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

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

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

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

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

Jack doused his explanation with a swig of ale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thumping abruptly stopped.

‘Send him in,’ was the gravelled reply.

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

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

Nobody had to remind Jackdaw what death smelt like.

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

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

Donovan was especially talented at this.

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

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

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