Den of Stars

He stepped into the corridor, quite careful not to get his shoes soaked in the ever-growing puddle of crimson, listening to the erratic pops of gunfire on the floor above. Everything was going perfectly to plan. His contingencies were now paying off.

Wilheim had used his time to forge revenge against those who had wronged him.

Now, he would utilize his new-found freedom to administer it.

In the two years between the then and the now, Wilheim was true to his word.

Chapter 2

The Hare herself

Landusk was one of the first settlements to have developed in the Sand Sea. Scores of migrants from the mountainous territories in the north first created a trading village for trappers who sold exotic beasts found in the wastelands as pets, livestock, or for private zoos.

It soon exploded with success and in turn thrived with housing. Tall gothic buildings were crammed together, dirty, gas-lit streets threaded between them, with sharp corners and eccentric roads. Roofs dominated the skyline with twisted and pointed apexes; lines of windows, shuttered with accompanying iron balconies, flickered with candlelight.

Built upon a foundation of rock, the city was erected in the desert with deep recesses in the sand dunes, a good hundred foot deep in places, making it a veritable island. The only means of accessing the city, by either foot or rail, was a series of bridges that straddled the gulfs. Unable to build out, the inhabitants instead built up.

As was the nature of such things, generations of labourers were broken through dangerous, unforgiving work, all to line the pockets of the elite. The rich became richer and the impoverished simply endured their circumstances, for the alternative outside of the city’s walls ensured the people of Landusk that there was no better place to go.

Times were difficult all round. What people needed was a little respite.

Monday morning was as uneventful as any other before it. The sun still struggled to cast its luminescence into Landusk’s streets, contrasting bright, brilliant light in some districts with deep shadow swallowing others. People went about their routines unaware of what was about to occur. Vendors managed their stores. Merchants bartered their wares at market. Grocers yelled excitedly about their prices. The mailmen went about delivering the post.

But it was today when the mailmen, who did things in their usual manner, were unknowingly the catalyst of a considerably exciting event.

In the upper districts, where the aristocrats and well-off resided, one mailman reached into his sack and withdrew a brick of string-bound black envelopes. Each one was decorated with gold accents on the edges, the backs sealed with white wax, the insignia a curtailed sun and three prominent stars. He had noticed the curiosity back in the sorting office, handed to him before he began his route. All of the addresses listed were on his rounds, all neatly written in perfect white script, so unburdening himself of further curiosity he set about delivering them one by one.

The letters patiently waited on mats and in post boxes for their owners to claim them, who then studied their exteriors as much as the postman. None of the recipients were familiar with such stationery and were especially perplexed at the seal on the letter’s reverse, for it belonged to no one they had corresponded with in the past, nor any in the social circles in which they travelled.

Each envelope was cracked open delicately as if the recipients were fearful to damage such a beautiful façade, though they queried what action they had performed that warranted such theatrics.

The slip of paper inside, deftly double folded and matching the black envelope, had been added with equal care. Neatly scribed over the surface in white ink, the contents provided little in the way of answers:

Dear Sir,

I have great pleasure to inform you that the Morning Star will be present on Sunday 7 p.m. at Redmane train station.

My entourage and I present to you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be in its presence.

Your attendance is my fondest wish.

With deepest respect,

The Hare

The invitations were met with fascination. Those who had received them sought other recipients, discovering a pattern of those in high standing or significantly moneyed. Their speculations, despite having considerable resources, came up with nothing solid, only gin-soaked whispers that drunkards spread for attention. What was the Morning Star and who was its ambassador?

It 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 all forget its lifeblood: your merry selves.’

The woman took a stroll along the carriage roof, slow, with her feet impeccably placed, the cane placed before every step.

‘What I see are narrow streets. Winding mazes of railings and stone, claustrophobic, the fat-choked veins of city whose very blood is in danger of turning stale. You ever-struggling people. You all flow to mill, to yard, to factory, to office, sustaining a mighty creature with toil. Your factories beat like many hearts. You give this city life. Without you all, Landusk would breathe its last and die most unceremoniously. It is a crime that you each forget a solemn fact. This city is not a wonder of the west. You all are.’

Glitter burst in sequence in the sky, coaxing awe and applause. The Hare watched, flecks of colours reflecting from the mask, expressionless though far from emotionless.

