Den of Smoke: Absolutely gripping fantasy page turner filled with magic and betrayal. Christopher Byford

The robes themselves were clearly of considerable worth, blacks and blues with flecks of silver, accompanied by peculiar, well-tailored symbolism down the back. They both declared their importance and accused the snubbing passers-by of insurmountable transgressions. For the most part they were completely ignored for this was just part of the day-to-day in Esquelle now.

      Jackdaw, however, was not one of these who simply went on his way. Instead he sharply turned on his feet and approached. The first he shoved so they landed backwards, the leaflets launching into the air. The second was gripped by his robe collar.

      ‘Boys, boys, now what have I said about loitering? You’re irritating these nice folk.’

      ‘Get your hands from us, heathen!’ The man shuddered in surprise. ‘Witness! Witness the depths that you have sunk to! The likes of which will be dealt with when the Black Storm rolls in!’

      Jack narrowed his brows. ‘See, that’s the problem with you doomsday predictors. There’s quite a while between the now and when what you tout will come to pass. Let’s say you’re right. Whatever happens in the now will surely take time for me to be punished for. That’s a risk I’m comfortable in taking. So if I see you again and the ground isn’t being torn asunder, I’ll be sending you to whatever goddess you worship personally. Get me?’

      The man was tossed backward into the dirt. The pair scrambled away, watched by a few onlookers, leaving their pamphlets in the dirt.

      ‘Was that necessary?’ Cole attempted to restrain any sense of grumbling, but suspected Jack had cottoned on to this fact.

      ‘I don’t know where you came from, but if your town wasn’t infested with these maniacs then I envy you. Sure they’re all presentable, clean-shaven folk, but get enough crazies together and they do crazy things. Murders. Beatings. All the bad stuff.’

      The thought of such things was far too dramatic for Cole to believe. All he had witnessed was a couple of street preachers being rough-handled. If he wasn’t in the company of somebody quite so unpredictable, he would have protested much more vigorously.

      ‘That has to be just rumour. All they were doing was preaching on a corner. There’s no harm in that. You just walk past and don’t listen if it’s not your fancy.’

      ‘I like to think I’m doing a public service.’

      ‘In whose eyes?’ Cole immediately recoiled, realizing he had completely spoken out of turn.

      Jack slowed his stride and encouraged the man accompanying to stop a spell and take heed of his words. ‘Since the wars in the north, crazies like them are becoming more and more vocal. They preach about this and that, telling us how damned men like me are. I personally prefer to do my business this early without someone judging me. Makes me feel guilty of wrongdoings I’ve not performed yet.’

      They continued. Jack nodded to a couple of street vendors, one tossing the pair a piece of fruit each. Cole stared at the peculiar, spiny, purple flesh, quite new to it, unsure how to eat it. His first attempt to peel it resulted in its barbs drawing blood.

      ‘You’re not worried about any of that I take it? The wars I mean, as clearly judgement doesn’t apply to you.’

      ‘Wars come and go. Always have, always will. History is littered with someone wanting what the other has and doing bad things to get it. These strange days are no different.’

      ‘What if it reaches down here? You’re not worried about any potential invasion?’

      Jack heartily laughed at the suggestion.

      ‘Look around you, kid. Why would Cruden attempt to invade a shit-hole like the Sand Sea? It’s far too big to occupy. The manpower required would be enormous and do you honestly think that people would just lie down and let that happen? Folks around here are a mite touchy when it comes to being threatened, be it by animal, man or nation. The Empire’s got their hands full trying to stamp out the remains of that uprising against them. The Yellow Rebellion people there called it. Now, should you see Cruden flags hoisted in the capital we may have a different view on things. Bad men like us will be out of work as the Empire is less than tolerant of our kind. Until that day though …’ Jack prodded Cole in the chest firmly to get the point across ‘… it’s business as usual.’

      Finally Cole managed to split the snack apart, only to have ribbons of orange and pips burst between his fingers. He raised it to his mouth and slurped the bittersweet contents.

      ‘I wish I had that kind of confidence.’

      ‘You’re a tolerant sort, Cole. Saw it in your eyes the first time I threatened you with iron. You think everyone is righteous and true until being proved otherwise. Good-natured, clean-mannered, that sort of thing. Am I wrong? Do you believe people should all just get along?’

      Jack searched himself for a roll-up and struck out the contents of a matchbook to light it. The first couple of puffs were savoured.

      They stopped, feeling the beat of the morning sun upon them. Cole became all too aware of a tear of sweat tracing down a cheek whilst falling short of providing an answer.

      ‘You’ve got convictions. I like that.’ Jack crushed the spent match beneath his boot. ‘By the time this day is through we’ll see just how firmly you hold on to them.’

      He thumbed up to a sign advertising the presence of a bric-a-brac store. Its windows were heaving with random things, from furniture and decorations, to weaponry and charms. None was particularly well sorted and the numerous piles seemingly threated to tip over at any point. It mirrored many others down this street, the colourfully named Crap Alley, being that you could find anything in the plentiful undertakings of the resident kleptomaniacs.

      After hearty handshakes and secretive whispers with its owner – Cole’s new standing had put the storeowner at great unease – Jack concluded his business, relieving the owner of an old trunk. Its red veneer was dented and peeling, a state of distress that could only be accountable by long neglect. Despite its age, it was sturdy enough for its task, rendering it heavy enough to require the pair to carry it via the handles at each end.

      The route to the marketplace required navigating a bevy of claustrophobic alleyways, each littered with vagrants and collecting the most nauseating of smells. Finally, with no short amount of grunting, they reached the market. Multicoloured bunting fluttered from stalls. The sights and sounds of animal trappers, food vendors and stallholders enclosed them the deeper they moved inside.

      They had barely made it halfway in before Cole began to voice his concerns.

      ‘This stuff is heavy. What exactly is it?’

      ‘Some weeks back we knocked over an antiques place up north. Nothing spectacular of course, but plenty to bring in some cash, about four hundred or so. We stashed it away until the heat was off the goods. Now we’re going to sell them.’

      ‘Where? Do you have a buyer set up?’

      ‘Nope,’ Jack rearranged his grip. ‘We’ll flog it at this here bazaar.’

      ‘Just here? Out in the open?’

      ‘You seem to be questioning me at every turn and I don’t appreciate that.’

      Cole stole glances at the storekeepers, the patrons and everybody else within his eye line. Paranoia began to creep in.

      ‘No offence intended. I’m just thinking that isn’t this quite risky? I mean we’re doing this in broad daylight.’

      ‘There’s too much going on to focus on little old us. The Bluecoats won’t be a problem. Their eyes will be elsewhere. Let’s go down this alley and check the stock first. I want a bead on what we can sell here.’

      They manoeuvred past the people and down into a narrow backstreet, tight and with questionable sewer access judging by the smell. When the noise of the market had softened, a procession of shadows suddenly fell over the pair as the route was cluttered with four people. None of those who interrupted the proceedings seemed to be