Den of Shadows

by Christopher Byford

  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 a
bout 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.’