Den of Stars. Christopher Byford

was initially assumed that these invitations were of an exclusive nature, until word had begun to arise of a commotion from each of the districts, now bustling with excitement. The Morning Star. It was the name that graced posters, which found their way onto noticeboards and stuck to walls in well-crafted advertisements. Their scripted words encouraged gossip by lacking significant details. It gave the where and the when it would make an appearance but little else.

      Many wondered exactly what the Morning Star was promoting, if indeed it was promoting anything at all. It was this name that hung on the lips of the fascinated. It was this name that distracted many from their work. The speculation was uplifting, bringing all manner of hearsay, mostly false of course. By the time Sunday arrived the sheer gravitas of rumour left plenty believing that whatever the Morning Star was, it couldn’t live up to the fantasies that had been cooked up.

      These people were going to be proven wrong.

      By the time Sunday evening came, the night had lowered its veil, letting shadows spill from alleyways and flood the streets in black. The aristocrats – a product of generations of industrial money – walked in procession as if on parade, giving a wide berth to the river of factory workers who shimmied past with speed and eagerness. Shop holders had locked up their premises early and even taverns found themselves alarmingly empty. Chatter filled the chill air, curiosity and excitement mixed as all made their way to Redmane train station.

      Unlike the rail lines that shifted ore to the factories on the outskirts, Redmane accommodated a number of passenger routes. It ran between two tall inclines of buildings, stretching straight for a good couple of miles before exiting through the city walls. The twelve-platform-strong station was built to accommodate these lines. It was a dense and haphazard affair that had struggled to keep up with the requirements as the city grew. Its exterior was dated, square and brutal in appearance that very much put it at odds with the surrounding angular, gothic architecture. A clock tower squatted atop the entrance, once an ornate affair that time had reduced to a soiled eyesore. Within the building itself the platforms were packed with bodies, causing a considerable headache for the station guards who herded the inquisitive as best they could in the interest of safety.

      The platform clocks all clunked in unison, the hands on the faces moving a few lengths from 7 p.m.

      A shrill blast shattered the patient quiet. It cut through the night, a train whistle of course, but this was no normal call of arrival. It was three blasts in succession, the second a good couple of octaves higher than the first, and the last was lower.

      Far down the line, out past the wall’s embrace, through the wide city gates and out across the arch bridge, a flicker of light hovered in the black. The spark grew to a single orb of luminescence that approached the city gates, revealing itself to be a headlamp. A locomotive, night-black in colour with red and white detailing rolled along the tracks, its square-panelled casing that sat along its boiler illuminated with every gaslight it passed.

      A motif of playful white stars danced from the engine cab alongside all eight carriages in tow, spotless affairs that mirrored every building it passed. Constant puffs of steam were ejected skyward from its chimney as it drove onward, now slowing on its approach to the platform, its massive wheels and connecting rods falling slower and slower in their rotations.

      The witnesses held their collective breaths, deafened by the slow yawns of steam. Flickers of light lashed across the vehicle’s surface, revealing the profile of figures standing attentively within its hauled carriages. The engine itself belched thick plumes of white, whistling its song once more as it eased its pace and gradually, perfectly, aligned itself with Platform Three.

      The onlookers dared not speak and watched in reverence. A sudden jet of steam against the platform encouraged everyone to take a few steps back.

      Against the engine’s brilliantly painted veneer, its name shone out proudly, in accented red with white flicks on each letter.

       The Morning Star

      The train waited patiently, a skirt of steam creeping over the platform tiling. There was no movement from the blackened interior. The station hands looked at one another in puzzlement. The onlookers waited too, wondering what to make of it. No sooner had the murmuring begun than it was brought to a halt.

      The hands of the station clocks all snapped to 7 p.m. Somewhere in the distance a bell rang to signify this.

      A powerfully bright shock of lights lit up along the carriages in succession. A figure stood poised, dressed in suit tails, a silhouette against the bomb of illumination. A shower of fireworks burst in successions of threes overhead. The sky pulsed with glitter, their erratic flashes casting deep shadows across the platform. The person strolled along the top of a carriage before delivering a long sweeping bow to the applauding spectators.

      A smart dress jacket did little to hide the femininity of the figure, a row of untarnished silver buttons pinning fabric to its absolute best display, lapel perfectly tidy and decorated with a small metal brooch of a stag’s head. The occasional flare of red emphasized pockets, buttonholes, and cuffs. The material, though believed to be a deep grey at first glance, shimmered ever so gently to black depending on the direction one looked, a trick of the light some wrongly assumed. Straight-pressed trousers and smart burgundy dress shoes finished the ensemble, punctuated with a lacquered cane with an engraved metal bulb under palm.

      But what people focused on most of all, was the mask.

      It was that of an animal, a hare, with long, stocky ears. The eye sockets were angled ellipses, so deep and dark that a peculiar inkiness seems to be all that existed where the whites of anything living should inhabit. The mask ended tracing down the cheek line, puckering up just beneath the animal’s embossed nose. The mask itself was ashen in colour, with ornate decoration highlighting every feature in a reddened metal. Packed symmetrical crimson swirls in the recesses of the ears give definition, a sparse contrast to the seemingly bare strip that followed from forehead to nose. Behind the animal’s features was a shock of blonde hair, tied into a lazy braid that flowed with volume in the cool air of the night.

      Atop the carriage, accented by light both natural and artificial, the Hare turned from side to side, taking in the spectators who said not a word between them but watched with awe. When finally satisfied this individual made three loud strikes of the cane end against the carriage’s rooftop.

      From beneath, the next three cars had their doors opened and out stepped eleven women, some gowned, some suited, all adorned with disguises themselves. They all wore the same grey and black colours, each one decorated individually with layers of texture, but all were clad in masks. Animal masks hid the features and faces, lending them a mystique of brilliant disguise. A wild cat and a mountain owl stood side by side. There was a thorn swallow, a mouse and many others, all unique, all waiting for the next command. Only these masks were allowed any touch of red. Their uniforms, if they could be called that, were devoid of this vibrant decoration.

      Proudly the Hare spoke, her voice intimate yet assertive. It captivated those who watched from beneath.

      ‘I’ve heard stories about this city. Landusk. A wonder they called you. Grand they all declared, proudly rooted and testament to the unbreakable spirit of those who live in Surenth. Beautiful! Strong!’

      Deafening cheers erupted from the platform.

      ‘But as we approached you, grand as you are, I couldn’t help but see something dissimilar.’

      The noise subsided to nothing; fists raised in jubilation slowly started withdrawing.

      The Hare stood as if she judged all those beneath her with a gaze most piercing, stony and fierce.

      ‘A city overgrown, reaching skyward with steeples and rooftops like stretching fingers, begging to the sun and the moon for audience. Buildings exist where buildings should not be, expansive and your confines are shifting ever outward. This grandiose city is a squalor topped with spires, people living upon one another like cattle. Its poorest are brushed aside to die in darkness, their backs broken in the effort to build the foundations of this city and forgotten when of no use. Landusk grows and thrives and lives, but you