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

paint the twilight sky.

      The Gambler’s Den itself shuddered with action. Doors spilt forward from each carriage. From the last, a line of girls emerged, beautiful in appearance, attired in flowing crimson satin dresses, drawing attention to their bosoms. They stood aside their transportation and curtseyed in unison to the transfixed mass, impeccable smiles on each face.

      One of the carriage’s walls was disassembled, revealing a bar stocked with every type of beverage one could possibly wish for. Game tables decked the carriage’s interiors, covering every vice designed to part people from their money. Never had the mass seen such a sight. Such opulence! Such decadence!

      And it was for them. Only them.

      ‘Your pleas have been heard, fine people. In Her infinite wisdom She saw fit to direct us here, to you all, for this very night. Tonight, it was decided that you shall all be rewarded for your toil! We have the duty, nay, the pleasure to entertain every single one of your number!’

      Cheers exploded as the man caught sight of the children hurriedly clapping before their parents.

      ‘It makes no difference how much lines your pockets! Your age and standing is far from our concern, as these are mindless trivialities. All are welcome through our doors! Drink, relax, and gamble in our company, my kind, new friends! Our delight is your indulgence! You are all our guests, here, at the Gambler’s Den this night!’

      The announcement was punctuated with sequential spats of fireworks that ran above one carriage to the next. As Franco swung himself forward in a long, respectful bow and the air burst above him in stardust, Rustec communally erupted in delight.

      To be a showman of this magnitude took quite a considerable amount of presence and it was this trait that ensured Franco was mobbed no matter where he went. From the drinking tables on the platform itself, people would rise from their seats as he roamed about, responding to his encouragement or sparse conversation. Smiles adorned every face he saw, even the ones who had lost their money on foolhardy wagers. Hands repeatedly jutted out for shaking, every single one reciprocated warmly by their host.

      Thanks was given, constantly, and Franco accepted with utmost humility. Glasses were thrust in cheer, and those were met with cheer in return. Even declarations of affection were handled appropriately. The occasional flirtatious or outright scandalous suggestions were thwarted yet handled in a way that the offender felt no animosity. Quite the opposite in fact.

      Advice on the games was relentless, no matter which carriage he ventured into. When should one double down in Blackjack (‘a soft 17 if you wish to put me out of business’)? What numbers are the best to cover on the roulette table (‘all of them if you can afford it, but split over what feels lucky’)? How best to deceive at liar’s dice (‘never tell your spouse the truth and it’ll come naturally’) and countless more were answered. They were all questions he had provided answers to in the past, to other patrons in other places such as this; but all gained the impression that it was the first time such a thing was queried.

      The spectacle was in full swing. The train platform was awash with tables, packed with those enjoying both drink and company. The wealthy sat shoulder to shoulder with the poor with complete disregard for social standing. Money knew no such barriers and those across the spectrum made and lost theirs without prejudice. Worker and dockhand aside bank teller and accountant.

      The mayor himself drank boisterously, surrounded by pitmen – their coal-dusted overalls mirroring their unwashed faces. Flat caps were tossed into the air on the chorus of songs, the lyrics only broken when the mayor slipped and fell upon his backside, an accident he took in good humour and was helped back on his feet from. The only outcome from this was the demand for more drink, paid by the town coffers no less.

      The showgirls of the Gambler’s Den performed their roles impeccably. They waited the tables and poured the drinks, with naught a drop spilled and never an order wrong. They ushered and bantered, turning cards and dividing chips. Encouragement was served to those who succumbed to losses and congratulations to the ones who luck had sided with.

      All this was done with professionalism and a beat of lashes to encourage the slacking of purse strings. After all, as Franco would dictate, everyone was going to lose their money at some point. You may as well do so half drunk and at the mercy of a pretty smile. Any who were not hosting game tables were working front of house, gliding among their designated tables with trays of drinks. Each turn and sway was made with precision; every bat of the eyelashes and response a heady concoction that added to the ambience.

      While Franco provided his presence and luck played the cards and rolled the dice, the women in his employment very much bound the show together with their hospitality. Inevitably, the occasional letch or more intoxicated reveller would make an inappropriate advance or comment but these were quickly retracted. It only took a nod of the head for the train’s security to stroll over and correct any social mistakes. Apologies were quickly administered. Tips rose sharply.

      Come the strike of nine, three of the showgirls took to a makeshift stage and performed acts to rousing applause. One, freckled and adorned with a shock of red curls, demonstrated the mysterious art of hypnosis on the first individual who offered assistance. He himself loudly dismissed its effects until complying with the suggestion that he should forage around the platform like a chicken.

      The second performer, taller and raven-haired, showed a particular aptitude for ventriloquism. The spectacle brought riots of laughter as she proceeded to manipulate the conversation between two volunteering sisters to reveal secret absurdities.

      The final presentation in this extravaganza was reserved for the woman who differed from the others. She seemed to have an authority over the showgirls, seen at times to whisper suggestions into their ears. Instead of the uniformed dress that the others sported, she wore a variation with flair, extra lace here, a flow of ribbon there, punctuated with a slit up the skirt itself.

      On her command, the lights of the carriages faded to a low warmth. The beat of drums began to emanate from an unseen player as the woman took a handful of cast-iron torches and set them alight with the stroke of a match. The flames streaked through the air, lingering, tracing shapes, which gained in speed and complexity as the drums followed suit. Swiping a bottle of liquor from the bar carriage, she took and held a mouthful before launching a ball of flame into the night sky.

      The audience gasped and cooed as this was repeated. The air ignited violently, in each direction, with each spray from her lips. Some harbouring more nervous temperaments felt unnerved from the sudden rush of heat assaulting their faces but cautiously applauded when appropriate. As a finale, a torch was brought to her lips, then pulled away as the eruption started, launching the bellow skyward with frightening intensity.

      The woman bowed when done and the drums fell silent. Silently, and under hundreds of watchful eyes, she stood in profile and arched her form backwards. Each of the torches was slowly lowered with the flickering flame that plagued them extinguished with a clap of her mouth. When each was done, she straightened her back and bowed once more. The carriage lights were restored to luminescence.

      Expectedly the applause was deafening.

      There was no formal closing ceremony, though warm words were informally given. Midnight was celebrated by the star-clad sky being painted with gaudy, but spectacular, explosions. The hours crept on, thinning out attendees. The numbers simply dwindled the longer the time went on. Some made their retreat due to empty pockets. A good many ventured home when they had clearly consumed too much drink. Others simply couldn’t tolerate the hour and found the solace of a bed far too alluring.

      The night had been filled with good cheer, fine alcohol, and gracious company, ensuring that the Gambler’s Den legacy was secured for some time yet. When the last glass was emptied and the final cards played, the morning light had yet to begin breaking over the horizon.

      Come the morning, Rustec was still. The normally busy desert docks were silent. Huge transport ships sat in sequence with no stirring. The daily market was nowhere to be seen. Most were suffering from the aftereffects from the night before. Many had overindulged in food and drink, hangovers were being nursed, and the clean-up