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Prosperity

Being a True Account of the Fall of the Skymining Town of Prosperity in 1863

Riptide Publishing

In which the reader is introduced to our hero, Piccadilly—Concerning his birth, parentage (or lack thereof), history, education (or lack thereof), charms, endowments, and virtues (or lack thereof)—Of the skymining town of Prosperity and our hero's arrival therein—Descriptions of a game of cards and sundry persons of variable character and importance—The lamentable actions of an ungentlemanly gentleman—Some notes on the workings of skyhooks

I ain't never been one for truth-telling, and all that shite about what your father was called, and where you was squeezed yowling out your mother—but this 'ere tale ain't your everyday moonshine.

See, it begins with a town called Prosperity.

It don't really matter how I came to be there, cos back in them days, everybody was going. Way I heard it, the rush started cos of this one cull who got himself an airship and took to the skies over Gaslight. He went up there with pockets full of sweet fuck-all, and came down again with enough phlogiston to light up England for a year. Made him flusher than that Greek bugger what I read about.

And that's when folks started buying up the sky, turning nowhere places like Prosperity into somewhere places. Leastways for the sorta folk who didn't have nowt to stay put for, or had sommat to run from. And them as rather'd go clutching at dreams than turn their forepaws to honest graft.

When I first rolled into town, there weren't much in the ol' brain box except turning the usual tricks and running the usual rigs. Cos me being Gaslight gutterborn, I ain't precisely grained for the straight and narrow. 'Twasn't long afore I got settled in. Few days after making slip, I had five fat culls—meaning them as possessing more money than sense—chasing their own tails in hopeless pursuit of Judith in the game of three-card monte I was running from the street corner.

It didn't make me no new friends, but I did get together enough chink for grub, and somewhere to kip that weren't the ground or some stranger's bed. Though I ain't never stood in opposition to snuggling up with strangers.

Course, I'd also heard tattle of deep play at Albright's Saloon, and I had the buy-in right there. I was hot for it, having always had sommat of an itch in my palms for the dealing of cards and, most particularly, for the winning at 'em by means both fair and foul.

Truth is, I like stealing more than I like having, and I like cheating more than I like playing. I know it ain't honourable, but way I smoke it, any nick-ninny flat can get what he deserves, so the real trick is getting what you don't. And since by rights I should've probably been croaked in a gutter down in Gaslight or mouldering at the bottom of the Spire—which is where they put pilferers, bobtails, and tradesmen of fortune when they can catch 'em—I reckon whatever I can sharply lay paws on is as close to mine as makes no difference.

Though mebbe this is why I got more talent for getting than keeping.

And mebbe why I found myself in Prosperity to start with.

I tucked my blunt away for laters and slipped into shadows betwixt a couple of shacks to practice. I usually carry a deck or two about my scrawny person and a set of dispatchers—them being dice what throw crooked—cos you never can tell when you might need 'em. Give ol' Piccadilly ('tis me, by way, your narrator) a deck of broads, and he'll show you a dance to make your glims water.

I riffled and sprung and cut and false shuffled and false cut. I dealt from the top, from the bottom, from the middle, did my jogs and double lifts, flashed and flourished, glided and glimpsed, passed and palmed, and fair dazzled myself with my own brilliance. 'Twas a shame there weren't nobody to see it. Like that tree what falls in a forest what them philosophers is always thinking about.

And when the sun was slinking o'er the horizon like a lover what ain't too pleased with the view, I made for Albright's. I squandered a ha'penny with the barkeep for panem and old pegg, that being hardtack and sommat he claimed was a Yorkshire type of cheese, what actually tasted more like old socks. Then, seeing as folks was assembling for play, I sauntered over casual-like to join the game.

Sitting at the table was one Ephram, brother of the Jackson Albright what owned the place. He was built like a bear with a great bristling beard on him such as could be useful for the burying of badgers.

And Gap Tooth Alis with hair so eye-bleeding red it must've come from a bottle bigger than Prosperity itself, and skirts so wide and ruffled 'twas a wonder she didn't go floating off like a dirigible when the weather was blustersome.

And finally some la-di-da court card fresh off the boat, all dressed up in white linen like the fucking prince of Persia. He was sitting there nursing a cup of what the canting crew'd call catlap. Tea, y'know, bits of leaf and shit and what 'ave ye in hot water, such as drunk by fat ol' spinsters and delicate maidlings what need a good seeing to. It looked all kinds of strange next to the rest of the empty bottles littering the tabletop.

Course, I flashed straight off this fella weren't proper nib cos he was the nibbiest nib I'd ever stagged and nobody goes to that much effort to be who they really are. He looked the part, though, I'd give him that. Fact was, with those fancy duds and the missish ways, he would've looked a regular pigeon to be plucked, except there was sommat sharp about him, sharp and fragile and deadly like a glinting blade. I reckoned I'd seen pictures of angels what were less comely than he was, but there was nowt holy in him. 'Twas like seeing a wolf wrapped up in a man-skin, and all the pretty in the world couldn't hide it.

