They stepped out of Harper’s hall into the midmorning light. Caleb’s shoulders eased as if a stone had rolled from them; he breathed deep, the kind of breath he had not dared in months. The street noise felt different to him now: clatter of wagons, dice rattling in a saloon, a hawker calling by the levee. All of it sounded freer.

Eli did not share the feeling. He kept his coat drawn, his hand never far from the Colt at his side. His eyes worked the boardwalk and the windows above. Men lingered too long at corners, and one face he had seen inside the gaming hall now loitered by a lamppost.

Caleb gave a small laugh, the relief plain in his voice. “It’s done, Eli. Thank you, again, for all you've done to get me out of that fix.”

Eli’s answer was quiet, steady. “Men like Harper never feel they are paid in full.”

The words cut through Caleb’s moment of ease. He glanced back at the false front hall, its smoke-stained windows, the polished brass of its door handles. The weight returned to his jaw, but this time he carried it different, aware rather than bent.

They moved on, the river wind sharp at their backs.

—•—

They turned down toward the stables where Caleb had left his mount. The morning had filled the streets with wagons and men bound to their trades, but Eli read the crowd with a soldier’s eye. Too many lingered without purpose. A boy sweeping straw in the stable yard stopped mid-sweep to watch them. Across the way, a man in a bowler hat stood before a handbill nailed to a post, but his eyes never seemed to touch the paper.

Caleb led his horse from the stall, running a hand along its neck, trying to look at ease. Eli stood with his coat closed, his gaze steady on the street. He had seen the bowler-hatted man earlier, seated at a table in Harper’s hall. He mentioned as much to Caleb.

Caleb noticed his look and tried to brush it aside. “You see ghosts, Eli. Harper has what he wanted. He will let us walk.”

Eli shook his head once. “What he wanted was silver. What he wants now is to see where we step. He’s up to something, and I think I know what it is.”

The words settled between them heavier than the saddle Caleb cinched tight. When they left the yard, the bowler was gone, but another man stood at the corner, smoking, his eyes hidden beneath his hat brim. The city felt closer now, its alleys too narrow, its doors too many.

—•—

They walked a quieter street that bent toward the river, the buildings lower here, their clapboards damp with fog that had only recently burned off in the heat of the sun. Caleb kept his head high, but Eli’s eyes worked the alleys and doorways. He caught movement more than once, men slipping past corners too neatly, too practiced to be chance.

Caleb noticed him scanning and finally asked, low, “What is it you think he’s after?”

Eli’s answer came measured. “Harper has coin enough. What he wants is men who know how to keep their heads when shooting starts. He’s weighing us, seeing if we fit his table.”

Caleb frowned. “Employment, you mean?”

“Not the kind a man can walk away from.”

A cart rattled past, iron rims striking sparks from cobble, and Eli waited for it to fade before speaking again. “He’ll test us first. Something small, something meant to look easy. That’s how men like him bind a man. A simple favor turns to debt, and debt turns to chains. Silver pays the note, but it does not buy freedom. He will offer us a place in his house before he lets us walk out of his shadow.”

Caleb let that settle, his jaw tightening. He did not argue this time.

—•—

Caleb’s rooms opened directly onto the street, a narrow door set between the cooper’s shop and a tobacconist. Inside, the space was plain: a table, two chairs, a narrow bed, and the smell of stale coffee that clung to the walls. They set the saddlebags down, drew water from a basin, and took their ease for the first time since dawn.

The hour passed slow. Street sounds drifted through the window, wagon wheels on stone, a woman calling her children, the hammering of a smith. Caleb worked bacon in a pan blackened from long use, and the two men ate in silence, each with his own thoughts.

The knock came just as the sun tipped past noon. Three firm raps, measured, not hurried. Caleb set his plate aside, and Eli moved to the door.

A man waited there in a neat coat, boots polished, his hat held respectfully in his hands. His manner was neither servile nor threatening. His words were plain, spoken with practiced courtesy.

“Mr. Thorne. Mr. Warren. My employer, Mr. Harper, extends his invitation. There will be a banquet this evening at his hall. He asks that you both attend as honored guests.”

Caleb glanced at Eli, uncertain. Eli’s gaze stayed on the man’s eyes, weighing tone against stance. The emissary met his look without flinching.

“It is a table of friends and associates,” the man continued. “No business pressed, only conversation, food, and respect for gentlemen newly settled in our city. Mr. Harper wishes to welcome you both.”

Eli’s hand remained on the doorframe, his voice even. “And if we decline?”

The man gave the smallest shrug, polite still. “Then it is only a lost opportunity, nothing more. The evening remains open, the invitation remains standing. The hour is seven o’clock.” He inclined his head. “May I tell Mr. Harper that you will attend?”

