Husk: A Maresman Tale

by Prior, D. P.

Buttershy’s soft whistle had been the giveaway Jeb was looking for. A seasoned player letting on he had a good hand like that just didn’t happen. He was trying throw Jeb off the scent. He was bluffing.

  Jeb picked up his cards and spread them in a fan. He made a show of deliberating, then threw down the five of serpents. “I’ll take one.”

  Buttershy did his best to look nonchalant as he slid a new card across the table. Jeb turned it, careful to shield it from everyone. Eight of dwarves. Didn’t improve things none. He dropped it back on the table and held his hand out for another.

  “Last one,” Buttershy said with the slightest of smirks.

  Queen of demons. Made a decent full house. He shut his eyes for a second, let his chin drop to his chest, and ran his tongue about the inside of his cheeks. When he lifted his head, he let out a sigh and nodded to Farly to begin betting.

  The old man slapped down a single gold dupondii. Jeb had been expecting more. It wasn’t a small bet by any stretch, but if you wanted to give the impression of a strong hand, you tended to bet a little less conservatively. He considered raising Farly five, but when Buttershy leaned in close and whispered in Farly’s ear, he toned it down to three.

  Buttershy arched an eyebrow at that and took the next turn to raise Jeb four. Jeb matched that and raised him another two. Three more rounds, and three more raises. Thing about seven-card that made it so compelling, but also so deadly, was that there was no limit to the betting, except for the amount of coin brought to the table.

  Dame Consilia’s eyes lost some of their drunken glaze as they tracked between their dwindling funds and the money heaped in the center.

  Buttershy wiped his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. After a pause, he raised Jeb twelve.

  Dame Consilia gasped and put her hand over Jeb’s as he reached for their coin stack. “What have we got?” she whispered. “You’d better not be bluffing.”

  Jeb extricated his hand and counted out ten gold. Besides that, all they had left was silvers and a few brass. He looked up at Buttershy.

  “Everything you got left to see us,” Buttershy said. “Sound fair to you?”

  It was either that or fold, and Jeb was in too deep for that. He’d arrived there again: that all-or-nothing moment that could make or break a man, and he had no idea how it had happened.

  He eyed the empty whiskey bottle, then turned a look on Dame Consilia. The color had drained from her face, and she held Jeb’s gaze with her lips parted, her chin trembling. “It’s all I have,” her eyes seemed to say. “Without this, I’m destitute.”

  Whether that was the truth of it or not, Jeb couldn’t be sure, but he’d bet it wasn’t far from it.

  Malvin and Garth were both fully awake now and leaning in toward the table.

  “Your call,” Buttershy said. “Fold or see. You’ll get no pressure from me.”

  Jeb looked to Farly for a reaction, but as usual there was nothing to go on there. It was down to Buttershy, then. Had he been bluffing with that whistling business? Or was it a double bluff? Jeb grimaced, and didn’t care who saw. It was too late to worry now.

  He ran through his hand again: four kings, three queens. It didn’t get much better than that. The chances of Farly and Buttershy holding anything better were slim to none. It was all down to that soft whistle, to the careful bets early on. Were they leading him down the garden path, or had he done the same to them?

  Holding his breath, he pushed the rest of their money into the center. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Buttershy snatched the cards from Farly so quickly that Jeb’s heart sank through the seat of his britches. Dame Consilia gripped his arm like a vise, her fingernails tearing the skin.

  “Royal flush,” Buttershy said with a beaming smile as he spread his cards out in plain sight.

  Jeb let his cards fall to the table in disarray.

  Farly jerked into action and straightened them out. “Full house,” he said with a nod of respect. “Very nice.”

  “But is it nice enough?” Dame Consilia asked, twisting in front of Jeb so she could look him in the eye.

  Jeb shook his head.

  Dame Consilia fell back into her chair with a whimper. Garth and Malvin were immediately at her sides, both of them glaring daggers at Jeb.

