by Prior, D. P.
“We playing, or what?” Buttershy said.
Slythe sat bolt upright in his chair and belatedly covered his cards with a hand, before painstakingly turning them over one by one with trembling fingers.
“Fold,” Slythe said, dropping his cards in the middle of the table.
“Sendal,” Dame Consilia said.
The look she shot him must’ve cut to the bone, as he snatched the cards back up and said, “A moment, please. Perhaps I was a bit premature.”
Garth sniggered into his sleeve until Dame Consilia slapped him on the back of the head.
Slythe threw down four cards—a sure sign he had nothing—and Buttershy dealt him four more, which he organized into his fan, nodding pensively all the time.
“Can we move on?” Buttershy said.
Slythe held up a finger, still perusing his cards. He exchanged two more and gave a self-satisfied nod, but his tongue darting out to lick his lips told Jeb a different story.
If Farly noticed, he didn’t show it. Buttershy’s permanent scowl was just as effective a mask for what he was thinking. Dame Consilia looked bored, but it was a practiced boredom, no doubt the fruits of her years on the stage. A single line of moisture threaded down her neck and collected between her plumped up breasts threatening to burst from her bodice.
Jeb forced himself to look away. His thoughts were like rats gamboling through garbage. As he tried to weigh up each of the other players and assess his hand, he could feel Dame Consilia’s need palpably, like waves of heat rolling off her body. He was partly inclined to go with it, too; giver her what she wanted, but when he tried to imagine the scene, all he saw was Maisie rubbing up against him, her cool fingers creeping inside his britches. Someone said his name, and he almost gasped.
“You exchanging?” Buttershy said.
Jeb nodded, trying his best to look carefree. He put back the four of swords and took a card from Buttershy in return. When he turned it over, his heart rippled, and he coughed to disguise his relief. The Dwarf King—could have been better, but unless anyone else had something exceptional…
Jeb waved Buttershy on and tuned out while Dame Consilia made her exchanges. He was still chewing over Marlec’s words. There was a second husk, a husk that hunted the hunters—out of revenge. Question was, revenge for what? For killing others of its kind? It was possible, but not very likely. The range of husks coming out of Qlippoth was so great that it was hard to imagine much in the way of kinship between them. They were as numerous and as varied as there were possibilities. The god at the heart of Aethir, the Cynocephalus, was said to dream wildly. He was also said to cower in his lair out of fear of his father, the Demiurgos, Lord of the Abyss. If the husks were the products of his dreams, if they mirrored the state of his mind, you had to pity the poor bastard. No wonder no one had clapped eyes on him—least not to Jeb’s mind. Judging by the horrors Jeb had faced in his years as a Maresman, the Cynocephalus must have been paralyzed with terror.
Dame Consilia folded with a weary sigh, and then it was Farly’s turn. He studied his hand probably more than was necessary, made a single exchange, and ceded to Buttershy, who stuck with what he had.
Those left in began some halfhearted betting, the sort that told you no one was overly committed. It was a warm-up for the new player’s benefit, Jeb knew that; make him feel comfortable, hopeful, even.
“OK, let’s see what you got,” Buttershy said.
Slythe spread his cards with a dejected smile. Nothing there.
Jeb showed his flush to an approving “Oh!” from Dame Consilia.
Farly betrayed no reaction as he conceded defeat, but Buttershy cursed under his breath and slid a pile of coins Jeb’s way.
Jeb wasn’t falling for it. He knew they’d gone easy on him, given it was his first hand. He’d seen it all before. Soften him up with a few wins and then hammer him when his guard was down and everything he had was on the table. Wasn’t going to happen this time.
Dame Consilia’s fingers danced across the back of his hand. “Seems my luck has passed to you, Mr. Skayne. Perhaps we should combine our resources.”
Jeb cocked his head to one side and felt a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Your funeral.”
“Don’t be such a defeatist,” she said, dumping her purse on the table, extricating a handful of gold denarii and counting them out. “I have every confidence in you. Is it permissible, Mr. Buttershy?”
“Money’s money,” Buttershy said. “Don’t care who I win it from.”
