Den of Smoke
CHRISTOPHER BYFORD

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Christopher Byford 2018

Christopher Byford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008257507

Version: 2018-06-20

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

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

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Christopher Byford

About the Publisher

This is for nobody but you.

Chapter One
Lies and money

Few things mattered in the Sand Sea. The constant struggle to live was a full-time pursuit, with very little consideration of others.

Esquelle, on the edge of the Sand Sea, was an expanding town. The shanties that had sprung up over the course of the years on the town’s outskirts were gradually being torn down and replaced with brick structures. Those who had no money to put towards the new, outrageous sums of rent had two choices: bury themselves in debt or live on the streets. For the most part, the shantytown dwellers relocated elsewhere but the ones who remained were shunned by the comfortable and fortunate.

It was no surprise that pockets of criminality sprung up, with some people thieving for the means to live, while others managed to line their pockets with coin to handle these affairs. The law was slowly cracking down on these operations, sending parentless children to mills or workhouses should they be involved, forcing the desperate to become increasingly so.

Nestled throughout the old town, where the sandstone streets twisted into cobweb paths, street restaurants and gaming houses were hidden behind inconspicuous back doors, revealed by pitted tin signs. They all saw service, where the alcohol was cheap and of poor quality, and the games varied in risk. Some gambled in favours, others in food. It was only the downright foolish who flouted the fact they had money to gamble on hand and risked a knife in the dark.

It would have been the same for Jackdaw if he weren’t so respected in the Cutter’s Inn.

Everyone who frequented Cutter’s knew who Jackdaw was. Anybody who was anybody knew of Jackdaw. A young street boy raised on a diet of crime born from desperation, he had gathered some like-minded individuals to follow his lead. Come his mid-twenties, Jackdaw formed a gang that found no job too small, no pay too big and as long as it kept them in the dark, they were willing to perform.

It was easy to dismiss him as another chancing crook, whose ego ensured risks, but this was far from the truth. Jackdaw had witnessed what became of the egotistical. It was never pretty. As such, Jackdaw ensured that he operated with respect to the others around him but with enough bite to show those who tested him that it would not stand. Of course there were some who failed to accept this, seeing his stature as one to topple for their own personal gains. Warnings against this went unheeded by the foolhardy and when persistence went ignored, Jackdaw had no choice but to turn to more permanent solutions.

Jackdaw wasn’t a fighter, though he could tangle with the best of them. His upbringing had been rough, the product of a drunken stepdad and grudges, so his fists were well versed in use. He wasn’t a straight-up murderer but if the situation called for it, he could pull a trigger and had done so plenty of times. He would do what was required to suit the situation. He wasn’t ashamed of this. It was, in a word, accepted.

The product of all this was a man who few now tangled with. Word was that he was working for someone, someone much higher up, and crossing him ensured that ravens would be picking at your bones long before your time was up.

Jackdaw leant back in his chair, black leather boots hoisted onto a round oak table, with a roll-up puffing from between his lips. It was moved aside for a draw of brandy, brandy that Cutter’s Inn put aside for special clientele – people like him. For Jackdaw had no qualms spending his money in these joints and if he lost it to the house, so be it. As long as he wasn’t cheated a fair game was a good time, provided the liquor kept flowing and the food was ample. As was the case here.

Jackdaw dropped his feet to the floor and checked the small wooden cup before him. He covered its exposure with a curved palm, counting the six dice faces before him.

‘Three fives,’ he declared.

He grinned beneath a blond handlebar moustache and accompanying goatee and went back to sipping his drink.

The two others at the table lacked the class that Jackdaw oozed, with his out-of-place smart tweed jacket and slacks. His companions wore grubby canvas trousers and functional work shirts. His boots alone could have clothed these folks twice over, though this was something no one minded. Their attire may have been rougher, but status was not their concern. It was his. Those involved in this game, those he trusted implicitly, dressed appropriately. Like his father would reiterate, you don’t send someone down a coal mine wearing a good suit. Be that as it may, keen eyes and sharp wits were present, no matter the attire.

The gruff man to his left exhaled a burst of acrid cigar smoke and checked his own hand of dice. He squinted with his one good eye, the other hidden away with a black patch and accompanying battle scar before making his call. There was no hesitation as he tossed his chip into the pile and smugly grinned.

‘That’ll be four fives there, gentlemen,’ Blakestone snorted.

The play was passed to the left whilst the owner of Cutter’s Inn blindly rummaged through a tray of food left by the last of the bar staff. He took the moment to grasp a meat-laden sandwich, taking a suffocatingly large bite from it before returning his attention to the game. Bulky in stature, still with his bar apron wrapped around his hips, Cutter himself slurred his call, peppering the table with debris.

‘Five fives are with us.’

Jackdaw instantly interrupted, watching the hesitation before the words were delivered, minute but still there. Masking them with his appetite did nothing. He took the smoke from his mouth and wagged it accusingly.

‘Ah, now there’s a liar if I ever saw one.’

Each lifted their cups and Cutter winced, tossing a now lost dice into the chip pile. Jackdaw chuckled, scooping them over and stacking the colours in order.

‘Third game in a row and you have a downward streak. Sure you want to continue this?’

‘It’s not exactly my money to lose is it? I’m giving it back to my employer if anything.’ The old man drained his glass in one deep swallow. ‘We change the game though. My luck changes with the cards, eh?’

Bad luck clung to a man like a sour smell, impossible to remove until it saw itself fit. Tonight, for Cutter, there seemed no sign of the stench relenting.

On the fifth hand, Cutter rearranged his diminishing chip pile and ordered another round from the woman who lingered against the bar. She flipped each page of the newspaper in a blasé way, slowly draining a bottle of Rye at her own pace. With words thick with liquor, she flicked her attention to him and instead of motion, paid an all-too-sour look.

Orders were barked once more, sharper this time, in Settler’s language. Though lost on most, Jackdaw knew enough to pick up a particularly thorny insult tagged onto the end. He smiled to himself whilst shuffling a well-used deck of cards. No matter how aged one gets, they are always obedient to family and as such the woman complied, producing deep echoing footsteps whilst marching down the cellar trapdoor.

She was not under Cutter’s employment, as all his staff had been sent home hours ago. She was trustworthy though, family, and knew anyone who Cutter welcomed into his establishment would not abuse such hospitality. Alvina returned and begrudgingly yanked the cork from a brown bottle. Each glass was filled to its brim, agonizingly slow, just to spite Cutter. Amused, Jack thanked her and she seated herself back on the stool, away from the game and with her own thoughts, lost once more in the newspaper.

‘That bastard girl. Born to piss me around, like her poor, poor father,’ Cutter grunted, watching the pack shuffle and dance between fingers. ‘Is she giving you trouble these days? I’ll be happy to have words if she doesn’t tow the line.’

‘Everybody gives me trouble. It’s just a question of how much. To answer your question though, no. Your niece is doing just fine. Just as capable as us men, truth be told.’

Cutter grinned broadly, showcasing each of his yellowed teeth.

‘Good,’ he crooned. ‘Good news all round. Now stop stalling and deal. I want a chance to claw something back from your pocket.’

Money changed hands over and over, until the front door was slowly rapped. The group stopped momentarily to glance to the owner, before busying themselves with another turn.

Cutter leant back on two of his chair legs, looking at the wooden frame and checking to ensuring it was bolted. Nobody was expected, especially at this hour.

‘We’re closed for the night!’ he bellowed in an accented drawl, taking another mouthful of liquor and exhaling its burn.

Again the door was struck.

‘We’re closed I said! Don’t you know the meaning of the word? Come back tomorrow if you so wish.’

From behind the wood came a thick, muffled slur from the culprit. ‘Aw c’mon … you’re leaving me out here in the cold? That’s harsh.’

‘Harsh ain’t nothing to do with it,’ Cutter shared with those around him. ‘I just lack the courtesy to serve someone who isn’t willing to part with their money. Well, eventually, when I stop getting crap cards.’

Finally the owner took to his feet in an effort to confront this commotion.

He heaved the door bolt back and peered through the slit to the outside. Before him, swaying in a drunken stupor, was the figure of a man clearly too intoxicated to know what was best for his wellbeing. If he had, he would have known that banging on the door to Cutter’s, especially after being turned away, could have consequences.

Cutter summed the man up, clad in a pitted hacking jacket and mismatched trousers. Another hopeful dandy on his nightly crawls around bars, Cutter assumed, drunk as the rest and just as foolhardy. He stared into the lolling white pits of the eyes before him, the young man of colour unable to concentrate on a single point before chasing liquor mirages.

‘Go home. You’re getting nothing, especially in your state,’ Cutter advised.

‘Hey, mishter.’ Cutter saw the figure sway through the eye slot, rocking back and forth. ‘C’mere …’

Cutter leant forward, as if expecting to be entrusted with some fabulous secret.

Without warning, all trace of drunkenness was scrubbed from the man’s gaze. His eyes narrowed, cruel and hard, and with thick-formed words simply said: ‘I disagree.’

The door exploded open and immediately Blakestone was on his feet. The intruder had barged the owner aside, launching him into a wall before reaching for the weapon at his hip. Already Blakestone was upon him to prevent this and the pair traded blows, Blakestone reaching for his own secured iron. The man blocked what punches he could, though spurned with such vigour that this advantage was overpowering. A sudden blow across Blakestone’s temple was enough to send him to his knees.

The intruder’s hand freely whipped to his holster, yanked the revolver free and snapped it to the level of his eyes. His advantage wasn’t as conclusive as he hoped. In return for this interruption, his focus was caught by the gaping gun barrel before him, its dark abyss harbouring the futility of his folly.

He breathed sharply, steady, waiting for a flinch of movement from Jackdaw, who himself waited for the gusto of action.

‘I’ve waited far too long for this,’ the intruder wheezed, spitting the blood from his mouth but never breaking his gaze. ‘Jackdaw. As I live and breathe. I’ve spent a while tracking you down and you’re sure as hell are going to give me my money.’

Jackdaw, his thumb still lingering on his revolver hammer, grinned in amusement. ‘Oh I am, am I?’

‘You have my very word.’

‘That sounds like a demand.’

‘It is.’

‘Look, I’ll be honest with you.’ Jackdaw watched the shadows move from behind the intruder, where the light was broken by a figure moving up behind. Never did his gaze shift. Never did he give the game away. ‘I’ve taken a lot of people’s money. Big, small, I don’t even count it. I suppose yours just went into the pile with everyone else’s. It would take a good while to find.’

There was a sudden, blunt click that sprang into the air.

Alvina pressed her weapon into the base of the intruder’s skull, firmly enough to ensure he got the point. ‘You’ve been all sorts of silly here, sugar,’ she purred. ‘Do the sensible thing and let it go.’

Jackdaw paid a wink to the woman behind who returned it in kind.

‘Best do as she says, son. She’s not the most patient sort.’

He cursed and thumbed the hammer back into place, slowly, the iron soon relieved from his possession.

‘Oooh,’ Jackdaw hissed in amusement, ‘so close.’

He sauntered around the room, helping Blakestone to his feet, patting down his clothes and straightening his collar. All the while Alvina kept her aim upon the man, ensuring any flinch was met with a deadly response. Blakestone shook the stars from his head and attempted to recompose himself.

‘Really? And you do my muscle? What did he do, get you from your blind side as he walked through the door?’

Next, Cutter was pulled onto a stool and his face was patted to consciousness. He slumped over the bar, hacking in pain, but was otherwise all right. His immediate outrage was silenced with the raising of Jackdaw’s hand. This would be handled. There was no use getting so upset over something so trivial as a damaged door and a broken nose. Instead he cracked the wax on the bottle that had been brought up from the cellar, taking a swill with a scowl of disdain.

