Читать книгу Den of Smoke: Absolutely gripping fantasy page turner filled with magic and betrayal - Christopher Byford - Страница 11

Jack never said so but Cole’s initiation went smoothly. He had endured the punches with minimal complaining, was learning fast and seemed to be fitting in well. As far as Jack was concerned, Cole was performing as expected. There was little need to threaten discipline, as the newcomer seemed quite invested in his work. He still worked the kitchen in the morning but found the rhythm to cook breakfast and manage his duties without either one lagging.

Nothing ensured that someone was on the level more than taking a beating for the cause. It wasn’t ideal of course but this wasn’t the sort of job where you checked in after your probation to see how well you were doing. It was rough, dirty and if Cole confessed to himself, he was adapting to it.

He was told to shadow both Alvina and Blakestone for the following weeks and to, as Jack put it, use his initiative. He was coy to begin with, not wishing to tread on either’s toes. When they met contacts he listened, and offered to do the simple things – acting lookout, flashing iron. Generally, he spoke little, watching and learning the trade. That was, until he and Alvina were under the shadow of the Ajana.

The Ajana was a Hornet-Class Sand Ship. Compared to the larger cargo haulers that took their loads across the Sand Sea itself, it was relatively modest in size with only five decks, so it was dwarfed by its companions. Dockhands loaded and unloaded cargo, in crates and sacks, in bales and bundles. In a place such as Esquelle, the Bluecoats were easily bribed to look the other way to the point where they were not even a concern. Alvina addressed them on a first-name basis, referring to favours both past and future to encourage gaps in memory and selective blindness.

As Alvina and Cole ventured across the loading dock, Cole spied the circular paddle wheel at its rear, colossal and imposing. Even higher, its twin flumes reached skyward, painted in a bold red and darkest black. The loading ramp was at its port side, the ramps trembling with the weight of goods that teams of oxen hauled in wooden carts. Those working did nothing to interfere with their advance and, in fact, made way for them.

With the darkness setting in, the dock gas lighters were taking ladders to the lamps one by one, illuminating the area with soft, golden pools of light. Beneath one of these lamps, a man leant on its post, clearly enjoying half of a cigar with one hand and clutching a clipboard of papers in the other. He was smartly dressed, giving orders to those passing with varying degrees of urgency.

Upon spying the pair of Jackrabbits approaching, he took a tin whistle to his lips, indicating break time for the others. The workers vanished to presumably drink rum or play a few hands of dice. It didn’t matter what they did as long as they weren’t here.

‘Phillipe Denwell of the Ajana.’

Alvina looked him up and down, holding out her hand. ‘Welcome back to Esquelle.’

Phillipe patiently drew upon his cigar stub, relishing it, before slapping the clipboard of papers into her hand. He spat a wodge of phlegm onto the ground, following it up with a deep-reaching snort. Cole raised an eyebrow, disgusted.

‘It’s nice to be welcomed. That’s the thing with this place. Good beds, decent food and accommodating individuals like yourselves. It’s my sort of town.’ He withdrew his smoke, gesturing to the paperwork. ‘That’s the formalities done with – there you go. There’s what you’re looking for. I’ve done my bit.’

‘Pay the man, Cole,’ Alvina insisted. Money was exchanged but when doing so, Cole noticed the grimace on the individual before him. He begrudgingly counted the notes, not that there was any need to – he hadn’t done so the times before, but this betrayed his assertion that things were fine.

Alvina flicked through page after page. The ship’s manifest detailed all of the cargo it was hauling and where. It was commonplace for things to simply go missing when shipments were moved about, simply a risk of hauling goods. It was a hazard brought about the likes of the Jackrabbits, who skimmed off goods and tossed coin to the easily manipulated. It was easy work. Dockworkers and ship hands were normally poorly paid, jumping at the chance to earn extra on the side. They didn’t care about the cargo being taken. When questioned, they feigned ignorance about the items going missing. When being exploited by a second-rate shipping company, being able to get one over on them made the deals all the sweeter.

‘I’m going to need more for this information you know. It’s valuable stuff,’ Phillipe demanded.

There it was. Cole narrowed his eyes in suspicion but Alvina was already ahead of him with her response.

‘Don’t be stupid. You get paid what we agreed. This isn’t something you just haggle over.’

‘No, but there is a market for this kind of information.’ He puffed slyly, slowly, trying to draw their patience out and encourage rash behaviour. ‘Plenty of interest out there I dare say.’

‘Oh, you dare say, do you?’ Alvina slanted her hips, holding the manifest at her side, assuring him that he now had her full attention. ‘Are you threatening to go elsewhere?’

