The Gambler’s Den weaves its away across the desert… But will it stop at your station?

While fighting off poverty in the blistering desert heat a travelling casino offers one night of solace. One chance to change your fortunes. But once on board there is more to the show than meets the eye: enter Franco, the elaborate ringleader, Wyld the stowaway thief and Misu the fire breathing showgirl.

In a kingdom ruled by the law Franco ensures his den remains in line. But when he’s faced with saving the fate of the train, and those on board, he may be forced to break his own rules. Life on the den isn’t just a job but a way of life and once you’re in you’ll never be able to leave.

Perfect for fans of Caraval, Rebel of the Sands and The Night Circus.

Den of Shadows

Christopher Byford

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Copyright

CHRISTOPHER BYFORD

was born in 1980 in Wellingborough, England. He learnt to walk whilst holding onto 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 Shadows was the product of grit, determination and outright stubbornness on my part but like all things, required the input of others to become what you read now. Not thanking these individuals would be inappropriate.

My father, Allan, who seeded the concept for Den of Shadows in my youth despite being completely unaware of this.

My wife Emma. No greater muse could there be for someone such as I. You helped me forge the underlying concept into something respectable.

Corinne, Hayley & Debs, for providing much needed spirit for some characters.

All the great team at HQ for their hard work, especially Hannah who saw something worthwhile to share to the world.

And to you, reading this now. Thank you for coming along for the journey.

To all those who proved that chance, luck

and good fortune can pay off, no matter the stakes.

For my mother and father.

Chapter One

The Arrival

Everyone in Surenth deserved one fine time regardless of their status.

Not that any who lived in the region would confess to expecting such a thing.

The lush green kingdom of Eifera was a paradise compared to other nations. Rolling hills were peppered with mountain ranges, bountiful forests harboured lakes and rivers, with abundant wildlife that ascended to the fabulous. Everything was plentiful and living was joyous.

This delight all came at a cost.

Rather than allow the beautiful landscape to be scarred with quarries and pits, the nation decided to source its raw materials in a place already awash with natural ruin. Far southwards, past the mountain range that served as a natural partition, where the climate grew drier and the living much harder, was the region of Surenth, home to the Sand Sea.

The moniker came about from the expanse of desert that ran through the lands from top to bottom. It was enclosed by numerous natural deficits: canyons that dipped and rose, forcing the shifting sands to be contained in a natural, mountain-flanked basin. The Sand Sea was the first thing anybody saw when venturing into the region and also undoubtedly the last.

The only people who ventured to Surenth did so with the intent of making their fortune or with the intent of never being seen again. Its grizzly reputation as a dangerous, lawless place did plenty to encourage fireside stories and children’s tales, used mainly to scare and rarely to entertain. It was difficult to venture to or from the terrain, even more inhospitable to live in. It was a blank space on many a map and remained that way for quite some time, until the settlers formed a route, establishing the frontier.

The prospect of money to be made encouraged rushes for every ore imaginable, coaxing scores in convoy to the most prosperous locations to begin building settlements. Mines followed soon after, using the concept of blasting out the rock with dynamite to reach any metals the land harboured. Whilst dead on the surface, Surenth was found to be concealing an abundance of riches beneath. Seams of ores, metals, and minerals were corpulent. To collect, all one had to do was survive the land, which was a hardship in itself.

Outposts became settlements, settlements ballooned to villages, and villages to towns. This was not always the case, of course, but those depending on accompanying trade routes seemed to swell the quickest. This in turn brought all manner of problems, mainly transportation – which is why the First Grand Surenth Railroad threaded itself as best it could between points.

The Sand Sea itself was served by routes when possible, but its expanse and inhospitably restricted plenty. Where the locomotives couldn’t haul, sand ships – colossal steam vehicles clad with caterpillar tracks – ventured through the expanses. Trade became testament to survival, though with the exchange of money came the greed of those unwilling to earn it in the conventional sense.

Lawlessness was rife. Those who ran the towns had little regard for the common folk or were as corrupt as they came. These were open secrets and ones nobody dared address in the open – lest they found themselves sharing the desert with the sun-bleached bones of the locals. Disillusioned, people simply carried out their work as intended, drinking away sobriety at the end of each hard shift and repeating the process until death. Even then, new hands were not hard to come by. There was always someone so blinkered by the goal of making wealth that they would take to the mines for a pittance.

Fortune was fickle in Surenth. It gave bounty with one hand and stole it with the other, interchanging as it so pleased.

Rustec was one of these places that fortune had seemingly shunned for good. Hardship after hardship fell upon it with no sign of stopping. The wells were infested with some sort of sickness. Then the livestock was stricken with illness. Some lawless folk decided to cause an inconvenience by relieving the local bank of its money and two tellers of their lives.

And all of this in the space of a month.

The latest blight to hit Rustec was being announced with a volley from the town whistle. It had blown shrill for the last three minutes and showed no sign of stopping. As it had the time before this, the time before that, and no doubt many more that would come after today. Factory workers rushed to secure their workplaces. People ran through the streets to their homes and shuttered their windows, fastening them tightly with hammers and nails. Some felt comfort in prayer. There wasn’t enough time to fully prepare, of course – there never was. All they could do was hunker down and hope for the best.

Sandstorms that were brewed in the Sand Sea were devilish affairs. They moved quicker than any others ever known and had a curious tendency to make one feel that the world was coming to an end. When it finally passed in large drifts, it congregated in alleyways, making some nigh on impassable. Doorways collected their share, forcing emerging residents to either heave them aside or resort to leaving via windows.

Immediately everyone fell into routine. Shovels were retrieved and the digging began, clearing roads and pathways, whilst freeing anybody who had become trapped in their houses. Horses were attached to carts and loads of sand were hauled out to the outskirts and dumped back from whence it came.

The trappers’ market had been completely overturned with a number of animals unaccounted for whilst others lay dead in their cages. Their journeys would have to be written off as losses. The market square itself had escaped most of the damage, despite the stalls themselves being completely absent except for the tatters of some cloth overhangs.

Routes both by foot and rail in and out of the town had been completely blocked – a considerable inconvenience being that regular shipments of food were essential to the locals’ survival. Without the trains delivering goods, Rustec, like many others in the region, would suffer greatly.

At the final count, four lost their lives – all morning drinkers who were comatose by the time the town whistle crowed.

Thankfully, as dust-storms go, this was one of the milder ones.

By mid-afternoon, most of the town was cleared and the large train tracks that came from the northern territories had been made accessible again, so the supply deliveries could resume, if a little later than planned.

Rustec’s train station got away relatively unscathed. The gothic sand-lime brick assembly and deep platform awnings were complemented by iron columns with sturdy spandrels. The combination of these ensured that a good deal of the sand was deflected from the tracks themselves, making the clean-up reasonably painless. In fact, the only damage it suffered was when the station clock that was attached to one of these awnings was blown down, inflicting a crack upon its face. The stationmaster had set himself up a rickety ladder and proceeded to rehang the timepiece when he noticed the commotion out front.

With everyone so concerned with the damage, nobody had noticed the single addition that had been made to the front of the station house. Its attention was first gained by a passer-by who queried why a street urchin stood stock-still in the daytime instead of putting their hands to greater use. When they had noticed what the child was paying attention to, they immediately followed suit.

A crowd grew as word trickled out of the finding and by the time the stationmaster emerged to query the fuss, there was a fair congregation. Big news travelled rapidly in such a small community.

Hanging from the protruding iron gas lamp near the entrance, the subject of curiosity fluttered slowly.

It spanned four by ten hands’ length of well-woven cloth and was tasselled with gold accents. The material itself was dyed in a royal blue with shimmering gold edging that harboured ornate decorative elements. For some, it was grandeur on a scale never witnessed before. None of this, however, took away from the brush-scripted proclamation. It had been completed by hand judging by the minor imperfections, but it was worded in the way one would write a dear friend an invite. Except this invitation was to the entire town.

Congratulations citizens!

I have the utmost pleasure in informing you that the dreary days of boredom will be a thing of the past! Let the streets ring in celebration and of joyous rapture once again!

Forget your woes, bring your purse and, on the first of the month, await my arrival at your station no later than 6 p.m.!

With regards and well wishes,

Your Servant

- F

When word got out of its presence, scores craned their necks upward to speculate as to the exact nature of its presence and who this ‘F’ individual was. Naturally a few claimed to have the answers and promised to provide them on payment of drink, though the only thing they earned was disdain from their peers.

The stationmaster was quite taken aback at the attention and had insisted they removed the addition on account of it being a hazard, but the outcry was so great he had no choice but to concede. There the invitation stayed and was scrutinized.

The first of the month was only five days away and this was an unfathomable time to fill with speculation, but somehow the people managed. Gossip was rife over factory floors, where even the chattering machines failed to drown out the latest guesswork. There was not a stallholder you could talk to or a drinking hole you could indulge in without the mysterious invitation becoming the main topic of conversation.

Even the most grizzled of labourers found themselves accommodating such talk. Rustec was abuzz with rumour. Just exactly where had that flyer come from, and who was this entertainer making such promises? More to the point, why would they visit this wind-ravaged dustbowl?

Things reached such a fervour that the town’s own mayor had to issue a statement urging calm, but this did little. The people of Rustec had scant offerings to look forward to, so something so theatrical ensured a wildfire of excitement to blaze between households. Children had become frenzied, running around the streets in playful packs. The community was energized in a way it had never been before, brushing away years of toil with thrill.

The dawning of the day came and with that sunrise the expectations of the locals reached their height. Despite it being a day like any other, anticipation made time pass at a crawl. The heat remained scorching. Excitable rail station staff each conjectured whilst unloading deliveries, taking bets on whether the entire situation was an elaborate ruse.

The markets were heaving with people, experiencing a surge in popularity as word had spread to some of the minor settlements nearby. Trapping parties had returned in possession of the more unusual creatures that roamed the wastelands, sure to bring a good price upon their sale, all the more likely with the influx of curiosity seekers.

The town was filled with excitement and these high spirits had rubbed off on every aspect of the population’s day-to-day routine. People worked hard to make the time pass faster, ignoring the chimes of clock bells until the afternoon waned. When the sun did begin to fall on the horizon, everyone gathered in the town station – a bustling and murmuring crowd. Bodies packed every platform, stared from every window, and even resorted to climbing onto the rooftop for a better view, though a view of what they still did not know.

The station clock bell chimed six times, prompting total silence. The announcement seemed premature as the time ticked on. Thirty seconds reached sixty. A minute became five. Doubting whispers began.

Then, in unison, the people saw it.

Excited cheers emanated as those on the platform turned their sights down the tracks. On the horizon, a small shape hugged the railroad that carved through the canyon, a trail of white following with each contour before speeding out and into clear view. Plumes of thick steam belched into the fading sky. The locomotive’s wheels pounded the rails in urgency, racing to its destination. Dust-storm or no, the train was never late. It had the most urgent of appointments to keep.

* * *

On board, the carriage’s interiors were veiled in darkness. Lamps had been extinguished, leaving a line of silhouetted figures standing in well-rehearsed placements, patient and silent. As the man strode through, he flattened his jacket lapels, rechecked his cufflinks for the umpteenth time, and resisted the urge to view those he passed. They were perfect, down to the smallest detail. Of course they were perfect. They were employed to be nothing but and had been educated well to maintain this quality.

