The Hell of It (5 page)

Malen began shaking his head.

“Consider it like this, my fine wharf friend. Either way, you win. Either all this,” he swept an arm over the pot at the center of the table, “is yours. In which case your wharf worries are through. Or, should your plack count come up shy tonight,” he now swept his arms grandly, indicating the entire riverboat, “you'll have given your son a life of daily meals, soft beds, and—dare I say—adventure, that he'd never have had running the docks.”

Malen listened, but didn't give a tinker's damn for the exchange. There were inviolable limits. He'd turn full thief before betting a life. Roth's life. And still, he did have to counter. That was clear. Gynedo wasn't going to let the stakes be called.
But what can I offer?

Looking at the slip of paper and the pen in his hand, an idea flared. He shot the straw-boss a glance. Without asking, he reached and took Gynedo's ink vial. He set aside the man's pen, and gently reached into Marta's writing set and retrieved the used stylus.

He rolled it in his fingers for a moment, then dipped the tip and set to the paper with the slow hand of one remembering something he'd heard long ago.

A girl will dream the day she takes a man

Of satin, beads, and clear skies filled with blue.

But I had no such dream or certain plan

The docks had long since taught me to make due.

But one thing I did hold as private wish

Against what I could see in poor Mum's face

When bruises there from Father's angry fist

Made her feel a woman's poor disgrace—

That hands with which I shared my nightly bed

Were only rough when standing my defense

And gentler once to him I finally said

That rough men should possess the simple sense

To turn the fight against his actual fear

His worry that his child will grow up here.

When he'd finished, he let it sit for several moments, the ink drying naturally. The tension in the corner of the third deck of the riverboat grew thick, as onlookers waited with held breath. Finally, he turned the poem around and nudged it toward Gynedo, who read it with obvious interest. The man's brows rose and fell comically, as his eagerness lapsed to confusion.

“And what is this?” he asked.

“It's one of the poems my wife never had the chance to write down. One of my dearest memories of her.” He stopped, realizing something himself in that moment. “I'm a hard man to talk to. To tell things to. But she could make me listen, make me … understand when she told me her rhymes. Like that one.”

The straw-boss fingered the slip of paper, re-reading the newly-penned poem. “Are you putting this poem up as a bettor's call? To the
Carion Comfort
?”

“No, sir.” Malen gave him a wicked grin. “A raise. I think it's safe to say we're in new waters here. You've already shown that you're content to wager real collateral against items whose only value is what I place on them. So there you go.” He pointed to the poem.

The man made a long resonant sound that started in his nose and slid down his throat, the pitch dropping as it went.
Clever
, it seemed to say.

“And I suspect that if I were to continue raising the stakes, I'd get a slew of poems.” Gynedo was nodding, as one does when impressed.

“My memory's water-tight where Marta's poems are concerned,” Malen replied, holding the pen poised as though ready to write another one down.

The straw-boss barked a single loud blast of laughter. “Very well, my wharf friend. What say we call an end then? I've only so much paper, anyway.”

There was some laughter from the spontaneous gallery that had gathered.

Malen put the pen down and nodded. “Turn them up?”

“Turn them up.”

And together, they flipped over their down placks. Malen quickly calculated Gynedo's cards, and felt a wave of relief when it came up well shy of his own feather count. He sat back, suddenly very tired. But the look on the other man's face wasn't the typical defeat or anger or appreciation for a worthy opponent. The man's eyes and slim smile held the appearance of a winner. The casual good grace of one who doesn't hoot over his victory, but takes it all in as though it was just as it should be.

Malen glanced down at his own plackards. His gut tightened painfully. Disbelief and dread filled his chest. His twelve-count magpie … was gone. In its place was an eleven-count quail. He rubbed at his eyes and picked up the plack, staring closely.

It's changed. By every abandoning god, this was a magpie before!