  “Sorry,” Jeb muttered.

  “I can’t…” Dame Consilia said. “I can’t believe it.” She looked from Malvin to Garth, jaw sagging, eyes wide with horror. “You…” she said to Jeb, then turned her face away. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “I’ll win it back,” Jeb said, rummaging about in his pockets.

  Nothing but small change.

  Buttershy was already packing away the cards, and Farly was on his feet, as if waiting for the others to leave the table so he could fold it down.

  “Love to stay and play some more,” Buttershy said, “but we got places to be.”

  Jeb had a sudden inspiration. He whipped out the flintlock. “What if I wager this against everything we just lost?”

  Buttershy gave him a look full of practiced sorrow. “Sorry, mate. Maybe next time.”

  “Help me up,” Dame Consilia said, and her stooges supported her as she stood. She shot Jeb a withering look, tipped her chin in the air, and left without a backward glance.

  “Excuse me,” Farly said, and pulled the table out from under Jeb, leaving him stranded on his barrel chair. Buttershy collected up the bottle and glasses and took them over to the bar, and by the time he returned, Farly had the table folded up and ready to go.

  Jeb could do nothing other than stare blankly as they said their goodbyes and went on their way. Numbness settled over his limbs, and he wallowed in a murky pool of reflections: what might have been; what he could have done differently; what he should have.

  Around the edges of his mind, a dark form flitted in and out of the shadows, scenting, prowling, drawing near. It was an almost tangible presence, and yet he knew it for what it was: self-chastisement. Here he was wasting valuable time, when he ought to have been doing his job.

  But it wasn’t his, was it? He’d been set up, sent after the husk that was killing the Maresmen. It was a sentence, the way he saw it. But he was still wasting time, however he looked at it. He could accept the stygian was his responsibility, and sheriff or no sheriff, he needed to get back to Boss’s land and make the kill. Somehow. Anyhow. Problem was, what could he do about the guards? Right now it hurt just thinking about it. Each thought he followed grew slippery as an eel and wriggled from his grasp.

  He needed something to rouse him from his apathy, and seeing as winning back what he’d lost had been denied him, and sating himself on Dame Consilia was now out of the question, he let his eyes rove around the room for an alternative.

  Curse it for being so darned early in the day. The bar was emptying out as the rogues finished their breakfast meetings. Those that lingered looked like they’d come to Portis hoping for something that hadn’t been there when they arrived. The amount they were drinking, and the way tension grew thick around them, there was slim chance they’d ever find it, either. Scum like that, the dregs even among the guilds, would be wending their sorry way to Malfen in the not too distant future.

  The remaining bar wench was the only woman left in the room, and she was seated on the lap of a scar-faced bandit wearing an eyepatch. Wresting her away was more effort than Jeb wanted to commit to, and he still had the tang of Sweet’s beating in his mouth. Last thing he needed was a fight right now.

  He let his gaze pass over the happy couple. Bones had gone. Least there were still small mercies. With heavy resolve, Jeb started to push up from his chair, but someone plonked a seat down beside him.

  “Apparently, I quit before the axe fell,” Sendal Slythe said.

  He was slurring his words, and his eyes were dull and unfocused. He held up a whiskey bottle in one hand, and a pair of glasses in the other. Jeb took one and Slythe filled him up.

  “Thought you’d left,”
Jeb said.

  “Nowhere to go.” Slythe set the bottle on the floor and slurped back some whiskey. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about it.” He fixed Jeb with a look.

  Seemed no point denying it. “You known the dame a long time, Slythe?”

  “Long, long time. From back before she was famous—or should I say, infamous?”

  “Oh?” The bitterness wasn’t lost on Jeb. Fact is, he’d seen how Slythe fawned all over her during the game. Wasn’t no surprise he was sowing bitter grapes with the man she clearly had an eye for—at least until Jeb had lost all their money.

