Laura Anne Gilman - West Wind's Fool: and Other Stories of the Devil's West

by Gilman

  “You.” Louis was pointing at her, two thick fingers outstretched accusingly “Stop standing there wasting the girl’s time. Come help me.”

  The boss might be unquestioned, and Judit unchallenged, but the cook was obeyed, no matter what task he handed you; if you did not know how to do it, you learned. And so she found herself learning how to gut and prepare rabbits for roasting.

  No knowledge was ever wasted, her father had said more than once, and she supposed if she were ever to take the road again, rabbit would be a useful thing to prepare. But the feel of slick skin under her finders, the vibration of the paring knife along bone, made her hope she’d never have cause to do so.

  However, when she was done, apron discarded and hands washed thoroughly with brown soap to remove the bloody bits, Bets seemed to have forgotten their previous conversation. She allowed herself to forget it, as well.

  At least until Zinnia came to collect her for her first lesson.

  “I do believe you’re a natural at this,” Maggie said, panting slightly.

  She wiped her forehead with the cloth Zinnia gave her, and handed it back to the other woman, the wooden-bladed knife a too-warm weight in her hand. Her skirt was covered in dust, her skin still dotted with sweat, her hair likely as messy in its braid as Maggie’s, and her legs were wobbling with exhaustion, although so far, all they had done was circle each other, with Maggie occasionally stepping forward to tap her on the arm or leg before retreating, then encouraging Grace to do the same.

  So far, she hadn’t managed to touch Maggie once. “Naturally poor, perhaps?”

  They’d taken over the bare patch of ground at the far end of town that she now could tell was bare because it was used for practices like this. Thankfully, there few who’d paused to watch were swiftly sent on their way by Zinnia’s hard stare.

  “Not,” Maggie disagreed. “You aren’t landing a blow, but you’re not swinging wildly, either, or trying to do anything foolish. It took me almost a month of steady practice to learn not to do that.”

  “Grace has a very quiet mind,” Zinnia said from her perch on the end of an upturned barrel. “Unlike you.”

  “There is nothing about me that is quiet,” Maggie said, almost proudly, and lunched forward, her hand flicking up almost faster than she could follow.

  Her eye, that was. Grace’s arm moved without thought, the crack of the wooden blades against each other echoing off the buildings like thunder, and she ducked underneath and put her shoulder to Maggie’s chest, shoving up at the taller woman until she felt a wobble, then shoving harder, until they both fell to the ground, Grace on top, both blades clattering out of their hands and onto the packed dirt.

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Zinnia’s slow clap. Maggie rolled her eyes, shoving Grace off her. “That would have been well-done, if you’d actually held onto your blade. Now up, let’s try again.”

  A week passed, and then a month. The days grew longer, and the hills outside of town turned green and blue with flowers, and then golden with crops, until a half-year had passed, and memory of life before Flood began to haze.

  She became reasonably proficient with her knife, although Maggie warned her that holding back in a true fight would likely get her killed. Judit taught her how to deal faro, and she covered a table some nights, although she still had no true skill for it. The boss occasionally asked her opinion of things occurring across the River, and kept her informed of events, including an uprising of natives laying siege to military forts back east. She had spent that night sitting on the porch, watching the stars slip overhead, and wondered if such a thing might happen here.

  To all appearances, she had settled well into life in Flood. And yet, Flood did not sit well on her bones. She wanted it to. If the Territory was not perfect, it was far better than what she had left behind. If some folk were cautious around her, others seemed to find her oddness as ordinary as every day. But fear of another incident kept her tense, and not even the joy of learning how to fight properly, to do only the damage she intended, could ease the worry of stepping wrongly again, of crossing a line that even Flood could not accept.

  She was not afraid. She had never been afraid. But she worried.

  Grace began taking longer walks, out past the buildings that comprised Flood proper, following the curve of the river, watching horse and farmer drag a battered scythe between rows, slighter forms following to gather the grains. She did not know their names, these folk who lingered on the edges of Flood. They were nothing to her, and she nothing to them.

  “There are too many people in this world to care about.”

  She had never seen the boss outside of the saloon. She had not even been certain he could pass the doors, though obviously, of course, he could and did.

  “Aren’t we supposed to care about everyone?”

  The boss shrugged, nonchalant. He leaned as though there was a tree at his back, certain that the air would hold him, and studied the farmhands as they worked, unaware of being observed. “There’s supposed to, and then there’s able to. You can’t hold every grain of sand in your hand, and only a fool tries.”

  “And there are no fools in the Territory.”

  “Not for long, anyway. Not alive.”

  “And what of the fool who cannot care for anyone?”

  “All we need is one.”

  “One person?”

  He made a thoughtful, dismissive face, skin shading pale and then ruddy, as though to reflect something within. “One thing.”

  That night, at Edward’s table, she noted two guests playing well but not brilliantly, the pile of coins at their knuckles never rising nor falling particularly. She wasn’t certain what had drawn her attention, perhaps the way they sat, or how they did not speak to each other, but occasionally leaned in as though sharing something in silence while the other players maintained the easy flow of chatter she’d learned was common with regulars.

