Den of Smoke: Absolutely gripping fantasy page turner filled with magic and betrayal

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Christopher Byford (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

This is for nobody but you.

Chapter One (#u50e692ac-725c-5bd7-91f6-f106c33f55f5)

Lies and money

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.

The gruff man to his left exhaled a burst of acrid cigar smoke and checked his own hand of dice. He squinted with his one good eye, the other hidden away with a black patch and accompanying battle scar before making his call. There was no hesitation as he tossed his chip into the pile and smugly grinned.

‘That’ll be four fives there, gentlemen,’ Blakestone snorted.

The play was passed to the left whilst the owner of Cutter’s Inn blindly rummaged through a tray of food left by the last of the bar staff. He took the moment to grasp a meat-laden sandwich, taking a suffocatingly large bite from it before returning his attention to the game. Bulky in stature, still with his bar apron wrapped around his hips, Cutter himself slurred his call, peppering the table with debris.

‘Five fives are with us.’

Jackdaw instantly interrupted, watching the hesitation before the words were delivered, minute but still there. Masking them with his appetite did nothing. He took the smoke from his mouth and wagged it accusingly.

‘Ah, now there’s a liar if I ever saw one.’

Each lifted their cups and Cutter winced, tossing a now lost dice into the chip pile. Jackdaw chuckled, scooping them over and stacking the colours in order.

‘Third game in a row and you have a downward streak. Sure you want to continue this?’

‘It’s not exactly my money to lose is it? I’m giving it back to my employer if anything.’ The old man drained his glass in one deep swallow. ‘We change the game though. My luck changes with the cards, eh?’

Bad luck clung to a man like a sour smell, impossible to remove until it saw itself fit. Tonight, for Cutter, there seemed no sign of the stench relenting.

On the fifth hand, Cutter rearranged his diminishing chip pile and ordered another round from the woman who lingered against the bar. She flipped each page of the newspaper in a blasé way, slowly draining a bottle of Rye at her own pace. With words thick with liquor, she flicked her attention to him and instead of motion, paid an all-too-sour look.

Orders were barked once more, sharper this time, in Settler’s language. Though lost on most, Jackdaw knew enough to pick up a particularly thorny insult tagged onto the end. He smiled to himself whilst shuffling a well-used deck of cards. No matter how aged one gets, they are always obedient to family and as such the woman complied, producing deep echoing footsteps whilst marching down the cellar trapdoor.

She was not under Cutter’s employment, as all his staff had been sent home hours ago. She was trustworthy though, family, and knew anyone who Cutter welcomed into his establishment would not abuse such hospitality. Alvina returned and begrudgingly yanked the cork from a brown bottle. Each glass was filled to its brim, agonizingly slow, just to spite Cutter. Amused, Jack thanked her and she seated herself back on the stool, away from the game and with her own thoughts, lost once more in the newspaper.

‘That bastard girl. Born to piss me around, like her poor, poor father,’ Cutter grunted, watching the pack shuffle and dance between fingers. ‘Is she giving you trouble these days? I’ll be happy to have words if she doesn’t tow the line.’

‘Everybody gives me trouble. It’s just a question of how much. To answer your question though, no. Your niece is doing just fine. Just as capable as us men, truth be told.’

Cutter grinned broadly, showcasing each of his yellowed teeth.

‘Good,’ he crooned. ‘Good news all round. Now stop stalling and deal. I want a chance to claw something back from your pocket.’

Money changed hands over and over, until the front door was slowly rapped. The group stopped momentarily to glance to the owner, before busying themselves with another turn.

Cutter leant back on two of his chair legs, looking at the wooden frame and checking to ensuring it was bolted. Nobody was expected, especially at this hour.

‘We’re closed for the night!’ he bellowed in an accented drawl, taking another mouthful of liquor and exhaling its burn.

Again the door was struck.

‘We’re closed I said! Don’t you know the meaning of the word? Come back tomorrow if you so wish.’

From behind the wood came a thick, muffled slur from the culprit. ‘Aw c’mon … you’re leaving me out here in the cold? That’s harsh.’

‘Harsh ain’t nothing to do with it,’ Cutter shared with those around him. ‘I just lack the courtesy to serve someone who isn’t willing to part with their money. Well, eventually, when I stop getting crap cards.’

Finally the owner took to his feet in an effort to confront this commotion.

He heaved the door bolt back and peered through the slit to the outside. Before him, swaying in a drunken stupor, was the figure of a man clearly too intoxicated to know what was best for his wellbeing. If he had, he would have known that banging on the door to Cutter’s, especially after being turned away, could have consequences.

Cutter summed the man up, clad in a pitted hacking jacket and mismatched trousers. Another hopeful dandy on his nightly crawls around bars, Cutter assumed, drunk as the rest and just as foolhardy. He stared into the lolling white pits of the eyes before him, the young man of colour unable to concentrate on a single point before chasing liquor mirages.

‘Go home. You’re getting nothing, especially in your state,’ Cutter advised.

‘Hey, mishter.’ Cutter saw the figure sway through the eye slot, rocking back and forth. ‘C’mere …’