‘To give you your dues, kid, you’ve got further than most. That deserves something at least in my book.’

Jackdaw strolled back around the table’s circumference, placing the spilled glasses back onto their bases. He filled one halfway and handed it over. As he made the gesture, he nodded once more to Alvina who withdrew her threat and stepped back.

The drink was taken, drained, and the glass firmly placed back onto the table.

‘Sit,’ Jackdaw offered. The intruder scowled in scepticism, so this was repeated. ‘I insist.’

He did so, begrudgingly. If he was to take a bullet through the skull, he may as well be comfortable in doing so.

‘Now we can talk. What’s your name?’

Nothing.

‘I’m not going to ask twice,’ he insisted.

‘Cole,’ came the response, blunt.

‘Cole. Just Cole?’

‘Cole Roaner.’ He emphasized the surname.

‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘It wouldn’t,’ Cole retorted, still quite stern.

‘You mentioned something of me stealing monies. Yours I’m assuming?’

* * *

Adrenaline still burning through him, Cole supressed the tremor that attempted to splinter his words. He had obsessed about this moment for the best part of a month, though imagined slightly different circumstances – mostly them being in his favour.

‘You did a job on the Eastern Point Bank a couple of weeks back. Cleaned it out from top to bottom. By the time Bluecoats showed up, they were greeted with the sight of a piss-empty vault and six individuals all hog-tied and buck-naked.’

‘Six was it?’ Jackdaw tested. ‘Well I recalls it being a different number.’

‘The papers inflated it but I assure you: four tellers and two guardsmen. Naked as the day they entered the world.’

‘Quite the sight. A lot of people lost their money that day. I’m struggling to see why I should hand over yours. You’ve not given me any suitable reason so far.’

‘I just want what’s mine.’

‘Now, now, I stole it fair and square. I don’t have it any more of course. That’s not how the game is played, not around here. Don’t let the sand fool you. This here is a lake we each can drown in and everyone answers to a bigger fish. You, on that day, answered to a bigger fish. So sorry, you’re fresh out of luck. Besides, have you never heard that saying never take the shiny from a jackdaw?’

Cole’s eyes narrowed. He sized up the weapons on him, wondering if they had lowered at any point. They hadn’t. Finally Jackdaw waved them to holster. He had this under control.

‘You’ve been tracking me ever since I take it, Little Fish?’

‘I have. You crooks don’t exactly keep a low profile.’

‘Crooks? Ouch.’ Jackdaw feigned hurt. ‘But colour me impressed nonetheless. Not many would do that. I suppose you know my reputation?’

‘I do.’

‘And you could have gone to the law. Got a nice, fat reward for the information I bet.’

‘But I wouldn’t have got my money back, now would I? Besides, the law has no business in my affairs. I don’t need Bluecoats sniffing around.’

‘You and me both.’

Cole rubbed his jaw, thoroughly, probing at the flesh with testing fingers.

‘Your man there has a mean swing.’

* * *

Jackdaw observed Blakestone prop himself on the bar and swill from Cutter’s open bottle. He needed to drown the embarrassment and not quickly enough. Alvina took a mouthful of her own before sliding it back along the countertop. With her uncle making the sorry trio, they each watched the conversation for any change in tone or threat.

‘That he does,’ Jackdaw said, ‘though I think we need to talk about little upstarts like yourself getting the jump on us. I’m as surprised as you are. Maybe I need to be paying him more.’

Blakestone grumbled under his breath, which his employer noticed.

‘Or less,’ Jackdaw added, taking a measure from his own filled glass, ‘but you have done something few others have. You’ve impressed me, kid. It’s the sole reason why you and I are talking, instead of your body waiting to be found by rats while vagabonds fleece you of your clothes.’

There was a pregnant pause. Cole downed the last of his whisky and placed the vacant glass between them. ‘So where do we go from here?’

‘Isn’t that just the question. What do you do for a living, Cole?’

‘A job? Don’t have one. Not no more. I sold the ore from a strip-mining firm out west. Since they found me to be good with numbers, I worked the books as well. Being that you knocked over the local bank, they closed doors on account of everyone losing their money. It put me out of a job. It put plenty out of a job.’

‘I see.’ Jackdaw smiled to his colleagues.

Already Blakestone knew where this was heading. He hid his pout, glad that his other eye was hidden behind its patch. It was painfully obvious.

‘Want one?’ Jackdaw asked.

‘With you?’ Cole scoffed.

‘What, you have a better offer on the table?’

It was a fair point.

‘What would I be doing?’

‘It depends. What are you good at?’

‘Numbers. Bookkeeping.’

‘Creative bookkeeping?’ It was now Jack’s turn to probe.

‘Like I said, I’m good with numbers. Very good.’

‘There’s a skill. You as handy with that gun of yours as you are with a pen?’

‘You would have been unfortunate to find out.’

Jack clapped loudly in delight, tossing his head back with laughter. ‘Lucky I wasn’t out in the open now, wasn’t I?’

Cole’s eyes narrowed. Unperturbed by the fact that he could be a corpse a long time ago. This clearly wasn’t how he’d envisioned tonight going down, not by a long shot.

Jack may have been jovial but he was as sober to the situation as could be.

‘What about my money?’ he spat.

‘I’ll give you the chance to earn it back tenfold. Take it or leave it.’

The thoughtful pause gave Jackdaw cause to push for a response.

‘Well …?’

There was no possible alternative but to accept of course.

‘All right. I agree.’

‘Fantastic. Welcome to the Jackrabbits. One wrong move and I’ll put a hole through your skull so big you could fit your fist through it.’ Jackdaw aimed down the sight to the dead centre of Cole’s forehead. It was quick, too quick for him to retaliate, and done so for a time before finally being lowered. ‘Don’t be giving me a reason to and you’ll be just fine.’

Blakestone narrowed his good eye. Disgusted at the outcome of this, he nudged Cole by the shoulder upon passing and muttered in his ear. ‘He might need a reason to make that head of yours a good deal lighter,’ he venomously hissed, ‘but you’ve given me mine already.’

Chapter Two
Shoot the runner

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

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

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

‘Yep.’

‘Could you do it elsewhere?’

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

‘Nope.’

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

‘Dawn. Or thereabouts.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You’re kidding right?’

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

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

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

‘No.’

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

‘No.’

‘Muscled in on some territory owned by another?’

‘Well, no.’

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

Cole stared, dumbfounded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh, he knows.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’ve mellowed in my old age.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How persuasive?’

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

‘None at all.’

‘Good to hear. Ralust?’

‘Boss?’

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

‘That’s easy: lies or bribery.’

‘Pick one and run with it.’

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

‘Cole?’

* * *

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

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

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

‘Right.’

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

‘Cole.’

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

‘What do you want me to do?’

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

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

‘How long do you need?’

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

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

‘Wonderful.’

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

‘Wait, is this safe?’ Cole asked.

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

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

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

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

‘You can do that, can you?’

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

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

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

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

‘Cypher. The key.’

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

‘Go on.’ Jack sipped from a glass.

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

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

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

All three lowered their cards in unison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack doused his explanation with a swig of ale.

‘And that bastard is the biggest you’re ever gonna see. Now. Are we absolutely, positively clear on the situation regarding Mister Kane?’ Jack asked. Only a fool would have misunderstood the tone and pressed further. Cole was not a fool by any definition of the world and said nothing else on this topic.

Cole nodded as Jack scooped the pot into his pile with considerable envy.

‘Good. Now sit there. You’re going to play some cards with us.’

Chapter Three
Knives in meat

A typically uncomfortable train ride did nothing to brighten Jack’s mood. Having to visit Donovan in any capacity was never something to be pleased with. You were never in Donovan’s company unless you needed to beg for something, or he had demanded your presence. Rarely did either of these situations play out as expected. Bargains would always be one-sided and most of the time, an individual would leave empty-handed.

So when Jackdaw received a letter requesting his attendance, very politely of course, it did nothing but coax ire. He had enough to concern himself with and didn’t need to burden his mind with the what-ifs the note conjured up. None of them were good of course. Nothing about being summoned by Donovan ever concluded pleasantly.

Semmerton was a small village with a shady past, a single stop westwards by train. Every brothel Jackdaw passed hid criminals by the score. Each storefront was a façade for bootleggers, betting dens and underground boxing rings. All the sordid things that respectable towns swept out to keep themselves decent wound up here. It was an open secret of course and under Donovan’s control, this lawless hole had begun attracting every sort of scumbag from the Badlands to the borders of Eifera. It was a haven for their sort.

Not for Jackdaw though. He had a code he worked to, a professionalism that refused to be tarnished by vermin who pulled the trigger at a simple disagreement, or saw fit to cut a woman’s face just for looking at them wrong. Yes, these were the crimes the worst were guilty of and if the land were scrubbed clean in a flood, not a one would be missed by anyone with scruples.

Jackdaw sidestepped a fight that had broken out between two small gangs, passing by before knives could be introduced or the inevitable shots fired. He had walked the approach to Donovan’s compound a good number of times before but that didn’t alleviate scrutiny from passing sharpshooters. They sat on overhangs, rooftops and watchtowers looking for the first signs of trouble. Bluecoat trouble, not the regular disgusting masses that brawled in the open.

Each one waved him past, recognizing him as a regular. He was welcomed at the gates, patted down and his weapon was removed, as was procedure. He passed the main house, large and obtained via ill-gotten money, and then he followed the white gravel paths that funnelled people through the property. Past the stables he went, catching sight of the newest collection of mares being trained for racing. Only at a rundown-looking barn on the outskirts did Jackdaw find who had called for him.

A heavyset pale man guarded the door, his rifle propped up against the barn itself, stock first. A block of ginger hair protruded from a brown derby bowler that had seen better days. His freckled features moved to delight upon seeing Jackdaw approach. Immediately he whipped his hand out and shook the visitor’s warmly.

‘Morning, Jack. It’s been a while since you’ve given us a visit. I was beginning to think you had been replaced. Wouldn’t want that now.’

‘Me neither.’ Jack smiled. ‘I like working. I like breathing a whole lot more if you catch my meaning.’

The sentry spat into the ground, surveying the harsh sun.

‘Things have changed since Wilheim was buried … Not for the better. Too many youngsters these days are trying to make their name – with no experience. Figure they can get it by taking out big ’uns like you and I. Brats the lot of them. I always said you were one of the good ones.’

It would have been a nice sentiment if Jackdaw could remember this fellow’s damn name. Instead he tipped his head in thanks and stated his intentions. From the open doorway, a curious and irregular thumping sound made itself known. The daylight was so harsh that the interior was swamped with shadow.

‘I’ll always accept a compliment, warranted or no. I’m here to see the big man. Got a summons the other day; fellow at the gate pointed me in this direction. He inside?’

‘He’s inside all right. Best not say anything out of turn today. He seems to be in quite the mood,’ the sentry proclaimed, turning his head to the side and calling into the darkness, ‘Hey, boss! Jackdaw is out here saying you sent for him!’

The thumping abruptly stopped.

‘Send him in,’ was the gravelled reply.

The sentry held his arm out to offer Jackdaw passage inside. ‘Best of luck to you, Jack.’

The blows started up once more, louder this time. The deeper Jack ventured inside, navigating a small grimy corridor filled with barrels and gurneys, his eyes readjusting to the gloom, the better he could see and, unfortunately, smell. The air was nauseatingly thick with a pungent metallic waft. Jack didn’t need to guess the cause. There had been times when the stench had clung to him after a day’s labour, poisoned his clothes and became one with his skin.