He had this scar crossing his top lip, like a silver-coloured brand. And, looking into his glims, which were blue like somebody washed all the colour out of 'em til there was nowt left but ice, 'twas enough to send a shiver running through me. He was too gaunt and too pale, cheekbones standing out like they'd been carved. And when I gave him the cutty eye, being how one rogue beholds another, I got a peeperful of the chivs (blades, y'know) strapped to his forearms, as well as the six-shooters on each hip.

First off, none of them thought much of me rolling up, but once I paid the buy-in and acted like I didn't have no clue, they soon perked up.

'Tis kinda its own sting, this face of mine, being so pretty-like, and my years so slender. I don't reckon I seen more than mebbe eighteen full revolutions of the earth, but 'tis a costly mistake to underestimate ol' Piccadilly cos I ain't no greenhorn, no sir. Truth is, I ain't never found a square concern—what ye might call an honest job—what with having a powerful disinclination for starving, but I done all the rackets before I turned to card sharping.

'Twas Miss Alis made the introductions, and I played along, even though I already knew what was what. First thing you scope out in a place like Prosperity—who runs the brothel, and the name of the biggest fella in town. "And this hoity-toity swinker's known as Milord," she finished, gesturing at the stranger.

Except he weren't no stranger after all cos I knew the name already. Milord was what they called the crime prince of Gaslight. I'd never met the master of misrule myself, but any cove working the Stews—that being what them as lived above called the undercity—worked for Milord. The thief-keepers would tell the little uns and the kinchin coves: "You do yer job and you pay yer dues and you don't get caught, or Milord will cut ye into ribbons." He was supposed to be an artist with a knife—if you take artist to mean scary fucker.

Peeping across the table, I thought 'twas probably the same fella. If it hadn't been for his eyes, I'd never have believed a dandy priss like that was running Gaslight. Except he weren't running Gaslight. He was right here, right now. And, truthsomewise, I felt a bit wary about bobbing him cos you don't go around trying to pull the teeth from tigers if you want to keep your fingers.

His lordship didn't deign to speak, just flicked up a brow, swift as a striking snake. Chilled me right through, but Miss Alis grinned like he'd made a joke, and said with a slyish look, "How's Saint Ruben? Ain't clapped eyes on him since Shadowless made slip. Dimber cove like that—I gotta queue o' pretty things would like to make him mighty happy."

I faffed with my chips, acting as though I weren't paying attention, though of course I was. Ol' Milord wasn't giving much away, but his cold glims got even colder, and finally he said all casual-like: "Ruben doesn't care for happiness. It interferes with his rigid programme of guilt and self-righteousness." You could've cut glass with his accent. And then he turned to me, pinning me with his attention like he'd thrown one of his chivs. "I don't think I caught your name."

"I don't believe I told it." I was being carefulwise as could be. "'Tis Piccadilly, though most prefer Dil for being as you might say less vocally challenging."

"How singular," observed the fucker calling hisnabs Milord.

I didn't have the whirligigs to bring it up though.

Thing is, for a bunch of years, nobody bothered to call me anything except bratling or squeaker. But I had no intention of going through life wearing where I'd come from like a badge, so I'd reckoned if I wanted a name to call my own I was going to have to take it. There was this loony family man we called Ol' Louse (cos he was a rogue's companion, gettit?) what used to fence the swag, and he was always mumbling on about going to Piccadilly Circus one day. Being young and benish—daft headed—I got the notion Piccadilly was sommat kinda magical.

Course, when I finally got there, 'twas just a big ol' crescent with a couple of roads all running together. Turned out circus was highfalutin for circle. How dingberrying pissed was I? But I kept the name anyways. 'Tis mine now.

Then Ephram growled, "Less jawing, more dealing."

So we got to playing. Suppose I could have took it square, not bilked them, and mebbe done okay for myself, but there wouldn't have been no fun in it. Besides, til I met Ruben (I'll tell you about Ruben soonwise), I thought truth was for flats. When I said I was a cunning shaver, 'twasn't just clankers and moonshine. I took it slow, not wanting to spook them, acted the chub and played booty—which is what you call it when you play to lose, but strategically-like. Once I got 'em lulled, I started skinning 'em, and quite the dance it was cos they weren't no buffle-noddles. Made my little heart go pitter-patter, pitter-patter with all the wicked, naughty pleasure of it.

And the winning, when I got there, was some of the sweetest I'd ever tasted—not leastways cos by then Milord was looking like there was a spike stuffed up somewhere unspeakable. He knew he'd been bobbed, and bobbed soundly, but he didn't know the how of it, and 'twas making him mad as a box of cats.

As for me, I couldn't help crowing a bit, just to myself, cos I'd sat down with the crime prince of Gaslight and come out ahead.

As I reached for the pot, his hand shot out and caught mine, slamming us both onto the pile of chink in the middle of the table. I looked up and his glims were burning like blue flame. "You, young man," quoth he, precise as cold water dropping down your back, "are a cheat."