As calmly as he could, he set it down, his mind racing to find words. To his right, as though through a haze, he heard a few gamblers clapping or laughing or remarking to friends. With the magpie, his was a winning hand. With a quail, it was far from it.

He finally looked dead into Gynedo's eyes, trying to read the truth of what had happened. The straw-boss returned the stare, giving nothing away—a better gambler's stare Malen had never seen. The fellow looked only amiable, maybe a tad sympathetic for Malen's loss.

“You're one hell of a chancer,” the man said, and offered his hand.

Malen shook his head, keeping his hands on the table, just as he'd done for most of the game.
Finger down,
they called it. Save those times when he was writing, he'd left his hand laid casually over his down cards—an old bettor's habit to avoid the simple cardsharp tricks of placks being replaced when distractions pulled his eyes away from the table. He didn't see any way the man could have replaced the magpie plack.

What, then?
He puzzled it over quickly.
A glamour? Did the straw-boss have that simple rendering skill? Or did he have an accomplice nearby who did? One of these onlookers?

“… don't be sour,” Gynedo was saying. “Take my hand in good faith. It was a square game. A good one.”

Malen gave him a dead glare. “The plack changed. I don't know how. But this quail was a magpie. The pot is mine.”

The straw-boss's smile faltered, his hand dipped. Then he sat back, his expression becoming serious. “You're calling me a cheat.”

“That's not what I said. But I'm no plunger. Not wet like half the bettors who sit here. I know my count.”

“Yes, I'm sure you do,” the man said. “But a quail looks an awful lot like a magpie in this set of placks. And there's a desperation in your play.” He sat forward, folding his hands together on the table and leaning toward Malen. “You tried to keep it to yourself, but I saw it clearly enough. No doubt it clouded your vision.”

Malen shook his head. “No. The plack was a twelve-feather magpie. It has changed.”

Gynedo's expression darkened, became threatening. “Then you
are
calling me a cheat. And I won't have it.”

Leaning in himself, Malen let all the dread of what losing would mean sharpen into a counterthreat. He spoke softly. “Here's what. We either play again—this time, all-up Double Draw—or you will simply give me my things, and I will leave your boat. Anything else, and I will bring the city guard to investigate
all
your games. Which would you prefer?”

The man's face slowly lit with a new kind of smile. There was a hint of pity in it. Maybe a dusting of appreciation for Malen's audacity. What could
not
be found in this new smile was concern. He gave a very deliberate look to two men standing in the makeshift gallery of onlookers.

Then, he spoke with utter casualness. “Unless I've missed something, you've nothing left to wager. And others are waiting to play. Please do me the courtesy of getting off my boat without a fuss.”

Malen glared back at the man. Then his eyes slipped down to Marta's nice things. He couldn't let them be taken this way. Not by a cheat. So he simply started to gather them.

Before he knew what was happening, three very large men had seized his arms, ripped Marta's things from his hands, and were roughly escorting him out a rear door at the back of the third deck. He struggled, but the hands gripping his wrists and shoulders were like iron. A few moments later, his arms were free, pinwheeling as he fell from the third deck, tossed overboard into the dark harbor waters.

Thrown overboard like a damn plunger.

The cold bit his skin as he sank deep into the bay. He flailed wildly, trying to reach the surface. Every direction looked the same. He swallowed several mouthfuls of briny water before calming himself long enough to note the glimmer of light behind him. He got himself oriented and kicked hard. A long, desperate moment later he broke the surface and gasped for air.

The three men hadn't waited for him to emerge. And in the night, the sounds of laughter and shouts of loss and elation rolled out over the harbor like the calls of loons. Malen got his breath back and swam to the pier ladder, where he climbed up and sat, exhausted.

His wet clothes clung to his skin. And he shivered in the cold night air, too weary just now to stand. Several moments later, the sound of boots on wharf planks came in muted rhythms, until two men stood on either side of him. They hunkered down, staring out at the harbor with Malen.

“Damn cheat, Gynedo is,” the man on his right said in a confidential tone.

