Den of Shadows: The gripping new fantasy novel for fans of Caraval

Franco watched all this play out. Never had he seen his grandfather so keen, a curiosity considering that he was the one raising him in his father’s absence. There were always arguments, mostly revolving around Franco’s troublesome friends and wayward attitude. Pappy scorned more than he complimented, knowing no better than to mimic how he himself had been brought up.

Dirt was wiped clear from the engine’s pressure gauge, its numbers clearly visible through smeared glass.

‘The 433 wasn’t just any old train, Franco. It was my train. I used to work it, this exact one, over forty years ago. You can’t imagine how excited I was to hear that it was here – cast aside like junk, but I was excited nonetheless. Back then I worked hauling coal in the east on one of the smaller lines to the smelting plants. Tough, dirty work, my boy. Would break someone of your frail constitution, as you are now at least.’

‘Day to day on this thing? Doesn’t sound so terrible to me.’

‘You may come to regret those words.’ Pappy chuckled.

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘The yard owner owes me a debt.’

‘What sort of debt?’

‘The kind that you want to pay off immediately,’ Pappy coyly answered, ‘and he was mighty desperate too. This delight is now our property. Part of the arrangement is that we also get to use this here workshop for however long it takes to get it restored to working condition. That and we have claim of whatever can be of use on the premises. It will be a venture well worth the undertaking.’

‘We?’ Franco said, clearly not sharing the enthusiasm. ‘This is your endeavour, Grandpa, not mine. Don’t be roping me into this none.’

‘Yes, we. Us. You and I. Was I not clear in pointing that out? Do you have something better to do? Elsewhere to be?’

‘Yeah I do. I’ve got ambitions,’ he boasted with juvenile pride.

‘Please! You’ve got nothing but bad decisions under your belt, hoisting up those britches that are far too big. What are your plans outside of causing a ruckus with those who disagree with you?’

‘Does it even matter to you? It’s not like you’re my father or anything.’

‘No, but like I repeat every year, I’m the next best thing you’re ever going to get and should he miraculously drift on past, I’ll gladly pass the mantle.’

Franco huffed, kicking a spent can of paint over in frustration.

‘This is stupid. Don’t you think I deserve a say in all this? Don’t I get, I dunno, a choice?’

‘No, you don’t,’ Pappy snarled, ‘because I’m sick of hearing about the mischief you’ve been getting up to. You’re better than those rapscallions out there, troublemakers who steal purses from already downtrodden folk. Do you want to live picking pockets or brawling in gutters? You’re better than that, Franco. I raised you better than that and I’ll be damned if I’m going to watch you succumb to such foolishness. If you are incapable of making sensible decisions, then I’ll have to make them for you.’

Franco immediately recoiled. The pigeons loudly took to the sky in surprise. Anger was not a stranger to Pappy, but to see him so fiery about his grandson’s wellbeing was unique. That passion was normally reserved for betting on horses or debating the state of local ales.

‘Fine. I get it, I get it,’ the youngster conceded.

‘Do you? Because if you don’t make something of yourself now, you’ll die a very sad death out here, alone and with no one to grieve for you.’

‘All right! All right, stop; you don’t have to go on,’ Franco squawked, ‘but why would you want to go to the effort of getting it running again? It sounds like a job for a younger man.’

Disappointingly this was correct. Pappy lacked the strength of his youth, physically at least. Help was indeed required, which is why Franco would be another pair of hands in the endeavour, an apprentice of sorts. Age was against him and this was apparent from the occasional pain in the joint or strain of eyesight. What was the alternative though? Endure the remaining years in abject poverty? No. He’d promised the boy better once and no matter the hardship, he would make good on that. He’d fixed such a beast on the go with little assistance from associates, learning every facet with vigour. Resurrecting one from scrap should be a straightforward affair.

The Eiferian 433 loomed over the pair, patiently slumbering.

‘The same reason why you act up when you could be doing something productive. What compels you to do that? Honestly.’

Franco was unsure whether to take offence or not, but he deliberated and answered truthfully. ‘I don’t really know.’

‘Exactly,’ Pappy agreed, ‘we both have things that run in our blood that we can’t quite explain.’

