Den of Stars

Some debts can’t be repaid.

The Gambler’s Den lies in ruins, its staff scattered across the Sand Sea, all but a memory of the minds of its past patrons. But when the Morning Star appears, ruled by a mysterious figure known only as the Hare, the comparisons can’t be helped. Who is this larger-than-life character? Why do the showgirls wear masks? What are they hiding? The answer…they should be dead.

Franco and Misu were safe only in their anonymity, but with Franco gone Misu must find him – jeopardizing all they have built. In order to save the man she trusts Misu must put her faith in the villain.

Wilheim does not forget disobedience lightly, and Misu’s was a great betrayal, so now he will call in his debt, and his revenge on the staff of the Morning Star.

Den of Stars

Christopher Byford

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Endpages

Copyright

CHRISTOPHER BYFORD

was born in 1980 in Wellingborough, England. He learnt to walk whilst holding on to a golden retriever and fondly remembers the days of BMX bikes and conker matches. He left college to suffer as an IT Manager for a small multinational before, in his words, escaping to Gloucester. After working for some large tech companies he seized the opportunity to become a full-time author. It was the best thing he’s ever done.

In the last few years Chris has penned various tales, DEN OF SHADOWS being his most prominent.

Away from literary things, his interests include all things VW Campervans, gardening, photography, astronomy and chicken keeping.

He finds talking about himself in the third person rather pedantic and could murder a cold pint of cider right about now.

Acknowledgements

Den of Stars was born from mystery and intrigue. It’s only fair that this theme extends to those who I wish to thank. Instead of being named here on a page that’s almost certain to be skipped, I ensured their contribution was acknowledged in a different manner. I approached these individuals and asked them for their input to be included – maybe the name of a product, maybe a turn of phrase, maybe one of these things, maybe both and more.

I leave it up to you to find out.

Naturally I am indebted to Hannah and all those at HQ, whose tireless pursuits have brought what you are reading now into existence. Helena managed to buff the tale into something presentable and has my undying thanks.

And of course, to you.

To all those who have used their second chance and done well by it

For my wife Emma and our son Abel

Prologue

It was traditional for funerals in Surenth to begin before the dawn.

The dead may not have minded the high temperatures that the region was well known for, but for those still living, it was an uncomfortable burden to endure. Nobody wanted to watch loved ones be buried in the stifling midday heat, so it was just before the sun cracked that the funeral procession began to march.

As the morning stars straddled the sky, threatened by the pale glow of the sun watching from the horizon, the city of Windberg stopped what it was doing. Stallholders slowed setting up their wares for the day’s trading, their attention now ensnared elsewhere. Some shopkeepers kept their signs set to closed with the intention of keeping them so for the day out of respect for the dead. Even the deckhands for the sand ships, busy loading and unloading the large imposing vehicles at the docks, slowed their work on account of the noise that lingered in the still morning air.

Those who intended to attend the proceedings were already prepared, congregating on street corners, appropriately dressed and aware of the planned route. Others who woke to the commotion wearily watched from their windows.

There was music playing, a rallying cry for those familiar with the deceased and his work. The band consisted of brass instruments primarily, accompanied by the beat of drums and the high melodies of clarinets. Each attendee was dressed in formal beige-coloured suits, unjacketed with white shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. The music, though loud enough to be heard over the morning’s bustle, remained intimate in style to coax further mourners to the mass.

Every street the procession passed, more joined the collective. They each did so for their own reasons, a number doing so out of morbid curiosity rather than a desire to pay their respects. A trumpet blared a melody, the drums keeping a slow pom-pom-pom in time, relaxed and effortless.

Leading the route a brilliant black coach, adorned with golden accents, was drawn by a quartet of equally brilliant black horses with complementary gilded decoration on their straps and tugs. The interior was hidden with curtains, as were its occupants, who never parted the fabric to take stock of how many followed nor how close they were to their destination.

The coachman himself was well suited and groomed and gripped the reins, steering the animals through every district before them, the passing streets of Windberg transforming from wealth to starved to decadent and back again. The horses’ pace was never quick enough to encourage those behind to rush.

The river of bodies trickled to the city limits, spilling into a parasol-laden procession that moved into the desolate waste beyond. Stone was replaced with sand, the dawn sun lingering low and yet to fully show its radiance and heat. The desert was unkind and uncaring, forcing the people to move around boulder and thorny bush as they followed the main rail line north that would lead through a gorge and out into the Sand Sea itself. The coach trundled along the surface, the horses maintaining their composure at all times.

Still the band played and the feet marched.

