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

and shipping manifests. You get the idea. Our old codger here is something of a golden ticket to us bad people.’

      ‘Your golden ticket is being stretched thin with all these demands of yours,’ Ralust grumbled loudly, arranging his paperwork into a more suitable, organized collective. ‘I’m telling you, if you keep pushing threats on the dock quartermaster he’s going to have me shot before my undertaking of retirement.’

      * * *

      Jack found this quite amusing, smirking behind the yellowed paper. Old men’s griping was, to him, a waste of breath. Threats could be made and lines drawn, but here it was the nature of men to never settle nor stay still. Retirement was a luxury few could afford in the Sand Sea.

      ‘Men like you don’t retire, Ralust. You’ll just get bored and come back for another last job until you breathe your last. What’s the verdict on the coffee?’ He scanned all around him.

      ‘I’ve drunk worse,’ Alvina muttered, taking another sip.

      ‘I’ve drunk better,’ Blakestone disagreed, curling his lips.

      Jackdaw finally lifted his eyes from the print and towards the kitchenette. ‘Congratulations, Little Fish, you’re not out on his ass just yet. Like I always say, you can judge a person’s character by the coffee they make.’

      ‘You’re too generous, Jack. Word used to be that you would shoot someone over a bad cup of coffee,’ Blake muttered.

      ‘I’ve mellowed in my old age.’

      ‘Mellowed. Right.’ Blake punctuated his sarcasm with the raising of eyebrows.

      ‘Plus this generosity stretches to you not needing to wrestle beasts out in the Sand Sea for a trapper’s pittance. You can thank me for that any time you like.’

      ‘The floor is dirty. These jeans are clean. If you think I’m getting on my knees in thanks then you can keep waiting.’

      ‘Are we done yet? Can we get down to work?’ Ralust grizzled, unfurling his rolls of charts across the table. ‘All this yapping is making me impatient.’

      Jack struck the old man’s back playfully in agreement.

      ‘Let’s go over today. Alvina, we had that trouble with some youngsters causing hassles for the nice people paying protection money in the gold district. You get to go down there and persuade them to stop.’

      ‘How persuasive?’

      ‘Enough to make sure they have trouble lifting things. Any problems with that?’

      ‘None at all.’

      ‘Good to hear. Ralust?’

      ‘Boss?’

      ‘Word is, the taxman is going to be paying us a visit soon. I need to know what options we have.’

      ‘That’s easy: lies or bribery.’

      ‘Pick one and run with it.’

      ‘Got it.’ Ralust began to scribble details down into a well-used leather ledger.

      ‘Cole?’

      * * *

      Cole looked up from cleaning the surfaces, a job that had clearly been previously ignored and would take him considerable time.

      ‘Yes, Jack?’ The air felt thick as all eyes turned on him, glaring. Immediately Cole corrected his mistake. ‘Sorry, I mean boss.’

      The ceramic cup was shaken in Jack’s hand. ‘Refill.’

      ‘Right.’

      ‘Blake, take a stroll over to the docks and put the feelers out. There’s a few ships rolling in. See if there’s any deckhands who can be easily persuaded to miscount any offloaded cargo. Get Ralust to give you the list of this week’s buyers and what they’re on the lookout for.’

      ‘Shall do.’ Blake ground his cigar into a smoky glass ashtray.

      ‘Well? Everyone has their roles. Let’s get to work. The day is waiting.’

      * * *

      When everyone had cleared out to perform their individual tasks, the hideout fell significantly quieter. Cole’s frantic scrubbing of pans and the factory din filled the void.

      Jack took his corduroy suit jacket from a stand that inhabited a corner. He peered out into the streets via a clean spot on the window, taking in the untarnished blue sky. Those outside went about their business, unhurried, a trend adopted by most in Esquelle. Mornings weren’t built for rushing about.

      He sauntered to a large single-pane piece of glass and looked down onto the factory itself. Each workstation was accompanied by someone who twisted and turned fabric with speed, as their sewing machine continued its repetitive clatter. The foremen walked about between them, dispensing advice and ensuring all went smoothly. On the surface these individuals, older women mostly, were simply disposable labourers, but that was a deliberate deception. They were each well paid, not only to do their jobs, but also to keep their mouths shut. They were moles, informants, bribers, relayers of gossip and a vital part of the Jackrabbits’ network. Dismissing them as just workers would be a disservice, for they were capable and handy.

      A foreman waved to the management upon noticing he was being watched. Jack acknowledged with a dip of the head.

      ‘Cole.’

      ‘Yes, boss?’ he said, up to his wrists in suds.

      ‘Finish that up and lace your boots. You’re with me today. I’ve got something for you to get stuck into.’

      * * *

      Papers were stacked in uneven piles, some bleeding into others. Just from a glance Cole felt his stomach fall through the floor. Purchase orders, receipts, inventories, and scores of what else almost mocked him in intimidation. The mass was a complex collection with no attempt of organization, or at least not one that met normal conventions. Cole guessed things were just piled up on top of one another. Never had he been in the presence of such a fiasco.

      ‘This is your attempt at bookkeeping?’ he asked, aghast.

      ‘Not mine. Ralust has a very unique way of filing. Or he did, until he just gave up and began tossing things in here.’ Jack flicked a roll-up from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘I’m assuming as much at least. I won’t pretend to know the intricate details of you numbers people. I just know what I see and what I see is that substantial pile being messy.’

      ‘What do you want me to do?’

      ‘I thought that would be obvious.’ Jack grinned, removing his cigarette and letting the ash drift to the floor. ‘Un-mess it.’

      ‘You sure know how to force a heart attack on me. Don’t need a weapon to do so, I tell you that much.’ Cole began to sieve through the first pieces of paper within his reach. ‘Invoices. IOUs. There’s plenty here that doesn’t match convention. It’ll take me …’

      ‘How long do you need?’

      Cole, still feeling traumatized, flatly responded. ‘The end of time itself by the looks of this.’

      ‘You have three days,’ Jack compromised, or at least, it was a compromise to him.

      ‘Wonderful.’

      ‘Call me if there’s anything that you need.’ Jack corrected himself: ‘Actually, make it Alvina or Blake. Best to call one of those two. I’ll be busy.’

      ‘Wait, is this safe?’ Cole asked.

      ‘Nothing we do is strictly safe, Little Fish …’

      ‘No, I mean this record keeping. Anybody could read it.’

      ‘The written word is easily accessible to most with working eyes. That’s sort of its point of being.’

      ‘That’s