  Watch the players as much as the cards, Judit had told her, watching her flip the cards, fingers still fumble-thick but learning. Anything that seems odd, or unusual, or out of place. Your instincts will know before you do; trust them.

  So she watched. Close, but not a couple. Siblings, mayhap, or cousins. Raised together. They held the pasteboard cards in easy fingers, their mouths and eyes set in relaxed lines that said nothing, gave nothing away. They drank, but slowly, and shook their heads with a smile when Zinnia offered to freshen their glass. Too many players imbibed too easily, Judit had said, and so lost hands they otherwise should have won.

  But still, there was nothing about them that warranted further exploration, and she might have put them out of her head as unusual but not particularly noteworthy, had the devil not chosen that night to take his table.

  He did not, always. Most nights, the center table remained untouched, the players circulating other tables, giving the empty chairs wide berth as though to brush against one would be to give offense. Even those who worked there were careful, skirting the edges with experienced curves of hip and arms.

  Some nights, the boss was a brightly visible presence, moving through the room like a ripple in a lake, pausing to speak to some, ignoring others. Or he might be nowhere to be seen until well past closing, or not be seen at all. There was no pattern she could determine, no schedule or clue as to what he might do.

  She half-suspected he did not know himself, until he was doing it.

  But some nights he pulled out the dealer’s chair and seated himself, long fingers sliding open a fresh deck of playing cards and fanning them with expert skill, the flickerthwack of cards hitting the green felt surface somehow louder, stronger, than the sound from any other table.

  Not every seat at his table filled, even when every other chair in the room was taken. Often, only one or two players pulled out chairs to join him. Occasionally, there would be only one, and those nights Judit served the drinks herself, her hand often resting gently on the player’s shoulder, either in encouragement or sy
mpathy.

  Grace had seen that happen only a handful of times, but she did not know what it meant.

  The winding clock against the wall had only just marked ten o’clock when he took his seat, just as the game at the other table was coming to a close. She had been helping behind the bar, polishing glassware while Iktan poured, the two of them creating an easy dance that allowed her time to watch and learn, as well.

  The older of the pair had folded, watching while the younger won the small pot. They cashed out of the game with good grace, sliding a quarter-coin across the felt to Edward, and carried their remaining silver to the devil’s table.

  He greeted them with a nod, as though he’d been waiting for nothing save their arrival, the cards face down in front of them even as they pushed a coin each onto the felt.

  Judit leaned an elbow on the polished wood of the bar and Iktan placed two glasses on her tray without being asked. Grace knew enough by now to note that it was better quality whiskey than he usually served; the golden amber color was what the boss himself drank, the few times she saw him indulge.

  She watched Judit move across the room, saw how the two players did not react when Judit placed the glasses by their elbows, but the boss looked up and gave her a nod of thanks.

  Grace did not know what that meant, either.

  Maggie saw her watching, as she handed over her tray of empty glasses to be washed and dried. “They’re not here to prove anything,” she said. “You can always tell.”

  “Tell what?”

  “When they need a bargain,” Maggie said, her kohl-smudged eyes widening as though to emphasize her words. “What else?”

  “Of course,” she said, and that seemed to satisfy the other woman.

  She had known that, yes. It had been explained to her that first day: You came to Flood if you needed something from the devil. And the devil … made deals. That was what they said in more civilized lands. You sold your soul to survive in the devil’s lands.

  Except she’d seen nothing of that, herself. Everyone needed something, of course. She had needed a place to be, an occupation for her hands, and he had offered it, but there had been no bargain, no deal. Her soul, as far as she knew she had one, remained her own. Didn’t it?

  Had she made a bargain without knowing it? It seemed unlikely; surely such an agreement could not hold, not in courts of man or god. But then, there were no barristers here to argue the point, and the only judge she’d even heard of was a man who came riding through on occasion⏤such occasions often years-between. Judit had muttered once about finding a judge and sticking him to place with a nail, if need be, but if the devil ruled the town, what need had they of a judge?

  It was confusing, and she did not like confusion.

  “It’s my break, can you⏤?”

  She took the tray Zinnia handed her, watching the other woman slide smoothly out the door, the fading sunlight red in the open outline before the door closed again. There were no windows in the saloon proper, no way to tell time was passing save for the occasional chime of the winding clock that spoke only when it was time to close. She had not realized that, before.

  She refilled glasses and loaded the empties without a wobble, the particular tilt and bend now familiar to her, her gaze resting on the players’ faces rather than their cards, her smile pleasant yet promising nothing. While some looked up to say thank you, most barely acknowledged her, save a distracted nod of thanks. She did not mind; unlike some of the other girls, she had no interest in furthering an acquaintance with them.

  It was none of her business what other folk did, or where they came from. That was a thing she did understand about the Territory: idle gossip might be the devil’s whisper elsewhere, but there was an understanding once you crossed the river, that a man’s⏤or a woman’s⏤business was their own. You asked nothing that was not offered first.