* * *

Franco lay slumped, fingers still coaxed around green frosted glass, the last pouring collected at its base. An occasional mumble left his lips but they were nothing particularly coherent. He didn’t deserve Misu relieving him of the bottle so it wouldn’t spill on the carpet, but taking pity on him, she’d returned it to the bar counter. Neither did he deserve the blanket draped over his person to keep out the cold, but it was provided. For a moment she questioned whether she’d caught a mumble about time in his comatose state, though with the affray outside still taking place, she dismissed it.

Leaving the lamps burning out of consideration should he wake, Misu left in the pursuit of rest. As winds battered the Gambler’s Den, their troubled manager slumbered in the carriage with nothing but his dreams as company.

Chapter Three

The Hardest Word

‘Mister Rosso. Good morning.’

Franco strolled out into the sun. The morning sky was a brilliant blue, clear and devoid of a single cloud. It was hot but lacked humidity, a dry heat that ensured that it would be, on all accounts, a perfect day. At least it would be if he wasn’t nursing the results of last night’s drinking session. His boots fell into a disturbed drift of sand that had collected against the carriage side, recently dug away with accompanying shovels propped alongside.

Rosso snapped a pair of goggles from his eyes. He nonchalantly tossed a wrench into a rusted toolbox beside him, and groaned, part amused and part in pain. An hour of squatting, addressing the temperamental valve gear, had knotted his back, forcing him to rise and flex himself from side to side. The goggles slapped onto the toolbox; its lid closed with a kick. He cracked old knuckles, scarred fingers complaining of decade’s worth of toil, a sentiment echoed in the deep lines on his face. Short hair was fading from auburn to grey, a process seemingly more advanced in the sun’s full glare.

Rosso had taken over driving the Gambler’s Den almost five years ago, a task that was fraught with challenges, though he would describe it far less eloquently. It took a rougher sort to keep the locomotive happy, one who used individual grit as much as oil. With Rosso at the helm, Franco could freely concentrate on the entertainment, which suited him fine.

Standing to attention beside Rosso was his boy, just seventeen with the arms of lazy youth. Rosso had requested that the boy come with them in the hope of teaching him a decent, honest profession. He tended to the firebox mostly, heaving coal into the boiler, which was as fine a job as any. The pay was minimal and as such the decision easy. When Franco strode past, the boy lurched, back straight and arms flat to his sides as if on parade. His father knocked the wind from his chest with a sharp slap to the stomach.

‘In Her name, you blasted fool. Stop that, will you? You look like a damn statue. A statue of an ass of all things. Good morning, Franco. Slept well I presume?’ he grunted in a deep, gravelly tone.

Franco gave a pained sigh. Blast those talkative women.

‘You’re referring to the drinking.’

‘Yes, that would be what I’m talking about in no uncertain terms.’ Rosso laughed before adding sarcasm. ‘I never thought you to be a lightweight.’

‘Remind me again, what was that spiced rum you wanted me to hold for you for the night off? Pricy, came in that nice bottle. Really pretty label.’

‘Ah yes. The Shellcoof Black. Good stuff by all accounts,’ Rosso recalled, knowing full well where this was going.

‘Keep up the attitude and I’ll drain it down the sink,’ he threatened, deadpan in tone.

There was a serious, uncomfortable pause before smiles cracked through. The boy, though, was slightly rattled.

‘In answer to your question,’ Franco continued, ‘I would sleep better knowing that we’re getting back on schedule. Are there any problems given yesterday’s interruption?’

‘Apart from being stuck in this shit-hole for longer than desired? Thankfully none. The boiler is burning fine, the small drifts are already dug away, and the tracks ahead seem to be uncovered. We’ve had your security boy Jacques helping out all morning so you pretty folks could indulge in a lie-in. Doing manicures. Rubbing feet. Waxing hair. Whatever you are getting up to in there while we do, you know, the work.’

Rosso heartily chuckled to himself. Franco had not been in the engine cab for quite some time now, not since he traded overalls for smart suit jackets. Their repartee, which occasionally happened at great length and usually over drink, was legendary. It was all false of course. Franco could never forget how to operate the Den and, arguably could look after it better than anyone else, but Rosso was, to him, the best substitute possible.

