Den of Stars. Christopher ByfordЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Prologue

      It was traditional for funerals in Surenth to begin before the dawn.

      The dead may not have minded the high temperatures that the region was well known for, but for those still living, it was an uncomfortable burden to endure. Nobody wanted to watch loved ones be buried in the stifling midday heat, so it was just before the sun cracked that the funeral procession began to march.

      As the morning stars straddled the sky, threatened by the pale glow of the sun watching from the horizon, the city of Windberg stopped what it was doing. Stallholders slowed setting up their wares for the day’s trading, their attention now ensnared elsewhere. Some shopkeepers kept their signs set to closed with the intention of keeping them so for the day out of respect for the dead. Even the deckhands for the sand ships, busy loading and unloading the large imposing vehicles at the docks, slowed their work on account of the noise that lingered in the still morning air.

      Those who intended to attend the proceedings were already prepared, congregating on street corners, appropriately dressed and aware of the planned route. Others who woke to the commotion wearily watched from their windows.

      There was music playing, a rallying cry for those familiar with the deceased and his work. The band consisted of brass instruments primarily, accompanied by the beat of drums and the high melodies of clarinets. Each attendee was dressed in formal beige-coloured suits, unjacketed with white shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. The music, though loud enough to be heard over the morning’s bustle, remained intimate in style to coax further mourners to the mass.

      Every street the procession passed, more joined the collective. They each did so for their own reasons, a number doing so out of morbid curiosity rather than a desire to pay their respects. A trumpet blared a melody, the drums keeping a slow pom-pom-pom in time, relaxed and effortless.

      Leading the route a brilliant black coach, adorned with golden accents, was drawn by a quartet of equally brilliant black horses with complementary gilded decoration on their straps and tugs. The interior was hidden with curtains, as were its occupants, who never parted the fabric to take stock of how many followed nor how close they were to their destination.

      The coachman himself was well suited and groomed and gripped the reins, steering the animals through every district before them, the passing streets of Windberg transforming from wealth to starved to decadent and back again. The horses’ pace was never quick enough to encourage those behind to rush.

      The river of bodies trickled to the city limits, spilling into a parasol-laden procession that moved into the desolate waste beyond. Stone was replaced with sand, the dawn sun lingering low and yet to fully show its radiance and heat. The desert was unkind and uncaring, forcing the people to move around boulder and thorny bush as they followed the main rail line north that would lead through a gorge and out into the Sand Sea itself. The coach trundled along the surface, the horses maintaining their composure at all times.

      Still the band played and the feet marched.

      Behind, an army of well-wishers made their way, following the northern train line from the grand city of Windberg northwards. Here, miles out from the city itself, the track ran into a canyon, its deep, steep sides sheltering such transportation from the harsh elements. The land began to ebb down the rail line flanked by steep cliffs of marbled stone, eroded by a combination of harsh wind and time. Soon the shy sun was hidden away by the formation, long shadows painting canyon walls in gloom.

      From this turn and that, following the snaking contours, finally they arrived at their destination. The music stopped. Nobody spoke. The coach was immediately brought to a halt.

      Before them, up ahead and squatting at the side of the track were the remains of the once proud Gambler’s Den.

      The locomotive had slipped the tracks during its escape from both the law and the lackeys of a criminal. This, coupled with its engine exploding, left it as nothing but wreckage.

      But the Gambler’s Den was no mere train. It was a legend in the east of Surenth. Its appearance formally announced with a cryptic banner, promising plenty and encouraging a fever of wanton speculation. Nobody knew what the Gambler’s Den actually was, except for those who had listened to the stories from other places about a wonderment that proudly rode the tracks across the Sand Sea.

      Occasionally someone who had entertained drunken stories might have dismissed it as being just a train, but it was just a train as much as the sun was just a star and the unenlightened were informed as such. The only way your opinion mattered was if you were once in its presence, if you drank from the well of pleasure that it proffered. Anything else was speculation or outright lies.

      When word reached the city of Windberg that the Gambler’s Den was in the throes of some dramatic escape from bandits, they assumed that the accompanying Bluecoats chasing were en route to protect it. So the story went at least. Some of the papers ran stories that differed, daring to suggest that there were other factors at work, the most prominent being the notion that the Den was up to no end of dishonest pursuits.

      This was incorrect. Caught up in a whirlwind of blackmail and downright bad luck, its owner, one Franco Del Monaire, had intended to escape both parties.

      The state of the train was heartbreaking. The Gambler’s Den had been reduced to a charred shell. Its boiler and innards had been flayed by an uncontrolled surge of pressure, causing an explosion. Flues were outstretched like metal spider legs. The chassis was warped from the heat, forcing the remains to slouch at the trackside after being moved and the line itself had been repaired. For those who saw the Gambler’s Den during one of its spectacles, it was difficult to take in.

      The people parted as the coachman performed his duty, climbing down and opening up the door. He invited the individuals to join them, with all surrounding the vehicle silent in reverence.

      Seven women took the steps from their carriage, flat shoes landing in the sand, forming a procession. They wore complementary outfits, similar in appearance though with significant nuances to set them apart. Each outfit was the colour of emerald, with mustard and black trimming over the plunging necklines, collars and hems. They were beauties each, quite well versed on finery and pageantry, a trait unshaken despite the morbid circumstances. Tall stood alongside short, black and blonde hair alongside shocks of ginger. All held their nerves in check and restrained tears that were bubbling dangerously close to the surface.

      The last to step out was a man, nowhere near as finely dressed but still on the right side of smart. His face was ghostly, clearly suffering from little sleep and troubling vices. His first steps were unsteady, corrected with the awareness of the score of onlookers, though he drew less attention than the women themselves. His clothes were creased and scruffy, tossed on with little care – one would assume, and correctly so.

      With a few reassuring gestures from the most senior among them, the women began the last of their journey with the man bringing up the rear. They all moved to the head of the ensemble, dresses, coats and scarves trailing in the subtle breeze that had picked up from the Sand Sea, as if it attempted to nudge them each to reconsider their movements. Some of the women held hands, clasping tightly to one another for comfort.

      The sun had risen higher now and its heat was beginning to bear down. They were not to speak, as was the tradition of these things. Others spoke on their behalf and in this instance, a short, stocky man – dressed in a grey pinstripe suit and round hat – had been hired for the occasion. He had no need to check his pocket for the folded notes, elaborating on the schedule, the involved names, or circumstances for all of these were already committed to memory. The number of people didn’t intimidate him, for he was a professional and excelled in his craft.

      Taking himself to the