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‘This is stifling,’ he finally said, striking his bottle on a table with a thump, narrowly missing the handle of his revolver that had been placed there for convenience.
‘Jacques?’
‘It makes no real difference, does it? They’re both dead and we’re sitting around talking about what could have been. We’re left behind contemplating the future. It’s selfish, is what it is. No two ways about it.’
Everyone fell quiet, the more timid among them avoiding eye contact and fiddling with their drinks.
* * *
‘We’re all hurting, Jacques. You’re not unique on that front.’ Corinne scrunched up her features in disgust. She had grown tired of this spectacle some time ago. His constant moaning and alcoholism was a bore and, frankly, she expected better of him than to drink himself stupid. They needed solidarity between them, not this.
‘Oh, work it out why don’t you. Sitting about here moping, mumbling little treasures about how the good times were. Let me tell you a fact and take it any way you desire. We weren’t saved by that pair. We were cast aside. We were left behind! They took the easy way out, dying a death out in the Sand Sea like martyrs. We got the bum end of the deal. You can be all red and puffy-cheeked in outrage but that doesn’t sway the fact that I’m right. You were all taking too long to work it out so I figured I would accelerate maters. Let it sink in. Think it over.’
His eyes locked defiantly with Corinne’s. She waited for this little outburst to be done, though he spoke with considerable malice and smiled like a predator would smile, then he took a hearty swig of poison.
‘Stings like a bitch, don’t it?’
Corinne retaliated flatly. ‘You’re drunk. Again, may I add, and it’s not even midday. Did you wash in scotch when you woke this morning? On today of all days?’
‘What can I say? Sobriety has lost its sparkling appeal.’
‘Has compassion too?’ Corinne snarled in challenge. She had tolerated this tirade for far too long. For a handful of weeks now, she had endured Jacques being stinking drunk whenever he rolled himself out of whatever bordello he had talked himself into.
‘You don’t get to say that to me. Nobody does. You have no idea how much I’ve put myself on the line for you, for all of you! You can doll yourselves up and pretend to move on, be in tears for the papers when they take nice photographs to further your agendas, but some people, better people, just don’t have the stomach for that. Sick as it is to admit, you have to respect Wilheim Fort. He has one over each and every one of you. For all his terrors, at least he never put on a charade to hide what he did. He never faked his intentions. Can you all say the same?’
There was a pregnant pause. Nobody moved.
‘You want to turn around and go out that door. Right now,’ Corinne threatened, though what she said was not a suggestion but a demand. He wasn’t welcome here any more, not if he was going to behave so undignified.
‘You’re damn right I do,’ Jacques agreed. He swung his jacket from the seat arm in a rush and made his way outside, slamming the door in frustration. The connected bell danced on its bracket, almost detaching itself in shock. Nothing was said inside for a while, as the only noise was the slowing rattle of glass in the doorframe, followed by an empty bottle tossed into the street and bursting on impact.
‘So … we’re not doing anything about that?’ Katerina finally asked. Corinne was quick to shoot down the suggestion. She marched to the door and flipped the latch to lock.
‘No. Let him go. Let others suffer his egotism – I’m done with it. We don’t need it under our roof.’
‘And what he said of Wilheim?’
Corinne sunk her teeth into her lower lip in frustration. The insult stung considerably more than the pain she administered herself.
‘Pay it no mind,’ she dismissed. ‘He’s behind bars now. He’s no concern to anybody.’
* * *
Wilheim Fort sat quite contentedly in his cell. The bars were pitted and stained by age and who knows what. The walls were carved with the names of previous occupants, some now being the only evidence of their existence. The uncomfortable slab that passed for a bed was seemingly designed by someone who clearly despised the spine and had set about destroying it under the pretence of rest. It was a cell befitting murderers, thugs, terrible people who did terrible things by the score and were to be incarcerated in equally fitting surroundings.
It was not at all appropriate for a man of Wilheim’s stature.
As was regular, the guard rapped the bars with his truncheon to get the inmate’s attention. He held in the other hand a tray of what some might generously call food. The meal was slid through its designated slot, spilling somewhat onto the stone floor, not that the jailer actually felt the slightest bit of remorse for this. He knew full well the crimes that Wilheim was to be trialled for, though in his humble opinion would rather the city forgo the circus and simply have him shot.
There were plenty who shared his thinking, a considerable amount under this roof and scores in the city who had cheered the outing of the architect of a criminal empire. Another pair of Bluecoats behind tended to the other cells with equal attention, conveying the meals with little care for the occupants within.
