Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy. Christopher ByfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
was depicted with a halo of gold crowning his head and engraved blocks of what seemed to be feathers.
It was enough for the shopkeeper to part with his pipe and place it beside him on a copper tray.
‘Not a fake?’ Muddick asked. He didn’t need to, but this was just a formality and everyone received such scrutiny no matter their track record.
‘The real thing,’ Wyld replied.
Muddick pressed in an eyepiece before shunting himself over the object. After a series of grunts and huffs, he concluded that Wyld was telling the truth. The eyeglass popped out and he placed his spectacles back into position.
‘You have others?’
‘I have plenty.’
‘Are you offering this one to me?’
‘It depends what you can tell me about it for starters. Then we go from there,’ Wyld replied, ever so matter-of-fact.
‘Made in the Vallanteij period,’ Muddick mused. ‘Six hundred years old or so. Exquisite leaf work, ever so delicate considering the subject matter. The stones are princess cut, brilliant clarity with no imperfections. No damage at all during its transit, which is ever so remarkable and will boost the resale considerably.’
‘No, no, no!’ Wyld interrupted. ‘I don’t care about that. Tell me about the piece, the imagery.’
Muddick raised his well-crinkled brow.
‘Clearly it’s an Angel being depicted, a protector of the Holy Sorceress. Iconic. It’s common for relics to depict singular Angels; the regions have their favourites from lore and such. Look here, these beneath are people revering him, arms outstretched. There’s something to the left of him, this cuboid design is depicting something – a rogue Spirit most likely as it follows the design found in ruins of the era, depicting Mazalieth, Brohnmeath, Alpo, and Limit and such. Normally you find this design on pots of celebration, but this seems to be a piece resembling an offering. It’s small, very lavish, and only depicting this singular Angel.’
‘Which one?’ Wyld asked.
Muddick paused.
‘Which Angel does it depict do you think?’ Wyld repeated, just as seriously as before.
It was quite an unusual request and very precise.
‘Does it matter?’
‘It matters to me,’ Wyld flatly replied.
Begrudgingly, the old man continued his assessment, squinting. ‘I’m not sure. He is not fair-haired. He is not decorated. The wings, I expected to be grander considering the nature of the piece. I must confess, I do not know. The Angel of the water maybe, at a push, if I had to guess. The portrayal is quite … unique.’
‘A guess is good enough.’ Wyld smiled.
‘I never took you to be the religious sort. I won’t presume to know your plans.’ Muddick retrieved his pipe. ‘But I strongly suggest you be careful if you’re looking for excitement out there. We’ve had an outbreak of gangs encroaching on one another’s territories. Whilst arrests were made, things have been on edge for the past month now and with the law being so active, you couldn’t even get a look at the Vault let alone ransack it.’
‘Oh?’ Wyld paused, clearly quite curious at this revelation, placing a coin between them to encourage the flow of information. ‘Please, do tell me more.’
* * *
Jacques had spent the better part of the morning haggling for supplies. It seemed to be that every store or stall was determined to strangle every coin from his purse, coin that was needed to stock the Den with food and other such necessities. Costs were rising and business could have been better. Shopping whilst being dressed in all his finery meant negotiating prices was a difficult affair. Three carts, all pulled by shop boys, heaved along the road in a rattling convoy behind him, flanked by the Den’s showgirls.
A procession of attractive women like this turned many heads, with some of the braver men approaching to try their luck. The girls were professionals and teased as only they could, suggesting that the men come to the performance and maybe they would share a drink together. Coy flicks of the hair and the slow batting of lashes brought a flush out in the cheeks of the brave. Jacques chuckled to himself. Never had he known such a talented collection of deviants, each hired by Franco to seduce on a whim.
The carts groaned to a stop outside Central Station, their manpower now beginning to unload crate, barrel, and sack into the street. The giggling procession of showgirls sorted through tobacco and coal and bread, until finding the luxuries packed away. A box of sweet liquorice was hastily unwrapped from a bag of confectionary, its bow pulled loose and the contents passed around. The girls found no better way to celebrate their arrival to a new city than to find its local delicacies.
Jacques organized the shop hands to Platform 4, taking the service doors up a succession of stairs and was about to take a sack himself until a familiar shape approached in the glare of the midday sun.
Misu advanced, head down and obviously troubled in her thoughts. She moved on the wind like the scattered sands that haunted every roadside. Burdens straddled her shoulders, riding her conscience like a mule. The usual elegant air that the woman exuded had drifted away and despite being dressed in her finery, it was all for nothing. She may as well have been a stone covered in flowers.
‘If it isn’t our Jewel herself,’ Jacques stated. The canvas sack over his shoulder was adjusted with a quick pat. ‘Have you attended to your business?’
Her hazel eyes squinted in question.
‘The girls told me that you went to see some old friends,’ he added. ‘Others with your looks and demeanour. My word, what a sight that would be.’
All Misu could do was fumble through the lie as best she could. ‘Yes. Old friends, you know. People who we could be if things were different.’
‘And you neglected to invite me.’ His bravado was a welcome balm to the unspoken troubles. ‘Well, is there any chance of you helping us get all this on board? There’s another delivery to come too. We may have just used up all of the carts.’
Burlap sacks were piled up, crates stacked, and before long the Den was restocked with necessities. Alcohol was deemed to be one of these – bottles clinked as each crate was placed in a storage car. Conversation between Jacques and Misu turned to prices, the rocketing cost of oil, and Jacques’s bartering skills.
In the end he’d saved quite an amount of coin by smooth-talking. Luckily for him most shopkeepers had their daughters working the stores and for one as charming as he, a kind word here and there ensured a saving. The difference was soon brought up, and while it was believed that Franco would want it returned, Misu had a far more attractive suggestion. The prospect of the showgirls visiting the nearest silkery was enough for Jacques to hand it over. It was, in his excitable words, for the greater good.
Though more urgent matters postponed this visit. At the steps of the station loading bay stood the delivery boys and their carts, all unpacked and waiting for the pair’s arrival. Time was, as they say, money, and any delay did not help some of the goods that easily spoiled in the midday heat.
‘Hey! What’s the holdup for?’ Jacques patted the shoulder of the closest courier, no older than thirteen at his guess. The boy declined to speak but instead gestured through the loading doors where the Gambler’s Den’s storage cars were swamped with attention.
Among the heaving throngs of blue-suited constabulary flanking the train stood Franco, disillusioned and barking angry. He was obviously arguing, tossing his arms about, though withheld himself from any pointing. Misu and Jacques kept their distance, busying themselves until he marched over, red-faced and furious.
‘A warrant!’ Franco spat, waving the papers in a fist. ‘The sheriff came back with a damn warrant to check us over from top to bottom.’
‘You couldn’t