“Only you didn’t, did you?” Dame Consilia said. “Win, I mean. Mr. Skayne did, and together, we’ll win some more.”
“Reckon I’ll pair with Farly, then,” Buttershy said. “His mind ain’t so sharp these days. He’s gonna need all the help he can get.”
“But what about Sendal?” Dame Consilia said. “Does he have to play alone?”
Garth sniggered and muttered, “It’s what he’s used to.”
Jeb heard it, but no one else paid any attention.
Slythe stood and straightened his robe. “I have another engagement and probably should be off.”
His demeanor had stiffened, and his shallow bow to Jeb was even stiffer. “Mr. Skayne,” he said. “Gentlemen.” He acknowledged Farly and Buttershy. “My lady.” He bowed from the waist to Dame Consilia, cleared his throat, and abruptly left the table.
“Oh,” Dame Consilia said, looking at Garth beside her. “Did I do something to upset him again?”
“Of course not, my lady. How could you think such a thing?” Garth said, his narrowed eyes spitting venom at Jeb.
“I should be going, too,” Jeb said, half-rising from his seat.
That got a reaction from Farly, who shot a look at Buttershy. Before Buttershy could say anything, though, Dame Consilia gripped Jeb’s hand.
“But we’re in this together now,” she said. Suddenly, her eyes grew bigger. “And here’s Malvin with your drink.”
Malvin set a glass of whiskey down. Jeb sighed and lowered himself into his seat. He needed to pull himself together, get his mind back on the job. If he didn’t find the sheriff soon and take the stygian down, he’d likely never see it again, and that would blow his ruse with the Maresmen. More than that, though, if Marlec was right, and if there was a second husk on the loose—and it was the one hunting the hunters—he had to start being wary, watching his back. The state its victims had been found in—the dozens in the Outlands, the three Maresmen, and now the two dead in town—it had to look human, and a woman at that. Almost imperceptibly, he withdrew his hand from Dame Consilia’s, shifted his chair away an inch. He nodded his thanks to Malvin and knocked back the whiskey.
“Not just the one, Malvin,” Dame Consilia said. “Fetch the bottle.”
Malvin’s shoulders rose up to his ears as he drew in a deep breath, and then he skulked back to the bar.
“A present from my late husband,” Dame Consilia said. She tapped Garth on the thigh. “The two of them. He was a prominent businessman, you know.” She raised a finger to her eye and wiped beneath it.
An unreadable look passed across Garth’s face. Jeb guessed he had a different opinion on the matter.
Buttershy clapped for attention and started to shuffle the pack. “Just the two hands to deal, then,” he said. “May the best pair win.”
“He helped out the senate from time to time,” Dame Consilia said, as if the game wasn’t just starting up again. “Which is how I know Sendal. Poor Sendal. He’s besotted, but between you and me, he hasn’t a brass dupondii to his name anymore. Lives on borrowed money. It’s why he left the senate, they say. Some kind of scandal, my husband said, but he wouldn’t be drawn on it.” She looked whimsical for a moment, then seemed to remember where she was. “Ready when you are, Mr. Buttershy. Deal away.”
Jeb’s next few hands were mediocre at best, but somehow—incredibly—his stack of coins continued to grow. He wasn’t falling for it, no matter how much Buttershy cursed and Farly did his best impression of
a piece of sculpture. A couple more rounds and he was out of there, before they led him to a place he’d sooner not go.
Dame Consilia had taken to gripping his arm each time they won, and she kept rubbing her foot against his boot under the table. The longer the game went on, the more she seemed to believe the fairytale ending. No wonder she wore costume jewelry and had seemed so eager early on. She was exactly the kind of victim Farly and Buttershy preyed on, and she still didn’t see it.
“We’ll raise you,” Buttershy said, after a confab with Farly. He slid two gold dupondii across the table.
Dame Consilia’s grip on Jeb’s arm tightened, and she whispered, “Go on. Stay with him. He’s bluffing.”
Jeb raised an eyebrow. He held a good hand, but it wouldn’t have been a stretch for Farly to hold a better one. No matter how much he studied the old man, though, he couldn’t read a thing. Buttershy was more likely to let things slip; he wore his heart on his sleeve, though that was most likely a smokescreen; but at least there was more that could go wrong with his performance.