Eli did not answer at once. The silence stretched long in the small room, the sound of wagon wheels rising from the street outside. He looked over at Caleb.

“Would you like to attend?”

Caleb hesitated, his gaze searching Eli’s eyes as though weighing more than the question. At last he gave a slow nod. “If you will go, I will go.”

Eli turned back to the emissary, his voice steady. “Tell Mr. Harper we will be there.”

The man inclined his head again, replaced his hat, and stepped back into the street. His boots carried him away at an unhurried pace, leaving the two men in the hush of the room, the weight of the evening pressing ahead of them.

—•—

The sun had slipped low, throwing a copper haze over the riverfront. Lamps flared along the streets as the city shifted from trade to revelry. Music spilled from tavern doors, dice rattled on felt, and voices rose rough with drink.

Eli and Caleb kept a steady pace through the growing noise, their coats brushed clean, boots polished as best as time allowed. Caleb walked straight, his jaw set, while Eli’s eyes searched the shadows that clung to doorways and alleys. Men still watched, though now with a different measure.

At the end of Commerce Street, the building came into view. Wide fronted, three stories high, its windows cast a steady glow that reached across the boardwalk. A polished sign swung from iron brackets above the double doors, the letters gilded bold enough to catch the lamplight.

The River Queen.

Caleb read the name under his breath, the syllables carrying more weight than a painted board ought to hold. Harper’s house of cards and dice, but tonight dressed as a hall of welcome.

Two doormen in neat coats stood at attention by the entrance, their stances stiff but courteous. As Eli and Caleb mounted the steps, one drew the door wide with a practiced bow.

“Mr. Harper bids you welcome to the River Queen.”

The sound of voices and music rolled out into the night air, rich and inviting, but beneath it Eli thought he caught another note: a hum of expectation, like a trap set and waiting to be sprung.

—•—

Inside, the River Queen carried a polish that outshone the street outside. Oil lamps glowed in mirrored sconces, chandeliers caught the light and spread it across the wide hall. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine, a cover for the familiar tang of tobacco and spilled whiskey that clung beneath.

A steward in a dark coat met them at the threshold and guided them past green baize tables now covered in white cloth, the dice and cards put aside for the night. Other guests accompanied them, some entering from the street, while others were already gathered in quiet knots of conversation. The company was a mix of merchants with watch chains and polished boots, river captains in broadcloth, and lawyers with smooth voices. Yet among them Eli marked men who bore the set of shoulders hardened by alley fights and dockside brawls, their knives hidden under brushed coats.

At the far end of the hall stood a long table dressed in silver and glass, and before it waited Harper. He was dressed as he had been that morning, but the hall was his crown now, and he wore it well. His hair gleamed in the lamplight, his waistcoat neat, his posture easy as though he hosted kings.

“Mr. Warren. Mr. Thorne.” Harper’s voice carried warmly as they approached. He stepped forward with hands open, the picture of welcome. “I thank you both for joining us this evening.”

He clasped Caleb’s hand first, his smile generous. Then he turned to Eli, holding his gaze a moment longer than courtesy demanded, the pressure of his grip carrying more weight than his words. Not oppressive, but firm and steady.

“Vicksburg thrives because of men of resolve,” Harper said. “It is my honor to welcome such men beneath this roof. Tonight, you will find only friends here.”

Around them, the hall filled with talk and the shuffle of boots on polished boards. Glasses clinked, laughter rose, and yet Eli felt the measure in every look cast their way. Some eyes curious, others cool, a few weighing them as though a coin on a scale. The air was rich with civility, but beneath it ran the pulse of the river’s underworld, dressed tonight in linen and lace.

—•—

The steward guided them into the flow of the room, where clusters of men spoke in low tones over glasses of brandy and wine. A string quartet played from a corner alcove, the strains soft against the rise and fall of voices. Silver trays moved through the crowd, bearing goblets and cut glass filled with deep red and amber.

Caleb accepted a glass of wine when it was offered, holding it lightly in his hand. Eli shook his head and asked for water. The servant blinked once but complied, returning with a clear goblet. Eli drank it steadily, and if any man noted his choice, none gave voice to it.

They mingled in turn, Harper making introductions with the grace of a host who knew every guest’s measure. A merchant from Natchez with ties to cotton. A river captain whose boats carried freight for half the valley. A lawyer whose tone was too smooth, his eyes too sharp. Each spoke politely, each weighed Caleb and Eli in some fashion.

