Den of Shadows

by Christopher Byford

  * * *

  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 c
arriages 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 her
e, on your very good word, with no chance of a payoff. This grand plan of yours is, in fact, impossible, and we have wasted fuel and food to discover that.’

  Wyld pouted, disappointed at this admission of defeat. ‘That’s a rather blunt way of putting it but if you want to cut the deck like that.’

  Stool legs squeaked against the floorboards as Franco rose, patting himself down for his wallet and, when finding it, leaving it on his person. He looked down to the woman beside him, keen to express his frustration as vocally as he could muster, but decided to hold his temperament in check.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I have to try and salvage something from this visit. There are people who I need to pay, with money I don’t have.’

  ‘Hey, come on, we could still do this. I didn’t say it was impossible,’ Wyld whined.

  ‘Enough. I don’t want to hear another word.’ Franco tapped the bar to gain the tender’s attention, and when obtained, gestured to the empty glasses between them.

  ‘These are on her.’

  Chapter Five

  Bargaining Chips

  Lau Benge Repair Yard was one of the many small enterprises set up in Windberg to capitalize on the damage that trains sustained in the Sand Sea, natural or otherwise. There was nothing specifically unique about it. Its prices were no more expensive than anywhere else. Equally, its labour had no better or worse reputation in comparison to its competitors. The only reason why Franco chose it was because it was the closest.

  Squatted in the desert docks, the yard was adjacent enough to the wharf to perform service to the multitudes of vehicles that trundled past, mainly haulage trains that tugged lines of ore to the city’s smelting plants. Work was plentiful, as the excursions crossing the Sand Sea with multiple wagons stacked with ore were demanding.

  A single immense maintenance shed, its peaked roof rising higher than the surrounding warehouses, sheltering that which was brought inside by five sequential lines of track. Surrounding the maintenance floor were raised sections of limestone, a good fifteen feet from the ground with a circumference of safety railing. Up here, above the noise of hammering and drilling, was the yard manager’s office.