The bric-a-brac stallholder flagged down a Bluecoat who then paced away with purpose. He came back with five of his kind, pistols at the ready and weaving among the throng of bodies. As soon as they reached the Sanders Boys, they immediately overturned the stall, scattered the goods and clapped the men in handcuffs. The trunk was confiscated as evidence.
‘As I said before, bigger fish and all that.’ He rose, stretching his arms. ‘And if you’ll excuse me, I have business to conduct. Just stay here and observe.’
‘What kind of business this time?’
‘I’m taking a piss if that’s okay with you?’ Jack turned back. ‘And don’t eat any of my food while I’m gone.’
What Jack had said was mostly true, but beforehand, he met with the stallholders outside. A group had formed around him, taking turns to shake his hand. As he was asked to, Cole observed, watching this curious display, oblivious to the food placed before him and the empty place opposite. The sight of Jack bathing in the gratitude transfixed him – seeming a fair way from the crook he perceived Jack to be.
Eventually, Jack returned, wiping his damp palms across his trousers, seating himself and then rubbing his hands together in glee. The plate of bread, cheeses and meat didn’t seem much but was a triumphant banquet given recent events. It was only noon and already the day had been quite successful.
The waitress returned, this time with her tray empty but wearing quite the smile. She gestured to the food between them.
‘The good lady says these are on the house, and anything else you take a fancy to ordering. I guess you two must have found her sweet spot somehow. You’ll have to let me in on the secret when you’re done.’
From inside her apron she produced a brick of brown butcher’s paper, tightly bound by string.
‘With her compliments. And thanks.’
Jackdaw playfully nodded, watching her backside as the woman took her leave.
Cole, however, was too set on the package for his attention to be diverted. To satisfy his colleague’s curiosity, the paper was torn open, revealing a brick of paper money.
Cole spluttered his drink, wiping spots of foam from his lips. ‘How much is there?’ he asked, quite astonished.
‘Count it.’
Cole flicked through the notes with speed. When done, he restrained a knowing gasp. ‘That’s almost double what you would have got for offloading the merchandise.’
Jack noisily drained his second drink.
‘Exactly. The Sanders Boys stole what they could and were selling it off at this here market. If anybody objected they put muscle on them. Turns out, the boys were putting such a dent in the profits and faces of the other stallholders, they pooled their money together to buy a solution – which was me. I knew we were going to be roughed up by them, but it was necessary as we couldn’t just hand it over. They get some hot goods from us and attempt to sell them. The Bluecoats get word and haul them off. They’re put in cells for a few months, meaning I have no competition on their territory should I desire to encroach on it. Which I do.’ Jackdaw took a long draw on his drink and gasped in satisfaction. ‘And the fine, honest folk here get to go on with their livelihoods, unhindered.’
For the first time since their arrival, Cole formed something resembling a smile. ‘Clever.’
‘Ain’t it just? See what I mean about celebrating, now?’
Their tankards rang out as they struck them together.
Chapter Six
The thorn and the rabble
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 s
tupid. 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 hair
y 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.
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