The Golem City (Complete)

Chapter Five

Turner awoke in familiar surroundings, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to him. His head throbbed painfully as, groggy at first, he waited for the mist to lift from his mind. He was at home, on the couch in front of the hearth, although he had no recollection as to how he'd got there. And where was Dorothea? He dimly recalled feeling a sharp pain in his head and then nothing. He recognised none of the faces about him and it dawned on him that he might still be in danger. Where were his parents? Had they been taken? Turner leapt up from the couch, his head screaming in protest, and grabbed a black poker from the smouldering fireplace. Turning his back to the fire, he brandished its hooked nose at the group of men and women before him.

"Take it easy with the iron there, boy-o," said one with a leathery face covered with fine wrinkles and a purple birthmark that surrounded his right eye like a patch. "We aren't here to hurt ya." The man had his thumbs hooked into his pants inside his jacket, revealing the gun discreetly tucked away in his waistband. "You need to take it easy. You've suffered at least two hard knocks to the head."

"Who are you?" Turner demanded. "What are you doing here? Where are my ma and pa?" For all his bluster, he knew his situation was hopeless. There were four of them and at least one had a gun. They weren't wearing the ubiquitous grey suits of his pursuers, but the fact that they were complete strangers in his home made them no less dangerous.

"Think you can take him, Gorso?" asked one of the group, chuckling. She was a petite, dark-skinned woman, with braided raven hair that fell to her shoulders, bright grey eyes, and full lips. "Or do you need our support?"

"Don't listen to her kid," said the man called Gorso. "We're harmless."

"Speak for yourself," a young man retorted, seated lazily in a corner armchair. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat atop a mat of blonde hair. Curls framed steely blue eyes and a great many freckles.

His eyes never leaving the small book in his hand, the blonde man pulled a silver revolver out with his free hand, catching and twirling it about on his fingers, before finally sliding it back into its walnut holster he wore on his hips. The speed of the act was dazzling. There was a twin gun holstered on the opposite side. He was the only member of the Brigade who appeared to carry such weapons. "I'm a downright menace."

"Calm yourself, boy!"

Turner whirled around and spotted his father in the doorway.

"They're our friends," Travis added, "you hear? Friends! Don't go jabbing them with anything."

Turner's mother rushed in from the kitchen through the crowd, a look of angst on her face.

"Turner, my love, I'm so sorry. I was only away a moment." She pried the fire iron from his hand and dabbed a warm flannel against his aching head. "There, now..."

Turner ducked his head, embarrassed by his mother's ministrations before all these strangers. "I'm fine, Ma."

"See, Penelope? I said the boy'd be fine. Thick skulls run in the blood."

"I know," Penelope retorted.

Turner looked around. "Where is Dorothea?"

A man stood and came forward. He wore a brown, buttoned top with rolled up sleeves and tarnished green pants. A paisley bandanna hung loosely around his neck.

"The Commission made off with her," he answered. "By the time we found you and brought you back here, the ship had already left."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Silverio Herrera, and this motley lot are my comrades. It's good to see you awake, Turner Hullin." Herrera had the worn and worldly look that Turner recognised and admired in many of the men he saw toiling by the wharf, the sort who had seen and understood much of the world, who always had a story to tell and rarely the same tale twice.