Nobody had to remind Jackdaw what death smelt like.

He looked back the way he had come, eyes now turning to the floor to follow a strip of red that ran from the open door to another that had been propped open. Spitting the warm miasma from his mouth to the floor, Jackdaw followed the trail.

He had known Donovan Kane for as long as he’d been in the game. A small-time thug had risen to become Wilheim Fort’s most trusted adviser and, as an extension, a grabber and torturer. A grabber was an individual who was skilled in the art of retrieval. Rubbed the boss up the wrong way? A grabber would get you and force you to explain yourself in person. Went on the run after owing money? A grabber would drag you back to ensure you paid in full. Naturally grabbing and torture went hand in hand, as tongues needed to be loosened by any means necessary.

Donovan was especially talented at this.

His father had taught him butchery in his youth, which became useful when putting the hurt on the uncooperative. How bones broke. Which part of the insides to hurt and how. When Wilheim’s empire began to crumble, it was Donovan who claimed it and this patented hurt of his had to be applied on a good number of fellow challengers before they submitted to reason. By the time he was victorious, Donovan’s dominance was unquestioned.

It would be easy to become sluggish upon his new throne, to let his gifts become rusty and obsolete.

But Donovan had found a routine to ensure this would not be the case.

Donovan continued to cut through a sow with quick slips of a knife. Segments of chops were removed and placed beside one another. Despite having the animal bled out beforehand, dashes of blood accompanied that spread out on the chopping block. That which the block failed to contain dripped down onto the tiled floor that gently sloped to a drain. Judging by the amount of blood that adorned the floor, he had gone through a few animals already today.

Long black hair was oiled back and pulled into a topknot, the well-groomed facial hair forming a husky beard on his thin face. Steely eyes were laser-focused on the task in hand, as if it had become an outlet for something deep within his being. In the last few months since Wilheim’s death, Donovan had changed significantly. This was not the man Jackdaw recalled, not in any sense. Reforming the criminal enterprise was elevating Donovan into something more than he once was, something much crueller. Something worse. Reds of various contrasts tarnished his leather work apron.

‘Jackdaw. What an honour to see you,’ he exclaimed, though his words were insincere.

‘An honour is it now? I remember when it was an inconvenience.’

‘It’s a turn of phrase, Jack – don’t get too big-headed. You don’t bring in enough to get away with sarcasm. In fact, looking at the books, you’re fortunate I don’t toss you out right now.’

‘Come now, Donovan, this isn’t the way to do business, is it? Wilheim never rocked the boat.’

‘No.’ Donovan assessed the carcass before him, sizing up what cut to take next. ‘He was foolish enough to sink with his ship whilst I have every intention of staying afloat.’

After reaching for his cleaver that had been embedded into the chopping block, Donovan twisted it free and continued on with strong whacks. Jack watched as each strike gouged through the meat, the brutal sound echoing, seemingly reverberating in the room around them.

‘Are things bad these days?’

‘My concerns are not your concerns. All I need from you – if need is the correct term as it implies an urgency, or importance upon your person – is to keep Esquelle in check. The reason why you’re here is because I’m troubled, Jack. Word comes to me that this may not exactly be the case.’

The pig’s ribs were separated away with a much more frenzied strike. Jackdaw kept his nerve. Showing any sort of trepidation would very much go against him. Something within the mess cracked with a tug.

‘You shouldn’t listen to rumour, Donovan. People talk all sorts of rubbish for attention.’

The cleaver slammed deep into the blood-stained wood, secured by the force of the blow. Donovan drew his hands down his well-soiled leather apron, removing a great deal of blood but nowhere near all.

‘And plenty speak truth. I would say I’m troubled by what I hear but you know me all too well: I don’t get troubled. Trouble does not consume me. I am trouble. Tell me, why do I hear that your grip on things has slipped of late? Previously the other gangs would fall into line. Now I hear they openly compete with you for territory. Ridiculous.’

Jack stepped forward, cautious not slip on the wet floor. The blood, he had little care for.

‘I can’t buy off the Bluecoats any more than I have already. If I could, I would march into each of their hovels in turn. I operate on restraint. Since Wilheim’s death, the law seems galvanized to be doing the right thing. Foolish notion for sure, but one they adhere to. Now some of these gangs you talk about have been taken off the board. The head of the Highwaymen had a tragic accident when shaving. His neck was opened up, ear to ear. Blakestone jumped all of the Travellers Three when they were preoccupied with working girls. Why only last week did Chester’s goons suffer the unspeakable tragedy of dying in their sleep via natural causes.’

‘Natural causes you say?’

‘Fire is a natural thing. Dynamite not so much, but the two go hand in hand. The bottom line is …’ Jack stabbed at the table repeatedly, turning the tip of a finger crimson ‘…I’m keeping my part of the bargain. Sure there are some out there who want to take risks and test my temper but I assure you, I’m holding the line over there.’

A knife taken from the rack. Donovan knelt slightly to perfect his angle, before slipping it inside and cutting into the shoulder. Strings of fat clung to the flesh, encouraged to separate with strokes of the blade.

‘Your agreement was with Wilheim Fort,’ Donovan stated.

‘You’ve taken over his operation.’

‘That I have. Yet I am not him. For all his terrors it may surprise to hear that he was unduly lenient with you in the past. I recall the day you walked on in to his place, a spit of a lad, demanding an audience. You cut down the legs of one of his men to get his attention. You gave your demands. Do you remember what you wanted?’ He pulled a mass of pink and white from the carcass, the skin immediately sagging. The shoulder was placed beside the other cuts of meat in sequence with a thump.

‘Revenge.’ Jack’s face fell, cold and hard.

‘Of course you did. It’s a fine purpose. And you were given that town –’ Donovan wagged the tip of the knife between them, a streak of blood dashing its way to the handle thanks to gravity.

‘I earned that town,’ Jack challenged, his expression as resolute as his words to ensure there was no misunderstanding. ‘I took it. Spit of a lad, like you said. Yet I took it. Don’t forget that little detail.’

‘Doesn’t change the fact you’ve done nothing with it. No enterprise. No venture. Just money in, money out, living the same way you’ve always done. I don’t know how many years it’s been. What I do know is that it’s been too many.’

The knife was swept back and forth upon his apron to wipe away the blood and then dropped into a rack.

‘Some of us pave the roads. Others simply travel upon them. Years down the line, the horse and cart will fade to bones and dust. Yet the road will always remain.’ Donovan chuckled to himself, amused at something so surprisingly poetic. He rested his elbow on a sad, protruding bubble of pink at the height of the strewn-out animal carcass. The pig’s head sank somewhat under the weight of the man, its lolling tongue slipping further out.

‘Make progress,’ Donovan ordered, ‘for your own sake. Or I’ll get someone who can. Do we understand one another?’

Jack scowled over his glasses, not enough to show outright defiance but enough to convey his dissatisfaction. The stench of blood had never sickened him before but here, in these confines, he felt it contributing to his feeling of undue queasiness.

‘Absolutely.’

‘Good.’ Donovan patted the pig’s face with a pair of slaps, then scooped up the cleaver, tuning the head to line up his blow. ‘Tribute will be going up an extra fifteen per cent going forward. I trust that won’t be a problem for the famed Jackrabbits?’

‘Without a doubt,’ Jack cockily responded. He lied of course. That increase would sting anybody and already decent jobs seemed to be tougher to come by. Yet atop the previous increments, Jack knew full well that this demand would be one ask too much.

‘Good! Then we’re done here. You can go.’

Jackdaw shuddered before he made his way out the door and back into the daylight. A flurry of cries was coupled with dramatic, mighty strikes. Bone cracked violently before the tool struck the wood beneath. Then there was nothing but arduous breathing.

As he passed, the sentry outside spied the slight decoration of red that dotted over Jackdaw’s shirt, unbeknown to its owner.

‘You got some blood on you, pal,’ he called.

But Jackdaw just walked on. Blood upon his person was nothing new.

Chapter Four
Roses in the sand

Returning to Esquelle with additional woes, Jackdaw hungered to blow off steam. Dusk-soaked tawny streets seemed maze-like to the visitor but Jack’s feet knew full well where they travelled. He crossed the district, weaving past warehouses and small factories before emerging out on the cusp of the tailors’ square. A water fountain, once built by the founders as a symbol of self-congratulation, was being slowly eroded by both time and the elements. Its depiction of the Holy Sorceress, gown in frozen motion and sword raised high, was tarnished with gentle pitting.

He wandered over and cupped the tepid water in his hands, freshening his face and wrangling his beard back into design. When content at the reflection staring back, Jack paced between buildings until the space extended out into a loading yard.

Except it was anything but.

The yard was free of crates, free from anything of substance apart from the fire escape that spidered up the red-brick building side. Women hung over the railings, beautiful women in fact, wrapped up in fashions both bright and fair. Those who lived at the Ten of Hearts were sirens to the dockhands who passed, working girls but selective ones, for their tastes were far too exotic for just anyone to accommodate.

As Jackdaw strolled into the yard, the figures clad in satin and silk eased their conversations. The ones entangled with men broke from their embraces, looking down the line to one of their own in particular.

She draped herself over the fire escape, letting her cyan satin hang quite elegantly. Raised to her cherry red lips, pinched between fingers, was a cigarette, the smoke initially restrained and then eased away gently. Her voice was rich and sweet, confectionery for any red-blooded man.

‘Well looky here. Howdy, trouble. Are you causing mischief again?’

‘Perish the thought, Bounty,’ Jack answered.

Already he had begun to ascend the green fire escape that clenched onto the red-brick premises like a hungry lover. Each woman he passed received a nod of respect. As he moved past silk and skin and satin the women batted hypnotizing eyes and pursed inviting lips. They each cooed and offered saccharine smiles. They knew Jack by reputation, though only the good parts and even most of them were embellished.

‘And I suppose you’re just sniffing around this here premises on the way to church, right?’ Bounty called, dangling her hair over the railing as he approached. He paid the same courtesy as they came toe to toe. Hazel-brown eyes flicked to Jack, who met them with his own blues.

‘I prefer to talk to those who are willing to answer me,’ he quipped, ‘but between the pair of us, and correct this if it’s a falsehood of mine, I believe you’re the one who prays on her knees now.’

Bounty curled her mouth, teething the cigarette. The gaggle of accompanying women chuckled at the banter. It was a show they had witnessed many times previously, though it never got old.

‘Ever the clever bastard. I’ve not seen you around for some time, Jacky boy. I was afraid you was getting bored of me.’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Too much or too little trouble?’

A smirk erupted. ‘That’d be telling. Ruins the surprise of finding out somewhat, don’t it?’

* * *

Bounty paused, finding delight in this little run-around between them. Times had been boring and in truth she missed his company more than his patronage.

‘So what brings you around talking to us working girls?’

‘Is it a crime talking to a working girl?’

‘Crime? No. Suspicious? Most certainly. It’ll make folks think that you want something.’

Jack withheld his tongue this time, baiting her to encourage the conversation. Lazily she gestured in a circle to the space around him. ‘I remember when you used to bring me flowers.’

‘It wouldn’t be a treat if I brought them every time now, would it?’

‘No entourage in tow this time?’

‘I told them to take the long way home. It was with the best of intentions considering we have some mighty catching up to do.’

Bounty tapped the ash from her cigarette with a charmed grin, letting him wait for her attention. And wait he did.

‘That we do,’ she finally agreed.