‘We’re landing in five minutes everyone.’ He spoke firmly, with conviction. ‘Let’s give these nice folk something to talk about.’

The train’s rhythmic puffing subsided on approach, slowing as the locomotive advanced to the station and began to crawl alongside the platform edges. It blew no whistle, instead announcing itself by presence alone.

The awe this vehicle inspired was borderline divine. Bright reds along each carriage emitted a vibrancy that many had forgotten out here in the desert. Paint normally became ruined by the extreme temperature changes, making it destined to crack and peel after its eventual submission. It was why any machinery in Rustec fell afoul of the environment and before long was thrown into a corroded heap. No such toil had taken this train though. One would have mistaken it to have rolled off the factory line that very day.

The boiler exhaled in a glorious hiss; pistons creaked and groaned as the locomotive brought itself to a halt. The lavishly decorated vehicle exhaled steam as if it was a proud, generous creature who blessed everyone with its presence. A large swathe of white stars and red flares whipped in large contours along the gilded carriages. Striking italic letters spelt out the vehicle’s name.

The Gambler’s Den

It would be easy to conclude that this was just another train despite the theatrics, if the revellers didn’t take in those wonderful letters. The Gambler’s Den was nothing more than a myth in these parts – one that nobody believed to actually carry truth. Those who had heard the name from far-travelled traders, or from a drunk who bragged he had actually seen it, held their collective breaths in astonishment. Some called it a circus. Some referred to it as a carnival. Both were incorrect, for it was something much more grandiose.

Each carriage, of which there were seven, held on to the front train and to one another in line. Each window was bestowed with gold leaf, extravagance oozing out of its structure and design. Shadows were witnessed moving inside but the low sun prevented any possible identification.

The locomotive yawned a blast of steam over the platform that took to the breeze and covered all onlookers. When the steam took it upon itself to drift away, spotlights snapped from the carriage rooftops, swinging skyward, outward, and then back in again to aim at a single point atop carriage three. The lights struck carefully placed mirrors, launching a bevy of prismatic beams that decorated station and spectator alike. Standing within a halo of white stood a man, tall in stature and very much delighted at being among these wonderful individuals.

His suit was that of regal finery, a formal decorated jacket with gold that chased lapel, pocket, and seam, clearly well tailored and thus of considerable expense. He was a man – mid-twenties from many guesses, though in truth in his late twenties – dressed smartly with a hint of eccentricity. He had a mane of auburn hair slicked back to a contour. A small, well-groomed goatee beard coupled with stubble caused the women in the crowd to fawn over his smouldering good looks, a feat encouraged by his charming smile that was frankly overkill.

As he surveyed the faces, the now silent people gazed on in anticipation. The warm night breeze carried their communal anticipation to the man and he relished every lingering moment.

He finally spoke. ‘People of Rustec, we are lucky to have generated such attention from your fine selves. I must say this turnout warms my heart in a way you cannot possibly imagine. Why, might you ask? Because I am in the presence of greatness. Each and every one of you keeps this wonderful town full of merriment, with your devotion and your labour! Why, without you, the mayor would simply have to be content with sitting in the dirt on his lonesome.’

This drew a ripple of laughter, surprisingly so from the mayor himself, something that brought about a stunned raise of the brow from an aide.

‘Out here in these hardships and yet you each endure them. What does this make you if not great? The word was invented for every face that looks upon me; though be aware I look at you with reverence. That is why I am here. You must all have questions and I am the one to answer them. Tonight, I am the servant of you magnificent people!’

While his arms were thrown upward, the carriage’s interiors sequentially snapped in illumination, bursts of light drowning out the meagre station gaslights. The spotlights swung back leaving only a single pair upon the flamboyant announcer. A sudden volley of fireworks took to the sky, sending up glittering reds, blues, and greens.

‘My name is Franco Del Monaire,’ he declared with the utmost pride. ‘I am called many things by many people. I was once, like your fine selves, a working man. Oh yes, I worked, and I toiled and like yourselves found little amusement in this world. Do you not feel the same?’

A cheer went up from the audience.

‘Fine people of Rustec, very fine people, do you not deserve amusement? You work your fingers to the very bone, slaving for that day’s wage. Do you not deserve to be rewarded? Do you not deserve to be entertained on this very night?’

Another blast of agreement came from the crowd, encouraging another smattering of colour to paint the twilight sky.

The Gambler’s Den itself shuddered with action. Doors spilt forward from each carriage. From the last, a line of girls emerged, beautiful in appearance, attired in flowing crimson satin dresses, drawing attention to their bosoms. They stood aside their transportation and curtseyed in unison to the transfixed mass, impeccable smiles on each face.

One of the carriage’s walls was disassembled, revealing a bar stocked with every type of beverage one could possibly wish for. Game tables decked the carriage’s interiors, covering every vice designed to part people from their money. Never had the mass seen such a sight. Such opulence! Such decadence!

And it was for them. Only them.

‘Your pleas have been heard, fine people. In Her infinite wisdom She saw fit to direct us here, to you all, for this very night. Tonight, it was decided that you shall all be rewarded for your toil! We have the duty, nay, the pleasure to entertain every single one of your number!’

Cheers exploded as the man caught sight of the children hurriedly clapping before their parents.

‘It makes no difference how much lines your pockets! Your age and standing is far from our concern, as these are mindless trivialities. All are welcome through our doors! Drink, relax, and gamble in our company, my kind, new friends! Our delight is your indulgence! You are all our guests, here, at the Gambler’s Den this night!’

The announcement was punctuated with sequential spats of fireworks that ran above one carriage to the next. As Franco swung himself forward in a long, respectful bow and the air burst above him in stardust, Rustec communally erupted in delight.

To be a showman of this magnitude took quite a considerable amount of presence and it was this trait that ensured Franco was mobbed no matter where he went. From the drinking tables on the platform itself, people would rise from their seats as he roamed about, responding to his encouragement or sparse conversation. Smiles adorned every face he saw, even the ones who had lost their money on foolhardy wagers. Hands repeatedly jutted out for shaking, every single one reciprocated warmly by their host.

Thanks was given, constantly, and Franco accepted with utmost humility. Glasses were thrust in cheer, and those were met with cheer in return. Even declarations of affection were handled appropriately. The occasional flirtatious or outright scandalous suggestions were thwarted yet handled in a way that the offender felt no animosity. Quite the opposite in fact.

Advice on the games was relentless, no matter which carriage he ventured into. When should one double down in Blackjack (‘a soft 17 if you wish to put me out of business’)? What numbers are the best to cover on the roulette table (‘all of them if you can afford it, but split over what feels lucky’)? How best to deceive at liar’s dice (‘never tell your spouse the truth and it’ll come naturally’) and countless more were answered. They were all questions he had provided answers to in the past, to other patrons in other places such as this; but all gained the impression that it was the first time such a thing was queried.

The spectacle was in full swing. The train platform was awash with tables, packed with those enjoying both drink and company. The wealthy sat shoulder to shoulder with the poor with complete disregard for social standing. Money knew no such barriers and those across the spectrum made and lost theirs without prejudice. Worker and dockhand aside bank teller and accountant.

The mayor himself drank boisterously, surrounded by pitmen – their coal-dusted overalls mirroring their unwashed faces. Flat caps were tossed into the air on the chorus of songs, the lyrics only broken when the mayor slipped and fell upon his backside, an accident he took in good humour and was helped back on his feet from. The only outcome from this was the demand for more drink, paid by the town coffers no less.

The showgirls of the Gambler’s Den performed their roles impeccably. They waited the tables and poured the drinks, with naught a drop spilled and never an order wrong. They ushered and bantered, turning cards and dividing chips. Encouragement was served to those who succumbed to losses and congratulations to the ones who luck had sided with.

All this was done with professionalism and a beat of lashes to encourage the slacking of purse strings. After all, as Franco would dictate, everyone was going to lose their money at some point. You may as well do so half drunk and at the mercy of a pretty smile. Any who were not hosting game tables were working front of house, gliding among their designated tables with trays of drinks. Each turn and sway was made with precision; every bat of the eyelashes and response a heady concoction that added to the ambience.

While Franco provided his presence and luck played the cards and rolled the dice, the women in his employment very much bound the show together with their hospitality. Inevitably, the occasional letch or more intoxicated reveller would make an inappropriate advance or comment but these were quickly retracted. It only took a nod of the head for the train’s security to stroll over and correct any social mistakes. Apologies were quickly administered. Tips rose sharply.

Come the strike of nine, three of the showgirls took to a makeshift stage and performed acts to rousing applause. One, freckled and adorned with a shock of red curls, demonstrated the mysterious art of hypnosis on the first individual who offered assistance. He himself loudly dismissed its effects until complying with the suggestion that he should forage around the platform like a chicken.

The second performer, taller and raven-haired, showed a particular aptitude for ventriloquism. The spectacle brought riots of laughter as she proceeded to manipulate the conversation between two volunteering sisters to reveal secret absurdities.

The final presentation in this extravaganza was reserved for the woman who differed from the others. She seemed to have an authority over the showgirls, seen at times to whisper suggestions into their ears. Instead of the uniformed dress that the others sported, she wore a variation with flair, extra lace here, a flow of ribbon there, punctuated with a slit up the skirt itself.

On her command, the lights of the carriages faded to a low warmth. The beat of drums began to emanate from an unseen player as the woman took a handful of cast-iron torches and set them alight with the stroke of a match. The flames streaked through the air, lingering, tracing shapes, which gained in speed and complexity as the drums followed suit. Swiping a bottle of liquor from the bar carriage, she took and held a mouthful before launching a ball of flame into the night sky.

The audience gasped and cooed as this was repeated. The air ignited violently, in each direction, with each spray from her lips. Some harbouring more nervous temperaments felt unnerved from the sudden rush of heat assaulting their faces but cautiously applauded when appropriate. As a finale, a torch was brought to her lips, then pulled away as the eruption started, launching the bellow skyward with frightening intensity.

The woman bowed when done and the drums fell silent. Silently, and under hundreds of watchful eyes, she stood in profile and arched her form backwards. Each of the torches was slowly lowered with the flickering flame that plagued them extinguished with a clap of her mouth. When each was done, she straightened her back and bowed once more. The carriage lights were restored to luminescence.

Expectedly the applause was deafening.

There was no formal closing ceremony, though warm words were informally given. Midnight was celebrated by the star-clad sky being painted with gaudy, but spectacular, explosions. The hours crept on, thinning out attendees. The numbers simply dwindled the longer the time went on. Some made their retreat due to empty pockets. A good many ventured home when they had clearly consumed too much drink. Others simply couldn’t tolerate the hour and found the solace of a bed far too alluring.

The night had been filled with good cheer, fine alcohol, and gracious company, ensuring that the Gambler’s Den legacy was secured for some time yet. When the last glass was emptied and the final cards played, the morning light had yet to begin breaking over the horizon.

