‘Why indeed?’
She sipped from her tumbler during the pause, noticing a tremor running through her wrist. Her fingers were shaking. Why were her fingers shaking?
‘I bet a woman like yourself is pursued for such talents. Plenty of suitors.’
‘Not as many as you would think, sir, but you are one for flattery.’
‘Nonsense, a man would kill for a woman like you at his side. I can see it now, searching through the Sand Sea itself for a sign of your living, maybe even employing others to do so. And what an entourage they could be.’
Misu’s throat clenched in trepidation before she wheezed a response. ‘Aye, they would. If one imagined.’
‘Lucky that I am the imaginative sort. Some would. Most would, I think. I couldn’t envision any who would not. But my feelings tell me something – with this imagining of mine – that someone already has.’ He waved a chubby finger. ‘Why, I can imagine our employer doing so. You remember him, don’t you? Big puppy-dog eyes. Straight jaw. Quite the temper. Never able to let anything go. Especially runaways.’
Misu clenched her glass tighter, trying mightily to stop her hand from shaking more noticeably than it already was.
Flenn turned aside and patted his thigh. ‘Sit,’ he offered.
Before doing so, she paid a casual look behind her, but none of the others were watching. Tables were waited, games were tended. A plea from her eyes for help went unnoticed.
Flenn raised a brow, continuing. ‘Be speedy now. Donovan there is not known for his patience.’
The last of the cards cut the threat-heavy air. Donovan amused himself by slouching back, the threatening hilt of his knife produced from his hip.
She sat, as instructed, still gripping her glass, her skin drained of all colour. Her eyes flicked for Jacques though he was nowhere to be seen – cavorting for the patrons maybe, either way not doing what he was paid for. No, nobody was helping her out of this rapidly souring situation, a situation constructed by her own actions – seeded long ago. Things had caught up to her, without warning, without introduction, just like she feared they would. The nightmare had finally come true.
‘I’m sure that we don’t need to remind you that Mr Wilheim is not a patient sort. He’s asked us to simply remind you of your, shall we say, obligations.’
‘I won’t go b-back to that m-man,’ Misu stuttered. Her tumbler was placed, with difficulty, onto the table.
‘Luckily Mister Wilheim is generous and stated that you were not to be marked as a sign of good faith. Your disappearance has not roused his anger. However, there is a condition. He is willing to overlook your indiscretions in exchange for a simple task. Complete it and he will leave you be. Refuse, and we have free rein to reclaim you.’
‘Please refuse, my girl,’ Donovan exclaimed. It was immediate and disturbing, tainted with a relish for his dirty work. Misu glanced over the lines of his jacket breast, noticing that it was a size bigger than needed, and no doubt concealed a few more knives in the inner pockets. These men were not intending to negotiate. Of course they weren’t. Wilheim never negotiated. He would deliver the terms and you accepted, graciously.
If one failed to do so, the repercussions would be so severe that you would never do so again. If you ever had the chance afterwards, that was.
Misu attempted to keep her composure, asking as nonchalantly as possible, ‘Wilheim. What does he want me to do?’
When their talk was over, Misu made her way back to the bar carriage, overly concerned that her expression may give away her current state. Just for a moment her legs buckled, though she was saved by bracing herself on the bar so that her slip went unnoticed. Not to Jacques though. Jacques tilted his head and looked over her shoulder to the table she had just served. He walked between them to block their line of sight.
‘Is anything the matter? Are you all right?’ Jacques enquired, shielding her from the patrons.
‘Of course I am. Why would I not be?’
‘You seem disturbed by the gentlemen at the side table. I just saw, is all. They didn’t handle you did they? We have rules for a reason. Just say the word and I’ll enforce more appropriate behaviour.’
‘No, no, all is fine.’
Misu patted her clothes straight, skilfully blinking the tears back. From behind Jacques, Donovan tilted his chair back on two legs and winked playfully, threateningly.
‘Everything will be all right,’ she uttered.
* * *
With the Gambler’s Den being the focus for the residents, and the considerable police presence that was on the streets, Wyld found it easier to move undetected in the city. Strange, she mused, that so many constables would be sent to observe the evening’s entertainment. Did they expect a riot to break out, or for the patrons to form some unruly mob? Bizarre.
Still, with the streets empty, it made moving through the city, out into the shantytowns, all the easier. The directions that Muddick provided were, sadly, somewhat sketchy. They reeked of generality. Entire roads were missing from the crude drawings, scrawled down with aged hands. Thankfully they were not so bad that she totally missed the intended location.
It was detailed with a large cross in the middle of a plot of land. She found it in the darkness, a chain-link fence running around a circumference of scrubland – a space undisturbed by the increase in makeshift housing. Nothing hinted at its presence but the Vault was here, hidden inside an inconspicuous two-storey structure, waiting to be plundered.
Slow Decisions
Franco sifted through invites that had been delivered that morning over a cup of strong black coffee. Most of the envelopes were slit open, scanned, and placed in catalogued piles, though almost all were likely to be rejected. A good number were invitations to social events, sudden parties by popular folk keen to get someone so elusive and debonair at their function. Celebration this, party that. All of them were superficial nonsense for the wealthy.
A handful of requests were for Franco to be a potential suitor for daughters – the girls to be introduced with utmost urgency. Each approach was charming, formal of course, and besieged with compliments that were ultimately meaningless. None of these merited consideration in the slightest, even when skimming through the occasionally accompanying photo. Each piece of mail was devoid of value, with exception of the one he tucked into his jacket pocket.
* * *
Misu yawned, sitting herself in the lounge car, leaning her legs lengthways across a red velvet sofa. Immediately she yanked a drawstring on the curtains, letting them fall to a close, relieving the onset of a headache. She picked through each letter in turn as Franco sipped slowly on his morning poison. She mimicked his verdicts. The re-sorted letters made newly designated piles with the same dismissal – though unlike Franco, Misu carried the baggage of the evening’s events, baggage that dictated her hand movements.
‘How did we do last night? From all accounts, everyone was kept busy and the bar had good takings. I didn’t see the books by the close. Were the games on par?’
Franco nodded jubilantly. ‘It seems like Windberg is a haven of bad gamblers – not that I’m complaining, mind you. Lessens our money troubles somewhat and everybody enjoyed themselves. Yes, we did well.’
‘Well enough for a bonus?’
‘I said we did well; I didn’t say we did great. By well, I refer to the fact that we can now cover repairs and pay off a few debts. Should all that go belly-up I can at least resort to my back-up plan.’
‘Which