Bounty was known, in the common tongue, as a Rose, reflecting her profession. Now this would be easy to mistake as a glamorous venture, but the truth of the matter was that she was no different from any other whore who made their trade in the various cathouses and brothels across the Sand Sea. What made a woman who had adopted the Rose namesake unique was that she was able to choose her clientele. As such, a Rose, and those who surrounded her, didn’t have to deal with violent, uncouth brutes who sought a five-minute rough and tumble.

Bounty Rose had regulars, a rather short list of wealthy, though respectable folks that she entertained at this establishment. Each Rose would rent a room for a week at a time, though it was here, at the Ten of Hearts, where Bounty preferred to stay. She was unlike some of the more nomadic girls, who found excitement moving from place to place. Bounty preferred routine and regularity and, as such, Room 13 was practically her home. For the time being at least.

Room 13 was adorned with hanging red silks, vases of fresh flowers and gifts from many satisfied suitors. Bounty was used to luxuries, many and unique; though favoured the unexpected more than anything else. It’s for this reason that she had a certain affection for Jackdaw. Whilst her regular clientele were a mix of officials and well-off folk, Jackdaw provided a roguish distraction. A danger.

And nothing fluttered the senses quite like danger.

* * *

Bounty lay drawing her fingers over Jackdaw’s head. Their post-coitus routine normally wound up with one being attentive to the other. Wisps of smoke haunted the ceiling from the cigarette stuck to his bottom lip.

‘You’re not relaxed in the slightest are you?’

Jack nodded slowly.

‘You always were a tough one to keep settled, I’ll tell you that.’ She sighed. ‘A restless sleeper is a sign of a restless mind.’

He puffed smoke between them, declining to confirm or deny this accusation.

‘So what is it? Woman troubles?’

‘Nah. I don’t have any of them. Haven’t had them in a long time. Wouldn’t be here if I did, right?’

‘Scoundrel.’ Bounty plucked the cigarette from his lips and took her turn, painting the paper with her lipstick.

He wheezed a dishevelled reply. ‘Ain’t that the truth.’

‘So it’s over business?’

‘Somewhat. We’ve got a new recruit now by the name of Cole.’

‘And how is he turning out?’

‘The kid’s interesting. Knowledgeable, very smart like. Comes from money. Worked for a mining company from what he says, if he’s speaking true.’ Jack knew that Cole’s potential would be revealed with time yet felt the pangs of impatience. ‘Following orders like he’s supposed to. Hasn’t swung at me yet so that’s a plus. Figure it’s early days to assume anything else. To say any more would be a folly. A boredom too.’

‘Quite.’

‘I’m just protecting your interests. I wouldn’t want my favourite girl to mistake me for a bore.’

‘Perish the thought. When are you going to do good on your word and take me away from all this?’ She slipped the cigarette back between Jackdaw’s teeth. ‘You used to woo me with tales of grand scores and a never-ending horizon to race to. Never a Bluecoat could catch me, you’d boast. You would make a decent woman out of me, you promised. Fancy that. Me. Decent.’

Bounty’s voice trailed off in thought, dwelling on such a thing. It would have been indulged in further if he didn’t playfully strike her backside. Claiming a thin red robe that clung to her sweat-covered skin, she sat at her dresser, watching the man observe her in a hilariously opulent mirror. She took a hairbrush from within reach and began to ease her hair back into some sort of presentable shape.

‘The minute I have an equally decent amount to my name, good lady. I need to keep you in the lifestyle that you’re accustomed to. Fine foods, hot water, satin sheets, soft beds. Those things don’t come cheap. Money woes seem to be arising of late. Not my choice, mind.’

‘I am an expense to maintain for sure,’ she purred, brushing her hair that shimmered in the lamp’s luminescence. ‘Wouldn’t you agree I was worth it?’

‘Not a doubt in my being.’

Chapter Five
Deals going wrong, deals going right

It took a couple of weeks until Cole was trusted with errands and errands were all they were. Fetch groceries, order supplies and very occasionally deliver letters. The letters themselves were well-sealed affairs to expose any attempts at tampering and, sure, Cole did, on occasion, feel the pangs of curiosity as to their contents. He thought better of it and delivered them to bar owners and shopkeepers, who each thanked him with a great deal of gusto.

For a while, Cole believed that he would be stuck as a second-rate deliveryman. There was certainly no stated intention of handing him more serious work, though his frustration over this was never vocalized. He saw how Jack treated others who attempted to outgrow their position – Blakestone most regularly, for he seemed to constantly push the boundaries of what was acceptable. Not wanting to endure any verbal lashings, nor threats of the physical sort, Cole wisely kept his grievances contained.

Jackdaw had done plenty to keep Cole busy but today hands were short, so Cole would have to accompany him on an apparently auspicious job. No details were discussed beforehand, only suggestions to carry out his chores quicker so they could be on their way. Time was, apparently, wasting.

Daylight welcomed the pair as they strode out into the long streets of Esquelle. Sandstone buildings of various compositions bordered the roads, their façades pitted by wind and war. Those with places to be strode on with purpose, those without took a more relaxed pace. The occasional truck bounced along the cobblestones, its body rattling loudly, along with its cargo and driver as it put-put-putted along.

Cole kept a brisk pace to keep with Jack’s own, stepping around those who marched past with importance clouding their manners. They moved past the docks, where the sand ships dominated the skyline with their enormous hulls, and into the trading quarter. It was here where most of the shady deals were done. It was just out of the way of the markets and stores, to operate on the fringe of legality, but close enough to give the impression of legitimacy.

In a small communal square, blocking the way to a communal water fountain, two robed men stood with armfuls of printed leaflets. The robes themselves were clearly of considerable worth, blacks and blues with flecks of silver, accompanied by peculiar, well-tailored symbolism down the back. They both declared their importance and accused the snubbing passers-by of insurmountable transgressions. For the most part they were completely ignored for this was just part of the day-to-day in Esquelle now.

Jackdaw, however, was not one of these who simply went on his way. Instead he sharply turned on his feet and approached. The first he shoved so they landed backwards, the leaflets launching into the air. The second was gripped by his robe collar.

‘Boys, boys, now what have I said about loitering? You’re irritating these nice folk.’

‘Get your hands from us, heathen!’ The man shuddered in surprise. ‘Witness! Witness the depths that you have sunk to! The likes of which will be dealt with when the Black Storm rolls in!’

Jack narrowed his brows. ‘See, that’s the problem with you doomsday predictors. There’s quite a while between the now and when what you tout will come to pass. Let’s say you’re right. Whatever happens in the now will surely take time for me to be punished for. That’s a risk I’m comfortable in taking. So if I see you again and the ground isn’t being torn asunder, I’ll be sending you to whatever goddess you worship personally. Get me?’

The man was tossed backward into the dirt. The pair scrambled away, watched by a few onlookers, leaving their pamphlets in the dirt.

‘Was that necessary?’ Cole attempted to restrain any sense of grumbling, but suspected Jack had cottoned on to this fact.

‘I don’t know where you came from, but if your town wasn’t infested with these maniacs then I envy you. Sure they’re all presentable, clean-shaven folk, but get enough crazies together and they do crazy things. Murders. Beatings. All the bad stuff.’

The thought of such things was far too dramatic for Cole to believe. All he had witnessed was a couple of street preachers being rough-handled. If he wasn’t in the company of somebody quite so unpredictable, he would have protested much more vigorously.

‘That has to be just rumour. All they were doing was preaching on a corner. There’s no harm in that. You just walk past and don’t listen if it’s not your fancy.’

‘I like to think I’m doing a public service.’

‘In whose eyes?’ Cole immediately recoiled, realizing he had completely spoken out of turn.

Jack slowed his stride and encouraged the man accompanying to stop a spell and take heed of his words. ‘Since the wars in the north, crazies like them are becoming more and more vocal. They preach about this and that, telling us how damned men like me are. I personally prefer to do my business this early without someone judging me. Makes me feel guilty of wrongdoings I’ve not performed yet.’

They continued. Jack nodded to a couple of street vendors, one tossing the pair a piece of fruit each. Cole stared at the peculiar, spiny, purple flesh, quite new to it, unsure how to eat it. His first attempt to peel it resulted in its barbs drawing blood.

‘You’re not worried about any of that I take it? The wars I mean, as clearly judgement doesn’t apply to you.’

‘Wars come and go. Always have, always will. History is littered with someone wanting what the other has and doing bad things to get it. These strange days are no different.’

‘What if it reaches down here? You’re not worried about any potential invasion?’

Jack heartily laughed at the suggestion.

‘Look around you, kid. Why would Cruden attempt to invade a shit-hole like the Sand Sea? It’s far too big to occupy. The manpower required would be enormous and do you honestly think that people would just lie down and let that happen? Folks around here are a mite touchy when it comes to being threatened, be it by animal, man or nation. The Empire’s got their hands full trying to stamp out the remains of that uprising against them. The Yellow Rebellion people there called it. Now, should you see Cruden flags hoisted in the capital we may have a different view on things. Bad men like us will be out of work as the Empire is less than tolerant of our kind. Until that day though …’ Jack prodded Cole in the chest firmly to get the point across ‘… it’s business as usual.’

Finally Cole managed to split the snack apart, only to have ribbons of orange and pips burst between his fingers. He raised it to his mouth and slurped the bittersweet contents.

‘I wish I had that kind of confidence.’

‘You’re a tolerant sort, Cole. Saw it in your eyes the first time I threatened you with iron. You think everyone is righteous and true until being proved otherwise. Good-natured, clean-mannered, that sort of thing. Am I wrong? Do you believe people should all just get along?’

Jack searched himself for a roll-up and struck out the contents of a matchbook to light it. The first couple of puffs were savoured.

They stopped, feeling the beat of the morning sun upon them. Cole became all too aware of a tear of sweat tracing down a cheek whilst falling short of providing an answer.

‘You’ve got convictions. I like that.’ Jack crushed the spent match beneath his boot. ‘By the time this day is through we’ll see just how firmly you hold on to them.’

He thumbed up to a sign advertising the presence of a bric-a-brac store. Its windows were heaving with random things, from furniture and decorations, to weaponry and charms. None was particularly well sorted and the numerous piles seemingly threated to tip over at any point. It mirrored many others down this street, the colourfully named Crap Alley, being that you could find anything in the plentiful undertakings of the resident kleptomaniacs.

After hearty handshakes and secretive whispers with its owner – Cole’s new standing had put the storeowner at great unease – Jack concluded his business, relieving the owner of an old trunk. Its red veneer was dented and peeling, a state of distress that could only be accountable by long neglect. Despite its age, it was sturdy enough for its task, rendering it heavy enough to require the pair to carry it via the handles at each end.

The route to the marketplace required navigating a bevy of claustrophobic alleyways, each littered with vagrants and collecting the most nauseating of smells. Finally, with no short amount of grunting, they reached the market. Multicoloured bunting fluttered from stalls. The sights and sounds of animal trappers, food vendors and stallholders enclosed them the deeper they moved inside.

They had barely made it halfway in before Cole began to voice his concerns.

‘This stuff is heavy. What exactly is it?’

‘Some weeks back we knocked over an antiques place up north. Nothing spectacular of course, but plenty to bring in some cash, about four hundred or so. We stashed it away until the heat was off the goods. Now we’re going to sell them.’

‘Where? Do you have a buyer set up?’

‘Nope,’ Jack rearranged his grip. ‘We’ll flog it at this here bazaar.’

‘Just here? Out in the open?’

‘You seem to be questioning me at every turn and I don’t appreciate that.’

