Den of Stars
Den of Stars
Christopher Byford
Are you willing to gamble with your life?Some debts can’t be repaid. The Gambler’s Den lies in ruins, its staff scattered across the Sand Sea, all but a memory of the minds of its past patrons. But when the Morning Star appears, ruled by a mysterious figure known only as the Hare, the comparisons can’t be helped. Who is this larger-than-life character? Why do the showgirls wear masks? What are they hiding? The answer…they should be dead.Franco and Misu were safe only in their anonymity, but with Franco gone Misu must find him – jeopardising all they have built. In order to save the man she trusts Misu must put her faith in the villain.Wilheim does not forget disobedience lightly, and Misu’s was a great betrayal, so now he will call in his debt, and his revenge on the staff of the Morning Star.Who will win? Who will survive? Who will the odds favour?
Some debts can’t be repaid.
The Gambler’s Den lies in ruins, its staff scattered across the Sand Sea, all but a memory of the minds of its past patrons. But when the Morning Star appears, ruled by a mysterious figure known only as the Hare, the comparisons can’t be helped. Who is this larger-than-life character? Why do the showgirls wear masks? What are they hiding? The answer…they should be dead.
Franco and Misu were safe only in their anonymity, but with Franco gone Misu must find him – jeopardizing all they have built. In order to save the man she trusts Misu must put her faith in the villain.
Wilheim does not forget disobedience lightly, and Misu’s was a great betrayal, so now he will call in his debt, and his revenge on the staff of the Morning Star.
Den of Stars
Christopher Byford
ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Contents
Cover (#uacee5dfe-268d-53a3-b9b4-8a8533b8acc2)
Blurb (#ubad3c3c4-7baa-55c7-92d3-abfbb9878707)
Title Page (#u5724a45e-112b-54c4-94ae-47d731811d08)
Author Bio (#u636076de-141d-56b6-804c-cda7df420e25)
Acknowledgements (#u9bcc42dc-28a8-55cf-a01a-ff9fa754fac8)
Dedication (#uee3a0833-b11f-5ba7-ab62-a5273b2e1371)
Prologue (#u530b1efc-f299-564e-9bfa-a342eb983f49)
Chapter 1 (#u0a184a34-3885-57e4-999f-55f6b0a436a7)
Chapter 2 (#u7ffd42e7-0b11-5e9c-a467-7beba6c6deb0)
Chapter 3 (#u2a022142-208e-57df-a908-fab52cf16c45)
Chapter 4 (#u671a8a3c-7e3b-50c9-878f-bdd978fff0ac)
Chapter 5 (#u12e4ee86-368b-5de1-97ea-fb2ee5e5d5f6)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHRISTOPHER BYFORD
was born in 1980 in Wellingborough, England. He learnt to walk whilst holding on to a golden retriever and fondly remembers the days of BMX bikes and conker matches. He left college to suffer as an IT Manager for a small multinational before, in his words, escaping to Gloucester. After working for some large tech companies he seized the opportunity to become a full-time author. It was the best thing he’s ever done.
In the last few years Chris has penned various tales, DEN OF SHADOWS being his most prominent.
Away from literary things, his interests include all things VW Campervans, gardening, photography, astronomy and chicken keeping.
He finds talking about himself in the third person rather pedantic and could murder a cold pint of cider right about now.
Acknowledgements (#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)
Den of Stars was born from mystery and intrigue. It’s only fair that this theme extends to those who I wish to thank. Instead of being named here on a page that’s almost certain to be skipped, I ensured their contribution was acknowledged in a different manner. I approached these individuals and asked them for their input to be included – maybe the name of a product, maybe a turn of phrase, maybe one of these things, maybe both and more.
I leave it up to you to find out.
Naturally I am indebted to Hannah and all those at HQ, whose tireless pursuits have brought what you are reading now into existence. Helena managed to buff the tale into something presentable and has my undying thanks.
And of course, to you.
To all those who have used their second chance and done well by it
For my wife Emma and our son Abel
Prologue (#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)
It was traditional for funerals in Surenth to begin before the dawn.
The dead may not have minded the high temperatures that the region was well known for, but for those still living, it was an uncomfortable burden to endure. Nobody wanted to watch loved ones be buried in the stifling midday heat, so it was just before the sun cracked that the funeral procession began to march.
As the morning stars straddled the sky, threatened by the pale glow of the sun watching from the horizon, the city of Windberg stopped what it was doing. Stallholders slowed setting up their wares for the day’s trading, their attention now ensnared elsewhere. Some shopkeepers kept their signs set to closed with the intention of keeping them so for the day out of respect for the dead. Even the deckhands for the sand ships, busy loading and unloading the large imposing vehicles at the docks, slowed their work on account of the noise that lingered in the still morning air.
Those who intended to attend the proceedings were already prepared, congregating on street corners, appropriately dressed and aware of the planned route. Others who woke to the commotion wearily watched from their windows.
There was music playing, a rallying cry for those familiar with the deceased and his work. The band consisted of brass instruments primarily, accompanied by the beat of drums and the high melodies of clarinets. Each attendee was dressed in formal beige-coloured suits, unjacketed with white shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. The music, though loud enough to be heard over the morning’s bustle, remained intimate in style to coax further mourners to the mass.
Every street the procession passed, more joined the collective. They each did so for their own reasons, a number doing so out of morbid curiosity rather than a desire to pay their respects. A trumpet blared a melody, the drums keeping a slow pom-pom-pom in time, relaxed and effortless.
Leading the route a brilliant black coach, adorned with golden accents, was drawn by a quartet of equally brilliant black horses with complementary gilded decoration on their straps and tugs. The interior was hidden with curtains, as were its occupants, who never parted the fabric to take stock of how many followed nor how close they were to their destination.
The coachman himself was well suited and groomed and gripped the reins, steering the animals through every district before them, the passing streets of Windberg transforming from wealth to starved to decadent and back again. The horses’ pace was never quick enough to encourage those behind to rush.
The river of bodies trickled to the city limits, spilling into a parasol-laden procession that moved into the desolate waste beyond. Stone was replaced with sand, the dawn sun lingering low and yet to fully show its radiance and heat. The desert was unkind and uncaring, forcing the people to move around boulder and thorny bush as they followed the main rail line north that would lead through a gorge and out into the Sand Sea itself. The coach trundled along the surface, the horses maintaining their composure at all times.
Still the band played and the feet marched.
Behind, an army of well-wishers made their way, following the northern train line from the grand city of Windberg northwards. Here, miles out from the city itself, the track ran into a canyon, its deep, steep sides sheltering such transportation from the harsh elements. The land began to ebb down the rail line flanked by steep cliffs of marbled stone, eroded by a combination of harsh wind and time. Soon the shy sun was hidden away by the formation, long shadows painting canyon walls in gloom.
From this turn and that, following the snaking contours, finally they arrived at their destination. The music stopped. Nobody spoke. The coach was immediately brought to a halt.
Before them, up ahead and squatting at the side of the track were the remains of the once proud Gambler’s Den.
The locomotive had slipped the tracks during its escape from both the law and the lackeys of a criminal. This, coupled with its engine exploding, left it as nothing but wreckage.
But the Gambler’s Den was no mere train. It was a legend in the east of Surenth. Its appearance formally announced with a cryptic banner, promising plenty and encouraging a fever of wanton speculation. Nobody knew what the Gambler’s Den actually was, except for those who had listened to the stories from other places about a wonderment that proudly rode the tracks across the Sand Sea.
Occasionally someone who had entertained drunken stories might have dismissed it as being just a train, but it was just a train as much as the sun was just a star and the unenlightened were informed as such. The only way your opinion mattered was if you were once in its presence, if you drank from the well of pleasure that it proffered. Anything else was speculation or outright lies.
When word reached the city of Windberg that the Gambler’s Den was in the throes of some dramatic escape from bandits, they assumed that the accompanying Bluecoats chasing were en route to protect it. So the story went at least. Some of the papers ran stories that differed, daring to suggest that there were other factors at work, the most prominent being the notion that the Den was up to no end of dishonest pursuits.
This was incorrect. Caught up in a whirlwind of blackmail and downright bad luck, its owner, one Franco Del Monaire, had intended to escape both parties.
The state of the train was heartbreaking. The Gambler’s Den had been reduced to a charred shell. Its boiler and innards had been flayed by an uncontrolled surge of pressure, causing an explosion. Flues were outstretched like metal spider legs. The chassis was warped from the heat, forcing the remains to slouch at the trackside after being moved and the line itself had been repaired. For those who saw the Gambler’s Den during one of its spectacles, it was difficult to take in.
The people parted as the coachman performed his duty, climbing down and opening up the door. He invited the individuals to join them, with all surrounding the vehicle silent in reverence.
Seven women took the steps from their carriage, flat shoes landing in the sand, forming a procession. They wore complementary outfits, similar in appearance though with significant nuances to set them apart. Each outfit was the colour of emerald, with mustard and black trimming over the plunging necklines, collars and hems. They were beauties each, quite well versed on finery and pageantry, a trait unshaken despite the morbid circumstances. Tall stood alongside short, black and blonde hair alongside shocks of ginger. All held their nerves in check and restrained tears that were bubbling dangerously close to the surface.
The last to step out was a man, nowhere near as finely dressed but still on the right side of smart. His face was ghostly, clearly suffering from little sleep and troubling vices. His first steps were unsteady, corrected with the awareness of the score of onlookers, though he drew less attention than the women themselves. His clothes were creased and scruffy, tossed on with little care – one would assume, and correctly so.
With a few reassuring gestures from the most senior among them, the women began the last of their journey with the man bringing up the rear. They all moved to the head of the ensemble, dresses, coats and scarves trailing in the subtle breeze that had picked up from the Sand Sea, as if it attempted to nudge them each to reconsider their movements. Some of the women held hands, clasping tightly to one another for comfort.
The sun had risen higher now and its heat was beginning to bear down. They were not to speak, as was the tradition of these things. Others spoke on their behalf and in this instance, a short, stocky man – dressed in a grey pinstripe suit and round hat – had been hired for the occasion. He had no need to check his pocket for the folded notes, elaborating on the schedule, the involved names, or circumstances for all of these were already committed to memory. The number of people didn’t intimidate him, for he was a professional and excelled in his craft.
Taking himself to the head of the procession he raised his arm for everyone’s attention. It was given without hesitation, unabated by the gravitas of the proceedings.
‘We are here to celebrate, not to mourn! It would be easy to be sad at a time like this, but this is not the way things were done aboard the Gambler’s Den. Appropriately it is not what will be done today,’ he called loudly.
The unkempt man between the women rolled his eyes, reaching for an absent hip flask.
‘What occurred here was a tragedy on a grand scale. When the wheels of the Gambler’s Den stopped spinning, the shock pierced many a breast. No one could have fathomed such a disaster to occur on the outskirts of our home. Those on board were innocent victims caught up in the blight of criminality that rots away and troubles our virtuous people, at the very soul of our fine city. Yes, it was a tragedy! The papers spreading discord with their falsities, but I can tell you now with the word of the law beside me, those on the Gambler’s Den did no wrong. Those among us, the family of this fine performance piece, have lost two of our own.’
Among them the city sheriff, Alex Juniper, swelled beneath his deep navy tunic. His reasons for attending were his own, for he was not a fan of the ruckus the Gambler’s Den brought to the city – far from it in fact. Upon its arrival he sought to have it impounded, given that some on board were fraternizing with criminals, but this obligation bore quite a different outcome. The catastrophe resulted in ensnaring a much grander prize – with help of one of the Den’s own.
Juniper made occasional observations of the faces within the crowd, looking for any sign of someone attempting to disturb the proceedings out of malice. In particular he stole glances at the haphazardly dressed man nestled within the envelope of women. He in turn noticed and stopped frisking his jacket for a drink.
The announcer spoke the names with utmost esteem, his booming voice proud and weighty.
‘Misu Pontain. Manager. Performer. Described by those who knew her as a kind individual, a mother to those desiring compassion, a sister to those needing a sibling.’
The rough-looking man scoffed beneath his breath, finding an elbow dug into his hip for silence.
‘And Franco Del Monaire. Entertainer. Showman. The beating heart of the Gambler’s Den itself, its founder no less! I am sure that Franco himself would have preferred to be buried along with his love, the grand old train that brought such delight to so many, evident today with the presence of you all.’
A smattering of sobs broke out from within the mass. They were allowed to sputter out, the culprits consoled with embraces.
‘We celebrate these momentous individuals with the lives we lead. They will hear us in the embrace of the Holy Sorceress, hearing our celebrations in their stead, warmed at the notion that what they brought us will continue in kind. Revelry exists in the hearts of each and every one of you. Share what you have been shown with the world.’
When it fell quiet once more, the announcer held his arms wide.
‘I, and those who have lost their loved ones, invite you all to share your tokens of appreciation for the departed.’
Now the bodies moved of their own accord, each patiently taking their turn to approach the Gambler’s Den with the greatest reverence. For a number of them, the grief was too overwhelming, with sporadic bursts of sobs emanating from inside the mass. When at the wreckage, some prayed and some touched the contorted metalwork.
Small strips of paper were passed around, as was ink and pens, with sentiments being constructed into words and folded in half. These were placed delicately, or stuck to the Gambler’s Den, until it resembled a moulting bird, its feathers goldenrod mentions of love and promises that gently flapped in the dry desert breeze.
One of those searching for the right words finally wrote them down, reviewing each one in turn and rereading them over and over. The handwriting was crooked in places but still quite legible, on account of a troublesome injury. The message was simple and direct. It was a modest truth that the woman had found upon reflecting, and stuck it to the metal before fading away into the crowd, her place quickly taken by another. The note simply stated:
‘Death will not stop the show.’
Chapter 1 (#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)
The admittance of debt
Sunway Boarding House was spacious, open-plan, and finely furnished, with the lower floor separated between lounge, dining area, and kitchen. Each of these was partitioned with sparse chestnut wood dividers, with most of the house’s support being undertaken by rows of bulky timber. Deep maroon carpet coated the floor and details had been erected with stone, framing seating areas, chimneys, and open fireplaces.
A cacophony of decorations filled almost every scrap of wall space. Maps of the region, both outdated and modern, were pinned here and there. There were pastel pictures of prominent local figures with their names declared in brass plaques beneath their stony faces, though their importance was lost on the current occupants. Animal skulls were presented in a display cabinet, some large, some small, almost all parading sharp teeth. Oil lamps were affixed to walls with frosted glass shades sporting fabulous decorations.
The kitchen was dominated by an iron behemoth of a cooker, enclosed by an embracing stone fireplace that also included recesses for cutlery and utensils. The fire inside was still at an adequate heat, its fuel glowing and giving. Upstairs were the bedrooms, six in total, compact rooms in truth but still significantly more generous than the space allocated in a train bunk car. It was a delightful abode, spacious and comfortable. For the survivors of the Gambler’s Den, it was the closest thing they had to home.
With their residence destroyed, the women had found themselves homeless. Thankfully the local press had caused quite the uproar in their favour, describing how these pure, innocent victims of criminality were soon to be living on the streets. It would be in Windberg’s best interests to offer these women charity and shelter, for the time being at least. The paper columns argued that the showgirls would be a fine addition to the city’s elite.
Sunway Boarding House – all of it – was offered immediately, seeing that securing the survivors of the Gambler’s Den was sure to raise the landlord’s profile. The bragging rights alone would secure passage to prominent dinner parties and social functions for its owner, something excitedly speculated about, which indeed came to fruition. The actual cost of their lodgings was never brought into consideration. The women insisted they paid their way of course, but this was for naught and any expenses were covered by a number of generous, anonymous benefactors.
The door front clattered open allowing the previous employees of the Gambler’s Den to trickle inside. They flowed from space to space, finding seat and sofa to rest weary feet that noisily dragged over floorboard, rug, and carpet. Kitty brought up the rear, holding the door ajar, the shortest of all those in attendance though her contagious spark more than made up for her lack of stature. With it she may as well be seven foot tall. Her glittering blue eyes narrowed at the causes of the daily noise in Windberg’s streets and the immediate surroundings:
The legion of horses pulling goods to the docks, carts rattling with every turn of the wheels.
The busker on the street corner playing a guitar, strumming vigorously for coin.
The gaggle of children who chased one another into patches of alleyway shade, manoeuvring around someone who had stepped out for a late morning smoke.
At last coming inside, she drew the door to a close.
‘I need something to drink.’ The small blonde woman shuffled off into the kitchen and set about rummaging through the cupboards for something to cure her headache.
‘I need plenty more than just the one. I was not ready for that, none of it. Kitty, dear, fetch the coffee would you? The good coffee,’ Corinne clarified. ‘The northern stuff.’
‘It’s costly, that.’
‘Can you think of a better occasion?’
‘Incredibly expensive blend it is, then.’
Corinne took heavily to a lounger. With a flick, she relieved her feet of her shoes and began firmly rubbing the ache that had settled in her heels. She watched the kitchen spring to life as Kitty got to work at the counter, withdrawing cups and setting them in a line. Ground coffee beans were scooped into a coffee pot and set atop a hotplate. The blonde woman leant over the counter to continue the discussion whilst waiting for the tell-tale spats of boiling water to dance from the pot’s lip.
‘That was a lot of people. Plenty more than I imagined would turn out,’ Corinne contemplated.
Kitty thoroughly agreed, her normally cheerful demeanour subdued. She leant back with a sigh. ‘I never thought what we did touched so many lives. I mean I never thought we touched anybody in such a fashion but, wow …’
‘How many were there?’ Kitty wondered aloud.
‘Too many to count. I couldn’t even guess. I’ve not seen a bigger gathering since, well, ever. It’s like half the city turned out.’
Kitty skimmed white cups across the counter top, filling them in turn from a silver coffee server. Another of the women took it upon herself to distribute the much-needed beverage, offering cream and sugar where appropriate. Only one rejected the offer, instead deciding to drink something taken from behind the bar in passing.
‘Jacques. How are you faring?’ Kitty eyeballed him from the kitchen. ‘You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet all morning.’
Lying quite ungraciously over the length of a leather lounger, the roughly dressed man gripped the neck of a wine bottle as if it were his only anchor to common sense. It gifted him clarity with every mouthful, or so he believed, each one sending droplets rolling down his scraggy beard and soaking into his shirt collar. The bottle was released from his lips begrudgingly.
‘You figure I had something worthwhile to say?’ He grunted.
‘Just surprised you’ve not shared your voice yet, that’s all. I don’t mean nothing by it.’
‘In answer to your consideration, little one, I’m just grand. Doing a damn sight better than the lot of you, I’ll have you know.’ The container was lazily wagged to those around him. ‘I’m glad it’s all over and we can move on with things. All this commotion is dragging my mood down. I’ll fare better once the sun goes down, that’s for sure. That’s when the exciting people come out.’
Everyone in the room watched with concern as he messily drank the bottle’s contents. Katerina shuffled in her chair, inhaling the aroma that came from her cup in the hope that it would assist in making her feel less groggy. She had put herself at a small side table on a straight-backed chair. Her peach-tinted nails drummed onto the veneer much like a rabbit would do with its foot when warning others of danger.
Curiously she hadn’t been as emotional as she thought she would be. Sure the sight of the Gambler’s Den itself took their collective breaths away, but it didn’t rouse the tears she had feared. What did gnaw at her temperament was the conversations she overheard this morning and the faces of the grief-stricken who knew the dead only by reputation.
‘Did you see what they were doing?’ She stirred her coffee, depositing a silver spoon on the accompanying saucer. ‘Sticking those notes on. One guy was speaking to his son who was asking why. Couldn’t have been any older than seven and was missing an arm. Memories, I overheard the man say. Then father kneels down to him and says that they were good memories that deserve acknowledgement. It’s not like we got much else.’
‘That’s hard.’ Kitty gave a whine, now busying herself with the preparation of food, the woody aroma of sizzling smoked bacon significantly welcomed. Cockatrice eggs were struck on pan lips, joining the crescendo of noise performed by bubbling fats. Nobody had asked for anything to eat of course, but it didn’t need to be said.
‘Nice to know that we did well at some point in our lives.’
‘Comforting, I say.’ Kitty prodded the eggs about.
‘What do you remember best about those two? Misu and Franco I mean.’ Katerina sipped a good half of her drink and placed it oh-so-carefully on the perfect veneer of the cherry-wood tabletop.
‘The bickering, mainly. The boss had plenty of problems with the way Misu put things to him when he had a bad idea. Don’t take that the wrong way. I loved Franco for what he did but boy, he could be a pain in the ass.’ Corinne sipped her coffee, exhaling its heat. ‘Such a pain in the ass, I tell you.’
A ripple of laughter reached the edge of the room, encouraging all those it met.
‘That he was. But Misu wrangled him and kept him in check whenever he was too demanding. He was a perfectionist. There’s nothing wrong with that, but … I mean …’ Kitty juggled a line of frying pans, knocking the contents around, struggling to find the appropriate words.
‘Hard work at times,’ Corinne chipped in.
‘Exactly. Hard work.’
‘A break wasn’t such a bad thing to give us! What, was he afraid we would run at the first opportunity? Sometimes I just wanted to let my hair down, find some back alley street vendor and eat until I could barely move.’
‘What’s wrong with my food?’ Kitty pricked her ears up, taking it as an insult. Her tending to the contents of the pans was uninterrupted. Corinne made sure that she wasn’t misunderstood and taken personally.
‘Nothing, dear, you’re a fabulous cook. Sometimes people don’t want fabulous. They want –’
‘Dirty,’ Katerina added flatly, though queried her own word choice.
‘Exactly. Yes. That.’
Katerina rested her head in her hands, uneasy with Jacques tending to his grief with booze in hand. She had witnessed far too many succumb to the bottle when using it to drown misery and unable to climb back out again, persuading her to avoid that pitfall. It was a worry. He was a worry. Attempting to ignore it, she recalled her fondest moment with sincerity in her voice, though she kept an eye on his secretive grumbling.
‘I remember this one time that I fell ill. I spent a few days shivering and sweating in bed – horrible it was. Of course I was just paranoid I was going to let Franco down. I had only been with you all for a couple of weeks, so I was insistent I was going to perform for the show that night. So I’m there sneezing and my teeth are chattering as I’m so cold. Misu tells him that I’m sick. He comes knocking on my door and sits on the bed and I begin to ramble. I tell him that I’ll be fine. I tell him that I can do it no problem. No problem at all.’
Corinne smiled to herself, remembering the time all too well. ‘Not in your condition, he said. I remember that. All that sneezing – and you gave it to a couple of others if I recall correctly.’
‘You know what he does?’ Katerina’s voice faded slightly in earnest. ‘He shoots me down. I won’t have you doing that, he goes. You stay here and rest; we’ll be fine without you. It’s just one show – it’s not worth doing yourself a mischief. Well I’m just a wreck at this point anyway and I just start crying. I mean, I can’t stop. He leans over and takes my hands. I tell him that he’ll get sick – that this thing is probably contagious. You know what he says? He looks at me and goes: I’ll take my chances.’
Katerina dabbed her eyes on her dress sleeve, careful not to paint mascara on the material. Her smile was cracking as her lips quivered. ‘Wasn’t that just like him?’
‘I would argue he took too many. Thieving stowaways. Bad deals. Never saw him not bounce back from it all. The man sure did know how to push that luck of his.’
‘I suppose he never believed it would run out.’
‘What about you, Corinne? You knew Misu longer than any of us here. Surely you have stories to tell.’
* * *
Sure, she had stories. Plenty of them in fact. She had stories of the pair of them trapped in a nest of vipers, forced to do things to keep themselves alive and their limbs intact. There was plenty to be told about how Corinne herself was paraded on show for folks rich in currency and broke in morals. They had met one another in what generous people called an establishment of entertainment. In reality it was a club where criminals congregated, bragged about their misdeeds, and made their plans.
It just so happened that women like them were bought and paid for, shuffled around like property. Corinne kept her mouth shut, doing enough to keep her unscarred, performing as was expected and never putting a word out of turn.
But Misu was different.
She adapted. Instead of falling into the long-drop trap, she talked to the right people and made the right impressions to ensure that nobody laid their hands upon her person. She was clever – too clever some would say – walking the thin line of cunning, though those around her would not compliment her for that. Cunning usually resulted in betrayal. And betrayal could get you killed.
So she carved her reputation among those caught up in the debacle that nobody was to cross her. She would be your best friend if you won her favour, or your greatest threat if you lacked it. Securing her place in the food chain, she and a handful of others brokered the dealings of innocent women, played the games those in power wished them to play, and did so in such a way to keep herself always one step ahead.
Corinne had stories, but none that they would want to hear, and nor were they appropriate. Instead she recalled something more light-hearted.
‘I remember the dandiest thing I got told. It was when Franco took on that stowaway, whatshername …’ She circled her hand at the wrist.
‘Wyld,’ someone added.
‘That’s her. Jacques has this girl dragged out of her hiding place and taken to the boss. She’s squirming, thinking that she’s going to be straight up executed and babbling about being heard. On the way she sees her opening and belts him one! Bam! Gives him a damn good print of her fist on the cheek, which stuns him somewhat. Jacques hits the floor and Wyld runs for it. Well she doesn’t reach the carriage door before Misu steps through. She sees Jacques all down-like and deduces that this desert rat must have been the cause.’
‘Then what?’ A handful of others parroted the question. Corinne tossed her hands out, gesturing.
‘She stands aside! Just, whoop, steps to the side in the doorway, looks her right in the eye, and says: In case you’ve not noticed, you’re stuck on this train in the middle of the hottest damn sand you ever did see. Unless you’re looking at dropping every last one of us like you did our friend there, this is all rather pointless. You’ve got nowhere to go, unless you fancy jumping. And you know what Wyld did?’
‘What?’
Jacques bit at the inside of his mouth, impatient for the anecdote to end.
‘She gives up. Just sits her ass on down and waits for Franco to turn up. A moment passes, Franco barges in, and Jacques picks himself up from the ground …’
Jacques interrupted with a sudden, sarcastic snort before Corinne continued.
‘However she does it, Wyld convinces Franco to give her passage. Now Misu, she doesn’t like this one bit. Change to the status quo makes her suspicious so, when the need takes her, she sits herself down and starts interviewing Wyld.’
‘Interviewing?’ Kitty scrunched her young face up, producing wrinkles before her time.
‘Interviewing. Like, asking her all the questions of initiation to make our troublesome little stowaway a showgirl. Calm as anything, she was. It’s a ruse of course but the girl don’t know this. Wyld starts protesting but Misu is too quick and starts saying this and that, asking her how good her dancing is, and makes a point that she’ll need significant work prettying her up for the shows – especially the hair. This goes on for a good few minutes until Franco, who’s been staying silent up to this point, just bursts out laughing, finding the whole thing hilarious. It took a few minutes before Wyld calmed herself but it was a joy, such a joy …’
The broad smile eventually subsided upon realizing once again that two of their number from the anecdote were missing. This was mirrored by almost everybody else in earshot.
Corinne took to her bare feet, a mite unsteady, and raised her drink up. The others followed in unison, blinking back tears of their own.
‘To the Gambler’s Den. To those who are with us today.’ Corinne held her cup aloft, trying desperately to keep it steady before sternly adding with a final push, ‘And to those we have lost along the way.’
* * *
Jacques sank the last of his tribute with one large, quick mouthful. Since he had arrived he had taken a bottle of white wine for himself and emptied its contents, first by a glass before forgoing this step completely. He slowly assessed every face around him, the collected showgirls of the Gambler’s Den, now performers without a stage, comfortable in their new home. And what a home it was! Such extravagance! What incredible generosity from the locals! How fortunate that they should land on their feet.
Then there was talk about the restaurant. It was Kitty’s idea really, what with her vested interest in the practice since a considerably young age. Being raised on a farm had its perks of becoming creative with food. Being that the Den was no more, not only could the restaurant be a source of income but it would also ensure the girls remained together.
She had tossed the thought around with one of her drinking sessions with the landlord, who excitedly proclaimed he knew someone who would happily front the money as a partner. Corinne had intervened when word got out, to ensure everything was being done on the level; but all this talk made Jacques uncomfortable. Plans were being made. Futures were being decided. All without him.
A half-hearted suggestion was made that he could work there too, but doing what exactly? Carrying plates? Scrubbing dishes? That wasn’t his forte. There would be little need for decent muscle, the only requirement being the possibility of shaking down those who hadn’t paid their bill.
It was laughable.
Good for them. They’d made a life. They’d become comfortable. They were moving on.
Good for bloody them.
It wouldn’t have occurred to them that one of their number hadn’t enjoyed such good fortune. They never had to settle for barn floors or dark alleys to sleep the drink off. It didn’t matter to them that good-natured smiles never followed warm welcomes when he made his presence known. Reminiscence bore into him like a drill, pulling and churning his temperament into frustration.
While they were spending the coin of others, what did he have to contend with? Dock work? Working in the mills or the mines? He may as well find his fortune as a singing vagabond. Sadly a man of his status, or a man in general, was not so fortunate to enjoy the generosity of strangers. His reputation had ensured anybody who was worth anything in this city would distance themselves. Associating themselves with Jacques was suicide of both status and possibly of the mortal variety too.
While the girls comfortably avoided peril, Jacques was a marked man. Franco Del Monaire had asked him to do what was necessary to protect the girls of the Gambler’s Den no matter the personal cost. To ensure this, Jacques took it upon himself to testify against Wilheim Fort, a cruel individual who riddled the great city of Windberg with his wrongdoings.
The chain reaction this caused was momentous. Once respected individuals were discovered to be in cahoots with Wilheim, arrests were made by the dozen. Powerful people fell from grace. That power had to be directed somewhere so repercussions became inevitable.
The first time it happened, a couple of goons tried to jump him at a bar, giving a quick warning and a knife to the gut. He was lucky and the resulting tussle left him with just a few cuts but the message had been delivered sternly. Jacques took to carrying iron every day after that in preparation for the inevitable reoccurrence.
Despite catching a bullet in the thigh, the next assailants caught considerably more to the chest. The one after that was tossed down a cliff after an almighty struggle. Standing on the cusp of a windswept gully, Jacques had grimly realized these attempts weren’t going to stop. He had no concerns about killing a man. He had done so plenty of times and for plenty of reasons, a handful considerably rotten, but this? The relentlessness of it was painfully apparent.
The cost of this bargain was uncomfortably high. Inconveniences he could deal with, hell it was expected, but forfeiting his life, his entire life? Nobody else was dodging bullets. Nobody else had to toss unscrupulous folks down into ravines for a dirt nap.
And here the girls were, speaking as if Franco and Misu were heroes, monuments to the people they once entertained, worthy of praise that stopped just shy of worship.
‘This is stifling,’ he finally said, striking his bottle on a table with a thump, narrowly missing the handle of his revolver that had been placed there for convenience.
‘Jacques?’
‘It makes no real difference, does it? They’re both dead and we’re sitting around talking about what could have been. We’re left behind contemplating the future. It’s selfish, is what it is. No two ways about it.’
Everyone fell quiet, the more timid among them avoiding eye contact and fiddling with their drinks.
* * *
‘We’re all hurting, Jacques. You’re not unique on that front.’ Corinne scrunched up her features in disgust. She had grown tired of this spectacle some time ago. His constant moaning and alcoholism was a bore and, frankly, she expected better of him than to drink himself stupid. They needed solidarity between them, not this.
‘Oh, work it out why don’t you. Sitting about here moping, mumbling little treasures about how the good times were. Let me tell you a fact and take it any way you desire. We weren’t saved by that pair. We were cast aside. We were left behind! They took the easy way out, dying a death out in the Sand Sea like martyrs. We got the bum end of the deal. You can be all red and puffy-cheeked in outrage but that doesn’t sway the fact that I’m right. You were all taking too long to work it out so I figured I would accelerate maters. Let it sink in. Think it over.’
His eyes locked defiantly with Corinne’s. She waited for this little outburst to be done, though he spoke with considerable malice and smiled like a predator would smile, then he took a hearty swig of poison.
‘Stings like a bitch, don’t it?’
Corinne retaliated flatly. ‘You’re drunk. Again, may I add, and it’s not even midday. Did you wash in scotch when you woke this morning? On today of all days?’
‘What can I say? Sobriety has lost its sparkling appeal.’
‘Has compassion too?’ Corinne snarled in challenge. She had tolerated this tirade for far too long. For a handful of weeks now, she had endured Jacques being stinking drunk whenever he rolled himself out of whatever bordello he had talked himself into.
‘You don’t get to say that to me. Nobody does. You have no idea how much I’ve put myself on the line for you, for all of you! You can doll yourselves up and pretend to move on, be in tears for the papers when they take nice photographs to further your agendas, but some people, better people, just don’t have the stomach for that. Sick as it is to admit, you have to respect Wilheim Fort. He has one over each and every one of you. For all his terrors, at least he never put on a charade to hide what he did. He never faked his intentions. Can you all say the same?’
