Crooked Kingdom (3 page)

“I can handle it,” Jesper said.

Nina had just scowled. “Sure, and maybe for phase two of this plan I can masquerade as a
jurda parem
dealer. What could possibly go wrong?”

Wylan wouldn't have put it that way exactly, but he agreed. Strongly. They should be keeping Jesper away from gambling dens, not encouraging his love of risk. But Kaz hadn't been moved.

“Just do your job and keep Smeet thoroughly enthralled until midnight,” he'd said. “You know what's on the line.” They all did. Inej's life. And how could Wylan argue with that? He felt a pang of guilt every time he thought about it. Van Eck had said he would give them seven days to give up Kuwei Yul-Bo—then he would begin torturing Inej. They were almost out of time. Wylan knew he couldn't have prevented his father from double-crossing the crew and kidnapping her. He
knew
that, but he still felt responsible.

“What am I supposed to do with Cornelis Smeet after midnight?” Nina asked.

“Try to talk him into spending the night with you.”

“What?” Matthias had sputtered, red flooding his face all the way up to his ears.

“He won't say yes.”

Nina sniffed. “Like hell he won't.”

“Nina—” Matthias growled.

“Smeet never cheats at cards or on his wife,” Kaz said. “He's like half the amateurs strutting around the Barrel. Most of the time he's respectable, scrupulous—strict economies and half a glass of wine at dinner. But once a week he enjoys feeling like he's an outlaw matching wits with the high rollers on East Stave, and he likes a pretty blonde on his arm when he does it.”

Nina pursed her lips. “If he's so moral, then why do you want me to try to—”

“Because Smeet's rolling in coin, and any self-respecting girl from West Stave would at least make the effort.”

“I don't like this,” said Matthias.

Jesper had smiled his reckless gunslinger's grin. “To be fair, Matthias, you don't like much.”

“Keep Smeet at Club Cumulus from eight bells until midnight,” Kaz said. “That's four hours of play, so stay smart about it.”

Nina was certainly doing her best, and Wylan didn't know whether to be impressed or concerned. She was dressed in a sheer lavender gown rigged with some kind of corset that pushed her cleavage to alarming heights, and though she'd lost weight since her battle with
parem
, there was still plenty of her for Smeet to grab onto. She'd settled her rump firmly on his knee, arm around his shoulder, and was cooing prettily in his ear, her hands caressing his chest and occasionally slipping beneath his jacket like a beagle searching for treats. She stopped only to order oysters or another bottle of champagne. Wylan knew Nina could handle just about any man and any situation, but he didn't think she should have to sit half-dressed in a drafty gambling parlor, perched on some leering lawyer's lap. At the very least, she was probably going to catch cold.

Jesper folded yet again and blew out a long, exasperated breath. He'd been losing slowly for the last two hours. He'd kept his bids cautious, but neither luck nor Kaz seemed to be on his side tonight. How were they supposed to keep Smeet at the table if Jesper ran out of funds? Would the other high-stakes players be enough of a lure? There were a few of them in the room, lingering by the walls, watching the game, each hoping to nab a seat if someone cashed out. None of them knew the real game Kaz was running.

As Wylan leaned down to refill Nina's glass, he heard Smeet murmur, “A card game is like a duel. It's the little cuts and slashes that set the stage for the final killing stroke.” He glanced across the table to Jesper. “That lad is bleeding all over the table.”

“I don't know
how
you keep the rules straight in your head,” Nina said with a giggle.

Smeet grinned, clearly pleased. “This is nothing compared to managing a business.”

“I can't imagine how you do that either.”

“Sometimes I don't know myself,” Smeet said on a sigh. “It's been a hard week. One of my clerks never came back from his holiday, and that meant I was stuck shorthanded.”

Wylan nearly dropped the bottle he was holding; champagne splashed onto the floor.

“I'm paying to drink it, not wear it, boy,” snapped Smeet. He wiped at his trousers and muttered, “That's what comes of hiring foreigners.”

