The Curse of Salamander Street by G.P. Taylor

to Peveril. Heard they have hanged the highwayman – now we have nothing to fear.’
    There was a rumble of approval as heads nodded on both sides of the table. Raphah looked on, thinking it would be best to keep silent. He leant against the fireplace as the conversation gathered pace, then looked for a place to sit at table.
    The fat man caught his eye and gave him a slight smile, curling the corner of his lip and allowing a dribble of meat juice to scurry across his chin.
    â€˜Where are our manners?’ he said mockingly as he saw Raphah looking for a place to eat. ‘The Ethio has travelled a long way to eat with us and we have not made him welcome.’
    The gathering bristled silently, spreading out along the benches so there was no room for Raphah to sit.
    â€˜Gentlemen, we have a foreign guest who would like to sit with us. How can we make him welcome?’ The man spoke between slurps of red wine that he held in a silver flagon by his side. ‘Surely there must be one seat in which he can take his meal in such pleasant company?’
    Raphah edged his way towards the gap on the long bench between the coachman and the bugler, who was dressed in a leather apron and heavy tunic. As he approached they snuggled together so he could not be seated.
    â€˜Sit, my dear friend,’ the fat man scolded as he smiled with his piggy eyes and wobbled his jowls. ‘I know, gentlemen,’ he said quietly. ‘There is always Vackan’s chair by the fire?’
    The bugler shook his head in deep disapproval and whispered to the fat man. ‘That would not be a good thing, Mister Bragg, not a good thing.’
    â€˜But we could test the chair, see if what is said about it is true,’ Mister Bragg replied equally as quietly.
    Raphah noticed the large oak chair at the far side of the brazier. It was coated in fire dust and looked as if it had never been a place of rest for many years, or that a hand had touched or cleaned it in all that time. It was unlike any chair he had seen before. Two spindle front legs were turned in dark wood and capped with lion’s claws. A large third leg the width of a man’s arm followed the line of the chair back to the floor. It was old and ugly, rudely made and dog-gnawed.
    â€˜Would you like to seat yourself there?’ Mister Bragg asked as he filled his mouth again with food. ‘Ord Vackan loved to sit in that place – was taken from it on the last night of his life. Loved it, he did, loved it.’
    â€˜And all who …’ The bugler tried to speak.
    â€˜Reserved for special guests, that’s what he would like to say, special like you – a friend from far away,’ Bragg said, sipping his wine from the flask. ‘Please be seated and we will serve you. It is tradition to eat a hearty breakfast before …’
    Raphah slipped quietly into the inglenook chair that rested on the hearth by the brazier.
    All was suddenly silent. Words stopped half-spoken as every head turned and stared. Raphah became aware that all who were gathered were glaring at him. He looked away quickly, staring into the shimmering flames that sucked at a holly log. Everyone glanced at each other, urging with sharp eyes for someone to speak. Silence prevailed, thick, uncomfortable and brimming with anticipation.
    With a ruffle of his long black cloak, Barghast walked through the doorway and saw Raphah sat in the Ord Vackan’s oak chair.
    â€˜Did no one tell him?’ he shouted loudly.
    â€˜What?’ Raphah asked as his eyes went to the faces of the gathering.
    â€˜You let him sit in the chair and not one of you came to the lad’s aid?’ Barghast bellowed again, his white face reddening for a moment.
    â€˜We never saw,’ muttered a small, shrew-like man with a thin face and jagged front teeth sticking from his mouth.
    â€˜Rumour, legend …Nothing is for certain, they could have all died by coincidence,’ said Mister