‘No,’ Jacques hurriedly corrected. ‘I mean, could you have, you know –’ His suggestion was coupled with a rubbing of thumb and fingers. Bribery. It opened many doors in this line of work. Some downright expected it as part of the job.
‘If I could of, I would have,’ Franco dismissed, pacing the platform and eyeing up every constable acting sentry.
Alex Juniper stepped down from the carriage and patted its side, more patronizing than anything else. Placing his hands on its exterior was a clear sign of defiance to Franco, one both clearly acknowledged by each party.
‘Quite the costly one you have here, son,’ Juniper stated with a hiss through his teeth. ‘No expense spared for sure. Quite the coin to deck her out I would say.’
‘What are you getting at, sheriff?’ Franco asked. The pleasantries were now over. ‘If it is an accusation, please do come out with it. My time is valuable.’
Juniper stepped before him, towering over Franco, his height clearly a good half foot in advantage. The steel at his hip rattled in its holster with every stride, a dangerous reminder of the severity of this matter.
‘Your time is worthless while I have your little travelling show here, and it will be a spell until we’ve thoroughly searched it. Your floozies can be on their backs, on the clock, when I decide. I think we’ll have to take a while as …’ Juniper scanned each face before him, assessing the guilt. Misu gritted her teeth in frustration, fists clenched and almost shaking. ‘Given the company you keep, I think it’s best that we are thorough.’
Franco stuffed the warrant into his trouser pocket as a revelation struck. ‘Of course. You think we had something to do with that business in Rustec, don’t you?’
Juniper sneered, a creeping, horrid smile that twisted his features and stressed wrinkles of age.
‘That’s an accusation there, not one that we have made. You are assuming things, Franco.’
‘You don’t need to play this game with me. I’ve dealt with your kind before.’ Beneath his mousy auburn fringe, Franco had made an unspoken challenge. It was risen to immediately.
‘Dealt with my kind?’ Juniper seethed. ‘I assure you, lad, you have not seen the likes of me. So you can keep up with that smart talk all you want. Until I’m happy that every inch of your vehicle is on the level, consider it impounded.’
Misu cursed in disbelief.
‘We’ve got a show to do tonight! You can’t do this!’
‘Don’t be telling me what I can and cannot do in my city. Unless you want to waste more of this valuable time of yours, I suggest you get out of our way and find somewhere to sleep for the night. Don’t be going too far, mind. I’ll surely be wanting to talk to you after. Men!’ Juniper called to those in earshot, each boot striking in attention. ‘You have orders that if anyone interferes with your search, clap them in irons and drag them to the cells.’
Misu pressed herself against Franco, whose eyes and mind were elsewhere, and made an attempt of reassurance. It was for naught, as he brushed away her hands and concern, and left to find time with his thoughts, alone. She watched and wrapped her arms around herself for comfort. This was a disaster.
* * *
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