There was a pregnant pause. Nobody moved.
‘You want to turn around and go out that door. Right now,’ Corinne threatened, though what she said was not a suggestion but a demand. He wasn’t welcome here any more, not if he was going to behave so undignified.
‘You’re damn right I do,’ Jacques agreed. He swung his jacket from the seat arm in a rush and made his way outside, slamming the door in frustration. The connected bell danced on its bracket, almost detaching itself in shock. Nothing was said inside for a while, as the only noise was the slowing rattle of glass in the doorframe, followed by an empty bottle tossed into the street and bursting on impact.
‘So … we’re not doing anything about that?’ Katerina finally asked. Corinne was quick to shoot down the suggestion. She marched to the door and flipped the latch to lock.
‘No. Let him go. Let others suffer his egotism – I’m done with it. We don’t need it under our roof.’
‘And what he said of Wilheim?’
Corinne sunk her teeth into her lower lip in frustration. The insult stung considerably more than the pain she administered herself.
‘Pay it no mind,’ she dismissed. ‘He’s behind bars now. He’s no concern to anybody.’
* * *
Wilheim Fort sat quite contentedly in his cell. The bars were pitted and stained by age and who knows what. The walls were carved with the names of previous occupants, some now being the only evidence of their existence. The uncomfortable slab that passed for a bed was seemingly designed by someone who clearly despised the spine and had set about destroying it under the pretence of rest. It was a cell befitting murderers, thugs, terrible people who did terrible things by the score and were to be incarcerated in equally fitting surroundings.
It was not at all appropriate for a man of Wilheim’s stature.
As was regular, the guard rapped the bars with his truncheon to get the inmate’s attention. He held in the other hand a tray of what some might generously call food. The meal was slid through its designated slot, spilling somewhat onto the stone floor, not that the jailer actually felt the slightest bit of remorse for this. He knew full well the crimes that Wilheim was to be trialled for, though in his humble opinion would rather the city forgo the circus and simply have him shot.
There were plenty who shared his thinking, a considerable amount under this roof and scores in the city who had cheered the outing of the architect of a criminal empire. Another pair of Bluecoats behind tended to the other cells with equal attention, conveying the meals with little care for the occupants within.
But, curiously, Wilheim simply sat on his uncomfortable bed, surrounded by the words of dead men, and stared directly through the bars stained with who knows what at the man beyond.
In fact, he did more than this. He smiled.
He smiled with such simplicity that one could easily mistake it as arrogance. The guard did so. He had seen this smile every time he took the slop to the cell, every time he called for attention, every time the prisoner’s lawyer came to discuss matters with him. Previously the Bluecoat had been patient. He was disciplined enough not to enter into a conversation with this individual, as his words could easily lead to attempts of bribery, or threats upon his person. This time, however, was different. This time, the Bluecoat gave in to his curiosity.
‘Every time I see your stupid face,’ he snarled, dragging the truncheon across the bars, ‘every single damn time with no break in between, you’ve got that ridiculous smile on you. You have to tell me, sitting in there and stripped of everything that made a monster like you, what could you possibly have to be so damn happy about?’
Wilheim found amusement in this, something that only made his smile wider. He chuckled, descending into a full-blown belly laugh that caused his bulbous body to ripple with each shake. When he found it appropriate to do so, he spoke.
‘You’re correct in saying that plenty has been removed from my person. Plenty has indeed been taken from me. All that I have acquired. All I have built. Well, of course, not all. A man like myself makes allowances for times such as these and ensures that if ill fortune falls upon him, then he owns a safety net of sorts.’
The guard kept tapping the bars. Wilheim continued, getting to his feet with a grunt.
‘It’s not true that I am naked in this cell. For I have something in abundance that I treasure, something that you and your ilk cannot fathom the importance of.’
The Bluecoat strained himself thinking what it could be. His eyes darted around the bare lockup, searching for any hint of something stashed away.
‘Time, you imbecile, I’m talking about time,’ Wilheim hissed in amusement. ‘I have time here to think, to contemplate … to do anything I so wish. With enough time you can raise the grandest of ambitions from nothing.’
‘That doesn’t sound so great to me. Get enough of that and you’ll be reduced to bones right here. I can imagine better things to smile about.’
‘You miss the bigger picture.’ Wilheim tilted his head to the side, his eyes momentarily flicking behind the Bluecoat and back again. ‘Time allows one to achieve a great many things. You can reclaim that which people have taken from you. You can organize repercussions for the ones who have wronged you. With enough time a broken empire can be re-formed. All one needs is patience.’
The Bluecoat exhaled in boredom. It may have been one of the more eloquent rants he had been subjected to, but it was still delivered by a crook behind bars.
‘Then you’ve got plenty of time to think on such things.’
The guard went to turn, though he froze in doing so quite quickly. The smile upon Wilheim’s face had gone, replaced with a bitter, nasty scowl. The air turned cold in the space between them.
‘I’m going to take an educated guess,’ Wilheim said, taking a pair of steps towards the bars. ‘You were assigned especially to watch over me, correct? The sheriff has considerable trust in you – you’ve no doubt been close to him on many an occasion. I imagine he deems you to be steadfast. Honourable. Infallible. Which is why you were given this most prestigious task.’
‘Something like that.’ He frowned in curiosity. Where was he going with this?
‘I imagine it was down to that raid you performed with him on the illicit bootleggers, where you saved the life of the good sheriff and two of his captains. I imagine that would have gained said trust.’
The Bluecoat turned pale.
‘H-how did you know that?’ he stammered.
Wilheim stepped forward once more. ‘Time, as I said. Time to look into my circumstances – with the assistance of others loyal to me of course. For instance, I know that you are married to the rather fetching Darleen and live in something I would consider no bigger than a shoebox. You are proud of your eldest son, since he shows interest in following your misguided footsteps. You are forthright, admired by plenty, with a badge for your steadfast, incorruptible nature.’
Wilheim stood a scant foot from the bars, his eyes glancing behind to the uniformed colleagues who busied themselves.
‘You guard me because the sheriff knows that if I offered you a bribe to secure my freedom, your unshakable character would ensure that you would decline it.’
The Bluecoat swallowed as Wilheim delivered the end of his piece.
‘But your friends wouldn’t.’
The first knife sank into the Bluecoat’s back, deep and between the shoulders. The second slipped around the bare nape of his neck, emptying its contents and robbing the man of breath. He collapsed onto the floor, twitching a few times until remaining still for good. Blood pooled beneath the corpse, reddening his uniform.
All the while Wilheim showed no measure of emotion in his face. Instead he gave his thanks to the pair of now loyal Bluecoats who had carried out the deed, now unlocking the cell with a ring of keys.
He stepped into the corridor, quite careful not to get his shoes soaked in the ever-growing puddle of crimson, listening to the erratic pops of gunfire on the floor above. Everything was going perfectly to plan. His contingencies were now paying off.
Wilheim had used his time to forge revenge against those who had wronged him.
Now, he would utilize his new-found freedom to administer it.
In the two years between the then and the now, Wilheim was true to his word.
Chapter 2 (#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)
The Hare herself
Landusk was one of the first settlements to have developed in the Sand Sea. Scores of migrants from the mountainous territories in the north first created a trading village for trappers who sold exotic beasts found in the wastelands as pets, livestock, or for private zoos.
It soon exploded with success and in turn thrived with housing. Tall gothic buildings were crammed together, dirty, gas-lit streets threaded between them, with sharp corners and eccentric roads. Roofs dominated the skyline with twisted and pointed apexes; lines of windows, shuttered with accompanying iron balconies, flickered with candlelight.
Built upon a foundation of rock, the city was erected in the desert with deep recesses in the sand dunes, a good hundred foot deep in places, making it a veritable island. The only means of accessing the city, by either foot or rail, was a series of bridges that straddled the gulfs. Unable to build out, the inhabitants instead built up.
As was the nature of such things, generations of labourers were broken through dangerous, unforgiving work, all to line the pockets of the elite. The rich became richer and the impoverished simply endured their circumstances, for the alternative outside of the city’s walls ensured the people of Landusk that there was no better place to go.
Times were difficult all round. What people needed was a little respite.
Monday morning was as uneventful as any other before it. The sun still struggled to cast its luminescence into Landusk’s streets, contrasting bright, brilliant light in some districts with deep shadow swallowing others. People went about their routines unaware of what was about to occur. Vendors managed their stores. Merchants bartered their wares at market. Grocers yelled excitedly about their prices. The mailmen went about delivering the post.
But it was today when the mailmen, who did things in their usual manner, were unknowingly the catalyst of a considerably exciting event.
In the upper districts, where the aristocrats and well-off resided, one mailman reached into his sack and withdrew a brick of string-bound black envelopes. Each one was decorated with gold accents on the edges, the backs sealed with white wax, the insignia a curtailed sun and three prominent stars. He had noticed the curiosity back in the sorting office, handed to him before he began his route. All of the addresses listed were on his rounds, all neatly written in perfect white script, so unburdening himself of further curiosity he set about delivering them one by one.
The letters patiently waited on mats and in post boxes for their owners to claim them, who then studied their exteriors as much as the postman. None of the recipients were familiar with such stationery and were especially perplexed at the seal on the letter’s reverse, for it belonged to no one they had corresponded with in the past, nor any in the social circles in which they travelled.
Each envelope was cracked open delicately as if the recipients were fearful to damage such a beautiful façade, though they queried what action they had performed that warranted such theatrics.
The slip of paper inside, deftly double folded and matching the black envelope, had been added with equal care. Neatly scribed over the surface in white ink, the contents provided little in the way of answers:
Dear Sir,
I have great pleasure to inform you that the Morning Star will be present on Sunday 7 p.m. at Redmane train station.
My entourage and I present to you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be in its presence.
Your attendance is my fondest wish.
With deepest respect,
The Hare
The invitations were met with fascination. Those who had received them sought other recipients, discovering a pattern of those in high standing or significantly moneyed. Their speculations, despite having considerable resources, came up with nothing solid, only gin-soaked whispers that drunkards spread for attention. What was the Morning Star and who was its ambassador?
It was initially assumed that these invitations were of an exclusive nature, until word had begun to arise of a commotion from each of the districts, now bustling with excitement. The Morning Star. It was the name that graced posters, which found their way onto noticeboards and stuck to walls in well-crafted advertisements. Their scripted words encouraged gossip by lacking significant details. It gave the where and the when it would make an appearance but little else.
Many wondered exactly what the Morning Star was promoting, if indeed it was promoting anything at all. It was this name that hung on the lips of the fascinated. It was this name that distracted many from their work. The speculation was uplifting, bringing all manner of hearsay, mostly false of course. By the time Sunday arrived the sheer gravitas of rumour left plenty believing that whatever the Morning Star was, it couldn’t live up to the fantasies that had been cooked up.
These people were going to be proven wrong.
By the time Sunday evening came, the night had lowered its veil, letting shadows spill from alleyways and flood the streets in black. The aristocrats – a product of generations of industrial money – walked in procession as if on parade, giving a wide berth to the river of factory workers who shimmied past with speed and eagerness. Shop holders had locked up their premises early and even taverns found themselves alarmingly empty. Chatter filled the chill air, curiosity and excitement mixed as all made their way to Redmane train station.
Unlike the rail lines that shifted ore to the factories on the outskirts, Redmane accommodated a number of passenger routes. It ran between two tall inclines of buildings, stretching straight for a good couple of miles before exiting through the city walls. The twelve-platform-strong station was built to accommodate these lines. It was a dense and haphazard affair that had struggled to keep up with the requirements as the city grew. Its exterior was dated, square and brutal in appearance that very much put it at odds with the surrounding angular, gothic architecture. A clock tower squatted atop the entrance, once an ornate affair that time had reduced to a soiled eyesore. Within the building itself the platforms were packed with bodies, causing a considerable headache for the station guards who herded the inquisitive as best they could in the interest of safety.
The platform clocks all clunked in unison, the hands on the faces moving a few lengths from 7 p.m.
A shrill blast shattered the patient quiet. It cut through the night, a train whistle of course, but this was no normal call of arrival. It was three blasts in succession, the second a good couple of octaves higher than the first, and the last was lower.
Far down the line, out past the wall’s embrace, through the wide city gates and out across the arch bridge, a flicker of light hovered in the black. The spark grew to a single orb of luminescence that approached the city gates, revealing itself to be a headlamp. A locomotive, night-black in colour with red and white detailing rolled along the tracks, its square-panelled casing that sat along its boiler illuminated with every gaslight it passed.
A motif of playful white stars danced from the engine cab alongside all eight carriages in tow, spotless affairs that mirrored every building it passed. Constant puffs of steam were ejected skyward from its chimney as it drove onward, now slowing on its approach to the platform, its massive wheels and connecting rods falling slower and slower in their rotations.
The witnesses held their collective breaths, deafened by the slow yawns of steam. Flickers of light lashed across the vehicle’s surface, revealing the profile of figures standing attentively within its hauled carriages. The engine itself belched thick plumes of white, whistling its song once more as it eased its pace and gradually, perfectly, aligned itself with Platform Three.
The onlookers dared not speak and watched in reverence. A sudden jet of steam against the platform encouraged everyone to take a few steps back.
Against the engine’s brilliantly painted veneer, its name shone out proudly, in accented red with white flicks on each letter.
The Morning Star
The train waited patiently, a skirt of steam creeping over the platform tiling. There was no movement from the blackened interior. The station hands looked at one another in puzzlement. The onlookers waited too, wondering what to make of it. No sooner had the murmuring begun than it was brought to a halt.
The hands of the station clocks all snapped to 7 p.m. Somewhere in the distance a bell rang to signify this.
A powerfully bright shock of lights lit up along the carriages in succession. A figure stood poised, dressed in suit tails, a silhouette against the bomb of illumination. A shower of fireworks burst in successions of threes overhead. The sky pulsed with glitter, their erratic flashes casting deep shadows across the platform. The person strolled along the top of a carriage before delivering a long sweeping bow to the applauding spectators.
A smart dress jacket did little to hide the femininity of the figure, a row of untarnished silver buttons pinning fabric to its absolute best display, lapel perfectly tidy and decorated with a small metal brooch of a stag’s head. The occasional flare of red emphasized pockets, buttonholes, and cuffs. The material, though believed to be a deep grey at first glance, shimmered ever so gently to black depending on the direction one looked, a trick of the light some wrongly assumed. Straight-pressed trousers and smart burgundy dress shoes finished the ensemble, punctuated with a lacquered cane with an engraved metal bulb under palm.
But what people focused on most of all, was the mask.
It was that of an animal, a hare, with long, stocky ears. The eye sockets were angled ellipses, so deep and dark that a peculiar inkiness seems to be all that existed where the whites of anything living should inhabit. The mask ended tracing down the cheek line, puckering up just beneath the animal’s embossed nose. The mask itself was ashen in colour, with ornate decoration highlighting every feature in a reddened metal. Packed symmetrical crimson swirls in the recesses of the ears give definition, a sparse contrast to the seemingly bare strip that followed from forehead to nose. Behind the animal’s features was a shock of blonde hair, tied into a lazy braid that flowed with volume in the cool air of the night.
Atop the carriage, accented by light both natural and artificial, the Hare turned from side to side, taking in the spectators who said not a word between them but watched with awe. When finally satisfied this individual made three loud strikes of the cane end against the carriage’s rooftop.
From beneath, the next three cars had their doors opened and out stepped eleven women, some gowned, some suited, all adorned with disguises themselves. They all wore the same grey and black colours, each one decorated individually with layers of texture, but all were clad in masks. Animal masks hid the features and faces, lending them a mystique of brilliant disguise. A wild cat and a mountain owl stood side by side. There was a thorn swallow, a mouse and many others, all unique, all waiting for the next command. Only these masks were allowed any touch of red. Their uniforms, if they could be called that, were devoid of this vibrant decoration.
Proudly the Hare spoke, her voice intimate yet assertive. It captivated those who watched from beneath.
‘I’ve heard stories about this city. Landusk. A wonder they called you. Grand they all declared, proudly rooted and testament to the unbreakable spirit of those who live in Surenth. Beautiful! Strong!’
Deafening cheers erupted from the platform.
‘But as we approached you, grand as you are, I couldn’t help but see something dissimilar.’
The noise subsided to nothing; fists raised in jubilation slowly started withdrawing.
The Hare stood as if she judged all those beneath her with a gaze most piercing, stony and fierce.
‘A city overgrown, reaching skyward with steeples and rooftops like stretching fingers, begging to the sun and the moon for audience. Buildings exist where buildings should not be, expansive and your confines are shifting ever outward. This grandiose city is a squalor topped with spires, people living upon one another like cattle. Its poorest are brushed aside to die in darkness, their backs broken in the effort to build the foundations of this city and forgotten when of no use. Landusk grows and thrives and lives, but you all forget its lifeblood: your merry selves.’
The woman took a stroll along the carriage roof, slow, with her feet impeccably placed, the cane placed before every step.
‘What I see are narrow streets. Winding mazes of railings and stone, claustrophobic, the fat-choked veins of city whose very blood is in danger of turning stale. You ever-struggling people. You all flow to mill, to yard, to factory, to office, sustaining a mighty creature with toil. Your factories beat like many hearts. You give this city life. Without you all, Landusk would breathe its last and die most unceremoniously. It is a crime that you each forget a solemn fact. This city is not a wonder of the west. You all are.’
Glitter burst in sequence in the sky, coaxing awe and applause. The Hare watched, flecks of colours reflecting from the mask, expressionless though far from emotionless.
‘I bid good evening to one and all.’ The Hare spoke proudly, never elevating to excitement. ‘What a delight it is to see your faces, bright and cheerful. What a delight indeed. Now you may be asking among yourselves who am I, and why I ride this glorious vehicle into your home. Is it for the intention of hauling cargo? Do I have coal for your factories, for the fires to burn? I say to you all: no. That is not my intention, nor that of any other who rides with me. Your toil is witnessed and respected. If I were to bring you new labour, I would have taken the time to address you. If I were to deposit chores upon you, then I would do so at the breaking of the dawn to ensure ample time for their completion. Rest, friends, for this is not the case. The Morning Star carries something of greater worth.’
The Hare changed tone, softer, though still loud enough to be intimate to everyone who watched.
‘My name is no matter, only what I bring is of importance. Once, in a place far from this, I asked myself two things from the Holy Sorceress Herself. The first was to grant me the wealth to live a dignified existence. The other was to satiate my undying thirst. I was rewarded for my faith and now I pass these bounties to you all.’
Fireworks popped once more. Glorious tendrils snaked in the costumed dark, dripping to nothing.
Most of the carriage interiors exploded in light, pairs of doors slid open by the accompanying women who paraded out. They began to construct a multitude of games on the platform before them. Decks of cards were placed alongside piles of chips, whilst stools and chairs were laid out for backsides. One of the carriages threw up its windows, advertising a well-stocked bar.
The Hare swelled with delight, her smile fed by excited cheers, taking a respectful bow to all. The night sky cracked overhead with flashes illuminating the suffocating buildings around the tracks with reds and blues and greens. Pleasure dictated every word. The spectacle she created, her spectacle, was flawless. It had to be so.
‘I am the purveyor and licensee of all you see before you, every bottle you pour from, every dice you ask fortune of, every woman who deals from the pack. To you, I am charity. We are here to give you entertainment, ladies and gentlemen, to put on a show of the highest accord. Landusk! Tonight, revelry is paramount! Tonight, your prayers have been answered! Give yourself time, and whet the appetites that the toil of work has subdued, until the morning stars themselves disappear!’
Explosions erupted overhead, a bevy of sparkle. Sparkle also punctuated the words with suitable bravado. The customers revelled as much as they allowed themselves to, relieving themselves of long-drawn monotony. Joyous singing spread across the train platform, washing over various games at the tables, and mixing with the striking of full glasses in cheer.
Poker and blackjack were played by the score, the curse of the hand sighed by some, fortune praised by others. Roulette balls skipped into pockets, with a cheer exploding from one particular patron who took a risky bet on Number 17. Record players croaked out crackling music, encouraging a score to leave their seats and dance with the first pretty, or indeed handsome, thing that met their eye. Celebration was in the air and the money, much like the booze, flowed without restraint.
The Hare was a disciple in the art of entertainment. Her time as an entertainer for one of the more seedy venues instilled a quality of pride in her profession. Of course the showgirls were employed for their smiles, but that was not all. Any woman has a pair of breasts, the Hare would lecture, but a woman is a powerful, bright being. If a woman was to entertain, she would need to do so with her entire heart. She encouraged each to use her charms, to smile when she needed to smile, to banter and dance and flirt as she deemed fit. When the cards were dealt to each player, every hand motion was delivered with utmost care. The Hare had taught them an art and her disciples had been perfect students.
It had only been a few months since the train was on the rails, as the venture was in its relative infancy, though the trade was more than familiar. The Morning Star, despite being shockingly new to observers with its dazzling, untarnished decor and patina knew the routine well. Those in its carriages had walked this walk before, and were already accustomed to their roles in this grand extravaganza. This life – this nomadic life of fulfilment – was not for everyone, but for its occupants this was normal. The Morning Star was home.
As the Hare sauntered between tables and chairs, she shook hands with the keen, embraced the joyful, and wished the luck of the dice to those who carried favour. She said the words people wanted to hear. Unbeknown to the listeners, they were pale recordings secretly devoid of enthusiasm, for her mind was elsewhere.
The Morning Star hosted a plethora of attractions to create brilliant escapism. The gaming tables did plenty to keep punters transfixed, but it would be impossible to rely merely on such things as losing one’s money only kept them in a seat for so long.
The Hare struck her hands together and called for everyone’s attention. When gained, she strode beside one of the carriages and waved her cane in the air.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please, your consideration if you will. It is time to showcase a distraction. When the day comes to a close, prey once hidden in den and hovel believe themselves safe. But the night brings out its own hunters. At this hour it is only fitting that I introduce to you the Owl of the Morning Star.’
One of the accompanying women took her place alongside the host. She bowed in three directions, quite respectfully, a shock of shoulder-length tawny hair in bloom behind her mask. From inside the boxcar behind, a large length of wood was withdrawn, painted with brilliant white and black concentric swirls, its surface bearing the scars of previous damage. It was set up against the carriage side by an assistant who ensured the feet of the display were quite well anchored.
‘The Owl here is a hunter of the night. A sharp beak and sharper talons hide behind the beauty of its flight. These things are useless without prey,’ the Hare announced. The cane whipped around before her, its point settling upon one of the showgirls who waited a table with a round of drinks.
‘Little Mouse, if you would be so kind,’ the Hare requested.
The Mouse took her leave with an apology and a curtsey, navigating the chairs until accompanying the pair at the platform’s edge. She set herself flat against the board.
‘Your tools, if you please.’ The Hare stepped aside, letting the pair play out their act. With a snap, a collection of well-polished knives protruded between each of the Owl’s fingers, their perilous edges painted with light.
The patrons mumbled hushed concerns.
The Hare watched, never letting her expression slip, never giving an inkling of her thoughts.
The Owl whipped out her hands, letting the knives fly.
The blades embedded into wood, just inches from flesh, against thigh and forearm, by shoulder and shin. The thumps cracked the night, coaxing a number of loud inhalations. The resulting ovation was plentiful as expected, but this was a trick anyone could perform if they had the talent. More knives were launched, faster this time and seemingly with less care. More metal bit wood. Again the onlookers cheered.
For the finale a well-polished apple was drawn from between the folds of the Owl’s dress and paraded in hand to the onlookers. When content with the display, it was placed upon the Mouse’s dainty head, sitting quite neatly on the parting of chestnut hair.
The Mouse did not flinch, as mice do when threatened. She remained perfectly still and patiently waited for the danger to pass.
The Owl slipped the final three knives from within her apparel and had them take to the air above, spinning over and over in a juggle. Faster the rotations came as she checked her line of sight to the Mouse with occasional glances, the sheens of metal now flashing dangerously as they cut light from the station gas lamps.
With a flick of the hand, the first knife slammed to the left of the apple to a cacophony of gasps, touching though not cutting the fruit’s flesh. Those who had covered their eyes withdrew their hands just in time to witness the second knife being launched just as quickly, hitting wood like a crack of thunder, this time on the opposite side of the apple. The motion coaxed the occasional shriek from the more nervous in their midst.
The last knife was thrown in the same beat. With an eruption of gasps the blade was launched through the air. It separated the piece of fruit in half and embedded itself into wood, its thud populating the space that silence had given way for.
The Mouse’s eyes relaxed behind her mask, fingers finally uncurling from clenched fists.
The resulting cheers were deafening. Applause thundered around the station, coupled with whistles of admiration. The Owl strode over to her prey with well-rehearsed pageantry. The knives were each removed and the Mouse’s hand raised with the Owl’s own in triumph. They each basked in the appreciation, though not enough to take the attention away from the host. The Hare gave a soft-palmed applause in congratulation, watching an influx of tips being stuffed into empty glasses or handed to the showgirls passing drinks between patron and bar.
Other acts were performed as the night wore on, some thrilling, some amusing, exhibiting a plethora of talents that coaxed exclamations of wonderment. The night was full of splendour with one delight following another.
The Hare was waved down by an over-exuberant gentleman who spilt his mug of ale this way and that. Clearly he was drunk, being encouraged to keep himself in check by his tablemates, who sheepishly withdrew into themselves upon the Hare’s approach. The man tidied his hair and fixed his tie, mistakenly assuming that this would disguise his intoxication. He wasn’t drunk enough to cause trouble – yet – though it was these very individuals that security on the Morning Star kept an eye out for. A stray hand or baseless accusation of cheating was enough to warrant a strongly worded reprimand. Anything further and they would be escorted away.
‘Aha! Our gracious host! I wanted to extend our sincerest thanks for tonight, from my friends and I … It is a delight that you should visit us! I can’t remember when we had such a grand time.’ This praise was interrupted with a vomit-laden burp, not that it made any difference. ‘All are content, with the exception of my sour daughter Alis, sadly, but she is never one to be pleased.’
The Hare was expressionless, now focusing on the hay-haired pale young woman at the table’s end who blinked in surprise, clad in a quaint butterfly-peppered scarf. She stammered a broken defence.
The mask tilted to the side in question.
‘Boring, I think you said? Hm?’ The man slumped forward, in glee, suds spilling down the grooves of the glass and over his fingers.
The mask tilted again, to the opposite side now.
‘I’m sorry,’ Alis blurted out with a shudder, ‘but all this pizazz, this … this showmanship is hardly befitting of one who promises so much and delivers so little. I am allowed to be bored, as is my right.’ She crossed one leg over the other and turned in her chair, clearly uncomfortable at being the centre of attention.
The gentleman whined, having seen this far too many times. He swilled his drink and wiped the remains with the back of his free hand.
‘The folly of youth, Miss Hare. I feel I should apologize for her. She uses all the long words – and at great length – when a single short one will do. She scoffs at your feats yet has the gall to praise that lacklustre carnival that traipsed through here some months back. I’m at a loss.’
‘Dear sir,’ the Hare said softly, ‘do not chastise one so young for having an opinion. She will grow and realize that all views warp and bend. She must be aware that all things have repercussions and whatever platform one elevates oneself upon are the foundations of ruin. Like you said, it is the folly of youth. We have all entertained the notion in our gentler years that we are above our betters. You are of course allowed to court boredom, and you are also allowed to leave.’
Alis flushed bright pink at the suggestion. ‘I have no reason to go anywhere.’
‘So you remain in my hospitality, quite rooted at this table despite your objections, and I need not wonder why this is so. It is because you wish to be heard above all things. You wish to shout louder so your views weigh more. You slight me to remove the attention from yourself, lashing out to displace whatever it is you wish to displace. You think your self-worth is measured in the burly attention you childishly demand.’
The Hare’s eyes narrowed beneath the mask.
‘I forgive you, miss, for I assure you that we have all seen your kind before.’ She licked her lips slowly. ‘And we do very much tire of it.’
Flushed in face, Alis kicked her chair back, her lips tightly bound together in outrage. She stormed off, pausing momentarily to get her bearings and discover the exit, then marched in the relevant direction.
The man erupted in laughter, slamming the base of his glass against the table in jubilation. ‘She has no stomach, that girl. That’s what time away for education does to you. Leaves you with … with a head full of delusions.’
The Hare bowed modestly. ‘I apologize. I meant no offence to your party.’
‘Yes you did.’ The man grinned, gulping down the last of the golden liquid.
‘Yes,’ the Hare corrected, ‘I did.’
‘Will you join us?’
The Hare politely declined, explaining how others were to be conversed with, playfully adding that there were numerous other insults to administer. But before he allowed her to leave, he asked a burning question that had been of some interest to those around the table.
‘Please enlighten us, we have been talking about it endlessly. Everyone beneath you seems to showcase a talent! May I ask what yours is?’
The Hare paused, curious as to how to respond. The others at the table tried not to keep any sort of prolonged eye contact in fear of facing the Hare’s wrath.
‘I keep all what you see here ticking along. That is a special expertise in itself,’ she stated.
‘Nothing else?’ he drunkenly slurred.
The Hare tilted her head. It had been quite the time since someone had challenged her so brazenly and as was her nature, and the nature of all of those aboard the Morning Star, challenges were to be risen to. Without doing so, there would be a danger of word getting around that their most gracious host was bland in comparison to those in her employ. This, of course, would not do.
The Hare gestured with a grey-gloved hand to a man lighting his cigarette with a silver flint lighter.
‘If you would be so kind as to do me a favour,’ she requested, quite politely.
Confused and intimidated in equal parts, he held out his lighter still aflame, the snifter of fire bobbing this way and that.
The Hare pinched it as one would pinch from a bowl of spice, raised her hand, with the flicker of light now in her possession. The hand offered it to the other, which pinched at it, stealing the flame for its own. The Hare twisted her wrists so they were upturned, raising her arms now in a wide circle. The flame was returned to the opposite hand. The fingers snapped open, revealing the fire now adorning her thumb and every fingertip. They closed once more, transferring to a single flame, snapping wide once more showing just the one balancing on an index finger.
This was repeated in the other hand, identically. As the hands jabbed at one another the flame transferred back and forth, then it became two, one for each hand, rolling in the palms, appearing, vanishing, appearing, vanishing, with every flex and thrust of the limbs. Then the flame separated, adorning both sets of fingers, was conjoined into one before being brought to the woman’s lips, balancing on the black and grey fabric of the glove.
Tilting her head to the heavens, the woman spat a puff of air, jetting the flame out just a hand’s length but still enough to make the onlookers recoil in their seats. It faded away into nothing, leaving those watching in awe.
The Hare took her applause graciously.
The bar began to populate with drained glasses, and sales of fine alcohol eventually dwindled to naught. Cards were folded and final pots given. Those who gambled with too much of their pay had not the heart to try and win it back, embracing their defeat with dignity. Others who were up on their luck sauntered away with glee.
As is true of any enjoyable experience, the evening went far too quickly for the people of Landusk. Midnight passed, forcing a good number of those to retreat to their beds. As time went on even the most avid card player reluctantly made their way home, walking, and in a good number of cases staggering through the streets in drunken song. The last of the most stubborn residents were escorted out of the station and stillness became the norm once more.
The Morning Star sat at Platform Three, with its cargo and companions, quite alone.
The furniture and games were efficiently loaded back onto the carriages, packed for transport as had been done time and time before. The clatter of clean, stacked glasses finally ebbed away and the showgirls’ banter now moved into the carriages with not a scrap of evidence remaining as to what had just happened at Redmane station.
The Hare sat upon a carriage, embracing her legs and gazing down at the rooftops before her. Her focus wasn’t on the spotless rooftops but instead on the tracks that ran into the darkness to the city gate, which was now very much closed. Still she looked, with dulled hazel eyes and enough make-up beneath her showpiece to cover the evidence of too little sleep.
The man beside her was ensuring that.
‘Forgive me if I’m wrong,’ he stated, mimicking her posture and absent stare, ‘but I distinctly remember us having a conversation about avoiding cities like this. Too many powerful folks with moneyed connections playing power games. Experience has proven that crap is bad for business.’
‘I know.’ She turned to him, taking in the splendid black and gold show suit. The mask on his own face, that of a stag with grand horns, was significantly imposing. ‘And like most of your advice, I decided to ignore it. The profits speak for themselves.’
She stared at the mask’s eye sockets, the owner’s pupils quite invisible in the darkness.
‘It’s not all about money you know.’
‘Obviously. Not that you’ve ever admitted that to me before, but I know.’
The stag exhaled. ‘I remember a time when you would listen to me. I miss that.’
‘Things change.’
‘I was never under the illusion that they didn’t. The Morning Star is evidence of that. Speaking of the train, you’re going to run it in to the ground aren’t you?’ He sighed, steering the conversation to something he dreaded.
The Hare didn’t attempt to refute this accusation.
‘If I need to. I’m doing what’s necessary. You of all people can’t chastise me for following that creed.’