‘Hey, what I provide is worthwhile to you people and I should be getting something more out of it. When things go missing, I have to answer questions to dock managers. It puts a sweat on a man. One day they might be forceful with how they ask me, you know? Might end up accidentally saying something that would embarrass Jack.’

Something didn’t quite add up to Cole as he asked for the clipboard from Alvina’s hands. He had looked at it over her shoulder, keeping himself quiet. The more he examined it, the more perplexed he became. The woman relinquished the paperwork. Cole flicked through the pages in turn.

‘Looking over this, the best thing that you’ve got loaded up on the Ajana is three crates of Muskratt wine. They would go for two hundred each, at a conservative estimate. We couldn’t split it and bulk is always cheaper. Now, I’m guessing you make … thirty a trip? Forty, max? You’re a box loader, so it’s not like you have a decent route for progression, plus the turnover of your kind is …’ Cole licked his lips ‘…considerable. Plenty of people can drag about a crate. It isn’t the finest skill, though if you’re implying that it’s yours then I suggest you raise your aspirations.’

‘Aspirations?’ He repeated the word a couple of times, stumbling over the pronunciation. ‘Is your boy here trying to insult me?’

‘Shut. Up.’ Alvina fired back bluntly. ‘Cole, what are you getting at?’

‘If we sell this at back-alley prices, even without negotiation – we can take another ten per cent away, it’s barely going to be worth our time. We pay you how much?’

‘Too much.’ Alvina kept her gaze upon Phillipe.

‘Thirty a manifest,’ he revealed.

Cole howled in amusement. ‘Shit, with that on top, we’re basically losing money handling this stuff. We could use our time a lot more productively. If he wants to play hard, we can let him go.’

Alvina smirked.

‘Well, let’s not be too hasty.’ Phillipe recoiled, spluttering on his cigarette smoke.

‘Hasty is good,’ she rebutted.

‘I would recommend that we drop this little arrangement.’ Cole tossed the manifest to its owner who caught it clumsily.

‘Now, now hold on!’ Phillipe tossed his cigar stub off the dock in alarm. ‘I’m not saying we should give up on our agreement for good –’

‘Seems like it would be the sensible thing to do,’ Alvina coldly stated, indifferent to any sort of panic that he exhibited.

‘Twenty-five!’ he blurted out. ‘Twenty-five a manifest.’

Cole snorted sarcastically, needing to turn away.

‘Twenty,’ Alvina offered, ‘and you keep that attitude in check. We have something nice and steady happening here and your aspirations are ruining it.’

‘I understand. I got it.’

She coughed loudly holding out a flat palm. Phillipe rushed so much to give her the change that he almost dropped the rest. Alvina stuffed the notes into a pocket, leaving him with her last piece of advice. ‘Make sure you do.’

It took them until they left the docks before Alvina finally addressed Cole with her thoughts.

‘Good work there.’

‘It’s nice to finally be of some sort of use. I was getting tired of all the crap jobs.’ He smiled in relief.

‘I would say you’ve stepped up. Jack’ll be happy with that performance.’

‘Really?’

‘As long as I tell it right.’

Cole crinkled up his face, unsure if that was a threat. Alvina nudged him playfully.

‘What’s next on the docket, Little Fish?’

Cole scanned his list. ‘We’re meeting someone by the name of Kalie –’ He squinted at his handwriting and attempted the pronunciation again, stumbling each time.

‘Don’t bother,’ Alvina interjected. ‘Her parents weren’t kind to her on the naming front.’

‘The owner of the Bread & Batter.’ Cole skipped over the name as requested. ‘We have a sit-down with her at eight to discuss this week’s demand about repercussions.’

‘Someone looks at the woman badly and she insists we do something about it. Such a thorn. We have over an hour so what say we get something to eat? Your treat.’

‘Sure.’ Cole folded his ledger, only half hearing before finally stopping in realization. ‘Wait, I’m doing what now?’

* * *

The smells of Cook’s Alley were mesmerizing. Never had Cole experienced such a cacophony of aromas. Each stall was a bustle of noise with the talk of customers and the sizzle of grills, pans and woks. It was a place where food from all corners could be consumed, exotic dishes emanating from places few had heard of. The customers were usually labourers, looking for somewhere always open with hot, cheap food. It helped of course that the alcohol was just as varied, ranging from the incredible to the downright harmful. A handful of change could get someone a skinful, suiting the dockhands just fine.

Alvina was in her element. Everything about Cook’s Alley was delightful. The constant din of spatulas slapping meat and riotous laughter was a comfort. She visited at least once a week to indulge in her own personal euphoria. Usually this was a solitary affair, but seeing that Cole was of Settler blood she deemed it decent of her to share the experience.