Mixed among them were Harper’s men. Eli saw them by their stance, the way they held a glass without seeming to taste it, the way their eyes swept the hall when they thought no one looked. Dockside muscle in better coats, their presence a quiet reminder that Harper’s reach was not only in ledgers but in fists.

At length, a chime rang clear, and attendants moved to draw the guests toward the long table at the end of the hall. Silver gleamed in neat ranks, and the air grew thick with the scent of roasted meats, bread fresh from the oven, and spiced vegetables. Harper stood at the head, waiting until his guests found their places.

Eli and Caleb were guided to seats not at the far end, nor buried in the middle, but near Harper’s right hand, close enough to show favor, close enough to be measured. Caleb set his wine down at once, shoulders squared. Eli settled into his chair, his hand resting near the goblet of water.

“Gentlemen,” Harper said, lifting his glass once all were seated. “To good company, and to the river that binds us all.”

Glasses lifted, voices murmured agreement, and the supper began.

—•—

The supper opened in the easy tones of societal grace. Harper carried the table with practiced charm, guiding talk from the state of the river to the growth of trade, from memories of past seasons to the promise of years ahead. The merchants spoke of cotton prices, the captains of water levels, and the lawyers of new cases in Natchez. Laughter rose, glasses touched, and for a time, the River Queen felt more like a hall of gentlemen than a gambling house.

Caleb spoke sparingly but with conviction when called upon, answering Harper’s inquiries about his trade and prospects. Eli listened more than he spoke, keeping to water while the wine flowed, but he marked every word, every glance. He noted who deferred to Harper with ease, who spoke more boldly, and who weighed each answer before giving it. Beneath the fine coats and polished manners, loyalties drew their own map.

A toast was raised to the city’s prosperity, then another to the river that bore them all. The music swelled, the talk deepened, and the air warmed with good food and wine. Harper leaned back in his chair, the picture of ease, his hand resting lightly on a goblet of dark brandy.

That was when the first sound came. A shout outside, sharp and broken. Then another, closer, answered by the bark of a pistol. The music faltered. Chairs scraped.

Before Harper could rise, the doors at the far end of the hall slammed wide. Men poured in, faces hard, guns in hand, their coats ragged from the street. At their head strode a tall figure with a scar across his cheek, his eyes fixed not on Harper but on Eli and Caleb.

The hall erupted. Merchants cried out, some diving beneath the table, others clutching at their hosts. Harper’s men moved at once, pistols drawn, blades flashing from beneath coats.

“Warren!” the scarred man bellowed, his voice thick with fury. “Burke’s blood ain’t washed from the floor. Tonight, we settle it.”

The River Queen, so carefully dressed in civility, became a battleground in a breath.

—•—

The hall froze in the wake of the scarred man’s shout. The musicians held their bows mid-string, merchants shrank back against the paneled walls, and Harper rose slowly from his chair, brandy untouched. His voice cut steady through the noise.

“This is a table of guests,” he said. “You bring shame on yourselves, bursting in like dockside thieves.”

The scarred lieutenant sneered. “Guests? I see your new pets dressed at your right hand. Burke’s blood is on Warren’s hands, and you think we’ll sit quiet while you fatten on what he built?”

Murmurs rippled through the hall. The lawyer pressed his back to the wall, whispering quickly to anyone who would listen. A merchant tried for the side door and was shoved back by the men guarding it. The scent of powder and sweat began to seep in with the cold night air from the open doors.

Eli stayed seated, his water glass still before him, though his eyes moved sharp and steady. He marked the scarred man’s count, the men at his flanks, the way two more held back near the windows with rifles ready. He read the field the way he once read a ridge line under musket fire.

Caleb’s hand slipped to the pistol at his belt. His jaw was hard, his eyes alive, but he waited for Eli’s cue.

Harper had not moved, his poise unbroken. “This house is mine,” he said, each word measured. “Burke’s name holds no sway here.”

The scarred man spat on the polished floor. “Then his blood will be paid with yours.”

One of the intruders shoved a guest aside and leveled his revolver at Harper’s chest. Women shrieked, a glass shattered, chairs toppled. Caleb came up from his seat in a heartbeat, his pistol barking. The shot threw the gunman back into the wall, his weapon clattering across the boards.

The hall erupted.

Eli rose with sudden force, his chair toppling behind him. His Colt cleared leather quickly, but his mind was already beyond his own target. He shouted for the unarmed to get down, his voice cutting the chaos like a whip. “Under the tables! Keep low!” His words carried the weight of command, and in the rush, men and women obeyed.

He shifted his stance, eyes sweeping. Two of Burke’s men tried to flank through the side door, aiming for the merchants. Eli dropped one with a clean shot and drove the second back with another, saving a cluster of guests huddled in panic.