‘Obviously not.’ The stag lowered his head, putting a bold statement forward: ‘But everything I did was to keep people safe. Even you. What you’re doing is the exact opposite. It’s dangerous. Are you honestly willing to sacrifice –’
‘I know full well what I have to give up,’ she interrupted. ‘Don’t attempt to lecture me on that front.’
‘That’s always been your problem. You take advice as an insult. If you stopped for just a moment you would realize that, even if you achieved a miracle, even if you somehow pulled this off, things won’t end well for you. Is it actually worth it?’
‘Yes,’ she responded bluntly. She stared at the man’s disguise. It was a question she had asked herself so many times that her decision was borderline reflex.
He turned back, slowly nodding. He finally spoke. ‘I don’t approve.’
The Hare shrugged her shoulders. Of course he wouldn’t. He never would have. It wasn’t his choice to make.
‘Then it’s a good thing you’re not real, isn’t it?’ the Hare confessed.
An interruption came in the form of noise, welcome noise, but enough to derail her thinking.
A burst of sudden heel clicks was followed by one of the more senior showgirls calling for her attention.
* * *
All the while the showgirls attended to the clean-up, the Hare had not moved in posture or averted her gaze. It concerned the one referred to as the Owl. Truth be told, this oddly stoic behaviour concerned the others too, who dared not begin a conversation with her in fear of where it might lead. Some whispered among themselves about what she was doing. One pointed out that she resembled a gargoyle atop a church buttress, playfully of course but nobody laughed.
‘Who are you talking to?’ the Owl put to her, quite confused. ‘I heard voices.’
The Hare slowly looked to the empty space beside her. The phantom her imagination conjured had vanished, a construct that had been increasingly haunting her as the days went by. Its appearance was almost routine now, not that such a thing subdued the pain she felt in its presence.
‘Apparently nobody,’ the Hare confessed with a pained sigh.
‘What’s the plan? Are you going to spend all night up there?’ the Owl, Corinne, called with her hands on slanted hips. A shock of her raven-black hair stirred gently with every motion. Like the others, she had removed her mask when the last of the patrons had left, leaving no need for such things. ‘There is a perfectly comfortable bed in your carriage you know.’
‘I will be fine. Thank you for your concern.’
‘May I ask what it is you’re even doing?’ Corinne sheltered her eyes from the gaslight’s glare with a raised hand.
The response was slow. ‘On the lookout for troublemakers.’
Surely she jested? Corinne took stock of the platform, and their own security – or what passed for it – who had begun to retire for the evening. What possible trouble could there be?
‘There’s nobody here, much less anybody who would cause a ruckus. Even if there was, the station has enough muscle around to deter would-be chancers. I keep saying that we need someone to provide some protection, not a part-timer like you’re satisfied with. Listening to me will allow you to spend time in that comfy, comfy bed of yours.’
‘That you do.’
‘So?’
‘My answer is the same as before,’ the Hare said. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Corinne’s hands dropped to her sides. ‘You’ll think about it. Right.’
‘That’s my decision.’
‘It’s a stupid decision. Look, just come down won’t you? I’m getting a crick in my neck and you need to eat.’
* * *
The Hare didn’t respond.
‘Katerina has made stew!’ Corinne sang. The encouragement fell on deaf ears. The Hare avoided the request and resumed her stare. In her mind, the night concealed dangers, considerable ones at that. It is best I remain, she convinced herself, just in case.
‘I’ve tasted her cooking. That’s not exactly swaying me.’
‘It’s better than nothing.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’ll catch a cold up there as well.’
‘Of that, I’ll take my chances.’
* * *
Corinne leant against the carriage side and patted its surface. This persistent stubbornness was becoming tiresome. At every stop they made, the owner of the Morning Star would retreat like this, paranoid over some unseen threat that stalked them. No matter how many times Corinne insisted that there was nothing to worry about, new excuses were made to the contrary.
‘Your chances mean that you’ll be stuck in bed, and my days will be spent bringing you nothing but soup. We have to be awake in four hours. That’s not a lot of time to get some sleep, especially if we’re to stick to this overly busy schedule of yours that you’re so keen on pushing.’ Corinne glanced at the illuminated city gates down the tracks, barely visible, but still noticeably barred. ‘According to Ferry, the gates won’t be open until nine at the earliest. There’s a curfew in effect, something about random trouble. I don’t know. It’s all very sudden.’
This was enough for the Hare to finally look down to the platform.
‘What sort of trouble? Do we know?’ she asked, quite concerned.
‘No idea. Whatever’s happening, nobody is telling. The law refuses to whisper notions, though I did try to sweet talk them when they were hanging around trying to bum drinks. We have no option but to sit and wait it out I’m afraid. We are going nowhere, dear. You’d best get comfortable if you’re staying up there.’
‘I’m used to the waiting – that’s not of concern. I just don’t necessarily like it.’
‘Don’t like the boredom?’ Corinne asked.
‘I don’t like being trapped,’ the Hare muttered flatly, resting her chin on her forearms.
Again, there was silence.
Corinne finally spoke. ‘Are you sure I can’t convince you?’
‘I’m sure,’ came the reply, though this time she turned again and made eye contact. The pair watched one another until Corinne relinquished with a shrug.
‘Well, if you insist. Wait here. Not that you’re doing anything else of course …’
* * *
Corinne stormed along the platform and into the warm glow of one of the few illuminated cars. There was a good couple of minutes where there was nothing. There was no noise, there were no interruptions, only the perfect stillness of the city night. Landusk had seldom seen such tranquillity and whilst it may only last a scant few hours, it was something quite wonderful to treasure.
Then Corinne returned.
‘If you’re not coming for food, then the food’s coming to you.’ Corinne’s voice floated from over the carriage side, joined by the striking of shoe on ladder. The woman hoisted herself up, balancing two flower-decorated bowls with protruding spoons. One was placed before the Hare and the other was set aside temporarily. ‘Compliments of Katerina. Come on, take that stupid thing off – the show’s over.’
Corinne reached to relieve her manager of her mask, though she was met with immediate hesitation. In truth the Hare had forgotten that she still wore the showpiece. Its presence was so invisible that it felt as natural as her hand or foot. The flinch given was telling, though her eyes softened momentarily, allowing for Corinne to it relieve her of its burden.
* * *
Beneath the mask, the woman gave a long exhalation, patches of skin red from the mask’s pressure. Pits of black eye shadow reduced her eyes to a pair of dulled gems in a lagoon of make-up, hiding tell-tale signs of insufficient rest and obsessed troubles. Her lips, glossed slick, had worn a fake smile all night but this too had been removed, leaving a thin stoic line. Misu’s eyes softened in thanks.
The disguise was placed carefully beside her and just out of reach to ensure it wouldn’t be accidentally kicked aside. Corinne made her best effort to coax a smirk with one of her own though this was sadly ineffectual. Admitting defeat, she offered the food, relieved when it was finally accepted.
‘Here. It’s good for what ails you.’
‘Thank you,’ Misu said, cupping the bowl in her hands. She stirred the contents. Meat and vegetables bobbed around, suspended in a thick, pungent gravy. Its smell was a distinct comfort, a musky, woody aroma with the tang of onion.
‘Don’t mention it.’ Corinne crossed her legs and began to take spoonfuls of stew to her hungry mouth. A carrot dissolved to nothing as it rolled around on her tongue. A cube of meat required more chewing than she was comfortable with, but despite these flaws they contributed to a substantial meal.
Corinne wagged her empty spoon about.
‘I see why you like it up here. It’s pretty peaceful.’ She surveyed the darkened gothic buildings that sandwiched the train tracks. Barely any windows accommodated the glow of candle or oil lamp with most of the city’s occupants in their beds, unsurprising given the hour. ‘We don’t have much of that these days given the circumstances. I wouldn’t have imagined it could be so quiet being smack in the middle of such a big city.’
* * *
Misu changed the subject immediately, knowing full well when someone was probing for answers to challenging questions. ‘It’s a nice city, this. I wouldn’t mind returning sometime soon. There are good people with deep pockets. The takings were fine, or at least from what I’ve been told so far.’
‘Elizabeth says this place is all too claustrophobic. Doesn’t like that everything is built on top of itself. Tight streets and all that.’
Misu began to scrape at the remains in her bowl, taking the last few mouthfuls. ‘That’s a normal country girl reaction. Big cities don’t suit ’em. How is our songbird coping? We could have used her tonight. The punters were receptive. Could have brought in a lot of extra money if she did her set.’
‘She’s resting her voice. It won’t be long until she’s fully recovered. The worst is behind her or at least that’s what she insists. The girl has practically been living on sweet tea. I’ve been told she’ll be fine for the next show. Despite that, it should be said that she still manages to muster complaints.’
‘I have to confess, she’s a complainer that one,’ Misu stated with concern. ‘Always with something to say, rarely good.’
‘Nerves I’m sure. Do you think she’s trouble?’
‘Hard to say. What I know is that we need her on form and quickly. It’s been a month and she’s only done two performances.’
‘Come now, you can’t blame her for falling ill. That’s just bad luck.’ Before her manager could respond with a rebuttal that would sour the conversation, Corinne placed her bowl down on the rooftop and scrunched up her face in thought. ‘You’re right you know.’
‘Huh?’
‘The stew could be better.’
Misu finally gave a small smile, the first one witnessed tonight outside of the performance. Corinne took the bowls and stacked them atop one another. They both leaned back on the carriage.
‘You’re not going back in?’ Misu asked.
‘And leave you alone out here? That’s just not right in my book. No, you get my company – and no objections.’
‘No objections, boss,’ Misu corrected.
‘As you wish. That’s still difficult to get used to.’
‘You and me both, but these are the times. It’s strange days when you’re being dragged from place to place by, technically, a dead woman.’ Misu snorted in amusement, glancing to her mask that held a subtle hint of her reflection. The ruse created to conceal her identity fit in well with the natural theatrics that the Morning Star thrived on.
Nobody cared that the show was a copycat – if they did it was never brought up in her company, but out here in the far south of Surenth, where the Gambler’s Den never travelled previously, the locals found it refreshingly new.
Despite the dangerous circumstances and morbid nature of such an ordeal, Misu’s death was the best thing that ever happened to her. ‘You’d be surprised how liberating dying is.’
‘I’ll have to give it a try sometime. There’s plenty that I would love to leave behind in an empty grave. Not that I need to explain that to you …’ Corinne’s smile dropped.
The conversation had struck too raw a subject, so Misu guided it back to work. ‘Good performance tonight. For a moment I honestly believed you were going to sink a knife into Colette’s skull. As did all of our onlookers.’
With a flex of her fingers, Corinne seemed to be recalling every detail of her exhibition, remembering the weight of the blade in her palm. ‘I’ve never missed a throw before. That little one worries too much. Like I say every time, as long as she keeps still there’ll be no accidents. She just fidgets when nervous.’
‘On the account of the sharp objects flying in her direction no doubt. It makes one a tad touchy. I can’t imagine why.’
Misu produced a silver cigarette case from her inner jacket pocket and a matchbox, offering a smoke to the kindly woman beside her whose company was appreciated. Both were lit and the pair leant on their backs, staring at the fissure of night sky between the tall gothic buildings that enclosed the station. Stars sparkled, with the merriest hint of the moon painting its lustre across a line of roof tiles.
Nothing was said. Gentle, patient puffs of smoke wafted between them in turn, carried on by the warm breeze that drifted across the train tracks. It was a tranquillity that scrubbed the grime and the effort that the show inflicted. Muscles didn’t seem so aching, bones not as sore. For the shortest of moments, the dangers and difficulties that this life brought Misu – and indeed all on board – felt non-existent.
And then Corinne had to go and ruin it all.
She withdrew her cigarette between scissored fingers, its butt painted with red lipstick, and she squinted at the stars. ‘You’re doing good, you know? Franco would be proud.’
There was never going to be a good time to draw attention to any of that, now maybe less so than any other. Simply hearing his name caused her heart to sink to some dark sea within her, struggling with the thoughts, the feelings, the memories, every facet of the circumstances that had brought about her being the Morning Star’s caretaker. It rightfully belonged to another, one more suited to the theatricality, who had made a life of doing so and most importantly knew what he was doing. She was lucky – lucky to be here at all, let alone to have stewardship of such a spectacle, and she was damned if this would be an opportunity wasted. It would be easy, preferable even, to simply draw the whole show to a close and pack it up for good.
But Misu owed Franco a tremendous debt. Some debts, he once informed her, can’t be repaid. It doesn’t mean that one should stop trying to do so, though.
Misu drew a touch longer on her vice before responding. ‘Let’s hope he sees it that way.’
Corinne nodded, swinging herself up after giving a minute for the mood to pass. ‘I’m going in. I miss that bed of mine too much, little luxury that it is.’ She moved to the carriage side and took a foot to each rung over and over, pausing to say her last piece: ‘I’ll be sure to mention to Ferry that you’re up here tonight. We wouldn’t want him mistaking you for a prowler now, would we?’
Misu’s throat closed up momentarily, refusing a decent reply any sort of momentum. Instead, she swallowed the words away and gave substitutes. A wetness that coated her eyes was blinked away and her gaze remained fixed on the black void high above. ‘Goodnight, Corinne.’
‘Aye, goodnight to you too.’
The carriage doors shunted to a close leaving Misu truly alone. Once upon a time she would have been content with that.
But Franco had convinced her otherwise.
* * *
Misu protested in the strongest terms at this idea. She had turned back more times than she could count, forcing Franco to convince her and take her by the hand in an attempt to share his courage. It wasn’t working of course. Her stomach danced around as if somebody was playing a drumbeat upon it. The sun-drenched streets of Windberg were far from busy at this early hour but still there were enough people to give the pair suspicious glances. Almost all assumed them to be partaking in some lovers’ quarrel, a good-natured one but a quarrel nonetheless.
‘This is the very height of ridiculous ideas,’ Misu protested, hiding beneath a large-rimmed hat that protected her from the sun, as well as other things. Her dyed blonde hair had been tucked up beneath the hat, its owner paranoid that somehow those passing could easily identify her. This wasn’t the case of course but for someone classed as deceased, the possibility of recognition was always a concern.
Franco did his best to ease her worries once again. Unlike her, he walked confidently to their destination, smartly dressed in a plaid suit, waistcoat, and tie, with his eyes hidden behind green-lensed sunglasses.
‘Last night you said it was good. Perfect, even! You’re changing your mind now? I said we both had to be completely in agreement. You agreed. I distinctly remember you agreeing.’
‘I remember the bottle we emptied, not necessarily any decisions being made.’ Misu pouted.
‘We’re here now. There’s no turning back.’
They both stared at the front of the establishment. Sandstone pillars forged high archways, the patio beneath lined with well-polished square tables. Behind the glass to the inside, glowing lanterns could be seen, hanging high above lines of bigger tables, congregating around the kitchen that was positioned in the centre of the room. The kitchen itself was enclosed by the bar, making it a communal centre, where patrons would watch meals being prepared, converse with the staff and drink bar-side if need be.
Fastened to the wall was a perfect metal sign, embossed with the name of the restaurant itself: Blue Sky.
‘Yes there is,’ Misu contested, turning on her heels once again. ‘There’s the opportunity to turn back right this very moment. See, I’m doing it now.’
Franco snagged her arm and pulled her beside him. ‘Back you come – come on. We’re doing this.’
‘What if they’re angry?’
‘They undoubtedly will be.’
‘You left that part out when convincing me this was a solid plan.’
Franco led her slowly to the door, one step after the other until reaching out and placing his hand on the handle, despite the closed sign hanging on the glass. ‘You never asked. Ready?’
From inside, figures went about their business, quite content to go about the daily routine, unaware who was about to stroll through their door.
‘No?’
‘That’s a shame.’
Franco heaved the door ajar. The gentle tinkle of a bell caught the attention of the women inside, especially the one in the middle of the kitchen who was jabbing at something boiling in a large pot. In a flurry, Colette advanced on them, waving the pair out.
‘The sign says closed. Did you not see it? Out please, there’s another hour to go until …’ Her eyes squinted in thought at the man and the woman who meekly hid herself beside him. This simply wasn’t possible. ‘Oh no. There is no conceivable way you … you …’
By now the others had taken notice of the confusion and they too questioned what it was they were witnessing. Someone dropped a glass in shock. The woman in the middle of the kitchen fainted in disbelief, taking a pan to the floor with her, which was, thankfully, not hot.
‘Kitty!’ someone cried out and rushed to help her.
Collette still couldn’t believe what was happening. Her heart pounded furiously and tears welled up, causing any other words to fumble out.
‘Franco? Is that really you?’
The owner of the Morning Star removed his sunglasses and smiled his best. ‘Not just me,’ he said. The woman beside him was adamant to shield herself from attention. Finally Misu raised her head, removed the hat, and braced herself for the worst.
Hands covered mouths. In the back, some began to sob.
Katerina staggered out from between the congregation, silent, and stood before Misu whilst examining her face. Suddenly she grabbed her old manager and embraced her tightly, letting some tears fall.
‘Your hair looks nice,’ Katerina said, muffled by Misu’s coat.
In reply the woman choked a thanks, reciprocating the gesture.
* * *
This moment was suddenly shattered, as was the ashtray that had been launched at the wall nearest to the arrivals. It burst into pieces, dotting the ground with chunks of glass. Misu shrieked as it exploded. Franco stood firmly in his place, unflinching.
‘That was uncalled for,’ he firmly stated to the culprit.
Corinne, situated at the bar, lowered her arm, furious and quite disgusted at the pair.
‘Am I hearing things or does the ghost before me actually have a line that defines when things are inappropriate? Because that would be ridiculous to the point of downright tragic,’ she seethed, all a fluster. This remarkable revelation was welcome – of course it was, as every day since the tragedy she had thought of those who were killed – but it wasn’t a tragedy now. It was a lie. A horrid two-year lie made at the expense of those who loved them. Jacques was right: the girls had all been used.
‘I told you …’ Misu whined under her breath to him.
‘It’s a pleasure to see you too, Corinne. Dramatic as always but still, a pleasure.’
‘I wish I could say the same.’ She glared, suppressing the desire to insult him further. Her gaze now fell to Misu who shuddered at the realization.
‘It’s your turn to say something,’ Franco whispered beside her.
Misu elevated her hand and weakly smiled. Corinne rolled her eyes in response.
‘Try actual words,’ Franco insisted. ‘It might help.’
Corinne waited patiently for the gesture to be made.
As Misu attempted to quell Corinne’s understandable outrage, Franco was mobbed by the rest and many tears were shed at the sheer relief of both he and Misu being among the living. They all gathered around to hear the dramatic tale of how the pair survived though the latter months were only touched upon.
Corinne eventually rejoined the group, stony-faced but willing to hear them out, much to Misu’s considerable relief. When Kitty had come around, Colette stood beside her, fanning her with a dishcloth. Whilst everybody came to terms with what had transpired, the girls insisted that they both tried the house special – a pecan pie that Kitty proclaimed was the best ever concocted. She wasn’t wrong.
‘This is all yours is it?’ Franco asked, waving his fork around before succumbing to another bite of the dessert.
‘The best place for eats you’ll ever find in Windberg. Fine décor. Spellbinding staff. Amazing food. Best in the city according to some of the papers,’ Kitty proudly stated, her chef whites impeccably crisp despite the earlier mishap.
‘I can’t knock that,’ Misu agreed, polishing her portion off and sucking upon the fork until clean. ‘Something like this must be a dream come true for you.’
Her words tapered off as she and Franco glanced at one another.
‘I take it you two have been keeping a low profile.’
‘Something like that. We’ve been in Eifera mostly, waiting for things to cool down.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Well …’
Corinne, who leant over the back of a chair at the rear, found it all painfully apparent, especially for someone with their ear to the ground as much as her.
‘You don’t even have to answer that. The Morning Star is yours, right?’
‘Is it that obvious?’ Franco laughed, partially from nerves, curious considering the company.
‘A ballsy loco like that rolls in – of course people are going to talk about it. It’s all they were discussing at market when I was collecting the meats. A train like that is only suitable for transporting royalty – or one of your shows.’ She played with the gold rings on her fingers, turning them this way and that. ‘And I sure don’t see a crown on either of your heads. You using a second chance to get up to your old tricks, Franco?’
‘No tricks, I promise you.’
‘This isn’t a catch-up is it?’ Corinne stated with arms tightly folded.
‘I don’t get what you mean.’ Kitty was quite dumbfounded at the accusation. ‘What are you on about?’
Franco leant back. That old cocksure smile he saved for special occasions used to fill Corinne with dread as it was an introduction to something genius, or something foolish being shared. He didn’t even need to speak. She was on to him.
‘Oh hell.’ Corinne strangled an exhausted, disbelieving chuckle. ‘This is a recruitment drive, isn’t it? You want us back, don’t you?’
‘Franco is planning on creating a new venture.’ Misu attempted to field the question but Colette interrupted.
‘You’re doing the same thing as before?’
‘Not exactly.’ He nudged Misu beside him who suppressed a smile of her own. ‘Our goal will still be entertainment, only … bigger. Better.’
‘There would be new contacts, the terms flexible and open to discussion for both the individual and the group.’
‘And what would your role be in all this, Misu?’ Corinne asked, getting directly to the point.
‘I’ll be fulfilling the same role. Everybody who accepts the offer would be reporting to me directly. I’ll manage all the day-to-day running, just like on the Gambler’s Den.
Kitty scrunched her face up to its fullest extent. It was an expression seen on two occasions before. The first was when she thought about what to name the restaurant and spent far too long obsessing over it. The second was when she mixed up the peppers in a dish and didn’t expect her soup to almost melt her tongue to nothing.
‘I’ve got a question. If you’re doing the same thing, won’t people notice the similarities to the Den and start asking questions of a why-aren’t-you-dead nature?’
That old sparkle danced across Franco’s face, a tell-tale giveaway as if he knew a secret that was not to be shared.
‘I promise you, what the Morning Star will be providing, nobody will be able to make that comparison. The Den was just a prelude to what people are about to witness. We were spoken about before. Excited rumours and so forth. But this … What we will be doing will go down in literal legend. That I can promise each and every one of you. Now you’ve asked us questions that I have entertained, so I’ve got one for you all.’ Franco leant forward and folded his fingers together, sweeping his eyes across the faces before him. ‘Who’s in?’
Chapter 3 (#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)
Out of the gates
There were occupational hazards when living nomadically in this region. Firstly, good food, hot water, and a warm bed were difficult to find so when possible, one should indulge in them. Secondly, those with money will always be sought by those without it, so one must always be wary.
And lastly, as was the rule of the desert, despite vigilance one will always be caught off guard.
Leaving Landusk behind it, the Morning Star travelled the arid landscape, which the sun baked and the rainclouds shunned. The train puffed along quite happily to its new destination, where a new show would be performed and profit made.
Before this was to happen, before the splendour and pomp could be supplied, they would need to pass through one of the many checkpoints that interconnected the various territories throughout the region. They ranged from well-funded operations to ramshackle outposts, their effectiveness normally in direct correlation to their budget. The idea was that contraband could be seized and any unscrupulous types could be arrested, ensuring the flow of traffic was in accordance with the law. Sadly those who maintained these outposts were so far from decent settlements that they were practically a law unto themselves.
Crossing out into the Sand Sea corridor, the large lawless expanse that ran from north to south would require passing through these points from the main rail routes and were, for the most part, unavoidable.
Misu stepped out of her private carriage, locked the door, and checked the handle, twice. There was normally no reason to be so meticulous with security but recent events ensured that this had to reviewed. Misu could do without any unnecessary complications. She trusted her employees, that was certain, but she would hate for curiosity to get the better of them.
She ventured through each carriage in turn, nodding hellos to those she passed who gave equal gestures of respect. The variety of carriages all had luxury in common, outfitted with heating that ran from the train’s own boiler and oil lamps. The sleeping car that acted as the showgirls’ own private residence was immaculate as always, with every bunk pristinely made, a routine she vigorously enforced. The dining car entertained a number of women enjoying downtime, or the closest thing to downtime they enjoyed. Some played cards, some read books from a makeshift library that lined a wall, containing tomes of every type including poetry, history, and fiction.
From there Misu crossed to the engine cab and stuck her head out of the cab window. The checkpoint was a good couple of miles away, a squatting wooden collection of buildings with a rather bulky red painted length of wood acting as a barrier positioned across the rail line. Warning signs whipped past demanding anyone approaching to lower their speed.
The driver, Ferry, rested his girth against the cab side, occasionally spying down the track and making changes to the train’s approach accordingly, flicking his strained eyes to the woman opposite. Misu wasn’t ignoring him. She was so absorbed in her own thoughts that it gave that impression.
‘For a moment I figured you wanted to sit this one out. I’ve got no problems getting us through here if you want to stroll on back and close your eyes. We all know that you need it,’ he gruffly offered though a thorny black bush of a beard. It was a polite offer that was made out of genuine concern though he seemed all too aware what the answer would be. When she finally paid him attention, it was given with an expectant sigh.
‘Are you insisting I need rest?’
‘I’m insisting nothing. I just thought it polite that I make the suggestion. I know better than to tell you what to do.’
Misu scanned the bleakness, watching the sight of a sand ship manoeuvring over the landscape, its colossal caterpillar tracks kicking up large drifts of dust. This one was a few hundred feet high and immeasurably long – a mobile village effectively.
‘Ever thought of driving on of those things?’ Misu asked Ferry who took his attention from the track to peer out the window.
‘Not these days,’ he returned. ‘Too many hijacking attempts. There’s been three in the last month alone. Whoever they paid to protect those things must have been in on it. That’s the problem when you contract security groups at port. You don’t know who you’ll get. Who you can trust. I don’t fancy getting stabbed in the back by one of my own. As odd as it may seem, this is a much safer gig.’
‘Figured the size of those things would be off-putting,’ she exclaimed, watching it fall behind a cliff side and out of view.
‘Not this far out in the Sand Sea. They’re turned into bandit nests and stripped out in the Badlands. Before I joined your brigade I did a few crossings through there – at speed may I add. There’s a graveyard around every mountain.’
‘You mean just the stripped ships, right?’ Misu cocked a brow.
‘The crew has to go somewhere.’ He kept his eyes on the track and worked the brake gently. ‘Eyes forward, we’re almost there.’
‘Of all things I get to endure today this here hole in the ground is the one I’m the least enthused about. Sadly I would prefer that I handled matters myself. I can get that sleep when I’m needed less.’
‘And there was me thinking your life is all truffles and fine wine.’
‘It’s good to dream,’ she muttered, taking another look whilst holding on to her wind-flailed locks. The checkpoint was significantly closer.
‘I’m not planning on dilly-dallying. We get things stamped and we’re gone. If I had my way we wouldn’t even put on the brakes.’
‘It’s a disappointing notion for you but even we have to abide by the law of the land.’
‘It’s not the law I’m concerned about.’
Misu hung on to the outer railing as the train pulled in to the station, lining itself up to the checkpoint platform. Its nose approached the lowered barrier gradually and fell between the well-painted markers against platform side and tracks. She waited for the clockwork jet of steam that exploded out with an almighty hiss beneath the engine itself before finally dissipating. She strolled to the steps and hopped down onto the platform, spying an unremarkable two-storey building with pitted tiling. A black painted tin sign hung on the north-facing wall, with paint flaking away from relentless exposure to the environment.
Misu shielded her eyes with a hand and scoffed at the name.
Little Heaven
What a very depressing view of the afterlife, she thought. Her impressions of such a place differed greatly.
Watching since before their arrival, two checkpoint guards sat in the noon shade, tossing cards into an upturned hat. One had his hair combed back to the point where it chanced falling out, or what was left of it at least. The other, young enough to have a badge though seemingly not old enough to shave, set about emptying the hat and recompiling his hand, almost annoyed at the interruption. On Misu’s approach the most senior on duty placed an incomplete deck of cards on the table in front of him before tipping the lip of his hat.
‘Good morning,’ he greeted from his seat, fresh-faced and unusually buoyant. Being stuck out here was enough to cause the onset of depression, Misu assumed, though it was good that someone was able to stave this off – unlike his sour-faced colleague. He watched, flicking debris away from a toothpick.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. A pleasure to be in your company.’
The senior got to his feet and stretched. ‘Kind words. I like you already,’ he stated, attempting to relieve Misu of any concern. Checkpoints were difficult places for all involved. Half were populated with unsavoury types on the take, with the other half a toxic mix of young upstarts who did everything vigorously by the book. Either way, anybody transporting goods normally spent more time at each one than was necessary – or comfortable. She accompanied him along the platform side, his stroll to the front engine slow and patient, as if work was a blight on his person.
‘How are the travels?’
‘Very well, all things considered.’
‘Considered?’ He paused, looking over the carriages that gleamed in the brilliant sun.
‘I don’t need to explain the difficulties to yourself out here, sir. The damned heat is the least of our worries. Little company. Rising costs. It’s a difficult life to be sure.’
‘Ah, yes, now that I can relate to.’ He began marking numbers down in a small notebook. ‘The Morning Star, right?’
‘The very same.’ Misu smiled. Their reputation had grown sufficiently, though in some places this could be unwelcome. Attention could be a curse if it came from the wrong circles.
‘Well I’ll be. For a moment I mistook you for that other one of your kind. What was it.’ He clicked his fingers over and over. ‘Ah! The Gambler’s Den!’
‘That, we are not.’ Misu kept a polite smile on display. ‘I can assure you of that.’
‘No, no you are not, a trick of the heat I imagine. The Morning Star, my word, oh yes. I’ve heard about you, a friend of mine caught a show not too long ago. Said you were the best thing he had ever seen. A circus of pleasure I believe were his exact words.’ He took the last of the carriage numbers down and turned the page in his notebook, giving a series of rapid ticks in a series of columns. Too quick for Misu’s liking.
‘How flattering. It’s nice to know we are enjoyed,’ she stated.
‘Been in any trouble? Any tampering of any sort while you were pulled in anywhere? People sniffing around, the likes of which you haven’t seen before?’
‘Perish the thought. We have someone to deter such things. People would be foolish to even try.’ It was a veiled threat with honeyed words, but a threat nonetheless.
‘Smart move. You can’t be too careful out here. We’ve got bandits rattling around the desert like damned ticks. You don’t have anything on you that you shouldn’t have? Contraband, unlicensed weapons, that sort of thing?’
Misu produced a bundle of well-sorted papers enclosed in leather straps. Every licence had been sorted by type, then sorted alphabetically for ease of inspection. They were received and scrutinized, though it was somewhat more lax than she was used to. Paperwork was stamped and signed before being handed back, with only the travel documents outstanding.
His partner was sniffing around the carriages and almost on cue, a couple of the showgirls slid down a window and began cheery small talk. They cooed and batted their eyelashes, ensuring he was sufficiently distracted. They were young, one a small blonde waif younger than most, the age quite noticeable alongside the freckled red-haired siren who hung on his every word. Misu remarked on this immediately.
‘Don’t be scaring them now,’ Misu called to the guard who quite clearly was pushing his luck. ‘My girls there, they’re fragile things. They’re no use to me spooked.’
The older man ruffled his top lip, sending a greying moustache into motion.
‘I don’t suppose we could convince you and your entourage to step out for a drink, could we? Like you said, company is fleeting around here and we’ve been starved for anything resembling fun.’
‘Sweet, but we must decline. We’re on something of a tight schedule, and punctuality is a forte of mine. I’m sure you understand.’
The senior made the last of his notes and tucked his notebook into a breast jacket pocket.
‘Well, I would say we’re all good here, miss, though there is something still outstanding.’
Misu kept her performance perfect. A query with no hint of sarcasm was delivered. ‘Oh? And what would that be? You can inspect inside if you so wish. I assure you, we have nothing to hide.’
‘There’s a, er …’ The man hesitated before leaning in closer. ‘There’s a tax in these parts for this particular type of vehicle.’
Misu sighed. ‘A tax.’
‘Right.’
‘Let me guess. A very specific tax for only vehicles of this very specific type. Correct?’
He nodded.
‘Meaning only mine.’
The nod was repeated.
‘How much?’
‘Around four hundred should cover it.’
‘You’ll get three,’ Misu countered, tossing the pleasant impression aside. ‘And I won’t hear a single objection. You’re pushing your luck out here. A bribe is not extortion. Learn the difference.’
Reluctantly she handed over a bundle of worn notes and waited for him to finish counting. When he was done, the money was inserted alongside the notebook for safekeeping.
‘I’m starting to wonder how a businesswoman like myself can ever make a profit out this way. Ask for that much from everyone and nobody will want to pass through.’ Misu scowled.
‘I’m sure anyone with a competent vocation can recoup this meagre amount in no time.’
The travel documents were stamped with the checkpoint’s seal and handed over. Misu snatched them back into her possession.