He flipped over the discards and my dealt hand. And, though he was like one hundred percent correct about the cheating, I'm a cheat with a talent for it, and there was nowt to be found to blow the gaff. Then he grabbed my wrist with an icy paw as though he expected broads to come tumbling out my sleeves.

And I confess that got the ol' dander up a bit cos what kind of amateur did he think he was handling, eh? But I reckoned there was nowt to be gained, and probably quite a lot to be lost, by getting into a spat with a fellow like that. So I just dimpled at him, sweet as sweet, til he took himself away.

Though mebbe 'twasn't only my charms what did it, cos right then he started coughing and coughing, and he had to get a pocket fogle to muffle it. And it weren't no gentry cove's ahem-ahem he had going on. 'Twas a rattling oyster-puking Gaslight cough, all dust and smoke and phlegm the colour of tar, and even a silk wiper couldn't hide it.

He was bucket-kicking pale when he was done, but somehow he found breath to say, "The next time I see you, Piccadilly, and believe me, there will be next a time, I shall inscribe an object lesson on the folly of irritating me into your flesh."

I didn't feel much like laughing about it myself, but Gap Tooth Alis burst out with cackling. "Lost yer manners, Milord?"

He flushed all pinkish, which would've been kinda endearing somehow if I hadn't believed every fucking word he'd just said. I was starting to think this hadn't been the best idea I'd ever had, but I'd plenty practice with scarpering, and I reckoned mebbe Milord had better things to do with his time than go chasing a nobody all over Prosperity.

All being well, I'd be giving the place the laugh first thing in the morning.

I was just wondering if there was any way I could sorta give the coin back and, like, no hard feelings when Alis grinned at me. "Don't think you'll get much play in this town after that performance, Dilly lad, but I'd've coughed up double the blunt to see his nibship rattled. Ye got quite the set of bollocks there."

Ah well. Too late. And no point fretting over it now. Horse was bolted, milk was spilt, Piccadilly was flush. I smirked. "I could make the introductions if you wanna get to know 'em better. Seems like I'm pretty equipped all suddensome."

Rumour had it she weren't no devotee of Master Thomas, but you can't blame a cove for trying.

"I reckon any o' my pretty things'd be glad to, sweetheart, but bring your bollocks near me and ye'll be wearing 'em as a shappeau."

Milord pulled out his fogle again and started cleaning the tips of his fingers in this idlesome way. Even though, far as I could stag, they was already clean. "He'll wish he gave them to you in a presentation box by the time I'm done with him." His voice was still all raw to nowt from the coughing, but it didn't look like anything short of death was shutting him up. "Cheating is not gentlemanly."

"And what the fuck would ye know 'bout that?"'Twas Ephram, weighing in hard, like mebbe he had sommat personal at stake. "Reckon ye weren't feeling mighty gentlemanly the day you trimmed m' kin."

"Morgan owed me." Milord was as calm as you please even with Ephram breathing at him like a bull. "I simply collected on that debt."

"That skyclaim weren't his to spout."

"Then you may take it up with a lawyer." Milord gave this thin, gleaming smile with no mirth nor nowt in it, cos everybody knew there weren't no law in Prosperity. "If you can find one, that is."

I thought Ephram was mebbe going to lamp him one, cos he got all red and stompy, and Milord was just sorta sitting there, still smiling, like he wanted him to try it. But I guess Ephram thought better of it, and I couldn't blame him. "This ain't 'bout legality. You took what weren't yours to take. And I'm gonna be reclaiming what's rightfully mine, one way or t'other."

It looked like it were all set to turn into an altercation of some duration, suggesting that now might be a good time for Piccadilly to bing it, so I gathered up the chink and did so right tantwivy—id est (as the inkhornes would say) really fucking fast.

I slipped onto the main street, pockets all heavy with my winnings. 'Twas chill and dark, stars hazy through the drifting cloud. From the bawdhouse, all bright-lit, came sounds of laughter and merrymaking, music and swiving, but my heart was swiftwise turning heavier than my pockets.

'Tis oft the way, I find, when the job is done. Cos I keep thinking sommat's waiting on the other side. I dunno what, but I'm sure it's there, just out of reach, like when I was a kinchin pressing my conk up against shop windows at Christmas.

But there's nowt. There's only silence. And the things you filch ain't ever the things you want, and I reckon living itself is a filched business.

These sorta times, I fall to worrying. I start wondering if my winning streak is done for good and the gutter is pulling me back where I rightly belong, like mebbe there ain't nowt waiting round the next corner except an eternity box and some worms having a party. Just the thinking of it makes my fingers itchy to feel broads slipping through 'em again, and if I think too long, and too hard, I'll go looking for another game, one to lose this time, just so as it's a choice.

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Excerpted from Prosperity by Alexis Hall, Sarah Frantz. Copyright © 2014 Alexis Hall. Excerpted by permission of Riptide Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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