Читать книгу Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy - Christopher Byford - Страница 11

Chapter One

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.’