The youngster, knowing that it was inappropriate, sniggered behind a hand, only to receive another bearlike hand to the stomach to correct his demeanour.

‘Dammit, lad, that’s your boss. He’s the one who gives you coin, you ungrateful cur. When it’s in your hand, you can piss and squander it on whatever you like, but show some respect in his presence because I ain’t seeing you rich enough to grow a pair yet.’

‘Of course, Pa. Sorry, Mister Franco.’ He bowed meekly.

‘Forget that, son, your old man is just being his stubborn self. None of the work, huh?’ Franco considered that for a moment. ‘If you’re too busy to eat, I’ll tell Kitty to put the skids on your breakfast. From what I understand she insisted on cooking up something special to show our appreciation, but with all this backbreaking labour you’re describing you couldn’t possibly take time out, could you?’ Franco rubbed his chin, beaming, clearly enjoying the banter.

Rosso grinned back, showing a ream of crooked teeth. ‘Driving the Den is a harsh affair, boss. We couldn’t possibly pull off on an empty stomach. That is, unless you might want to get grease on those smooth, well-tended hands. I’m assuming you remember how to regulate pressure again? Or is pressure just a word used when balancing the books?’

‘Baseless accusations aside, how soon can we leave?’

‘Come now, when we’ve only just got here? I thought you wanted to stay a while, take in the sights.’ As if on cue to illustrate the point, a wild dog trotted over the loose sand, carrying a freshly caught rat in its jaws. It took a moment to pause, eyeing up the change in scenery as if to decide whether these new arrivals were a threat to its freshly caught meal. Having assessed them enough, it continued onward. ‘Well, sight. Singular. But to answer your question, I’ll get the boy to make preparations. We’ll be good in under an hour. Any change in destination?’

‘No, straight on to Balvalk.’

‘Aye, I know it. If we ride right, we’ll make it in under three hours.’

‘Good man. See that you do.’ Franco produced a silver coin and offered it to the boy beside him who tried, with difficulty, to act nonchalantly.

‘As soon as we arrive, buy yourself something to unwind. Your choice, not his. And make it worthwhile.’

The youngster blushed and voiced his thanks.

True to his word, Rosso pulled the Gambler’s Den from Velencia station on time and set off through the yellow sand drifts, heading for the mountain-scattered horizon.

Balvalk was, by all criteria, the town that Velencia wished it could have been. Built by a wealthy investor who decided that creating a settlement would be a decent pursuit, it was Balvalk’s creation that caused Velencia’s strife. The significant investment, and influence with its neighbours, fed its expansion at the expense of others, bypassing a good handful of towns with a newly laid track. Three times the size with more than double the amenities of others, Balvalk was a cluster of roads with small flat-roofed edifices sandwiched between multiple-level structures. Inns, taverns, stores embossed with bright lettering and dramatic graphics.

However, despite its fortuitous beginnings, Balvalk was in decline. Trade was moving out of the region. Contracts were being fulfilled in the larger port cities and where the work went, so did the people. But wealth remained a priority, which was admitted by those you spoke to. It was a town where pizzazz and status were paramount, even in light of current affairs. A perfect location, Franco believed, to hold the next event.

Franco’s pre-show encouragement was almost completely ignored. Misu placed herself at his side as routine, though her mind was clearly elsewhere. Silent nods acknowledged changes in the lighting cues and anything else of note – minor revisions at best. Mechanical affirmatives emerged from the showgirls, not wanting to inflame the situation any further with questions.

Everyone stood in formation, a line down the carriage, with not a word said. The chandeliers gently clattering at the carriage’s rhythmic sway filled the noiseless void. From outside eager faces from the stacked platform buzzed past windows, their speed lessening as the locomotive eased to a final stop.

Spotlights silently turned upon the platform. The carriage was bathed in white. The entertainer took a slow, calming breath to steady any possible nerves.

‘Let’s have a good show, everybody,’ Franco insisted. The sentence was barely finished before he strolled out to rapturous applause.