Jeb watched the corners of Buttershy’s mouth, the rate of his blinking; thought he caught a furtive look at Farly, maybe a twitch in his cheek.
Jeb leaned back in his chair and shook his head. Before he started second guessing himself, he needed to fold. Two dupondii was a lot to lose. Not exactly a fortune, but it was enough. No, he told himself, these men were pros, and although he’d played his share of seven-card, he was out of his league. Likely, this was the round they’d get him hooked, and the next they’d reel him in.
Left to himself, he’d have dropped out and thanked them for the game, but the way Dame Consilia looked at him with a pleading intensity, he had to do more.
“I’ll see you,” he said, sliding over two gold of his own.
“Jeb!” Dame Consilia said. “He was bluffing.”
Malvin chose that moment to return and plonked a bottle of whiskey on the table. He stumbled as he backed away, looking like he’d had too big a sample himself. Jeb was aware of him shuffling behind Dame Consilia and half-falling before perching on the edge of Garth’s chair.
“Should’ve listened to the lady,” Buttershy said, pushing the winnings toward Jeb. “Could’ve won a whole lot more if you’d kept going.”
Jeb poured himself a whiskey, but when Dame Consilia elbowed him in the ribs, he passed the glass to her and took a swig from the bottle.
“Told you,” Dame Consilia said, with a squeeze of Jeb’s knee. “It’s my game, too, you know. Now, come on, Mr. Maresman, and show a lady a good time.”
Jeb held her gaze longer than should have been decent, but her eyes sparkled, and the flush that came to her cheeks wasn’t embarrassment.
“Thought you’d never ask,” he said, meaning to stand.
She got to her feet before him, though, and pressed down on his shoulders, peering intently into his eyes. “I meant with the game,” she said.
Her hips shifted, and for a moment, Jeb thought she was going to sit astride him, but then she let out a huff and wagged her glass for a refill. Jeb obliged and found himself watching the creases on her neck straighten out as she tilted her head back to down the whiskey in one.
“Now,” she said, slamming the glass on the table and reseating herself, “let’s win some more money.”
Buttershy looked at Jeb and spread his palms. “Well?”
Jeb gave the slightest of shrugs as he took another pull on the whiskey. Warmth flowed through his veins, fired the back of his throat. He gazed around the bar again, but this time, no one stood out. Looked to him everyone was just going about their business. It had emptied out some, and the only wench left serving was exchanging bawdy jibes with a table of hard-looking men.
“Play on,” Jeb said, almost to himself.
“Right you are,” Buttershy said as he commenced dealing. “Could be this is your lucky day.”
Dame Consilia giggled at that. She’d lost some of her starched poise and was starting to wilt. Probably wasn’t used to strong liquor. Problem was, her self-control was going the same way as her poise, and her fingers found Jeb’s crotch beneath the table. She gave him a sideways glance, and he did his best to emulate Farly’s stone-face in return.
She withdrew her hand and used it to fan herself. “Terrible thing, those murders,” she said to no one in particular.
“Say that again,” Buttershy said. “Won’t catch me near Carey’s anytime soon, that’s for sure.”
Farly looked up with wide eyes. “Thought we had a game there tonight.”
Buttershy frowned and said, “Yeah, well, after that, I mean.”
Dame Consilia leaned over the table and stage-whispered, “Clawed to death by a wild beast, and both in the throes of passion, so they say.”
“If it was just the one,” Buttershy said, “you’d have to think the punter didn’t pay up, and Carey or one of the pimps set the dogs on him. Course, what with it being two, you have to reconsider.”
“So,” Jeb said, “what do you think, Mr. Buttershy?”
“Me? Shogging lunatic’s what it is. One of them—what do you call them?” He shot a look at Farly but didn’t wait for an answer. “Them nutters. Like that—you know.” He nudged Farly this time. “Like what happened to the idiot’s dad.”
“Trent Fana?” Farly said.
“Yeah, him. Torn to shreds, they said. By an animal. Only, they reckon it was his crazy daughter that did it.”
“Ilesa?” Jeb said.