‘Besides, if you have difficulties on that front there are other ways to recoup your losses.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Sure you do,’ he repeated in a purr, reaching forward and leaning against the carriage. In any other situation Misu would have vigorously insisted that his hand was immediately removed. On a bad day she would be more inclined to break it. But there was no need for hostility yet. ‘You have the means here to make plenty of coin on the side. I think all you need is someone to broker the deals and you could live tidy. I can think of plenty.’
‘I sure don’t like your tone. Nor do I like what you’re implying.’
‘I could spell it out but the words I would use may not be suitable for delicate ears.’
Misu seethed. ‘My business is not perverted on the whim of the desperate. You’re not the first to suggest such vulgarities so I will tell you with no room for misinterpretation: I haven’t got this far just waiting for a man to corral us into a better life. We don’t need saving. We don’t need your management. All we need from you, right now, is to get out of the way.’ Misu moved her eyes to his intrusive limb. ‘Now get your damned hand off my train before I remove it myself.’
He shrugged in easy defeat as Misu began to climb the steps to the engine, encouraging the bulk of a man waiting inside to hold his tongue. Ferry was keen to intervene, vocally at that, but was silenced with a sharp swipe of her hand in the air. Instead, the driver returned to checking the various dials and gauges in the engine cabin, ensuring that they were ready for departure though not without a small amount of muttering. This was a colossal waste of everyone’s time and the sooner they left the better.
‘Nothing I could do to make you reconsider?’ the checkpoint hand yelled up to the woman as she issued orders to the driver to prepare to release the brake. The Morning Star gently throbbed into life, puffing out small jets of steam from its chimney.
Misu hung out of the cab to deliver her response. ‘Not in the slightest. Raise the barricade and tell your friend to step aside otherwise he may be pulled under our hefty wheels. We wouldn’t want that now, would we?’
Misu stubbornly brushed past Ferry and yanked on the whistle cord in two sharp bursts, impatient at having to endure any further interruptions. She would set them off herself if she had the knowledge though instead had to wait patiently for Ferry to do what he was paid for. He grunted after letting Misu have her moment before patiently heaving back the throttle and locking it into place.
The barricade was raised with the checkpoint hands waving the Morning Star away and out into the wastelands. Then, and only then, could Misu finally breathe a sigh of relief, but she knew full well that there still was plenty to be concerned about – and time to make up.
Chapter 4 (#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)
Attempts at small talk
The end carriage of the Morning Star was an observation car. It sported large windows, quite ornately decorated – much like the rest of the train – with walnut panelling, symmetrical bound curtains and flowered glass oil lamps connected to the carriage sides. The observation car was split in half, the first accommodating two lines of large leather chairs with side tables for each. The rear end of the car was domed, with two tiers of windows that provided a splendid panoramic view for those in motion. When in show, it became the locomotive’s smoking lounge.
It was here that Misu tucked herself away.
The windows were lashed with a shock of rain that trailed in thin rivers as they moved at speed. The cloudburst covered the sky in deep greys, built up from the region’s uncompromising heat. When rain fell in Surenth it had a tendency to fall hard and this was no exception. The cool wet breeze wafted through the car’s brass vents. Thankfully the deluge was little consideration to the Morning Star, which puffed on regardless. On the horizon a crack of lightning split the sky, landing somewhere on a hillside, its accompanying boom taking its time to reach the train.
Misu looked both at the window and through it, her eyes sometimes focusing on her reflection that seldom looked as tired as she felt. Quite the opposite in fact. The perfect duplicate seemed to stare back, even when Misu gave the slightest of squints as lightning fell once more.
‘Here you are. I’ve been from one end of the train to the other looking for you. Wait, do my eyes deceive me or are you actually relaxing?’
Misu snapped her attention away from the window as Corinne strolled inside. If it wasn’t for her announcement it was possible that she would have been totally oblivious to the company. Misu gestured to the paperwork on a smoking table beside her chair, accompanied by a plate of cake and a white china cup of pink tea seated on a dainty saucer. ‘Evidently not.’
‘What do you call the sweet, then?’ Corinne seated herself beside Misu in one of the high-backed leather chairs with unusually large armrests. It, and the others in the observation car, held people comfortably upright for taking in the view when the locomotive was in motion. Corinne often likened the chairs to a large hug. A couple of the shorter employees referred to feeling as if they were trying to eat them.
‘I call it a welcome break before the carnage is brought before me.’
‘You’re exaggerating.’
Misu pointed once more to the inch-high pile of paperwork she needed to review before reaching their destination. The train’s manifest was double-checked for accuracy, ensuring their last purchases matched what was on board. It was a painfully numbing experience and no way to entertain a few hours. A single detail out of order could spell disaster when checked, given that it was travelling over territorial borders regularly. The Morning Star could be refused entry, impounded, or worse. She didn’t know exactly how much worse things could get than the train being impounded but Franco once threatened it was somehow possible.
‘Trust me, the Star doesn’t run on kind wishes. There’s plenty to busy myself with.’ She leant forward and took the first portion of the dessert onto a silver fork and placed it into her mouth.
‘And that’s why you’re our manager. It comes with the role.’
Misu breathed through her nose, rolling the cake around with displeasure. It wasn’t terrible by any means, but nowhere up to the quality she had been accustomed to the last few years. It was begrudgingly swallowed and the fork placed upon its accompanying plate.
‘Talking of coming with, I honestly thought Kitty would rejoin us. I miss having a decent cook.’
Corinne took the fork as her own and poked the slice, scrutinizing the uneven wobble.
‘What is that?’
‘Colette’s attempt at coffee cake.’ Misu washed away the taste with some sweet pink tea. ‘Try some.’
Corrine obliged, taking a larger piece and mulling it over. When done, she went for a second. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘We have different tastes. Mine are clearly superior.’
Corinne drew the cake plate towards herself. ‘You can’t blame Kitty for deciding not to come along. That restaurant was her life’s dream. It was a perfect package with us working there. Some people settle down and take root like plants. She’s one of them. It would have been cruel to take that away from her.’
‘You’re right. I know.’
‘They’re also not accustomed to seeing dead people stroll in through the door.’ Corinne waved the fork in the air. ‘You both damn well gave us heart attacks.’
‘Actually that wasn’t my idea. That was Franco’s. My suggestion was to do things subtly but he’s not one to take my advice. I remember a few of you needing to sit down.’
‘I remember Kitty bloody fainting! When she came to the poor girl thought she had died. That probably had something to do with her decision to pursue different avenues of employment.’ Corinne laughed with a mouthful, scattering a couple of crumbs. Misu took to the windows once more. The thunder rode through the clouds, making the glass windows shake in their frames.
‘It would have been easier if we died in that explosion. For everybody I mean. I’m not being morbid; it would have just made things … smoother.’
‘Smoother.’
‘Yes.’
Corinne finished the last of the cake and slipped the plate upon the side table, careful not to nudge the papers.
‘I think you should stop envying the dead and focus more on the living. You’ve got a long wait until the Angels take you somewhere bright and you don’t want your talk to speed up that process. I suppose the big man would take objections to that. Talking of which, have you had any word from Franco yet?’
A flash of light danced from the sky, striking the rock-littered wasteland. The rain kept up its barrage. The drumming on the car rooftop built and waned with the will of the wind. It was as if it wanted to lift the vehicle from the tracks and hurl it into the air.
‘Yes.’ Misu’s voice faded as she stared outward. ‘Recently, in fact.’
‘Is he still in Eifera?’
‘See for yourself.’
Misu reached inside her jacket breast pocket and removed a plain envelope with her name upon its face. The single slip of paper was removed. Upon its header was the company logo, a lightning bolt across a mountain surrounded by trees and the name of the provider – Post Haste Communications – in large, capital lettering on either side. Beneath, emboldened and underlined, read the word telegram. A heavy red stamp of authenticity marked the communication. Corinne read the typed document aloud.
TO: THE HARE, BY WAY OF THE MORNING STAR #1129
INSPIRING PLACE FOR PERFORMERS. HAVE PLENTY OF IDEAS RE: MSTAR TO DISCUSS ON RETURN. AM SPENDING TIME IN GOOD COMPANY. GOING WESTWARD WITH NEW FRIENDS. YOUR THOUGHTFULNESS APPRECIATED. NO DATE ON EXPECTED RETURN. GLAD TO HEAR TAKINGS ARE UP. GIVE ALL MY BEST.
F.D.M.
PS: KEEP MSTAR TIDY
‘That’s the last wire I’ve had from him. He said he didn’t know when he was intending to return but told us not to fret. Everything was under control, I said.’ Misu leant her head back in the chair.
‘When did you get this?’ she asked.
‘That last checkpoint we went through.’ Misu glanced to the windows for a second.
Corinne interlinked her hands after placing the telegram to the side. ‘I suppose he’s off having a jolly. Never could keep that one down in one place, but at least he was gracious enough to give you stewardship of this here train. It’s a proud undertaking.’
‘It is,’ Misu muttered. Lightning flashed once more, much closer this time as the Morning Star careered around the edge of the storm. The blazing dart of fire was reflected in her eyes in the window.
‘But I don’t see you smiling,’ Corinne added.
Misu glanced at her, suddenly realizing that she had been well absorbed in her own thoughts, momentarily absent from the conversation. She had even become oblivious to the pounding rain that suddenly rushed into audible focus. She hissed air through her mouth, blinking herself back to reality. She reached out, retrieved the correspondence, and stuffed it back into her pocket.
‘Nobody told me that being bright and shiny was a necessity of the job.’
‘I’m here if you need to delegate more work. Take a break maybe. I’m not blind to you rushing around. I doubt that you’re sleeping well given all this.’ Corinne waved her hand up and down. ‘Even Franco made the sensible decision to take time off. You should consider the same.’
Yes, and look where that got him, Misu thought to herself.
‘I’m not saying traipse away for weeks like he has,’ Corinne continued, ‘but a couple of days’ rest could do you good. We can handle things while you wind down. It wouldn’t be an effort on our part, honest.’
Misu cringed in her seat. A break was what had caused this mess in the first place, unbeknown to the others aboard. It was a lapse in judgement under the guise of rest that was burying her.
‘Even better,’ Corinne exclaimed excitedly, ‘why don’t we join him? We have plenty in the coffers to finance the journey fourfold. We could do shows in Eifera – that’ll be a change of pace. I heard they’re considerably richer northwards and the girls will surely love the change in scenery.’
‘I’ve been there. You’re not missing much.’
‘We haven’t. I only have your word to take on that. Hell, you both spent months up in the grasslands and you’ve never spoken about it. Not even to me.’
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ Misu lied.
‘Ah now, that I don’t believe. Come on, what happened between you two while we were playing house? All I know is that you took your sparkling new train, went up there, and then came back. There’s a gap, like, this big.’ Corinne held her arms out as wide as she could. ‘I think you owe me a story.’
Under such pressure and if for no other reason than to get Corinne off her back, Misu relinquished the details she craved. Admittedly, it felt therapeutic to discuss but whenever she spoke of Franco, the slightest tone of sullenness entered her voice.
* * *
Franco drew upon his drink until the tumbler ran empty. The night air was humid, filled with a multitude of insects, scores of which decided that the man would make the perfect meal. The night chorus of life was a far departure from the Sand Sea, where mammals silently prowled beneath the blazing moon. Here in the grasslands, things were considerably different. The thickly dressed redwood trees that surrounded them were borderline claustrophobic, hiding all manner of alien creatures that yelped and squealed.
In the Sand Sea, one could look in any direction and see for untold miles. Over the border in Eifera you’d be fortunate to see a single mile down the track, let alone your entire surroundings. It was a good deal colder than they were used to, though tonight was an exception and was stifling, mainly due to the uncomfortable humidity, forcing him to sit shirtless. An owl called out, silencing the panicked screech of something in the forest.
Franco laid cards out before him in lines. Solitaire wasn’t a particular favourite of his, but it wasn’t as if he was concentrating much on the game in hand. A small notebook beside him was half-filled, its pages briefly added to in between turns when inspiration struck. He had done this for the last week since the ideas to further the business had become stagnant. The pages were laden with thoughts on performances, concepts for decorations, lighting, music, design, all of the specifics that one needed to worry about in achieving what the Morning Star was destined to.
Misu staggered through the carriage, her black silk robe loosely tied over one hip, hands rubbing at her eyes. She slumped in the seat opposite, tossing her head back in annoyance. Franco slid over his bottle of spiced rum, filled his tumbler halfway and passed it over. Misu caressed it, taking the occasional sip.
‘Can’t you sleep?’ Franco asked, slipping a red seven of hearts between two black suited cards of ascending and descending value to the one he had included. He ignored her pointing to the half open window beside him.
‘It’s too noisy. How can decent people get any rest out here with that sort of racket? It’s like someone filling a bin with coins. This damn heat too,’ Misu whined, her fingers now violently scratching through unkempt hair. ‘My kingdom for some sleep. Or your kingdom. I would sacrifice every one of these pretty carriages for some shut-eye. Just so you know how desperate I am on that front.’
‘It’s hotter in the Sand Sea.’
‘Yes but it’s so humid out here. I feel like I’m turning into water! You best put a jug underneath me in case I melt for good.’
Franco snorted. ‘It’s too hot for that sort of effort. If the unfortunate event occurs I’ll fetch the mop. You have my word.’
‘Funny, funny bastard.’ She smirked, fanning herself. Her eyes drifted to his game.
‘That’s new. What is it?’
‘Solitaire. Some people call it patience.’ Franco shimmied a card from one stack to another.
‘It looks boring,’ Misu dismissed, wiping her brow before fanning herself with Franco’s notebook.
‘On the contrary. Like its namesake it teaches patience and focus. Most of all, though, it pitches you against the greatest opponent you’ll ever face off against.’
‘Which is …?’
Franco married a red-suited ace into a line for completion.
‘Yourself,’ he stated, finally taking his eyes from the table and watching her wave his notebook back and forth for relief. ‘People weave in and out of a person’s existence. Roles change. A friend can become a nemesis in the blink of an eye. Many believe that your greatest competitor is the one inside. I happen to subscribe to that notion. If you can overcome yourself, then you can take on the world. Also, I need that.’
‘I bet you do.’ She passed the notebook back over, keeping her cheeky smile. ‘For keeping track of your genius no doubt. How long are we up north for? The views are pretty but among getting bitten to pieces by the insects and enduring it raining half the time, its charm is seriously waning. Not that the alone time with you isn’t joyous.’
Franco leant back from his game, quite done with staring at card faces for this evening. ‘We can’t go back as we are. The Gambler’s Den was far too well known and if we just try and perform like nothing’s changed, it’s going to be pretty obvious that you and I, for all intents and purposes, didn’t die. Even your change of hair colour won’t be able to sway that. And that’s the crux of it all.’
He leant forward, sterner, the words quite weighty with seriousness.
‘Wilheim Fort is out there. If it’s all the same I would like him to continue thinking that we are bones in the sand. If he ever thought differently, there’s a chance –’
‘There’s no guesswork here,’ Misu interrupted, now just as serious. Her fingers skimmed the glass lip in circles. ‘He would come for us. He would hunt us down. Be relentless. He’ll do things that you couldn’t possibly imagine.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so. I was the one who carried those punishments out at times. People who wronged him simply didn’t expect the angle he came from. Friends, family, acquaintances … He’ll know them and he’ll exploit them. They’ll be broken. Then, finally, you’ll be left to rot as an example to others.’
She suddenly blinked in horror, as if quite surprised at her candid confession, a mixture of the alcohol and sleep deprivation loosening her lips.
‘It’s okay,’ Franco stated, swigging again and feeling the light breeze that wafted through the window. ‘We’ve all done things we regret. We change. You’ve changed, clearly. I figure there’s a difference between who a person was and who they are in the present if they desire to change. You’re not that person now, are you?’
* * *
‘Not at all.’ Her eyes scrunched to a close. She was unsure whether this was even the truth. But it sounded good. It sounded like what needed to be said at this time.
‘There you go then.’
Misu paused before speaking what was next on her mind, wondering if it overstepped the mark. She did so anyway, seeing as they had come this far. What was the worst that could happen?
‘Did the thought ever go through your head – and I’m not suggesting anything; I’m just discussing the possibility … You have the train, some money. You don’t have to do the show is what I’m getting at. You could go off and live your life away from the limelight. You have an entirely new one to live, one you’ve earned, free from people like Wilheim doing the things that people like him do. Sometimes I struggle to understand why you would want to jeopardize that. Did you ever consider cashing in this second chance? Leaving all this behind?’
Franco narrowed his eyes and drank again, heavily. ‘Let me answer your question with a question,’ he replied, wagging the bottle. ‘After what happened, why are you still here, with me, aboard this here train? The way I see it you have an opportunity yourself yet you’re squandering it with me. Explain that one.’ He took the bottle to his lips once more.
Misu clasped her hands together in thought. ‘I guess … No, I mean, I …’ She struggled with forming the reason and instead fell on the only words that made any sort of honest sense. ‘I felt compelled. That’s the only way I can describe it.’
More accurately, she sought redemption. She was committed to make amends for the wrongs that her treachery had caused. To the girls. To the train. To him.
Not that she could say that of course. Pride made sure of that.
‘There you go.’ Franco placed the bottle down. ‘I feel compelled too. I don’t question why I’m drawn to this lifestyle. I don’t spend hours analysing it for some grand revelation that will make my life all the more complete. I am compelled, as are you.’
That was all that was said on the matter.
Misu subconsciously twirled her dyed blonde hair around a finger, mulling over the predicament. The Morning Star had to be considerably different. What they did previously was unprecedented, which made things all the more difficult.
‘So what is it that we actually need? Has all this thinking helped you come to a conclusion yet?’
‘We need to be bigger and better,’ Franco confirmed, offering to refill her glass, though she declined by covering it with a hand. In response he took a mouthful from the bottle itself in lieu of a glass. ‘We need to up the ante in every sense. We become unique enough that nobody makes the connection between the Star and the Den. We pride ourselves on our show. Let’s give them the biggest one the Sand Sea has ever known. Bigger fireworks, better performances by those we hire, an occasion to assault the senses! Right now, though, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something lacking. Something that punctuates the spectacle. We need … we need …’
A fox and its cubs yelped noisily through the bush, their calls totally alien to the pair, who watched them slink through the foliage, orange brush strokes upon a green canvas. The mother fox stared with haunted glowing spheres before continuing onward to their destination.
Misu snatched away the notepad feverishly, scrawling onto a page with the pen before tearing it out roughly.
‘Stay with me here,’ she excitedly exclaimed. She poked holes through in two points, scribbled shapes with the pen and held it level with Franco’s face so it covered the top half. When convinced, she turned it around for him to take. Immediately his face lit up with delight. It had crudely drawn ears and a nose but despite the lack of artistic talent, it clearly resembled a fox.
Masks.
To secure their safety and create mystique they would wear masks.
* * *
‘You know, I always wondered how that came about,’ Corinne declared.
‘You never thought of asking?’ Misu watched the streaks of water on the glass shift in direction as the Morning Star took a corner.
‘I felt there was no point. What you say goes. Or what he says goes more accurately – you know what I’m getting at. I’ve learnt never to question the boss.’
‘You learnt never to question Franco. I’m not him.’
‘You have his mantle though.’
Quickly, Misu changed the subject, turning away from the windows as a prolonged fork of lightning reflected her appearance back to herself for far longer than was comfortable.
‘We have a day before we pull in to our next event. Are all the preparations made?’
‘The call-aheads have affixed posters and energetically spread rumours on our behalf. Apparently people are very receptive to our arrival.’
Misu popped a brow. Whenever a destination was set, she would send word ahead that anybody who would put up their promotional material and fan the excitement would be reimbursed in coin.
‘Receptive? Really?’
‘Their word.’
‘They’re mistaken if they believe that using big words to label their work will shake a bonus out of me.’ Misu flicked through the papers, withdrawing a couple of sheets of calculations.
‘How are we when it comes to finances?’ Corinne asked.
‘Good. Surprisingly good actually. Better than the Gambler’s Den at least, so we’re already marks up on that front. Apparently, from what I’m told, people adore the mystique of our disguises. They’re more magical.’
‘We don’t do magic. Nothing of the sort.’
‘No, but let them believe what they want. It makes the punters more …’ She clicked her fingers, attempting to remember the specific word.
‘Receptive?’ Corinne offered.
‘Yes. That.’
‘I suppose I should have a talk with the others about tomorrow.’ Corinne lifted herself from her seat with a hearty grunt. It would have been a fine place to waste the next couple of hours but duty called. ‘Is there anything you need me to discuss on your behalf?’
There was plenty. Katerina needed to ensure the bar didn’t run out of hot spirits being that it was a trend out this way to light their shots on fire before downing them. Colette had been slightly missing her cues on the 9 p.m. performance – just enough to be noticeable. Some of those serving drinks needed to cosy up to the more inebriated patrons as they tended to tip better. But most importantly, Misu wanted everybody to stay away from Car Six for the evening like their lives depended on it.
Because it did.
‘No. I leave it in your capable hands,’ she lied, giving a false smile in appreciation. Corinne went to leave before remembering a titbit of information that her manager might appreciate.
‘Which reminds me … I’ve spoken to Elizabeth personally. She will be performing tomorrow, which is nice. I’d figured she would have been bedridden for another week but I’m glad to be wrong on that. It’s been too long since we’ve seen what she’s capable of.’
‘The girl does have plenty to prove,’ Misu added.
‘She’s up to the task. You have my word on that.’
Chapter 5 (#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)
The drop
It was not unknown for the Morning Star to perform twice, maybe three times a week, depending on how close each location was. Putting on a show that encompassed the day before and lasted until the following dawn could be a logistical nightmare, but with the dedication of the staff, the entertainment ran without trouble.
Mostly.
It’s why Misu had to fight the urge to micromanage every event, even when she had allocated others to do the job for her. Previously, on more than one occasion, those behind the bar had been sent into disarray by conflicting requests from both her and Corinne. It was not a matter of trust, but more one of control. Of course Misu trusted those beneath her to do their jobs; she just felt the urge to witness it personally.
The staff worked around this, more than aware that the fluid nature of their roles required on-the-spot thinking. At least most of them did.
The most recent addition to their menagerie was just finding this out.
Her grumblings were listened to, but not acted upon, as her upbringing had made her boisterous and her attitude grating. Many a time she vented to anyone who would listen about how she would run the show and how improvements could be made. She was trouble from the outset.
Misu endured this, as no matter how irritating the little platinum blonde thing became, her talent was desirable. Maybe it wasn’t desirable to anyone else in the region, as respected skills normally equated to fence building and cattle herding, but for the Morning Star, it was ideal. The little farm girl picked up in the middle of nowhere had become the show’s secret weapon and not without cause. Now recovered from the illness that had plagued her, she was scheduled to be the next act of the night.
Misu looked at her watch, noting how much time, or specifically how little, remained. Tonight would be close, too close in all honestly, but that was a moot point now. The Hare took to the carriage rooftops and confidently strolled along, capturing everyone’s attention. Her appearance brought two spotlights mounted on the platform itself to illuminate her stroll across with the beam. Those who were dancing tonight had run inside two of the carriages for a costume change. Their music had been blaring from conical horns that straddled carriage roofs, music that chattered from a phonograph. Those who gambled at the tables slowed. Those who drank lowered their glasses in unison.
Brilliant blue coat-tails flicked behind with every step, shimmering gold accents all picking up the light and emitting it back. Misu counted under her breath, reaching her mark.
As the music reduced and the lights faded to a single beaming spotlight, silence enveloped the crowd. Misu played the quiet, just enough to captivate those before her. The Hare drank in the gazes upon her.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please – a moment of your time!’ Misu sharply clapped, strutting across the carriage roof with top hat in hand, demanding everyone’s attention. She needn’t have done so. The sea of faces had already turned from their drinks, their games, and gave it.
‘We have something quite special for you tonight. Each one of those in my employ has talents. They’re talents that I respect and ones that I nurture. Most importantly of all, these are talents that we share. In the last month, I found quite the remarkable desert rose, whose voice carries most beautifully in song. Alas, I’m sad to say she has an affliction of shyness.’
The audience roared in amused objection.
‘I know, and I assure you that her voice is beyond measure. Why, it makes my own sound like a pack of dogs howling. While I am her employer, and have asked her to perform for you here, our little Songbird falls flat on my words. A crime, my friends, a crime in every sense of the word.’
‘Mutiny in the ranks?’ A voice drifted up among the collective, encouraging a ripple of belly laughter. Misu strolled along the carriage rooftop, pointing the man out with a gesture of her cane.
‘Mutiny is punished on land, on a boat or indeed on a train, friend, but I cannot force her to perform for you, though to perform is my deepest wish. My fair ladies do not respond to orders, for that is not how we run things on the Morning Star. You do not beg a bird to soar, nor a fish to swim. Rather, you put them in an agreeable environment and watch them revert to their nature.’
Again, she thrived on the silence, gesturing with her fingers in faux thought. Every word was delivered with sincerity, false sincerity maybe, but sincerity all the same.
‘Though a notion have I, and a kind one at that. I think your affection will change her mindset. Encourage her wings, even! Yes, I am sure that that your encouragement may coax her performance. If you would be so kind as to oblige.’
On cue glasses were lifted and calls of approval rose up before dissipating fast.
‘How warming! Do you think that will be enough? I’m doubtful.’
With a rise of her arms, the crowd cheered once more, louder this time.
‘Oh, this is pleasant for certain, though maybe just a touch more may curb her fickle mind.’
The audience roared into the night sky, laughing cheers on the tail end of a crescendo of noise.
‘Unbelievable.’ Misu pressed her hands to her chest, surveying those before her intimately beneath the animal visage. ‘Quite unbelievable. You all warm my heart, my kind, loving people. That most certainly will quell any nerves. Please, do not let the demeanour of our little one fool you. After all, a snake harbours fangs and a wasp conceals its sting. In this instance, our splendid addition sings beautifully. So, without any further pause, I present to you, the Songbird of the Morning Star!’
As the lights set on the Morning Star dimmed, the single snap of a spotlight broke out from an interior window. It was moved forward until the oval luminescence settled upon a lone figure at the opposite end of the carriages. Every head turned. Every pair of eyes was fixed in attention, eyes that now paid no mind to Misu, which was exactly what she intended.
A woman, short and fair, stood in luminescence. In this brilliance, she stood with head slightly bowed, with brilliant blue eyes ever so slightly hidden from the spectators. A frizzy shock of platinum curls framed the porcelain-like face, pale and smooth, broken only with glimmering peach lips.
The mask upon her face was that of a small bird, true to her namesake, with the beak small and pointed and the eye sockets wide. Its edges were feathered in a few layers but gave the illusion of considerable lustre. A multitude of beads hung at different lengths, made from stones few could correctly identify, plunging down the collar of a showgirl’s azure outfit of lace and frills with no permutation. Thin fingers reached to the microphone stand that stood before her and they enveloped it with utmost tenderness.
With a delicate inhalation, Elizabeth began to sing.
I’m lying next to a charlatan,
Yet I’m still thinking of you,
I see your face when he touches me,
Can’t do the things that you do.
Her voice, soft and woefully lingering achingly dripped every word. The faces were stunned, carried away on every soft syllable. Her back arched slightly and her hand stroked the microphone from waist height to the chrome protrusion. It was caressed as if it were a friend, a lover even, with every lyric a moaned whisper.
And if you feel the same as me, baby,
Say you’re sorry, it’ll do,
Just tell me all this doesn’t ma-tter, and I’ll,
Run on home to you!
Her hands rose in triumph and her hips swayed with the thump of the beat.
Let’s just forget these foolish actions,
Feel pity in the arms of these poor fools,
Let’s stop the fighting, it’s got us nowhere,
I crave for you to love me!
Drums burst into a rhythm as the instrumental music beneath, a waltz of violins, rose to be heard. With a swing of her hips in time, the Songbird did what she was born to do.
Oh honey, sugar, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me,
Tell me whatcha wanna do,
I’m tired of the games that we play, dear, they’re o-ver,
(#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)Oh baby, baby, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me,
Tell me what we’re gonna do,
I’ll shun the day for just one more night with you!
Elizabeth gave an electric performance, exuding pure charisma to the audience. She bathed in their attention, taking requests as she saw fit. Almost all were charmed, most singing along to some regional songs that she gave a rendition of. She was bathed in the spotlight with arms outstretched, relishing every scrap of applause. This was what fuelled her. This was her calling.
But something bothered Elizabeth. A deep-seated vein of distrust ran through her, directed primarily at their manager. The sheen of entertainment, the dazzling lights and distractions, were nothing but an attempt to relieve people of their money. This wasn’t the subject of her frustration, but the sheer callousness of the process. Misu bathed in tips thrust towards her and sweet talked gamblers into increasing their stakes.
Elizabeth was brought on under the impression that the Morning Star was a legitimate venture. What she was a part of felt more like a hustle and she strongly disapproved. When raising concerns about such worries, she objected to being told, quite eloquently, by her manager to shut up and get on with things.
Then, there was the subject of Misu’s mysterious disappearances.
* * *
Corinne passed between the showgirls on one of the interior carriages. The light threw shadows and dark figures all around, each person in chaotic motion as they prepared for the next spectacle. Some were hurriedly changing into outfits for a dance number, with Katerina adjusting the red plumes on her phoenix-themed ensemble.
‘Eight minutes, everyone! Eight more minutes to go!’ Corinne gave warning.
She pressed through the melee and questioned them, loudly, as to whereabouts of Misu. ‘Somebody must have seen her!’ she protested. Shaking heads and apologies were all that was returned. When Elizabeth’s next song came to a close, and the silence returned, a handful of girls took their cue and dashed through the carriage doors to thundering applause. In the midst of this, Corinne scanned all around and wondered where their manager could possibly be.
* * *
Eight minutes.
Misu checked her watch. It ticked along quite contentedly in its leather and silver housing. The second hand snapped to a stop-start, watched keenly to ensure that it showed no hint of delay nor failure. Eight minutes she repeated to herself. Eight long, damned minutes. Flashes of light reflected from the mask as fireworks popped in greens and reds.
Where the Morning Star pulled into the station, she had snuck over the opposite tracks and down into one of the tight, shadow-soaked alleyways.
A series of thumps in the darkness announced the arrival of a simple cart that creaked before jerking to a stop. As she looked up from her timepiece, examining the newly stacked load of red bales, she watched its entourage hastily hide the load with canvas. The cover was hurriedly tied down and checked once more. The pair of horses that pulled the cart behind were discouraged from stomping their hooves in impatience, though they were clearly uneasy. A woman took hold of their reins, and attempted to soothe them with her voice.
Smart animals, Misu told herself. It was comforting to know that she wasn’t the only one anxious about this whole affair. The alleyway was devoid of gaslight, where few would willingly walk down – ideal if you wished to make a secretive transaction such as this. The busy folks who swarmed like ants over this whole trade slowed themselves after loading the last of the secret cargo from the back of one of the freight cars. It was the one that, curiously, remained permanently out of bounds, especially to staff: Car Six. Sure, this had been noticed by some, even commented on, but these were all brushed aside by its owner. What Misu said, people accepted, no matter the circumstance. Her word, whilst aboard the train, was law.
The last figure that sauntered past dropped a small iron key into Misu’s open palm. She in turn threaded it into a chain fastened around her neck.
‘All locked?’ she asked with no small measure of authority.
‘As requested. Nobody knew we were even here.’
Misu narrowed her eyes as the man stood, quite awkwardly, staring at her. He examined the mask before settling on the eyes peering beneath.
‘You hide such a pretty face I bet.’
‘That’s none of your concern.’
‘Cold. Is that the lot?’ he enquired.
Misu defensively crossed her arms. Cheeky bastard. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No, it’s just awfully small and you have plenty with you.’ Weaver smiled, ever so contentedly. Michael, or Weaver as he was commonly called by those in the know, was thin in stature but unpleasantly imposing, with a parting of soot-coloured hair and a well-trimmed beard mirrored in colour. He was given his nickname for his tendency to formulate well-constructed plans. His constant thoroughness and prediction of possible dangers had kept him and his crew alive on more than one occasion. Here tonight, and unbeknown to him, his diligence would be revealed as not as complete as it could be.
‘Six bales. That’s the arrangement – no more, no less.’ Misu tried her best to keep her composure with a staggered exhalation, letting her disgruntlement enforce each word. ‘What you do with it is your business, whatever mark-up you put on it is apparently your own. We never spoke and you never obtained this from me.’
‘You honestly have bigger balls than me doing this under the nose of …’ he waved his hand behind at the event in motion ‘… all that spectacle. Personally, I would be considerably more cautious.’
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Christopher Byford
Are you willing to gamble with your life?Some debts can’t be repaid. The Gambler’s Den lies in ruins, its staff scattered across the Sand Sea, all but a memory of the minds of its past patrons. But when the Morning Star appears, ruled by a mysterious figure known only as the Hare, the comparisons can’t be helped. Who is this larger-than-life character? Why do the showgirls wear masks? What are they hiding? The answer…they should be dead.Franco and Misu were safe only in their anonymity, but with Franco gone Misu must find him – jeopardising all they have built. In order to save the man she trusts Misu must put her faith in the villain.Wilheim does not forget disobedience lightly, and Misu’s was a great betrayal, so now he will call in his debt, and his revenge on the staff of the Morning Star.Who will win? Who will survive? Who will the odds favour?
