Den of Stars. Christopher Byford

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       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 СКАЧАТЬ