Den of Shadows: The gripping new fantasy novel for fans of Caraval. Christopher Byford

sharp slap to the stomach.

      ‘In Her name, you blasted fool. Stop that, will you? You look like a damn statue. A statue of an ass of all things. Good morning, Franco. Slept well I presume?’ he grunted in a deep, gravelly tone.

      Franco gave a pained sigh. Blast those talkative women.

      ‘You’re referring to the drinking.’

      ‘Yes, that would be what I’m talking about in no uncertain terms.’ Rosso laughed before adding sarcasm. ‘I never thought you to be a lightweight.’

      ‘Remind me again, what was that spiced rum you wanted me to hold for you for the night off? Pricy, came in that nice bottle. Really pretty label.’

      ‘Ah yes. The Shellcoof Black. Good stuff by all accounts,’ Rosso recalled, knowing full well where this was going.

      ‘Keep up the attitude and I’ll drain it down the sink,’ he threatened, deadpan in tone.

      There was a serious, uncomfortable pause before smiles cracked through. The boy, though, was slightly rattled.

      ‘In answer to your question,’ Franco continued, ‘I would sleep better knowing that we’re getting back on schedule. Are there any problems given yesterday’s interruption?’

      ‘Apart from being stuck in this shit-hole for longer than desired? Thankfully none. The boiler is burning fine, the small drifts are already dug away, and the tracks ahead seem to be uncovered. We’ve had your security boy Jacques helping out all morning so you pretty folks could indulge in a lie-in. Doing manicures. Rubbing feet. Waxing hair. Whatever you are getting up to in there while we do, you know, the work.’

      Rosso heartily chuckled to himself. Franco had not been in the engine cab for quite some time now, not since he traded overalls for smart suit jackets. Their repartee, which occasionally happened at great length and usually over drink, was legendary. It was all false of course. Franco could never forget how to operate the Den and, arguably could look after it better than anyone else, but Rosso was, to him, the best substitute possible.

      The youngster, knowing that it was inappropriate, sniggered behind a hand, only to receive another bearlike hand to the stomach to correct his demeanour.

      ‘Dammit, lad, that’s your boss. He’s the one who gives you coin, you ungrateful cur. When it’s in your hand, you can piss and squander it on whatever you like, but show some respect in his presence because I ain’t seeing you rich enough to grow a pair yet.’

      ‘Of course, Pa. Sorry, Mister Franco.’ He bowed meekly.

      ‘Forget that, son, your old man is just being his stubborn self. None of the work, huh?’ Franco considered that for a moment. ‘If you’re too busy to eat, I’ll tell Kitty to put the skids on your breakfast. From what I understand she insisted on cooking up something special to show our appreciation, but with all this backbreaking labour you’re describing you couldn’t possibly take time out, could you?’ Franco rubbed his chin, beaming, clearly enjoying the banter.

      Rosso grinned back, showing a ream of crooked teeth. ‘Driving the Den is a harsh affair, boss. We couldn’t possibly pull off on an empty stomach. That is, unless you might want to get grease on those smooth, well-tended hands. I’m assuming you remember how to regulate pressure again? Or is pressure just a word used when balancing the books?’

      ‘Baseless accusations aside, how soon can we leave?’

      ‘Come now, when we’ve only just got here? I thought you wanted to stay a while, take in the sights.’ As if on cue to illustrate the point, a wild dog trotted over the loose sand, carrying a freshly caught rat in its jaws. It took a moment to pause, eyeing up the change in scenery as if to decide whether these new arrivals were a threat to its freshly caught meal. Having assessed them enough, it continued onward. ‘Well, sight. Singular. But to answer your question, I’ll get the boy to make preparations. We’ll be good in under an hour. Any change in destination?’

      ‘No, straight on to Balvalk.’

      ‘Aye, I know it. If we ride right, we’ll make it in under three hours.’

      ‘Good man. See that you do.’ Franco produced a silver coin and offered it to the boy beside him who tried, with difficulty, to act nonchalantly.

      ‘As soon as we arrive, buy yourself something to unwind. Your choice, not his. And make it worthwhile.’

      The youngster blushed and voiced his thanks.

      True to his word, Rosso pulled the Gambler’s Den from Velencia station on time and set off through the yellow sand drifts, heading for the mountain-scattered horizon.

      Balvalk was, by all criteria, the town that Velencia wished it could have been. Built by a wealthy investor who decided that creating a settlement would be a decent pursuit, it was Balvalk’s creation that caused Velencia’s strife. The significant investment, and influence with its neighbours, fed its expansion at the expense of others, bypassing a good handful of towns with a newly laid track. Three times the size with more than double the amenities of others, Balvalk was a cluster of roads with small flat-roofed edifices sandwiched between multiple-level structures. Inns, taverns, stores embossed with bright lettering and dramatic graphics.

      However, despite its fortuitous beginnings, Balvalk was in decline. Trade was moving out of the region. Contracts were being fulfilled in the larger port cities and where the work went, so did the people. But wealth remained a priority, which was admitted by those you spoke to. It was a town where pizzazz and status were paramount, even in light of current affairs. A perfect location, Franco believed, to hold the next event.

      Franco’s pre-show encouragement was almost completely ignored. Misu placed herself at his side as routine, though her mind was clearly elsewhere. Silent nods acknowledged changes in the lighting cues and anything else of note – minor revisions at best. Mechanical affirmatives emerged from the showgirls, not wanting to inflame the situation any further with questions.

      Everyone stood in formation, a line down the carriage, with not a word said. The chandeliers gently clattering at the carriage’s rhythmic sway filled the noiseless void. From outside eager faces from the stacked platform buzzed past windows, their speed lessening as the locomotive eased to a final stop.

      Spotlights silently turned upon the platform. The carriage was bathed in white. The entertainer took a slow, calming breath to steady any possible nerves.

      ‘Let’s have a good show, everybody,’ Franco insisted. The sentence was barely finished before he strolled out to rapturous applause.

      * * *

      A cacophony of fireworks joined the starlight that evening and, true to form, Franco led the evening’s entertainment without a break in expression or tenacity. Strutting between tables, his aloof mingling was natural, joining patrons with shakes of the hand and self-indulgent repartee. Roulette was full of cheering patrons, some excitably waving over more drinks. The card tables were equally occupied, with regional variations of poker, blackjack, and pontoon.

      More than once he was asked to kiss the dice for luck, and when the numbers came up, was gracious enough to inflate the payout for those at the table. Generous, they called him. A gentleman, they praised. He bathed in his celebrity, playing his part flawlessly. A showman. An entertainer. A host.

      Though a problem, an invisible one to revellers, was eroding this veneer. Misu, whenever spoken to, gave one- or two-syllable answers, most of them monotone. The normal interaction between them, a fluid exchange of opinions, of conversation, was reduced to glances and bluntness. The cause was obvious, stemming from her disapproval over finding other avenues of income. It was her problem though, right? Her reaction. Misu needed to grow up. She was, after all, just another employee. It was Franco who called the shots and she needed to not overreach herself.

      If only that was true.

      The crux of the matter and subsequent cause of Franco’s guilt was that Misu was anything but just another employee. Far from it. Time and time again she had proven herself to