Behind, an army of well-wishers made their way, following the northern train line from the grand city of Windberg northwards. Here, miles out from the city itself, the track ran into a canyon, its deep, steep sides sheltering such transportation from the harsh elements. The land began to ebb down the rail line flanked by steep cliffs of marbled stone, eroded by a combination of harsh wind and time. Soon the shy sun was hidden away by the formation, long shadows painting canyon walls in gloom.

From this turn and that, following the snaking contours, finally they arrived at their destination. The music stopped. Nobody spoke. The coach was immediately brought to a halt.

Before them, up ahead and squatting at the side of the track were the remains of the once proud Gambler’s Den.

The locomotive had slipped the tracks during its escape from both the law and the lackeys of a criminal. This, coupled with its engine exploding, left it as nothing but wreckage.

But the Gambler’s Den was no mere train. It was a legend in the east of Surenth. Its appearance formally announced with a cryptic banner, promising plenty and encouraging a fever of wanton speculation. Nobody knew what the Gambler’s Den actually was, except for those who had listened to the stories from other places about a wonderment that proudly rode the tracks across the Sand Sea.

Occasionally someone who had entertained drunken stories might have dismissed it as being just a train, but it was just a train as much as the sun was just a star and the unenlightened were informed as such. The only way your opinion mattered was if you were once in its presence, if you drank from the well of pleasure that it proffered. Anything else was speculation or outright lies.

When word reached the city of Windberg that the Gambler’s Den was in the throes of some dramatic escape from bandits, they assumed that the accompanying Bluecoats chasing were en route to protect it. So the story went at least. Some of the papers ran stories that differed, daring to suggest that there were other factors at work, the most prominent being the notion that the Den was up to no end of dishonest pursuits.

This was incorrect. Caught up in a whirlwind of blackmail and downright bad luck, its owner, one Franco Del Monaire, had intended to escape both parties.

The state of the train was heartbreaking. The Gambler’s Den had been reduced to a charred shell. Its boiler and innards had been flayed by an uncontrolled surge of pressure, causing an explosion. Flues were outstretched like metal spider legs. The chassis was warped from the heat, forcing the remains to slouch at the trackside after being moved and the line itself had been repaired. For those who saw the Gambler’s Den during one of its spectacles, it was difficult to take in.

The people parted as the coachman performed his duty, climbing down and opening up the door. He invited the individuals to join them, with all surrounding the vehicle silent in reverence.

Seven women took the steps from their carriage, flat shoes landing in the sand, forming a procession. They wore complementary outfits, similar in appearance though with significant nuances to set them apart. Each outfit was the colour of emerald, with mustard and black trimming over the plunging necklines, collars and hems. They were beauties each, quite well versed on finery and pageantry, a trait unshaken despite the morbid circumstances. Tall stood alongside short, black and blonde hair alongside shocks of ginger. All held their nerves in check and restrained tears that were bubbling dangerously close to the surface.

The last to step out was a man, nowhere near as finely dressed but still on the right side of smart. His face was ghostly, clearly suffering from little sleep and troubling vices. His first steps were unsteady, corrected with the awareness of the score of onlookers, though he drew less attention than the women themselves. His clothes were creased and scruffy, tossed on with little care – one would assume, and correctly so.

With a few reassuring gestures from the most senior among them, the women began the last of their journey with the man bringing up the rear. They all moved to the head of the ensemble, dresses, coats and scarves trailing in the subtle breeze that had picked up from the Sand Sea, as if it attempted to nudge them each to reconsider their movements. Some of the women held hands, clasping tightly to one another for comfort.

The sun had risen higher now and its heat was beginning to bear down. They were not to speak, as was the tradition of these things. Others spoke on their behalf and in this instance, a short, stocky man – dressed in a grey pinstripe suit and round hat – had been hired for the occasion. He had no need to check his pocket for the folded notes, elaborating on the schedule, the involved names, or circumstances for all of these were already committed to memory. The number of people didn’t intimidate him, for he was a professional and excelled in his craft.

Taking himself to the head of the procession he raised his arm for everyone’s attention. It was given without hesitation, unabated by the gravitas of the proceedings.

‘We are here to celebrate, not to mourn! It would be easy to be sad at a time like this, but this is not the way things were done aboard the Gambler’s Den. Appropriately it is not what will be done today,’ he called loudly.

The unkempt man between the women rolled his eyes, reaching for an absent hip flask.