He means me
, Wylan realized as he backed away hurriedly. He didn't know how to make the reality of his new Shu features sink in. He couldn't even speak Shu, a fact that hadn't worried him until two Shu tourists with a map in hand had waylaid him on East Stave. Wylan had panicked, made an elaborate shrugging gesture, and bolted for the servants' entrance to Club Cumulus.

“Poor baby,” Nina said to Smeet, running her fingers through his thinning hair and adjusting one of the flowers tucked into her silky blonde tresses. Wylan wasn't sure if she'd actually told Smeet she was from the House of the Blue Iris, but he certainly would have assumed so.

Jesper leaned back in his seat, fingers tapping the handles of his revolvers. The movement seemed to draw Smeet's eye.

“Those guns are remarkable. Real mother-of-pearl in the handles, if I'm not mistaken,” Smeet said in the tones of a man who was rarely mistaken. “I have a fine collection of firearms myself, though nothing in the line of Zemeni repeating revolvers.”

“Oh, I'd love to see your guns,” Nina cooed, and Wylan looked at the ceiling in an attempt to avoid rolling his eyes. “Are we going to sit here all night?”

Wylan tried to hide his confusion. Wasn't the whole point to get him to stay? But apparently Nina knew better, because Smeet's face took on a slightly mulish cast. “Hush now. If I win big, I may buy you something pretty.”

“I'll settle for some more oysters.”

“You haven't finished those.”

Wylan caught the quiver of Nina's nostrils and thought she might be drawing a fortifying breath. She'd had no appetite since she'd recovered from her bout with
parem
, and he didn't know how she'd managed to slurp down nearly a dozen oysters.

Now he watched her swallow the last of them with a shudder. “Delicious,” she managed with a glance at Wylan. “Let's have some more.”

That was the signal. Wylan swooped in and picked up the big dish laden with ice and discarded shells.

“The lady has a craving,” Smeet said.

“Oysters, miss?” Wylan asked. His voice sounded too high. “Buttered prawns?” Too low.

“She'll have both,” said Smeet indulgently. “And another flute of champagne.”

“Marvelous,” Nina said, looking slightly green.

Wylan rushed through the swinging door to the servants' pantry. It was stocked with plates, glassware, napkins, and a tin tub full of ice. A dumbwaiter took up a large section of the far wall, and there was a trumpet-shaped speaking tube next to it to allow the staff to communicate with the kitchen. Wylan set the dish of ice and shells on the table, then called down to the kitchen for oysters and buttered prawns.

“Oh, and another bottle of champagne.”

“What vintage?”

“Uh … more of the same?” Wylan had heard his father's friends talk about which wines made for good investments, but he didn't quite trust himself to choose a year.

By the time he returned to the parlor with Nina's order, Kaz was standing up from the table. He made a gesture as if he was dusting off his hands—the sign that a dealer had finished his shift. Specht sat down, a blue silk cravat tied at his throat to hide his tattoos. He shook out his cuffs and called for players to ante up or cash out.

Kaz's eyes met Wylan's as he vanished into the pantry.

This was the moment. According to Kaz and Jesper, a player often thought his luck was bound to the dealer and would stop play at the shift change.

Wylan watched in distress as Smeet stretched and gave Nina's bottom a firm pat. “We've had a good run,” he said, glancing at Jesper, who was staring dejectedly at his meager pile of remaining chips. “We may find fatter game elsewhere.”

“But my food just came,” pouted Nina.

Wylan stepped forward, unsure of what to say, only knowing that they had to delay Smeet. “Is everything to your liking, sir? Can I offer you and the lady something more?”

Smeet ignored him, hand still hovering over Nina's backside. “There's finer vittles and better service to be had all over the Lid, my dear.”

A big man in a striped suit approached Smeet, eager to snag his seat. “Cashing out?”

Smeet gave Jesper a friendly nod. “Looks like we both are, eh, lad? Better luck next time.”

Jesper didn't return the smile. “I'm not done here.”

Smeet gestured to Jesper's sad stack of chips. “Certainly looks like you are.”

Jesper rose and reached for his guns. Wylan clutched the bottle of champagne in his hands as the other players pushed back from the table, ready to grab their own weapons or dive for cover. But all Jesper did was unsling his gun belt. Gently, he laid the revolvers on the table, fingers brushing over their high-gloss ridges with care.