Caleb stood firm by Harper’s side, firing again, his shot grazing one man and breaking the charge. He reloaded fast, grit plain in his face, and when another came close, he drove him back with the butt of his pistol.

Eli read the room like a map, calling positions, cutting angles, forcing the fight away from the table where the unarmed huddled. When he saw the scarred lieutenant push forward, pistol raised to make Harper his prize, Eli moved without pause. He cut across the hall, putting himself in the man’s line. His shot struck true, spinning the lieutenant back, his pistol flying. The man staggered, fell, and lay still.

The fight broke then. Burke’s men wavered, leaderless. Harper’s guards pressed hard, driving them toward the doors. A last shot cracked wild, shattering a chandelier, and then the raiders fled into the night, leaving blood and broken glass behind.

Eli lowered his Colt, the weight of command still in his bearing. He had preserved Harper’s life, shielded the unarmed, and held the hall when it might have fallen. Caleb stood beside him, breathing hard from the rush of adrenaline, smoke curling from his pistol.

The River Queen smelled of powder and fear, the banquet’s finery overturned, but they were unharmed for the most part.

—•—

Harper had drawn steel when the doors first burst, though he had never fired. Now, as the last of Burke’s men fled into the night, he slid the pistol back into its holster with calm precision. His waistcoat was neat, his voice steady, but his eyes carried weight as he stepped forward from the head of the table.

“Gentlemen, ladies,” he said, bowing his head slightly, “you have my deepest apologies. What you have suffered in this hall tonight is a trespass against every courtesy I hold sacred. You were invited here as my guests, under my roof, and I will not see you left in fear.”

He moved among them with practiced ease, not aloof but attentive, his hand steadying a shaken merchant, his words low and kind to a pale woman clinging to her husband’s arm. Servants hurried with water and cloths, righting chairs, collecting broken glass, and Harper guided them with a nod or a word.

“No guest of mine will leave without assurance of their safety,” he continued, voice carrying across the room. “Doctors will be summoned for any who require them. Rooms are made ready upstairs for those who wish to remain until morning. And should you wish an escort home, my men will see you there in dignity and peace.”

He stopped where Caleb and Eli stood, his eyes holding theirs for a measured beat. “This house was not broken tonight, thanks, in large part, to the resolve shown by you two. You have my thanks and you have my word: the River Queen remains a place of welcome.”

Around them, the guests slowly steadied. Some murmured thanks, others still clutched at their coats and watches, but Harper’s composure anchored the hall. He was the host once more, and if the underworld had clashed in his dining room, he had turned it into proof of his strength.

—•—

When the last of the guests had been steadied and seen to, the hall began to empty. Harper’s men moved quietly, escorting merchants and their wives to waiting carriages, guiding the bold few who remained upstairs to guest rooms. Servants cleared broken glass and righted overturned chairs, working fast under Harper’s calm direction.

At length, the great table stood half abandoned, its silver dulled by smoke, its feast gone cold. Harper dismissed the last of his stewards with a nod, then turned back toward Eli and Caleb. His coat was still neat, his waistcoat brushed, but his eyes were harder now that the crowd was gone.

He drew them aside to a smaller table near some open windows, where the night air slipped in, carrying the smell of river water over the fading powder smoke.

“My friends,” Harper said, lowering himself into a chair, “you have my gratitude. Were it not for your steadiness, this hall might have been drenched in blood. Instead, the worst was turned aside. For that, I owe you more than words.”

Caleb leaned forward, his face set, still flushed with the fight. “They came for us. Burke’s men believe we’re yours.”

Harper inclined his head slightly. “So it would seem. Men with shallow minds make quick assumptions. Still, assumptions can be as deadly as truth. Tonight proved as much.”

Eli remained standing, Colt holstered, but his presence sharp. “Burke is gone. Two of his lieutenants as well. If his men are leaderless, they’ll lash out until someone puts a hand on them.”

A thin smile touched Harper’s mouth. “And a steady hand at that. You see the shape of things as I do. Vicksburg is shifting, gentlemen. Power is never left empty. Tonight you showed yourselves men who can stand in the center when others fall away.”

He let that hang a moment, his gaze weighing them both, then softened his tone back into courtesy. “You may recall my words this morning. My house has need of men such as you, men who keep their composure when others break. Consider that offer still standing.”

He rose, smoothing his coat. “But first, you are my guests. Rooms are prepared above, and you will rest under my roof tonight. No harm will come to you here.”

The lamplight flickered across Harper’s face as he spoke, his expression one of calm assurance. Yet beneath it, Eli heard both the invitation and the warning that no man left Harper’s circle without cost.