old, his literacy and accountancy skills had made him an asset. When old enough, he had taken the running of the stalls day to day, shifting any goods that were offered by suppliers for a quick turnaround, before destiny interrupted.
By chance, Jacques witnessed a well-dressed gentleman being relieved of his purse by a pickpocket of impressive skill. Calling into the throng caused the criminal to escape but for some reason Jacques gave chase. Sprinting through snaking alleyways that were always slick with sand, he eventually cornered the thief and demanded his ill-gotten possessions. A knife was quickly thrust towards Jacques, which he was not quick enough to dodge, and it instead sank into his shoulder. It was the first true experience of physical pain he had suffered, though this was hastily ignored.
In response Jacques tossed the thief against the alleyway walls until he hung limp over his shoulder. It was surprising for the purse owner to offer Jacques a job upon his return. Sure, he could have kept the money but not everybody stole given the opportunity. Principles counted for a lot and Franco, who happened to have been the victim in this whole affair, approached Jacques with a job prospect. He needed a trustworthy hand and Jacques needed money. It was an ideal arrangement.
Another crack of a revolver. Another hollow thud into the carriage side. How much was all this going to cost? Repeated entanglements were a monetary blight on funds and costs were already skyrocketing. How much more was he supposed to tolerate? The entire farce was eroding his patience.
Enraged, Franco slammed his drink down and pulled down the carriage window. The revolver, which had rested upon the table, was now gripped and bucking wildly in thunderclaps. Franco barked in anger at the nearest horse-riding bandit whilst firing rapidly. The rider spun from the saddle and rolled into the dirt, this loss finally being enough for the bandits to turn back.
‘Will you refrain from shooting at my train please?!’ Franco bellowed as loudly as his throat would permit.
The bandits began to pull back. Reading the bold sign that sped past, Franco saw it was only ten miles until they’d arrive in the safety of Windberg.
It could not come quick enough.
Misu had sat in the same carriage, sorting paperwork, or at least giving the impression that she had been doing so, but on Franco’s umpteenth glance, he noticed she was mechanically shuffling the same papers over and over again. She stared blankly, looking at the drink bottles that populated the bar where she was seated, her face multiplied by the reflections.
‘You seem fascinated by those invoices. Don’t seem so entertaining to me.’
Misu blinked away her trance, readjusting her now numb buttocks on the stool.
‘Those outside don’t have you rattled, do they?’ he enquired.
‘Not at all, I’m just working out what to do with all this …’ Her words trailed off as she quickly reviewed the pages, as if she had never noticed them before. Franco immediately noticed this hesitation. Misu was never this cagey in his presence. Maybe when they had an argument she would stop talking to him, of course. Sometimes, when he had taken to playing with patrons and gambled too frivolously, she gave the cold shoulder. And yes, that time when he accidentally implied she had put on weight did warrant blanking all of his requests – but this? This was out of the ordinary.
‘File it, surely. That’s the routine. Are you sure you’re okay? You seem a touch unlike yourself.’ His fingers drummed on the bar counter.
‘I’m peachy, dear. It’s just been a rougher ride than usual and I feel a little queasy.’ Misu beamed, finally paying Franco her full attention. The smile was close to believable and easily able to hoodwink anyone else into believing all was fine. Franco was immune to such diversions but decided to play along if talking was far from her mind.
‘If that’s all it is … If you could be so kind, just make sure you’re ready with the manifest when we reach the station. We’ll be in Windberg very soon.’ Franco took his leave to his personal car to finish the last of the arrangements.
Misu’s face faded from his sight.
‘Oh and I forgot,’ he added, turning back, ‘word on the wire is that it’s customary for Bluecoats to give a hard time to all arrivals due to criminality in the area. So tell the girls to play nice.’
* * *
As Franco left to discuss his own affairs, Misu slumped down across the bar and rubbed the bridge of her nose. A tired, exasperated gasp left her throat.
Why did it have to be Windberg all places? The mere name of the city coaxed her stomach to churn.
Alex Juniper was known for many things. The first was his uncompromising stance on illegal trade. Unlike anywhere else, the sheriff had formed a task force dedicated to the interception of goods smugglers – forcing anyone to think twice about planning a route through his jurisdiction. The second was his formidable temper, hence the moniker Axe, though nobody dared to use this in his presence.
He was the law here, as much as it was defined and sometimes a little over. Sometimes getting the job done was a messy business, fraught with all manner of unpleasantries. Were they necessary? To the sheriff, they were more than that. They were mandatory.
Someone like Franco – dangerously aloof, unpredictable, and brazen – and with the Gambler’s Den in tow, could only result in trouble of the worst kind.
And Alex Juniper would be ready for him.
* * *
Harold Wigglesbottom walked the length of Platform 4 and back again. He checked his gold pocket watch, secured to his breast pocket by a chain, and tutted once more. Punctuality was important to Harold, as Windberg Central Station needed to run, in his verbose opinion, like a proverbial clock. Trains came and passed through Windberg with alarming frequency, bringing passengers, cargo, and post, so it took just one delay to hold everything up. Delays were not favourable to him, a perpetual annoyance that few took seriously, so when the arrival at Platform 4 was five minutes overdue, it caused nothing but irritation.
He snapped the watch case shut and slid it back inside his vest, walking back with ledger in hand towards the accompanying constabulary referred to as Bluecoats. Harold was familiar with the law, and the routine of spot inspections for new arrivals, but even this display was significantly more heavy-handed than was customary. It seemed that their dear sheriff had been expecting the new arrivals. Lucky them.
* * *
By the time the Gambler’s Den had finally pulled in, the security had reorganized into formation, jostling Harold for floor space, with others cautiously securing every exit. Harold recorded the train number in his ledger, elbowing those in his way aside for a view of the platform clock, on his platform, in his station.
Sheriff Juniper watched the carriages haul past to a squealing stop, bursts of steam erupting out. The heaving beast – gilded and proud – dwarfed the men who stood in preparation on Platform 4.
It was an unexpected welcome for Franco, who stepped out from his carriage, followed by Misu and Jacques. A bevy of showgirls sauntered from the back carriage, dressed in all their finery and chirping with excitement. They froze in surprise. Any dealings with the law usually resulted in one of two outcomes: bribery or arguments, and so they were right to be cautious.
It was Harold who approached first. He moved his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a chubby finger, jowls shaking