Come the morning, Rustec was still. The normally busy desert docks were silent. Huge transport ships sat in sequence with no stirring. The daily market was nowhere to be seen. Most were suffering from the aftereffects from the night before. Many had overindulged in food and drink, hangovers were being nursed, and the clean-up had begrudgingly begun. The moon remained in the sky, as did the morning stars, which would retire under the veil of light within the hour.

The Gambler’s Den itself slowly began to show signs of life. Near the back of the train was the personnel carriage where the employees slept, a boxcar for storage, and a sweeping observation car at the end, outfitted as a lounge. Franco emerged from his personal carriage, half-dressed and scratching through his unkempt hair. The night had gone very well. As usual, small towns like this were full of those who needed entertainment and whilst money was difficult to earn, the philosophy of giving the people what they wanted, which Franco lived by, had paid dividends.

The showgirls had now arisen and were set into the routine of cleaning up under the lazy light. It didn’t take long for the dusty station to be devoid of litter and broken glass, defying the fact that the evening’s festivities had even taken place. A few stragglers who had lain out on the platform benches or fallen asleep in the chairs were gradually awoken and encouraged to attempt the journey home.

Surveying the scene, Franco sucked on his cigarette until taking the decision to bravely venture onward. He passed under the entranceway and covered his eyes as the sun set his vision awash with white. Finally, when his eyesight returned, he blinked in the sight of Rustec’s streets that remained perfectly quiet. It brought a measure of vanity – as, for Franco, it meant a job well done. Nothing signified a good time more than half of the locals comatose come the working day. Now all he had to do was tie up loose ends.

He turned back on himself and spied the invitation banner that fluttered in the breeze. Rather than be pleased he muttered an obscenity. How in the name of all of the worst things in the world was he supposed to get to it? It hung some twenty feet in the air, curled around – what was that?

Franco covered his eyes again.

A gas lamp? Someone had hung their grand invitation around a gas lamp of all things? Why not have it sit in the mud or have a horse urinate on it while we’re at it? The shocking lack of theatricality gnawed at him but what else was expected when you slipped money to nobodies to hang the announcement up? The more pressing matter was how he was going to get it down.

Seeing that the youth of the town didn’t get to participate in the drinking nor games, they ventured through the streets as usual. A street child clad in tatters sauntered past, stopping and taking stock of the local celebrity with open-mouthed awe.

‘You the train man?’ the child meekly probed.

‘Aye,’ he answered, still deliberating his conundrum.

There was a pause.

‘That yours then?’ the child asked, pointing at the material fluttering with licks of wind. The damn thing was taunting the pair of them.

‘Aye,’ Franco repeated himself, a touch more sour than before.

‘It’s pretty high up.’

‘That it is.’

In a glimmer of inspiration Franco took to his knee, producing a silver coin from a pocket, which mesmerized the child with its reflection.

‘How do you fancy earning this?’ he rasped, mouth still occupied with smoke. The child hadn’t seen so much money in a long while, and only spoke to ask how.

Five minutes later Franco carried the invitation banner over his shoulder whilst whistling a tune in contentment. Simple problems were solved with simple solutions, he deduced.

Sliding back the door to his private carriage, Franco tossed the banner down in an empty space. The lavishly decorated interior was awash with red velvet and gold trim. The furniture was kept to a minimum, consisting of an elegant bed, a desk, and two sofas. Exotic materials, trinkets, and mementos littered the place: souvenirs from exotic places far from Rustec, far from any civilization, were pinned or placed.

It was an enigmatic affair though sorted into some semblance of order when scrutinized. The single desk was littered with the contents of other people’s pockets, weighing down stacked charts made by those who excelled in cartography. For those who desired order and neatness in their lives, this car was a literal nightmare. For Franco, it was home.

He took the handle of a mug filled with coffee. A quick draw on the drink revealed it to be cold, though that mattered not with a headache such as his. This tranquillity was interrupted as a sudden rapping at the connecting door drew his attention.

‘Are you awake yet?’ came a voice.

He ground the stub of his cigarette into a makeshift ashtray.

‘If I wasn’t then you just made sure of that. You’re under the impression that I slept.’

Misu made a small smile as she entered, swinging the door to a close behind her, examining her boss’s shirtless physique with a glance. It didn’t go unnoticed.

‘I confess, I did see you taking a stroll on the platform. Walking around like that will distract the other girls, Franco. You should be more modest with what you put on display. They’re only human, you know.’

‘And yet you show no concern for your own wellbeing. That is quiet telling. Like a swan who points out the rest of her flock to a predator to spare her own life.’

He cockily swigged from the coffee once more until it was emptied.

Misu covered her smirk with a hand, retrieving a clean shirt from the back of the sofa and tossing it to him.

‘Put that on. You should stop fantasizing about what you cannot have, my dear manager. That sort of attitude could become the end of you. I have news from our dear driver that he is ready for the off on your word. The girls are waiting your inspection.’

Franco begrudgingly pulled the material over his head and wrestled with the cuff buttons.

‘A little keen, aren’t they? We still have some time. We still have, uh …’ He trailed off under the realization that his pocket watch was absent from his trousers.

Instead, Misu filled the gap. ‘Two hours,’ she flatly stated.

‘Exactly, we have another two hours. Seems awfully impatient of them.’

‘I keep them prompt and organized. You said you expected no less of the women in our employ.’

‘That does indeed sound like something I would say.’ He loosely brushed his hair into some sort of shape with his fingers, changing the subject. ‘How were the takings last night?’

‘A little on the low side but nothing too worrying. We’re still down but I don’t see that continuing as a trend given where we’re heading next. I’ve already amended the books so they’re ready for the safe. That is, unless you want me to do that as well?’

It was a bone of contention that Franco didn’t trust anybody with the safe key other than himself. It was kept on his person at all times. He had decided before any others were employed he would be the only one to have access – as much for everyone else’s protection as his own. Nobody would be tempted to take something they shouldn’t and as a result, he wouldn’t have to wildly speculate as to the culprit and sow discord among the ranks.

Misu, however, didn’t see things quite like this. As she was tasked with maintaining order among the showgirls, her role was quite considerable and weighty with responsibilities. She could assist in deciding where they were to visit next. In fact it was her numerous contacts that they used to send the invitation banner to whichever location was decided on. So it was unfathomable that she was denied the ability to put away a little money. It was an insult, nothing more.

‘Nobody opens the safe but me. We’ve been through this before. Don’t take it personally.’

He knew it was difficult not to. He moved on past and held the door open for her to leave the carriage. She did so after a scrutinizing glare.

The pair walked the length of the carriages, ensuring everything was ready for pulling off. They began with the end lounge car, which had been a point of congregation for smokers. Cherry-red wood was lacquered into a deep crimson, with every panel adorned with carvings, telling stories long forgotten by craftsmen now dead. Teardrops of glass from the mounted chandeliers were impeccably bright, their dusting not overlooked.

Bookcases and shelving were already cladded with lattices to prevent anything moving in transit. The billiard table had been secured in its place by fastening bolts and the accompanying stock of balls had been put away. Everything looked in good order, checked with the occasional test of strength or run of a fingertip.

They moved through to the boxcar, which shunned decadence for practicality, strictly off limits to all but staff. Provisions, packed into shabby crates, were stacked high to its roof. The tables and chairs had been disassembled and wall-mounted, secured with ties.

The other cars, lounge ones mostly, which accommodated plenty of attendees yet showed no sign of tarnish. Seats ran in formation at a slight angle, facing wide windows that swallowed views whole. Even so, surfaces were polished, carpets swept, and windows cleaned. As Misu and Franco advanced, any of the showgirls in attendance wished their good mornings and waited for any critique as to their handiwork. It wasn’t forthcoming. It never was. Misu was right to boast.

The bar had been restocked, a wall of bottles in dizzying scope and complexity that ensured patrons were well inebriated no matter their tastes. The bar area itself, disjointed from an outer wall, was joined by reams of seating. The bar doubled as a makeshift kitchen, though it was too small to feed attendees so instead remained for staff use only.

Everything was predictably spotless and with this predictability came boredom. Franco’s mind wandered.

‘You didn’t tell me the girls had new outfits.’

‘Cheaper than you think, I assure you, so please do not fret. Besides, it came as a nice surprise, did it not? I can still pull one over you, manager.’ Misu nodded her acceptance to another showgirl they passed, who curtseyed back in relief.

‘It’s a shame that we don’t have a show on tonight. I rather like that little red and black lace number of yours,’ he said.

‘You like anything that shows my cleavage, like any man, and whilst that is flattering in a funny sort of way, it’s not exactly what a girl looks for. Aim a little higher if you’re attempting to be charming.’

As they moved out of the car and stepped out onto the connecting platform that straddled the coupling, they turned to face one another. This game was growing tiresome for them both. Playful jibes were no longer getting the desired effects. Stakes had to be raised as much as the blood if there was any chance for a payoff.

‘You’re not performing at this moment, so you can rest spitting fire. Answer me honestly: what exactly does a woman desire, huh? Security? Authority?’ Franco asked with hint of heat before standing toe to toe, having the advantage of a good foot of height. ‘Maybe it’s money. Maybe it’s the prestige. Maybe it’s this charm that you spoke of. Maybe, just maybe …’

Misu bit her bottom lip gently, feigning lust.

‘Maybe a woman should tell me what she desires so a man doesn’t need to resort to guesswork.’

His lips, mere millimetres away, puckered gently as he pressed against her to reach for the connecting door handle to the final car. She watched him with a flick of the eyes as he did her in return, waiting to see who would be the first one to succumb to their baser instincts. Despite this display being nothing but teasing, of which she was equally as guilty, there was always the taint of frustration when one of the pair brought the game to a premature end.

Their bodies slipped against one another as he passed and this time it was him who finished things.

‘You have soot on your lips,’ he lied. ‘Stop dawdling, my dear, we have work to do.’

With a coquettish grin, Misu complied.

There was hardly any send-off for the Gambler’s Den’s departure. They left before the majority of locals managed to recover from their heady experiences, which only added to the venture’s mystique. Tales had to spread to be of value, and that couldn’t be done if the train dawdled in one location for too long. The locomotive hauled itself out of the station, its heavy wheels spinning and steam plume from the chimney venting into the clear sky.

Children running along the platforms did their best to wish it well on its travels. The sentiment was reciprocated with a sharp toot from the train’s whistle that whipped the youngsters into a frenzy. Tales of what they witnessed would carry well into adulthood.

The train began to pull out from Rustec, but as it followed the track past the flat-roofed houses, a lone figure gave chase, vaulting over gaps between the residences, ducking beneath cluttered washing lines and over timber decking. The figure was dressed all in beige, and adorned in a heavy poncho. A mask covered the lower part of her face, while her hazel eyes calculated distances with precision. Over her shoulder was a weighty knapsack, its burden not visually apparent as she darted from rooftop to rooftop.

The Gambler’s Den leant in to a bend, running it parallel to the buildings, providing a straight line for the approaching individual. As she sprinted her last, a hefty leap sent her skyward, crashing down onto the boxcar gable.

Hugging the car roof, she crawled her way to a trapdoor, flicked the latch, and slunk inside, her motions smooth and catlike. The beige-clad figure pulled down her facemask and shook out dirt that had collected in the poncho folds. She was young, too young to be up to such nonsense, but necessity had forced many a person to make rash choices. This happened to be one of Wyld’s less regrettable ones.

