The Hell of It (3 page)

“I'll find a worthy buyer,” he said, maintaining a bettor's composure.

He sighed heavily, closed the cedar-box lid, and drew in the corners of the cloth to bundle up Marta's nice things again. If it weren't for the new levies, he probably wouldn't need to do this thing. In all likelihood, the Leagueman he'd brushed by on his way to see Captain Lowell had been there to collect the city's purse, leaving the captain with no option but to trim his crew.

“Pull down the brace when I leave, and get yourself to bed at a decent hour. Hear me?”

Roth nodded again. He came around and gave Malen a shoulder hug. Malen returned the lad a firm embrace, and held on to it for as long as he could. Then he got to his feet.

“We're rough men,” he said softly, and winked.

Roth winked back. “Rough men don't wink,” he said, and giggled.

Malen belly-laughed, and got going. Out the door and down the road a piece, he turned not left toward the skiller shops, but right toward the harbor. Toward the riverboat he knew was moored along the Saelish pier. Where he'd do his level best to resurrect his skill as a man of chance.

*   *   *

The riverboat teemed with bettors and whores and cardsharps and gamble-makers and men hired to keep fights brief. Laughter and scowls and jangling lutes filled the air as Malen approached. His heart began to thump a mighty pattern. He'd put all this away at Marta's insistence when he'd given her the ring he now carried in the bundle slung at his waist. A ring that might fetch a bag of meal, or half a silver in a skiller's shop, where booty turned back a tenth its value. But a sharp wit with odds could make a thing worth a hundred times its purchase price. And Malen had been damned good at it in what he thought of as his net years—when his back could handle sea-work.

And he wouldn't deny the bit of thrill it gave him, coursing again now in his middle-years blood.

At the plank that ran onto the boat, three men milled like tethered, restless sentry hounds. A finely dressed couple—they both wore hats—had just boarded, as Malen approached the men.

Rather disinterestedly, the tallest man sized him up, his eyes quick and appraising. “Three plugs.”

This was new. Years ago, when he'd frequented the gambling barges, the only boarding requirement had been that you didn't carry onto the boat anything you could get foolish with if your luck spoiled—knives, knuckle-punches. Usually, a heavily oiled deck locker—the kinds used to store perishables—sat dockside, where it was repurposed to hold such things while you played your chances. But an actual fare?

Malen had only Marta's four nice things. And he'd need them all for actual wagers. He thought quickly. The dock hound had seemed to make a bidder's assessment of him. Which the man wouldn't have needed to do if the price to board was standard.

Malen took a step to one side and called over the railing to the elegantly dressed couple now striding the deck. “Excuse me. You there.” They continued to walk, unaware he was calling to them, in particular. “You, with the two-feather hat.”

The woman stopped and turned back, a question in her face. Her man, arm linked with hers, was jerked to a stop, and stared back with irritation.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” Malen said, bowing in apology, “But may I ask, did you pay more than six plugs to board?”

The gentleman turned to face him fully, just as the three dock hounds laid hold of Malen.

Quickly he shouted out, “Please just tell these fine men that your coin also paid my way. I'm sure they mean no harm.”

The woman's face tightened in understanding a half-moment before her gentleman's did.

“Well, indeed. We're not half-wits. And you're terribly slow. Now, hurry.” The woman made an almost comically scolding gesture, wagging her finger. Malen nearly smiled, seeing how much she relished playing her impromptu role.

“You heard the woman,” Malen said quietly. “Or do I have my lady fair go in and find someone who might care that you're fleecing the gamesters before they can come aboard? Less coin for those who pay your wage to troll the plank, isn't it?”

The tall man pulled Malen's face into his, so that their noses mashed together. The fellow glared, his eyes perfectly still. Then he sniffed, and Malen felt it in his own nose. Finally, the man muttered, his lips so close Malen could feel his breath. “You're too desperate. It will please me to watch you walk away out-at-the-pockets. Or go over the side into the drink when you can't pay a mark.”