  That suited her to her toes, that reticence. And yet she found herself still watching the two players as they passed cards across the green felt, wondering what interest they had for the devil, what had driven them to sit at his table.

  What bargain did they seek to make, and how did the cards know?

  And why did she even care?

  They sipped from their glasses, and Judit refilled them, her fingers touching the back of their wrists gently, as the cards continued to turn. The hour grew later, the clock marking out the final hour, and the tables slowly emptied, players emptying glasses and collecting their winnings⏤or good-naturedly bemoaning their losses⏤before heading out, either to nearby farmsteads or the single boarding house where they slept four to a room for the joy of visiting Flood. The front door closed for the last time, and Maggie collapsed comfortably on the bench, the blue velvet of the cushions contrasting with her long blond hair as she let it down from its coronet, finger-combing it with a sigh of relief.

  But still the devil dealt cards, the pile of silver bits on his table rising and falling, but never disappearing entirely into either players’ pocket.

  “You’re distracted tonight,” Zinnia said, coming to stand behind her, breath uncomfortably warm on her shoulder. “Huh. They’re good. He’s better than she is, but they’re both good.”

  “Better than the boss?”

  Zinnia laughed. “He doesn’t have to be good. He’s dealing.”

  “He doesn’t cheat?” She knew he didn’t, knew he wouldn’t, but something prodded her to ask nonetheless.

  “He doesn’t have to.”

  And finally, all that was left was the question that had been bothering her all evening, the question she’d never thought to ask, before. “What do they want from him?”

  Zinnia shrugged. “Nobody knows. Nobody will know, ‘cept him. That’s how it works.”

  “But how do they ask⏤”

  “They already have.”

  She frowned, watching the three of them at the table. There had been little conversation, asking for a new card or changing their bet, occasionally asking for water or a freshening of their glass. The boss didn’t even seem to be watching them, their faces or their tells, only the cards as they were turned up and revealed.

  Months of learning to deal, both faro and poker, but she still didn’t understand the appeal of the games, or what pull it had over people. The cards were simply paper boards, the edges fancy-gilded, but nothing beyond the ordinary for all that, pips and markers in plain black ink on one side, a checkerboard pattern on the other. And each night there were new decks opened, the old ones burnt in case they’d been marked or spelled.

  What could the cards be telling the boss, that he only watched them?

  What were they playing for, that made that table so special?

  She kept watching, even as the hour grew smaller. When the final game ended, the two players shook hands with the boss, solemn yet oddly joyful, and left with silver in their pocket and no sign of anything else about them different than when they’d come.

  But something had changed in them. She knew it, although she had no understanding of how. They were different than they’d been when they came. And something in her needed to understand what, and why.

  The chairs at the other tables were already tipped forward, the bar cleared, the glassware rinsed and ready for polishing. The rest had long ago slipped upstairs, heading for looser clothing and comfortable beds. Only she remained, sitting on the stairs, skirt tucked neatly under her knees, watching.

  The boss looked up then, and she thought for certain he’d say something⏤explain, or perhaps scold her, or … something. But he merely pushed his chair back, finished the last sip of the glass he’d been nursing all night, and then was gone, and she had no better understanding of what she’d seen than before she’d known to look.

  She might have remained on that step all night and into the morning, save the hard wood under her backside turned cold, and she could not imagine explaining herself to Louis, or Judit, or whoever might find her at dawn, slumped like a child against the newel post.


  She went through her evening ablutions slowly, folding her clothing into the wardrobe and slipping into her night rail, brushing out her hair and plaiting it for sleep, then crawling into her bed with the lamp turned down and the moonlight casting faint shadows against the curtains.

  The pillow was firm, the sheets clean and soft, and her limbs were thick with exhaustion.

  But sleep did not come. The saloon felt too still, too quiet, the oil from the lamp too heavy, the occasional distant yip and howl of night hunters too close, even though she knew full well they would not come into town, not when they had easier prey out in the fields.

  “I could hear you thinking all the way down the hallway.” Zinnia slipped into her room without invitation, closing the door gently behind her.

  She shifted, so that her face was turned toward the door, squinting to make out the shape in the dim light. “I did not realize thoughts were so loud?”

  “Yours are. Or maybe it’s just that they’re still new, so I hear ‘em more.”

  “I apologize for keeping you from your sleep.” Her tone might have been a bit sharp, but being told that she was thinking too loud? It seemed particularly unfair.

  “I’ll sleep in,” the other woman said, coming to sit on the edge of the chair, her flannel wrap belted around her waist, thick curls bound up in a sash around her head. Even in the dim light, she could tell that the sash was a bright blue, the color of a butterfly’s wing. “It’s not like you to buzz so. Tell me.”

  She hadn’t been aware of her own thoughts, so it was difficult at first to think of what to say, or even if she had anything to say at all.

  “Have you ever asked the boss for anything?”

  It was difficult to see Zinnia’s expression, with only the moonlight, but the flash of teeth was unmistakable. “I have not, and pray I never need to. Not the way I’m thinking you mean.”