Franco was waiting patiently, arms defensively crossed, and sitting among the clutter.

‘Were you seen?’ he enquired.

Finally when the woman managed to take enough air to speak, she shook her head.

‘Never am. Wasn’t this time. Won’t be next. You needn’t fret.’

‘Did you get what you were after?’ Franco pressed the next question with equal urgency.

Wyld smiled, gently opened the knapsack and revealed a small gem-encrusted object that was tucked safely in the bag’s leather folds. ‘You would have figured that they would have locked this thing up better. Honestly, security is so lax nowadays it’s hardly a challenge. I somewhat wonder why I even bother sneaking in.’

‘If you’re going to steal whilst you tag along with us, I think I should charge you a higher rate for passage. You understand my concern that you could become a liability?’

Franco placed his hand out, fingers beckoning in gesture for his cut.

Wyld reached into a pocket, producing a small leather pouch that jangled with coin. There was no need to examine the contents when passed over; the weight and size matched her overdue payment.

‘I keep my part of the bargain – no need to remind me. I stay invisible and do nothing that would bring attention to your precious train.’

‘Just as long as our resident thief isn’t caught. Remember, if you’re not with us when we leave, then you’ve lost your ride. No need for the hostility; it’s all business.’ Franco pocketed the payment. ‘Thank you for your contribution. Breakfast will be in an hour. You are more than welcome to join us in the dining car.’

For the next five days, the Gambler’s Den weaved through the arid, rocky landscape. Franco spent most of his time dissecting various maps and charts. The region, whilst sparse, was not devoid of deep canyons, jutting mountains, and other such geographic features. Routes required revising, especially with the current dangers.

He made numerous pencilled scribbles. Most were symbols drawn while attempting to calculate arrival times: something at the forefront of his mind. This thought process was broken as Misu knocked on his carriage door and entered, looking fresh-faced as usual despite the stifling heat. She placed a glass of cold water on the table next to the maps, sipping a drink of her own. Her eyes wandered, then returned to Franco as he heavily picked up the glass, twirling it so the ice cubes struck the sides of the glass.

‘Thank you,’ he exclaimed. Misu took a seat on the leather sofa, patting her flamboyant red lace dress down over her thighs. They watched one another for a moment.

‘How are the girls?’ Franco asked, placing his glass back down but not before wiping the condensation from the table surface.

‘The girls are fine. They’re enjoying the downtime if anything. It’s unusual for a show somewhere new to be without incident. The Rustec gig was somewhat boring.’

‘Boring is good,’ Franco said, stretching out on his own sofa and raising his legs up so he could lie with his head tilted back. ‘Boring means we will be welcomed back. There’s nothing worse than when a bunch of lecherous idiots get drunk and manhandle the girls. We have a reputation to uphold. Can’t be doing that if we’re seen as a haven of sin.’

Misu nodded in agreement and sipped her drink.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing at the abundant paperwork beside him. Her eyes drifted to the scrawled notes, the numbers, and the proposed destination. Franco groaned, attempting to stifle the dull throbbing in his forehead. It wasn’t a question best answered. ‘A solution, I suppose.’

‘Looks to be more of a detour. Tell me honestly, is this another treasure hunt?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Not from Wyld, was it?’ Misu scowled.

‘Technically not. She may have mentioned things in passing, but I did the legwork.’

‘And Rustec?’ she said, speaking more firmly, placing her drink down.

Franco considered his words carefully. ‘A few of the locals may have had my attention. You’ll be surprised how talkative people can be after a few drinks. Stories get told, rumours spilt.’

She pursed her lips. ‘I knew it. The last thing we need is trouble. You of all people used to repeat that – until that rat came along. Keep it all legitimate, you preached, and now you’re looking into things like this. Don’t get yourself involved in her lifestyle. It’s not your business.’

‘I’m not. This is a side venture. It’s strictly a one-off.’

‘Rubbish!’ Misu exclaimed. ‘It’s never a one-off with you. There’s always something else to steal your attention. If it’s not this, it’s some other idiotic cause. You should put your efforts in the business rather than some silly chase for whatever the hell that is.’ By now she had risen from her seat, and her voice and tone had risen too.

‘You don’t even know what this is. Do not lecture me.’ He scowled, shielding his eyes from the sun coming through the carriage window behind her. ‘And certainly don’t be doing it on my train.’

This was painfully ignored.

‘I don’t need to know what it is because I know what you’ll end up doing. I know it’ll lead to us running around for a few weeks chasing some trinket on a whim. Her whim, may I add. These things never end well and I refuse to sew up another bullet wound on account of your stupidity.’ Misu pulled her black hair into a ponytail before fastening a clip around it.

‘Watch your tongue when you speak to me,’ Franco said, giving a stark warning that this matter was over. ‘This isn’t your call to make.’

She snatched her glass and proceeded to storm out. Before she did, she pulled open the door to the connecting carriage and looked behind her.

‘Then you can make it on your lonesome. Damn you. Focus on us, Franco. Not some fantasy.’

And with that she left.

Franco watched the door slam, the sound of the hissing engine and wheels on tracks falling quieter. The carriage rocked back and forth in slow momentum. He ran a hand over his face, fingers trailing down his damp neck to his shoulder. The indented scar where he’d been struck by a bullet some months ago was a stark reminder that Misu spoke the truth. He was comfortable with the Gambler’s Den. He led a nomadic life, one blessed with freedom – an alarmingly rare commodity.

Those aboard depended on him to make the right choices. They looked up to him but not because he wanted them to; it was because they needed someone to give orders. Franco was never good at taking orders so he couldn’t relate to their views, but he did understand that everybody needed a leader in some form. However, he hadn’t set out for the Den to become what it was – an extravagant travelling casino. The rundown steam engine was a wreck when he first set eyes on it, rusting away in a derelict yard. Abandoned and gradually being absorbed by the rising sand, Franco was offered the opportunity to take the Den and fix it up.

There was not much else to indulge in, unless criminality was your thing. Home was depressingly void of excitement, forcing laborious graft from any and all. But Franco hated the prospect of working in the mine, or being stuck in the smelter until injury or death allowed respite. No, for him it was a hobby that had expanded beyond his expectations, and soon became something far more important, something others in his position would fail to attain.

It became a way out.

The first time the train staggered into life had given him a feeling like no other. Valves spluttered, choking on the sand, before purifying them with titanic blasts of steam. Each creak and groan within its behemoth-like frame led to another task to resolve: a split in its funnel, the almost melodic pounding from the boiler when fired up. The poor thing was falling apart, but it was nothing that hard graft couldn’t resolve.

Each time the Gambler’s Den ran, the ride got smoother. The breakdowns became fewer and further between. Franco was not an engineer, far from it in fact, but his grandfather was keen to get the lad’s hands dirty and adopting this train was like adopting a child. It would always have to be cared for – he was constantly reminded, by the words emanating from beneath the grease-soaked whiskers of the old man – and he wouldn’t be around for ever.

That was a sobering truth.

Gentle trips from outpost to outpost, nothing taxing at first, felt exhilarating and the braver the ventures became, the more people wanted to join him. So many were desperate to abandon homes with limited opportunities or leave their history behind them in a haze of steam and dust. Franco provided escapism for those who did not want to be found any more. Whilst he secretly resented that, was he so different?

He got to his feet, leant on the frame of a window, and looked out. The scenery was the same as before – barren and desolate. A pack of feral dogs chased the train over the waste ground, one oddly staring at Franco as he contemplated it. The sun beat down. The dust was choking. To others, the world was not worth exploring, as it seemed that in every direction they went it was the same picture – sand and more sand. It consumed everything relentlessly.

Every village, every town, even the very horizon embraced its vastness, enough to scrub ambition from all those in it. How many times had he heard people complaining about their lives, about their circumstances out here? Far too numerous to count. Escape. All people stated that they wanted to escape. Not leave, but to escape, as if the Sand Sea had imprisoned them and was solely responsible for their difficult lives.

The more the train ran, the more Franco realized that he could do just that.

* * *

Misu stormed through each carriage wearing the most terrible of scowls. That arrogant fool, she thought. How condescending of him to pass me off! The Gambler’s Den would grind to a halt if I wasn’t organizing people whilst he obsessed over these follies.

She burst into the residence carriage of the showgirls, a number of whom jumped in surprise at the loud entrance, prompting others looking out from their rooms. They buzzed around Misu, who shook in annoyance with fists clenched. Her insistence that she was fine was brushed aside in a collective embrace. The showgirls enfolded their superior, the mother of their family, speaking out against Franco and citing how his opinion was worthless. For them, seeing Misu frustrated was becoming a depressing regularity.

* * *

Wyld had taken up residence in the storage car. Her trunk was hidden among a series of props that were erected on demand for various shows. She grasped at the padlock, its keyhole just for decoration. Her fingers jabbed the trunk’s base in sequence before she twisted the padlock itself in various ways. It clicked open from the momentum. The trunk lid fell open. Inside, beneath a false compartment, was a bevy of various lock-picking tools, small firearms, and knives.

From the very bottom, wrapped up in a blanket, Wyld produced a golden statue: a winged effigy of unusual splendour. He stood proudly, lance aloft and gloriously gilded wings spread outward. It was a religious figure, one of many who held significance, especially to those living in a region where few had little more than their faith. Ungloving a finger, she ran a fingertip down the statue’s face before whispering a small prayer.

From her knapsack she pulled out a similar sculpture, similar in design but larger in build. The score from Rustec mirrored the one already in her possession, though it exhibited a catalogue of differences. She only paid it a glance in comparison to the affection portrayed to the one from the chest. Tenderly binding them with the same fabric, Wyld replaced her prizes, closed the trunk, and made herself comfortable for a much-needed sleep.

* * *

Franco was less content. The glass of brandy that he had poured to make the night warmer was empty, despite filling it up for the fifth time. He traced the line drawn on the regional map with his finger, tapping the named destination closest to their location. Sheets of paper with additions scrawled all over did nothing but raise concern.

Financially the Den was in trouble. The recent suppression on trading routes to the south was forcing oil and machine prices upward. With a hiss, he acknowledged the amount of additional shows the Den would have to perform – unless there was another way. If only they could be outlaws, to steal what was needed without a care in the world.

It was a thought others shared. Bandit groups were rife and roaming unchecked through the trade routes. Even private security groups were having trouble repelling them from shipments passing through. It was only the large companies that had the resources and manpower to successfully repel any attempts on their sand ships. It was hard not to resort to black-market trading, as the Den would be in a perfect position to carry goods past district checkpoints.

The most Franco resorted to was imbursement by Wyld who, he was under no illusions, was paying her way with dirty money. Hers was as good as anybody else’s and, thanks to her dubious nature, the income would be steady, on her part at least. What other choice did he have?

His fingers trailed over the track paths that wound over the mountain ranges on the dog-eared map. By taking the route passing over the handful of deep canyons that separated the Sand Sea, they could make it to Windberg. There was a town before the canyon crossing, and one after that would add a few days to their travel, as well as trading posts scattered nearby in case of any unexpected need to obtain supplies. Naturally there was a possibility of this route becoming precarious, so Franco decided it was best to ask advice from someone more knowledgeable than he – the Den’s driver.

