The sheriff nodded, impatiently biting the inside of his cheek. In truth no answer would suffice nor subdue any suspicions of wrongdoing.
‘I want to see your stamps.’
Misu immediately handed over the logbook with a trembling grip, showing the time and date the Gambler’s Den arrived at each destination. Alongside each were the verified imprints from each corresponding stationmaster, authenticating claims of the route. Pages were flicked back and forth.
‘It says here you went through Rustec a week back. You never mentioned that,’ Juniper accused.
‘You never asked … We just passed through, gave the small-town folks there a reason to celebrate. Can you clarify what this is about, sheriff?’
The logbook was slapped shut and passed back. Alex paced alongside the carriage and inspected its veneer. ‘Word on the wire was that there was a break-in at some museum in Rustec. Some relic was stolen. Very valuable. Expert work by all accounts.’
‘We heard that too. There’s some sticky-fingered folks out there,’ Franco returned, not liking where this was going.
‘You wouldn’t have heard anything else, would you? Anything specific? An enterprising man like yourself must hear things in your line of work. Numerous things I suppose.’ Juniper finally acknowledged Franco and sized him up. As expected, Juniper was barrel-chested and weathered in appearance. The gaze that brought the truth in many an interrogation failed to intimidate Franco, who passed it off.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he replied.
The sheriff ran his hand over the steely veneer of the nearest carriage, tracing each bullet hole in sequence. Only now was Franco able to assess the damage of their little run-in. Not to mention calculate the approximate cost.
‘Run into some trouble, did we?’
‘We get just as much as anybody else.’ Franco shrugged. ‘The Den just knows how to defend itself.’
‘No unlicensed weaponry I hope.’
‘Perish the thought, sheriff. Papers for them all.’
‘Talking of papers, I want to see the gambling licence for this vehicle. It’s not exempt from gambling laws just because it’s on wheels.’
Misu was already prepared. They had been pressed by the law many times. None of the houndings ever resulted in an apology, but something close. The Den was legal front and back. Just because they dealt with large sums of gambling money didn’t mean that the paperwork wasn’t in check. Misu offered over the leather-bound wedge of paper, which was snatched and blindly passed to anyone in reach to review. It was looked at, quickly.
‘They were stamped two years back in the capital.’
Sceptical, Juniper reclaimed the documents. He brought the pages closer and eyed the imprints for any indication of forgery.
‘We’re far from there. Most folk would attempt to hoodwink us with fakes.’
‘Luckily we’re not those kind of folk. As down and honest as the day we were made, much to our misfortune.’ Franco chuckled half-heartedly.
Alex stared longer this time, more intently, searching his hardest for any sign of tampering.
‘I assure you, all is in order.’
Harold was eager to check every stamp and the validity of travel himself, though had to take the sheriff’s overriding word.
Acknowledging that, from what he could witness, everything was legitimate, Juniper placed the paperwork roughly back into Misu’s hand. She scowled at his flat, childish response.
‘This is a clean city with good people. Be sure that you don’t get involved in anything unlawful. If there’s one thing we don’t abide by, it’s troublemakers.’
‘Trouble isn’t something we make, friend. You have no need to worry,’ Franco assured him before leading his party down the platform. ‘In our business, such a thing is unprofitable.’
* * *
To find oneself in Windberg was almost bewildering after spending time in the trade outposts. A city – and not just any city – the most expansive and extravagant city squatting on the cusp of the Bad Lands. It was a sprawling, claustrophobic beast. It was a city that could comfortably hold a good few thousand people but accommodated plenty more with the ever-expanding shantytowns. In its rush for growth, districts resembled haphazard constructions. Wealthy ones, boasting fine multi-storey erections, simply punctuated the contrast to reams of terraced dwellings threaded by maze-like streets of the poor.
Just stepping out of Central Station revealed a sea of activity, people moving like the flow of a stream, all with something to do or a place to be. Gothic architecture loomed overhead, immense stonework and sculptures, watching over cramped alleys that harboured mischief. The poor sat openly begging, the fortunate delighted by the clatter of coin in their begging bowl. Carriages, some pulled by horse and others steam-powered, ebbed along to their destination, sometimes dangerously fast, forcing those in their path to quickly scurry aside. Civilization had rooted itself deeply here and showed no indication of regressing.
No sooner had Wyld emerged from the Den, than she slinked into the shadows and walked familiar alleyways to attend to her own business. It was her nature to avoid the crowds when feeling guilty and the weighty lump in her side bag seemed to ooze that feeling. She kept her head bowed when eye contact was made, turned back as soon as the law was in sight, and swept into every shadow much like a fox.
* * *
Muddick’s Curiosity Shoppe lacked any genuine curiosity for those who entered. A person never found themselves walking through the door not knowing exactly what they wanted. Every wall was stacked with knick-knacks, the ceiling blanketed in hanging lamps of every size and colour possible. The store resembled more of an unsorted warehouse than a place of business.
Muddick himself was sat behind a walnut counter, though sat was too generous a word. The old man slouched on his stool, lazily scanning the day’s paper. Flecks of tobacco escaped the suckled cob pipe that bellowed smoke. Tobacco lined every glass jar behind him, crudely labelled but of the highest quality – good tobacco, not that wet rag that got passed around as a good smoke.
Again he wetted his lips, flicked to the next page, and traced each word with bony fingers. Whilst his eyesight may be failing, obvious from the absurdly thick glasses that had already half slipped down his nose, his hearing remained as sharp as ever. It picked up the jangling door chime as the door eased open. He heard the latch click back behind the person. He counted each footstep as they approached.
One. Two. Three.
The hollow rattle of the beaded curtain that the customer passed through.
Four. Five. Six.
On cue he breathed out the last inhalation of smoke, and flicked his eyes upward.
‘Aha,’ he cooed. ‘I was wondering when you would turn up. I saw your handiwork in here.’ Muddick flicked the paper to its cover, pointing to the enlarged lettering.
DARING MIDNIGHT ROBBERY OF THE EPILIM MUSEUM!
PRICELESS ARTEFACT STOLEN!
Wyld pulled at the neck of her poncho, dusting some of the loose sand that had deposited itself in the folds. ‘Priceless is it now?’ She smirked. She looked proud of herself, much like a cat would with a mouse in its jaws. ‘I thought everything had a price.’
‘Some prices are far from the reach of others, hence the term.’
Wyld reached for the canvas satchel on her waist, carefully revealing the stolen artefact and placing it on the rough counter. The gilded gold leaf ran the china egg’s circumference, then spiralled into intricate floral patterns, leaves flanked by perfectly cut gems of ruby and topaz. Along its surface was the very clear depiction