‘Come on, we’re eating. All this has made me hungry.’

Cole glanced around at the vendors. He would rather put himself in front of a fireplace with a brandy and eat something resembling an actual meal than … whatever this was.

‘Where? Here?’

‘Oh what, do you have an aversion to street vendors, pretty boy? Afraid you’ll get grease on your nice, clean shirts?’ Alvina followed up her sarcasm with a batting of her eyelashes.

‘It’s not that. I’ve just never …’

She took him by the hand and pulled him over towards a nearby stall. ‘Then it’ll be an experience. Take that stick from your backside and park it down on a seat. This place will do.’

The only thing the stall was suitable for was contracting food poisoning. Everywhere he looked there was something that made him cringe – a disregard for cleanliness being the biggest culprit. The owner danced rice around in a pan, took a tumbler of wine to his lips then doused the pan’s contents with half of the drink. Jets of flame launched around as the alcohol ignited. All the cook did in response was drink the rest of the wine. The rice was slid into a bowl and garnished with who-knows-what before finally being slid across to a patron covered in too much hair and too many tattoos.

‘You should know I don’t judge a person by what they drink, only where they drink it,’ Cole grumbled.

‘Lucky for me your opinion means very little at the present moment. Come on, don’t be shy.’

On their approach the cook spied them and beckoned the pair over. He was seemingly oblivious as he put the pan back on the burner, and the remaining contents started to burn inside.

‘Alvina, my friend! Come, come out of the cold and inside.’

‘Marquis, it’s fine to see you. How is business?’

Marquis was a man who was either terribly aged or was ageing terribly. His stringy white hair was unkempt, his smile missing a few teeth. His face resembled a leather apron that had been balled up. Despite these very obvious and significantly distracting misfortunes, the eagerness he radiated was second to none.

‘Business is fine. No difficulty. Your friend?’

Cole gave his name whilst examining the ripped and soiled stool that would be his seat. The bar wasn’t any better, peppered with numerous cigarette burns and stains. The hairy patron beside him grunted as he devoured his meal, spraying grains of rice across the bar with a number landing in Cole’s lap.

‘Cole,’ Marquis cheered far too enthusiastically, reaching over the bar and shaking his hand vigorously, ‘nice to meet you.’

‘You as well.’ Cole withdrew his hand in defeat, finally sitting.

‘Do you eat?’

‘I don’t know,’ Cole asked, slightly taken aback at the broken language. He turned to Alvina, stifling a smile. ‘Do we?’

‘Be kind,’ she insisted, turning to the vendor. ‘Yes, we do. We will have pork buns, egg soup – peppered – and a fried apple, each.’

The order was hastily scribbled down onto a notepad with vigorous nodding. ‘Drinking?’

‘Two Red Sail Specials.’

Marquis grinned approvingly whilst scribbling into the notepad. ‘Warm nights, warm nights for you.’

Immediately he spun on his heel, retrieving a pair of glass tumblers. They were filled by a side-standing cask on the bar, a bright red liquid settling in the glasses before being slid across the bar top.

More rice scattered onto Cole’s trousers, but despite noticing, he now lacked the will to protest. The drink itself resembled equal parts diesel and paint thinner. With a brief inhalation Cole decided it was entirely feasible that those were its actual ingredients. He watched as Alvina drained half of the glass with a single swallow.

‘I won’t even ask what’s in that.’

‘Best not.’ Alvina spat out a cough. ‘I doubt he knows himself so don’t shame the poor man.’

Cole summoned the bravery to do the same. His initial assessment of the beverage was accurate, for as soon as the liquid was tossed back, his throat attempted to spit it back up. Finally, he swallowed it away and spluttered loudly, causing Marquis to hoot aloud whilst preparing the food. Alvina patted her colleague’s back firmly until he could speak once more.

‘Delightful,’ Cole lied, eyes still watering.

‘Just another thing for you to get used to if you’re slumming it with the rest of us.’ Alvina chuckled and sank the rest of her drink with one confident motion. Marquis instantly shuffled before them and refilled their glasses, much to Cole’s horror. The second went down just as easily as the first for Alvina. Cole, however, cradled his to make it last.

‘Mess up those clean hands, get dirt under those pretty fingernails …’

‘You can cut that out now,’ he whined, teeth gnashing in frustration.

‘Tell me something, Cole. You shun something like this, like you’re allergic to it. You even look down on me for simply suggesting this fine eatery. Why?’

‘No!’ Marquis gasped in shock, eavesdropping.