But, curiously, Wilheim simply sat on his uncomfortable bed, surrounded by the words of dead men, and stared directly through the bars stained with who knows what at the man beyond.
In fact, he did more than this. He smiled.
He smiled with such simplicity that one could easily mistake it as arrogance. The guard did so. He had seen this smile every time he took the slop to the cell, every time he called for attention, every time the prisoner’s lawyer came to discuss matters with him. Previously the Bluecoat had been patient. He was disciplined enough not to enter into a conversation with this individual, as his words could easily lead to attempts of bribery, or threats upon his person. This time, however, was different. This time, the Bluecoat gave in to his curiosity.
‘Every time I see your stupid face,’ he snarled, dragging the truncheon across the bars, ‘every single damn time with no break in between, you’ve got that ridiculous smile on you. You have to tell me, sitting in there and stripped of everything that made a monster like you, what could you possibly have to be so damn happy about?’
Wilheim found amusement in this, something that only made his smile wider. He chuckled, descending into a full-blown belly laugh that caused his bulbous body to ripple with each shake. When he found it appropriate to do so, he spoke.
‘You’re correct in saying that plenty has been removed from my person. Plenty has indeed been taken from me. All that I have acquired. All I have built. Well, of course, not all. A man like myself makes allowances for times such as these and ensures that if ill fortune falls upon him, then he owns a safety net of sorts.’
The guard kept tapping the bars. Wilheim continued, getting to his feet with a grunt.
‘It’s not true that I am naked in this cell. For I have something in abundance that I treasure, something that you and your ilk cannot fathom the importance of.’
The Bluecoat strained himself thinking what it could be. His eyes darted around the bare lockup, searching for any hint of something stashed away.
‘Time, you imbecile, I’m talking about time,’ Wilheim hissed in amusement. ‘I have time here to think, to contemplate … to do anything I so wish. With enough time you can raise the grandest of ambitions from nothing.’
‘That doesn’t sound so great to me. Get enough of that and you’ll be reduced to bones right here. I can imagine better things to smile about.’
‘You miss the bigger picture.’ Wilheim tilted his head to the side, his eyes momentarily flicking behind the Bluecoat and back again. ‘Time allows one to achieve a great many things. You can reclaim that which people have taken from you. You can organize repercussions for the ones who have wronged you. With enough time a broken empire can be re-formed. All one needs is patience.’
The Bluecoat exhaled in boredom. It may have been one of the more eloquent rants he had been subjected to, but it was still delivered by a crook behind bars.
‘Then you’ve got plenty of time to think on such things.’
The guard went to turn, though he froze in doing so quite quickly. The smile upon Wilheim’s face had gone, replaced with a bitter, nasty scowl. The air turned cold in the space between them.
‘I’m going to take an educated guess,’ Wilheim said, taking a pair of steps towards the bars. ‘You were assigned especially to watch over me, correct? The sheriff has considerable trust in you – you’ve no doubt been close to him on many an occasion. I imagine he deems you to be steadfast. Honourable. Infallible. Which is why you were given this most prestigious task.’
‘Something like that.’ He frowned in curiosity. Where was he going with this?
‘I imagine it was down to that raid you performed with him on the illicit bootleggers, where you saved the life of the good sheriff and two of his captains. I imagine that would have gained said trust.’
The Bluecoat turned pale.
‘H-how did you know that?’ he stammered.
Wilheim stepped forward once more. ‘Time, as I said. Time to look into my circumstances – with the assistance of others loyal to me of course. For instance, I know that you are married to the rather fetching Darleen and live in something I would consider no bigger than a shoebox. You are proud of your eldest son, since he shows interest in following your misguided footsteps. You are forthright, admired by plenty, with a badge for your steadfast, incorruptible nature.’
Wilheim stood a scant foot from the bars, his eyes glancing behind to the uniformed colleagues who busied themselves.
‘You guard me because the sheriff knows that if I offered you a bribe to secure my freedom, your unshakable character would ensure that you would decline it.’
The Bluecoat swallowed as Wilheim delivered the end of his piece.
‘But your friends wouldn’t.’
The first knife sank into the Bluecoat’s back, deep and between the shoulders. The second slipped around the bare nape of his neck, emptying its contents and robbing the man of breath. He collapsed onto the floor, twitching a few times until remaining still for good. Blood pooled beneath the corpse, reddening his uniform.
All the while Wilheim showed no measure of emotion in his face. Instead he gave his thanks to the pair of now loyal Bluecoats who had carried out the deed, now unlocking the cell with a ring of keys.
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 (#ub482d68b-e776-5ad6-ae28-0eac347173b1)
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!’
