Den of Smoke: Absolutely gripping fantasy page turner filled with magic and betrayal

Shoot the runner

The first thing that Cole woke to was an acrid blast of smoke over his face. Or more specifically, it was the smoke that drove him to wake up. Immediately he lurched up in the simple bed he had been allocated and hacked the air from his lungs. When untainted air found its way to his throat, Cole cracked his eyes open and sneered at the culprit.

‘Good morning, sleepyhead. We were wondering if you were ever going to wake up,’ Blakestone taunted. He drew his thick cigar back to his leathery lips, punctuated with a toothy smile. Cole wafted away the haze between them.

‘Like anybody could sleep with that crap in their face. Do you have to do that?’

‘Yep.’

‘Could you do it elsewhere?’

Blakestone took another slow draw and exhausted it above him with the cockiest of smiles. The ash fluttered onto Cole’s cheek.

‘Nope.’

‘That figures. What time is it at least?’

‘Dawn. Or thereabouts.’

‘Civilized people sleep during this time,’ Cole protested, wiping the accumulated debris from his eyes. His ears adjusted to the vigorous chatter that was loud enough to be picked up, but dull enough to be a droll.

‘What is that racket?’ he called in borderline frustration.

‘Downstairs is a machine shop. There’s some thirty who work there, putting together clothes, that sort of thing. It makes the place look legitimate, so our coming and going isn’t suspicious.’

‘They’re too loud and it’s too early for my liking.’

‘Not for what we have planned. Come on, up.’ Blakestone hoisted himself to his feet, forcing the releasing springs to jolt back to their normal position. ‘You’re a Jackrabbit now. We don’t do lie-ins. Complaining, neither.’

Cole begrudgingly took leave of his bed and wiped his face with a hand. He staggered to a dirtied window and wiped the dust, peering out into the streets. It was relatively deserted with the exception of the convoy of stallholders, each transporting their goods by cart and horse to the marketplace and bazaar. Birds had only just started to rise with their songs greeting the rusty hues of the flaring sky.

The safe house was an inconspicuous affair, a two-tiered building nestled in an equally inconspicuous street in an established factory district. The downstairs was a factory floor, with workstations all adorned with large rolls of prepared cloths, the accompanying employees working sewing machines since the beginning of their shifts. Upstairs was off limits to the staff and the keys were held by Jackdaw and his cronies alone. It was spacious and open with functional room divides, though lacked comfort. Most of the floors were bare apart from patches of foreign rugs on walking areas to create an improvised carpet. Furniture was sparse, simple and wooden, most situated around a kitchen area. The kitchen itself was built around a large green iron cooker, a behemoth of a thing with numerous enamelled doors. Windows were few but made up in size for what they lacked in quantity, most grubby and in need of cleaning.

Piled in corners were goods, provisions and assorted randomness, mostly crated up or in trunks, most seeping into what constituted as a communal bedroom. Here, single iron bedframes lined the walls, a number still empty. Sleeping together built camaraderie, preached Jackdaw, though he himself had a room of his own, separated by a wooden beaded curtain making its interior difficult to see, as did his demand that nobody enter without his permission.

After a quick attempt at a wash, Cole stared at himself in a fractured mirror, towelling himself down. His eyes hung heavy, bagged from when good sleep had eluded him. Finding Jackdaw had granted little time for rest and the places where he gained some were not places one willingly would relax in. Remarkably, last night was the most comfortably he had rested in the last couple of months, which was no doubt why he felt such animosity at being woken in such a detestable fashion.

‘So what’s the plan for today?’ Cole enquired, met by Alvina who took to the sink to fill a glass of water. She consumed a mouthful and reached under the countertop, before offering him a cast-iron pan that was well used and alarmingly heavy. ‘You’re on cooking duty. You best get a shake on – we’re hungry.’

‘You’re kidding right?’

She paused, almost surprised at the response. ‘I never joke when I’m hungry.’

The upcurl of Cole’s bottom lip prompted further explanation.

‘Look. It’s your first day so let me lay it out for you,’ she stated, expressing with her hands. ‘Are you familiar with what we actually do?’

‘No.’

‘Have you held up a bank before? Shaken down anyone for protection money?’

‘No.’

‘Muscled in on some territory owned by another?’

