner’s command. The moment he stepped foot into what had been the sleeping carriage, Franco realized that he was quite alone. It was a feeling he had not been accustomed to since Pappy became a quick surrogate for his absentee father. That may have been forced upon him in adolescence but it made him no less thankful. Tears stained his cheeks as he cursed once, twice, and finally a third time until his throat gave. Sitting on Pappy’s bed, he allowed himself this moment before wiping his face and bringing about composure. The car was closed up as he moved out to the engine cab, greeted by the sight of Rosso who folded up a newspaper. ‘Where to now, boss?’ ‘Anywhere, Mister Rosso. Absolutely anywhere but here.’ ‘Forgive me but does anywhere have a location in particular?’ A thunderbolt of inspiration struck. ‘Yes, actually. Enlighten me: where would have a good yard for outfitting this here train with some flair?’ ‘You’ll be wanting Packers out this way. I’ve seen them overhaul plenty and never an ill word against them. It’ll be about a day’s travel. Are you looking to give this old girl a new lick of paint?’ ‘That and a new name.’ Rosso released the brakes and set the throttle open. The train complied and heaved forward. The air was already turning cool. The night would be closing in soon. The next few hours would be spent trying to outrun it. * * * Slurping from a bottle as the sun slowly sank on the horizon, Pappy watched the train depart. The sight comforted him. A lasting smile indented itself, curling his jowls and emanating warmth. He had done well, he told himself, and the boy would do him proud. The cigarette breathed its last wisp of smoke into the crisp evening air. It met its final fate, crushed beneath the sole of a work boot. ‘Ah. So beautiful,’ Pappy declared. And the train made its way off and over the horizon. * * * ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Ketan confessed, not knowing too well where to put his attention. ‘Yeah, well, me too.’ Franco gave consideration once again to the rapping on the stone outside. ‘It wasn’t the nicest of times. It’s also a good reminder that you should appreciate your father being around while he still is, despite being a pain in your backside. He’s trying to do you good. You know that, don’t you?’’ ‘You would have to be a fool not to, obviously.’ ‘Then stop this. All you’re doing is rushing your way to the bone pile. Move somewhere away from the trouble and be better.’ Ketan sighed, seemingly giving this consideration. Someone rapped on the jail door, catching their attention. The jailer heaved himself up with old bones, grumbling at the inconvenience and the lateness of the hour. While out of sight, Franco picked up fragments of the conversation, a female voice, wet with promises of a good time. Payment from his colleagues. All things that caused the front door to slam shut. Silence descended as he indulged in male sensibilities and shirked responsibilities. Ketan snorted. ‘Do you hear that? It’s all right for some, isn’t it.’ Franco picked himself up and patted himself down, brushing away deposits of dust from his jacket. ‘Anyway, let’s say, hypothetically, you had an out. Would you take it?’ ‘You’re dealing with the impossible now.’ ‘Answer the question. If you had a chance to go legitimate. Honest work. Would you make a go of it?’ Ketan groaned wearily. It was, admittedly, something that had passed his mind but the more he contemplated, the more hopeless the situation seemed. ‘Guys like me don’t have those kinds of breaks, Franco. We use all our chances quickly; it’s why we die so quick.’ ‘That’s just crazy talk.’ ‘Is it? If you don’t get out then you get put down. Six feet down if you get my meaning. We are born in the gutter and die in it just the same. We both know it’s true.’ They did. It was. ‘When it happens,’ Ketan continued. ‘Who will cry for me, anyways? Who gets to mourn? We ain’t got nothing of worth in this life but family, Franco, and back then I considered you mine.’ ‘You still have your father.’ ‘Just don’t, all right …’ Franco nodded in understanding, moving the conversation on to a new subject. ‘How’s the leg?’ ‘Like it’s been shot,’ he delivered with a glaze of fading patronization. ‘But better. Thanks.’ Franco leant back in his cell. He heard the murmurs and chatter outside, then the continuation of a code relayed by the tapping of iron guttering. ‘Think it can stand walking a fair distance?’ ‘It has been so far for what good it’s done us.’ ‘What about some running?’ Ketan tilted his head in question. The outer wall erupted in debris, exploding inward and peppering the pair with rubble. Dust plumes dragged across the floor, causing Ketan to splutter and his eyes to weep. From the hole, waving the dust aside, Kitty rested a leg on shattered brickwork, proud of her handiwork. Behind, Corinne and two other showgirls in tow pulled the rubble aside for the getaway. Kitty saluted her boss, nodding quite happily to herself. ‘Hey, clear something for me,’ she called. ‘We sprung the old man from this here cell, dangers and all, with no regard for our very own lives. What would that be making us?’ ‘The hands of providence I’m guessing,’ Corinne stated, shooing the last dust haze with a hand. ‘Mmm,’ Kitty purred. ‘Ain’t that just the truth.’ Franco strode out to his freedom, kicking debris away as he found it. Alarms were yet to sound. They all had time yet to organize their getaway. ‘Where are the others?’ ‘Jacques and Wyld are tying up loose ends. Gone to fetch Misu while they’re at it.’ Corinne handed Franco a revolver, of which he checked the spin of the cylinder and the accuracy of the sight before slipping it on his hip in endorsement. ‘Does that meet your approval?’ Kitty queried, watching her boss’s unmoved reaction. Franco finally smiled, and cracked his fingers. ‘Absolutely. I’m starting to find Windberg a mite unsettling for fine, honest folks such as ourselves.’ ‘That is pleasant to hear.’ Corinne produced a blunderbuss pistol, holstering the bag back onto her shoulder, the pack teeming with ammo. Franco assessed the situation. They were fugitives, and the lives of the showgirls would be unliveable as soon as the alarms sounded. They had risked their futures, their lives, all for him. If they were caught, they faced jail time at best, the noose at worst. ‘I’m sorry,’ Franco apologized, far meeker than any had seen him before. ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did. You’re right, we are a family of sorts and –’ Kitty interrupted. She felt the weight of a revolver far too unsightly and unbalanced in her small hands, instead resorting to a crossbow pistol that she had used to kill predators back on the farm. ‘Can we save your sappy speech until after we’ve escaped? I can’t help feeling it would be for the best.’ ‘And you accused me of hiring you just because of your prettiness. Perish the thought,’ Franco agreed, but before they moved, Corinne spied past the debris to the figure emerging from the dust plumes. ‘What about him?’ * * * Indeed, what about Ketan? He staggered to the makeshift exit, eyeing up the girls in turn, who clearly watched with caution. With a limp he stepped over the first line of shattered bricks, securing his footing, looking at what Franco had made for himself. These individuals were willing to risk so much to rescue him, a family who would rather suffer together than let one of their own rot away to bones. Who would do that for him? Wilheim’s men would give him up in seconds if it would line their pockets. Only his father would do something so selfless, the doting fool. A doting fool his father may be, but very much his doting fool despite their regular disagreements. ‘Come with us,’ Franco said in unfathomable generosity. He owed this man nothing, but for all his faults, redemption seemed to be a possibility. Besides, promises were made. ‘Consider this to be your out. I can find you a job on the Den until you want to go your own way. No strings attached. It’ll keep you out of trouble, in a sense. Honest work, decent pay. I can set you up for a spell and when you’ve had enough of the legitimate life, you can go on your merry way. What do you say?’ ‘I say –’ Ketan clambered over the debris ‘– that the noise your girls here have made will have the sheriff’s men on us very soon, so we should be running right about now.’ The group had broken into a sprint, sliding around each building side and peering around every corner for any sign of further trouble. Open spaces were passed quickly, small collections of morning traders used as camouflage. All seemed to be going so well, weaving through every street in a direct route back to Windberg central. And then came the alarm. * * * The shrill call of a hand-powered klaxon blared across the city, soon joined by others as soon as its presence was acknowledged. The constabulary scrambled through street and alley, frantically hunting the escapees and their cohorts, whose movements were unpredictable and only detectable by hearing their shouts or catching sight of them. Sheriff Juniper sprung from his desk at the first sound of klaxons. The paperwork would have to wait. ‘Sir!’ A captain burst inside, flushed and in a panic. ‘There’s a jailbreak happening!’ Juniper looked out over the city from his window and focused on a dreaded sight. Arches of grey steam were pouring from the split roof sheltering Platform 4 at Central Station. Its origin was obvious. ‘Damn you, Franco,’ he cursed, pulling on his holster and loading himself with a tin of bullets. His orders were short and precise. ‘Get as many men as you can to the station at once! I want him back in chains or there will be hell to pay! And get me my horse!’ * * * Franco gestured everyone to lower themselves as he glanced quickly into the one of the main streets. The public buzzed with concern, watching Bluecoats scramble with speed, some uncomfortably close. At the end of the line of people, Ketan lay flat against the brickwork, waiting for the gesture to move again, but before it was given a penetrating burst of a whistle from behind forced him to turn. One of the constables had found them, blowing repeatedly into his whistle, a tone acknowledged by others all around them that began to converge. Before the silver instrument slipped from his lips, and the instruction to stop was given, Ketan was already upon him. He punched, pulled the constable by the hip, and forced him into the wall. When done, he reached for the constable’s weapon and put two shots into his back. From the sound of gunfire, the adjacent people rippled away in alarm, calling for help from those listening. Ketan retained the weapon as the body slumped before them, each from the Gambler’s Den staring in astonishment. It wasn’t the first time he had put bullets into someone on the side of the law, and he treated the impact of his action like any other: with little concern. ‘Go!’ he called. They did. Running now into full view, the constabulary began their chase, following them down every alley, every crevice, yard, and open space, cracks of gunpowder ejecting into the sky. Brickwork chipped and splintered as Franco attempted to maintain covering fire while they progressed, though Ketan kept back just enough to maintain space, yelling curses as he did so. As the law attempted to progress, his caplock revolver hammer fell back with a dead click, its chambers now bare. Another yank of the trigger. Another click of nothing. ‘I’m empty!’ Ketan called back. Franco skidded to his side, slapping a spare firearm into his palm. The call had encouraged the Bluecoats to advance on them, snaps of gunfire now filling the air. Franco ducked from an all too close sting across his ear. They were just two streets from Windberg Central Station, some two hundred yards to their escape. ‘Get your girls to the station; you ain’t got far now. I’ll hold them off. Keep your head down, stay low, and I’ll do the rest. Pass me the noisemaker there.’ Franco called for Corinne to toss over her blunderbuss, which she did. He cocked back the hammer and signalled them to run and run they did. The next two minutes were taken up with a frantic race through open streets to the wide-open courtyard where time seemed to fragment, slowing itself with every shot that buzzed between them. Ketan had emerged firing, every shot precise and hitting its mark. The cries fell silent. Bluecoats dotted the street either dead or dying. The group looked for cover, with Ketan struggling to keep pace with his leg injury. ‘I’m out!’ he called once more, prompting a small pouch of cartridges to be tossed his way. No sooner had he pulled them open, than a lucky shot skimmed his cheek, marking its trail with a dash of red. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/christopher-byford/den-of-shadows-collection-lose-yourself-in-the-fantasy/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.