Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy

‘Ketan never was the type to be mixed up with those sorts. Never was the type for anything until you left,’ Larrs continued.

‘Is he there now?’

‘I doubt it,’ Larrs replied. ‘Apparently he spends time propping up the bar in some shabby thing near the docks. The Water Hole I believe it was. It’s just as rotten on all accounts.’

‘Worth checking out?’ Jacques asked.

‘Depends if you’re looking for trouble.’

‘Seems to be there’s no getting away from it.’ Franco removed the letter from his jacket pocket and slipped it on the table between them.

‘Is this why you asked for me?’

‘You could talk sense into him maybe, if you had the time. I would be grateful.’ Larrs swallowed his pride as firmly to his gut as possible. ‘I would be grateful indeed,’ he repeated.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s … he’s all I’ve got left these days. Look at me, lad, I’m not as spry as I once were. I’m too old to be clipping ears and tanning hides. Ketan is a good boy, but these folks will be the death of him.’

Franco, despite leaving his past behind, could never neglect it entirely. He saw his difficult upbringing as a rite of passage and endured hardships that forged his iron resolve, and for that he was unexpectedly thankful. In all honesty – if honesty was something that Franco wished to indulge in – he had no choice but to accept this appeal. Larrs had steered him right in those old, delinquency days. Along with his grandfather, he had helped raise him right.

‘I understand.’ Franco nodded sagely. ‘Jacques, if your throat is dry, could you do with a stronger drink?’

* * *

Despite Misu’s request for him to keep Franco on a sensible path, it would be impossible to sway him from this new agenda. Then again, Jacques had no desire to. Sure, the shows were enjoyable to manage and in an ideal world they would never have to stray and assist in such personal endeavours.

But what he and Franco felt failed to be suppressed by words. The red blood of men was pumping in exhilaration and this task was something to satisfy it. It was, in a word, exciting, and just enough to fleetingly forget the monotony of day-to-day business.

‘Always, boss,’ Jacques replied.

‘Then let’s make a move.’

* * *

With Windberg established as one of the main trading routes across the Sand Sea, its docks were sprawling and massive. Cranes arched high above on each lengthy jetty, packing and unpacking cargo from sand ships with dockhands running around to accommodate each crate and drum.

Warehouses of every size and shape and complexity dominated the south district. Trade was plentiful in animal and textile goods – and especially in raw materials. Iron and steel came from mines and foundries, train lines carrying row upon row of carts at a time. Oil came further afield. It was pumped from the large ships, most hiring private groups of security to ensure the cargo reached its destination.

Some ships would roll in pitted with bullet holes and with punctured hulls, maybe even sustaining a few human casualties. You had to be crazy to attempt to hijack a sand ship – not that this was a concern for those trying. Repelling these was dangerous work, requiring a rotation of private security teams, most of which congregated at the local dock bars.

They were ideal places of congregation. Cheap drink, likeminded folks, and if you needed some muscle to protect a shipment, they could be easily found and the agreement bartered, all in the same place.

Of course, goods regularly went missing in transport – something Sheriff Juniper had failed to get around to stamping out. Some warehouse security was easily bribed, or even in league with one or two unscrupulous operators in the city. Some merchandise found itself in the back rooms of these bars, ready for collection by paying parties. Either way, security and lawlessness went hand in hand. Attempting to separate the pair was fruitless.

It was one of these bars Franco and Jacques made their way to, navigating each sanded street and pressing through reams of workers transporting the most recent shipments. Horses pulled carts in, the nearby market traders peddling as much as they could in bulk, turning streets narrower into jostling rivers. Down a side road, sat a building much like any other. The brickwork was pitted and scarred from blasts of sand, iron railings rusted and shedding paint. The sign itself, once proud and new, had text reduced to semi-transparent lettering.

Jacques snapped a cigarette alight between his teeth, taking in a slow, powerful draw.

They paused to read the sign above the door. Beneath the name The Water Hole was a crudely attempted image of an oasis, equally scorched by the elements and equally ramshackle.

Inside wasn’t much better. Simple wooden furniture, straight wooden bar, bottles lined up behind – though the selection and quality was severely lacking. Their arrival was noted by a couple of grizzly regulars, rough and unwashed, playing cards with little enthusiasm. The bartender, equally unkempt, watched with scrutiny all while Franco ordered two whiskies and the pair seated themselves in a corner.

Jacques stubbed his cigarette into an ashtray and chuckled to himself. ‘Nice place, huh?’

‘That it is.’ Franco hid his vision behind a pair of smoked oval spectacles, eying up the premises before adding, ‘Sarcasm, right?’

‘Sarcasm it was, boss.’ Jacques rasped his tongue over a rolling paper filled with shag tobacco.

‘What do you think? Could we buy this place?’ Franco sipped from his glass, watching the barman who, in turn, kept his attention very much on the door.

‘Only for the purposes of demolishing I’m guessing.’

‘A dash of paint, replace the glass, and have someone a damn sight prettier to coax punters in. I think it could be a prime place for business.’

‘Because trade seems to be going so well.’

A roar from the pair playing poker forced a pause for a moment as cards were slapped down onto a table and the call for another round from the excited winner was announced.

‘How did the meeting go this morning? Misu mentioned you met someone,’ Jacques said, changing the subject quickly.

‘Someone wanted to buy the Den from me.’

‘How much?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘How much did they propose?’

‘The actual figure wasn’t brought up. The discussion never got that far. An offer was made by proxy.’

‘Bad pitch then.’ Jacques paused, looking into his glass. ‘You get a name for who was putting up the money?’

‘None,’ Franco huffed, ‘but I’ve got a notion.’

‘Are you considering it?’

‘What kind of question is that? Of course I’m not – it would be all kinds of crazy to do! The madness of yourself, Jacques, honestly.’

‘No offence, boss. Just sounded worth, well, contemplating.’

‘Misu said that too. I’m beginning to think you’re in cahoots.’

‘Cahoots nothing. Ain’t no shame in thinking of endeavours new – especially when you have a considerable plenty in waiting.’

A sudden, tremendous blast of a two-tone horn signalled another ship rolling into the docks, its momentum reverberating the very ground and forcing standing glasses behind the bar to momentarily dance until it stopped. The bartender checked his pocket watch before opening a storeroom behind him, leaving a turned wrought-iron key protruding from the lock.

The ship’s horn blasted anew, causing the ground to vibrate with tremors.