“Shogged if I know her name,” Buttershy said. “Happened before I moved to this dump.” He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head, as if mourning lost dreams, bad choices. “She’s long gone, but her brother’s still around. We call him the village—”
“Davy,” Jeb said. “Yes, I know him.”
Buttershy started to deal, while Dame Consilia snatched the bottle from Jeb and poured herself another.
“Well, we’re new here,” she said. “Passing through, as they say. Well, Sendal lured me, if I’m honest, with the promise of founding a theater.” She rolled her eyes at Jeb.
The chances of Slythe having the capital for such a venture, from what Jeb had seen and heard, were slimmer than the dame’s waistline.
“It’s a passion of mine,” she went on. “You know, playing to the provinces.”
“Won’t be no theater here, ma’am,” Farly said. “Never been no call for one.”
“No call?” Dame Consilia said. “Oh.” She knocked back her whiskey and ran the glass round in her hand. “Well, I’m not sure it would be appropriate. It doesn’t seem… safe isn’t the word I want… cultured. Yes, it’s not quite civilized enough for the arts.”
Jeb picked up their cards and arranged them in order. He was momentarily stunned, and trying his darndest not to show it. Four tens stared up at him, and beside them two queens and the five of serpents. A hand like that would’ve taken him a long way in the taverns of Malfen. With the right kind of gamblers in the right kind of establishment, could’ve made him enough for his house in the wilds and a lifetime of whores to boot. Mind you, getting out of Malfen with the loot would have been another thing. In the old days, the Ant-Man would’ve taken his cut, but even now, any number of cutthroats would be lying in wait as he made good his escape.
Dame Consilia tried to look over his shoulder, but he couldn’t let her see; she’d give the game away.
“What is it, darling?” she said. “What have we got?”
“Nothing much,” Jeb said. He topped up her glass and drained the rest of the bottle himself. He felt a bit lightheaded, but the thrill of the game was countering it. This would be the last round, and he was exiting with his winnings. Dame Consilia could take her half and do what the heck she liked with it. Too much time had been lost already, but when you had an opportunity like this, it would be stupid to pass it by.
Dame Consilia sipped her drink more slowly now. She swayed slightly in her seat and was making a valiant effort not to slur her words.<
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“This Ilesa, why would she kill her own father? I mean, do you think it’s her doing the killings now?”
“Way I heard it,” Jeb said, “her old man had it coming.”
“It was the boy,” Farly said. He shook his head, and for once his eyes held an expression: sadness or regret. “Trent Fana was a sleaze bag. Harm he did that boy…” He shook his head again and let out a long whistling breath through his teeth.
Buttershy rolled his eyes and tsked. “We playing, or what?”
Dame Consilia glanced at Malvin with his head on Garth’s shoulder. Both were half-asleep. She drew in a heavy breath and let it out in a heavier whuff. “How do you know he harmed the boy? I mean, was there a trial?”
Farly gathered in the cards Buttershy dealt him and took his time getting them into order. He licked his thumb and plucked a card from the middle of his fan, placing it nearer to one side. “I asked him.”
Dame Consilia’s hand covered her mouth. “And he admitted it?”
“Nope. But he was lying.”
“Lying? But how—?”
“Trust me,” Buttershy said with a tight grin. “Farly says he was lying, then he was lying. Has a talent for the truth, don’t you my ol’ mate?”
Jeb remembered Madam Sadie saying as much. He leaned in and asked, “What kind of talent?”
Farly tapped his eyelid, his ear, and his nose. “Nothing supernatural, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“A skill, then,” Jeb said. “Honed through practice.”
Farly chewed his lip as if considering, and then said, “Reckon that’s about the way of it.”
Buttershy sneaked a glance over Farly’s shoulder and let out a soft whistle. Dame Consilia tried to see Jeb’s hand again, but he set the cards face down on the table.
“I’ve got this one,” he whispered. “Trust me.”
She gave his knee another squeeze. “I’m in your hands, Mr. Skayne.” She grabbed the bottle and tipped it up to milk the last drops from it.
“Don’t think we’ll be exchanging,” Buttershy said.
Farly’s mask-face apparently concurred.