Some debts can’t be repaid.
The Gambler’s Den lies in ruins, its staff scattered across the Sand Sea, all but a memory of the minds of its past patrons. But when the Morning Star appears, ruled by a mysterious figure known only as the Hare, the comparisons can’t be helped. Who is this larger-than-life character? Why do the showgirls wear masks? What are they hiding? The answer…they should be dead.
Franco and Misu were safe only in their anonymity, but with Franco gone Misu must find him – jeopardizing all they have built. In order to save the man she trusts Misu must put her faith in the villain.
Wilheim does not forget disobedience lightly, and Misu’s was a great betrayal, so now he will call in his debt, and his revenge on the staff of the Morning Star.
Den of Stars
Christopher Byford
ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Contents
Cover (#uacee5dfe-268d-53a3-b9b4-8a8533b8acc2)
Blurb (#ubad3c3c4-7baa-55c7-92d3-abfbb9878707)
Title Page (#u5724a45e-112b-54c4-94ae-47d731811d08)
Author Bio (#u636076de-141d-56b6-804c-cda7df420e25)
Acknowledgements (#u9bcc42dc-28a8-55cf-a01a-ff9fa754fac8)
Dedication (#uee3a0833-b11f-5ba7-ab62-a5273b2e1371)
Prologue (#u530b1efc-f299-564e-9bfa-a342eb983f49)
Chapter 1 (#u0a184a34-3885-57e4-999f-55f6b0a436a7)
Chapter 2 (#u7ffd42e7-0b11-5e9c-a467-7beba6c6deb0)
Chapter 3 (#u2a022142-208e-57df-a908-fab52cf16c45)
Chapter 4 (#u671a8a3c-7e3b-50c9-878f-bdd978fff0ac)
Chapter 5 (#u12e4ee86-368b-5de1-97ea-fb2ee5e5d5f6)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHRISTOPHER BYFORD
was born in 1980 in Wellingborough, England. He learnt to walk whilst holding on to a golden retriever and fondly remembers the days of BMX bikes and conker matches. He left college to suffer as an IT Manager for a small multinational before, in his words, escaping to Gloucester. After working for some large tech companies he seized the opportunity to become a full-time author. It was the best thing he’s ever done.
In the last few years Chris has penned various tales, DEN OF SHADOWS being his most prominent.
Away from literary things, his interests include all things VW Campervans, gardening, photography, astronomy and chicken keeping.
He finds talking about himself in the third person rather pedantic and could murder a cold pint of cider right about now.
Acknowledgements (#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)
Den of Stars was born from mystery and intrigue. It’s only fair that this theme extends to those who I wish to thank. Instead of being named here on a page that’s almost certain to be skipped, I ensured their contribution was acknowledged in a different manner. I approached these individuals and asked them for their input to be included – maybe the name of a product, maybe a turn of phrase, maybe one of these things, maybe both and more.
I leave it up to you to find out.
Naturally I am indebted to Hannah and all those at HQ, whose tireless pursuits have brought what you are reading now into existence. Helena managed to buff the tale into something presentable and has my undying thanks.
And of course, to you.
To all those who have used their second chance and done well by it
For my wife Emma and our son Abel
Prologue (#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)
It was traditional for funerals in Surenth to begin before the dawn.
The dead may not have minded the high temperatures that the region was well known for, but for those still living, it was an uncomfortable burden to endure. Nobody wanted to watch loved ones be buried in the stifling midday heat, so it was just before the sun cracked that the funeral procession began to march.
As the morning stars straddled the sky, threatened by the pale glow of the sun watching from the horizon, the city of Windberg stopped what it was doing. Stallholders slowed setting up their wares for the day’s trading, their attention now ensnared elsewhere. Some shopkeepers kept their signs set to closed with the intention of keeping them so for the day out of respect for the dead. Even the deckhands for the sand ships, busy loading and unloading the large imposing vehicles at the docks, slowed their work on account of the noise that lingered in the still morning air.
Those who intended to attend the proceedings were already prepared, congregating on street corners, appropriately dressed and aware of the planned route. Others who woke to the commotion wearily watched from their windows.
There was music playing, a rallying cry for those familiar with the deceased and his work. The band consisted of brass instruments primarily, accompanied by the beat of drums and the high melodies of clarinets. Each attendee was dressed in formal beige-coloured suits, unjacketed with white shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. The music, though loud enough to be heard over the morning’s bustle, remained intimate in style to coax further mourners to the mass.
Every street the procession passed, more joined the collective. They each did so for their own reasons, a number doing so out of morbid curiosity rather than a desire to pay their respects. A trumpet blared a melody, the drums keeping a slow pom-pom-pom in time, relaxed and effortless.
Leading the route a brilliant black coach, adorned with golden accents, was drawn by a quartet of equally brilliant black horses with complementary gilded decoration on their straps and tugs. The interior was hidden with curtains, as were its occupants, who never parted the fabric to take stock of how many followed nor how close they were to their destination.
The coachman himself was well suited and groomed and gripped the reins, steering the animals through every district before them, the passing streets of Windberg transforming from wealth to starved to decadent and back again. The horses’ pace was never quick enough to encourage those behind to rush.
The river of bodies trickled to the city limits, spilling into a parasol-laden procession that moved into the desolate waste beyond. Stone was replaced with sand, the dawn sun lingering low and yet to fully show its radiance and heat. The desert was unkind and uncaring, forcing the people to move around boulder and thorny bush as they followed the main rail line north that would lead through a gorge and out into the Sand Sea itself. The coach trundled along the surface, the horses maintaining their composure at all times.
Still the band played and the feet marched.
Behind, an army of well-wishers made their way, following the northern train line from the grand city of Windberg northwards. Here, miles out from the city itself, the track ran into a canyon, its deep, steep sides sheltering such transportation from the harsh elements. The land began to ebb down the rail line flanked by steep cliffs of marbled stone, eroded by a combination of harsh wind and time. Soon the shy sun was hidden away by the formation, long shadows painting canyon walls in gloom.
From this turn and that, following the snaking contours, finally they arrived at their destination. The music stopped. Nobody spoke. The coach was immediately brought to a halt.
Before them, up ahead and squatting at the side of the track were the remains of the once proud Gambler’s Den.
The locomotive had slipped the tracks during its escape from both the law and the lackeys of a criminal. This, coupled with its engine exploding, left it as nothing but wreckage.
But the Gambler’s Den was no mere train. It was a legend in the east of Surenth. Its appearance formally announced with a cryptic banner, promising plenty and encouraging a fever of wanton speculation. Nobody knew what the Gambler’s Den actually was, except for those who had listened to the stories from other places about a wonderment that proudly rode the tracks across the Sand Sea.
Occasionally someone who had entertained drunken stories might have dismissed it as being just a train, but it was just a train as much as the sun was just a star and the unenlightened were informed as such. The only way your opinion mattered was if you were once in its presence, if you drank from the well of pleasure that it proffered. Anything else was speculation or outright lies.
When word reached the city of Windberg that the Gambler’s Den was in the throes of some dramatic escape from bandits, they assumed that the accompanying Bluecoats chasing were en route to protect it. So the story went at least. Some of the papers ran stories that differed, daring to suggest that there were other factors at work, the most prominent being the notion that the Den was up to no end of dishonest pursuits.
This was incorrect. Caught up in a whirlwind of blackmail and downright bad luck, its owner, one Franco Del Monaire, had intended to escape both parties.
The state of the train was heartbreaking. The Gambler’s Den had been reduced to a charred shell. Its boiler and innards had been flayed by an uncontrolled surge of pressure, causing an explosion. Flues were outstretched like metal spider legs. The chassis was warped from the heat, forcing the remains to slouch at the trackside after being moved and the line itself had been repaired. For those who saw the Gambler’s Den during one of its spectacles, it was difficult to take in.
The people parted as the coachman performed his duty, climbing down and opening up the door. He invited the individuals to join them, with all surrounding the vehicle silent in reverence.
Seven women took the steps from their carriage, flat shoes landing in the sand, forming a procession. They wore complementary outfits, similar in appearance though with significant nuances to set them apart. Each outfit was the colour of emerald, with mustard and black trimming over the plunging necklines, collars and hems. They were beauties each, quite well versed on finery and pageantry, a trait unshaken despite the morbid circumstances. Tall stood alongside short, black and blonde hair alongside shocks of ginger. All held their nerves in check and restrained tears that were bubbling dangerously close to the surface.
The last to step out was a man, nowhere near as finely dressed but still on the right side of smart. His face was ghostly, clearly suffering from little sleep and troubling vices. His first steps were unsteady, corrected with the awareness of the score of onlookers, though he drew less attention than the women themselves. His clothes were creased and scruffy, tossed on with little care – one would assume, and correctly so.
With a few reassuring gestures from the most senior among them, the women began the last of their journey with the man bringing up the rear. They all moved to the head of the ensemble, dresses, coats and scarves trailing in the subtle breeze that had picked up from the Sand Sea, as if it attempted to nudge them each to reconsider their movements. Some of the women held hands, clasping tightly to one another for comfort.
The sun had risen higher now and its heat was beginning to bear down. They were not to speak, as was the tradition of these things. Others spoke on their behalf and in this instance, a short, stocky man – dressed in a grey pinstripe suit and round hat – had been hired for the occasion. He had no need to check his pocket for the folded notes, elaborating on the schedule, the involved names, or circumstances for all of these were already committed to memory. The number of people didn’t intimidate him, for he was a professional and excelled in his craft.
Taking himself to the head of the procession he raised his arm for everyone’s attention. It was given without hesitation, unabated by the gravitas of the proceedings.
‘We are here to celebrate, not to mourn! It would be easy to be sad at a time like this, but this is not the way things were done aboard the Gambler’s Den. Appropriately it is not what will be done today,’ he called loudly.
The unkempt man between the women rolled his eyes, reaching for an absent hip flask.
‘What occurred here was a tragedy on a grand scale. When the wheels of the Gambler’s Den stopped spinning, the shock pierced many a breast. No one could have fathomed such a disaster to occur on the outskirts of our home. Those on board were innocent victims caught up in the blight of criminality that rots away and troubles our virtuous people, at the very soul of our fine city. Yes, it was a tragedy! The papers spreading discord with their falsities, but I can tell you now with the word of the law beside me, those on the Gambler’s Den did no wrong. Those among us, the family of this fine performance piece, have lost two of our own.’
Among them the city sheriff, Alex Juniper, swelled beneath his deep navy tunic. His reasons for attending were his own, for he was not a fan of the ruckus the Gambler’s Den brought to the city – far from it in fact. Upon its arrival he sought to have it impounded, given that some on board were fraternizing with criminals, but this obligation bore quite a different outcome. The catastrophe resulted in ensnaring a much grander prize – with help of one of the Den’s own.
Juniper made occasional observations of the faces within the crowd, looking for any sign of someone attempting to disturb the proceedings out of malice. In particular he stole glances at the haphazardly dressed man nestled within the envelope of women. He in turn noticed and stopped frisking his jacket for a drink.
The announcer spoke the names with utmost esteem, his booming voice proud and weighty.
‘Misu Pontain. Manager. Performer. Described by those who knew her as a kind individual, a mother to those desiring compassion, a sister to those needing a sibling.’
The rough-looking man scoffed beneath his breath, finding an elbow dug into his hip for silence.
‘And Franco Del Monaire. Entertainer. Showman. The beating heart of the Gambler’s Den itself, its founder no less! I am sure that Franco himself would have preferred to be buried along with his love, the grand old train that brought such delight to so many, evident today with the presence of you all.’
A smattering of sobs broke out from within the mass. They were allowed to sputter out, the culprits consoled with embraces.
‘We celebrate these momentous individuals with the lives we lead. They will hear us in the embrace of the Holy Sorceress, hearing our celebrations in their stead, warmed at the notion that what they brought us will continue in kind. Revelry exists in the hearts of each and every one of you. Share what you have been shown with the world.’
When it fell quiet once more, the announcer held his arms wide.
‘I, and those who have lost their loved ones, invite you all to share your tokens of appreciation for the departed.’
Now the bodies moved of their own accord, each patiently taking their turn to approach the Gambler’s Den with the greatest reverence. For a number of them, the grief was too overwhelming, with sporadic bursts of sobs emanating from inside the mass. When at the wreckage, some prayed and some touched the contorted metalwork.
Small strips of paper were passed around, as was ink and pens, with sentiments being constructed into words and folded in half. These were placed delicately, or stuck to the Gambler’s Den, until it resembled a moulting bird, its feathers goldenrod mentions of love and promises that gently flapped in the dry desert breeze.
One of those searching for the right words finally wrote them down, reviewing each one in turn and rereading them over and over. The handwriting was crooked in places but still quite legible, on account of a troublesome injury. The message was simple and direct. It was a modest truth that the woman had found upon reflecting, and stuck it to the metal before fading away into the crowd, her place quickly taken by another. The note simply stated:
‘Death will not stop the show.’
Chapter 1 (#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)
The admittance of debt
Sunway Boarding House was spacious, open-plan, and finely furnished, with the lower floor separated between lounge, dining area, and kitchen. Each of these was partitioned with sparse chestnut wood dividers, with most of the house’s support being undertaken by rows of bulky timber. Deep maroon carpet coated the floor and details had been erected with stone, framing seating areas, chimneys, and open fireplaces.
A cacophony of decorations filled almost every scrap of wall space. Maps of the region, both outdated and modern, were pinned here and there. There were pastel pictures of prominent local figures with their names declared in brass plaques beneath their stony faces, though their importance was lost on the current occupants. Animal skulls were presented in a display cabinet, some large, some small, almost all parading sharp teeth. Oil lamps were affixed to walls with frosted glass shades sporting fabulous decorations.
The kitchen was dominated by an iron behemoth of a cooker, enclosed by an embracing stone fireplace that also included recesses for cutlery and utensils. The fire inside was still at an adequate heat, its fuel glowing and giving. Upstairs were the bedrooms, six in total, compact rooms in truth but still significantly more generous than the space allocated in a train bunk car. It was a delightful abode, spacious and comfortable. For the survivors of the Gambler’s Den, it was the closest thing they had to home.
With their residence destroyed, the women had found themselves homeless. Thankfully the local press had caused quite the uproar in their favour, describing how these pure, innocent victims of criminality were soon to be living on the streets. It would be in Windberg’s best interests to offer these women charity and shelter, for the time being at least. The paper columns argued that the showgirls would be a fine addition to the city’s elite.
Sunway Boarding House – all of it – was offered immediately, seeing that securing the survivors of the Gambler’s Den was sure to raise the landlord’s profile. The bragging rights alone would secure passage to prominent dinner parties and social functions for its owner, something excitedly speculated about, which indeed came to fruition. The actual cost of their lodgings was never brought into consideration. The women insisted they paid their way of course, but this was for naught and any expenses were covered by a number of generous, anonymous benefactors.
The door front clattered open allowing the previous employees of the Gambler’s Den to trickle inside. They flowed from space to space, finding seat and sofa to rest weary feet that noisily dragged over floorboard, rug, and carpet. Kitty brought up the rear, holding the door ajar, the shortest of all those in attendance though her contagious spark more than made up for her lack of stature. With it she may as well be seven foot tall. Her glittering blue eyes narrowed at the causes of the daily noise in Windberg’s streets and the immediate surroundings:
The legion of horses pulling goods to the docks, carts rattling with every turn of the wheels.
The busker on the street corner playing a guitar, strumming vigorously for coin.
The gaggle of children who chased one another into patches of alleyway shade, manoeuvring around someone who had stepped out for a late morning smoke.
At last coming inside, she drew the door to a close.
‘I need something to drink.’ The small blonde woman shuffled off into the kitchen and set about rummaging through the cupboards for something to cure her headache.
‘I need plenty more than just the one. I was not ready for that, none of it. Kitty, dear, fetch the coffee would you? The good coffee,’ Corinne clarified. ‘The northern stuff.’
‘It’s costly, that.’
‘Can you think of a better occasion?’
‘Incredibly expensive blend it is, then.’
Corinne took heavily to a lounger. With a flick, she relieved her feet of her shoes and began firmly rubbing the ache that had settled in her heels. She watched the kitchen spring to life as Kitty got to work at the counter, withdrawing cups and setting them in a line. Ground coffee beans were scooped into a coffee pot and set atop a hotplate. The blonde woman leant over the counter to continue the discussion whilst waiting for the tell-tale spats of boiling water to dance from the pot’s lip.
‘That was a lot of people. Plenty more than I imagined would turn out,’ Corinne contemplated.
Kitty thoroughly agreed, her normally cheerful demeanour subdued. She leant back with a sigh. ‘I never thought what we did touched so many lives. I mean I never thought we touched anybody in such a fashion but, wow …’
‘How many were there?’ Kitty wondered aloud.
‘Too many to count. I couldn’t even guess. I’ve not seen a bigger gathering since, well, ever. It’s like half the city turned out.’
Kitty skimmed white cups across the counter top, filling them in turn from a silver coffee server. Another of the women took it upon herself to distribute the much-needed beverage, offering cream and sugar where appropriate. Only one rejected the offer, instead deciding to drink something taken from behind the bar in passing.
‘Jacques. How are you faring?’ Kitty eyeballed him from the kitchen. ‘You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet all morning.’
Lying quite ungraciously over the length of a leather lounger, the roughly dressed man gripped the neck of a wine bottle as if it were his only anchor to common sense. It gifted him clarity with every mouthful, or so he believed, each one sending droplets rolling down his scraggy beard and soaking into his shirt collar. The bottle was released from his lips begrudgingly.
‘You figure I had something worthwhile to say?’ He grunted.
‘Just surprised you’ve not shared your voice yet, that’s all. I don’t mean nothing by it.’
‘In answer to your consideration, little one, I’m just grand. Doing a damn sight better than the lot of you, I’ll have you know.’ The container was lazily wagged to those around him. ‘I’m glad it’s all over and we can move on with things. All this commotion is dragging my mood down. I’ll fare better once the sun goes down, that’s for sure. That’s when the exciting people come out.’
Everyone in the room watched with concern as he messily drank the bottle’s contents. Katerina shuffled in her chair, inhaling the aroma that came from her cup in the hope that it would assist in making her feel less groggy. She had put herself at a small side table on a straight-backed chair. Her peach-tinted nails drummed onto the veneer much like a rabbit would do with its foot when warning others of danger.
Curiously she hadn’t been as emotional as she thought she would be. Sure the sight of the Gambler’s Den itself took their collective breaths away, but it didn’t rouse the tears she had feared. What did gnaw at her temperament was the conversations she overheard this morning and the faces of the grief-stricken who knew the dead only by reputation.
‘Did you see what they were doing?’ She stirred her coffee, depositing a silver spoon on the accompanying saucer. ‘Sticking those notes on. One guy was speaking to his son who was asking why. Couldn’t have been any older than seven and was missing an arm. Memories, I overheard the man say. Then father kneels down to him and says that they were good memories that deserve acknowledgement. It’s not like we got much else.’
‘That’s hard.’ Kitty gave a whine, now busying herself with the preparation of food, the woody aroma of sizzling smoked bacon significantly welcomed. Cockatrice eggs were struck on pan lips, joining the crescendo of noise performed by bubbling fats. Nobody had asked for anything to eat of course, but it didn’t need to be said.
‘Nice to know that we did well at some point in our lives.’
‘Comforting, I say.’ Kitty prodded the eggs about.
‘What do you remember best about those two? Misu and Franco I mean.’ Katerina sipped a good half of her drink and placed it oh-so-carefully on the perfect veneer of the cherry-wood tabletop.
‘The bickering, mainly. The boss had plenty of problems with the way Misu put things to him when he had a bad idea. Don’t take that the wrong way. I loved Franco for what he did but boy, he could be a pain in the ass.’ Corinne sipped her coffee, exhaling its heat. ‘Such a pain in the ass, I tell you.’
A ripple of laughter reached the edge of the room, encouraging all those it met.
‘That he was. But Misu wrangled him and kept him in check whenever he was too demanding. He was a perfectionist. There’s nothing wrong with that, but … I mean …’ Kitty juggled a line of frying pans, knocking the contents around, struggling to find the appropriate words.
‘Hard work at times,’ Corinne chipped in.
‘Exactly. Hard work.’
‘A break wasn’t such a bad thing to give us! What, was he afraid we would run at the first opportunity? Sometimes I just wanted to let my hair down, find some back alley street vendor and eat until I could barely move.’
‘What’s wrong with my food?’ Kitty pricked her ears up, taking it as an insult. Her tending to the contents of the pans was uninterrupted. Corinne made sure that she wasn’t misunderstood and taken personally.
‘Nothing, dear, you’re a fabulous cook. Sometimes people don’t want fabulous. They want –’
‘Dirty,’ Katerina added flatly, though queried her own word choice.
‘Exactly. Yes. That.’
Katerina rested her head in her hands, uneasy with Jacques tending to his grief with booze in hand. She had witnessed far too many succumb to the bottle when using it to drown misery and unable to climb back out again, persuading her to avoid that pitfall. It was a worry. He was a worry. Attempting to ignore it, she recalled her fondest moment with sincerity in her voice, though she kept an eye on his secretive grumbling.
‘I remember this one time that I fell ill. I spent a few days shivering and sweating in bed – horrible it was. Of course I was just paranoid I was going to let Franco down. I had only been with you all for a couple of weeks, so I was insistent I was going to perform for the show that night. So I’m there sneezing and my teeth are chattering as I’m so cold. Misu tells him that I’m sick. He comes knocking on my door and sits on the bed and I begin to ramble. I tell him that I’ll be fine. I tell him that I can do it no problem. No problem at all.’
Corinne smiled to herself, remembering the time all too well. ‘Not in your condition, he said. I remember that. All that sneezing – and you gave it to a couple of others if I recall correctly.’
‘You know what he does?’ Katerina’s voice faded slightly in earnest. ‘He shoots me down. I won’t have you doing that, he goes. You stay here and rest; we’ll be fine without you. It’s just one show – it’s not worth doing yourself a mischief. Well I’m just a wreck at this point anyway and I just start crying. I mean, I can’t stop. He leans over and takes my hands. I tell him that he’ll get sick – that this thing is probably contagious. You know what he says? He looks at me and goes: I’ll take my chances.’
Katerina dabbed her eyes on her dress sleeve, careful not to paint mascara on the material. Her smile was cracking as her lips quivered. ‘Wasn’t that just like him?’
‘I would argue he took too many. Thieving stowaways. Bad deals. Never saw him not bounce back from it all. The man sure did know how to push that luck of his.’
‘I suppose he never believed it would run out.’
‘What about you, Corinne? You knew Misu longer than any of us here. Surely you have stories to tell.’
* * *
Sure, she had stories. Plenty of them in fact. She had stories of the pair of them trapped in a nest of vipers, forced to do things to keep themselves alive and their limbs intact. There was plenty to be told about how Corinne herself was paraded on show for folks rich in currency and broke in morals. They had met one another in what generous people called an establishment of entertainment. In reality it was a club where criminals congregated, bragged about their misdeeds, and made their plans.
It just so happened that women like them were bought and paid for, shuffled around like property. Corinne kept her mouth shut, doing enough to keep her unscarred, performing as was expected and never putting a word out of turn.
But Misu was different.
She adapted. Instead of falling into the long-drop trap, she talked to the right people and made the right impressions to ensure that nobody laid their hands upon her person. She was clever – too clever some would say – walking the thin line of cunning, though those around her would not compliment her for that. Cunning usually resulted in betrayal. And betrayal could get you killed.
So she carved her reputation among those caught up in the debacle that nobody was to cross her. She would be your best friend if you won her favour, or your greatest threat if you lacked it. Securing her place in the food chain, she and a handful of others brokered the dealings of innocent women, played the games those in power wished them to play, and did so in such a way to keep herself always one step ahead.
Corinne had stories, but none that they would want to hear, and nor were they appropriate. Instead she recalled something more light-hearted.
‘I remember the dandiest thing I got told. It was when Franco took on that stowaway, whatshername …’ She circled her hand at the wrist.
‘Wyld,’ someone added.
‘That’s her. Jacques has this girl dragged out of her hiding place and taken to the boss. She’s squirming, thinking that she’s going to be straight up executed and babbling about being heard. On the way she sees her opening and belts him one! Bam! Gives him a damn good print of her fist on the cheek, which stuns him somewhat. Jacques hits the floor and Wyld runs for it. Well she doesn’t reach the carriage door before Misu steps through. She sees Jacques all down-like and deduces that this desert rat must have been the cause.’
‘Then what?’ A handful of others parroted the question. Corinne tossed her hands out, gesturing.
‘She stands aside! Just, whoop, steps to the side in the doorway, looks her right in the eye, and says: In case you’ve not noticed, you’re stuck on this train in the middle of the hottest damn sand you ever did see. Unless you’re looking at dropping every last one of us like you did our friend there, this is all rather pointless. You’ve got nowhere to go, unless you fancy jumping. And you know what Wyld did?’
‘What?’
Jacques bit at the inside of his mouth, impatient for the anecdote to end.
‘She gives up. Just sits her ass on down and waits for Franco to turn up. A moment passes, Franco barges in, and Jacques picks himself up from the ground …’
Jacques interrupted with a sudden, sarcastic snort before Corinne continued.
‘However she does it, Wyld convinces Franco to give her passage. Now Misu, she doesn’t like this one bit. Change to the status quo makes her suspicious so, when the need takes her, she sits herself down and starts interviewing Wyld.’
‘Interviewing?’ Kitty scrunched her young face up, producing wrinkles before her time.
‘Interviewing. Like, asking her all the questions of initiation to make our troublesome little stowaway a showgirl. Calm as anything, she was. It’s a ruse of course but the girl don’t know this. Wyld starts protesting but Misu is too quick and starts saying this and that, asking her how good her dancing is, and makes a point that she’ll need significant work prettying her up for the shows – especially the hair. This goes on for a good few minutes until Franco, who’s been staying silent up to this point, just bursts out laughing, finding the whole thing hilarious. It took a few minutes before Wyld calmed herself but it was a joy, such a joy …’
The broad smile eventually subsided upon realizing once again that two of their number from the anecdote were missing. This was mirrored by almost everybody else in earshot.
Corinne took to her bare feet, a mite unsteady, and raised her drink up. The others followed in unison, blinking back tears of their own.
‘To the Gambler’s Den. To those who are with us today.’ Corinne held her cup aloft, trying desperately to keep it steady before sternly adding with a final push, ‘And to those we have lost along the way.’
* * *
Jacques sank the last of his tribute with one large, quick mouthful. Since he had arrived he had taken a bottle of white wine for himself and emptied its contents, first by a glass before forgoing this step completely. He slowly assessed every face around him, the collected showgirls of the Gambler’s Den, now performers without a stage, comfortable in their new home. And what a home it was! Such extravagance! What incredible generosity from the locals! How fortunate that they should land on their feet.
Then there was talk about the restaurant. It was Kitty’s idea really, what with her vested interest in the practice since a considerably young age. Being raised on a farm had its perks of becoming creative with food. Being that the Den was no more, not only could the restaurant be a source of income but it would also ensure the girls remained together.
She had tossed the thought around with one of her drinking sessions with the landlord, who excitedly proclaimed he knew someone who would happily front the money as a partner. Corinne had intervened when word got out, to ensure everything was being done on the level; but all this talk made Jacques uncomfortable. Plans were being made. Futures were being decided. All without him.
A half-hearted suggestion was made that he could work there too, but doing what exactly? Carrying plates? Scrubbing dishes? That wasn’t his forte. There would be little need for decent muscle, the only requirement being the possibility of shaking down those who hadn’t paid their bill.
It was laughable.
Good for them. They’d made a life. They’d become comfortable. They were moving on.
Good for bloody them.
It wouldn’t have occurred to them that one of their number hadn’t enjoyed such good fortune. They never had to settle for barn floors or dark alleys to sleep the drink off. It didn’t matter to them that good-natured smiles never followed warm welcomes when he made his presence known. Reminiscence bore into him like a drill, pulling and churning his temperament into frustration.
While they were spending the coin of others, what did he have to contend with? Dock work? Working in the mills or the mines? He may as well find his fortune as a singing vagabond. Sadly a man of his status, or a man in general, was not so fortunate to enjoy the generosity of strangers. His reputation had ensured anybody who was worth anything in this city would distance themselves. Associating themselves with Jacques was suicide of both status and possibly of the mortal variety too.
While the girls comfortably avoided peril, Jacques was a marked man. Franco Del Monaire had asked him to do what was necessary to protect the girls of the Gambler’s Den no matter the personal cost. To ensure this, Jacques took it upon himself to testify against Wilheim Fort, a cruel individual who riddled the great city of Windberg with his wrongdoings.
The chain reaction this caused was momentous. Once respected individuals were discovered to be in cahoots with Wilheim, arrests were made by the dozen. Powerful people fell from grace. That power had to be directed somewhere so repercussions became inevitable.
The first time it happened, a couple of goons tried to jump him at a bar, giving a quick warning and a knife to the gut. He was lucky and the resulting tussle left him with just a few cuts but the message had been delivered sternly. Jacques took to carrying iron every day after that in preparation for the inevitable reoccurrence.
Despite catching a bullet in the thigh, the next assailants caught considerably more to the chest. The one after that was tossed down a cliff after an almighty struggle. Standing on the cusp of a windswept gully, Jacques had grimly realized these attempts weren’t going to stop. He had no concerns about killing a man. He had done so plenty of times and for plenty of reasons, a handful considerably rotten, but this? The relentlessness of it was painfully apparent.
The cost of this bargain was uncomfortably high. Inconveniences he could deal with, hell it was expected, but forfeiting his life, his entire life? Nobody else was dodging bullets. Nobody else had to toss unscrupulous folks down into ravines for a dirt nap.
And here the girls were, speaking as if Franco and Misu were heroes, monuments to the people they once entertained, worthy of praise that stopped just shy of worship.
‘This is stifling,’ he finally said, striking his bottle on a table with a thump, narrowly missing the handle of his revolver that had been placed there for convenience.
‘Jacques?’
‘It makes no real difference, does it? They’re both dead and we’re sitting around talking about what could have been. We’re left behind contemplating the future. It’s selfish, is what it is. No two ways about it.’
Everyone fell quiet, the more timid among them avoiding eye contact and fiddling with their drinks.
* * *
‘We’re all hurting, Jacques. You’re not unique on that front.’ Corinne scrunched up her features in disgust. She had grown tired of this spectacle some time ago. His constant moaning and alcoholism was a bore and, frankly, she expected better of him than to drink himself stupid. They needed solidarity between them, not this.
‘Oh, work it out why don’t you. Sitting about here moping, mumbling little treasures about how the good times were. Let me tell you a fact and take it any way you desire. We weren’t saved by that pair. We were cast aside. We were left behind! They took the easy way out, dying a death out in the Sand Sea like martyrs. We got the bum end of the deal. You can be all red and puffy-cheeked in outrage but that doesn’t sway the fact that I’m right. You were all taking too long to work it out so I figured I would accelerate maters. Let it sink in. Think it over.’
His eyes locked defiantly with Corinne’s. She waited for this little outburst to be done, though he spoke with considerable malice and smiled like a predator would smile, then he took a hearty swig of poison.
‘Stings like a bitch, don’t it?’
Corinne retaliated flatly. ‘You’re drunk. Again, may I add, and it’s not even midday. Did you wash in scotch when you woke this morning? On today of all days?’
‘What can I say? Sobriety has lost its sparkling appeal.’
‘Has compassion too?’ Corinne snarled in challenge. She had tolerated this tirade for far too long. For a handful of weeks now, she had endured Jacques being stinking drunk whenever he rolled himself out of whatever bordello he had talked himself into.
‘You don’t get to say that to me. Nobody does. You have no idea how much I’ve put myself on the line for you, for all of you! You can doll yourselves up and pretend to move on, be in tears for the papers when they take nice photographs to further your agendas, but some people, better people, just don’t have the stomach for that. Sick as it is to admit, you have to respect Wilheim Fort. He has one over each and every one of you. For all his terrors, at least he never put on a charade to hide what he did. He never faked his intentions. Can you all say the same?’
There was a pregnant pause. Nobody moved.
‘You want to turn around and go out that door. Right now,’ Corinne threatened, though what she said was not a suggestion but a demand. He wasn’t welcome here any more, not if he was going to behave so undignified.
‘You’re damn right I do,’ Jacques agreed. He swung his jacket from the seat arm in a rush and made his way outside, slamming the door in frustration. The connected bell danced on its bracket, almost detaching itself in shock. Nothing was said inside for a while, as the only noise was the slowing rattle of glass in the doorframe, followed by an empty bottle tossed into the street and bursting on impact.
