Den of Smoke: Absolutely gripping fantasy page turner filled with magic and betrayal. Christopher Byford
‘I can surely do that. And you are?’
Jack leant back in his seat and drew on his drink. ‘You don’t need my name. Just tell her that I’m here. That’ll be plenty.’
‘Celebrate?’ Cole hissed. The urge to look over his shoulder constantly was all-consuming. It was the first time in his life that he had been involved in such a physical confrontation, and the adrenaline had yet to wear off. ‘I don’t consider getting done over worthy of celebration! I mean, was that it? We lost the goods. I’m lucky I didn’t lose a damn tooth out of this farce.’
He brought a hand to his mouth and retested a canine with a gentle wiggle.
‘That scrap was nothing. If they meant business, we would be a lot worse off. Just hold your horses, kid,’ Jack protested.
‘There’s nothing else to do at the moment. That’s a hell of an initiation if that’s what it was. You could have warned me that we were going to get done over like that. You don’t seem to be the kind to willingly take a punch, more like one who would throw it first.’
Finally, Jack swung forward, hunching over his tankard, which was already only a quarter full. Unfortunately, his attempt at courting patience was failing and as such he turned to another tactic, which was to be blunt. Jackdaw was good at being blunt. He could do blunt. Especially when new bloods were getting bent out of shape and unable to widen their scope of perception.
‘For a numbers man, you’re none too bright are you? So I’ll spell it out.’
Jack hadn’t positioned them by the window by accident. He needed a good view of the market and those therein. He gestured to the rabble of men carrying a familiar trunk – the Sanders Boys doing plenty to make their presence known. Others immediately stepped aside on their approach and those who didn’t move were shoved. They manhandled a trader from his usual stall and tossed the trunk upon it, much to the ire of the other sellers. Nobody intervened of course.
Jackdaw pointed at two distinct individuals from the window. One was a farmer struggling to flog his home-grown wares. The second was yelling for buyers to relieve him of his bric-a-brac. Both were conventional stallholders with nothing special about them.
‘Watch those two.’
Within a minute, the waitress who had served them stepped outside and made her way to the farmer, a drink upon her tray. She spent only seconds conversing with him whilst handing him the beverage before retreating back inside. The farmer, in response, abandoned his stall and made his way to the bric-a-brac seller. The farmer toasted him and exchanged a few words before returning.
‘I don’t get it,’ Cole mumbled.
Jack drank from his tankard, contentedly.
‘Look around you – there are no secrets in a town like this. Everyone is close. Everyone is knee-deep in each other’s business. I mean sure, many try to keep themselves quiet, shield those secrets from others, but that’s where they mess up. In doing so their attempts to cover up what they’re doing draws suspicion. People whisper. Those whispers get bigger until they reach the ears of someone who, well, let’s just say someone who has a vested interest in the information. Ah, case in point right there …’
The bric-a-brac stallholder flagged down a Bluecoat who then paced away with purpose. He came back with five of his kind, pistols at the ready and weaving among the throng of bodies. As soon as they reached the Sanders Boys, they immediately overturned the stall, scattered the goods and clapped the men in handcuffs. The trunk was confiscated as evidence.
‘As I said before, bigger fish and all that.’ He rose, stretching his arms. ‘And if you’ll excuse me, I have business to conduct. Just stay here and observe.’
‘What kind of business this time?’
‘I’m taking a piss if that’s okay with you?’ Jack turned back. ‘And don’t eat any of my food while I’m gone.’
What Jack had said was mostly true, but beforehand, he met with the stallholders outside. A group had formed around him, taking turns to shake his hand. As he was asked to, Cole observed, watching this curious display, oblivious to the food placed before him and the empty place opposite. The sight of Jack bathing in the gratitude transfixed him – seeming a fair way from the crook he perceived Jack to be.
Eventually, Jack returned, wiping his damp palms across his trousers, seating himself and then rubbing his hands together in glee. The plate of bread, cheeses and meat didn’t seem much but was a triumphant banquet given recent events. It was only noon and already the day had been quite successful.
The waitress returned, this time with her tray empty but wearing quite the smile. She gestured to the food between them.
‘The good lady says these are on the house, and anything else you take a fancy to ordering. I guess you two must have found her sweet spot somehow. You’ll have to let me in on the secret when you’re done.’
From inside her apron she produced a brick of brown butcher’s paper, tightly bound by string.
‘With her compliments. And thanks.’
Jackdaw playfully nodded, watching her backside as the woman took her leave.
Cole, however, was too set on the package for his attention to be diverted. To satisfy his colleague’s curiosity, the paper was torn open, revealing a brick of paper money.
Cole spluttered his drink, wiping spots of foam from his lips. ‘How much is there?’ he asked, quite astonished.
‘Count it.’
Cole flicked through the notes with speed. When done, he restrained a knowing gasp. ‘That’s almost double what you would have got for offloading the merchandise.’
Jack noisily drained his second drink.
‘Exactly. The Sanders Boys stole what they could and were selling it off at this here market. If anybody objected they put muscle on them. Turns out, the boys were putting such a dent in the profits and faces of the other stallholders, they pooled their money together to buy a solution – which was me. I knew we were going to be roughed up by them, but it was necessary as we couldn’t just hand it over. They get some hot goods from us and attempt to sell them. The Bluecoats get word and haul them off. They’re put in cells for a few months, meaning I have no competition on their territory should I desire to encroach on it. Which I do.’ Jackdaw took a long draw on his drink and gasped in satisfaction. ‘And the fine, honest folk here get to go on with their livelihoods, unhindered.’
For the first time since their arrival, Cole formed something resembling a smile. ‘Clever.’
‘Ain’t it just? See what I mean about celebrating, now?’
Their tankards rang out as they struck them together.
The thorn and the rabble
Jack never said so but Cole’s initiation went smoothly. He had endured the punches with minimal complaining, was learning fast and seemed to be fitting in well. As far as Jack was concerned, Cole was performing as expected. There was little need to threaten discipline, as the newcomer seemed quite invested in his work. He still worked the kitchen in the morning but found the rhythm to cook breakfast and manage his duties without either one lagging.
Nothing ensured that someone was on the level more than taking a beating for the cause. It wasn’t ideal of course but this wasn’t the sort of job where you checked in after your probation to see how well you were doing. It was rough, dirty and if Cole confessed to himself, he was adapting to it.
He was told to shadow both Alvina and Blakestone for the following weeks and to, as Jack put it, use his initiative. He was coy to begin with, not wishing to tread on