Royal Airs (2 page)

The quintiles are separated by changedays, generally celebrated as holidays. Quinnelay changeday is the first day of every new year. Since there are five changedays, and five seventy-two-day quintiles, the Welce year is 365 days long.

M
ONEY

5 quint-coppers make one copper (5 cents
25 cents)

8 coppers make one quint-silver ($2)

5 quint-silvers make one silver ($10)

8 silvers make one quint-gold ($80)

5 quint-golds make one gold ($400)

ONE

R
afe shuffled the deck for the third time and handed it to the woman on his right so she could cut the cards. It was clear the other three players distrusted him, and even the card cutting didn’t reassure them he wasn’t cheating. But they were too convinced that the
next
hand would be the winning one to call him out or stop the play. They merely watched him with a narrowed suspicion and nodded to indicate they were still in the game.

Rafe dealt the cards slowly, deliberately, making sure all his movements were visible. As it happened, he knew how to slip a trump from the bottom of the deck, how to hide a wildcard up his sleeve, but he didn’t bother. Not with this particular group—two elay men barely in their twenties and a wild-haired sweela woman who was probably his stepfather’s age. None of them could play half as well as they thought they could, but all were too caught up in the gambling fever to admit it. Rafe shrugged to himself. That was an elay man for you—a dreamer, a misty-eyed romantic with no practical sense. And all the sweela souls he’d ever encountered were so impetuous that they ignored their impulses to cold reason whenever the stakes were high. Of course Rafe was winning handily; it would be
more
astonishing if he were losing.

Once the cards were dealt, everyone gathered them up and sorted them into suits. Rafe kept his expression amiable but impassive as he looked over his hand. Two wildcards; that was a stroke of luck. Only two trumps; a potential disaster. Ah, but he had six cards in the suit of skulls. He could probably turn that to his advantage.

As his opponents frowned over their own cards, each trying to formulate a strategy, Rafe glanced casually around the bar. The clientele tended to turn over pretty quickly as the night progressed; he liked to keep track of who had walked in while his attention was elsewhere. He liked to guess who might be interested in playing a round of penta with him, who might be desperate, and who might be trouble.

Trouble came with some regularity to this little bar, which was situated solidly inside the crowded, noisome slum district of the city of Chialto. But it was actually one of the more respectable establishments, given its location just south of the Cinque, the five-sided boulevard that made an inner loop around the city. Traders’ sons and merchants’ wives felt safe enough to come here for a night of excitement that might include high-stakes gambling, high-proof liquor, illegal drugs, and companionship that could be purchased. As long as they stayed within hearing range of traffic on the Cinque, they didn’t need to worry overmuch. But farther south, a little closer to the canal, and the illicit thrill could turn into a grim struggle for survival. No one walked
those
streets just for fun.

Tonight, at least so far, the bar was relatively quiet. The public space consisted of one big room, crowded with tables and a half dozen booths against the far wall. It was windowless here on the street level, so no matter what the time of day, the smoky oil-lamp illumination made patrons fail to notice how long they’d been sitting there, drinking or playing. The clientele was largely male, though a few women were always part of the mix. Some, like the one at his own table, were leathery old crones with a lifetime of hard experience chiseled into their faces. More were younger, prettier, plumper, not yet ruined by a brutal life, though clearly in peril of encountering a disastrous end.

Well, who isn’t?
Rafe thought, turning his attention back to his tablemates. “Everyone ready to bid?” he asked.

One of the elay men nodded vigorously. He was a slim, pasty-faced blond with full, sensuous lips; Rafe had mentally dubbed him the Loser, since his reckless style of play was all but guaranteed to leave him bankrupt before the night was over. “
More
than ready,” the Loser exclaimed. He seemed almost feverish with excitement. Rafe assumed he had drawn the majority of the trump cards, and wasn’t hiding that fact very well.

“I suppose so,” said the other elay man, whom Rafe was calling Sad Boy because of his morose expression. Sad Boy had actually won a few hands by retaining trumps when Rafe had not expected him to, which argued a certain unexpected skill at the game, but his betting had been so erratic that he hadn’t profited much by his victories.

Sweela Woman merely nodded, so they all called out their bids and laid down the proper cards. Rafe had the low cards in flutes, roses, and horseshoes, which made the others smile; on the face of it, he had the weakest hand. Sad Boy had the low skull and Sweela Woman the low fish. No wonder the Loser was grinning like a fool, and pushing a stack of quint-silvers to the middle of the table. He probably had high cards
and
trumps.

It would be a pleasure taking his money.

Sad Boy and Sweela Woman made more conservative bets. Rafe offered a slight shrug, which he hoped they would interpret as disappointment over a bad hand, and pushed a silver toward the pile of coins. “Looks like it’s your play,” he said to the Loser, and the game was on.

It unfolded almost exactly as Rafe had anticipated, with the Loser scooping up the first four rounds with ill-disguised triumph, and recklessly expending his trumps without any regard for which cards it would be prudent to hold in reserve. The Loser was clearly astonished when Sad Boy won a play and wrested control of the game for the next two discards, and even more astonished when his next trump was overmatched by Rafe, who had been keeping track. No trumps, no wildcards left.

“Skulls,” Rafe said, and laid down the eight. Sad Boy and Sweela Woman tossed in skulls, and the Loser pouted and flung down the three of roses. Rafe spread the rest of his cards on the table. “I think the remaining rounds are mine,” he said in a pleasant voice.

Sweela Woman groaned and Sad Boy actually laughed. “I wondered where all the skulls were!” he exclaimed. “All I had were flutes and roses, and they didn’t do me a damn bit of good.”