Cole stole glances at the storekeepers, the patrons and everybody else within his eye line. Paranoia began to creep in.

‘No offence intended. I’m just thinking that isn’t this quite risky? I mean we’re doing this in broad daylight.’

‘There’s too much going on to focus on little old us. The Bluecoats won’t be a problem. Their eyes will be elsewhere. Let’s go down this alley and check the stock first. I want a bead on what we can sell here.’

They manoeuvred past the people and down into a narrow backstreet, tight and with questionable sewer access judging by the smell. When the noise of the market had softened, a procession of shadows suddenly fell over the pair as the route was cluttered with four people. None of those who interrupted the proceedings seemed to be particularly happy to see the pair. They each wore grimaces, their faces running the gamut from boorish to downright ugly. Backing up was impossible as another man blocked the way they came. This one was decidedly larger, bulbous but easily reaching seven foot in height, blessed with a disfiguring scar down the left side of his face.

Jack tugged on the trunk handle, a slight jerk to encourage Cole to come to a stop. It wasn’t needed.

At the front of the group, a stocky individual stepped forward to speak on their behalf. His attire was a fine attempt at dressing with some class, though his true nature was given away by patches in his woollen trousers and stained tunic. He smiled, revealing the glimmer of a gold tooth. He assessed the silent caution that Jack had now adopted.

‘What’s the problem, Jacky boy? You don’t seem happy to see us.’

These were the people you didn’t want to bump into down an alleyway, dark or otherwise. These were the ones who inhabited bad streets, shady backend bars, all the places that the unfortunate found themselves. Jackdaw immediately sprung into a well-rehearsed display of asserting his presence.

‘Quite the opposite in fact, Derek! I count myself quite fortunate that you’re all still up to, well, whatever you’re doing here. Slouching? Loitering? Always on the up with you Sanders Boys.’

The bravado wasn’t well received. Derek blindly spat a wad of chewing tobacco beside his feet. ‘Still the funny bastard, as ever.’

Naturally eyes went to trunk between the pair, something that Cole quickly stepped in front of to block from view.

‘What’s in the box?’ Derek asked, tilting to see over Cole’s shoulder.

Jack immediately dismissed it with a wave of his free hand. ‘Oh now, this is something you don’t want to be paying mind to. It’s just some old assorted junk. For the scrapheap, nothing more.’

‘Let’s have a look shall we? If it’s, you know, just junk.’

‘What, you’re not the trusting type?’ Jack straightened up.

‘More of the curious variety.’

Jack and Cole failed to move. Cole didn’t want to ignite a situation that was already a tinderbox and Jack kept his nerve impeccably.

Behind them the cracking of knuckles became nauseatingly loud.

‘Oh, Derek, come now, what’s all this?’ Jackdaw asked.

‘You’ve been too bossy as of late, Jack. We need to take the jobs that you leave behind these days, the scraps, and they do not pay well. This time though, this time, we get the payoff. Today, us Sanders Boys get to be the smart ones. You’re all alone, just the two of you. Stupid, ain’t it?’

‘Stupid,’ Jack repeated with a quirk of his brow. ‘For a box of junk?’

‘We both know that’s far from junk.’

The large one grunted from behind, coaxing a turn. He growled at Jackdaw, his lip curtailing unevenly in clear reminiscence of a previous encounter.

‘Still sore about that scar, eh, Brutus?’ Jack showed his teeth with glee. ‘You shouldn’t be. It adds character. Gives you that whole don’t test me look. It’s a good look. It suits you. You’re welcome.’

Cole cleared his throat. ‘So, er … you boys gonna shoot us or something?’

‘They won’t shoot us,’ Jackdaw bragged, ‘they won’t do shit.’

‘Yeah?’ Brutus grunted, letting his anger dominate. He took his revolver into his oversized grip. Given the size of the hand holding it, the weapon was hilariously small. It was a miracle that one of the fat fingers could fit in the trigger guard.

‘That’s the truth of it. You Sanders Boys can pat yourselves on the backs and clink your glasses saying that you got one on ol’ Jacky boy, but we all know that if anything else comes to pass, there’ll be hell delivered to your doors.’

Jack shed the humour from his words. He became sharper, with threatening eyes that burnt with conviction.

‘You think the big man would tolerate it? An insult to me is a message to him. I think you’ll find I’m far more lenient than Donovan has ever been. And he will come for you and brush you from the gutter to the grave without even blinking. You know it. I know it.’

The trunk end smacked the pavement as his fingers released the handle. Cole followed quickly on account of feeling somewhat foolish. They each took a step away from their cargo.

‘So celebrate, boys! You earnt this one. We’ll be going on our merry and you can do … you know. The drinking. Back-slapping. All of that. Until he comes for you.’

Jackdaw went to stride away, encouraging Cole to follow suit with a flick of his eyes. Brutus, however, did not move, doing an excellent job of blocking their escape.

‘Do you know what I heard?’ Derek stated, casually striking up a cigarette. ‘I heard that the famous Jackdaw isn’t so close to the big man any more. You see, someone mentioned that you ended up screwing up a deal months back, some simple drop job. Yeah, quite a penny’s worth of goods it were. It wouldn’t surprise me if the whole thing had been fabricated so that you could sell the drop on your lonesome.’

Jack’s eyes darted to the trunk, watching the Sanders Boy’ smiles develop grandly. This was going to get ugly.

‘And if I recall correctly, and I suppose I do, I heard that if you messed up again, your corpse would be buried so far deep in the Sand Sea that even the Angels wouldn’t be able to find you.’

Jackdaw felt his cocksure smile fade. His assumption was right. Derek finished his cigarette with a painfully long draw.

‘So I think the big man will thank us for doing you over. Get them!’ he ordered.

* * *

Back in the marketplace, the Blacksad Inn went about its usual business, the bustle of customers looking for a midday drink came and went through the doors. Meals were eaten, the staff kept considerably busy in their duties, but not so busy that they didn’t notice the pair of bloodied individuals who shuffled their way upstairs and took a table overlooking the market itself.

Jackdaw exhaled, finding relief in sitting down. Everything ached. Even his bones felt like they were sore. Luckily none were broken, or at least not that he could tell. There was always time for a fracture to reveal itself but for the moment, despite the numerous swellings, Jack was as intact as one could get. He rifled through his dirtied jacket and withdrew a crushed pack of smokes, taking out a crooked one, and slipped it between his lips. His matchbox, excessive patting found, was missing.

* * *

Cole thought that Jack looked wretched, but what was more worrying was the out-of-place smile that he touted.

‘Got a light?’ Jack grunted.

Cole pinched each tooth and tested them in turn, unimpressed. His fingers were dabbled in red on account of a nasty split lip. Rather than reply, Cole simply glared, prompting the cigarette to be put upon the table. Jack’s attention turned to other things, waving one of the waitresses for service and calling out for two tankards of house ale.

‘I’m hungry. What do you fancy?’

Cole immediately halted his survey of personal damage. ‘An explanation.’

‘I don’t think they serve that here,’ Jack quipped.

The waitress, a blonde, stocky thing with an apron dirtied from a busy shift, sauntered over with tray in hand. She glanced between them and made a coy pursing of her lips. Finally, with a tut, she placed a tankard in front of each, overfilled with foam.

‘Have a disagreement with someone, did we, flower?’ she addressed Jackdaw, whose bruises had already begun to darken. ‘I do hope you’re not dragging trouble behind you as I would hate to have to send you on your way.’

‘Mmm. Quite the contrary, I’m in a celebrating mood. We’ll each have whatever special you’re doing for lunch today, plus two more tankards of Pitch Ale, if you please, to go with it. Oh, and if you could tell the good woman of the house that I’m here, I would be quite thankful.’

‘I can surely do that. And you are?’

Jack leant back in his seat and drew on his drink. ‘You don’t need my name. Just tell her that I’m here. That’ll be plenty.’

‘Celebrate?’ Cole hissed. The urge to look over his shoulder constantly was all-consuming. It was the first time in his life that he had been involved in such a physical confrontation, and the adrenaline had yet to wear off. ‘I don’t consider getting done over worthy of celebration! I mean, was that it? We lost the goods. I’m lucky I didn’t lose a damn tooth out of this farce.’

He brought a hand to his mouth and retested a canine with a gentle wiggle.

‘That scrap was nothing. If they meant business, we would be a lot worse off. Just hold your horses, kid,’ Jack protested.

‘There’s nothing else to do at the moment. That’s a hell of an initiation if that’s what it was. You could have warned me that we were going to get done over like that. You don’t seem to be the kind to willingly take a punch, more like one who would throw it first.’

Finally, Jack swung forward, hunching over his tankard, which was already only a quarter full. Unfortunately, his attempt at courting patience was failing and as such he turned to another tactic, which was to be blunt. Jackdaw was good at being blunt. He could do blunt. Especially when new bloods were getting bent out of shape and unable to widen their scope of perception.

‘For a numbers man, you’re none too bright are you? So I’ll spell it out.’

Jack hadn’t positioned them by the window by accident. He needed a good view of the market and those therein. He gestured to the rabble of men carrying a familiar trunk – the Sanders Boys doing plenty to make their presence known. Others immediately stepped aside on their approach and those who didn’t move were shoved. They manhandled a trader from his usual stall and tossed the trunk upon it, much to the ire of the other sellers. Nobody intervened of course.

Jackdaw pointed at two distinct individuals from the window. One was a farmer struggling to flog his home-grown wares. The second was yelling for buyers to relieve him of his bric-a-brac. Both were conventional stallholders with nothing special about them.

‘Watch those two.’

Within a minute, the waitress who had served them stepped outside and made her way to the farmer, a drink upon her tray. She spent only seconds conversing with him whilst handing him the beverage before retreating back inside. The farmer, in response, abandoned his stall and made his way to the bric-a-brac seller. The farmer toasted him and exchanged a few words before returning.

‘I don’t get it,’ Cole mumbled.

Jack drank from his tankard, contentedly.

‘Look around you – there are no secrets in a town like this. Everyone is close. Everyone is knee-deep in each other’s business. I mean sure, many try to keep themselves quiet, shield those secrets from others, but that’s where they mess up. In doing so their attempts to cover up what they’re doing draws suspicion. People whisper. Those whispers get bigger until they reach the ears of someone who, well, let’s just say someone who has a vested interest in the information. Ah, case in point right there …’

The bric-a-brac stallholder flagged down a Bluecoat who then paced away with purpose. He came back with five of his kind, pistols at the ready and weaving among the throng of bodies. As soon as they reached the Sanders Boys, they immediately overturned the stall, scattered the goods and clapped the men in handcuffs. The trunk was confiscated as evidence.

‘As I said before, bigger fish and all that.’ He rose, stretching his arms. ‘And if you’ll excuse me, I have business to conduct. Just stay here and observe.’

‘What kind of business this time?’

‘I’m taking a piss if that’s okay with you?’ Jack turned back. ‘And don’t eat any of my food while I’m gone.’

What Jack had said was mostly true, but beforehand, he met with the stallholders outside. A group had formed around him, taking turns to shake his hand. As he was asked to, Cole observed, watching this curious display, oblivious to the food placed before him and the empty place opposite. The sight of Jack bathing in the gratitude transfixed him – seeming a fair way from the crook he perceived Jack to be.

Eventually, Jack returned, wiping his damp palms across his trousers, seating himself and then rubbing his hands together in glee. The plate of bread, cheeses and meat didn’t seem much but was a triumphant banquet given recent events. It was only noon and already the day had been quite successful.

