Christopher Byford - Den of Smoke - Absolutely gripping fantasy page turner filled with magic and betrayal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’ve mellowed in my old age.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How persuasive?’

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

‘None at all.’

‘Good to hear. Ralust?’

‘Boss?’

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

‘That’s easy: lies or bribery.’

‘Pick one and run with it.’

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

‘Cole?’

* * *

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

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

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

‘Right.’

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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