‘I’m afraid so, but don’t judge him too harshly – he has yet to taste your cooking. There is plenty of time to apologize.’

The proprietor grinned from ear to ear, shaking a spatula at the woman. He turned back to the griddle.

‘Why do you do that? Back to your roots ain’t it?’

Cole lowered his drink onto the bar, his eyes narrowing in question. ‘What are my roots exactly, seeing as you seem to be an expert on all things me?’ he probed, with a much more sour tone.

‘Now, now, don’t get all uppity. I meant no offence. I just meant you got Settler’s blood in you is all – just an observation I’m making. Settler folks get trod on, looked down upon, I should know … I’ve endured plenty of shunning. Name-calling. Some of the remarks made by the more uncouth folk are grounds for hurting.’

‘Some of that blood in you, is it?’

‘A tad.’ Alvina smiled. ‘My mother’s side. I figure that would be obvious just by looking at me.’ The woman rarely drew attention to her heritage, probably deeming it a moot point of conversation. It was likely only in his company that she felt comfortable enough to discuss it, even though she could have had more tact in her approach.

‘Then you know how hard it is to court respect from others when all they can see is the superficial – and judge you on it. It should never come down to the colour of skin. The place they’re born. Things like that are out of one’s control. Judging a person because of these qualities is unjust.’ Cole dashed a mouthful of the sour drink down his throat. ‘And money always, always underpins that. I can guarantee there’s not a villain you’ve heard of who doesn’t bathe in wealth.’

‘You’ve got money,’ Alvina pointed out.

‘Not any more I don’t thanks to Jack. That little stunt put plenty out of pocket. A lot of people, a lot of our kind, are out there wanting.’

‘Posh folk?’

‘Settlers,’ Cole corrected with a grunt. ‘Those whom we share blood with. They’re out there starving. Perishing in gutters. Others aren’t as lucky as us, to have a place to lay their heads and a meal ready. It’s our duty to correct that if we have the opportunity,’ Cole replied with a tint of anger to his words.

‘Yeah, well what should be and what transpires ain’t exactly bedfellows now, are they?’ Alvina tapped her coffee-coloured fingers upon the bar.

‘One’s heritage is out of one’s control. Judging a person because of that quality is unjust. Letting them die because of it is abhorrent.’

‘I suppose you’re right. But you’ve done good. Been elevated.’

Cole paused. ‘Let’s just say I’ve always been motivated to make a go of things despite circumstances to the contrary. What’s that old expression? Play the hand you’re dealt.’

‘Quite.’ She struck her glass against Cole’s own. ‘And to that I say ante up.’

Cole eventually had to confess that he didn’t mind his meal. It wasn’t perfect of course, far from it, but there was an ambiance that Cook’s Alley provided that made him forgo his usual stuffiness. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he relaxed, even to the point of enjoying the drink that he slowly poisoned himself with. Alvina commented that it was good to see him at ease for once. Sadly this would not last.

* * *

Their attention was taken by a group of men who were making their way through Cook’s Alley, obnoxiously loud and clearly unwelcome. They jeered and crowed, barging past anyone in their way and, at times, obstructing the path of others just to barge them to the ground. A good number had been drinking, judging by occasional stagger that a simple stride brought about.

‘Oh, that’s just plenty shiny that is,’ Alvina whined, staring deep into her drink.

‘Who’s the rabble?’ Cole quietly muttered.

‘The Sanders Boys. Just one of our many competitors,’ the woman stated.

‘No they’re not.’ Cole peered over his shoulder, eventually shaking his head. ‘Jack and I sold them for a score yesterday.’

‘Some of them no doubt, but not all. The Sanders Boys are one grand, ugly family that’s a straight-up annoyance. That mother of theirs spat them out like rabbits, one after the other like she was a factory of sorts. There was twelve at last count, not including cousins. I suppose with a litter of such size, criminality was all they could look forward to.’ Alvina steadied herself with a staggered exhalation.

‘Is this going to be an issue?’ Cole asked, keeping his voice low.

‘Not if we’re not noticed.’

Alvina hunched herself over her glass with the hope that the pair would remain incognito, only for the disastrous to happen. One of the Sanders Boys came over and leant between them, calling to Marquis.

‘Hey, old-timer. Three fingers of mash, four ales and whatever this pretty thing will drink when she leaves the bore beside her.’

His arm had dropped across Alvina’s shoulders, making her neck hair stand on end. It only took one glance to the woman beside him for his face to fall, for him to release his grip and step back.

Alvina said nothing, letting her stare convey her annoyance, while she finished the last of her soup. She’d hoped the man wouldn’t recognize her, would just see her as another woman annoyed at his chauvinistic advances when she was simply trying to eat.