They let him go, and Malen nodded gratitude before high-stepping across and onto the riverboat. The woman with the two-feather hat kept up appearances, reproving him lightly as they walked through the first-deck doors together.

“Thank you,” he said, once they were safely out of view of the dock hounds. “And if you care, anything more than a thin plug each is more than you should have paid. The boat's straw-boss can see you get it back.”

The woman patted Malen's shoulder. “We plungers must stick together. River's luck to you.”

Malen bowed slightly. “River's luck to you, too.”
Plungers
. That was the word heavy-purse and clean-boot folk used to refer to themselves when they came a-gamblin'. For them, it had to do with condescending to the places where they could play at chances. Its original meaning was a reference to those who went over the rails into the river when they failed to pay a mark. He couldn't fault her for knowing only one side of the word's meaning. And she'd done him a kindness. He was half-tempted to warn them, too. Their mistaken sense of a bettors' fraternity would likely cost them dearly, since no such thing existed. It was a telltale sign of their inexperience in a place like this.

He settled on “Be careful,” and moved into the first room.

There were two paths open to him. There'd be an exchange table, where he could put down items and a man roughly equivalent to a skiller would push him back a handful of coins for the tables. But the return on Marta's nice things would be even less here than in the skiller shops. So he didn't bother seeking exchange.

Which left the straw-boss. Somewhere onboard there'd be a man who laid down house rules and kept a private table for his own games and stakes. He'd be a man who didn't have much use anymore for coin; the game would be the thing. And he'd be happy to make liberal valuations of Marta's nice things, if he thought the game Malen proposed was interesting enough. Or so Malen hoped.

He wound his way through the haze of tobacco smoke puffing up from pipes and leaf-rolls. Men and women generally had one hand around a cup or mug and the other alternating between their game and the body of someone close enough to grope. There were boards of dice, tri-stick throwing games, a variety of plackard tables, number grids, and new sports with spinners and marbles.

But for all the chances being played, no one man seemed to hold himself separate from it all. No corner boasted a neat table where bettors wore long sleeves with starch-stiffened cuffs rolled back once—the gentry's way of adopting a common appearance.

Malen found the stairs and went up a level. Which was smokier, if that was possible. And the coin stacks taller, the laughter over wins and losses louder. But he still hadn't seen anyone looking aloof enough to be a straw-boss. So: up again, to the third deck. Here, the laughter was softer, but the smiles sharper, more wicked and insinuating. Here, bets were mostly made with markers—promissory notes that carried more weight than a barrel of thin plugs. And the tobacco had a sweet tinge to it. This was imported leaf, or dyed with cherry-stone bitters.

He wound slowly through the haze, watching men and women whose eyes held sharp looks. They played plackard games of immense complexity—High-Bow Check-Down, Three and Eight, Six and Gain. It was said only mathematicians out of Aubade Grove would ever master these gambles.

And it made him wonder. Why were the riverboats tolerated at all? It seemed to him that their whole purpose ran counter to League reform. They encouraged the citizenry to take financial risk, place hope in something beyond their control, rather than self-sufficiency wrought by learning in League schools. Why did the League suffer these barges and their temptations?

Before he could think more on it, he saw, through the smoke, what he'd been looking for. In the far corner, set apart by a waist-high wall, stood a table. A man and woman were seated there, grimly watching another man, whose hat had three feathers and was tipped so far back it was in danger of falling off. There could be no question: the straw-boss.

Malen's blood began to race, and he put a protective hand around the bag at his waist holding Marta's nice things. He squeezed once, gently, then went to the table. Two men just inside the low wall eyed him closely, gauging what threat he might pose. When he did nothing more than watch the current game play out, they relaxed hands that had edged close to weapon belts.

The gamblers here bantered very little. Impassive faces around the table watched every move of the others with careful scrutiny. There was the occasional thin smile. These may or may not have indicated the strength of down placks that the others couldn't see. The wiles of sharp chancers. And here, not a single coin graced the table. Only slips of paper with written promises. From where he stood, Malen couldn't read the offerings, but if history was any indication, these weren't about coin or even rare metal. These would be favors, maybe physical voluntaries. The holder of such a marker could call it due when it was most advantageous to him, or when he needed a bedfellow, depending on the note.

