* *
The sheriff was content with how things were being handled. Children with toys rattling into his city – who did they think they were? Rolling carriages of debauchery and sin. They were the reason why Windberg was in such a state; they were the reason why lawlessness was so rampant in this region. The line had to be held and he, as he reminded himself once more, was the only one with the resolve to do it.
* * *
Strolling down the steps from the train station, Juniper was observed from the gloom of a shop alleyway with scrutiny. With hood up, Wyld waited for him to pass into the busy crowds. She emerged, moving past street vendors and stallholders. The increased placement of constables was terribly off-putting. Her fingertips subconsciously caressed the illegal effigy in her knapsack, for reassurance if she was honest. This was not a good turn of events and it would be hours until darkness provided the comfort and safety of the shadows once more.
* * *
Rumours of the impounding of the Gambler’s Den spread through bar and tavern, making the promised invites that had been pinned up on communal message boards surprisingly void. Some did turn up at the station, hoping for a show, but were instead met by the locked station gates and unimpressed constabulary.
Afternoon soon gave way to dusk, dusk to twilight and still no fanfare. Even the most keen individuals, almost giddy with anticipation, sloped away, disappointed with the outcome. The stars were supposed to be joined with fireworks, but instead remained as uneventful as always. The streets were supposed to be set alight with a carnival atmosphere, but instead harboured the nightly drunken vagrants.
The evening was as typical as any in Windberg.
* * *
When the moon had risen high and begun its downward descent, Franco remained the only one of the Den’s party who found that sleep had eluded him. It was not for want of trying, though the bed seemed too firm, the sheets immensely itchy and the heat, the heat, it was as if the innkeepers were attempting to boil him alive.
With the train off limits, this was the first time in years Franco hadn’t slept in his own bed. It may have been promoted as one of the best beds in the entire city, but Franco’s back keenly argued this with a flurry of sharp pains that climaxed with abandoning any attempts at slumber. Instead, he ventured down into the foyer and slumped on a barstool, ordering glasses of what passed for good alcohol.
Everyone else was asleep, he assumed. They had all eaten together, though in awkward silence. Misu was the only one brave enough to question the change in performance schedule, though it was soon apparent that such a discussion wasn’t to be had. Jacques had decided to leave his employer to his thoughts.
Without his own bar to drain, Franco had to make do with the one that the inn had to offer, if one could call it a bar. It was woefully stocked with dusty bottles, most second-rate scotch and vodka, with few names he could pronounce and thus ignored. Franco gestured for the eight-year-old bottle of sour mash, tossing back glass after glass until his fingers began to numb and his troubles slowly faded.
Beside him sat a waif of a girl, clad in a sand-dusted poncho. She muttered for a glass of the hardest stuff in the house and caressed the beverage in cupped hands. Both she and Franco failed to make eye contact, but after taking a long sip from his own tumbler, he finally spoke, eyes still focused on some unseen point past the racks of, presumably, long-spoilt wine.
‘Please tell me you had nothing to do with this,’ he asked, shaking his head. It warranted a draw on a newly rolled cigarette, and a slow, patient exhalation.
Wyld re-seated herself, running her finger over the circumference of her glass before taking a sip.
‘I saw the commotion when I returned,’ Wyld murmured, cautious that anyone might be overhearing their conversation. Officially, Wyld was nothing more than an unknown stowaway. A ghost. ‘I thought it would be best to distance myself from you all, just in case.’
Not good enough.
‘The sheriff exclaimed that they were searching the Den because of the company I kept. What did you do, Wyld? Where did you go?’ He placed his glass down, firmly, totally missing the accompanying coaster.
‘Nothing, really. I mean, I got –’ She paused. ‘A valuation.’
‘On what you –’ Franco glanced to the bartender and hushed himself slightly. ‘You acquired?’
‘I didn’t see anyone following me.’
‘I think it’s safe to assume that they did.’
‘Listen, Franco. This isn’t a game; I know that. I was careful. This is what I do. I don’t get tailed.’
Franco ground his roll-up into a nearby ashtray, fighting the urge to start a second.
‘Well, you need to be better, clearly. If they find whatever you’ve stolen?’
‘I don’t get how that would be my fault considering that it’s your trunk they’re in. I said I needed it locked away; that’s what you produced. Stop being jittery. That thing is as secure as it gets. If someone attempts to open it without the correct pressure triggers, they’ll have to take an axe to split it open.’
‘Would your contact talk?’
‘Even if he gave me up, he would have plenty of jail time ahead. It’s not even on the cards.’
Wyld sipped her liquor away, before delivering her bombshell. ‘I found out something of interest.’
‘Don’t you think you’ve been getting us in enough trouble already?’ Franco relinquished the urge to have another smoke, striking a match in a violent snap.
‘The payoff would be big.’
‘I am assuming such, to get you out of this hole you’ve been digging. You already owe me for the ride.’
‘I have your cut of the last job.’
‘You took it to the Den?’ Franco hissed between clenched teeth. ‘While it’s surrounded by the law?’
‘Of course not; don’t be an idiot. It’s safe. Stashed with someone I can trust.’
‘It had better be. I’m keen to get it to the bank. The last thing I need is that to go missing.’
‘This Vault that I told you about …’ Wyld quickly changed the subject.
‘Listening.’
‘It’s in a small compound just on the outskirts. I’ve found out what’s inside and it’s –’ Wyld stifled an inappropriate giggle with a hand. ‘It’s a treasure trove. All of the contraband that the law takes is locked away.’
Franco lowered his smoke once more and contemplated this, draining his glass dry. With such ruthless enforcement, if such a thing existed it would be plentiful for sure. It was, after all, why they had travelled here to begin with.
‘Such as?’
‘Weapons are a certainty.’
Useless. Selling them would bring