‘I bid good evening to one and all.’ The Hare spoke proudly, never elevating to excitement. ‘What a delight it is to see your faces, bright and cheerful. What a delight indeed. Now you may be asking among yourselves who am I, and why I ride this glorious vehicle into your home. Is it for the intention of hauling cargo? Do I have coal for your factories, for the fires to burn? I say to you all: no. That is not my intention, nor that of any other who rides with me. Your toil is witnessed and respected. If I were to bring you new labour, I would have taken the time to address you. If I were to deposit chores upon you, then I would do so at the breaking of the dawn to ensure ample time for their completion. Rest, friends, for this is not the case. The Morning Star carries something of greater worth.’

The Hare changed tone, softer, though still loud enough to be intimate to everyone who watched.

‘My name is no matter, only what I bring is of importance. Once, in a place far from this, I asked myself two things from the Holy Sorceress Herself. The first was to grant me the wealth to live a dignified existence. The other was to satiate my undying thirst. I was rewarded for my faith and now I pass these bounties to you all.’

Fireworks popped once more. Glorious tendrils snaked in the costumed dark, dripping to nothing.

Most of the carriage interiors exploded in light, pairs of doors slid open by the accompanying women who paraded out. They began to construct a multitude of games on the platform before them. Decks of cards were placed alongside piles of chips, whilst stools and chairs were laid out for backsides. One of the carriages threw up its windows, advertising a well-stocked bar.

The Hare swelled with delight, her smile fed by excited cheers, taking a respectful bow to all. The night sky cracked overhead with flashes illuminating the suffocating buildings around the tracks with reds and blues and greens. Pleasure dictated every word. The spectacle she created, her spectacle, was flawless. It had to be so.

‘I am the purveyor and licensee of all you see before you, every bottle you pour from, every dice you ask fortune of, every woman who deals from the pack. To you, I am charity. We are here to give you entertainment, ladies and gentlemen, to put on a show of the highest accord. Landusk! Tonight, revelry is paramount! Tonight, your prayers have been answered! Give yourself time, and whet the appetites that the toil of work has subdued, until the morning stars themselves disappear!’

Explosions erupted overhead, a bevy of sparkle. Sparkle also punctuated the words with suitable bravado. The customers revelled as much as they allowed themselves to, relieving themselves of long-drawn monotony. Joyous singing spread across the train platform, washing over various games at the tables, and mixing with the striking of full glasses in cheer.

Poker and blackjack were played by the score, the curse of the hand sighed by some, fortune praised by others. Roulette balls skipped into pockets, with a cheer exploding from one particular patron who took a risky bet on Number 17. Record players croaked out crackling music, encouraging a score to leave their seats and dance with the first pretty, or indeed handsome, thing that met their eye. Celebration was in the air and the money, much like the booze, flowed without restraint.

The Hare was a disciple in the art of entertainment. Her time as an entertainer for one of the more seedy venues instilled a quality of pride in her profession. Of course the showgirls were employed for their smiles, but that was not all. Any woman has a pair of breasts, the Hare would lecture, but a woman is a powerful, bright being. If a woman was to entertain, she would need to do so with her entire heart. She encouraged each to use her charms, to smile when she needed to smile, to banter and dance and flirt as she deemed fit. When the cards were dealt to each player, every hand motion was delivered with utmost care. The Hare had taught them an art and her disciples had been perfect students.

It had only been a few months since the train was on the rails, as the venture was in its relative infancy, though the trade was more than familiar. The Morning Star, despite being shockingly new to observers with its dazzling, untarnished decor and patina knew the routine well. Those in its carriages had walked this walk before, and were already accustomed to their roles in this grand extravaganza. This life – this nomadic life of fulfilment – was not for everyone, but for its occupants this was normal. The Morning Star was home.

As the Hare sauntered between tables and chairs, she shook hands with the keen, embraced the joyful, and wished the luck of the dice to those who carried favour. She said the words people wanted to hear. Unbeknown to the listeners, they were pale recordings secretly devoid of enthusiasm, for her mind was elsewhere.

The Morning Star hosted a plethora of attractions to create brilliant escapism. The gaming tables did plenty to keep punters transfixed, but it would be impossible to rely merely on such things as losing one’s money only kept them in a seat for so long.