With strong strides and whilst grasping the map tightly, Franco left his carriage and made his way outside. Dust filled the air. It was not enough to be choking but sufficient to steal breath.

The mighty Gambler’s Den, as it powered over the landscape, was a sight to behold. As it rocked gently side to side with momentum, a smile momentarily broke through the stern gaze that Franco had cemented on his features. Each piston that pulled, every wheel that spun, the glorious machine was, in a word, magnificent. Ever so lightly brushing his fingertips over the steel surfaces, Franco showed the compassion he had for his beloved vehicle. He felt like a youngster again, witnessing its first breaths of life after being relegated to scrap, a feeling that he wished would not part ways with him until death saw fit.

As he proceeded around the carriage walkways, the thunderous roars became louder. Large plumes of steam billowed high into the air and dragged overhead with speed. The clattering of train tracks smoothly merged into the wise words from the past, words that were spoken by the only man Franco was willing to receive advice from. They patiently reminded him to treat the Gambler’s Den like a woman.

Give it the stick when it falls out of line; give affection when it behaves.

Franco’s grandfather was a man who ran on tradition and the old ways, including the archaic attitudes regarding the opposite sex. It was no wonder that his wife had left him. Still, his gravelly voice – slightly slurred by a ritualistic mid-afternoon vodka – brought comfort, just as much as they did when he was a child. Back then there was no greater mechanic. To the young Franco, there was no greater man.

‘I try, old man.’ Franco patted the carriage’s side affectionately, a weary sigh escaping. ‘I try.’

Chapter Two

Postponement

Velencia was a once-thriving trading town, but like so many others in the region, when train tracks carved shorter routes from A to B, business slowed. For most, it was a sign that life was for living elsewhere. The most determined stayed behind until even they were convinced by the populace’s mass exodus.

Velencia deteriorated in time and eventually became abandoned. Empty businesses stood in Main Street and its residences dissolved into husks. The Sand Sea had swept in and began to erode the structures away, blistering paint and carving wood and brick alike. Large drifts piled in doorways and alleys, and over time layer upon layer of sand was deposited. Unlike Rustec, there was nobody to shift it away, leaving the town partially concealed by its environment.

When a dust-storm threatened from the north, there was no option but for Franco to request a diversion. A looming blanket of rust was seen far in advance over the horizon and all that could be done was to make haste to the nearest shelter, or the closest thing resembling one. The Gambler’s Den was still a couple of hours away from anything resembling a settlement, which made the decision easy. To be caught in the middle of nowhere by the large storm would be disastrous.

The lack of any natural formation to take shelter in – such as a gully, recess, or the like – was problematic. Exposed, the best-case scenario was that the train would have to be freed from a thick covering of sand to continue, but that was hilariously optimistic. Unlike a sandstorm, he clarified to the showgirls who asked the difference, a dust-storm normally carried much more violent winds. Franco had witnessed a good few of these first-hand and was right to secure the locomotive for its impact.

With no other option they would need to take refuge in the remains of Velencia.

When the Den pulled up to the broken platform that was, remarkably, still intact, everyone got to work. Large canvas covers were fastened around the train, protecting anywhere the sand could cause a nuisance. Already the breeze had picked up, attempting to wrestle them away into the air. The girls and even Franco himself bolted the ropes to the train’s frame tightly, double-checking for any signs of slackness before retreating inside.

Watching from one of the exposed windows, each of them observed a mass of orange plumes swarming in the distance. It hung silently, arching, almost motionless. Surrounding tumbleweed that dotted the landscape lurched sideways in unison, quickly consumed in quiet ferocity. Day descended to night, with the wind rattling though every air vent. Misu busied herself lighting the oil lamps, flooding the carriages with subdued illumination.

‘Best get comfortable, everybody,’ Franco proposed, relieving a bottle of red wine from a wall rack. Its cork was stubborn but not enough for someone with hours to kill. ‘It’s a nasty one out there. It looks like we might be a little late for our next show.’

Few spoke. It had been a while since they had seen a storm this large and violent; they knew between them that all that could be done was to wait it out. The suggestion was made to play cards to pass the time, a few of the girls partaking in a few hands while the time idled away. Victories were not cheered for fear of setting off the tinder atmosphere between the two most imposing presences in the room.

Hours trickled by, but whenever Franco suggested something new to pass the time, Misu loudly sighed, distracting herself with whatever was at hand. A coin. A coaster. Her fingernails. Everything held a sense of fascination when it competed with Franco’s voice, thanks to their quarrel. Sure, there were other cars she could retreat to, but that took effort and there was a risk of inadvertently bumping into that stowaway in the process. No, the best she could do was to ignore him, right here, in full view of everyone. Maybe then he would get the message. She claimed a book from one of the many glass-covered cases and buried herself in its contents.

The carriage clock chimed hour after hour until the day was lost. Still the storm blew with identical ferocity and all that could be done was to continue waiting.

Franco eventually did more than wait; he drank. He drank the bottle of red, three bottles of white, and took to measures of scotch to keep it going in the evening. All this was routine, for when he couldn’t sleep he drank and when anything troubled him, he resorted to chasing the answers down the lip of a bottle. Stretched out across a sofa beside the bar, this indulgence was politely ignored by the company he kept.

Eventually most retreated at his attempts of small talk, leaving him alone with just a collection of bottles and bittersweet memories. Before long his mind drifted to his youth, dragging his feet through some godforsaken scrapyard at the demand of his grandfather.

Somewhere, in a place where the fatigue and inebriation collided, the past turned lucid.

* * *

As far as he could see was twisted metal. Stacks varied in height: some small collections, the product of an abandoned attempt at sorting. Others were climbable hills of steel and iron. There were parts of vehicles, redundant machinery that had long since been outdated, all the way to fragments of the immense sand ships that rolled through the region to deliver cargo in bulk. These parts, from simple sheet-steel panels, to cogs and pistons, took up the most space, sprawling skyward, the biggest being a steam flume that dwarfed the pair in their presence.

How these materials found their way here was varied. Some were naturally corroded by the elements, whereas others exhibited signs of man-made damage. From impacts to bullet holes, each told a story, too numerous to pay attention to with any sort of vested interest. After all, the pair had a job to do.

Vehicles littered the yard too.

Since the advent of steam machinery, progress had leapt ahead of the initial designs. Trains, the once proud workhorses of those who populated the Sand Sea region, were the biggest casualties with a plentiful number being scrapped in places like these since their usefulness had been replaced with cost-saving or convenience. Some were recent, seemingly fresh out of the factory – without signs of damage, whereas others were perforated, rusted messes that the desert was slowly consuming.

All these were present for the goal of breaking them down and selling the material off to smelters. That was seemingly the plan at least, as it had obviously been some time since anything was taken to the breaking yard. The owner had let the last of his assistants go when swinging the hammer and axe was beyond their years.

‘Gramps? Hey, Gramps!’ the youth called impatiently. When no response was forthcoming he scraped up a length of piping and launched it at the figure atop the mound.

Franco’s grandfather, whom he had affectionately called Pappy throughout his younger years, straddled the cusp of a mountain of wreckage, surveying the surroundings. His work overalls were oil-stained and frayed, mirroring his cantankerous features and his thick, white beard. At this height he could find what they were looking for with his spyglass that extended out in a telescope of brass. Or, at least he could if the boy would stop complaining for five seconds.

The pipe fell short, though made quite the din, achieving its desired intention. Pappy withdrew his visual aid and scowled.

‘I don’t get it. What are we doing out here?’ the youth whined. Like any teenager, there were scores of places he would prefer to be.

‘I’ll repeat myself once more since you seem to be incapable of listening to me. I had a tip-off that this graveyard happens to be home to something of considerable worth, not that the owner knows it. He owes me and I need an extra pair of hands to collect it. Since yours are unburdened with a day’s work, I figured I could put them to use. Everybody benefits.’

‘Except me.’

Pappy sighed, attempting to keep his composure and scanned the yard again. ‘Yes, Franco, except you,’ he called. ‘This entire thing is an elaborate ruse to make your existence that little bit worse. Stop pouting. I didn’t say I was going to keep you all day, did I?’

‘We’ve been here for ever.’

‘It’s only been two hours!’ Pappy retorted.

Franco compressed his features in annoyance. ‘Yes, and it feels like for ever!’

The old man retracted his spyglass and began hooting with joy. Suddenly he skidded down the pile of wreckage, sending components tumbling down with him. The wave of materials spilt out around Franco’s feet like noisy water, loudly announcing Pappy who rode its crest on his backside. He landed with a thump and sprung to his feet – shockingly spry for a man of his age – before increasing to a jog.

‘Come on, lad, get moving; time is a-wasting. I found her!’

Franco followed half-heartedly, kicking whatever found his boots rather than making a route around.

Behind the next two elevations a small maintenance shed was hidden away. It wasn’t much to look at; the roof had partially collapsed, its doors no longer existed, and every window frame was devoid of required glass. This wasn’t important though. The real treasure was what was inside.

Franco made his way around to the entrance, or what was once defined as an entrance. Buried train tracks that supplemented the circumference of the yard itself split off and lazily ran into the neglected interior.

Inside, straddling the tracks, was a pitted, decaying mass of metal. It was clearly the corpse of a machine long abandoned, well past its glory days. Its wheels, despite age, still held strength, propping up a sandblasted frame.

‘Is this it? This is what we made our way out here for?’ Franco asked, decidedly unimpressed. A handful of pigeons watched from the bare rafters above, cooing at the intruders.

‘Can you not see it?’ Pappy questioned, strolling into the structure. The overpowering stench of dust, oil, and grease that assaulted the senses were obviously a delight for Pappy. For Franco, it just made him jerk with each violent sneeze.

‘It’s a wreck.’

‘That’s all it is to you?’

‘I think your eyesight’s going, Gramps. I thought you were going to impress me with all this talk. Instead, you’re excited about this. This.’ He gestured wildly with his hands. He concluded by putting a boot to the driving wheels in turn, three identical spindled beasts that matched his height almost perfectly. Flecks of corrosion fluttered away from every impact.

‘Young eyes, I swear. If all things were run by fourteen-year-olds, we would all meet a terrible end,’ Pappy mumbled to himself. Allowing himself a treat, he pulled himself up on the handrail to the vehicle’s footboard, a square of corrugated metal that covered the front wheels before the vehicle’s nose. He scrubbed away some of the deposits of filth with a leather glove, revealing a hint of its previous paintwork. It was oddly reassuring.

‘This wreck, as you so eloquently put it, is the Eiferian 433, an Alamos D-class locomotive and a real beauty of one too. See, these things were the workhorses of the Sand Sea before the sand ships began to move shipments. Unlike this thing here, they carry more loads and weren’t consigned to tracks so plenty of the trains like this were scrapped. They run others on the lines of course, much faster they say, but the Alamos … in its heyday, kid, they were a thing of beauty.’

‘It pulled ore?’

‘And plenty of it. Everything needs something to burn to fuel it these days. Time was, whenever you looked into the Sand Sea, you would see these on every line built.’