‘What occurred here was a tragedy on a grand scale. When the wheels of the Gambler’s Den stopped spinning, the shock pierced many a breast. No one could have fathomed such a disaster to occur on the outskirts of our home. Those on board were innocent victims caught up in the blight of criminality that rots away and troubles our virtuous people, at the very soul of our fine city. Yes, it was a tragedy! The papers spreading discord with their falsities, but I can tell you now with the word of the law beside me, those on the Gambler’s Den did no wrong. Those among us, the family of this fine performance piece, have lost two of our own.’

Among them the city sheriff, Alex Juniper, swelled beneath his deep navy tunic. His reasons for attending were his own, for he was not a fan of the ruckus the Gambler’s Den brought to the city – far from it in fact. Upon its arrival he sought to have it impounded, given that some on board were fraternizing with criminals, but this obligation bore quite a different outcome. The catastrophe resulted in ensnaring a much grander prize – with help of one of the Den’s own.

Juniper made occasional observations of the faces within the crowd, looking for any sign of someone attempting to disturb the proceedings out of malice. In particular he stole glances at the haphazardly dressed man nestled within the envelope of women. He in turn noticed and stopped frisking his jacket for a drink.

The announcer spoke the names with utmost esteem, his booming voice proud and weighty.

‘Misu Pontain. Manager. Performer. Described by those who knew her as a kind individual, a mother to those desiring compassion, a sister to those needing a sibling.’

The rough-looking man scoffed beneath his breath, finding an elbow dug into his hip for silence.

‘And Franco Del Monaire. Entertainer. Showman. The beating heart of the Gambler’s Den itself, its founder no less! I am sure that Franco himself would have preferred to be buried along with his love, the grand old train that brought such delight to so many, evident today with the presence of you all.’

A smattering of sobs broke out from within the mass. They were allowed to sputter out, the culprits consoled with embraces.

‘We celebrate these momentous individuals with the lives we lead. They will hear us in the embrace of the Holy Sorceress, hearing our celebrations in their stead, warmed at the notion that what they brought us will continue in kind. Revelry exists in the hearts of each and every one of you. Share what you have been shown with the world.’

When it fell quiet once more, the announcer held his arms wide.

‘I, and those who have lost their loved ones, invite you all to share your tokens of appreciation for the departed.’

Now the bodies moved of their own accord, each patiently taking their turn to approach the Gambler’s Den with the greatest reverence. For a number of them, the grief was too overwhelming, with sporadic bursts of sobs emanating from inside the mass. When at the wreckage, some prayed and some touched the contorted metalwork.

Small strips of paper were passed around, as was ink and pens, with sentiments being constructed into words and folded in half. These were placed delicately, or stuck to the Gambler’s Den, until it resembled a moulting bird, its feathers goldenrod mentions of love and promises that gently flapped in the dry desert breeze.

One of those searching for the right words finally wrote them down, reviewing each one in turn and rereading them over and over. The handwriting was crooked in places but still quite legible, on account of a troublesome injury. The message was simple and direct. It was a modest truth that the woman had found upon reflecting, and stuck it to the metal before fading away into the crowd, her place quickly taken by another. The note simply stated:

‘Death will not stop the show.’

Chapter 1

The admittance of debt

Sunway Boarding House was spacious, open-plan, and finely furnished, with the lower floor separated between lounge, dining area, and kitchen. Each of these was partitioned with sparse chestnut wood dividers, with most of the house’s support being undertaken by rows of bulky timber. Deep maroon carpet coated the floor and details had been erected with stone, framing seating areas, chimneys, and open fireplaces.

A cacophony of decorations filled almost every scrap of wall space. Maps of the region, both outdated and modern, were pinned here and there. There were pastel pictures of prominent local figures with their names declared in brass plaques beneath their stony faces, though their importance was lost on the current occupants. Animal skulls were presented in a display cabinet, some large, some small, almost all parading sharp teeth. Oil lamps were affixed to walls with frosted glass shades sporting fabulous decorations.

The kitchen was dominated by an iron behemoth of a cooker, enclosed by an embracing stone fireplace that also included recesses for cutlery and utensils. The fire inside was still at an adequate heat, its fuel glowing and giving. Upstairs were the bedrooms, six in total, compact rooms in truth but still significantly more generous than the space allocated in a train bunk car. It was a delightful abode, spacious and comfortable. For the survivors of the Gambler’s Den, it was the closest thing they had to home.

With their residence destroyed, the women had found themselves homeless. Thankfully the local press had caused quite the uproar in their favour, describing how these pure, innocent victims of criminality were soon to be living on the streets. It would be in Windberg’s best interests to offer these women charity and shelter, for the time being at least. The paper columns argued that the showgirls would be a fine addition to the city’s elite.