The waitress returned, this time with her tray empty but wearing quite the smile. She gestured to the food between them.

‘The good lady says these are on the house, and anything else you take a fancy to ordering. I guess you two must have found her sweet spot somehow. You’ll have to let me in on the secret when you’re done.’

From inside her apron she produced a brick of brown butcher’s paper, tightly bound by string.

‘With her compliments. And thanks.’

Jackdaw playfully nodded, watching her backside as the woman took her leave.

Cole, however, was too set on the package for his attention to be diverted. To satisfy his colleague’s curiosity, the paper was torn open, revealing a brick of paper money.

Cole spluttered his drink, wiping spots of foam from his lips. ‘How much is there?’ he asked, quite astonished.

‘Count it.’

Cole flicked through the notes with speed. When done, he restrained a knowing gasp. ‘That’s almost double what you would have got for offloading the merchandise.’

Jack noisily drained his second drink.

‘Exactly. The Sanders Boys stole what they could and were selling it off at this here market. If anybody objected they put muscle on them. Turns out, the boys were putting such a dent in the profits and faces of the other stallholders, they pooled their money together to buy a solution – which was me. I knew we were going to be roughed up by them, but it was necessary as we couldn’t just hand it over. They get some hot goods from us and attempt to sell them. The Bluecoats get word and haul them off. They’re put in cells for a few months, meaning I have no competition on their territory should I desire to encroach on it. Which I do.’ Jackdaw took a long draw on his drink and gasped in satisfaction. ‘And the fine, honest folk here get to go on with their livelihoods, unhindered.’

For the first time since their arrival, Cole formed something resembling a smile. ‘Clever.’

‘Ain’t it just? See what I mean about celebrating, now?’

Their tankards rang out as they struck them together.

Chapter Six
The thorn and the rabble

Jack never said so but Cole’s initiation went smoothly. He had endured the punches with minimal complaining, was learning fast and seemed to be fitting in well. As far as Jack was concerned, Cole was performing as expected. There was little need to threaten discipline, as the newcomer seemed quite invested in his work. He still worked the kitchen in the morning but found the rhythm to cook breakfast and manage his duties without either one lagging.

Nothing ensured that someone was on the level more than taking a beating for the cause. It wasn’t ideal of course but this wasn’t the sort of job where you checked in after your probation to see how well you were doing. It was rough, dirty and if Cole confessed to himself, he was adapting to it.

He was told to shadow both Alvina and Blakestone for the following weeks and to, as Jack put it, use his initiative. He was coy to begin with, not wishing to tread on either’s toes. When they met contacts he listened, and offered to do the simple things – acting lookout, flashing iron. Generally, he spoke little, watching and learning the trade. That was, until he and Alvina were under the shadow of the Ajana.

The Ajana was a Hornet-Class Sand Ship. Compared to the larger cargo haulers that took their loads across the Sand Sea itself, it was relatively modest in size with only five decks, so it was dwarfed by its companions. Dockhands loaded and unloaded cargo, in crates and sacks, in bales and bundles. In a place such as Esquelle, the Bluecoats were easily bribed to look the other way to the point where they were not even a concern. Alvina addressed them on a first-name basis, referring to favours both past and future to encourage gaps in memory and selective blindness.

As Alvina and Cole ventured across the loading dock, Cole spied the circular paddle wheel at its rear, colossal and imposing. Even higher, its twin flumes reached skyward, painted in a bold red and darkest black. The loading ramp was at its port side, the ramps trembling with the weight of goods that teams of oxen hauled in wooden carts. Those working did nothing to interfere with their advance and, in fact, made way for them.

With the darkness setting in, the dock gas lighters were taking ladders to the lamps one by one, illuminating the area with soft, golden pools of light. Beneath one of these lamps, a man leant on its post, clearly enjoying half of a cigar with one hand and clutching a clipboard of papers in the other. He was smartly dressed, giving orders to those passing with varying degrees of urgency.

Upon spying the pair of Jackrabbits approaching, he took a tin whistle to his lips, indicating break time for the others. The workers vanished to presumably drink rum or play a few hands of dice. It didn’t matter what they did as long as they weren’t here.

‘Phillipe Denwell of the Ajana.’

Alvina looked him up and down, holding out her hand. ‘Welcome back to Esquelle.’

Phillipe patiently drew upon his cigar stub, relishing it, before slapping the clipboard of papers into her hand. He spat a wodge of phlegm onto the ground, following it up with a deep-reaching snort. Cole raised an eyebrow, disgusted.

‘It’s nice to be welcomed. That’s the thing with this place. Good beds, decent food and accommodating individuals like yourselves. It’s my sort of town.’ He withdrew his smoke, gesturing to the paperwork. ‘That’s the formalities done with – there you go. There’s what you’re looking for. I’ve done my bit.’

‘Pay the man, Cole,’ Alvina insisted. Money was exchanged but when doing so, Cole noticed the grimace on the individual before him. He begrudgingly counted the notes, not that there was any need to – he hadn’t done so the times before, but this betrayed his assertion that things were fine.

Alvina flicked through page after page. The ship’s manifest detailed all of the cargo it was hauling and where. It was commonplace for things to simply go missing when shipments were moved about, simply a risk of hauling goods. It was a hazard brought about the likes of the Jackrabbits, who skimmed off goods and tossed coin to the easily manipulated. It was easy work. Dockworkers and ship hands were normally poorly paid, jumping at the chance to earn extra on the side. They didn’t care about the cargo being taken. When questioned, they feigned ignorance about the items going missing. When being exploited by a second-rate shipping company, being able to get one over on them made the deals all the sweeter.

‘I’m going to need more for this information you know. It’s valuable stuff,’ Phillipe demanded.

There it was. Cole narrowed his eyes in suspicion but Alvina was already ahead of him with her response.

‘Don’t be stupid. You get paid what we agreed. This isn’t something you just haggle over.’

‘No, but there is a market for this kind of information.’ He puffed slyly, slowly, trying to draw their patience out and encourage rash behaviour. ‘Plenty of interest out there I dare say.’

‘Oh, you dare say, do you?’ Alvina slanted her hips, holding the manifest at her side, assuring him that he now had her full attention. ‘Are you threatening to go elsewhere?’

‘Hey, what I provide is worthwhile to you people and I should be getting something more out of it. When things go missing, I have to answer questions to dock managers. It puts a sweat on a man. One day they might be forceful with how they ask me, you know? Might end up accidentally saying something that would embarrass Jack.’

Something didn’t quite add up to Cole as he asked for the clipboard from Alvina’s hands. He had looked at it over her shoulder, keeping himself quiet. The more he examined it, the more perplexed he became. The woman relinquished the paperwork. Cole flicked through the pages in turn.

‘Looking over this, the best thing that you’ve got loaded up on the Ajana is three crates of Muskratt wine. They would go for two hundred each, at a conservative estimate. We couldn’t split it and bulk is always cheaper. Now, I’m guessing you make … thirty a trip? Forty, max? You’re a box loader, so it’s not like you have a decent route for progression, plus the turnover of your kind is …’ Cole licked his lips ‘…considerable. Plenty of people can drag about a crate. It isn’t the finest skill, though if you’re implying that it’s yours then I suggest you raise your aspirations.’

‘Aspirations?’ He repeated the word a couple of times, stumbling over the pronunciation. ‘Is your boy here trying to insult me?’

‘Shut. Up.’ Alvina fired back bluntly. ‘Cole, what are you getting at?’

‘If we sell this at back-alley prices, even without negotiation – we can take another ten per cent away, it’s barely going to be worth our time. We pay you how much?’

‘Too much.’ Alvina kept her gaze upon Phillipe.

‘Thirty a manifest,’ he revealed.

Cole howled in amusement. ‘Shit, with that on top, we’re basically losing money handling this stuff. We could use our time a lot more productively. If he wants to play hard, we can let him go.’

Alvina smirked.

‘Well, let’s not be too hasty.’ Phillipe recoiled, spluttering on his cigarette smoke.

‘Hasty is good,’ she rebutted.

‘I would recommend that we drop this little arrangement.’ Cole tossed the manifest to its owner who caught it clumsily.

‘Now, now hold on!’ Phillipe tossed his cigar stub off the dock in alarm. ‘I’m not saying we should give up on our agreement for good –’

‘Seems like it would be the sensible thing to do,’ Alvina coldly stated, indifferent to any sort of panic that he exhibited.

‘Twenty-five!’ he blurted out. ‘Twenty-five a manifest.’

Cole snorted sarcastically, needing to turn away.

‘Twenty,’ Alvina offered, ‘and you keep that attitude in check. We have something nice and steady happening here and your aspirations are ruining it.’

‘I understand. I got it.’

She coughed loudly holding out a flat palm. Phillipe rushed so much to give her the change that he almost dropped the rest. Alvina stuffed the notes into a pocket, leaving him with her last piece of advice. ‘Make sure you do.’

It took them until they left the docks before Alvina finally addressed Cole with her thoughts.

‘Good work there.’

‘It’s nice to finally be of some sort of use. I was getting tired of all the crap jobs.’ He smiled in relief.

‘I would say you’ve stepped up. Jack’ll be happy with that performance.’

‘Really?’

‘As long as I tell it right.’

Cole crinkled up his face, unsure if that was a threat. Alvina nudged him playfully.

‘What’s next on the docket, Little Fish?’

Cole scanned his list. ‘We’re meeting someone by the name of Kalie –’ He squinted at his handwriting and attempted the pronunciation again, stumbling each time.

‘Don’t bother,’ Alvina interjected. ‘Her parents weren’t kind to her on the naming front.’

‘The owner of the Bread & Batter.’ Cole skipped over the name as requested. ‘We have a sit-down with her at eight to discuss this week’s demand about repercussions.’

‘Someone looks at the woman badly and she insists we do something about it. Such a thorn. We have over an hour so what say we get something to eat? Your treat.’

‘Sure.’ Cole folded his ledger, only half hearing before finally stopping in realization. ‘Wait, I’m doing what now?’

* * *

The smells of Cook’s Alley were mesmerizing. Never had Cole experienced such a cacophony of aromas. Each stall was a bustle of noise with the talk of customers and the sizzle of grills, pans and woks. It was a place where food from all corners could be consumed, exotic dishes emanating from places few had heard of. The customers were usually labourers, looking for somewhere always open with hot, cheap food. It helped of course that the alcohol was just as varied, ranging from the incredible to the downright harmful. A handful of change could get someone a skinful, suiting the dockhands just fine.

Alvina was in her element. Everything about Cook’s Alley was delightful. The constant din of spatulas slapping meat and riotous laughter was a comfort. She visited at least once a week to indulge in her own personal euphoria. Usually this was a solitary affair, but seeing that Cole was of Settler blood she deemed it decent of her to share the experience.

‘Come on, we’re eating. All this has made me hungry.’

Cole glanced around at the vendors. He would rather put himself in front of a fireplace with a brandy and eat something resembling an actual meal than … whatever this was.

‘Where? Here?’

‘Oh what, do you have an aversion to street vendors, pretty boy? Afraid you’ll get grease on your nice, clean shirts?’ Alvina followed up her sarcasm with a batting of her eyelashes.

‘It’s not that. I’ve just never …’

She took him by the hand and pulled him over towards a nearby stall. ‘Then it’ll be an experience. Take that stick from your backside and park it down on a seat. This place will do.’

