Читать книгу Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy - Christopher Byford - Страница 14

Chapter Four

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 valuable time 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.’