“Saw the whole thing,” the other said. “Been there myself. Lost my own catch to the bastard.”

Malen wiped his eyes and turned to look at each man. “What's any of that to me?”

“Only this,” the first man replied, still looking off into the harbor. “We know where Gynedo lives. His dockside rooms, you understand. We have a mind to take back what we've been cheated out of. Or as much in coin, if that's what we find.”

“You're going to rob him?” Malen found the idea distasteful, but not unthinkable.

“That's the wrong way of looking at it,” the second man answered. “He's got things that don't belong to him. Things he took unfairly. The strong law won't see it that way. So we'll go quiet-like to get them back. We're putting balances right, is all. You in?”

Malen imagined returning home, facing Roth empty-handed. Marta's things gone, nothing to show for it. But if he went with these men, and they succeeded, how would he explain it to his boy? He could maybe rationalize it for himself, but even that felt wrong. That wasn't the way ahead for him and Roth. He'd very nearly turned the men down, when something occurred to him: A man saved from robbery might show a generous hand to the one who saves him. He would be playing a dangerous game. But the night had been filled with such.

He stood, slicking back his hair. “Let's go.”

The first man clapped him on the back. “Damn straight,” he said, and led them from the dock.

They walked back alleys all through town, weaving in and out of various wharf districts, always careful to keep distance between themselves and other folk strolling the night. After the better part of an hour, they'd wound back to within five hundred paces of where they'd begun. There was some logic in the approach, Malen realized, coming at a dockside inn from the rear, down a narrow, untraveled footpath.

A set of wooden stairs rose to the second level, where a row of dark windows indicated vacancies or sleeping guests. The two men started up, Malen following.

The first man stopped. “No,” he whispered. “All we need is a lookout. Just stand here.” He pointed to one side of the staircase. “If anyone comes, stop them. Make like you're drunk if you have to. And if someone gets by, go around to the inn tavern. Make a fuss. Get them all going loud and angry. Understand?”

Malen nodded.

The two men gave him serious looks, then ascended the stairs and disappeared inside. He stood alone, still damp and cold, in the moonlight. His breath steamed the air, and he wondered if Roth had gotten himself to bed. He hated that the boy was having to look after himself while his da was out gambling to try and get them a stash of their own. This wasn't at all what Marta wanted.
The docks be damned!

But then, maybe, just maybe, this one indiscretion would put them ahead. And that plack had been a magpie. He knew it. His eyes could be fuzzy at times, he'd grant that. But he'd seen that bird clear—twelve feathers, black and white with hints of blue.

The night filled with the sound of boots scurrying across wood steps. He turned fast and saw his accomplices rushing down the staircase, wild looks in their eyes. One took the time to nod to him. Together they lit out from the rear of the inn, relaxing into a casual gait once they got to open roads. The first man led them on another circuitous walk through wharfside districts. They even began to share idle banter.

They passed a uniformed city-man slowly walking the street, and ducked into a narrow byway. The alley jutted left then right, then left again, leaving them utterly alone. The sounds of the city faded to practically nothing here. In the shadows, the first man stepped up to a door and quietly depressed the latch. He slipped inside, the second man following close behind. Malen hesitated only briefly, caution beating hard in his chest. The door closed quickly and softly behind him, a cross brace swung down with a bare
tep
sound as it locked in place.

A small candle was lit, and the two men positioned themselves between it and the shuttered windows. Then onto the table they emptied their pockets and several small sacks hidden beneath their coats. Malen's eyes widened at the stolen bounty: gold handcoins, silver half-bars, a good handful of gems (every color you could imagine), maybe fifty promissory notes, and three sacks full of steel plugs (realm-embossed). On a bad day, the realmcoin would trade for eighty thin plugs.

He spent a moment memorizing their faces. Malen figured that sharing a description of the thieves and handing over some of the loot besides, he'd come off a hero. And stand a very good chance of being on the right end of Gynedo's gratitude.