The only thing the stall was suitable for was contracting food poisoning. Everywhere he looked there was something that made him cringe – a disregard for cleanliness being the biggest culprit. The owner danced rice around in a pan, took a tumbler of wine to his lips then doused the pan’s contents with half of the drink. Jets of flame launched around as the alcohol ignited. All the cook did in response was drink the rest of the wine. The rice was slid into a bowl and garnished with who-knows-what before finally being slid across to a patron covered in too much hair and too many tattoos.

‘You should know I don’t judge a person by what they drink, only where they drink it,’ Cole grumbled.

‘Lucky for me your opinion means very little at the present moment. Come on, don’t be shy.’

On their approach the cook spied them and beckoned the pair over. He was seemingly oblivious as he put the pan back on the burner, and the remaining contents started to burn inside.

‘Alvina, my friend! Come, come out of the cold and inside.’

‘Marquis, it’s fine to see you. How is business?’

Marquis was a man who was either terribly aged or was ageing terribly. His stringy white hair was unkempt, his smile missing a few teeth. His face resembled a leather apron that had been balled up. Despite these very obvious and significantly distracting misfortunes, the eagerness he radiated was second to none.

‘Business is fine. No difficulty. Your friend?’

Cole gave his name whilst examining the ripped and soiled stool that would be his seat. The bar wasn’t any better, peppered with numerous cigarette burns and stains. The hairy patron beside him grunted as he devoured his meal, spraying grains of rice across the bar with a number landing in Cole’s lap.

‘Cole,’ Marquis cheered far too enthusiastically, reaching over the bar and shaking his hand vigorously, ‘nice to meet you.’

‘You as well.’ Cole withdrew his hand in defeat, finally sitting.

‘Do you eat?’

‘I don’t know,’ Cole asked, slightly taken aback at the broken language. He turned to Alvina, stifling a smile. ‘Do we?’

‘Be kind,’ she insisted, turning to the vendor. ‘Yes, we do. We will have pork buns, egg soup – peppered – and a fried apple, each.’

The order was hastily scribbled down onto a notepad with vigorous nodding. ‘Drinking?’

‘Two Red Sail Specials.’

Marquis grinned approvingly whilst scribbling into the notepad. ‘Warm nights, warm nights for you.’

Immediately he spun on his heel, retrieving a pair of glass tumblers. They were filled by a side-standing cask on the bar, a bright red liquid settling in the glasses before being slid across the bar top.

More rice scattered onto Cole’s trousers, but despite noticing, he now lacked the will to protest. The drink itself resembled equal parts diesel and paint thinner. With a brief inhalation Cole decided it was entirely feasible that those were its actual ingredients. He watched as Alvina drained half of the glass with a single swallow.

‘I won’t even ask what’s in that.’

‘Best not.’ Alvina spat out a cough. ‘I doubt he knows himself so don’t shame the poor man.’

Cole summoned the bravery to do the same. His initial assessment of the beverage was accurate, for as soon as the liquid was tossed back, his throat attempted to spit it back up. Finally, he swallowed it away and spluttered loudly, causing Marquis to hoot aloud whilst preparing the food. Alvina patted her colleague’s back firmly until he could speak once more.

‘Delightful,’ Cole lied, eyes still watering.

‘Just another thing for you to get used to if you’re slumming it with the rest of us.’ Alvina chuckled and sank the rest of her drink with one confident motion. Marquis instantly shuffled before them and refilled their glasses, much to Cole’s horror. The second went down just as easily as the first for Alvina. Cole, however, cradled his to make it last.

‘Mess up those clean hands, get dirt under those pretty fingernails …’

‘You can cut that out now,’ he whined, teeth gnashing in frustration.

‘Tell me something, Cole. You shun something like this, like you’re allergic to it. You even look down on me for simply suggesting this fine eatery. Why?’

‘No!’ Marquis gasped in shock, eavesdropping.

‘I’m afraid so, but don’t judge him too harshly – he has yet to taste your cooking. There is plenty of time to apologize.’

The proprietor grinned from ear to ear, shaking a spatula at the woman. He turned back to the griddle.

‘Why do you do that? Back to your roots ain’t it?’

Cole lowered his drink onto the bar, his eyes narrowing in question. ‘What are my roots exactly, seeing as you seem to be an expert on all things me?’ he probed, with a much more sour tone.

‘Now, now, don’t get all uppity. I meant no offence. I just meant you got Settler’s blood in you is all – just an observation I’m making. Settler folks get trod on, looked down upon, I should know … I’ve endured plenty of shunning. Name-calling. Some of the remarks made by the more uncouth folk are grounds for hurting.’

‘Some of that blood in you, is it?’

‘A tad.’ Alvina smiled. ‘My mother’s side. I figure that would be obvious just by looking at me.’ The woman rarely drew attention to her heritage, probably deeming it a moot point of conversation. It was likely only in his company that she felt comfortable enough to discuss it, even though she could have had more tact in her approach.

‘Then you know how hard it is to court respect from others when all they can see is the superficial – and judge you on it. It should never come down to the colour of skin. The place they’re born. Things like that are out of one’s control. Judging a person because of these qualities is unjust.’ Cole dashed a mouthful of the sour drink down his throat. ‘And money always, always underpins that. I can guarantee there’s not a villain you’ve heard of who doesn’t bathe in wealth.’

‘You’ve got money,’ Alvina pointed out.

‘Not any more I don’t thanks to Jack. That little stunt put plenty out of pocket. A lot of people, a lot of our kind, are out there wanting.’

‘Posh folk?’

‘Settlers,’ Cole corrected with a grunt. ‘Those whom we share blood with. They’re out there starving. Perishing in gutters. Others aren’t as lucky as us, to have a place to lay their heads and a meal ready. It’s our duty to correct that if we have the opportunity,’ Cole replied with a tint of anger to his words.

‘Yeah, well what should be and what transpires ain’t exactly bedfellows now, are they?’ Alvina tapped her coffee-coloured fingers upon the bar.

‘One’s heritage is out of one’s control. Judging a person because of that quality is unjust. Letting them die because of it is abhorrent.’

‘I suppose you’re right. But you’ve done good. Been elevated.’

Cole paused. ‘Let’s just say I’ve always been motivated to make a go of things despite circumstances to the contrary. What’s that old expression? Play the hand you’re dealt.’

‘Quite.’ She struck her glass against Cole’s own. ‘And to that I say ante up.’

Cole eventually had to confess that he didn’t mind his meal. It wasn’t perfect of course, far from it, but there was an ambiance that Cook’s Alley provided that made him forgo his usual stuffiness. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he relaxed, even to the point of enjoying the drink that he slowly poisoned himself with. Alvina commented that it was good to see him at ease for once. Sadly this would not last.

* * *

Their attention was taken by a group of men who were making their way through Cook’s Alley, obnoxiously loud and clearly unwelcome. They jeered and crowed, barging past anyone in their way and, at times, obstructing the path of others just to barge them to the ground. A good number had been drinking, judging by occasional stagger that a simple stride brought about.

‘Oh, that’s just plenty shiny that is,’ Alvina whined, staring deep into her drink.

‘Who’s the rabble?’ Cole quietly muttered.

‘The Sanders Boys. Just one of our many competitors,’ the woman stated.

‘No they’re not.’ Cole peered over his shoulder, eventually shaking his head. ‘Jack and I sold them for a score yesterday.’

‘Some of them no doubt, but not all. The Sanders Boys are one grand, ugly family that’s a straight-up annoyance. That mother of theirs spat them out like rabbits, one after the other like she was a factory of sorts. There was twelve at last count, not including cousins. I suppose with a litter of such size, criminality was all they could look forward to.’ Alvina steadied herself with a staggered exhalation.

‘Is this going to be an issue?’ Cole asked, keeping his voice low.

‘Not if we’re not noticed.’

Alvina hunched herself over her glass with the hope that the pair would remain incognito, only for the disastrous to happen. One of the Sanders Boys came over and leant between them, calling to Marquis.

‘Hey, old-timer. Three fingers of mash, four ales and whatever this pretty thing will drink when she leaves the bore beside her.’

His arm had dropped across Alvina’s shoulders, making her neck hair stand on end. It only took one glance to the woman beside him for his face to fall, for him to release his grip and step back.

Alvina said nothing, letting her stare convey her annoyance, while she finished the last of her soup. She’d hoped the man wouldn’t recognize her, would just see her as another woman annoyed at his chauvinistic advances when she was simply trying to eat.

‘Oh hell. What sort of a coincidence is this?’ the man cheered, waving for the attention of the others. ‘Fellas, come look-see, you won’t believe what I have stumbled upon.’

Luck seemed to be intent to shit upon her from up on high.

From behind, the collection of men, of varying ages and sizes, sauntered over. One showed great irritation at his prolonged sobriety.

‘All this commotion isn’t bringing me my drink any faster, Joey. What are you bleating about?’

‘I recognize this piece right here. This very piece. I’ve seen a bitch like her shake down folks in the street. Exactly like her in fact.’

‘Guys, there’s no need for that,’ Cole protested with his palms open, but he was firmly brushed from his stool with a wave of a muscular arm.

‘Oh yeah, I know who you are, girlie.’ Joey Sanders wagged his finger in her face. Alvina remained stone-faced. ‘I know exactly who you are. You’re a down and dirty Jackrabbit. What in the hell makes you think you’re validated in drinking in this establishment with the stunts you pull?’

Alvina tossed the last of her liquor from cheek to cheek before swallowing the burning away. Finally, and with not an unjust threat, she spoke.

‘You have a big mouth,’ she said. ‘In fact, you all have big mouths. Big mouths with big words, with a tendency to lead you into big trouble.’

Now provoked, the five behind Joey stepped closer.

‘I’ve got half a mind to drag you down the street by your hair and give you a going over,’ Joey stated.

‘At least you’re right about the half a mind part,’ she quipped.

‘No trouble!’ Marquis insisted, repeating himself louder in vague threat. ‘No trouble here! You do that, you do it elsewhere, you do it elsewhere away from here!’

Suddenly Marquis jabbed the air at Alvina and Cole. ‘You two are supposed to be protection! Protect!’

Alvina beckoned the man on the floor to rise with a wag of her fingers. ‘He’s got a point, Little Fish. Feet. Up on your feet with you.’

‘We’re protection?’ Cole asked, taking to his boots though quite unsure about what to do next.

‘For a portion of the nice stallholders’ profits. The ones who pay us of course.’

‘You’re protection?’ Joey repeated in surprise, louder. A couple of the men behind him sniggered loudly.

‘From the ugly – such as you – sure. Why not?’ Alvina shrugged.

Joey was the first to take a swing. He was fast, faster than someone should be with his bulk. He had obviously learnt how to throw a punch, to use his size as an asset. Sadly it would be for naught in this instance. Alvina slipped down on her stool, letting the fist arc overhead. During its course of travel she reached to her belt, withdrew a switchblade and shanked the aggressor in the thigh. It was a motion that she assumed would take the fight from him, though his roar of anger at his wound indicated it had done no such thing.

The second swing was faster, just as sizable, but it too missed its target. Alvina was already on her feet, had ducked beneath the punch and struck him with one of her own on his jaw. It was a decent punch though on a hardened chin caused nothing but surprise.

Before either party could react further, glass exploded between the pair of them. Cole stood frozen, still clenching the neck of a now shattered rum bottle that he had burst against the thug’s temple. It was enough to knock him out, and he landed in the dirt among the thick shrapnel of smoky bottle shards.

‘Thanks,’ Alvina said, though her attention turned to the others. As Cole tossed his defunct tool away, the Marquis abandoned his stall, as did others who had hoped for a quiet meal.