* * *

A cacophony of fireworks joined the starlight that evening and, true to form, Franco led the evening’s entertainment without a break in expression or tenacity. Strutting between tables, his aloof mingling was natural, joining patrons with shakes of the hand and self-indulgent repartee. Roulette was full of cheering patrons, some excitably waving over more drinks. The card tables were equally occupied, with regional variations of poker, blackjack, and pontoon.

More than once he was asked to kiss the dice for luck, and when the numbers came up, was gracious enough to inflate the payout for those at the table. Generous, they called him. A gentleman, they praised. He bathed in his celebrity, playing his part flawlessly. A showman. An entertainer. A host.

Though a problem, an invisible one to revellers, was eroding this veneer. Misu, whenever spoken to, gave one- or two-syllable answers, most of them monotone. The normal interaction between them, a fluid exchange of opinions, of conversation, was reduced to glances and bluntness. The cause was obvious, stemming from her disapproval over finding other avenues of income. It was her problem though, right? Her reaction. Misu needed to grow up. She was, after all, just another employee. It was Franco who called the shots and she needed to not overreach herself.

If only that was true.

The crux of the matter and subsequent cause of Franco’s guilt was that Misu was anything but just another employee. Far from it. Time and time again she had proven herself to be steadfast and headstrong, keeping her areas of responsibility well managed. He never had to prompt nor apply pressure, ensuring that their professional relationship flowed more smoothly than thought possible.

Her inclusion in the Gambler’s Den was one of the most fruitful – calming too. Whenever he found scant time to relax, Misu always seemed to be a part of the procedure. It was why she and she only invited herself into Franco’s personal carriage whilst it remained out of bounds for anyone else. No, their relationship was anything but ordinary. She was a confidante in the times when he needed to spit frustration. She was a balm when times became painful.

And it was precisely these reasons why Franco felt the pangs of guilt.

His gaze fell on the woman, keeping the pretence of satisfaction. The gilded smile was impossible to class as fake unless you were aware of what stirred beneath.

Misu always was good at hiding things. A talent, he assumed, where the harshness of reality could be locked away for a spell and the illusion indulged in. Succumbing to reason, he produced a heavy sigh, knowing full well what he was about to do.

‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ He struck his hands together in succession, drawing attention. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your time please. I must share with you all a truth. It would be easy to witness this spectacle, this extravaganza and believe it is the work of just one man. I am not so proud to admit that is not the case. I introduce to you, the ever lovely Misu, the companion at my side who endures the wastes, the hardships, to bring this show to all of you.’

A spotlight swung off routine. Light set her awash in a white halo. Misu’s cheeks flushed with red at this unexpected attention. She curtseyed politely to applause. What is he up to? her expression said.

‘Now, Misu has been feeling, well, many things considering I am her manager, but sadly for the most part, she believes herself ignored. Unappreciated. Imagine that hardship for a moment, if you could.’

The crowd collectively sighed in sympathy.

‘Now, this is no fault of your own, my fine people. The desert is harsh to travel and we cross it with strength to bring you delight. Your smiles are worthwhile but the toil … the toil can beat the best of us. This woman is the one who keeps me sane.’ Franco wagged a finger. ‘She ensures more things, many things than you experience now. For instance, she ensures the games are managed!’

The crowd cheered, raising their drinks in hand.

‘She keeps the kitchen stocked!’

Another cheer.

‘She keeps the girls in their finery!’

A louder cheer this time, especially from the men who whistled in approval.

‘But more importantly than that –’ Franco thrust his finger in the air, with every person lingering on his words ‘– she keeps the bar populated with the best alcohol you could ever find and convinces me to keep the prices low!’

The cheer was followed with rapturous applause. They chanted Misu’s name over and over, a number of patrons patting her back and thanking her in person. She accepted each and every one, nodding and grinning, warmly shaking the hands of those who offered. Through the sea of faces, elevated up on the train platform – three sets of steps up – Franco threw out his arm.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, your appreciation please, to our ever-shining gem of the Gambler’s Den!’

The torrent of cheers, repeating Misu’s name over and over were deafening, and from his place above them, Franco gave a wink and smile, ensuring full well that Misu knew how much she was valued to him. Maybe speaking the words was difficult, the right ones especially, and he wasn’t prone to delivering heartfelt monologues. Others indulged in such familiarities. They were welcome to them, but Franco rarely had the time or the patience.