‘Well, no.’

‘Then you’ll need to learn all the things that we do. That means you get to start at the bottom, the very bottom. And the bottom, right here, is that kitchen around ten minutes ago.’

Cole stared, dumbfounded.

Jackdaw presented himself, loudly clearing his throat and spitting out the contents. The curtain fell back with a staggered rattle. He smelt the air and took in the serene silence of the early morn, calm, unbroken and all quite unacceptable.

‘Now I know there isn’t discord in the ranks so I’m baffled as to why I hear no breakfast being made.’

A chair was yanked out, squeaking across boards as it took his weight. A long, inquisitive forefinger checked his ears for debris. He yawned widely, like a lion would when sat among its pride.

‘The new blood is a little slow on the uptake, boss, sorry. No breakfast yet.’

‘Is this some sort of running joke on the new guy?’ Cole whined.

Jackdaw immediately glanced to Alvina. ‘I’m hungry. Does he know that we don’t joke about that?’

‘Oh, he knows.’

‘Good.’ Jackdaw turned back to Cole to add his own voice as encouragement. ‘Because we just don’t joke about that.’

Cole was a good cook. He knew this. Those he once called friends knew this, before he left them all behind. In fact, among them, Cole was always asked to organize the food as any other was dull in comparison to his talents. He could work a kitchen. Being moneyed, he was used to fine ingredients too: black bass from Surenth’s flanking oceans. Pink truffles from Eifera. Cruden gold wheat.

So it came as a surprise that he had to work under such restrictive conditions. It took some trial and effort to get to grips with the ancient monstrosity that passed for an oven. With enough wood, it harboured a fine fire, radiating great heat within its iron belly. The cuts of meat looked like a blind lumberjack had taken a saw to them. These details, just two of a score, made the affair a lot more tedious than it needed to be.

Damning his pride, Cole proceeded to lay thick strips of smoked bacon into a pan before breaking eggs into another. Immediately the room was swamped with the hearty smell of a good breakfast, a smell that set anybody up for the day’s hardships. Toast was made. Tomatoes fried. It was menial work, a fact that Cole was more than aware of, but he was also mindful that this was the first undertaking on a long road ahead.

And he was going to get his money no matter what pains he had to endure.

With stomachs full the Jackrabbits were far more content and considerably less grouchy. Jack began joking with those in his company and even Blakestone reined in his thorny complaints. Cole barely noticed, being that he was kept busy at the stove, doing nothing but preparing food, cooking food and inadvertently sweating into the food.

When the others had been fed, he took time himself to putting a couple of sausages between two pieces of bread. Originally he was cautious about eating, even going so far as asking permission, but when he was told that they didn’t care, he indulged. Not only that but in an act of outrageous defiance, he took one more sausage than necessary. A perk he justified to himself.

Jackdaw rubbed his belly with contentment, dislodging any debris between his teeth with a toothpick. A good breakfast was the underpinning of a successful day. After all, one couldn’t cause all manner of mischief on an empty stomach.

‘Ah. Now that’s more like it. How’s his coffee?’

‘Let’s find out.’ Blakestone tilted his chair back and called his order. ‘Coffee?’

‘Coffee it is.’ Cole withheld his whining and instead simply got to work. Naturally, upon its discovery, the coffee was just as disappointing as the rest of the provisions that occupied cupboard space. He worked the beans as best he could, roasting a couple of handfuls in an iron skillet and tossing them with extravagant flicks of the wrist.

Alvina looked a mite impressed, relaying the occasional observation between those at the table just out of earshot. When done, Cole drained off four cups of the black stuff and carried them over.

There was a slow pattering of feet up the stairs, the chattering of sewing machines from the factory floor, shrill and loud, as the door swung open. Shuffling his way inside, an older gentleman – with wispy white hair protruding from a mottled scalp and long grooves through the folds of his face – carried rolls of paper up beneath an arm. Gold-framed glasses dangled on the length of his reddened nose, seemingly oversized for his fragile face. He eased the door to a close and shuffled on over. A deep inhalation drew in the coffee’s aroma.

‘There’s service for you. It normally takes an age before the wife is awake enough to get to pouring a cup. I can barely function at this time without it in me. How is it?’ The old man pulled out a chair by its back and claimed it as his own.