As the Sanders Boys advanced, Cole struggled to see any way out. He had already had one beating this week and was keen to ensure that it wouldn’t be repeated. His fists were raised in defence, trying to recall some of the boxing tips that his father had imparted.

‘Isn’t it a good time to show some iron to these folks?’

‘You don’t pull a gun out in a bar fight. It’s just not how an altercation is done,’ Alvina explained, waiting for the first unlucky fool to take their chance. One did so and was hip-tossed into a barstool, shattering it into pieces. She followed it up with a kick across the jaw, rendering him motionless.

A glint of steel flashed between them. The knife flashed, light sinking down the blade to its hilt. Its owner advanced aggressively and waved it back and forth.

‘And that?’ Cole asked, trying not to panic.

‘Well, that’s just unsporting.’

He watched Alvina flow through the air like liquid, darting and dodging every thrust, moves practised so much that they were committed to muscle memory. The knife pierced nothing but air and when a sufficient opening appeared, Alvina punished the thrust and ensured that the culprit would be unable to hold anything for a few weeks.

The cracking of bone caused the men to surge onward in a wave of malice. All Cole saw was Alvina landing punches into the cluster of bodies, scattering them this way and that.

That and the fist that knocked him out, sending the world to black.

Chapter Seven
Protecting interests

Two days later, the Jackrabbits took to the merchants’ quarter, navigating the streets with purpose. Cole was more sheepish than the others, nursing an almighty black eye that sullied his eye socket. It had swollen too, an uncomfortable reminder of his lack experience in a brawl. Not that he needed a reminder of course. Between then and now, the entire gang had ribbed him about his shiner. That didn’t look to be easing up any time soon.

‘If recent events have shown us anything,’ Jack declared, ‘it’s that you need to defend yourself a little better than you already have. I can’t have people under my employ walking around with faces like a butcher’s scrap bucket.’

‘He’s referring to the eye,’ Alvina leant in and whispered.

‘Thank you, I got that,’ Cole groaned back under his breath.

‘In this line of work, I expect plenty,’ Jack continued. ‘Loyalty is a given. But what I need to know when you’re out of my sight, and the sight of others, is that you can see potential dangers.’

‘That’s difficult for you on account of being punched.’ Alvina edged closer once more, the end of her revelation trailing to a hiss. ‘Punched in the eye.’

Cole slapped his palm to his face in disbelief.

Blake had remained curiously silent, occasionally flicking his good eye in Cole’s direction. It was clear that this entire affair didn’t sit right with him and he voiced as much.

‘What are we doing about retaliation? We’re not letting the Sanders Boys get away with this are we? Even as a sham, they’ll be under the false impression that they can get one over on us without repercussions.’ He loudly spat into the gutter. ‘The last thing we need is more pressure from chancers.’

‘They are plenty in number and we are a handful. The odds dictate we play things smart and safe.’

‘Is that a no? We’re going to let this go unpunished?’

‘When the time comes, but today is not that day.’ Jackdaw fiddled with his shirt cuffs in irritation.

‘Just give me a couple of weeks. I’ll jump each and every one from whatever pit they crawl out of, do the lot in turn and we’ll have one less concern on the daily.’

‘You –’ Jackdaw spun in his place, bringing Blake to an abrupt stop, his hand extended ‘– will do what I say. I’ve told you my stance on the matter and no action needs to be taken. Not by me, not by the others and especially not by you when in one of your hot-headed moods. Just having to explain this simple concept irritates me, so, from this moment forth, there will be none of this nonsense. Do you understand me?’

Jack may have missed it but Cole witnessed Blake’s fists clench to the point that his knuckles turned white. He held his breath, expecting a punch to be thrown that never came. Instead, the Jackrabbit relented and fell into line.

After a brief couple of stops to check with shop owners as to the state of goods they were harbouring, or whether long-standing trouble had returned, Jack and the others stopped at their destination.

Cole had never been inside a store like this before. He had always kept clear of them because, previously, he hadn’t wanted to tarnish his reputation – and the kind of individuals they attracted were of the rougher sort. Of course, that was before the pursuit of reclaiming his lost money. Now, Cole realized he was one of those whom he used to cross the street to avoid.

He raised his eyes to the overhanging sign on the wall. On it, painted in a port red, were two crossed revolvers with the name of the premises:

THE DEADBOLT GUNWORKS

The door swung inward, the tinkle of a bell rattling above to indicate their arrival. The shop was deceptively small, with four large glass cases and plenty of stock hidden in the basement. Windows were reinforced with iron lattices to deter potential thieves. The lowering sun flooded the interior with orange, though not enough to light a lamp. Glass display cases bared their wares: a range of firearms, rifles, knives and other such instruments of injury. All had been keenly buffed, with price cards set alongside them.

Past these were various workbenches, along with racks of well-sorted tools. Among them, the owner pressed down on a lever intermittently. Beside her, skeletons of metal were processed, filled with black powder and bullets. At her side a burly man organized piles of materials, his face thick with a pitch bush of an untamed beard. His eyes were blank, only seemingly springing to life at the sound of the bell, which coaxed the pair to turn their attention to the patrons.

* * *

Wyld pulled the protective goggles from her eyes and wiped her hands upon a thick leather apron. She strode over and welcomed Jack with a charming smile. Her work gloves were removed and tossed onto a worktop so as not to tarnish the main cabinets’ impeccable polish. Umbra remained at his station, busying himself.

‘This is nice to see.’ She beamed. ‘Good afternoon, folks. You have impeccable timing. I was just about to close doors.’

‘Is that an indication that you don’t want our business? I’m hurt.’ Jack scanned over the stock to see if there was anything of interest. There usually was. Her connections to individuals like him ensured that there was a flow of good quality imperial weaponry. Quality, however, came at considerable expense and sometimes that bill wasn’t monetary.

‘Perish the thought, Jack. Honest crooks like yourself are keeping the lights on and the pair of us fed. I’m happy to see you still breathing.’

‘Not for the want of others trying, I assure you.’

Wyld turned her head to the tallest one among them.

‘Mister Blakestone, it’s nice to see you once more. You’re keeping those good looks in check I’m hoping.’ She grinned.

Blake tipped the lip of his hat, showing the slightest sign of a blush, but luckily his beard hid most of it. ‘Ma’am.’

Wyld turned to the next in line. ‘Alvina, always a pleasure, dear.’

The smile was warmly reciprocated.

Wyld curled one side of her mouth in thought whilst looking at Cole. With a wagging finger she finally confessed, ‘You … I don’t know you.’

Immediately Cole reached over the counter and shook her hand a tad too vigorously for her taste. His grin was nauseatingly wide.

‘Cole Roaner, ma’am. Associate of Jack, er … Jackdaw.’

‘So you are. Wow.’ She watched her hand bounce around in his grip. ‘And a fine hand you have there too. Nice eye.’

* * *

Cole withdrew his hand in embarrassment. ‘Is this your establishment?’

Wyld slanted her hips, tugging at her apron strings. The apron was removed, folded and put aside.

‘It’s my name above the door ain’t it? It’s my pride and joy. You’re new, so I’ll let you in on a slim little secret,’ she intimately whispered, ‘if you’re looking for iron, I have the best in town. Honest.’

‘That so?’ Cole chuckled nervously.

‘That is so. I have a dealer in the empire so everything you see here is as quality as you can get. I sell none of those copy-cat pieces.’ Wyld raised her voice and bounced back straight to address the others. ‘Anyhow! I suppose you’re all here for your orders. Just one moment please. Umbra dear, can you get the boxes over there and to the left please? The ones with the red stamps on it.’

The man complied, taking possession of the packages, all whilst eyeballing Cole the whole way from one end of the shop to the other. When he reached the cabinets, he placed the boxes down, gently, their weight seemingly nothing. By now Cole was dreadfully aware of his presence. His height advantage was disconcerting, causing Cole to glance this way and that so as not to provoke him. Finally Umbra spoke, low and with conviction.

‘Someone is getting awfully familiar. Do you mind stating your intentions, lad?’

Immediately Cole recoiled, attempting to stammer his way through a combination of surprise and apology. Not that he knew what the apology was for, just that he was keen to avoid the seemingly inevitable third beating on the job. Jackdaw intervened before the youngster fretted himself to a sweat.

‘Leave him alone, Umbra, he’s still fresh to all this.’ Jack pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘He barely carries a scar if you need evidence of that.’

‘All I’m saying is that you come into the shop, make kissy faces at the lady here …’ he grumbled, sizing the young blood up.

‘If you could find it in yourself to stop terrorizing my man that would be quite appreciated. He’s a customer, just as much as I. We don’t need someone of your sort giving us hassle when we’re just trying to do business.’

‘You assume your dirty money is any good here.’

‘It’s a mite more soiled than your average, but it’s as good as anyone else’s.’

Finally Umbra carved a smile over his tired features and shook Jackdaw by the hand, firmly. It was warmly reciprocated. The exchange of moxie between them was amusing.

‘Still causing trouble out there, Jack?’

‘Not enough to turn my back on it that’s for sure. Have you considered my offer any further?’ He withdrew his hand, shaking the tingle from his fingers.

‘I told you –’ Umbra waved at the air between them ‘– I’m done with all that.’

‘Nobody ever parts with their nature, Umbra, not even you. It’s a good offer – you’ll make plenty. With you on board, we’ll be nigh on untouchable. Most don’t know your reputation around here but I sure do. I have better ears than most.’

‘Maybe.’ Umbra seemed wary about exactly how much Jackdaw was privy to. ‘But the answer still stands.’

‘It’s got to be boring behind a counter after what you two got involved in up north.’

‘I prefer boring. I’m sure the games you all play are entertaining time sinks, but I’m not a criminal. I’m not looking to go toe to toe with anyone … and I prefer not to glamorize murder.’

‘Yet you’ve partaken in it,’ Jack stated. Cole looked between them hurriedly. Despite the pair’s obvious relationship it was clear that this topic was skirting the lines of what constituted as respectable conversation.

‘We do what’s required of us. War is war. Death is just one facet of its tapestry.’

‘And mercenary work?’

* * *

Umbra stopped and surveyed the man before him. If it was anybody else he would have provided sterner words or, if they were very unlucky, a series of threats. There was no malice of course – that wouldn’t have got Jack anywhere. It was a serious question and one to make him reassess his viewpoint. Someone like him stuck as a shopkeeper was a tragedy. Still, promises being what they were, he was obligated to put down his weapons and take up a more peaceful life. Umbra owed her that much at least.

‘I’m afraid the answer is still no.’

Finally Jackdaw conceded, patting the case he leant upon. ‘Hey, can’t blame a guy for trying, right?’

Wyld returned, intervening. ‘He won’t blame you, but I sure might. I’m not letting him out to play and that’s final.’

Umbra smirked, nudging her playfully upon passing. ‘Woo, I’ve been told …’

The storeowner rummaged her way through the box on the counter, unpacking each order and addressing each member of the party in turn.

‘Alvina. Sixty cartridges of wolf pepper,’ Wyld stated, checking off the collection on an inventory. The brown-paper-wrapped boxes were slid over, each one holding twenty shotgun shells each.

‘Checked?’

‘Aren’t they always?’

Alvina took one, tore a flap open and inspected a shell between thumb and finger. The cap seemed to be set neatly and the crimp of good quality. She slid it back inside, signing the invoice and sliding over the required monies.

‘Can’t be too sure. Counterfeits are everywhere nowadays,’ Alvina mumbled, having been stung before. A misfire in their line of work could be fatal. It was only by the grace of the Holy Sorceress that she’d survived that unfortunate situation.

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