He knew the game they played—a variant on High Dash. But really, the cards were immaterial. At this level, the gambler played the person. And the straw-boss appeared to be more than expert. Some of that, Malen guessed, probably stemmed from the fact that the man was in want of nothing. If losing had no impact on your life when you stood up from the table, then emotion never played you false. But then, the thrill would have gone out of it for him, too.

In a very real way, that's what Malen was banking on.

Toward the end of the current game, markers got written down with more urgency—pens, ink vials, and small stacks of paper to the side of each bettor being put to quick use.

When it was over, the straw-boss smiled benevolently. “Tuomas, Cynthee, always a pleasure when you play at my table.” He gathered in the markers, stacked them neatly, and held them up with a playful wave. “I'll talk with each of you soon, I'm sure.” His smile held a hint of deviousness.

The two gamblers muttered as they left the table, passing on Malen's left. The straw-boss was tucking the markers into a pouch when, without looking up, he said, “You don't have the look of man with ante enough for my table. If you've come to argue on behalf of a friend who lost his trousers … well, I guess I'd like to hear it, actually. Might prove a welcome distraction from the stream of losers.”

“I've come to play,” Malen said evenly.

The other looked up, his brows rising in new interest. “That so. Your last plug, I'm guessing. Chance for a new life. You're good at wharf games, and so you think you can pass muster on a riverboat table.
My
table.” The man smiled good-naturedly.

“I don't even have a plug,” Malen replied. “And I don't play wharf games. But I'm no plebe at odds, either.”

“That so.” The man sat back and retrieved a pipe from an inner coat pocket. He began tamping some leaf into the bowl. “Then a cardsharp. Winning drinks in dock taverns.” The man shook his head at his own conjecture. “No, else you'd have two thin plugs to rub together. Must be a new life you plan to win. But with what?”

The straw-boss lit his pipe and after chuffing several thick, sweet-smelling clouds of smoke, fell into quiet appraisal of Malen.

One last time, he squeezed Marta's nice things, and then untied them from his belt and stepped up to the table. Before explaining, he put out a hand, to shake, to have a sense of the straw-boss's honor. Decent gamblers took a hand when it was offered. And the grip told you plenty about their intentions. This straw-boss stood. That was a good sign. And his grip: not too firm as to be compensating for something he might conceal; not too brief either, the way a man shakes when he's already scheming in his head.

“I'm Gynedo, straw-boss here on the
River Queen
. And you are?”

“Malen.” And fully met, he gently emptied the bag on the table between them.

Gynedo looked down, puzzlement rising in his face. “The exchanger—”

“Would have robbed me blind on value,” Malen interrupted. “Which in these … isn't obvious to the exchanger's eye.”

The man sat back down, gesturing for Malen to do the same. He puffed at his pipe. “Explain it to me, then.”

So he did. He quietly gave the history of each item, why it was important to him, why it was important to his son, Roth. He exaggerated (a little) how much he'd miss these things if he were to lose them.

“… because here's what I think,” Malen concluded. “You don't need another thin plug. Or a thousand. Or even another
River Queen
.” He gestured around him to indicate the boat. “You don't play to win anymore. You play to see others lose. You play for the grip a won-wager gives you over your opponent. You play for the value of the thing not to yourself, but to the player who loses it to you. You relish the toll it takes on them.” He paused, staring intently into Gynedo's eyes. “Tell me I'm wrong.”

After a long moment, the straw-boss smiled again. “And how should I counter bet? What do I put up against a used pen set that a would-be poetess never had the chance to use?”

“They are everything to me,” Malen answered evasively, looking down at Marta's four nice things.

“And the game you'd have us play?” The tone in the straw-boss's voice sounded the way Malen did when he was placating Roth on some trivial request.