“How much for these?” he asked.

Wylan tried to catch Jesper's eye. Was this part of the plan? And even if it was, what was Jesper thinking? He loved those guns. He might as well cut off his own hand and throw it into the pot.

Specht cleared his throat and said, “The Cumulus isn't a pawnshop. We accept cash and credit from the Gemensbank only.”

“I'll stake you,” Smeet said with studied disinterest, “if it will get the game moving again. One thousand
kruge
for the guns?”

“They're worth ten times that.”

“Five thousand
kruge
.”

“Seven.”

“Six, and that's only because I'm feeling generous.”

“Don't!” Wylan blurted. The room went silent.

Jesper's voice was cold. “I don't remember asking for your advice.”

“The insolence!” said Smeet. “Since when do waiters involve themselves in game play?”

Nina glared at Wylan, and Specht's tone was furious with disbelief when he said, “Gentlemen, shall we get this game rolling again? Ante up!”

Jesper shoved his revolvers across the table to Smeet, and Smeet slid a tall stack of chips over to Jesper in return.

“All right,” said Jesper, his gray eyes bleak. “Deal me in.”

Wylan stepped back from the table and disappeared into the pantry as quickly as he could. The dish of ice and shells was gone, and Kaz was waiting. He'd thrown a long orange cape over his blue jacket. His gloves were already back in place.

“Kaz,” Wylan said desperately. “Jesper just put his guns up.”

“How much did he get for them?”

“Why does that matter? He—”

“Five thousand
kruge
?”

“Six.”

“Good. Not even Jesper should be able to run through that in less than two hours.” He tossed Wylan a cape and mask, the trappings of the Gray Imp, one of the characters of the Komedie Brute. “Let's go.”

“Me?”

“No, the idiot behind you.” Kaz picked up the speaking trumpet and said, “Send up another waiter. This one managed to spill champagne on some high roller's shoes.”

Someone in the kitchen laughed and said, “You got it.”

They were down the stairs and out the servants' entrance bare moments later, their costumes allowing them to move anonymously through the crowds of East Stave.

“You knew Jesper would lose. You made sure of it,” Wylan accused. Kaz rarely used his cane when they were roaming parts of the city where he might be recognized. But despite his lopsided gait, Wylan had to jog to keep up with him.

“Of course I did. I control the game, Wylan, or I don't play. I could have made sure Jesper won every hand.”

“Then why—”

“We weren't there to win at cards. We needed Smeet to stay at the tables. He was ogling those guns almost as much as Nina's cleavage. Now he's feeling confident, like he's in for a good night—if he loses, he'll still keep playing. Who knows? Jesper may even win his revolvers back.”

“I hope so,” said Wylan as they hopped onto a browboat crowded with tourists and headed south down the Stave.

“You would.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Someone like Jesper wins two hands and starts to call it a streak. Eventually he loses, and that just leaves him hungrier for the next run of good luck. The house relies on it.”

Then why make him walk into a gambling den?
Wylan thought but didn't say. And why make Jesper give up something that meant so much to him? There had to be another way to keep Smeet playing. But those weren't even the right questions. The real question was why Jesper did it all without hesitating. Maybe he was still looking for Kaz's approval, hoping to earn back his favor after Jesper's slip had led them into the ambush at the docks that had nearly cost Inej her life. Or maybe Jesper wanted something more than forgiveness from Kaz.

What am I doing here?
Wylan wondered again. He found himself gnawing on his thumb and forced himself to stop. He was here for Inej. She'd saved their lives more than once, and he wasn't going to forget that. He was here because he desperately needed the money. And if there was another reason, a tall, lanky reason with a too-strong taste for games of chance, he wasn't going to think about that right now.

As soon as they made it to the outskirts of the Barrel, Wylan and Kaz ditched their capes and sky-blue jackets and wended their way east into the Zelver district.

Matthias was waiting for them beneath a darkened doorway on Handelcanal. “All clear?” Kaz asked.

“All clear,” said the big Fjerdan. “The lights went out on the top floor of Smeet's house more than an hour ago, but I don't know if the servants are awake.”