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

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Christopher Byford 2018

Christopher Byford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008257507

Version: 2018-06-20

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page Den of Smoke CHRISTOPHER BYFORD

Copyright HQ An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018 Copyright © Christopher Byford 2018 Christopher Byford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. E-book Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008257507 Version: 2018-06-20

Dedication This is for nobody but you.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Christopher Byford

About the Publisher

This is for nobody but you.

Few things mattered in the Sand Sea. The constant struggle to live was a full-time pursuit, with very little consideration of others.

Esquelle, on the edge of the Sand Sea, was an expanding town. The shanties that had sprung up over the course of the years on the town’s outskirts were gradually being torn down and replaced with brick structures. Those who had no money to put towards the new, outrageous sums of rent had two choices: bury themselves in debt or live on the streets. For the most part, the shantytown dwellers relocated elsewhere but the ones who remained were shunned by the comfortable and fortunate.

It was no surprise that pockets of criminality sprung up, with some people thieving for the means to live, while others managed to line their pockets with coin to handle these affairs. The law was slowly cracking down on these operations, sending parentless children to mills or workhouses should they be involved, forcing the desperate to become increasingly so.

Nestled throughout the old town, where the sandstone streets twisted into cobweb paths, street restaurants and gaming houses were hidden behind inconspicuous back doors, revealed by pitted tin signs. They all saw service, where the alcohol was cheap and of poor quality, and the games varied in risk. Some gambled in favours, others in food. It was only the downright foolish who flouted the fact they had money to gamble on hand and risked a knife in the dark.

It would have been the same for Jackdaw if he weren’t so respected in the Cutter’s Inn.

Everyone who frequented Cutter’s knew who Jackdaw was. Anybody who was anybody knew of Jackdaw. A young street boy raised on a diet of crime born from desperation, he had gathered some like-minded individuals to follow his lead. Come his mid-twenties, Jackdaw formed a gang that found no job too small, no pay too big and as long as it kept them in the dark, they were willing to perform.

It was easy to dismiss him as another chancing crook, whose ego ensured risks, but this was far from the truth. Jackdaw had witnessed what became of the egotistical. It was never pretty. As such, Jackdaw ensured that he operated with respect to the others around him but with enough bite to show those who tested him that it would not stand. Of course there were some who failed to accept this, seeing his stature as one to topple for their own personal gains. Warnings against this went unheeded by the foolhardy and when persistence went ignored, Jackdaw had no choice but to turn to more permanent solutions.

Jackdaw wasn’t a fighter, though he could tangle with the best of them. His upbringing had been rough, the product of a drunken stepdad and grudges, so his fists were well versed in use. He wasn’t a straight-up murderer but if the situation called for it, he could pull a trigger and had done so plenty of times. He would do what was required to suit the situation. He wasn’t ashamed of this. It was, in a word, accepted.

The product of all this was a man who few now tangled with. Word was that he was working for someone, someone much higher up, and crossing him ensured that ravens would be picking at your bones long before your time was up.

Jackdaw leant back in his chair, black leather boots hoisted onto a round oak table, with a roll-up puffing from between his lips. It was moved aside for a draw of brandy, brandy that Cutter’s Inn put aside for special clientele – people like him. For Jackdaw had no qualms spending his money in these joints and if he lost it to the house, so be it. As long as he wasn’t cheated a fair game was a good time, provided the liquor kept flowing and the food was ample. As was the case here.

Jackdaw dropped his feet to the floor and checked the small wooden cup before him. He covered its exposure with a curved palm, counting the six dice faces before him.

‘Three fives,’ he declared.

He grinned beneath a blond handlebar moustache and accompanying goatee and went back to sipping his drink.

The two others at the table lacked the class that Jackdaw oozed, with his out-of-place smart tweed jacket and slacks. His companions wore grubby canvas trousers and functional work shirts. His boots alone could have clothed these folks twice over, though this was something no one minded. Their attire may have been rougher, but status was not their concern. It was his. Those involved in this game, those he trusted implicitly, dressed appropriately. Like his father would reiterate, you don’t send someone down a coal mine wearing a good suit. Be that as it may, keen eyes and sharp wits were present, no matter the attire.