‘We’re about to find out. I’ll leave it to someone else to try it first.’ Blake chuckled, dropping sugar cubes into his drink.

‘I’ll pass then. I’ll rather go thirsty than suffer some gut-rot. I’ll leave the risk to you,’ the coot dismissed, seating himself among the others with annoying familiarity. His rolls of paperwork thundered onto the table, accompanied by the morning newspaper that was passed to his superior. Jackdaw snapped it open, immediately looking for any mention of them, or other unlikables.

Cole set the coffee pot upon the stove plate a little too firmly, soon shadowed by Blake who was hunting for leftovers, mug in hand.

‘Who’s this guy?’ Cole asked a little too loudly.

‘Ralust,’ Blake flatly answered, stirring his drink with a silver spoon that haphazardly struck the ceramic sides in music. ‘This is our go-to man when we need paperwork done. Forgeries. Sign-offs.’

‘You do me too little credit. You may as well hand me a broom,’ Ralust barked. Clearly Cole hadn’t been as discreet as he had hoped.

‘Yes, yes, enough with the griping. I wasn’t finished.’ Blake secured an unclaimed sausage and indulged, educating Cole further. ‘He gets his grubby skeleton-like mitts on such delights as blueprints and shipping manifests. You get the idea. Our old codger here is something of a golden ticket to us bad people.’

‘Your golden ticket is being stretched thin with all these demands of yours,’ Ralust grumbled loudly, arranging his paperwork into a more suitable, organized collective. ‘I’m telling you, if you keep pushing threats on the dock quartermaster he’s going to have me shot before my undertaking of retirement.’

* * *

Jack found this quite amusing, smirking behind the yellowed paper. Old men’s griping was, to him, a waste of breath. Threats could be made and lines drawn, but here it was the nature of men to never settle nor stay still. Retirement was a luxury few could afford in the Sand Sea.

‘Men like you don’t retire, Ralust. You’ll just get bored and come back for another last job until you breathe your last. What’s the verdict on the coffee?’ He scanned all around him.

‘I’ve drunk worse,’ Alvina muttered, taking another sip.

‘I’ve drunk better,’ Blakestone disagreed, curling his lips.

Jackdaw finally lifted his eyes from the print and towards the kitchenette. ‘Congratulations, Little Fish, you’re not out on his ass just yet. Like I always say, you can judge a person’s character by the coffee they make.’

‘You’re too generous, Jack. Word used to be that you would shoot someone over a bad cup of coffee,’ Blake muttered.

‘I’ve mellowed in my old age.’

‘Mellowed. Right.’ Blake punctuated his sarcasm with the raising of eyebrows.

‘Plus this generosity stretches to you not needing to wrestle beasts out in the Sand Sea for a trapper’s pittance. You can thank me for that any time you like.’

‘The floor is dirty. These jeans are clean. If you think I’m getting on my knees in thanks then you can keep waiting.’

‘Are we done yet? Can we get down to work?’ Ralust grizzled, unfurling his rolls of charts across the table. ‘All this yapping is making me impatient.’

Jack struck the old man’s back playfully in agreement.

‘Let’s go over today. Alvina, we had that trouble with some youngsters causing hassles for the nice people paying protection money in the gold district. You get to go down there and persuade them to stop.’

‘How persuasive?’

‘Enough to make sure they have trouble lifting things. Any problems with that?’

‘None at all.’

‘Good to hear. Ralust?’

‘Boss?’

‘Word is, the taxman is going to be paying us a visit soon. I need to know what options we have.’

‘That’s easy: lies or bribery.’

‘Pick one and run with it.’

‘Got it.’ Ralust began to scribble details down into a well-used leather ledger.

‘Cole?’

* * *

Cole looked up from cleaning the surfaces, a job that had clearly been previously ignored and would take him considerable time.

‘Yes, Jack?’ The air felt thick as all eyes turned on him, glaring. Immediately Cole corrected his mistake. ‘Sorry, I mean boss.’

The ceramic cup was shaken in Jack’s hand. ‘Refill.’

‘Right.’

‘Blake, take a stroll over to the docks and put the feelers out. There’s a few ships rolling in. See if there’s any deckhands who can be easily persuaded to miscount any offloaded cargo. Get Ralust to give you the list of this week’s buyers and what they’re on the lookout for.’

