Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy. Christopher Byford
Windberg established as one of the main trading routes across the Sand Sea, its docks were sprawling and massive. Cranes arched high above on each lengthy jetty, packing and unpacking cargo from sand ships with dockhands running around to accommodate each crate and drum.
Warehouses of every size and shape and complexity dominated the south district. Trade was plentiful in animal and textile goods – and especially in raw materials. Iron and steel came from mines and foundries, train lines carrying row upon row of carts at a time. Oil came further afield. It was pumped from the large ships, most hiring private groups of security to ensure the cargo reached its destination.
Some ships would roll in pitted with bullet holes and with punctured hulls, maybe even sustaining a few human casualties. You had to be crazy to attempt to hijack a sand ship – not that this was a concern for those trying. Repelling these was dangerous work, requiring a rotation of private security teams, most of which congregated at the local dock bars.
They were ideal places of congregation. Cheap drink, likeminded folks, and if you needed some muscle to protect a shipment, they could be easily found and the agreement bartered, all in the same place.
Of course, goods regularly went missing in transport – something Sheriff Juniper had failed to get around to stamping out. Some warehouse security was easily bribed, or even in league with one or two unscrupulous operators in the city. Some merchandise found itself in the back rooms of these bars, ready for collection by paying parties. Either way, security and lawlessness went hand in hand. Attempting to separate the pair was fruitless.
It was one of these bars Franco and Jacques made their way to, navigating each sanded street and pressing through reams of workers transporting the most recent shipments. Horses pulled carts in, the nearby market traders peddling as much as they could in bulk, turning streets narrower into jostling rivers. Down a side road, sat a building much like any other. The brickwork was pitted and scarred from blasts of sand, iron railings rusted and shedding paint. The sign itself, once proud and new, had text reduced to semi-transparent lettering.
Jacques snapped a cigarette alight between his teeth, taking in a slow, powerful draw.
They paused to read the sign above the door. Beneath the name The Water Hole was a crudely attempted image of an oasis, equally scorched by the elements and equally ramshackle.
Inside wasn’t much better. Simple wooden furniture, straight wooden bar, bottles lined up behind – though the selection and quality was severely lacking. Their arrival was noted by a couple of grizzly regulars, rough and unwashed, playing cards with little enthusiasm. The bartender, equally unkempt, watched with scrutiny all while Franco ordered two whiskies and the pair seated themselves in a corner.
Jacques stubbed his cigarette into an ashtray and chuckled to himself. ‘Nice place, huh?’
‘That it is.’ Franco hid his vision behind a pair of smoked oval spectacles, eying up the premises before adding, ‘Sarcasm, right?’
‘Sarcasm it was, boss.’ Jacques rasped his tongue over a rolling paper filled with shag tobacco.
‘What do you think? Could we buy this place?’ Franco sipped from his glass, watching the barman who, in turn, kept his attention very much on the door.
‘Only for the purposes of demolishing I’m guessing.’
‘A dash of paint, replace the glass, and have someone a damn sight prettier to coax punters in. I think it could be a prime place for business.’
‘Because trade seems to be going so well.’
A roar from the pair playing poker forced a pause for a moment as cards were slapped down onto a table and the call for another round from the excited winner was announced.
‘How did the meeting go this morning? Misu mentioned you met someone,’ Jacques said, changing the subject quickly.
‘Someone wanted to buy the Den from me.’
‘How much?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘How much did they propose?’
‘The actual figure wasn’t brought up. The discussion never got that far. An offer was made by proxy.’
‘Bad pitch then.’ Jacques paused, looking into his glass. ‘You get a name for who was putting up the money?’
‘None,’ Franco huffed, ‘but I’ve got a notion.’
‘Are you considering it?’
‘What kind of question is that? Of course I’m not – it would be all kinds of crazy to do! The madness of yourself, Jacques, honestly.’
‘No offence, boss. Just sounded worth, well, contemplating.’
‘Misu said that too. I’m beginning to think you’re in cahoots.’
‘Cahoots nothing. Ain’t no shame in thinking of endeavours new – especially when you have a considerable plenty in waiting.’
A sudden, tremendous blast of a two-tone horn signalled another ship rolling into the docks, its momentum reverberating the very ground and forcing standing glasses behind the bar to momentarily dance until it stopped. The bartender checked his pocket watch before opening a storeroom behind him, leaving a turned wrought-iron key protruding from the lock.
The ship’s horn blasted anew, causing the ground to vibrate with tremors.
‘Notwithstanding this place, you’re not serious, surely? Questionable profit to be made I would say.’ Jacques chuckled.
‘Why not? Invest in a little rut like this. Settle down in a shoebox house, a nice wife, screaming children you only have to see on the weekends. Isn’t that the dream of every man?’
‘Not this one, that’s for sure.’
‘Present company excluded then, you have to agree that the idea is satisfying.’
‘It’s plenty of food for thought; I’ll give it that.’ Jacques sombrely drummed his fingers onto the table in anticipation. Something was making him curiously uneasy.
‘You ain’t the settling-down type,’ Jacques added, starting as his ears picking out a close, obtuse noise from among the sprawling throngs outside.
‘When I figure out what kind of man I am, I’ll be sure to make you aware.’
‘I’ll be planning your funeral accordingly then. What would you like on the stone? Gunshot in the back by treachery, was it? Or shot in the front by our little canary?’
‘Misu may be grumpy with me from time to time, but she wouldn’t do that.’
‘And why would that be the case?’
‘I’m just too pretty to die and she knows it.’
Jacques broke a smile before it sharply faded.
In that moment, a bevy of horses pulled up outside, snorting as if lightning had struck their hides. Six pulled a carriage behind, secured with a canvas marked by the occasional bullet hole. Men straddling another half-dozen horses arrived. They dismounted and tied up reins before unloading the carriage’s cargo. Orders were hollered, liberally sprinkled with swear words and threats, as four of the men rushed inside, struggling under the weight of their prize: a mightily gilded casket in brilliant emerald green, with a sizeable padlock.
Franco tipped his head in question and watched this development quite intently.
The bartender beckoned the group behind the bar, to which the gang obliged.
‘Back here,’ he said, flustered. ‘Back here, in Her name, be quick about it will you.’
The men were agitated, the remains of facemasks at their necks, with sweat at their brows and urgency in their eyes. Franco knew men like these. Hired goons, semi-professional thugs making a living doing difficult jobs. Selfish men who thought nothing to pull the trigger.