Sunway Boarding House – all of it – was offered immediately, seeing that securing the survivors of the Gambler’s Den was sure to raise the landlord’s profile. The bragging rights alone would secure passage to prominent dinner parties and social functions for its owner, something excitedly speculated about, which indeed came to fruition. The actual cost of their lodgings was never brought into consideration. The women insisted they paid their way of course, but this was for naught and any expenses were covered by a number of generous, anonymous benefactors.

The door front clattered open allowing the previous employees of the Gambler’s Den to trickle inside. They flowed from space to space, finding seat and sofa to rest weary feet that noisily dragged over floorboard, rug, and carpet. Kitty brought up the rear, holding the door ajar, the shortest of all those in attendance though her contagious spark more than made up for her lack of stature. With it she may as well be seven foot tall. Her glittering blue eyes narrowed at the causes of the daily noise in Windberg’s streets and the immediate surroundings:

The legion of horses pulling goods to the docks, carts rattling with every turn of the wheels.

The busker on the street corner playing a guitar, strumming vigorously for coin.

The gaggle of children who chased one another into patches of alleyway shade, manoeuvring around someone who had stepped out for a late morning smoke.

At last coming inside, she drew the door to a close.

‘I need something to drink.’ The small blonde woman shuffled off into the kitchen and set about rummaging through the cupboards for something to cure her headache.

‘I need plenty more than just the one. I was not ready for that, none of it. Kitty, dear, fetch the coffee would you? The good coffee,’ Corinne clarified. ‘The northern stuff.’

‘It’s costly, that.’

‘Can you think of a better occasion?’

‘Incredibly expensive blend it is, then.’

Corinne took heavily to a lounger. With a flick, she relieved her feet of her shoes and began firmly rubbing the ache that had settled in her heels. She watched the kitchen spring to life as Kitty got to work at the counter, withdrawing cups and setting them in a line. Ground coffee beans were scooped into a coffee pot and set atop a hotplate. The blonde woman leant over the counter to continue the discussion whilst waiting for the tell-tale spats of boiling water to dance from the pot’s lip.

‘That was a lot of people. Plenty more than I imagined would turn out,’ Corinne contemplated.

Kitty thoroughly agreed, her normally cheerful demeanour subdued. She leant back with a sigh. ‘I never thought what we did touched so many lives. I mean I never thought we touched anybody in such a fashion but, wow …’

‘How many were there?’ Kitty wondered aloud.

‘Too many to count. I couldn’t even guess. I’ve not seen a bigger gathering since, well, ever. It’s like half the city turned out.’

Kitty skimmed white cups across the counter top, filling them in turn from a silver coffee server. Another of the women took it upon herself to distribute the much-needed beverage, offering cream and sugar where appropriate. Only one rejected the offer, instead deciding to drink something taken from behind the bar in passing.

‘Jacques. How are you faring?’ Kitty eyeballed him from the kitchen. ‘You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet all morning.’

Lying quite ungraciously over the length of a leather lounger, the roughly dressed man gripped the neck of a wine bottle as if it were his only anchor to common sense. It gifted him clarity with every mouthful, or so he believed, each one sending droplets rolling down his scraggy beard and soaking into his shirt collar. The bottle was released from his lips begrudgingly.

‘You figure I had something worthwhile to say?’ He grunted.

‘Just surprised you’ve not shared your voice yet, that’s all. I don’t mean nothing by it.’

‘In answer to your consideration, little one, I’m just grand. Doing a damn sight better than the lot of you, I’ll have you know.’ The container was lazily wagged to those around him. ‘I’m glad it’s all over and we can move on with things. All this commotion is dragging my mood down. I’ll fare better once the sun goes down, that’s for sure. That’s when the exciting people come out.’

Everyone in the room watched with concern as he messily drank the bottle’s contents. Katerina shuffled in her chair, inhaling the aroma that came from her cup in the hope that it would assist in making her feel less groggy. She had put herself at a small side table on a straight-backed chair. Her peach-tinted nails drummed onto the veneer much like a rabbit would do with its foot when warning others of danger.

Curiously she hadn’t been as emotional as she thought she would be. Sure the sight of the Gambler’s Den itself took their collective breaths away, but it didn’t rouse the tears she had feared. What did gnaw at her temperament was the conversations she overheard this morning and the faces of the grief-stricken who knew the dead only by reputation.

‘Did you see what they were doing?’ She stirred her coffee, depositing a silver spoon on the accompanying saucer. ‘Sticking those notes on. One guy was speaking to his son who was asking why. Couldn’t have been any older than seven and was missing an arm. Memories, I overheard the man say. Then father kneels down to him and says that they were good memories that deserve acknowledgement. It’s not like we got much else.’