‘Shall do.’ Blake ground his cigar into a smoky glass ashtray.

‘Well? Everyone has their roles. Let’s get to work. The day is waiting.’

* * *

When everyone had cleared out to perform their individual tasks, the hideout fell significantly quieter. Cole’s frantic scrubbing of pans and the factory din filled the void.

Jack took his corduroy suit jacket from a stand that inhabited a corner. He peered out into the streets via a clean spot on the window, taking in the untarnished blue sky. Those outside went about their business, unhurried, a trend adopted by most in Esquelle. Mornings weren’t built for rushing about.

He sauntered to a large single-pane piece of glass and looked down onto the factory itself. Each workstation was accompanied by someone who twisted and turned fabric with speed, as their sewing machine continued its repetitive clatter. The foremen walked about between them, dispensing advice and ensuring all went smoothly. On the surface these individuals, older women mostly, were simply disposable labourers, but that was a deliberate deception. They were each well paid, not only to do their jobs, but also to keep their mouths shut. They were moles, informants, bribers, relayers of gossip and a vital part of the Jackrabbits’ network. Dismissing them as just workers would be a disservice, for they were capable and handy.

A foreman waved to the management upon noticing he was being watched. Jack acknowledged with a dip of the head.

‘Cole.’

‘Yes, boss?’ he said, up to his wrists in suds.

‘Finish that up and lace your boots. You’re with me today. I’ve got something for you to get stuck into.’

* * *

Papers were stacked in uneven piles, some bleeding into others. Just from a glance Cole felt his stomach fall through the floor. Purchase orders, receipts, inventories, and scores of what else almost mocked him in intimidation. The mass was a complex collection with no attempt of organization, or at least not one that met normal conventions. Cole guessed things were just piled up on top of one another. Never had he been in the presence of such a fiasco.

‘This is your attempt at bookkeeping?’ he asked, aghast.

‘Not mine. Ralust has a very unique way of filing. Or he did, until he just gave up and began tossing things in here.’ Jack flicked a roll-up from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘I’m assuming as much at least. I won’t pretend to know the intricate details of you numbers people. I just know what I see and what I see is that substantial pile being messy.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I thought that would be obvious.’ Jack grinned, removing his cigarette and letting the ash drift to the floor. ‘Un-mess it.’

‘You sure know how to force a heart attack on me. Don’t need a weapon to do so, I tell you that much.’ Cole began to sieve through the first pieces of paper within his reach. ‘Invoices. IOUs. There’s plenty here that doesn’t match convention. It’ll take me …’

‘How long do you need?’

Cole, still feeling traumatized, flatly responded. ‘The end of time itself by the looks of this.’

‘You have three days,’ Jack compromised, or at least, it was a compromise to him.

‘Wonderful.’

‘Call me if there’s anything that you need.’ Jack corrected himself: ‘Actually, make it Alvina or Blake. Best to call one of those two. I’ll be busy.’

‘Wait, is this safe?’ Cole asked.

‘Nothing we do is strictly safe, Little Fish …’

‘No, I mean this record keeping. Anybody could read it.’

‘The written word is easily accessible to most with working eyes. That’s sort of its point of being.’

‘That’s not what I’m getting at. Do you want me to encode it? Make it so that only we can tell the coming and goings, just in case the worst should happen?’

‘You can do that, can you?’

‘Yeah. It’ll take me a little longer but in this line of work it would be good –’ Cole hesitated to find the correct word, awkwardly grinning as he did so ‘– er … insurance?’

Jack entwined his arms, reciprocating the expression and cocking a brow. ‘Insurance, huh? And who would be able to decode it?’

‘Myself. You. Whoever you wanted that we taught the cypher to.’

Jackdaw frowned at the term, clearly attempting to pair it with its meaning. Cole witnessed the struggle and offered the solution.

‘Cypher. The key.’

‘Just us will be fine. Do whatever you need to do.’

‘I’ll probably need an extra day,’ Cole bargained, lifting a stack of loose papers from the desk chair. They slid under their own weight, noisily scattering about at his feet.

‘Nice try but you still have three,’ Jackdaw answered.