‘So … we’re not doing anything about that?’ Katerina finally asked. Corinne was quick to shoot down the suggestion. She marched to the door and flipped the latch to lock.
‘No. Let him go. Let others suffer his egotism – I’m done with it. We don’t need it under our roof.’
‘And what he said of Wilheim?’
Corinne sunk her teeth into her lower lip in frustration. The insult stung considerably more than the pain she administered herself.
‘Pay it no mind,’ she dismissed. ‘He’s behind bars now. He’s no concern to anybody.’
* * *
Wilheim Fort sat quite contentedly in his cell. The bars were pitted and stained by age and who knows what. The walls were carved with the names of previous occupants, some now being the only evidence of their existence. The uncomfortable slab that passed for a bed was seemingly designed by someone who clearly despised the spine and had set about destroying it under the pretence of rest. It was a cell befitting murderers, thugs, terrible people who did terrible things by the score and were to be incarcerated in equally fitting surroundings.
It was not at all appropriate for a man of Wilheim’s stature.
As was regular, the guard rapped the bars with his truncheon to get the inmate’s attention. He held in the other hand a tray of what some might generously call food. The meal was slid through its designated slot, spilling somewhat onto the stone floor, not that the jailer actually felt the slightest bit of remorse for this. He knew full well the crimes that Wilheim was to be trialled for, though in his humble opinion would rather the city forgo the circus and simply have him shot.
There were plenty who shared his thinking, a considerable amount under this roof and scores in the city who had cheered the outing of the architect of a criminal empire. Another pair of Bluecoats behind tended to the other cells with equal attention, conveying the meals with little care for the occupants within.
But, curiously, Wilheim simply sat on his uncomfortable bed, surrounded by the words of dead men, and stared directly through the bars stained with who knows what at the man beyond.
In fact, he did more than this. He smiled.
He smiled with such simplicity that one could easily mistake it as arrogance. The guard did so. He had seen this smile every time he took the slop to the cell, every time he called for attention, every time the prisoner’s lawyer came to discuss matters with him. Previously the Bluecoat had been patient. He was disciplined enough not to enter into a conversation with this individual, as his words could easily lead to attempts of bribery, or threats upon his person. This time, however, was different. This time, the Bluecoat gave in to his curiosity.
‘Every time I see your stupid face,’ he snarled, dragging the truncheon across the bars, ‘every single damn time with no break in between, you’ve got that ridiculous smile on you. You have to tell me, sitting in there and stripped of everything that made a monster like you, what could you possibly have to be so damn happy about?’
Wilheim found amusement in this, something that only made his smile wider. He chuckled, descending into a full-blown belly laugh that caused his bulbous body to ripple with each shake. When he found it appropriate to do so, he spoke.
‘You’re correct in saying that plenty has been removed from my person. Plenty has indeed been taken from me. All that I have acquired. All I have built. Well, of course, not all. A man like myself makes allowances for times such as these and ensures that if ill fortune falls upon him, then he owns a safety net of sorts.’
The guard kept tapping the bars. Wilheim continued, getting to his feet with a grunt.
‘It’s not true that I am naked in this cell. For I have something in abundance that I treasure, something that you and your ilk cannot fathom the importance of.’
The Bluecoat strained himself thinking what it could be. His eyes darted around the bare lockup, searching for any hint of something stashed away.
‘Time, you imbecile, I’m talking about time,’ Wilheim hissed in amusement. ‘I have time here to think, to contemplate … to do anything I so wish. With enough time you can raise the grandest of ambitions from nothing.’
‘That doesn’t sound so great to me. Get enough of that and you’ll be reduced to bones right here. I can imagine better things to smile about.’
‘You miss the bigger picture.’ Wilheim tilted his head to the side, his eyes momentarily flicking behind the Bluecoat and back again. ‘Time allows one to achieve a great many things. You can reclaim that which people have taken from you. You can organize repercussions for the ones who have wronged you. With enough time a broken empire can be re-formed. All one needs is patience.’
The Bluecoat exhaled in boredom. It may have been one of the more eloquent rants he had been subjected to, but it was still delivered by a crook behind bars.
‘Then you’ve got plenty of time to think on such things.’
The guard went to turn, though he froze in doing so quite quickly. The smile upon Wilheim’s face had gone, replaced with a bitter, nasty scowl. The air turned cold in the space between them.
‘I’m going to take an educated guess,’ Wilheim said, taking a pair of steps towards the bars. ‘You were assigned especially to watch over me, correct? The sheriff has considerable trust in you – you’ve no doubt been close to him on many an occasion. I imagine he deems you to be steadfast. Honourable. Infallible. Which is why you were given this most prestigious task.’
‘Something like that.’ He frowned in curiosity. Where was he going with this?
‘I imagine it was down to that raid you performed with him on the illicit bootleggers, where you saved the life of the good sheriff and two of his captains. I imagine that would have gained said trust.’
The Bluecoat turned pale.
‘H-how did you know that?’ he stammered.
Wilheim stepped forward once more. ‘Time, as I said. Time to look into my circumstances – with the assistance of others loyal to me of course. For instance, I know that you are married to the rather fetching Darleen and live in something I would consider no bigger than a shoebox. You are proud of your eldest son, since he shows interest in following your misguided footsteps. You are forthright, admired by plenty, with a badge for your steadfast, incorruptible nature.’
Wilheim stood a scant foot from the bars, his eyes glancing behind to the uniformed colleagues who busied themselves.
‘You guard me because the sheriff knows that if I offered you a bribe to secure my freedom, your unshakable character would ensure that you would decline it.’
The Bluecoat swallowed as Wilheim delivered the end of his piece.
‘But your friends wouldn’t.’
The first knife sank into the Bluecoat’s back, deep and between the shoulders. The second slipped around the bare nape of his neck, emptying its contents and robbing the man of breath. He collapsed onto the floor, twitching a few times until remaining still for good. Blood pooled beneath the corpse, reddening his uniform.
All the while Wilheim showed no measure of emotion in his face. Instead he gave his thanks to the pair of now loyal Bluecoats who had carried out the deed, now unlocking the cell with a ring of keys.
He stepped into the corridor, quite careful not to get his shoes soaked in the ever-growing puddle of crimson, listening to the erratic pops of gunfire on the floor above. Everything was going perfectly to plan. His contingencies were now paying off.
Wilheim had used his time to forge revenge against those who had wronged him.
Now, he would utilize his new-found freedom to administer it.
In the two years between the then and the now, Wilheim was true to his word.
Chapter 2 (#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)
The Hare herself
Landusk was one of the first settlements to have developed in the Sand Sea. Scores of migrants from the mountainous territories in the north first created a trading village for trappers who sold exotic beasts found in the wastelands as pets, livestock, or for private zoos.
It soon exploded with success and in turn thrived with housing. Tall gothic buildings were crammed together, dirty, gas-lit streets threaded between them, with sharp corners and eccentric roads. Roofs dominated the skyline with twisted and pointed apexes; lines of windows, shuttered with accompanying iron balconies, flickered with candlelight.
Built upon a foundation of rock, the city was erected in the desert with deep recesses in the sand dunes, a good hundred foot deep in places, making it a veritable island. The only means of accessing the city, by either foot or rail, was a series of bridges that straddled the gulfs. Unable to build out, the inhabitants instead built up.
As was the nature of such things, generations of labourers were broken through dangerous, unforgiving work, all to line the pockets of the elite. The rich became richer and the impoverished simply endured their circumstances, for the alternative outside of the city’s walls ensured the people of Landusk that there was no better place to go.
Times were difficult all round. What people needed was a little respite.
Monday morning was as uneventful as any other before it. The sun still struggled to cast its luminescence into Landusk’s streets, contrasting bright, brilliant light in some districts with deep shadow swallowing others. People went about their routines unaware of what was about to occur. Vendors managed their stores. Merchants bartered their wares at market. Grocers yelled excitedly about their prices. The mailmen went about delivering the post.
But it was today when the mailmen, who did things in their usual manner, were unknowingly the catalyst of a considerably exciting event.
In the upper districts, where the aristocrats and well-off resided, one mailman reached into his sack and withdrew a brick of string-bound black envelopes. Each one was decorated with gold accents on the edges, the backs sealed with white wax, the insignia a curtailed sun and three prominent stars. He had noticed the curiosity back in the sorting office, handed to him before he began his route. All of the addresses listed were on his rounds, all neatly written in perfect white script, so unburdening himself of further curiosity he set about delivering them one by one.
The letters patiently waited on mats and in post boxes for their owners to claim them, who then studied their exteriors as much as the postman. None of the recipients were familiar with such stationery and were especially perplexed at the seal on the letter’s reverse, for it belonged to no one they had corresponded with in the past, nor any in the social circles in which they travelled.
Each envelope was cracked open delicately as if the recipients were fearful to damage such a beautiful façade, though they queried what action they had performed that warranted such theatrics.
The slip of paper inside, deftly double folded and matching the black envelope, had been added with equal care. Neatly scribed over the surface in white ink, the contents provided little in the way of answers:
Dear Sir,
I have great pleasure to inform you that the Morning Star will be present on Sunday 7 p.m. at Redmane train station.
My entourage and I present to you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be in its presence.
Your attendance is my fondest wish.
With deepest respect,
The Hare
The invitations were met with fascination. Those who had received them sought other recipients, discovering a pattern of those in high standing or significantly moneyed. Their speculations, despite having considerable resources, came up with nothing solid, only gin-soaked whispers that drunkards spread for attention. What was the Morning Star and who was its ambassador?
It was initially assumed that these invitations were of an exclusive nature, until word had begun to arise of a commotion from each of the districts, now bustling with excitement. The Morning Star. It was the name that graced posters, which found their way onto noticeboards and stuck to walls in well-crafted advertisements. Their scripted words encouraged gossip by lacking significant details. It gave the where and the when it would make an appearance but little else.
Many wondered exactly what the Morning Star was promoting, if indeed it was promoting anything at all. It was this name that hung on the lips of the fascinated. It was this name that distracted many from their work. The speculation was uplifting, bringing all manner of hearsay, mostly false of course. By the time Sunday arrived the sheer gravitas of rumour left plenty believing that whatever the Morning Star was, it couldn’t live up to the fantasies that had been cooked up.
These people were going to be proven wrong.
By the time Sunday evening came, the night had lowered its veil, letting shadows spill from alleyways and flood the streets in black. The aristocrats – a product of generations of industrial money – walked in procession as if on parade, giving a wide berth to the river of factory workers who shimmied past with speed and eagerness. Shop holders had locked up their premises early and even taverns found themselves alarmingly empty. Chatter filled the chill air, curiosity and excitement mixed as all made their way to Redmane train station.
Unlike the rail lines that shifted ore to the factories on the outskirts, Redmane accommodated a number of passenger routes. It ran between two tall inclines of buildings, stretching straight for a good couple of miles before exiting through the city walls. The twelve-platform-strong station was built to accommodate these lines. It was a dense and haphazard affair that had struggled to keep up with the requirements as the city grew. Its exterior was dated, square and brutal in appearance that very much put it at odds with the surrounding angular, gothic architecture. A clock tower squatted atop the entrance, once an ornate affair that time had reduced to a soiled eyesore. Within the building itself the platforms were packed with bodies, causing a considerable headache for the station guards who herded the inquisitive as best they could in the interest of safety.
The platform clocks all clunked in unison, the hands on the faces moving a few lengths from 7 p.m.
A shrill blast shattered the patient quiet. It cut through the night, a train whistle of course, but this was no normal call of arrival. It was three blasts in succession, the second a good couple of octaves higher than the first, and the last was lower.
Far down the line, out past the wall’s embrace, through the wide city gates and out across the arch bridge, a flicker of light hovered in the black. The spark grew to a single orb of luminescence that approached the city gates, revealing itself to be a headlamp. A locomotive, night-black in colour with red and white detailing rolled along the tracks, its square-panelled casing that sat along its boiler illuminated with every gaslight it passed.
A motif of playful white stars danced from the engine cab alongside all eight carriages in tow, spotless affairs that mirrored every building it passed. Constant puffs of steam were ejected skyward from its chimney as it drove onward, now slowing on its approach to the platform, its massive wheels and connecting rods falling slower and slower in their rotations.
The witnesses held their collective breaths, deafened by the slow yawns of steam. Flickers of light lashed across the vehicle’s surface, revealing the profile of figures standing attentively within its hauled carriages. The engine itself belched thick plumes of white, whistling its song once more as it eased its pace and gradually, perfectly, aligned itself with Platform Three.
The onlookers dared not speak and watched in reverence. A sudden jet of steam against the platform encouraged everyone to take a few steps back.
Against the engine’s brilliantly painted veneer, its name shone out proudly, in accented red with white flicks on each letter.
The Morning Star
The train waited patiently, a skirt of steam creeping over the platform tiling. There was no movement from the blackened interior. The station hands looked at one another in puzzlement. The onlookers waited too, wondering what to make of it. No sooner had the murmuring begun than it was brought to a halt.
The hands of the station clocks all snapped to 7 p.m. Somewhere in the distance a bell rang to signify this.
A powerfully bright shock of lights lit up along the carriages in succession. A figure stood poised, dressed in suit tails, a silhouette against the bomb of illumination. A shower of fireworks burst in successions of threes overhead. The sky pulsed with glitter, their erratic flashes casting deep shadows across the platform. The person strolled along the top of a carriage before delivering a long sweeping bow to the applauding spectators.
A smart dress jacket did little to hide the femininity of the figure, a row of untarnished silver buttons pinning fabric to its absolute best display, lapel perfectly tidy and decorated with a small metal brooch of a stag’s head. The occasional flare of red emphasized pockets, buttonholes, and cuffs. The material, though believed to be a deep grey at first glance, shimmered ever so gently to black depending on the direction one looked, a trick of the light some wrongly assumed. Straight-pressed trousers and smart burgundy dress shoes finished the ensemble, punctuated with a lacquered cane with an engraved metal bulb under palm.
But what people focused on most of all, was the mask.
It was that of an animal, a hare, with long, stocky ears. The eye sockets were angled ellipses, so deep and dark that a peculiar inkiness seems to be all that existed where the whites of anything living should inhabit. The mask ended tracing down the cheek line, puckering up just beneath the animal’s embossed nose. The mask itself was ashen in colour, with ornate decoration highlighting every feature in a reddened metal. Packed symmetrical crimson swirls in the recesses of the ears give definition, a sparse contrast to the seemingly bare strip that followed from forehead to nose. Behind the animal’s features was a shock of blonde hair, tied into a lazy braid that flowed with volume in the cool air of the night.
Atop the carriage, accented by light both natural and artificial, the Hare turned from side to side, taking in the spectators who said not a word between them but watched with awe. When finally satisfied this individual made three loud strikes of the cane end against the carriage’s rooftop.
From beneath, the next three cars had their doors opened and out stepped eleven women, some gowned, some suited, all adorned with disguises themselves. They all wore the same grey and black colours, each one decorated individually with layers of texture, but all were clad in masks. Animal masks hid the features and faces, lending them a mystique of brilliant disguise. A wild cat and a mountain owl stood side by side. There was a thorn swallow, a mouse and many others, all unique, all waiting for the next command. Only these masks were allowed any touch of red. Their uniforms, if they could be called that, were devoid of this vibrant decoration.
Proudly the Hare spoke, her voice intimate yet assertive. It captivated those who watched from beneath.
‘I’ve heard stories about this city. Landusk. A wonder they called you. Grand they all declared, proudly rooted and testament to the unbreakable spirit of those who live in Surenth. Beautiful! Strong!’
Deafening cheers erupted from the platform.
‘But as we approached you, grand as you are, I couldn’t help but see something dissimilar.’
The noise subsided to nothing; fists raised in jubilation slowly started withdrawing.
The Hare stood as if she judged all those beneath her with a gaze most piercing, stony and fierce.
‘A city overgrown, reaching skyward with steeples and rooftops like stretching fingers, begging to the sun and the moon for audience. Buildings exist where buildings should not be, expansive and your confines are shifting ever outward. This grandiose city is a squalor topped with spires, people living upon one another like cattle. Its poorest are brushed aside to die in darkness, their backs broken in the effort to build the foundations of this city and forgotten when of no use. Landusk grows and thrives and lives, but you all forget its lifeblood: your merry selves.’
The woman took a stroll along the carriage roof, slow, with her feet impeccably placed, the cane placed before every step.
‘What I see are narrow streets. Winding mazes of railings and stone, claustrophobic, the fat-choked veins of city whose very blood is in danger of turning stale. You ever-struggling people. You all flow to mill, to yard, to factory, to office, sustaining a mighty creature with toil. Your factories beat like many hearts. You give this city life. Without you all, Landusk would breathe its last and die most unceremoniously. It is a crime that you each forget a solemn fact. This city is not a wonder of the west. You all are.’
Glitter burst in sequence in the sky, coaxing awe and applause. The Hare watched, flecks of colours reflecting from the mask, expressionless though far from emotionless.
‘I bid good evening to one and all.’ The Hare spoke proudly, never elevating to excitement. ‘What a delight it is to see your faces, bright and cheerful. What a delight indeed. Now you may be asking among yourselves who am I, and why I ride this glorious vehicle into your home. Is it for the intention of hauling cargo? Do I have coal for your factories, for the fires to burn? I say to you all: no. That is not my intention, nor that of any other who rides with me. Your toil is witnessed and respected. If I were to bring you new labour, I would have taken the time to address you. If I were to deposit chores upon you, then I would do so at the breaking of the dawn to ensure ample time for their completion. Rest, friends, for this is not the case. The Morning Star carries something of greater worth.’
The Hare changed tone, softer, though still loud enough to be intimate to everyone who watched.
‘My name is no matter, only what I bring is of importance. Once, in a place far from this, I asked myself two things from the Holy Sorceress Herself. The first was to grant me the wealth to live a dignified existence. The other was to satiate my undying thirst. I was rewarded for my faith and now I pass these bounties to you all.’
Fireworks popped once more. Glorious tendrils snaked in the costumed dark, dripping to nothing.
Most of the carriage interiors exploded in light, pairs of doors slid open by the accompanying women who paraded out. They began to construct a multitude of games on the platform before them. Decks of cards were placed alongside piles of chips, whilst stools and chairs were laid out for backsides. One of the carriages threw up its windows, advertising a well-stocked bar.
The Hare swelled with delight, her smile fed by excited cheers, taking a respectful bow to all. The night sky cracked overhead with flashes illuminating the suffocating buildings around the tracks with reds and blues and greens. Pleasure dictated every word. The spectacle she created, her spectacle, was flawless. It had to be so.
‘I am the purveyor and licensee of all you see before you, every bottle you pour from, every dice you ask fortune of, every woman who deals from the pack. To you, I am charity. We are here to give you entertainment, ladies and gentlemen, to put on a show of the highest accord. Landusk! Tonight, revelry is paramount! Tonight, your prayers have been answered! Give yourself time, and whet the appetites that the toil of work has subdued, until the morning stars themselves disappear!’
Explosions erupted overhead, a bevy of sparkle. Sparkle also punctuated the words with suitable bravado. The customers revelled as much as they allowed themselves to, relieving themselves of long-drawn monotony. Joyous singing spread across the train platform, washing over various games at the tables, and mixing with the striking of full glasses in cheer.
Poker and blackjack were played by the score, the curse of the hand sighed by some, fortune praised by others. Roulette balls skipped into pockets, with a cheer exploding from one particular patron who took a risky bet on Number 17. Record players croaked out crackling music, encouraging a score to leave their seats and dance with the first pretty, or indeed handsome, thing that met their eye. Celebration was in the air and the money, much like the booze, flowed without restraint.
The Hare was a disciple in the art of entertainment. Her time as an entertainer for one of the more seedy venues instilled a quality of pride in her profession. Of course the showgirls were employed for their smiles, but that was not all. Any woman has a pair of breasts, the Hare would lecture, but a woman is a powerful, bright being. If a woman was to entertain, she would need to do so with her entire heart. She encouraged each to use her charms, to smile when she needed to smile, to banter and dance and flirt as she deemed fit. When the cards were dealt to each player, every hand motion was delivered with utmost care. The Hare had taught them an art and her disciples had been perfect students.
It had only been a few months since the train was on the rails, as the venture was in its relative infancy, though the trade was more than familiar. The Morning Star, despite being shockingly new to observers with its dazzling, untarnished decor and patina knew the routine well. Those in its carriages had walked this walk before, and were already accustomed to their roles in this grand extravaganza. This life – this nomadic life of fulfilment – was not for everyone, but for its occupants this was normal. The Morning Star was home.
As the Hare sauntered between tables and chairs, she shook hands with the keen, embraced the joyful, and wished the luck of the dice to those who carried favour. She said the words people wanted to hear. Unbeknown to the listeners, they were pale recordings secretly devoid of enthusiasm, for her mind was elsewhere.
The Morning Star hosted a plethora of attractions to create brilliant escapism. The gaming tables did plenty to keep punters transfixed, but it would be impossible to rely merely on such things as losing one’s money only kept them in a seat for so long.
The Hare struck her hands together and called for everyone’s attention. When gained, she strode beside one of the carriages and waved her cane in the air.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please, your consideration if you will. It is time to showcase a distraction. When the day comes to a close, prey once hidden in den and hovel believe themselves safe. But the night brings out its own hunters. At this hour it is only fitting that I introduce to you the Owl of the Morning Star.’
One of the accompanying women took her place alongside the host. She bowed in three directions, quite respectfully, a shock of shoulder-length tawny hair in bloom behind her mask. From inside the boxcar behind, a large length of wood was withdrawn, painted with brilliant white and black concentric swirls, its surface bearing the scars of previous damage. It was set up against the carriage side by an assistant who ensured the feet of the display were quite well anchored.
‘The Owl here is a hunter of the night. A sharp beak and sharper talons hide behind the beauty of its flight. These things are useless without prey,’ the Hare announced. The cane whipped around before her, its point settling upon one of the showgirls who waited a table with a round of drinks.
‘Little Mouse, if you would be so kind,’ the Hare requested.
The Mouse took her leave with an apology and a curtsey, navigating the chairs until accompanying the pair at the platform’s edge. She set herself flat against the board.
‘Your tools, if you please.’ The Hare stepped aside, letting the pair play out their act. With a snap, a collection of well-polished knives protruded between each of the Owl’s fingers, their perilous edges painted with light.
The patrons mumbled hushed concerns.
The Hare watched, never letting her expression slip, never giving an inkling of her thoughts.
The Owl whipped out her hands, letting the knives fly.
The blades embedded into wood, just inches from flesh, against thigh and forearm, by shoulder and shin. The thumps cracked the night, coaxing a number of loud inhalations. The resulting ovation was plentiful as expected, but this was a trick anyone could perform if they had the talent. More knives were launched, faster this time and seemingly with less care. More metal bit wood. Again the onlookers cheered.
For the finale a well-polished apple was drawn from between the folds of the Owl’s dress and paraded in hand to the onlookers. When content with the display, it was placed upon the Mouse’s dainty head, sitting quite neatly on the parting of chestnut hair.
The Mouse did not flinch, as mice do when threatened. She remained perfectly still and patiently waited for the danger to pass.
The Owl slipped the final three knives from within her apparel and had them take to the air above, spinning over and over in a juggle. Faster the rotations came as she checked her line of sight to the Mouse with occasional glances, the sheens of metal now flashing dangerously as they cut light from the station gas lamps.
With a flick of the hand, the first knife slammed to the left of the apple to a cacophony of gasps, touching though not cutting the fruit’s flesh. Those who had covered their eyes withdrew their hands just in time to witness the second knife being launched just as quickly, hitting wood like a crack of thunder, this time on the opposite side of the apple. The motion coaxed the occasional shriek from the more nervous in their midst.
The last knife was thrown in the same beat. With an eruption of gasps the blade was launched through the air. It separated the piece of fruit in half and embedded itself into wood, its thud populating the space that silence had given way for.
The Mouse’s eyes relaxed behind her mask, fingers finally uncurling from clenched fists.
The resulting cheers were deafening. Applause thundered around the station, coupled with whistles of admiration. The Owl strode over to her prey with well-rehearsed pageantry. The knives were each removed and the Mouse’s hand raised with the Owl’s own in triumph. They each basked in the appreciation, though not enough to take the attention away from the host. The Hare gave a soft-palmed applause in congratulation, watching an influx of tips being stuffed into empty glasses or handed to the showgirls passing drinks between patron and bar.
Other acts were performed as the night wore on, some thrilling, some amusing, exhibiting a plethora of talents that coaxed exclamations of wonderment. The night was full of splendour with one delight following another.
The Hare was waved down by an over-exuberant gentleman who spilt his mug of ale this way and that. Clearly he was drunk, being encouraged to keep himself in check by his tablemates, who sheepishly withdrew into themselves upon the Hare’s approach. The man tidied his hair and fixed his tie, mistakenly assuming that this would disguise his intoxication. He wasn’t drunk enough to cause trouble – yet – though it was these very individuals that security on the Morning Star kept an eye out for. A stray hand or baseless accusation of cheating was enough to warrant a strongly worded reprimand. Anything further and they would be escorted away.
‘Aha! Our gracious host! I wanted to extend our sincerest thanks for tonight, from my friends and I … It is a delight that you should visit us! I can’t remember when we had such a grand time.’ This praise was interrupted with a vomit-laden burp, not that it made any difference. ‘All are content, with the exception of my sour daughter Alis, sadly, but she is never one to be pleased.’
The Hare was expressionless, now focusing on the hay-haired pale young woman at the table’s end who blinked in surprise, clad in a quaint butterfly-peppered scarf. She stammered a broken defence.
The mask tilted to the side in question.
‘Boring, I think you said? Hm?’ The man slumped forward, in glee, suds spilling down the grooves of the glass and over his fingers.
The mask tilted again, to the opposite side now.
‘I’m sorry,’ Alis blurted out with a shudder, ‘but all this pizazz, this … this showmanship is hardly befitting of one who promises so much and delivers so little. I am allowed to be bored, as is my right.’ She crossed one leg over the other and turned in her chair, clearly uncomfortable at being the centre of attention.
The gentleman whined, having seen this far too many times. He swilled his drink and wiped the remains with the back of his free hand.
‘The folly of youth, Miss Hare. I feel I should apologize for her. She uses all the long words – and at great length – when a single short one will do. She scoffs at your feats yet has the gall to praise that lacklustre carnival that traipsed through here some months back. I’m at a loss.’
‘Dear sir,’ the Hare said softly, ‘do not chastise one so young for having an opinion. She will grow and realize that all views warp and bend. She must be aware that all things have repercussions and whatever platform one elevates oneself upon are the foundations of ruin. Like you said, it is the folly of youth. We have all entertained the notion in our gentler years that we are above our betters. You are of course allowed to court boredom, and you are also allowed to leave.’
Alis flushed bright pink at the suggestion. ‘I have no reason to go anywhere.’
‘So you remain in my hospitality, quite rooted at this table despite your objections, and I need not wonder why this is so. It is because you wish to be heard above all things. You wish to shout louder so your views weigh more. You slight me to remove the attention from yourself, lashing out to displace whatever it is you wish to displace. You think your self-worth is measured in the burly attention you childishly demand.’
The Hare’s eyes narrowed beneath the mask.
‘I forgive you, miss, for I assure you that we have all seen your kind before.’ She licked her lips slowly. ‘And we do very much tire of it.’
Flushed in face, Alis kicked her chair back, her lips tightly bound together in outrage. She stormed off, pausing momentarily to get her bearings and discover the exit, then marched in the relevant direction.
The man erupted in laughter, slamming the base of his glass against the table in jubilation. ‘She has no stomach, that girl. That’s what time away for education does to you. Leaves you with … with a head full of delusions.’
The Hare bowed modestly. ‘I apologize. I meant no offence to your party.’
‘Yes you did.’ The man grinned, gulping down the last of the golden liquid.
‘Yes,’ the Hare corrected, ‘I did.’
‘Will you join us?’
The Hare politely declined, explaining how others were to be conversed with, playfully adding that there were numerous other insults to administer. But before he allowed her to leave, he asked a burning question that had been of some interest to those around the table.
‘Please enlighten us, we have been talking about it endlessly. Everyone beneath you seems to showcase a talent! May I ask what yours is?’
The Hare paused, curious as to how to respond. The others at the table tried not to keep any sort of prolonged eye contact in fear of facing the Hare’s wrath.
‘I keep all what you see here ticking along. That is a special expertise in itself,’ she stated.
‘Nothing else?’ he drunkenly slurred.
The Hare tilted her head. It had been quite the time since someone had challenged her so brazenly and as was her nature, and the nature of all of those aboard the Morning Star, challenges were to be risen to. Without doing so, there would be a danger of word getting around that their most gracious host was bland in comparison to those in her employ. This, of course, would not do.
The Hare gestured with a grey-gloved hand to a man lighting his cigarette with a silver flint lighter.
‘If you would be so kind as to do me a favour,’ she requested, quite politely.
Confused and intimidated in equal parts, he held out his lighter still aflame, the snifter of fire bobbing this way and that.
The Hare pinched it as one would pinch from a bowl of spice, raised her hand, with the flicker of light now in her possession. The hand offered it to the other, which pinched at it, stealing the flame for its own. The Hare twisted her wrists so they were upturned, raising her arms now in a wide circle. The flame was returned to the opposite hand. The fingers snapped open, revealing the fire now adorning her thumb and every fingertip. They closed once more, transferring to a single flame, snapping wide once more showing just the one balancing on an index finger.
This was repeated in the other hand, identically. As the hands jabbed at one another the flame transferred back and forth, then it became two, one for each hand, rolling in the palms, appearing, vanishing, appearing, vanishing, with every flex and thrust of the limbs. Then the flame separated, adorning both sets of fingers, was conjoined into one before being brought to the woman’s lips, balancing on the black and grey fabric of the glove.
Tilting her head to the heavens, the woman spat a puff of air, jetting the flame out just a hand’s length but still enough to make the onlookers recoil in their seats. It faded away into nothing, leaving those watching in awe.
The Hare took her applause graciously.
The bar began to populate with drained glasses, and sales of fine alcohol eventually dwindled to naught. Cards were folded and final pots given. Those who gambled with too much of their pay had not the heart to try and win it back, embracing their defeat with dignity. Others who were up on their luck sauntered away with glee.
As is true of any enjoyable experience, the evening went far too quickly for the people of Landusk. Midnight passed, forcing a good number of those to retreat to their beds. As time went on even the most avid card player reluctantly made their way home, walking, and in a good number of cases staggering through the streets in drunken song. The last of the most stubborn residents were escorted out of the station and stillness became the norm once more.
The Morning Star sat at Platform Three, with its cargo and companions, quite alone.
The furniture and games were efficiently loaded back onto the carriages, packed for transport as had been done time and time before. The clatter of clean, stacked glasses finally ebbed away and the showgirls’ banter now moved into the carriages with not a scrap of evidence remaining as to what had just happened at Redmane station.
The Hare sat upon a carriage, embracing her legs and gazing down at the rooftops before her. Her focus wasn’t on the spotless rooftops but instead on the tracks that ran into the darkness to the city gate, which was now very much closed. Still she looked, with dulled hazel eyes and enough make-up beneath her showpiece to cover the evidence of too little sleep.
The man beside her was ensuring that.
‘Forgive me if I’m wrong,’ he stated, mimicking her posture and absent stare, ‘but I distinctly remember us having a conversation about avoiding cities like this. Too many powerful folks with moneyed connections playing power games. Experience has proven that crap is bad for business.’
‘I know.’ She turned to him, taking in the splendid black and gold show suit. The mask on his own face, that of a stag with grand horns, was significantly imposing. ‘And like most of your advice, I decided to ignore it. The profits speak for themselves.’
She stared at the mask’s eye sockets, the owner’s pupils quite invisible in the darkness.
‘It’s not all about money you know.’
‘Obviously. Not that you’ve ever admitted that to me before, but I know.’
The stag exhaled. ‘I remember a time when you would listen to me. I miss that.’
‘Things change.’
‘I was never under the illusion that they didn’t. The Morning Star is evidence of that. Speaking of the train, you’re going to run it in to the ground aren’t you?’ He sighed, steering the conversation to something he dreaded.
The Hare didn’t attempt to refute this accusation.
‘If I need to. I’m doing what’s necessary. You of all people can’t chastise me for following that creed.’
‘Obviously not.’ The stag lowered his head, putting a bold statement forward: ‘But everything I did was to keep people safe. Even you. What you’re doing is the exact opposite. It’s dangerous. Are you honestly willing to sacrifice –’
‘I know full well what I have to give up,’ she interrupted. ‘Don’t attempt to lecture me on that front.’
