Wyld’s face fell in shock. Instantly Jacques was upon her. The reaction had given him all he needed to challenge her. ‘I knew it. You know something about this.’
‘I don’t, I swear!’
‘Don’t lie to me!’ Jacques stormed across the floor, every hollow thud of his boots a death knell.
‘I’m not! I know nothing about that woman Misu, nothing at all! I tried to speak to her a couple of times, but it was if she looked right through me. I accept those notions from you people. I know I’m not exactly the wanted type here. I know I’m expendable and the moment trouble breaks you’ll hand me over in a second to save your own behinds!’ She snapped her fingers in anger, surprising even herself at the venom.
‘You really think that?’
‘I’m disposable, right? We all are. Franco just proved it. If you think I somehow know whatever game Misu is playing, because of the company I have to keep, you can think again.’ Wyld’s voice broke as she trailed off. Her blazing eyes momentarily softened.
‘But?’ Jacques probed.
‘But …’ Wyld turned and strode towards him. ‘I can tell you what I do know, and you only had to ask. When I sold something off, I had a long conversation with a buyer who told me everything. I know all about this Wilheim Fort character. You don’t do what I do without finding out the lay the land. I know plenty about who he is, his dealings – and I’m telling you, from what I’ve been told, you do not want to get tangled up in that mess. Wilheim is more shades of wrong than you could ever know.’
Jacques, now deflated of his anger, wearily sat himself on a crate of supplies where she quietly joined him. They both sighed, silently, before Jacques nodded in agreement to himself.
‘Then tell me everything,’ he said.
Wyld did so, elaborating on every piece of fact and hearsay that she had acquired. Muddick, shuffling stolen goods through his premises, was the first to warn her of Wilheim’s presence when she arrived, cautioning her that the city was not to be trusted. Eyes were everywhere, as were knives, and encroaching on his operations ensured your disappearance. Businesses, hangouts, even individuals who were being bribed to ignore such things, Wyld had a treasure trove of information to divulge and did so, at length, until dawn cracked the sky to a pale glow.
Show of Hand
The night was cool, heavy with the day’s dissipated heat. The streets were empty apart from the occasional cheering of drinkers from the taverns that Misu passed. She walked in a slouch, shoes dragging over path and road. Drifted sand collected in deposits, forcing her to step around, each step slowly advancing down the road, though she had no idea where it would lead her.
In the oldest district of Windberg, where buildings had been built on top of one another in ramshackle fashion, instead of being demolished to make way for cleaner developments, Misu stared at the local inns, hoping that one window wouldn’t be populated with a no vacancy sign.
She had enough money in her possession for a few nights’ accommodation, but the further she ventured, the worse the premises became. Some of these cramped, dirty inns needed a stroke of new paint. The best for others would be repeated strikes of a wrecking ball.
Misu cringed, passing a particularly rowdy establishment known as the Black Thistle, where a fight previously contained in its walls had started to spill out from its doorway. When the disagreement between two individuals exploded into a full brawl, Misu darted down the nearest alleyway to avoid any unwanted attention. A showgirl from the Den could be the focus of many, and the depravity of some.
Misu calmed herself and trotted down the alley until the cheers faded and the police whistles stopped. And in the shadow, she saw the face of someone, who counted their good fortune. There was no energy to run, no attempt to cry for help. She was spent and could only form a whimper of shock as Flenn stepped out from a darkened doorway, still sporting a purple shiner that squatted on his left eye socket, a warning that Jacques had happily delivered.
Every advance down the steps was angular, with weight being relieved from his left leg. When others of his type had scampered away after their beating, Flenn had remained behind, brooding on vicious plans, designing on his hate. Hate was chased with liquor, and there he had sat, in the cramped crooked alleyway, followed by equally despicable people who drank, and hated, as much as he.
‘Where are you going, little rabbit?’ Flenn sneered. A cackle emanated from his entourage behind him. ‘And where’s your friend?’
‘Seems like she’s been tossed out,’ someone said.
‘Aye.’ Flenn’s eyes flashed. ‘That it does.’
‘No –’ Misu attempted to speak.
‘Streets are cold, I would say. Dangerous too. Never know what folks walk these streets.’
‘I think we need to find a home for her.’
‘That we do.’
‘Come along. I know someone who will take care of you. You’ve played long enough.’
An attempt at struggling was halted as thick fingers squeezed her cheeks.
‘Ah ah ah, none of that now. The boss said he wanted you back, but never said in what condition. You’ve already been trouble. I’ve killed men for a bad look. I’ve gutted others for a dirty word spoken, so don’t think I wouldn’t do the same to you. I can take you back without a hassle, untouched. Or …’ Flenn bent forward, eye to eye in challenge ‘… I can make you very ugly. Decide.’
Another whimper, this one the last, accompanied with a hurried shake of the head. Misu’s reward was to be pushed back, gasping for air and knowing full well that escape was impossible.
‘Clever girl.’
Rude Awakenings
What was that noise?
Marching feet, raised voices. Both things indicative of trouble – trouble that Jacques didn’t need to accompany his hangover. The sunlight was bad enough: a barrage of a thousand tiny needles that burrowed into his forehead via his fragile eyes, but this addition was overkill.
How much did they drink last night? Could he even remember? The collection of empty beer bottles was evidence enough. Every slam and bang and crash and call served to do nothing to his already suffering demeanour. He peeled himself from a carriage seat and attempted to wince as the ring of the church bells had taken residence within his skull. Every step to the windows set them ringing, reducing the speed of his steps until the pain became bearable, and then Jacques caught sight of the cause.
Alex Juniper positioned himself in full view with a handful of men, each keen-eyed and geared for trouble. Then, he called out to the occupants. ‘Mister Monaire, please do grant me a kindness and the pleasure of your company.’
Jacques squinted bleary-eyed past a curtain, fingering the material back. The train remained quiet, far too quiet for this hour as breakfast would normally be made and the showgirls would be serving coffee.
Right, he recalled the night before. The showgirls. At some point the arguments became heated and they’d insisted on looking for Misu, no matter how long it took. It must have taken a while as they had yet to come back.
* * *
Corinne’s disapproving glare still burnt in Franco’s mind as he was roused awake, heavy-eyed and thick-headed.
‘What is the commotion?’ he whimpered, checking his body to ensure decency, though