He ran his fingers down the boiler, tracing every pit and groove. The patina, long blasted away by the winds, left bare metal exposed.

‘Sounds nice, Gramps. Shame it’s seen better days, I mean, but still.’

‘Haven’t we all?’

The engine cab may have been blanketed by dust but this mattered not to Pappy. He stepped inside, trying not to let his excitement run away with him. His hands drifted over the knobs and pipes, most tarnished with age but seemingly in acceptable condition. Memories dictated movements. He gently tested levers with a tug this way and that. The firebox took more encouragement, though it finally opened. Large metal jaws exposed the heart of the locomotive, once an all-consuming fire, now just a recess harbouring darkness and ashes.

Franco watched all this play out. Never had he seen his grandfather so keen, a curiosity considering that he was the one raising him in his father’s absence. There were always arguments, mostly revolving around Franco’s troublesome friends and wayward attitude. Pappy scorned more than he complimented, knowing no better than to mimic how he himself had been brought up.

Dirt was wiped clear from the engine’s pressure gauge, its numbers clearly visible through smeared glass.

‘The 433 wasn’t just any old train, Franco. It was my train. I used to work it, this exact one, over forty years ago. You can’t imagine how excited I was to hear that it was here – cast aside like junk, but I was excited nonetheless. Back then I worked hauling coal in the east on one of the smaller lines to the smelting plants. Tough, dirty work, my boy. Would break someone of your frail constitution, as you are now at least.’

‘Day to day on this thing? Doesn’t sound so terrible to me.’

‘You may come to regret those words.’ Pappy chuckled.

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘The yard owner owes me a debt.’

‘What sort of debt?’

‘The kind that you want to pay off immediately,’ Pappy coyly answered, ‘and he was mighty desperate too. This delight is now our property. Part of the arrangement is that we also get to use this here workshop for however long it takes to get it restored to working condition. That and we have claim of whatever can be of use on the premises. It will be a venture well worth the undertaking.’

‘We?’ Franco said, clearly not sharing the enthusiasm. ‘This is your endeavour, Grandpa, not mine. Don’t be roping me into this none.’

‘Yes, we. Us. You and I. Was I not clear in pointing that out? Do you have something better to do? Elsewhere to be?’

‘Yeah I do. I’ve got ambitions,’ he boasted with juvenile pride.

‘Please! You’ve got nothing but bad decisions under your belt, hoisting up those britches that are far too big. What are your plans outside of causing a ruckus with those who disagree with you?’

‘Does it even matter to you? It’s not like you’re my father or anything.’

‘No, but like I repeat every year, I’m the next best thing you’re ever going to get and should he miraculously drift on past, I’ll gladly pass the mantle.’

Franco huffed, kicking a spent can of paint over in frustration.

‘This is stupid. Don’t you think I deserve a say in all this? Don’t I get, I dunno, a choice?’

‘No, you don’t,’ Pappy snarled, ‘because I’m sick of hearing about the mischief you’ve been getting up to. You’re better than those rapscallions out there, troublemakers who steal purses from already downtrodden folk. Do you want to live picking pockets or brawling in gutters? You’re better than that, Franco. I raised you better than that and I’ll be damned if I’m going to watch you succumb to such foolishness. If you are incapable of making sensible decisions, then I’ll have to make them for you.’

Franco immediately recoiled. The pigeons loudly took to the sky in surprise. Anger was not a stranger to Pappy, but to see him so fiery about his grandson’s wellbeing was unique. That passion was normally reserved for betting on horses or debating the state of local ales.

‘Fine. I get it, I get it,’ the youngster conceded.

‘Do you? Because if you don’t make something of yourself now, you’ll die a very sad death out here, alone and with no one to grieve for you.’

‘All right! All right, stop; you don’t have to go on,’ Franco squawked, ‘but why would you want to go to the effort of getting it running again? It sounds like a job for a younger man.’

Disappointingly this was correct. Pappy lacked the strength of his youth, physically at least. Help was indeed required, which is why Franco would be another pair of hands in the endeavour, an apprentice of sorts. Age was against him and this was apparent from the occasional pain in the joint or strain of eyesight. What was the alternative though? Endure the remaining years in abject poverty? No. He’d promised the boy better once and no matter the hardship, he would make good on that. He’d fixed such a beast on the go with little assistance from associates, learning every facet with vigour. Resurrecting one from scrap should be a straightforward affair.

The Eiferian 433 loomed over the pair, patiently slumbering.

‘The same reason why you act up when you could be doing something productive. What compels you to do that? Honestly.’

Franco was unsure whether to take offence or not, but he deliberated and answered truthfully. ‘I don’t really know.’

‘Exactly,’ Pappy agreed, ‘we both have things that run in our blood that we can’t quite explain.’

* * *

Franco lay slumped, fingers still coaxed around green frosted glass, the last pouring collected at its base. An occasional mumble left his lips but they were nothing particularly coherent. He didn’t deserve Misu relieving him of the bottle so it wouldn’t spill on the carpet, but taking pity on him, she’d returned it to the bar counter. Neither did he deserve the blanket draped over his person to keep out the cold, but it was provided. For a moment she questioned whether she’d caught a mumble about time in his comatose state, though with the affray outside still taking place, she dismissed it.

Leaving the lamps burning out of consideration should he wake, Misu left in the pursuit of rest. As winds battered the Gambler’s Den, their troubled manager slumbered in the carriage with nothing but his dreams as company.

Chapter Three

The Hardest Word

‘Mister Rosso. Good morning.’

Franco strolled out into the sun. The morning sky was a brilliant blue, clear and devoid of a single cloud. It was hot but lacked humidity, a dry heat that ensured that it would be, on all accounts, a perfect day. At least it would be if he wasn’t nursing the results of last night’s drinking session. His boots fell into a disturbed drift of sand that had collected against the carriage side, recently dug away with accompanying shovels propped alongside.

Rosso snapped a pair of goggles from his eyes. He nonchalantly tossed a wrench into a rusted toolbox beside him, and groaned, part amused and part in pain. An hour of squatting, addressing the temperamental valve gear, had knotted his back, forcing him to rise and flex himself from side to side. The goggles slapped onto the toolbox; its lid closed with a kick. He cracked old knuckles, scarred fingers complaining of decade’s worth of toil, a sentiment echoed in the deep lines on his face. Short hair was fading from auburn to grey, a process seemingly more advanced in the sun’s full glare.

Rosso had taken over driving the Gambler’s Den almost five years ago, a task that was fraught with challenges, though he would describe it far less eloquently. It took a rougher sort to keep the locomotive happy, one who used individual grit as much as oil. With Rosso at the helm, Franco could freely concentrate on the entertainment, which suited him fine.

Standing to attention beside Rosso was his boy, just seventeen with the arms of lazy youth. Rosso had requested that the boy come with them in the hope of teaching him a decent, honest profession. He tended to the firebox mostly, heaving coal into the boiler, which was as fine a job as any. The pay was minimal and as such the decision easy. When Franco strode past, the boy lurched, back straight and arms flat to his sides as if on parade. His father knocked the wind from his chest with a sharp slap to the stomach.

‘In Her name, you blasted fool. Stop that, will you? You look like a damn statue. A statue of an ass of all things. Good morning, Franco. Slept well I presume?’ he grunted in a deep, gravelly tone.

Franco gave a pained sigh. Blast those talkative women.

‘You’re referring to the drinking.’

‘Yes, that would be what I’m talking about in no uncertain terms.’ Rosso laughed before adding sarcasm. ‘I never thought you to be a lightweight.’

‘Remind me again, what was that spiced rum you wanted me to hold for you for the night off? Pricy, came in that nice bottle. Really pretty label.’

‘Ah yes. The Shellcoof Black. Good stuff by all accounts,’ Rosso recalled, knowing full well where this was going.

‘Keep up the attitude and I’ll drain it down the sink,’ he threatened, deadpan in tone.

There was a serious, uncomfortable pause before smiles cracked through. The boy, though, was slightly rattled.

‘In answer to your question,’ Franco continued, ‘I would sleep better knowing that we’re getting back on schedule. Are there any problems given yesterday’s interruption?’

‘Apart from being stuck in this shit-hole for longer than desired? Thankfully none. The boiler is burning fine, the small drifts are already dug away, and the tracks ahead seem to be uncovered. We’ve had your security boy Jacques helping out all morning so you pretty folks could indulge in a lie-in. Doing manicures. Rubbing feet. Waxing hair. Whatever you are getting up to in there while we do, you know, the work.’

Rosso heartily chuckled to himself. Franco had not been in the engine cab for quite some time now, not since he traded overalls for smart suit jackets. Their repartee, which occasionally happened at great length and usually over drink, was legendary. It was all false of course. Franco could never forget how to operate the Den and, arguably could look after it better than anyone else, but Rosso was, to him, the best substitute possible.

The youngster, knowing that it was inappropriate, sniggered behind a hand, only to receive another bearlike hand to the stomach to correct his demeanour.

‘Dammit, lad, that’s your boss. He’s the one who gives you coin, you ungrateful cur. When it’s in your hand, you can piss and squander it on whatever you like, but show some respect in his presence because I ain’t seeing you rich enough to grow a pair yet.’

‘Of course, Pa. Sorry, Mister Franco.’ He bowed meekly.

‘Forget that, son, your old man is just being his stubborn self. None of the work, huh?’ Franco considered that for a moment. ‘If you’re too busy to eat, I’ll tell Kitty to put the skids on your breakfast. From what I understand she insisted on cooking up something special to show our appreciation, but with all this backbreaking labour you’re describing you couldn’t possibly take time out, could you?’ Franco rubbed his chin, beaming, clearly enjoying the banter.

Rosso grinned back, showing a ream of crooked teeth. ‘Driving the Den is a harsh affair, boss. We couldn’t possibly pull off on an empty stomach. That is, unless you might want to get grease on those smooth, well-tended hands. I’m assuming you remember how to regulate pressure again? Or is pressure just a word used when balancing the books?’

‘Baseless accusations aside, how soon can we leave?’

‘Come now, when we’ve only just got here? I thought you wanted to stay a while, take in the sights.’ As if on cue to illustrate the point, a wild dog trotted over the loose sand, carrying a freshly caught rat in its jaws. It took a moment to pause, eyeing up the change in scenery as if to decide whether these new arrivals were a threat to its freshly caught meal. Having assessed them enough, it continued onward. ‘Well, sight. Singular. But to answer your question, I’ll get the boy to make preparations. We’ll be good in under an hour. Any change in destination?’

‘No, straight on to Balvalk.’

‘Aye, I know it. If we ride right, we’ll make it in under three hours.’

‘Good man. See that you do.’ Franco produced a silver coin and offered it to the boy beside him who tried, with difficulty, to act nonchalantly.

‘As soon as we arrive, buy yourself something to unwind. Your choice, not his. And make it worthwhile.’

The youngster blushed and voiced his thanks.

True to his word, Rosso pulled the Gambler’s Den from Velencia station on time and set off through the yellow sand drifts, heading for the mountain-scattered horizon.