But she knew.

Come the dawn, the Gambler’s Den once again came to life. The clattering of iron pans broke the pale morning’s silence. The dining car was thriving with action, with the noises shortly joined by the hissing of bacon rashers, the pungent aroma of brewed coffee, and the accompanying smells that gave a tired person life anew. The kitchen, though grand in no way or special on any account, buzzed with life even at such an unsociable time. Plates were passed between the showgirls, who had already tended to the platform and packed the show materials away into storage. From the outside you would have never imagined such revelry had emerged from its doors. All was now hidden away in the visage of the fine old train.

The girls each gossiped, taking seats at one of the many tables, and prepared themselves for the day. Franco looked around him at the smiling faces, the jokes and cheers, and smiled at each of them in turn. The culminated stress of the last few days had flittered away – much to everyone’s relief. It felt comforting to see everyone relaxed once again, the dirt of their journey and profession scrubbed away somewhat by a camaraderie that they all shared.

It wasn’t family.

Franco refused to call it that as he had, in the past, referred to others not of his blood as such, resulting in it being used as a form of blackmail. Those who forged the title of family demanded sacrifice, devotion, all under the guise of manipulating what one should do. No, family wasn’t the word to use.

This was different.

This was nice, in a sense.

But family it was not.

He took a plate and thanked the one who handed it to him. The woman delivered a smile that had never faltered after her hiring. She called him boss, as respectfully as any of the others.

Misu strolled past, a plate of her own balancing on fingertips, before seating herself opposite Franco. She had decided on a lighter option than what the man before her chose, picking at a small portion of cherry tomatoes, cockatrice eggs, and greenery, which she assumed to be a form of cliff pepper. Chickens didn’t fare so well out here and thanks to the domestication of its larger and much more dangerous relative, cockatrice eggs became a staple foodstuff.

Franco had ordered that there was always to be an ample supply of food so local delicacies were picked up whenever the train stopped. The tomatoes were shipped out from the west where the climate was more temperamental, an extravagance for anyone to indulge in, let alone those under his employ. For most under his roof, the chance to eat so well was extraordinary.

The showgirls came from every background – impoverished, well-to-do, all across the spectrum. Their reasons for joining were their own (escapism, adventure, and others) but each could agree that nothing beat such decadent food, or the traditional tastes of home no matter where that may have been. A full stomach, in Franco’s words, would ensure a full performance.

Franco chewed slowly as they eyed one another silently. Clearly she was waiting for him to begin a dialogue and he did so, placing his cutlery down.

‘Eggs good?’

* * *

Misu tilted her head, mouth still half full. Eggs. After the conflict between them, the best point of conversation he could muster was about eggs?

‘The eggs are fine,’ she revealed, taking the last of them from the plate. ‘The eggs are always fine.’

She heavily swallowed and gestured with a dainty fork. No, this wouldn’t do.

‘I’m sorry, eggs? Eggs. I just wanted to clarify you’re talking about eggs and nothing else at all. It’s not, like, a metaphor for something that I have clearly missed. Maybe about you being an ass and me clearly provoking you for being such a bloody fool?’

Immediately she recoiled upon giving voice to her anger. Turning away did nothing to help the embarrassment.

Franco shrugged blankly. ‘Wow. Good thing I didn’t enquire about the tomatoes.’

The pair laughed at the absurdity, causing more than a few glances in their direction.

‘Food has been a concern of late for you. Are we still on the lookout for an actual cook?’

‘We should be. I’m not altogether keen on this stopgap who you hired last month.’

‘Kitty,’ Misu prompted.

‘Yes, her. Don’t get me wrong, she fills the role well, but Kitty’s one of the girls and was brought on to be such. I don’t like the idea of someone with a split job. It prevents one from dedicating themselves to a single task. Makes things messy,’ Franco stated.

‘What would the chances be that we just happen to stumble upon someone looking for work who is talented in the kitchen? Most of the girls are unfamiliar with the majority of what we bring on board. Kitty has been the only one capable of actually cooking it. I’m assuming that’s because of her farm upbringing – growing and whatnot. Not everyone has had such exposure.’