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

green iron cooker, a behemoth of a thing with numerous enamelled doors. Windows were few but made up in size for what they lacked in quantity, most grubby and in need of cleaning.

      Piled in corners were goods, provisions and assorted randomness, mostly crated up or in trunks, most seeping into what constituted as a communal bedroom. Here, single iron bedframes lined the walls, a number still empty. Sleeping together built camaraderie, preached Jackdaw, though he himself had a room of his own, separated by a wooden beaded curtain making its interior difficult to see, as did his demand that nobody enter without his permission.

      After a quick attempt at a wash, Cole stared at himself in a fractured mirror, towelling himself down. His eyes hung heavy, bagged from when good sleep had eluded him. Finding Jackdaw had granted little time for rest and the places where he gained some were not places one willingly would relax in. Remarkably, last night was the most comfortably he had rested in the last couple of months, which was no doubt why he felt such animosity at being woken in such a detestable fashion.

      ‘So what’s the plan for today?’ Cole enquired, met by Alvina who took to the sink to fill a glass of water. She consumed a mouthful and reached under the countertop, before offering him a cast-iron pan that was well used and alarmingly heavy. ‘You’re on cooking duty. You best get a shake on – we’re hungry.’

      ‘You’re kidding right?’

      She paused, almost surprised at the response. ‘I never joke when I’m hungry.’

      The upcurl of Cole’s bottom lip prompted further explanation.

      ‘Look. It’s your first day so let me lay it out for you,’ she stated, expressing with her hands. ‘Are you familiar with what we actually do?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Have you held up a bank before? Shaken down anyone for protection money?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Muscled in on some territory owned by another?’

      ‘Well, no.’

      ‘Then you’ll need to learn all the things that we do. That means you get to start at the bottom, the very bottom. And the bottom, right here, is that kitchen around ten minutes ago.’

      Cole stared, dumbfounded.

      Jackdaw presented himself, loudly clearing his throat and spitting out the contents. The curtain fell back with a staggered rattle. He smelt the air and took in the serene silence of the early morn, calm, unbroken and all quite unacceptable.

      ‘Now I know there isn’t discord in the ranks so I’m baffled as to why I hear no breakfast being made.’

      A chair was yanked out, squeaking across boards as it took his weight. A long, inquisitive forefinger checked his ears for debris. He yawned widely, like a lion would when sat among its pride.

      ‘The new blood is a little slow on the uptake, boss, sorry. No breakfast yet.’

      ‘Is this some sort of running joke on the new guy?’ Cole whined.

      Jackdaw immediately glanced to Alvina. ‘I’m hungry. Does he know that we don’t joke about that?’

      ‘Oh, he knows.’

      ‘Good.’ Jackdaw turned back to Cole to add his own voice as encouragement. ‘Because we just don’t joke about that.’

      Cole was a good cook. He knew this. Those he once called friends knew this, before he left them all behind. In fact, among them, Cole was always asked to organize the food as any other was dull in comparison to his talents. He could work a kitchen. Being moneyed, he was used to fine ingredients too: black bass from Surenth’s flanking oceans. Pink truffles from Eifera. Cruden gold wheat.

      So it came as a surprise that he had to work under such restrictive conditions. It took some trial and effort to get to grips with the ancient monstrosity that passed for an oven. With enough wood, it harboured a fine fire, radiating great heat within its iron belly. The cuts of meat looked like a blind lumberjack had taken a saw to them. These details, just two of a score, made the affair a lot more tedious than it needed to be.

      Damning his pride, Cole proceeded to lay thick strips of smoked bacon into a pan before breaking eggs into another. Immediately the room was swamped with the hearty smell of a good breakfast, a smell that set anybody up for the day’s hardships. Toast was made. Tomatoes fried. It was menial work, a fact that Cole was more than aware of, but he was also mindful that this was the first undertaking on a long road ahead.

      And he was going to get his money no matter what pains he had to endure.

      With stomachs full the Jackrabbits were far more content and considerably less grouchy. Jack began joking with those in his company and even Blakestone reined in his thorny complaints. Cole barely noticed, being that he was kept busy at the stove, doing nothing but preparing food, cooking food and inadvertently sweating into the food.

      When the others had been fed, he took time himself to putting a couple of sausages between two pieces of bread. Originally he was cautious about eating, even going so far as asking permission, but when he was told that they didn’t care, he indulged. Not only that but in an act of outrageous defiance, he took one more sausage than necessary. A perk he justified to himself.

      Jackdaw rubbed his belly with contentment, dislodging any debris between his teeth with a toothpick. A good breakfast was the underpinning of a successful day. After all, one couldn’t cause all manner of mischief on an empty stomach.

      ‘Ah. Now that’s more like it. How’s his coffee?’

      ‘Let’s find out.’ Blakestone tilted his chair back and called his order. ‘Coffee?’

      ‘Coffee it is.’ Cole withheld his whining and instead simply got to work. Naturally, upon its discovery, the coffee was just as disappointing as the rest of the provisions that occupied cupboard space. He worked the beans as best he could, roasting a couple of handfuls in an iron skillet and tossing them with extravagant flicks of the wrist.

      Alvina looked a mite impressed, relaying the occasional observation between those at the table just out of earshot. When done, Cole drained off four cups of the black stuff and carried them over.

      There was a slow pattering of feet up the stairs, the chattering of sewing machines from the factory floor, shrill and loud, as the door swung open. Shuffling his way inside, an older gentleman – with wispy white hair protruding from a mottled scalp and long grooves through the folds of his face – carried rolls of paper up beneath an arm. Gold-framed glasses dangled on the length of his reddened nose, seemingly oversized for his fragile face. He eased the door to a close and shuffled on over. A deep inhalation drew in the coffee’s aroma.

      ‘There’s service for you. It normally takes an age before the wife is awake enough to get to pouring a cup. I can barely function at this time without it in me. How is it?’ The old man pulled out a chair by its back and claimed it as his own.

      ‘We’re about to find out. I’ll leave it to someone else to try it first.’ Blake chuckled, dropping sugar cubes into his drink.

      ‘I’ll pass then. I’ll rather go thirsty than suffer some gut-rot. I’ll leave the risk to you,’ the coot dismissed, seating himself among the others with annoying familiarity. His rolls of paperwork thundered onto the table, accompanied by the morning newspaper that was passed to his superior. Jackdaw snapped it open, immediately looking for any mention of them, or other unlikables.

      Cole set the coffee pot upon the stove plate a little too firmly, soon shadowed by Blake who was hunting for leftovers, mug in hand.

      ‘Who’s this guy?’ Cole asked a little too loudly.

      ‘Ralust,’ Blake flatly answered, stirring his drink with a silver spoon that haphazardly struck the ceramic sides in music. ‘This is our go-to man when we need paperwork done. Forgeries. Sign-offs.’

      ‘You do me too little credit. You may as well hand me a broom,’ Ralust barked. Clearly