‘That’s always been your problem. You take advice as an insult. If you stopped for just a moment you would realize that, even if you achieved a miracle, even if you somehow pulled this off, things won’t end well for you. Is it actually worth it?’
‘Yes,’ she responded bluntly. She stared at the man’s disguise. It was a question she had asked herself so many times that her decision was borderline reflex.
He turned back, slowly nodding. He finally spoke. ‘I don’t approve.’
The Hare shrugged her shoulders. Of course he wouldn’t. He never would have. It wasn’t his choice to make.
‘Then it’s a good thing you’re not real, isn’t it?’ the Hare confessed.
An interruption came in the form of noise, welcome noise, but enough to derail her thinking.
A burst of sudden heel clicks was followed by one of the more senior showgirls calling for her attention.
* * *
All the while the showgirls attended to the clean-up, the Hare had not moved in posture or averted her gaze. It concerned the one referred to as the Owl. Truth be told, this oddly stoic behaviour concerned the others too, who dared not begin a conversation with her in fear of where it might lead. Some whispered among themselves about what she was doing. One pointed out that she resembled a gargoyle atop a church buttress, playfully of course but nobody laughed.
‘Who are you talking to?’ the Owl put to her, quite confused. ‘I heard voices.’
The Hare slowly looked to the empty space beside her. The phantom her imagination conjured had vanished, a construct that had been increasingly haunting her as the days went by. Its appearance was almost routine now, not that such a thing subdued the pain she felt in its presence.
‘Apparently nobody,’ the Hare confessed with a pained sigh.
‘What’s the plan? Are you going to spend all night up there?’ the Owl, Corinne, called with her hands on slanted hips. A shock of her raven-black hair stirred gently with every motion. Like the others, she had removed her mask when the last of the patrons had left, leaving no need for such things. ‘There is a perfectly comfortable bed in your carriage you know.’
‘I will be fine. Thank you for your concern.’
‘May I ask what it is you’re even doing?’ Corinne sheltered her eyes from the gaslight’s glare with a raised hand.
The response was slow. ‘On the lookout for troublemakers.’
Surely she jested? Corinne took stock of the platform, and their own security – or what passed for it – who had begun to retire for the evening. What possible trouble could there be?
‘There’s nobody here, much less anybody who would cause a ruckus. Even if there was, the station has enough muscle around to deter would-be chancers. I keep saying that we need someone to provide some protection, not a part-timer like you’re satisfied with. Listening to me will allow you to spend time in that comfy, comfy bed of yours.’
‘That you do.’
‘So?’
‘My answer is the same as before,’ the Hare said. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Corinne’s hands dropped to her sides. ‘You’ll think about it. Right.’
‘That’s my decision.’
‘It’s a stupid decision. Look, just come down won’t you? I’m getting a crick in my neck and you need to eat.’
* * *
The Hare didn’t respond.
‘Katerina has made stew!’ Corinne sang. The encouragement fell on deaf ears. The Hare avoided the request and resumed her stare. In her mind, the night concealed dangers, considerable ones at that. It is best I remain, she convinced herself, just in case.
‘I’ve tasted her cooking. That’s not exactly swaying me.’
‘It’s better than nothing.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’ll catch a cold up there as well.’
‘Of that, I’ll take my chances.’
* * *
Corinne leant against the carriage side and patted its surface. This persistent stubbornness was becoming tiresome. At every stop they made, the owner of the Morning Star would retreat like this, paranoid over some unseen threat that stalked them. No matter how many times Corinne insisted that there was nothing to worry about, new excuses were made to the contrary.
‘Your chances mean that you’ll be stuck in bed, and my days will be spent bringing you nothing but soup. We have to be awake in four hours. That’s not a lot of time to get some sleep, especially if we’re to stick to this overly busy schedule of yours that you’re so keen on pushing.’ Corinne glanced at the illuminated city gates down the tracks, barely visible, but still noticeably barred. ‘According to Ferry, the gates won’t be open until nine at the earliest. There’s a curfew in effect, something about random trouble. I don’t know. It’s all very sudden.’
This was enough for the Hare to finally look down to the platform.
‘What sort of trouble? Do we know?’ she asked, quite concerned.
‘No idea. Whatever’s happening, nobody is telling. The law refuses to whisper notions, though I did try to sweet talk them when they were hanging around trying to bum drinks. We have no option but to sit and wait it out I’m afraid. We are going nowhere, dear. You’d best get comfortable if you’re staying up there.’
‘I’m used to the waiting – that’s not of concern. I just don’t necessarily like it.’
‘Don’t like the boredom?’ Corinne asked.
‘I don’t like being trapped,’ the Hare muttered flatly, resting her chin on her forearms.
Again, there was silence.
Corinne finally spoke. ‘Are you sure I can’t convince you?’
‘I’m sure,’ came the reply, though this time she turned again and made eye contact. The pair watched one another until Corinne relinquished with a shrug.
‘Well, if you insist. Wait here. Not that you’re doing anything else of course …’
* * *
Corinne stormed along the platform and into the warm glow of one of the few illuminated cars. There was a good couple of minutes where there was nothing. There was no noise, there were no interruptions, only the perfect stillness of the city night. Landusk had seldom seen such tranquillity and whilst it may only last a scant few hours, it was something quite wonderful to treasure.
Then Corinne returned.
‘If you’re not coming for food, then the food’s coming to you.’ Corinne’s voice floated from over the carriage side, joined by the striking of shoe on ladder. The woman hoisted herself up, balancing two flower-decorated bowls with protruding spoons. One was placed before the Hare and the other was set aside temporarily. ‘Compliments of Katerina. Come on, take that stupid thing off – the show’s over.’
Corinne reached to relieve her manager of her mask, though she was met with immediate hesitation. In truth the Hare had forgotten that she still wore the showpiece. Its presence was so invisible that it felt as natural as her hand or foot. The flinch given was telling, though her eyes softened momentarily, allowing for Corinne to it relieve her of its burden.
* * *
Beneath the mask, the woman gave a long exhalation, patches of skin red from the mask’s pressure. Pits of black eye shadow reduced her eyes to a pair of dulled gems in a lagoon of make-up, hiding tell-tale signs of insufficient rest and obsessed troubles. Her lips, glossed slick, had worn a fake smile all night but this too had been removed, leaving a thin stoic line. Misu’s eyes softened in thanks.
The disguise was placed carefully beside her and just out of reach to ensure it wouldn’t be accidentally kicked aside. Corinne made her best effort to coax a smirk with one of her own though this was sadly ineffectual. Admitting defeat, she offered the food, relieved when it was finally accepted.
‘Here. It’s good for what ails you.’
‘Thank you,’ Misu said, cupping the bowl in her hands. She stirred the contents. Meat and vegetables bobbed around, suspended in a thick, pungent gravy. Its smell was a distinct comfort, a musky, woody aroma with the tang of onion.
‘Don’t mention it.’ Corinne crossed her legs and began to take spoonfuls of stew to her hungry mouth. A carrot dissolved to nothing as it rolled around on her tongue. A cube of meat required more chewing than she was comfortable with, but despite these flaws they contributed to a substantial meal.
Corinne wagged her empty spoon about.
‘I see why you like it up here. It’s pretty peaceful.’ She surveyed the darkened gothic buildings that sandwiched the train tracks. Barely any windows accommodated the glow of candle or oil lamp with most of the city’s occupants in their beds, unsurprising given the hour. ‘We don’t have much of that these days given the circumstances. I wouldn’t have imagined it could be so quiet being smack in the middle of such a big city.’
* * *
Misu changed the subject immediately, knowing full well when someone was probing for answers to challenging questions. ‘It’s a nice city, this. I wouldn’t mind returning sometime soon. There are good people with deep pockets. The takings were fine, or at least from what I’ve been told so far.’
‘Elizabeth says this place is all too claustrophobic. Doesn’t like that everything is built on top of itself. Tight streets and all that.’
Misu began to scrape at the remains in her bowl, taking the last few mouthfuls. ‘That’s a normal country girl reaction. Big cities don’t suit ’em. How is our songbird coping? We could have used her tonight. The punters were receptive. Could have brought in a lot of extra money if she did her set.’
‘She’s resting her voice. It won’t be long until she’s fully recovered. The worst is behind her or at least that’s what she insists. The girl has practically been living on sweet tea. I’ve been told she’ll be fine for the next show. Despite that, it should be said that she still manages to muster complaints.’
‘I have to confess, she’s a complainer that one,’ Misu stated with concern. ‘Always with something to say, rarely good.’
‘Nerves I’m sure. Do you think she’s trouble?’
‘Hard to say. What I know is that we need her on form and quickly. It’s been a month and she’s only done two performances.’
‘Come now, you can’t blame her for falling ill. That’s just bad luck.’ Before her manager could respond with a rebuttal that would sour the conversation, Corinne placed her bowl down on the rooftop and scrunched up her face in thought. ‘You’re right you know.’
‘Huh?’
‘The stew could be better.’
Misu finally gave a small smile, the first one witnessed tonight outside of the performance. Corinne took the bowls and stacked them atop one another. They both leaned back on the carriage.
‘You’re not going back in?’ Misu asked.
‘And leave you alone out here? That’s just not right in my book. No, you get my company – and no objections.’
‘No objections, boss,’ Misu corrected.
‘As you wish. That’s still difficult to get used to.’
‘You and me both, but these are the times. It’s strange days when you’re being dragged from place to place by, technically, a dead woman.’ Misu snorted in amusement, glancing to her mask that held a subtle hint of her reflection. The ruse created to conceal her identity fit in well with the natural theatrics that the Morning Star thrived on.
Nobody cared that the show was a copycat – if they did it was never brought up in her company, but out here in the far south of Surenth, where the Gambler’s Den never travelled previously, the locals found it refreshingly new.
Despite the dangerous circumstances and morbid nature of such an ordeal, Misu’s death was the best thing that ever happened to her. ‘You’d be surprised how liberating dying is.’
‘I’ll have to give it a try sometime. There’s plenty that I would love to leave behind in an empty grave. Not that I need to explain that to you …’ Corinne’s smile dropped.
The conversation had struck too raw a subject, so Misu guided it back to work. ‘Good performance tonight. For a moment I honestly believed you were going to sink a knife into Colette’s skull. As did all of our onlookers.’
With a flex of her fingers, Corinne seemed to be recalling every detail of her exhibition, remembering the weight of the blade in her palm. ‘I’ve never missed a throw before. That little one worries too much. Like I say every time, as long as she keeps still there’ll be no accidents. She just fidgets when nervous.’
‘On the account of the sharp objects flying in her direction no doubt. It makes one a tad touchy. I can’t imagine why.’
Misu produced a silver cigarette case from her inner jacket pocket and a matchbox, offering a smoke to the kindly woman beside her whose company was appreciated. Both were lit and the pair leant on their backs, staring at the fissure of night sky between the tall gothic buildings that enclosed the station. Stars sparkled, with the merriest hint of the moon painting its lustre across a line of roof tiles.
Nothing was said. Gentle, patient puffs of smoke wafted between them in turn, carried on by the warm breeze that drifted across the train tracks. It was a tranquillity that scrubbed the grime and the effort that the show inflicted. Muscles didn’t seem so aching, bones not as sore. For the shortest of moments, the dangers and difficulties that this life brought Misu – and indeed all on board – felt non-existent.
And then Corinne had to go and ruin it all.
She withdrew her cigarette between scissored fingers, its butt painted with red lipstick, and she squinted at the stars. ‘You’re doing good, you know? Franco would be proud.’
There was never going to be a good time to draw attention to any of that, now maybe less so than any other. Simply hearing his name caused her heart to sink to some dark sea within her, struggling with the thoughts, the feelings, the memories, every facet of the circumstances that had brought about her being the Morning Star’s caretaker. It rightfully belonged to another, one more suited to the theatricality, who had made a life of doing so and most importantly knew what he was doing. She was lucky – lucky to be here at all, let alone to have stewardship of such a spectacle, and she was damned if this would be an opportunity wasted. It would be easy, preferable even, to simply draw the whole show to a close and pack it up for good.
But Misu owed Franco a tremendous debt. Some debts, he once informed her, can’t be repaid. It doesn’t mean that one should stop trying to do so, though.
Misu drew a touch longer on her vice before responding. ‘Let’s hope he sees it that way.’
Corinne nodded, swinging herself up after giving a minute for the mood to pass. ‘I’m going in. I miss that bed of mine too much, little luxury that it is.’ She moved to the carriage side and took a foot to each rung over and over, pausing to say her last piece: ‘I’ll be sure to mention to Ferry that you’re up here tonight. We wouldn’t want him mistaking you for a prowler now, would we?’
Misu’s throat closed up momentarily, refusing a decent reply any sort of momentum. Instead, she swallowed the words away and gave substitutes. A wetness that coated her eyes was blinked away and her gaze remained fixed on the black void high above. ‘Goodnight, Corinne.’
‘Aye, goodnight to you too.’
The carriage doors shunted to a close leaving Misu truly alone. Once upon a time she would have been content with that.
But Franco had convinced her otherwise.
* * *
Misu protested in the strongest terms at this idea. She had turned back more times than she could count, forcing Franco to convince her and take her by the hand in an attempt to share his courage. It wasn’t working of course. Her stomach danced around as if somebody was playing a drumbeat upon it. The sun-drenched streets of Windberg were far from busy at this early hour but still there were enough people to give the pair suspicious glances. Almost all assumed them to be partaking in some lovers’ quarrel, a good-natured one but a quarrel nonetheless.
‘This is the very height of ridiculous ideas,’ Misu protested, hiding beneath a large-rimmed hat that protected her from the sun, as well as other things. Her dyed blonde hair had been tucked up beneath the hat, its owner paranoid that somehow those passing could easily identify her. This wasn’t the case of course but for someone classed as deceased, the possibility of recognition was always a concern.
Franco did his best to ease her worries once again. Unlike her, he walked confidently to their destination, smartly dressed in a plaid suit, waistcoat, and tie, with his eyes hidden behind green-lensed sunglasses.
‘Last night you said it was good. Perfect, even! You’re changing your mind now? I said we both had to be completely in agreement. You agreed. I distinctly remember you agreeing.’
‘I remember the bottle we emptied, not necessarily any decisions being made.’ Misu pouted.
‘We’re here now. There’s no turning back.’
They both stared at the front of the establishment. Sandstone pillars forged high archways, the patio beneath lined with well-polished square tables. Behind the glass to the inside, glowing lanterns could be seen, hanging high above lines of bigger tables, congregating around the kitchen that was positioned in the centre of the room. The kitchen itself was enclosed by the bar, making it a communal centre, where patrons would watch meals being prepared, converse with the staff and drink bar-side if need be.
Fastened to the wall was a perfect metal sign, embossed with the name of the restaurant itself: Blue Sky.
‘Yes there is,’ Misu contested, turning on her heels once again. ‘There’s the opportunity to turn back right this very moment. See, I’m doing it now.’
Franco snagged her arm and pulled her beside him. ‘Back you come – come on. We’re doing this.’
‘What if they’re angry?’
‘They undoubtedly will be.’
‘You left that part out when convincing me this was a solid plan.’
Franco led her slowly to the door, one step after the other until reaching out and placing his hand on the handle, despite the closed sign hanging on the glass. ‘You never asked. Ready?’
From inside, figures went about their business, quite content to go about the daily routine, unaware who was about to stroll through their door.
‘No?’
‘That’s a shame.’
Franco heaved the door ajar. The gentle tinkle of a bell caught the attention of the women inside, especially the one in the middle of the kitchen who was jabbing at something boiling in a large pot. In a flurry, Colette advanced on them, waving the pair out.
‘The sign says closed. Did you not see it? Out please, there’s another hour to go until …’ Her eyes squinted in thought at the man and the woman who meekly hid herself beside him. This simply wasn’t possible. ‘Oh no. There is no conceivable way you … you …’
By now the others had taken notice of the confusion and they too questioned what it was they were witnessing. Someone dropped a glass in shock. The woman in the middle of the kitchen fainted in disbelief, taking a pan to the floor with her, which was, thankfully, not hot.
‘Kitty!’ someone cried out and rushed to help her.
Collette still couldn’t believe what was happening. Her heart pounded furiously and tears welled up, causing any other words to fumble out.
‘Franco? Is that really you?’
The owner of the Morning Star removed his sunglasses and smiled his best. ‘Not just me,’ he said. The woman beside him was adamant to shield herself from attention. Finally Misu raised her head, removed the hat, and braced herself for the worst.
Hands covered mouths. In the back, some began to sob.
Katerina staggered out from between the congregation, silent, and stood before Misu whilst examining her face. Suddenly she grabbed her old manager and embraced her tightly, letting some tears fall.
‘Your hair looks nice,’ Katerina said, muffled by Misu’s coat.
In reply the woman choked a thanks, reciprocating the gesture.
* * *
This moment was suddenly shattered, as was the ashtray that had been launched at the wall nearest to the arrivals. It burst into pieces, dotting the ground with chunks of glass. Misu shrieked as it exploded. Franco stood firmly in his place, unflinching.
‘That was uncalled for,’ he firmly stated to the culprit.
Corinne, situated at the bar, lowered her arm, furious and quite disgusted at the pair.
‘Am I hearing things or does the ghost before me actually have a line that defines when things are inappropriate? Because that would be ridiculous to the point of downright tragic,’ she seethed, all a fluster. This remarkable revelation was welcome – of course it was, as every day since the tragedy she had thought of those who were killed – but it wasn’t a tragedy now. It was a lie. A horrid two-year lie made at the expense of those who loved them. Jacques was right: the girls had all been used.
‘I told you …’ Misu whined under her breath to him.
‘It’s a pleasure to see you too, Corinne. Dramatic as always but still, a pleasure.’
‘I wish I could say the same.’ She glared, suppressing the desire to insult him further. Her gaze now fell to Misu who shuddered at the realization.
‘It’s your turn to say something,’ Franco whispered beside her.
Misu elevated her hand and weakly smiled. Corinne rolled her eyes in response.
‘Try actual words,’ Franco insisted. ‘It might help.’
Corinne waited patiently for the gesture to be made.
As Misu attempted to quell Corinne’s understandable outrage, Franco was mobbed by the rest and many tears were shed at the sheer relief of both he and Misu being among the living. They all gathered around to hear the dramatic tale of how the pair survived though the latter months were only touched upon.
Corinne eventually rejoined the group, stony-faced but willing to hear them out, much to Misu’s considerable relief. When Kitty had come around, Colette stood beside her, fanning her with a dishcloth. Whilst everybody came to terms with what had transpired, the girls insisted that they both tried the house special – a pecan pie that Kitty proclaimed was the best ever concocted. She wasn’t wrong.
‘This is all yours is it?’ Franco asked, waving his fork around before succumbing to another bite of the dessert.
‘The best place for eats you’ll ever find in Windberg. Fine décor. Spellbinding staff. Amazing food. Best in the city according to some of the papers,’ Kitty proudly stated, her chef whites impeccably crisp despite the earlier mishap.
‘I can’t knock that,’ Misu agreed, polishing her portion off and sucking upon the fork until clean. ‘Something like this must be a dream come true for you.’
Her words tapered off as she and Franco glanced at one another.
‘I take it you two have been keeping a low profile.’
‘Something like that. We’ve been in Eifera mostly, waiting for things to cool down.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Well …’
Corinne, who leant over the back of a chair at the rear, found it all painfully apparent, especially for someone with their ear to the ground as much as her.
‘You don’t even have to answer that. The Morning Star is yours, right?’
‘Is it that obvious?’ Franco laughed, partially from nerves, curious considering the company.
‘A ballsy loco like that rolls in – of course people are going to talk about it. It’s all they were discussing at market when I was collecting the meats. A train like that is only suitable for transporting royalty – or one of your shows.’ She played with the gold rings on her fingers, turning them this way and that. ‘And I sure don’t see a crown on either of your heads. You using a second chance to get up to your old tricks, Franco?’
‘No tricks, I promise you.’
‘This isn’t a catch-up is it?’ Corinne stated with arms tightly folded.
‘I don’t get what you mean.’ Kitty was quite dumbfounded at the accusation. ‘What are you on about?’
Franco leant back. That old cocksure smile he saved for special occasions used to fill Corinne with dread as it was an introduction to something genius, or something foolish being shared. He didn’t even need to speak. She was on to him.
‘Oh hell.’ Corinne strangled an exhausted, disbelieving chuckle. ‘This is a recruitment drive, isn’t it? You want us back, don’t you?’
‘Franco is planning on creating a new venture.’ Misu attempted to field the question but Colette interrupted.
‘You’re doing the same thing as before?’
‘Not exactly.’ He nudged Misu beside him who suppressed a smile of her own. ‘Our goal will still be entertainment, only … bigger. Better.’
‘There would be new contacts, the terms flexible and open to discussion for both the individual and the group.’
‘And what would your role be in all this, Misu?’ Corinne asked, getting directly to the point.
‘I’ll be fulfilling the same role. Everybody who accepts the offer would be reporting to me directly. I’ll manage all the day-to-day running, just like on the Gambler’s Den.
Kitty scrunched her face up to its fullest extent. It was an expression seen on two occasions before. The first was when she thought about what to name the restaurant and spent far too long obsessing over it. The second was when she mixed up the peppers in a dish and didn’t expect her soup to almost melt her tongue to nothing.
‘I’ve got a question. If you’re doing the same thing, won’t people notice the similarities to the Den and start asking questions of a why-aren’t-you-dead nature?’
That old sparkle danced across Franco’s face, a tell-tale giveaway as if he knew a secret that was not to be shared.
‘I promise you, what the Morning Star will be providing, nobody will be able to make that comparison. The Den was just a prelude to what people are about to witness. We were spoken about before. Excited rumours and so forth. But this … What we will be doing will go down in literal legend. That I can promise each and every one of you. Now you’ve asked us questions that I have entertained, so I’ve got one for you all.’ Franco leant forward and folded his fingers together, sweeping his eyes across the faces before him. ‘Who’s in?’
Chapter 3 (#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)
Out of the gates
There were occupational hazards when living nomadically in this region. Firstly, good food, hot water, and a warm bed were difficult to find so when possible, one should indulge in them. Secondly, those with money will always be sought by those without it, so one must always be wary.
And lastly, as was the rule of the desert, despite vigilance one will always be caught off guard.
Leaving Landusk behind it, the Morning Star travelled the arid landscape, which the sun baked and the rainclouds shunned. The train puffed along quite happily to its new destination, where a new show would be performed and profit made.
Before this was to happen, before the splendour and pomp could be supplied, they would need to pass through one of the many checkpoints that interconnected the various territories throughout the region. They ranged from well-funded operations to ramshackle outposts, their effectiveness normally in direct correlation to their budget. The idea was that contraband could be seized and any unscrupulous types could be arrested, ensuring the flow of traffic was in accordance with the law. Sadly those who maintained these outposts were so far from decent settlements that they were practically a law unto themselves.
Crossing out into the Sand Sea corridor, the large lawless expanse that ran from north to south would require passing through these points from the main rail routes and were, for the most part, unavoidable.
Misu stepped out of her private carriage, locked the door, and checked the handle, twice. There was normally no reason to be so meticulous with security but recent events ensured that this had to reviewed. Misu could do without any unnecessary complications. She trusted her employees, that was certain, but she would hate for curiosity to get the better of them.
She ventured through each carriage in turn, nodding hellos to those she passed who gave equal gestures of respect. The variety of carriages all had luxury in common, outfitted with heating that ran from the train’s own boiler and oil lamps. The sleeping car that acted as the showgirls’ own private residence was immaculate as always, with every bunk pristinely made, a routine she vigorously enforced. The dining car entertained a number of women enjoying downtime, or the closest thing to downtime they enjoyed. Some played cards, some read books from a makeshift library that lined a wall, containing tomes of every type including poetry, history, and fiction.
From there Misu crossed to the engine cab and stuck her head out of the cab window. The checkpoint was a good couple of miles away, a squatting wooden collection of buildings with a rather bulky red painted length of wood acting as a barrier positioned across the rail line. Warning signs whipped past demanding anyone approaching to lower their speed.
The driver, Ferry, rested his girth against the cab side, occasionally spying down the track and making changes to the train’s approach accordingly, flicking his strained eyes to the woman opposite. Misu wasn’t ignoring him. She was so absorbed in her own thoughts that it gave that impression.
‘For a moment I figured you wanted to sit this one out. I’ve got no problems getting us through here if you want to stroll on back and close your eyes. We all know that you need it,’ he gruffly offered though a thorny black bush of a beard. It was a polite offer that was made out of genuine concern though he seemed all too aware what the answer would be. When she finally paid him attention, it was given with an expectant sigh.
‘Are you insisting I need rest?’
‘I’m insisting nothing. I just thought it polite that I make the suggestion. I know better than to tell you what to do.’
Misu scanned the bleakness, watching the sight of a sand ship manoeuvring over the landscape, its colossal caterpillar tracks kicking up large drifts of dust. This one was a few hundred feet high and immeasurably long – a mobile village effectively.
‘Ever thought of driving on of those things?’ Misu asked Ferry who took his attention from the track to peer out the window.
‘Not these days,’ he returned. ‘Too many hijacking attempts. There’s been three in the last month alone. Whoever they paid to protect those things must have been in on it. That’s the problem when you contract security groups at port. You don’t know who you’ll get. Who you can trust. I don’t fancy getting stabbed in the back by one of my own. As odd as it may seem, this is a much safer gig.’
‘Figured the size of those things would be off-putting,’ she exclaimed, watching it fall behind a cliff side and out of view.
‘Not this far out in the Sand Sea. They’re turned into bandit nests and stripped out in the Badlands. Before I joined your brigade I did a few crossings through there – at speed may I add. There’s a graveyard around every mountain.’
‘You mean just the stripped ships, right?’ Misu cocked a brow.
‘The crew has to go somewhere.’ He kept his eyes on the track and worked the brake gently. ‘Eyes forward, we’re almost there.’
‘Of all things I get to endure today this here hole in the ground is the one I’m the least enthused about. Sadly I would prefer that I handled matters myself. I can get that sleep when I’m needed less.’
‘And there was me thinking your life is all truffles and fine wine.’
‘It’s good to dream,’ she muttered, taking another look whilst holding on to her wind-flailed locks. The checkpoint was significantly closer.
‘I’m not planning on dilly-dallying. We get things stamped and we’re gone. If I had my way we wouldn’t even put on the brakes.’
‘It’s a disappointing notion for you but even we have to abide by the law of the land.’
‘It’s not the law I’m concerned about.’
Misu hung on to the outer railing as the train pulled in to the station, lining itself up to the checkpoint platform. Its nose approached the lowered barrier gradually and fell between the well-painted markers against platform side and tracks. She waited for the clockwork jet of steam that exploded out with an almighty hiss beneath the engine itself before finally dissipating. She strolled to the steps and hopped down onto the platform, spying an unremarkable two-storey building with pitted tiling. A black painted tin sign hung on the north-facing wall, with paint flaking away from relentless exposure to the environment.
Misu shielded her eyes with a hand and scoffed at the name.
Little Heaven
What a very depressing view of the afterlife, she thought. Her impressions of such a place differed greatly.
Watching since before their arrival, two checkpoint guards sat in the noon shade, tossing cards into an upturned hat. One had his hair combed back to the point where it chanced falling out, or what was left of it at least. The other, young enough to have a badge though seemingly not old enough to shave, set about emptying the hat and recompiling his hand, almost annoyed at the interruption. On Misu’s approach the most senior on duty placed an incomplete deck of cards on the table in front of him before tipping the lip of his hat.
‘Good morning,’ he greeted from his seat, fresh-faced and unusually buoyant. Being stuck out here was enough to cause the onset of depression, Misu assumed, though it was good that someone was able to stave this off – unlike his sour-faced colleague. He watched, flicking debris away from a toothpick.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. A pleasure to be in your company.’
The senior got to his feet and stretched. ‘Kind words. I like you already,’ he stated, attempting to relieve Misu of any concern. Checkpoints were difficult places for all involved. Half were populated with unsavoury types on the take, with the other half a toxic mix of young upstarts who did everything vigorously by the book. Either way, anybody transporting goods normally spent more time at each one than was necessary – or comfortable. She accompanied him along the platform side, his stroll to the front engine slow and patient, as if work was a blight on his person.
‘How are the travels?’
‘Very well, all things considered.’
‘Considered?’ He paused, looking over the carriages that gleamed in the brilliant sun.
‘I don’t need to explain the difficulties to yourself out here, sir. The damned heat is the least of our worries. Little company. Rising costs. It’s a difficult life to be sure.’
‘Ah, yes, now that I can relate to.’ He began marking numbers down in a small notebook. ‘The Morning Star, right?’
‘The very same.’ Misu smiled. Their reputation had grown sufficiently, though in some places this could be unwelcome. Attention could be a curse if it came from the wrong circles.
‘Well I’ll be. For a moment I mistook you for that other one of your kind. What was it.’ He clicked his fingers over and over. ‘Ah! The Gambler’s Den!’
‘That, we are not.’ Misu kept a polite smile on display. ‘I can assure you of that.’
‘No, no you are not, a trick of the heat I imagine. The Morning Star, my word, oh yes. I’ve heard about you, a friend of mine caught a show not too long ago. Said you were the best thing he had ever seen. A circus of pleasure I believe were his exact words.’ He took the last of the carriage numbers down and turned the page in his notebook, giving a series of rapid ticks in a series of columns. Too quick for Misu’s liking.
‘How flattering. It’s nice to know we are enjoyed,’ she stated.
‘Been in any trouble? Any tampering of any sort while you were pulled in anywhere? People sniffing around, the likes of which you haven’t seen before?’
‘Perish the thought. We have someone to deter such things. People would be foolish to even try.’ It was a veiled threat with honeyed words, but a threat nonetheless.
‘Smart move. You can’t be too careful out here. We’ve got bandits rattling around the desert like damned ticks. You don’t have anything on you that you shouldn’t have? Contraband, unlicensed weapons, that sort of thing?’
Misu produced a bundle of well-sorted papers enclosed in leather straps. Every licence had been sorted by type, then sorted alphabetically for ease of inspection. They were received and scrutinized, though it was somewhat more lax than she was used to. Paperwork was stamped and signed before being handed back, with only the travel documents outstanding.
His partner was sniffing around the carriages and almost on cue, a couple of the showgirls slid down a window and began cheery small talk. They cooed and batted their eyelashes, ensuring he was sufficiently distracted. They were young, one a small blonde waif younger than most, the age quite noticeable alongside the freckled red-haired siren who hung on his every word. Misu remarked on this immediately.
‘Don’t be scaring them now,’ Misu called to the guard who quite clearly was pushing his luck. ‘My girls there, they’re fragile things. They’re no use to me spooked.’
The older man ruffled his top lip, sending a greying moustache into motion.
‘I don’t suppose we could convince you and your entourage to step out for a drink, could we? Like you said, company is fleeting around here and we’ve been starved for anything resembling fun.’
‘Sweet, but we must decline. We’re on something of a tight schedule, and punctuality is a forte of mine. I’m sure you understand.’
The senior made the last of his notes and tucked his notebook into a breast jacket pocket.
‘Well, I would say we’re all good here, miss, though there is something still outstanding.’
Misu kept her performance perfect. A query with no hint of sarcasm was delivered. ‘Oh? And what would that be? You can inspect inside if you so wish. I assure you, we have nothing to hide.’
‘There’s a, er …’ The man hesitated before leaning in closer. ‘There’s a tax in these parts for this particular type of vehicle.’
Misu sighed. ‘A tax.’
‘Right.’
‘Let me guess. A very specific tax for only vehicles of this very specific type. Correct?’
He nodded.
‘Meaning only mine.’
The nod was repeated.
‘How much?’
‘Around four hundred should cover it.’
‘You’ll get three,’ Misu countered, tossing the pleasant impression aside. ‘And I won’t hear a single objection. You’re pushing your luck out here. A bribe is not extortion. Learn the difference.’
Reluctantly she handed over a bundle of worn notes and waited for him to finish counting. When he was done, the money was inserted alongside the notebook for safekeeping.
‘I’m starting to wonder how a businesswoman like myself can ever make a profit out this way. Ask for that much from everyone and nobody will want to pass through.’ Misu scowled.
‘I’m sure anyone with a competent vocation can recoup this meagre amount in no time.’
The travel documents were stamped with the checkpoint’s seal and handed over. Misu snatched them back into her possession.
‘Besides, if you have difficulties on that front there are other ways to recoup your losses.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Sure you do,’ he repeated in a purr, reaching forward and leaning against the carriage. In any other situation Misu would have vigorously insisted that his hand was immediately removed. On a bad day she would be more inclined to break it. But there was no need for hostility yet. ‘You have the means here to make plenty of coin on the side. I think all you need is someone to broker the deals and you could live tidy. I can think of plenty.’
‘I sure don’t like your tone. Nor do I like what you’re implying.’
‘I could spell it out but the words I would use may not be suitable for delicate ears.’