Balvalk was, by all criteria, the town that Velencia wished it could have been. Built by a wealthy investor who decided that creating a settlement would be a decent pursuit, it was Balvalk’s creation that caused Velencia’s strife. The significant investment, and influence with its neighbours, fed its expansion at the expense of others, bypassing a good handful of towns with a newly laid track. Three times the size with more than double the amenities of others, Balvalk was a cluster of roads with small flat-roofed edifices sandwiched between multiple-level structures. Inns, taverns, stores embossed with bright lettering and dramatic graphics.

However, despite its fortuitous beginnings, Balvalk was in decline. Trade was moving out of the region. Contracts were being fulfilled in the larger port cities and where the work went, so did the people. But wealth remained a priority, which was admitted by those you spoke to. It was a town where pizzazz and status were paramount, even in light of current affairs. A perfect location, Franco believed, to hold the next event.

Franco’s pre-show encouragement was almost completely ignored. Misu placed herself at his side as routine, though her mind was clearly elsewhere. Silent nods acknowledged changes in the lighting cues and anything else of note – minor revisions at best. Mechanical affirmatives emerged from the showgirls, not wanting to inflame the situation any further with questions.

Everyone stood in formation, a line down the carriage, with not a word said. The chandeliers gently clattering at the carriage’s rhythmic sway filled the noiseless void. From outside eager faces from the stacked platform buzzed past windows, their speed lessening as the locomotive eased to a final stop.

Spotlights silently turned upon the platform. The carriage was bathed in white. The entertainer took a slow, calming breath to steady any possible nerves.

‘Let’s have a good show, everybody,’ Franco insisted. The sentence was barely finished before he strolled out to rapturous applause.

* * *

A cacophony of fireworks joined the starlight that evening and, true to form, Franco led the evening’s entertainment without a break in expression or tenacity. Strutting between tables, his aloof mingling was natural, joining patrons with shakes of the hand and self-indulgent repartee. Roulette was full of cheering patrons, some excitably waving over more drinks. The card tables were equally occupied, with regional variations of poker, blackjack, and pontoon.

More than once he was asked to kiss the dice for luck, and when the numbers came up, was gracious enough to inflate the payout for those at the table. Generous, they called him. A gentleman, they praised. He bathed in his celebrity, playing his part flawlessly. A showman. An entertainer. A host.

Though a problem, an invisible one to revellers, was eroding this veneer. Misu, whenever spoken to, gave one- or two-syllable answers, most of them monotone. The normal interaction between them, a fluid exchange of opinions, of conversation, was reduced to glances and bluntness. The cause was obvious, stemming from her disapproval over finding other avenues of income. It was her problem though, right? Her reaction. Misu needed to grow up. She was, after all, just another employee. It was Franco who called the shots and she needed to not overreach herself.

If only that was true.

The crux of the matter and subsequent cause of Franco’s guilt was that Misu was anything but just another employee. Far from it. Time and time again she had proven herself to be steadfast and headstrong, keeping her areas of responsibility well managed. He never had to prompt nor apply pressure, ensuring that their professional relationship flowed more smoothly than thought possible.

Her inclusion in the Gambler’s Den was one of the most fruitful – calming too. Whenever he found scant time to relax, Misu always seemed to be a part of the procedure. It was why she and she only invited herself into Franco’s personal carriage whilst it remained out of bounds for anyone else. No, their relationship was anything but ordinary. She was a confidante in the times when he needed to spit frustration. She was a balm when times became painful.

And it was precisely these reasons why Franco felt the pangs of guilt.

His gaze fell on the woman, keeping the pretence of satisfaction. The gilded smile was impossible to class as fake unless you were aware of what stirred beneath.

Misu always was good at hiding things. A talent, he assumed, where the harshness of reality could be locked away for a spell and the illusion indulged in. Succumbing to reason, he produced a heavy sigh, knowing full well what he was about to do.

‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ He struck his hands together in succession, drawing attention. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your time please. I must share with you all a truth. It would be easy to witness this spectacle, this extravaganza and believe it is the work of just one man. I am not so proud to admit that is not the case. I introduce to you, the ever lovely Misu, the companion at my side who endures the wastes, the hardships, to bring this show to all of you.’

A spotlight swung off routine. Light set her awash in a white halo. Misu’s cheeks flushed with red at this unexpected attention. She curtseyed politely to applause. What is he up to? her expression said.

‘Now, Misu has been feeling, well, many things considering I am her manager, but sadly for the most part, she believes herself ignored. Unappreciated. Imagine that hardship for a moment, if you could.’

The crowd collectively sighed in sympathy.

‘Now, this is no fault of your own, my fine people. The desert is harsh to travel and we cross it with strength to bring you delight. Your smiles are worthwhile but the toil … the toil can beat the best of us. This woman is the one who keeps me sane.’ Franco wagged a finger. ‘She ensures more things, many things than you experience now. For instance, she ensures the games are managed!’

The crowd cheered, raising their drinks in hand.

‘She keeps the kitchen stocked!’

Another cheer.

‘She keeps the girls in their finery!’

A louder cheer this time, especially from the men who whistled in approval.

‘But more importantly than that –’ Franco thrust his finger in the air, with every person lingering on his words ‘– she keeps the bar populated with the best alcohol you could ever find and convinces me to keep the prices low!’

The cheer was followed with rapturous applause. They chanted Misu’s name over and over, a number of patrons patting her back and thanking her in person. She accepted each and every one, nodding and grinning, warmly shaking the hands of those who offered. Through the sea of faces, elevated up on the train platform – three sets of steps up – Franco threw out his arm.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, your appreciation please, to our ever-shining gem of the Gambler’s Den!’

The torrent of cheers, repeating Misu’s name over and over were deafening, and from his place above them, Franco gave a wink and smile, ensuring full well that Misu knew how much she was valued to him. Maybe speaking the words was difficult, the right ones especially, and he wasn’t prone to delivering heartfelt monologues. Others indulged in such familiarities. They were welcome to them, but Franco rarely had the time or the patience.

But she knew.

Come the dawn, the Gambler’s Den once again came to life. The clattering of iron pans broke the pale morning’s silence. The dining car was thriving with action, with the noises shortly joined by the hissing of bacon rashers, the pungent aroma of brewed coffee, and the accompanying smells that gave a tired person life anew. The kitchen, though grand in no way or special on any account, buzzed with life even at such an unsociable time. Plates were passed between the showgirls, who had already tended to the platform and packed the show materials away into storage. From the outside you would have never imagined such revelry had emerged from its doors. All was now hidden away in the visage of the fine old train.

The girls each gossiped, taking seats at one of the many tables, and prepared themselves for the day. Franco looked around him at the smiling faces, the jokes and cheers, and smiled at each of them in turn. The culminated stress of the last few days had flittered away – much to everyone’s relief. It felt comforting to see everyone relaxed once again, the dirt of their journey and profession scrubbed away somewhat by a camaraderie that they all shared.

It wasn’t family.

Franco refused to call it that as he had, in the past, referred to others not of his blood as such, resulting in it being used as a form of blackmail. Those who forged the title of family demanded sacrifice, devotion, all under the guise of manipulating what one should do. No, family wasn’t the word to use.

This was different.

This was nice, in a sense.

But family it was not.

He took a plate and thanked the one who handed it to him. The woman delivered a smile that had never faltered after her hiring. She called him boss, as respectfully as any of the others.

Misu strolled past, a plate of her own balancing on fingertips, before seating herself opposite Franco. She had decided on a lighter option than what the man before her chose, picking at a small portion of cherry tomatoes, cockatrice eggs, and greenery, which she assumed to be a form of cliff pepper. Chickens didn’t fare so well out here and thanks to the domestication of its larger and much more dangerous relative, cockatrice eggs became a staple foodstuff.

Franco had ordered that there was always to be an ample supply of food so local delicacies were picked up whenever the train stopped. The tomatoes were shipped out from the west where the climate was more temperamental, an extravagance for anyone to indulge in, let alone those under his employ. For most under his roof, the chance to eat so well was extraordinary.

The showgirls came from every background – impoverished, well-to-do, all across the spectrum. Their reasons for joining were their own (escapism, adventure, and others) but each could agree that nothing beat such decadent food, or the traditional tastes of home no matter where that may have been. A full stomach, in Franco’s words, would ensure a full performance.

Franco chewed slowly as they eyed one another silently. Clearly she was waiting for him to begin a dialogue and he did so, placing his cutlery down.

‘Eggs good?’

* * *

Misu tilted her head, mouth still half full. Eggs. After the conflict between them, the best point of conversation he could muster was about eggs?

‘The eggs are fine,’ she revealed, taking the last of them from the plate. ‘The eggs are always fine.’

She heavily swallowed and gestured with a dainty fork. No, this wouldn’t do.

‘I’m sorry, eggs? Eggs. I just wanted to clarify you’re talking about eggs and nothing else at all. It’s not, like, a metaphor for something that I have clearly missed. Maybe about you being an ass and me clearly provoking you for being such a bloody fool?’

Immediately she recoiled upon giving voice to her anger. Turning away did nothing to help the embarrassment.

Franco shrugged blankly. ‘Wow. Good thing I didn’t enquire about the tomatoes.’

The pair laughed at the absurdity, causing more than a few glances in their direction.

‘Food has been a concern of late for you. Are we still on the lookout for an actual cook?’

‘We should be. I’m not altogether keen on this stopgap who you hired last month.’

‘Kitty,’ Misu prompted.

‘Yes, her. Don’t get me wrong, she fills the role well, but Kitty’s one of the girls and was brought on to be such. I don’t like the idea of someone with a split job. It prevents one from dedicating themselves to a single task. Makes things messy,’ Franco stated.

‘What would the chances be that we just happen to stumble upon someone looking for work who is talented in the kitchen? Most of the girls are unfamiliar with the majority of what we bring on board. Kitty has been the only one capable of actually cooking it. I’m assuming that’s because of her farm upbringing – growing and whatnot. Not everyone has had such exposure.’

‘I still think it would be a good idea.’

Misu gave a modest laugh, watching the short blonde girl whizz between cupboard and counter, brandishing pan and knife in turn, a content country song passing from her lips. ‘It would be frivolous. With Kitty about, what’s the point? I’ve heard no complaints, nothing but praise in fact. Seems to be doing good and nobody is going hungry.’

‘Yet.’

‘Yet,’ Misu repeated.

‘Or poisoned.’

‘Yes, or poisoned.’

Misu glanced to the plate of bacon and flat bread that Franco had almost managed to finish, finding the hypocrisy to be almost amusing. She grinned, in answer to which he patted his lips with a napkin, balled it beside him, and returned the expression in kind.

Misu flexed a finger to the plate. ‘That right there tells me that we should see how it plays out. Trust in my recruitment and give it a chance. Okay?’

‘We’ll do it your way.’ Franco eased a yawn.

‘I’m glad you see sense. How are the finances after last night? Generally, I mean,’ she asked.

‘We’re not broke yet.’

‘Not this week at least.’ She paused then winced meekly. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that.’

‘Sure you did. It’s fine though; I don’t mind you prying. You’re right. Not this week.’ Franco grinned and she reciprocated.