The Hare struck her hands together and called for everyone’s attention. When gained, she strode beside one of the carriages and waved her cane in the air.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please, your consideration if you will. It is time to showcase a distraction. When the day comes to a close, prey once hidden in den and hovel believe themselves safe. But the night brings out its own hunters. At this hour it is only fitting that I introduce to you the Owl of the Morning Star.’

One of the accompanying women took her place alongside the host. She bowed in three directions, quite respectfully, a shock of shoulder-length tawny hair in bloom behind her mask. From inside the boxcar behind, a large length of wood was withdrawn, painted with brilliant white and black concentric swirls, its surface bearing the scars of previous damage. It was set up against the carriage side by an assistant who ensured the feet of the display were quite well anchored.

‘The Owl here is a hunter of the night. A sharp beak and sharper talons hide behind the beauty of its flight. These things are useless without prey,’ the Hare announced. The cane whipped around before her, its point settling upon one of the showgirls who waited a table with a round of drinks.

‘Little Mouse, if you would be so kind,’ the Hare requested.

The Mouse took her leave with an apology and a curtsey, navigating the chairs until accompanying the pair at the platform’s edge. She set herself flat against the board.

‘Your tools, if you please.’ The Hare stepped aside, letting the pair play out their act. With a snap, a collection of well-polished knives protruded between each of the Owl’s fingers, their perilous edges painted with light.

The patrons mumbled hushed concerns.

The Hare watched, never letting her expression slip, never giving an inkling of her thoughts.

The Owl whipped out her hands, letting the knives fly.

The blades embedded into wood, just inches from flesh, against thigh and forearm, by shoulder and shin. The thumps cracked the night, coaxing a number of loud inhalations. The resulting ovation was plentiful as expected, but this was a trick anyone could perform if they had the talent. More knives were launched, faster this time and seemingly with less care. More metal bit wood. Again the onlookers cheered.

For the finale a well-polished apple was drawn from between the folds of the Owl’s dress and paraded in hand to the onlookers. When content with the display, it was placed upon the Mouse’s dainty head, sitting quite neatly on the parting of chestnut hair.

The Mouse did not flinch, as mice do when threatened. She remained perfectly still and patiently waited for the danger to pass.

The Owl slipped the final three knives from within her apparel and had them take to the air above, spinning over and over in a juggle. Faster the rotations came as she checked her line of sight to the Mouse with occasional glances, the sheens of metal now flashing dangerously as they cut light from the station gas lamps.

With a flick of the hand, the first knife slammed to the left of the apple to a cacophony of gasps, touching though not cutting the fruit’s flesh. Those who had covered their eyes withdrew their hands just in time to witness the second knife being launched just as quickly, hitting wood like a crack of thunder, this time on the opposite side of the apple. The motion coaxed the occasional shriek from the more nervous in their midst.

The last knife was thrown in the same beat. With an eruption of gasps the blade was launched through the air. It separated the piece of fruit in half and embedded itself into wood, its thud populating the space that silence had given way for.

The Mouse’s eyes relaxed behind her mask, fingers finally uncurling from clenched fists.

The resulting cheers were deafening. Applause thundered around the station, coupled with whistles of admiration. The Owl strode over to her prey with well-rehearsed pageantry. The knives were each removed and the Mouse’s hand raised with the Owl’s own in triumph. They each basked in the appreciation, though not enough to take the attention away from the host. The Hare gave a soft-palmed applause in congratulation, watching an influx of tips being stuffed into empty glasses or handed to the showgirls passing drinks between patron and bar.

Other acts were performed as the night wore on, some thrilling, some amusing, exhibiting a plethora of talents that coaxed exclamations of wonderment. The night was full of splendour with one delight following another.

The Hare was waved down by an over-exuberant gentleman who spilt his mug of ale this way and that. Clearly he was drunk, being encouraged to keep himself in check by his tablemates, who sheepishly withdrew into themselves upon the Hare’s approach. The man tidied his hair and fixed his tie, mistakenly assuming that this would disguise his intoxication. He wasn’t drunk enough to cause trouble – yet – though it was these very individuals that security on the Morning Star kept an eye out for. A stray hand or baseless accusation of cheating was enough to warrant a strongly worded reprimand. Anything further and they would be escorted away.