* * *

In those three days, Cole set himself to work and did so every minute he was able to. He ate at the desk, clearing a space to work with his master ledger and a space for a plate and cup. These areas were not compromised with loose papers, maintaining a working area that prevented confusion and further clutter. Firstly he sorted each item by date, then type, then attempted to bind it all together in whatever logic could be mustered from it all. He slept around five hours a night, and spend at least fifteen working away at the task at hand.

As gruelling as a routine as this was, progress was being made. A comprehensive list of the Jackrabbits’ dealings was coming to light, something that the law would kill for. Acquisition by theft was numerous. Embezzlement was dotted here and there. Bribery of many local officials – and some regional – made a good part of expenditures, the trade-off being acquisition of goods, some small and others in impressive scores. Recorded stock was all over the place, with goods going this way and that, sometimes sold, sometimes vanishing into the air and marked as a loss.

But as much of a picture this was creating, there were a couple of curiosities Cole stumbled upon. They were things that merited deeper investigation and so, he chased the paper trail only to be sent in loops and eventual dead ends. Cole decided that the best course of action was just to come out and ask about them to the ones who would best know.

* * *

‘There he is. The numbers man. Good thing you’re not at the table. I would have to accuse you of counting cards.’ Blake tilted his chair back, his chips considerably lower than any others on the table. He swigged a mouthful of beer despite his slur indicating he should show restraint. He always drank whenever the group played cards, smoked like a bonfire too. Sadly, displacing his attention into these vices caused plenty of overzealous bluffs, which even a blind man could identify. Not that the others complained of course. Taking Blake’s money never got old. The day he caught on to this would be the day their fun was ruined.

‘Lucky for both of us I won’t be winning your money by the fistful. It seems like everyone else at the table is doing it for me,’ Cole jabbed.

‘He’s not wrong there.’ Alvina snickered, taunting the winnings she had alleviated from him.

Jack placed his cards face down on the veneer. ‘Are you thinking of joining us or is there something you want to ask about that there stack of papers under your arm?’

‘I’ve got most of this in order but there’s a discrepancy that needs sorting. I was hoping somebody could clear it up for me.’

‘Go on.’ Jack sipped from a glass.

Cole cleared his throat loudly. ‘Large sums of monies are shifting back and forth with constant losses. All of these share something in common. Manifests, notes, they all loop back to the same thing.’

‘What’s the point?’ Blake asked, failing to look up from his cards. He was already forty bucks in the hole and the last thing he wanted was to be put off whilst attempting to bluff his way out.

‘The point is, some of these are initialled with D.K. So my question is …’ he placed the stack of paperwork and the completed, encoded ledger on the table, loudly and with purpose ‘… who exactly is Donovan Kane?’

All three lowered their cards in unison.

‘Want to field this one, boss?’ Blakestone folded his hand and anxiously vacated his seat to fetch himself a smoke. He could bleed money some other time. Alvina felt it fit to follow. Suddenly, her throat had become dry and booze within reach wouldn’t have sated it.

‘Sit, Cole,’ Jackdaw insisted, waving at the still-warm chair. Complying, Cole did so. ‘How did you come about that name?’

‘Handwritten letter dictating a telegram. Telephone message here referring to a date that I traced to an inventory slip with the initials on. That date would be tomorrow. It looks like an invitation of sorts with your name on it.’

Jack took the paperwork as his own and surveyed it with the utmost scrutiny. Unfortunately it was true. What was worse was that this slip-up was in his own handwriting. It was quite unusual for him to be so sloppy.

‘It’s a name you don’t want to become accustomed to,’ he added with determination.

‘I hate to break it to you, but it seems like I already am.’

Jack’s tone became solemn, borderline threatening almost. ‘Mr Kane is an individual we do not like to speak of. As far as you are concerned he is a voice on the wind. A voice that we very much pay attention to.’

‘… okay. And you’re seeing him tomorrow, correct?’

‘That I most certainly am. The crux of it is that he is our benefactor, or sponsor if you will. He finances this here enterprise and we pay in kind. No questions. No fuss. Setting something like this up requires tribute in every form it could possibly take. I do not expect you to become accustomed to such a thing and that’s not a black mark against your living. We are indebted to him in the literal and the monetary sense. Like I said to you, there’s always a bigger fish.’