‘Oh hell. What sort of a coincidence is this?’ the man cheered, waving for the attention of the others. ‘Fellas, come look-see, you won’t believe what I have stumbled upon.’

Luck seemed to be intent to shit upon her from up on high.

From behind, the collection of men, of varying ages and sizes, sauntered over. One showed great irritation at his prolonged sobriety.

‘All this commotion isn’t bringing me my drink any faster, Joey. What are you bleating about?’

‘I recognize this piece right here. This very piece. I’ve seen a bitch like her shake down folks in the street. Exactly like her in fact.’

‘Guys, there’s no need for that,’ Cole protested with his palms open, but he was firmly brushed from his stool with a wave of a muscular arm.

‘Oh yeah, I know who you are, girlie.’ Joey Sanders wagged his finger in her face. Alvina remained stone-faced. ‘I know exactly who you are. You’re a down and dirty Jackrabbit. What in the hell makes you think you’re validated in drinking in this establishment with the stunts you pull?’

Alvina tossed the last of her liquor from cheek to cheek before swallowing the burning away. Finally, and with not an unjust threat, she spoke.

‘You have a big mouth,’ she said. ‘In fact, you all have big mouths. Big mouths with big words, with a tendency to lead you into big trouble.’

Now provoked, the five behind Joey stepped closer.

‘I’ve got half a mind to drag you down the street by your hair and give you a going over,’ Joey stated.

‘At least you’re right about the half a mind part,’ she quipped.

‘No trouble!’ Marquis insisted, repeating himself louder in vague threat. ‘No trouble here! You do that, you do it elsewhere, you do it elsewhere away from here!’

Suddenly Marquis jabbed the air at Alvina and Cole. ‘You two are supposed to be protection! Protect!’

Alvina beckoned the man on the floor to rise with a wag of her fingers. ‘He’s got a point, Little Fish. Feet. Up on your feet with you.’

‘We’re protection?’ Cole asked, taking to his boots though quite unsure about what to do next.

‘For a portion of the nice stallholders’ profits. The ones who pay us of course.’

‘You’re protection?’ Joey repeated in surprise, louder. A couple of the men behind him sniggered loudly.

‘From the ugly – such as you – sure. Why not?’ Alvina shrugged.

Joey was the first to take a swing. He was fast, faster than someone should be with his bulk. He had obviously learnt how to throw a punch, to use his size as an asset. Sadly it would be for naught in this instance. Alvina slipped down on her stool, letting the fist arc overhead. During its course of travel she reached to her belt, withdrew a switchblade and shanked the aggressor in the thigh. It was a motion that she assumed would take the fight from him, though his roar of anger at his wound indicated it had done no such thing.

The second swing was faster, just as sizable, but it too missed its target. Alvina was already on her feet, had ducked beneath the punch and struck him with one of her own on his jaw. It was a decent punch though on a hardened chin caused nothing but surprise.

Before either party could react further, glass exploded between the pair of them. Cole stood frozen, still clenching the neck of a now shattered rum bottle that he had burst against the thug’s temple. It was enough to knock him out, and he landed in the dirt among the thick shrapnel of smoky bottle shards.

‘Thanks,’ Alvina said, though her attention turned to the others. As Cole tossed his defunct tool away, the Marquis abandoned his stall, as did others who had hoped for a quiet meal.

As the Sanders Boys advanced, Cole struggled to see any way out. He had already had one beating this week and was keen to ensure that it wouldn’t be repeated. His fists were raised in defence, trying to recall some of the boxing tips that his father had imparted.

‘Isn’t it a good time to show some iron to these folks?’

‘You don’t pull a gun out in a bar fight. It’s just not how an altercation is done,’ Alvina explained, waiting for the first unlucky fool to take their chance. One did so and was hip-tossed into a barstool, shattering it into pieces. She followed it up with a kick across the jaw, rendering him motionless.

A glint of steel flashed between them. The knife flashed, light sinking down the blade to its hilt. Its owner advanced aggressively and waved it back and forth.

‘And that?’ Cole asked, trying not to panic.

‘Well, that’s just unsporting.’

He watched Alvina flow through the air like liquid, darting and dodging every thrust, moves practised so much that they were committed to muscle memory. The knife pierced nothing but air and when a sufficient opening appeared, Alvina punished the thrust and ensured that the culprit would be unable to hold anything for a few weeks.

The cracking of bone caused the men to surge onward in a wave of malice. All Cole saw was Alvina landing punches into the cluster of bodies, scattering them this way and that.

That and the fist that knocked him out, sending the world to black.