‘Good to know.’ Misu paused. ‘I was wondering where you were at the close last night. I had to give your speech, you know. I’ve not done that in a while.’

‘Some people wanted me to play nice, talk to them, that sort of thing. Got dragged away for far too long.’ Franco yawned, recalling the events and their associated tedium.

‘Anyone important?’

‘Local mayor, some friends of his. Nothing that couldn’t wait but they insisted I bantered at the table. Then he wanted me to meet his daughter in an attempt of matchmaking, not that they had the courtesy to inform me first. The stories, damn their mouths – they talked seemingly for ever! If I hear one more tale about how Balvalk was once great I may very well shoot this head of mine. It’s not great. Greatness never lived here. It just needed a place to piss and hung around a spell before moving on.’

‘And the daughter?’

‘Not my sort.’

Misu snorted in amusement. ‘Do you even have a sort?’

‘I’ll tell you one day. You can keep guessing until then.’ Franco thanked a woman who passed and balanced his plate upon a stack of others she was on her way to clean.

‘I have no need to guess. You missed the commotion though; I’m sure you’re disappointed at that.’ Misu hung a cigarette between her lips and snapped off the contents of a matchbook. She held the flame in place, drawing slowly on her poison before shaking the fire to reduction. Her flute of grey smoke evaporated quickly. ‘We had a little trouble but nothing fancy.’

‘Oh?’

‘Some drunk accused one of ours of counting cards. Got rowdy and smashed a bottle. Glass everywhere.’

‘Heavens.’

‘Nothing more than a mess. Jacques calmed him down enough for the constabulary to haul him away after.’

‘A relief to hear. That man has paid for himself ten times over. The benefits of having some strong-arm help.’

‘Careful, Franco, you’re in danger of sounding like you actually care.’

‘Mistake noted. What are your plans for the day?’

‘The girls and I are going to the bath-house in town. I’m assuming that we can be spared some walking around money after last night? A little shopping would keep the spirits up.’

‘But the bath-house?’ he queried.

‘A little publicity for us, dear. Some pampering – I’m sure you won’t mind.’

Appearance was everything for the Gambler’s Den, and Misu knew full well what effect the parade of showgirls had on bored locals. Their appearance, especially in a pack, caused a sensation wherever they ventured, guaranteeing a higher turnout before a subsequent show. A higher turnout would result in a higher profit – at least one would assume so.

* * *

Franco pondered Misu’s request but remained cautious. He recalled the time where they were almost mobbed in a market square, or the time when some young men became far too aggressive in their affections. To him, it was not worrying. It was being wary of negative perceptions, despite how mechanical and callous that sounded. He had to consider these things, as the others sure wouldn’t. Why let sensibilities interrupt something fun?

Misu leant forward with a pout. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

Franco hesitated, only for a moment, but relinquished any concerns. Let them have their moment to dissipate the recent stress, he decided.

‘Of course I don’t. Make sure you’re back by dusk though. We’re hauling off then.’

‘A late one? You’ve not done that in a while.’

‘We’re going to be an extra day as it is on account of a detour. Red Points is starting to get busy with hijackings according to the wire. I would rather we kept ourselves in a measure of security even if that puts us an extra day over sand.’

The newswire had been abuzz in recent weeks. His venture into Balvalk’s post office confirmed that bandits were becoming increasingly brazen. He had scanned the noticeboards, taking in the bevy of warnings adorned with noticeably large print. Robbery this. Hijacking that. Ransom notices here and there. Pockets of lawlessness were widening out in the region, forcing organized travel routes to be changed with uncomfortable frequency. And there was significant cost. The Gambler’s Den was a lucrative target to any raiding parties and sadly replacing bullet-bitten panels was straining the coffers.

‘There’s that caring thing once more.’ Misu stubbed out her cigarette. ‘My, Franco, we’ll make an honest man out of you yet.’

‘I doubt it. Never been much for honest folk.’

‘Are they problematic?’ Misu quirked a brow.

Franco accompanied her rise to leave. He spied Rosso feverishly devouring his breakfast with copious amounts of coffee on a nearby table, accompanied by the boy who timidly pecked at his food in comparison.

‘Slippery,’ he replied. ‘At least with the rough cut, you get what you see.’

Distracted, Franco manoeuvred himself around the bar and rummaged beneath the counter. Settling upon a distinctive glass bottle with a rather attractive label, he hoisted it out by one of the fixed glass handles and deposited it before their resident driver. The pair subsequently stopped their eating.

‘That is a pleasure,’ Rosso admitted, clearly relishing the thought of taking the cork from this beauty and draining it dry.

‘For making good time,’ Franco declared, ‘though please do show some restraint; you still have to get us to Windberg.’

Chapter Four

Windberg

Windberg, from the outset, resembled a normal port town – only it was much grander. Unlike most of the other settlements, the sprawling docks were much larger as it sat upon one of the main shipping lanes across the Sand Sea, an expansive of desert that had been previously impossible to traverse. That was before man’s obsession with machinery ensured their domination over this natural void.

Massive ships moored themselves here, immense steam-powered boats adorned with giant caterpillar tracks that towered over the rugged buildings and heaved with cargo containers. When these pulled into dock, the ground violently shuddered under each heave of caterpillar tread. Goods, ore, oil – there was no cargo that the ships didn’t haul.

Naturally these were obvious targets for bandits as holding one to ransom could amass a fortune. It soon became common practice for the shipping companies to employ mercenaries, who would protect the transport from any bandits who tried their luck. Local bars attracted every kind of pay-hungry outcast from all around, who either had a talent for protection or became desperate enough to cut a living from such a dangerous profession. But this trade brought crime and with that, trouble.

The city of Windberg needed the law to be tough and assertive. The criminal element would have easily thrived unchecked if not for the swift motions of those in charge. To keep the public happy, elections were held for those who deemed themselves up to the task of keeping Windberg safe. For sure, some who offered their service were questionable in their dealings behind closed doors, but they were brushed aside by a population tired of gun-runners and back-alley thugs. The people demanded change and their wish came true.

The people got Sheriff Alex Juniper.

Juniper was not a man known for his compassion. Many ignored the rumours of brutality against criminals that found themselves thrown into cells on account of his results. Illegal fraternities were raided, back-alley trading crushed, and contraband impounded. Petty thieves, roaming thugs – these were now unheard of in Windberg. The streets were deemed safe for everyone and had been for the past couple of years. Of course, there still existed a handful of racketeers, but with the local difficulties, their operations were driven either underground or fronted by clubs or bars, the gloss of legitimacy thick and misleading.

Alex Juniper was one of those rare people who could not be bought. For him, being the sentry of order was a calling from the Holy Sorceress herself and no amount of kickbacks could encourage him to turn a blind eye to the unsavoury. Those messengers who hand-delivered plain, bound packages full of bribe money were spared jail so they could deliver his own. They were sent back, usually with an arm broken, to tell their boss that the attempt was a failure and would always be so.

Whilst Windberg was a relative sanctuary to those who abided by the government of man and the teachings of the Holy Sorceress, its outskirts were less protected. Rolling waves of sand and cliff ensured that bandits had too many caves to hide in, allowing them to ambush passing carriages, and no matter how many posses were sent out into the wilderness to bring in gang leaders, those returning were always fewer in number than when they left.

It was in these outskirts after a good couple of hours’ travel where a straggle of brigands tried to stop the Den’s arrival. They rode hard on horseback, pounding through the desert wastes, shoddily aiming pistols that cracked with every shot. Most were just for intimidation. It wasn’t the intention to hurt anybody, yet, as ransom on those possessing such a fine vehicle could be lucrative, though some shots did strike against the carriage sides.

Franco separated a window blind between thumb and forefinger, catching a look at these rogues thrashing their animals in the morning sun. Vermin, he cursed, deciding to rise from his seat and walk the length of his carriage to the telephone intercom. With sharp prods of his finger the trumpet receiver was brought to his ear and he waited for the crackling voice to come through.

The boxcar, nestled between the end observation car and the showgirls’ quarters, had come alive. Inside, a phone rattled in shrill alarm. Bustling within was the organized retaliation by the showgirls, who, in this instance, had the responsibility of returning fire. The top of the carriage had a section that swung over, revealing a rudimentary cannon that launched shells, shells that burst over the sand and tore through the unfortunate horse and rider caught in the impact.

Each shell was loaded into the cannon’s breech, supported by a drive mechanism; two of the showgirls slid one at a time into a stuttering belt loader, while another showgirl called directions as she stared into a lowered periscope. The carriage rattled with each boom – a tremendous kick that sent vibrations down to its floor. Between the feminine bodies, the train’s head of security pressed through, easing each aside to reach the ringing phone.

Jacques released the conical ear piece and spoke into the mounted receiver.

‘Yes, boss?’

‘Mister Jacques,’ Franco said, watching another rider fall from the carriage window. Sand erupted in heavy plumes with each shot. ‘There seem to be people firing at my train.’

‘That there is, sir.’ Jacques gestured to the women inside to continue the retaliation. ‘I would guess it be on account of the money we’re carrying, that with it being our lot and all.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Pay them no mind. We are already all over it.’

‘I’m relieved to know that is the case. I shall leave things in your more than capable hands.’

Capable they were indeed. For months now, Jacques had provided the protection that the Den had required. It was not his brawn that made him unique, though few could take a punch from him and keep composure. Nor was it his handiness with firearms, though his aim was keener than most who brandished weaponry. What Jacques brought was presence.

It would have been easy to hire someone to be brutish. With such desperation in the region, ask anybody to rough up another for a solid wage and there wasn’t a soul who would say no. It was pure luck that Franco met Jacques, emptying a bottle of Black Peanut glass by glass in one of the more respectable taverns.

He had been a young man born into wealth, though discovered the humility of scarceness when a fire took his belongings and family. Unlike most others in similar circumstances who either begged on the streets or worked in mills for a pittance, Jacques earned an honest trade working at the market. Although only twelve years old, his literacy and accountancy skills had made him an asset. When old enough, he had taken the running of the stalls day to day, shifting any goods that were offered by suppliers for a quick turnaround, before destiny interrupted.

By chance, Jacques witnessed a well-dressed gentleman being relieved of his purse by a pickpocket of impressive skill. Calling into the throng caused the criminal to escape but for some reason Jacques gave chase. Sprinting through snaking alleyways that were always slick with sand, he eventually cornered the thief and demanded his ill-gotten possessions. A knife was quickly thrust towards Jacques, which he was not quick enough to dodge, and it instead sank into his shoulder. It was the first true experience of physical pain he had suffered, though this was hastily ignored.

In response Jacques tossed the thief against the alleyway walls until he hung limp over his shoulder. It was surprising for the purse owner to offer Jacques a job upon his return. Sure, he could have kept the money but not everybody stole given the opportunity. Principles counted for a lot and Franco, who happened to have been the victim in this whole affair, approached Jacques with a job prospect. He needed a trustworthy hand and Jacques needed money. It was an ideal arrangement.

Another crack of a revolver. Another hollow thud into the carriage side. How much was all this going to cost? Repeated entanglements were a monetary blight on funds and costs were already skyrocketing. How much more was he supposed to tolerate? The entire farce was eroding his patience.

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.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.