Misu seethed. ‘My business is not perverted on the whim of the desperate. You’re not the first to suggest such vulgarities so I will tell you with no room for misinterpretation: I haven’t got this far just waiting for a man to corral us into a better life. We don’t need saving. We don’t need your management. All we need from you, right now, is to get out of the way.’ Misu moved her eyes to his intrusive limb. ‘Now get your damned hand off my train before I remove it myself.’
He shrugged in easy defeat as Misu began to climb the steps to the engine, encouraging the bulk of a man waiting inside to hold his tongue. Ferry was keen to intervene, vocally at that, but was silenced with a sharp swipe of her hand in the air. Instead, the driver returned to checking the various dials and gauges in the engine cabin, ensuring that they were ready for departure though not without a small amount of muttering. This was a colossal waste of everyone’s time and the sooner they left the better.
‘Nothing I could do to make you reconsider?’ the checkpoint hand yelled up to the woman as she issued orders to the driver to prepare to release the brake. The Morning Star gently throbbed into life, puffing out small jets of steam from its chimney.
Misu hung out of the cab to deliver her response. ‘Not in the slightest. Raise the barricade and tell your friend to step aside otherwise he may be pulled under our hefty wheels. We wouldn’t want that now, would we?’
Misu stubbornly brushed past Ferry and yanked on the whistle cord in two sharp bursts, impatient at having to endure any further interruptions. She would set them off herself if she had the knowledge though instead had to wait patiently for Ferry to do what he was paid for. He grunted after letting Misu have her moment before patiently heaving back the throttle and locking it into place.
The barricade was raised with the checkpoint hands waving the Morning Star away and out into the wastelands. Then, and only then, could Misu finally breathe a sigh of relief, but she knew full well that there still was plenty to be concerned about – and time to make up.
Chapter 4 (#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)
Attempts at small talk
The end carriage of the Morning Star was an observation car. It sported large windows, quite ornately decorated – much like the rest of the train – with walnut panelling, symmetrical bound curtains and flowered glass oil lamps connected to the carriage sides. The observation car was split in half, the first accommodating two lines of large leather chairs with side tables for each. The rear end of the car was domed, with two tiers of windows that provided a splendid panoramic view for those in motion. When in show, it became the locomotive’s smoking lounge.
It was here that Misu tucked herself away.
The windows were lashed with a shock of rain that trailed in thin rivers as they moved at speed. The cloudburst covered the sky in deep greys, built up from the region’s uncompromising heat. When rain fell in Surenth it had a tendency to fall hard and this was no exception. The cool wet breeze wafted through the car’s brass vents. Thankfully the deluge was little consideration to the Morning Star, which puffed on regardless. On the horizon a crack of lightning split the sky, landing somewhere on a hillside, its accompanying boom taking its time to reach the train.
Misu looked both at the window and through it, her eyes sometimes focusing on her reflection that seldom looked as tired as she felt. Quite the opposite in fact. The perfect duplicate seemed to stare back, even when Misu gave the slightest of squints as lightning fell once more.
‘Here you are. I’ve been from one end of the train to the other looking for you. Wait, do my eyes deceive me or are you actually relaxing?’
Misu snapped her attention away from the window as Corinne strolled inside. If it wasn’t for her announcement it was possible that she would have been totally oblivious to the company. Misu gestured to the paperwork on a smoking table beside her chair, accompanied by a plate of cake and a white china cup of pink tea seated on a dainty saucer. ‘Evidently not.’
‘What do you call the sweet, then?’ Corinne seated herself beside Misu in one of the high-backed leather chairs with unusually large armrests. It, and the others in the observation car, held people comfortably upright for taking in the view when the locomotive was in motion. Corinne often likened the chairs to a large hug. A couple of the shorter employees referred to feeling as if they were trying to eat them.
‘I call it a welcome break before the carnage is brought before me.’
‘You’re exaggerating.’
Misu pointed once more to the inch-high pile of paperwork she needed to review before reaching their destination. The train’s manifest was double-checked for accuracy, ensuring their last purchases matched what was on board. It was a painfully numbing experience and no way to entertain a few hours. A single detail out of order could spell disaster when checked, given that it was travelling over territorial borders regularly. The Morning Star could be refused entry, impounded, or worse. She didn’t know exactly how much worse things could get than the train being impounded but Franco once threatened it was somehow possible.
‘Trust me, the Star doesn’t run on kind wishes. There’s plenty to busy myself with.’ She leant forward and took the first portion of the dessert onto a silver fork and placed it into her mouth.
‘And that’s why you’re our manager. It comes with the role.’
Misu breathed through her nose, rolling the cake around with displeasure. It wasn’t terrible by any means, but nowhere up to the quality she had been accustomed to the last few years. It was begrudgingly swallowed and the fork placed upon its accompanying plate.
‘Talking of coming with, I honestly thought Kitty would rejoin us. I miss having a decent cook.’
Corinne took the fork as her own and poked the slice, scrutinizing the uneven wobble.
‘What is that?’
‘Colette’s attempt at coffee cake.’ Misu washed away the taste with some sweet pink tea. ‘Try some.’
Corrine obliged, taking a larger piece and mulling it over. When done, she went for a second. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘We have different tastes. Mine are clearly superior.’
Corinne drew the cake plate towards herself. ‘You can’t blame Kitty for deciding not to come along. That restaurant was her life’s dream. It was a perfect package with us working there. Some people settle down and take root like plants. She’s one of them. It would have been cruel to take that away from her.’
‘You’re right. I know.’
‘They’re also not accustomed to seeing dead people stroll in through the door.’ Corinne waved the fork in the air. ‘You both damn well gave us heart attacks.’
‘Actually that wasn’t my idea. That was Franco’s. My suggestion was to do things subtly but he’s not one to take my advice. I remember a few of you needing to sit down.’
‘I remember Kitty bloody fainting! When she came to the poor girl thought she had died. That probably had something to do with her decision to pursue different avenues of employment.’ Corinne laughed with a mouthful, scattering a couple of crumbs. Misu took to the windows once more. The thunder rode through the clouds, making the glass windows shake in their frames.
‘It would have been easier if we died in that explosion. For everybody I mean. I’m not being morbid; it would have just made things … smoother.’
‘Smoother.’
‘Yes.’
Corinne finished the last of the cake and slipped the plate upon the side table, careful not to nudge the papers.
‘I think you should stop envying the dead and focus more on the living. You’ve got a long wait until the Angels take you somewhere bright and you don’t want your talk to speed up that process. I suppose the big man would take objections to that. Talking of which, have you had any word from Franco yet?’
A flash of light danced from the sky, striking the rock-littered wasteland. The rain kept up its barrage. The drumming on the car rooftop built and waned with the will of the wind. It was as if it wanted to lift the vehicle from the tracks and hurl it into the air.
‘Yes.’ Misu’s voice faded as she stared outward. ‘Recently, in fact.’
‘Is he still in Eifera?’
‘See for yourself.’
Misu reached inside her jacket breast pocket and removed a plain envelope with her name upon its face. The single slip of paper was removed. Upon its header was the company logo, a lightning bolt across a mountain surrounded by trees and the name of the provider – Post Haste Communications – in large, capital lettering on either side. Beneath, emboldened and underlined, read the word telegram. A heavy red stamp of authenticity marked the communication. Corinne read the typed document aloud.
TO: THE HARE, BY WAY OF THE MORNING STAR #1129
INSPIRING PLACE FOR PERFORMERS. HAVE PLENTY OF IDEAS RE: MSTAR TO DISCUSS ON RETURN. AM SPENDING TIME IN GOOD COMPANY. GOING WESTWARD WITH NEW FRIENDS. YOUR THOUGHTFULNESS APPRECIATED. NO DATE ON EXPECTED RETURN. GLAD TO HEAR TAKINGS ARE UP. GIVE ALL MY BEST.
F.D.M.
PS: KEEP MSTAR TIDY
‘That’s the last wire I’ve had from him. He said he didn’t know when he was intending to return but told us not to fret. Everything was under control, I said.’ Misu leant her head back in the chair.
‘When did you get this?’ she asked.
‘That last checkpoint we went through.’ Misu glanced to the windows for a second.
Corinne interlinked her hands after placing the telegram to the side. ‘I suppose he’s off having a jolly. Never could keep that one down in one place, but at least he was gracious enough to give you stewardship of this here train. It’s a proud undertaking.’
‘It is,’ Misu muttered. Lightning flashed once more, much closer this time as the Morning Star careered around the edge of the storm. The blazing dart of fire was reflected in her eyes in the window.
‘But I don’t see you smiling,’ Corinne added.
Misu glanced at her, suddenly realizing that she had been well absorbed in her own thoughts, momentarily absent from the conversation. She had even become oblivious to the pounding rain that suddenly rushed into audible focus. She hissed air through her mouth, blinking herself back to reality. She reached out, retrieved the correspondence, and stuffed it back into her pocket.
‘Nobody told me that being bright and shiny was a necessity of the job.’
‘I’m here if you need to delegate more work. Take a break maybe. I’m not blind to you rushing around. I doubt that you’re sleeping well given all this.’ Corinne waved her hand up and down. ‘Even Franco made the sensible decision to take time off. You should consider the same.’
Yes, and look where that got him, Misu thought to herself.
‘I’m not saying traipse away for weeks like he has,’ Corinne continued, ‘but a couple of days’ rest could do you good. We can handle things while you wind down. It wouldn’t be an effort on our part, honest.’
Misu cringed in her seat. A break was what had caused this mess in the first place, unbeknown to the others aboard. It was a lapse in judgement under the guise of rest that was burying her.
‘Even better,’ Corinne exclaimed excitedly, ‘why don’t we join him? We have plenty in the coffers to finance the journey fourfold. We could do shows in Eifera – that’ll be a change of pace. I heard they’re considerably richer northwards and the girls will surely love the change in scenery.’
‘I’ve been there. You’re not missing much.’
‘We haven’t. I only have your word to take on that. Hell, you both spent months up in the grasslands and you’ve never spoken about it. Not even to me.’
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ Misu lied.
‘Ah now, that I don’t believe. Come on, what happened between you two while we were playing house? All I know is that you took your sparkling new train, went up there, and then came back. There’s a gap, like, this big.’ Corinne held her arms out as wide as she could. ‘I think you owe me a story.’
Under such pressure and if for no other reason than to get Corinne off her back, Misu relinquished the details she craved. Admittedly, it felt therapeutic to discuss but whenever she spoke of Franco, the slightest tone of sullenness entered her voice.
* * *
Franco drew upon his drink until the tumbler ran empty. The night air was humid, filled with a multitude of insects, scores of which decided that the man would make the perfect meal. The night chorus of life was a far departure from the Sand Sea, where mammals silently prowled beneath the blazing moon. Here in the grasslands, things were considerably different. The thickly dressed redwood trees that surrounded them were borderline claustrophobic, hiding all manner of alien creatures that yelped and squealed.
In the Sand Sea, one could look in any direction and see for untold miles. Over the border in Eifera you’d be fortunate to see a single mile down the track, let alone your entire surroundings. It was a good deal colder than they were used to, though tonight was an exception and was stifling, mainly due to the uncomfortable humidity, forcing him to sit shirtless. An owl called out, silencing the panicked screech of something in the forest.
Franco laid cards out before him in lines. Solitaire wasn’t a particular favourite of his, but it wasn’t as if he was concentrating much on the game in hand. A small notebook beside him was half-filled, its pages briefly added to in between turns when inspiration struck. He had done this for the last week since the ideas to further the business had become stagnant. The pages were laden with thoughts on performances, concepts for decorations, lighting, music, design, all of the specifics that one needed to worry about in achieving what the Morning Star was destined to.
Misu staggered through the carriage, her black silk robe loosely tied over one hip, hands rubbing at her eyes. She slumped in the seat opposite, tossing her head back in annoyance. Franco slid over his bottle of spiced rum, filled his tumbler halfway and passed it over. Misu caressed it, taking the occasional sip.
‘Can’t you sleep?’ Franco asked, slipping a red seven of hearts between two black suited cards of ascending and descending value to the one he had included. He ignored her pointing to the half open window beside him.
‘It’s too noisy. How can decent people get any rest out here with that sort of racket? It’s like someone filling a bin with coins. This damn heat too,’ Misu whined, her fingers now violently scratching through unkempt hair. ‘My kingdom for some sleep. Or your kingdom. I would sacrifice every one of these pretty carriages for some shut-eye. Just so you know how desperate I am on that front.’
‘It’s hotter in the Sand Sea.’
‘Yes but it’s so humid out here. I feel like I’m turning into water! You best put a jug underneath me in case I melt for good.’
Franco snorted. ‘It’s too hot for that sort of effort. If the unfortunate event occurs I’ll fetch the mop. You have my word.’
‘Funny, funny bastard.’ She smirked, fanning herself. Her eyes drifted to his game.
‘That’s new. What is it?’
‘Solitaire. Some people call it patience.’ Franco shimmied a card from one stack to another.
‘It looks boring,’ Misu dismissed, wiping her brow before fanning herself with Franco’s notebook.
‘On the contrary. Like its namesake it teaches patience and focus. Most of all, though, it pitches you against the greatest opponent you’ll ever face off against.’
‘Which is …?’
Franco married a red-suited ace into a line for completion.
‘Yourself,’ he stated, finally taking his eyes from the table and watching her wave his notebook back and forth for relief. ‘People weave in and out of a person’s existence. Roles change. A friend can become a nemesis in the blink of an eye. Many believe that your greatest competitor is the one inside. I happen to subscribe to that notion. If you can overcome yourself, then you can take on the world. Also, I need that.’
‘I bet you do.’ She passed the notebook back over, keeping her cheeky smile. ‘For keeping track of your genius no doubt. How long are we up north for? The views are pretty but among getting bitten to pieces by the insects and enduring it raining half the time, its charm is seriously waning. Not that the alone time with you isn’t joyous.’
Franco leant back from his game, quite done with staring at card faces for this evening. ‘We can’t go back as we are. The Gambler’s Den was far too well known and if we just try and perform like nothing’s changed, it’s going to be pretty obvious that you and I, for all intents and purposes, didn’t die. Even your change of hair colour won’t be able to sway that. And that’s the crux of it all.’
He leant forward, sterner, the words quite weighty with seriousness.
‘Wilheim Fort is out there. If it’s all the same I would like him to continue thinking that we are bones in the sand. If he ever thought differently, there’s a chance –’
‘There’s no guesswork here,’ Misu interrupted, now just as serious. Her fingers skimmed the glass lip in circles. ‘He would come for us. He would hunt us down. Be relentless. He’ll do things that you couldn’t possibly imagine.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so. I was the one who carried those punishments out at times. People who wronged him simply didn’t expect the angle he came from. Friends, family, acquaintances … He’ll know them and he’ll exploit them. They’ll be broken. Then, finally, you’ll be left to rot as an example to others.’
She suddenly blinked in horror, as if quite surprised at her candid confession, a mixture of the alcohol and sleep deprivation loosening her lips.
‘It’s okay,’ Franco stated, swigging again and feeling the light breeze that wafted through the window. ‘We’ve all done things we regret. We change. You’ve changed, clearly. I figure there’s a difference between who a person was and who they are in the present if they desire to change. You’re not that person now, are you?’
* * *
‘Not at all.’ Her eyes scrunched to a close. She was unsure whether this was even the truth. But it sounded good. It sounded like what needed to be said at this time.
‘There you go then.’
Misu paused before speaking what was next on her mind, wondering if it overstepped the mark. She did so anyway, seeing as they had come this far. What was the worst that could happen?
‘Did the thought ever go through your head – and I’m not suggesting anything; I’m just discussing the possibility … You have the train, some money. You don’t have to do the show is what I’m getting at. You could go off and live your life away from the limelight. You have an entirely new one to live, one you’ve earned, free from people like Wilheim doing the things that people like him do. Sometimes I struggle to understand why you would want to jeopardize that. Did you ever consider cashing in this second chance? Leaving all this behind?’
Franco narrowed his eyes and drank again, heavily. ‘Let me answer your question with a question,’ he replied, wagging the bottle. ‘After what happened, why are you still here, with me, aboard this here train? The way I see it you have an opportunity yourself yet you’re squandering it with me. Explain that one.’ He took the bottle to his lips once more.
Misu clasped her hands together in thought. ‘I guess … No, I mean, I …’ She struggled with forming the reason and instead fell on the only words that made any sort of honest sense. ‘I felt compelled. That’s the only way I can describe it.’
More accurately, she sought redemption. She was committed to make amends for the wrongs that her treachery had caused. To the girls. To the train. To him.
Not that she could say that of course. Pride made sure of that.
‘There you go.’ Franco placed the bottle down. ‘I feel compelled too. I don’t question why I’m drawn to this lifestyle. I don’t spend hours analysing it for some grand revelation that will make my life all the more complete. I am compelled, as are you.’
That was all that was said on the matter.
Misu subconsciously twirled her dyed blonde hair around a finger, mulling over the predicament. The Morning Star had to be considerably different. What they did previously was unprecedented, which made things all the more difficult.
‘So what is it that we actually need? Has all this thinking helped you come to a conclusion yet?’
‘We need to be bigger and better,’ Franco confirmed, offering to refill her glass, though she declined by covering it with a hand. In response he took a mouthful from the bottle itself in lieu of a glass. ‘We need to up the ante in every sense. We become unique enough that nobody makes the connection between the Star and the Den. We pride ourselves on our show. Let’s give them the biggest one the Sand Sea has ever known. Bigger fireworks, better performances by those we hire, an occasion to assault the senses! Right now, though, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something lacking. Something that punctuates the spectacle. We need … we need …’
A fox and its cubs yelped noisily through the bush, their calls totally alien to the pair, who watched them slink through the foliage, orange brush strokes upon a green canvas. The mother fox stared with haunted glowing spheres before continuing onward to their destination.
Misu snatched away the notepad feverishly, scrawling onto a page with the pen before tearing it out roughly.
‘Stay with me here,’ she excitedly exclaimed. She poked holes through in two points, scribbled shapes with the pen and held it level with Franco’s face so it covered the top half. When convinced, she turned it around for him to take. Immediately his face lit up with delight. It had crudely drawn ears and a nose but despite the lack of artistic talent, it clearly resembled a fox.
Masks.
To secure their safety and create mystique they would wear masks.
* * *
‘You know, I always wondered how that came about,’ Corinne declared.
‘You never thought of asking?’ Misu watched the streaks of water on the glass shift in direction as the Morning Star took a corner.
‘I felt there was no point. What you say goes. Or what he says goes more accurately – you know what I’m getting at. I’ve learnt never to question the boss.’
‘You learnt never to question Franco. I’m not him.’
‘You have his mantle though.’
Quickly, Misu changed the subject, turning away from the windows as a prolonged fork of lightning reflected her appearance back to herself for far longer than was comfortable.
‘We have a day before we pull in to our next event. Are all the preparations made?’
‘The call-aheads have affixed posters and energetically spread rumours on our behalf. Apparently people are very receptive to our arrival.’
Misu popped a brow. Whenever a destination was set, she would send word ahead that anybody who would put up their promotional material and fan the excitement would be reimbursed in coin.
‘Receptive? Really?’
‘Their word.’
‘They’re mistaken if they believe that using big words to label their work will shake a bonus out of me.’ Misu flicked through the papers, withdrawing a couple of sheets of calculations.
‘How are we when it comes to finances?’ Corinne asked.
‘Good. Surprisingly good actually. Better than the Gambler’s Den at least, so we’re already marks up on that front. Apparently, from what I’m told, people adore the mystique of our disguises. They’re more magical.’
‘We don’t do magic. Nothing of the sort.’
‘No, but let them believe what they want. It makes the punters more …’ She clicked her fingers, attempting to remember the specific word.
‘Receptive?’ Corinne offered.
‘Yes. That.’
‘I suppose I should have a talk with the others about tomorrow.’ Corinne lifted herself from her seat with a hearty grunt. It would have been a fine place to waste the next couple of hours but duty called. ‘Is there anything you need me to discuss on your behalf?’
There was plenty. Katerina needed to ensure the bar didn’t run out of hot spirits being that it was a trend out this way to light their shots on fire before downing them. Colette had been slightly missing her cues on the 9 p.m. performance – just enough to be noticeable. Some of those serving drinks needed to cosy up to the more inebriated patrons as they tended to tip better. But most importantly, Misu wanted everybody to stay away from Car Six for the evening like their lives depended on it.
Because it did.
‘No. I leave it in your capable hands,’ she lied, giving a false smile in appreciation. Corinne went to leave before remembering a titbit of information that her manager might appreciate.
‘Which reminds me … I’ve spoken to Elizabeth personally. She will be performing tomorrow, which is nice. I’d figured she would have been bedridden for another week but I’m glad to be wrong on that. It’s been too long since we’ve seen what she’s capable of.’
‘The girl does have plenty to prove,’ Misu added.
‘She’s up to the task. You have my word on that.’
Chapter 5 (#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)
The drop
It was not unknown for the Morning Star to perform twice, maybe three times a week, depending on how close each location was. Putting on a show that encompassed the day before and lasted until the following dawn could be a logistical nightmare, but with the dedication of the staff, the entertainment ran without trouble.
Mostly.
It’s why Misu had to fight the urge to micromanage every event, even when she had allocated others to do the job for her. Previously, on more than one occasion, those behind the bar had been sent into disarray by conflicting requests from both her and Corinne. It was not a matter of trust, but more one of control. Of course Misu trusted those beneath her to do their jobs; she just felt the urge to witness it personally.
The staff worked around this, more than aware that the fluid nature of their roles required on-the-spot thinking. At least most of them did.
The most recent addition to their menagerie was just finding this out.
Her grumblings were listened to, but not acted upon, as her upbringing had made her boisterous and her attitude grating. Many a time she vented to anyone who would listen about how she would run the show and how improvements could be made. She was trouble from the outset.
Misu endured this, as no matter how irritating the little platinum blonde thing became, her talent was desirable. Maybe it wasn’t desirable to anyone else in the region, as respected skills normally equated to fence building and cattle herding, but for the Morning Star, it was ideal. The little farm girl picked up in the middle of nowhere had become the show’s secret weapon and not without cause. Now recovered from the illness that had plagued her, she was scheduled to be the next act of the night.
Misu looked at her watch, noting how much time, or specifically how little, remained. Tonight would be close, too close in all honestly, but that was a moot point now. The Hare took to the carriage rooftops and confidently strolled along, capturing everyone’s attention. Her appearance brought two spotlights mounted on the platform itself to illuminate her stroll across with the beam. Those who were dancing tonight had run inside two of the carriages for a costume change. Their music had been blaring from conical horns that straddled carriage roofs, music that chattered from a phonograph. Those who gambled at the tables slowed. Those who drank lowered their glasses in unison.
Brilliant blue coat-tails flicked behind with every step, shimmering gold accents all picking up the light and emitting it back. Misu counted under her breath, reaching her mark.
As the music reduced and the lights faded to a single beaming spotlight, silence enveloped the crowd. Misu played the quiet, just enough to captivate those before her. The Hare drank in the gazes upon her.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please – a moment of your time!’ Misu sharply clapped, strutting across the carriage roof with top hat in hand, demanding everyone’s attention. She needn’t have done so. The sea of faces had already turned from their drinks, their games, and gave it.
‘We have something quite special for you tonight. Each one of those in my employ has talents. They’re talents that I respect and ones that I nurture. Most importantly of all, these are talents that we share. In the last month, I found quite the remarkable desert rose, whose voice carries most beautifully in song. Alas, I’m sad to say she has an affliction of shyness.’
The audience roared in amused objection.
‘I know, and I assure you that her voice is beyond measure. Why, it makes my own sound like a pack of dogs howling. While I am her employer, and have asked her to perform for you here, our little Songbird falls flat on my words. A crime, my friends, a crime in every sense of the word.’
‘Mutiny in the ranks?’ A voice drifted up among the collective, encouraging a ripple of belly laughter. Misu strolled along the carriage rooftop, pointing the man out with a gesture of her cane.
‘Mutiny is punished on land, on a boat or indeed on a train, friend, but I cannot force her to perform for you, though to perform is my deepest wish. My fair ladies do not respond to orders, for that is not how we run things on the Morning Star. You do not beg a bird to soar, nor a fish to swim. Rather, you put them in an agreeable environment and watch them revert to their nature.’
Again, she thrived on the silence, gesturing with her fingers in faux thought. Every word was delivered with sincerity, false sincerity maybe, but sincerity all the same.
‘Though a notion have I, and a kind one at that. I think your affection will change her mindset. Encourage her wings, even! Yes, I am sure that that your encouragement may coax her performance. If you would be so kind as to oblige.’
On cue glasses were lifted and calls of approval rose up before dissipating fast.
‘How warming! Do you think that will be enough? I’m doubtful.’
With a rise of her arms, the crowd cheered once more, louder this time.
‘Oh, this is pleasant for certain, though maybe just a touch more may curb her fickle mind.’
The audience roared into the night sky, laughing cheers on the tail end of a crescendo of noise.
‘Unbelievable.’ Misu pressed her hands to her chest, surveying those before her intimately beneath the animal visage. ‘Quite unbelievable. You all warm my heart, my kind, loving people. That most certainly will quell any nerves. Please, do not let the demeanour of our little one fool you. After all, a snake harbours fangs and a wasp conceals its sting. In this instance, our splendid addition sings beautifully. So, without any further pause, I present to you, the Songbird of the Morning Star!’
As the lights set on the Morning Star dimmed, the single snap of a spotlight broke out from an interior window. It was moved forward until the oval luminescence settled upon a lone figure at the opposite end of the carriages. Every head turned. Every pair of eyes was fixed in attention, eyes that now paid no mind to Misu, which was exactly what she intended.
A woman, short and fair, stood in luminescence. In this brilliance, she stood with head slightly bowed, with brilliant blue eyes ever so slightly hidden from the spectators. A frizzy shock of platinum curls framed the porcelain-like face, pale and smooth, broken only with glimmering peach lips.
The mask upon her face was that of a small bird, true to her namesake, with the beak small and pointed and the eye sockets wide. Its edges were feathered in a few layers but gave the illusion of considerable lustre. A multitude of beads hung at different lengths, made from stones few could correctly identify, plunging down the collar of a showgirl’s azure outfit of lace and frills with no permutation. Thin fingers reached to the microphone stand that stood before her and they enveloped it with utmost tenderness.
With a delicate inhalation, Elizabeth began to sing.
I’m lying next to a charlatan,
Yet I’m still thinking of you,
I see your face when he touches me,
Can’t do the things that you do.
Her voice, soft and woefully lingering achingly dripped every word. The faces were stunned, carried away on every soft syllable. Her back arched slightly and her hand stroked the microphone from waist height to the chrome protrusion. It was caressed as if it were a friend, a lover even, with every lyric a moaned whisper.
And if you feel the same as me, baby,
Say you’re sorry, it’ll do,
Just tell me all this doesn’t ma-tter, and I’ll,
Run on home to you!
Her hands rose in triumph and her hips swayed with the thump of the beat.
Let’s just forget these foolish actions,
Feel pity in the arms of these poor fools,
Let’s stop the fighting, it’s got us nowhere,
I crave for you to love me!
Drums burst into a rhythm as the instrumental music beneath, a waltz of violins, rose to be heard. With a swing of her hips in time, the Songbird did what she was born to do.
Oh honey, sugar, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me,
Tell me whatcha wanna do,
I’m tired of the games that we play, dear, they’re o-ver,
(#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)Oh baby, baby, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me,
Tell me what we’re gonna do,
I’ll shun the day for just one more night with you!
Elizabeth gave an electric performance, exuding pure charisma to the audience. She bathed in their attention, taking requests as she saw fit. Almost all were charmed, most singing along to some regional songs that she gave a rendition of. She was bathed in the spotlight with arms outstretched, relishing every scrap of applause. This was what fuelled her. This was her calling.
But something bothered Elizabeth. A deep-seated vein of distrust ran through her, directed primarily at their manager. The sheen of entertainment, the dazzling lights and distractions, were nothing but an attempt to relieve people of their money. This wasn’t the subject of her frustration, but the sheer callousness of the process. Misu bathed in tips thrust towards her and sweet talked gamblers into increasing their stakes.
Elizabeth was brought on under the impression that the Morning Star was a legitimate venture. What she was a part of felt more like a hustle and she strongly disapproved. When raising concerns about such worries, she objected to being told, quite eloquently, by her manager to shut up and get on with things.
Then, there was the subject of Misu’s mysterious disappearances.
* * *
Corinne passed between the showgirls on one of the interior carriages. The light threw shadows and dark figures all around, each person in chaotic motion as they prepared for the next spectacle. Some were hurriedly changing into outfits for a dance number, with Katerina adjusting the red plumes on her phoenix-themed ensemble.
‘Eight minutes, everyone! Eight more minutes to go!’ Corinne gave warning.
She pressed through the melee and questioned them, loudly, as to whereabouts of Misu. ‘Somebody must have seen her!’ she protested. Shaking heads and apologies were all that was returned. When Elizabeth’s next song came to a close, and the silence returned, a handful of girls took their cue and dashed through the carriage doors to thundering applause. In the midst of this, Corinne scanned all around and wondered where their manager could possibly be.
* * *
Eight minutes.
Misu checked her watch. It ticked along quite contentedly in its leather and silver housing. The second hand snapped to a stop-start, watched keenly to ensure that it showed no hint of delay nor failure. Eight minutes she repeated to herself. Eight long, damned minutes. Flashes of light reflected from the mask as fireworks popped in greens and reds.
Where the Morning Star pulled into the station, she had snuck over the opposite tracks and down into one of the tight, shadow-soaked alleyways.
A series of thumps in the darkness announced the arrival of a simple cart that creaked before jerking to a stop. As she looked up from her timepiece, examining the newly stacked load of red bales, she watched its entourage hastily hide the load with canvas. The cover was hurriedly tied down and checked once more. The pair of horses that pulled the cart behind were discouraged from stomping their hooves in impatience, though they were clearly uneasy. A woman took hold of their reins, and attempted to soothe them with her voice.
Smart animals, Misu told herself. It was comforting to know that she wasn’t the only one anxious about this whole affair. The alleyway was devoid of gaslight, where few would willingly walk down – ideal if you wished to make a secretive transaction such as this. The busy folks who swarmed like ants over this whole trade slowed themselves after loading the last of the secret cargo from the back of one of the freight cars. It was the one that, curiously, remained permanently out of bounds, especially to staff: Car Six. Sure, this had been noticed by some, even commented on, but these were all brushed aside by its owner. What Misu said, people accepted, no matter the circumstance. Her word, whilst aboard the train, was law.
The last figure that sauntered past dropped a small iron key into Misu’s open palm. She in turn threaded it into a chain fastened around her neck.
‘All locked?’ she asked with no small measure of authority.
‘As requested. Nobody knew we were even here.’
Misu narrowed her eyes as the man stood, quite awkwardly, staring at her. He examined the mask before settling on the eyes peering beneath.
‘You hide such a pretty face I bet.’
‘That’s none of your concern.’
‘Cold. Is that the lot?’ he enquired.
Misu defensively crossed her arms. Cheeky bastard. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No, it’s just awfully small and you have plenty with you.’ Weaver smiled, ever so contentedly. Michael, or Weaver as he was commonly called by those in the know, was thin in stature but unpleasantly imposing, with a parting of soot-coloured hair and a well-trimmed beard mirrored in colour. He was given his nickname for his tendency to formulate well-constructed plans. His constant thoroughness and prediction of possible dangers had kept him and his crew alive on more than one occasion. Here tonight, and unbeknown to him, his diligence would be revealed as not as complete as it could be.
‘Six bales. That’s the arrangement – no more, no less.’ Misu tried her best to keep her composure with a staggered exhalation, letting her disgruntlement enforce each word. ‘What you do with it is your business, whatever mark-up you put on it is apparently your own. We never spoke and you never obtained this from me.’
‘You honestly have bigger balls than me doing this under the nose of …’ he waved his hand behind at the event in motion ‘… all that spectacle. Personally, I would be considerably more cautious.’
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Christopher Byford
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Историческое фэнтези
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 28.04.2024
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О книге: Are you willing to gamble with your life?Some debts can’t be repaid. The Gambler’s Den lies in ruins, its staff scattered across the Sand Sea, all but a memory of the minds of its past patrons. But when the Morning Star appears, ruled by a mysterious figure known only as the Hare, the comparisons can’t be helped. Who is this larger-than-life character? Why do the showgirls wear masks? What are they hiding? The answer…they should be dead.Franco and Misu were safe only in their anonymity, but with Franco gone Misu must find him – jeopardising all they have built. In order to save the man she trusts Misu must put her faith in the villain.Wilheim does not forget disobedience lightly, and Misu’s was a great betrayal, so now he will call in his debt, and his revenge on the staff of the Morning Star.Who will win? Who will survive? Who will the odds favour?