Sweela Woman was watching Rafe appraisingly. “Even if you’ve been cheating all night, you weren’t cheating on that hand,” she said. “You’re brilliant at this game. I suppose you know that.”

He smiled at her. He’d always rather liked the sweela folks he’d encountered. They tended to be self-absorbed and overbearing, but embued with a certain irresistible charm. As if it never occurred to them that, despite their loud voices and arrogant attitudes, people might not like them.

“Since much of my income depends on being brilliant at penta, I am aware that I play it well,” he replied.

“Hell of a way to earn a living,” she said.

Rafe shrugged and gathered the cards, straightening them into a neat pile. “Every job has its downside,” he said. “The ills of gambling are no worse than those of working in a factory ten hours a day, building smoker cars for rich people.”

Sweela Woman laughed at that, and even Sad Boy looked amused. The Loser frowned, leading Rafe to guess he was one of the rich folks who owned an
elaymotive
. In the past five years, the gas-powered vehicles had gone from being gape-worthy curiosities to commonplace carriages, though horse-drawn conveyances still accounted for three quarters of the traffic along the Cinque.

“Never did want to spend much time working myself to the bone just so a rich man got richer,” Sweela Woman agreed. “But I still don’t think a gambler’s life is the one for me.”

Rafe shuffled the cards, loving the quick, ruffled sound they made as they interwove. “You might like it better than you think,” he said. “Gambling favors the folk of mind and fire.”

“Gambling favors the cheaters,” the Loser muttered.

In response, Rafe offered him the deck. “You deal,” he invited. “Count them first, make sure they’re all there. What can I do to convince you I play a fair game?”

The elay man hesitated, as if thinking up tests. His friend said in a tone of great irritation, “Either trust the man and play, Edwin, or don’t trust him and walk away. Frankly, I think he’s honest.”

“But he keeps
winning
,” Edwin complained.

“I think it’s more that we keep losing.”

Rafe left the cards on the table and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms on his chest. Let them see him relaxed and sure of himself; let them believe he didn’t care whether or not they played one more hand. In truth, he’d prefer to win another few silvers, even a quint-gold or two. He rented a small apartment on the third story above the bar, paying by the nineday, and the money was due tomorrow morning. He had enough to cover it, but he might go hungry a day or two until he had another run of good luck.

The elay men were now arguing in earnest, keeping their voices low enough that Rafe could pretend he wasn’t listening. Since there was a break in the action, Sweela Woman opened her handbag and pulled out a small, delicately carved box. Rafe wasn’t surprised when the lid opened to reveal a couple of small, gilded bags and a ceramic cup no bigger than a thimble. She carefully opened each bag, shook out fine white powder from one and coarsely ground green leaves from the other, and combined them inside the cup. As soon as the ingredients began to curl with smoke, she dumped the mixture into her wine and began to slowly sip it down.

Once
that
particular drug took hold, Rafe thought, she’d have the energy and focus to play for another five hours.

The men were still arguing, so Rafe glanced around the bar again, noting that it had thinned out a little. He guessed it was two or three hours past midnight, and most of the casual visitors had already called it a night. The ones left were the professionals and the diehards, too drunk or too stupid to go home. Or unlucky enough to have no home to go to.

Movement caught at the edge of his vision and he shifted to get a better look. A young woman was coming in through the front door—
slinking
in would be a better way to put it, opening the door just wide enough to admit her small frame and then skulking along the wall until she came to an unoccupied booth. She dropped onto one of the benches and shoved herself back until her hunched shoulder hit the wall. Then she seemed to draw herself together in a tight ball and ducked her head down, trying—or so it seemed—to make herself invisible. She even leaned down to blow out the guttering candle on her table, to put herself in shadow as much as possible.

Rafe continued to watch her from the corner of his eye, not wanting to draw attention to her by staring outright. Though she would be something to stare at. Her trousers and tunic were lacy, delicate, and highly expensive items, though they were ripped and muddy, as if she’d fallen down during a mad run for freedom. Her bare arms bore fresh cuts and scratches; her thick red hair was a wild mess. She wasn’t wearing any visible jewelry, but Rafe fancied he could spot a little lumpiness on the undercurve of her bosom, which should have been lusciously smooth. His bet was that she had stuffed a necklace down the front, and maybe a bracelet or two, when she realized she was making a detour through rough territory.

He could only guess what disaster had sent her off into the night, but that she was in dire distress was clear enough. She looked like she couldn’t be more than fifteen, was rich as a queen, and was pretty close to terrified. Surely she knew she was in absolutely the wrong part of town for her age, sex, and social standing. Surely she knew that any of a dozen hazards could sweep her into calamity before the night was even an hour older. This place could not have been her intended goal, and Rafe thought she must not have the faintest idea what to do next.

But she didn’t look entirely defeated. He watched as she examined the welter of plates and silverware left at her booth by the last patron. He thought at first she was trying to gain the nerve to eat some of the less-poisonous-looking scraps, so he almost laughed when the first thing she picked up was a dinner knife, sharp enough to cut fried meat. Actually, she found
two
knives among the dinner dishes and briskly pocketed both. Rafe silently applauded.

Next she sorted through the soiled napkins, grimacing a little at the unidentifiable stains. Rafe watched as she turned herself sideways in the booth so she could draw up her left leg, bringing that foot close to her body. She rolled back the silken edges of her fancy leggings and used the napkins to bind her ankle, biting her lip as she did so.

Ah. So her dash from danger had resulted in a twisted or sprained ankle. Rafe guessed that adrenaline had kept her going when there was no choice but to run, but if she’d sustained a real injury, the pain was going to become excruciating pretty quickly. That would make it difficult for her to flee again if fresh trouble presented itself here in the little tavern.