  “She was a joke, an insult to the arts. Couldn’t act to save her life,” Slythe said. He reached down for the bottle and topped himself up.

  Jeb declined another and continued to sip his slowly. He was already too far gone, and that was dangerous, given what he had to do, and what might be hunting him.

  “The only reason she was on the stage was her husband, may the Demiurgos defecate on him from a great height.”

  “Money talks,” Jeb said. “She said he was a big businessman.”

  “Pah,” Slythe said. He leaned in close to make sure he wasn’t overheard. “Guild boss is what he was, the thieving, conniving bastard. Time I found that out, it was too late, and I was tainted. Cost me my position, and my livelihood.”

  “Yet here you are playing seven-card with his wife.”

  “Widow,” Slythe said. “Koort Morrow had it coming, and apparently I wasn’t the only one to think so.”

  Jeb nodded for him to go on.

  “Poisoned. He had a penchant for cherry pie, and someone obviously knew. Word is, the Night Hawks were behind it, back in the days of Shadrak the Unseen. Anyway, when Morrow died, the theaters all united against Dame Consilia; told her to sling her hook. Oh, the title was bought, too, an affectation indulged by her husband. She’s been scrabbling around hand to mouth ever since with those insipid servants of hers in tow. She still believes she was the darling of the New Jerusalem stage. Only reason no one said what they really thought was fear of Morrow.”

  Jeb had a feeling there was more Slythe wasn’t saying. Only thing for it was to call him out on it. “So, she’s a talentless bitch with a pretentious name. That why you’re all over her like a rash?”

  Slythe gripped his glass tight and swilled the whiskey at the bottom. His lip curled at one corner, and then he chuckled. “That’s good, Mr. Skayne. You don’t miss much, do you? Should have gone into politics.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” Jeb said. Malfen was one thing, but the senate of New Jerusalem was a whole deeper level of corruption. “Reckon I’d be out of my depth.”

  “It’s a vocation, I’ll grant you,” Slythe said. For a moment, he seemed to have forgotten he’d been removed from office. An air of pomposity crept into his demeanor, gave a tilt to his chin, puffed out his chest.

  “Must’ve been hard to let it go,” Jeb said.

  That pricked Slythe’s haughty bubble. He caved in on himself, and it looked an effort for him to keep his head raised. “Is it so obvious?” he said. “About Dame Consilia, I mean.”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh.” Slythe scratched at the top of his head. “I knew her before she was married. Such a stunning woman, she was. Exquisite, and yet, she didn’t seem to realize. That was her charm, back then, until Morrow ruined her.”

  “She’s still a fair looker,” Jeb said. “Maybe just a bit more seasoned.”

  “Yes, yes,” Slythe said. “And with the right man, she might recapture that old innocence.”

  Jeb doubted it somehow. Innocence lost was seldom found. He’d seen enough of that with the women he’d known. It was almost as if he’d infected them in some way, and once the poison had taken root, there was no place to go save down.

  “I was talking to a Wayist earlier,” Jeb said.

  Slythe turned his nose up at that. The senate might have changed their laws, but attitudes had a way of lagging behind.

  “He’d likely have agreed with you. Course, Dame Consilia tells a different story, unless I misunderstood her.”

  “Really?” Slythe said. “What’s that?”

  “Well, it’s my interpretation, you understand, but given what she told me about you living on borrowed money, I’d stake my hind teeth that you’ve got your sights set on making a living from her looks.”

  Slythe surged out of his seat. “How dare you! I’ll have you know I am a man of means and my intentions are entirely honorable.”

  “Ah,” Jeb said, standing casually and tipping his hat to Slythe. “But what’s honor among politicians?”

  Slythe looked like he’d been slapped in the face and didn’t know how to respond. Jeb knew he’d been harsh, but he was too rankled to care. It wasn’t anything about Slythe in particular—he’d just been close to hand. It was everything conspiring at once to push Jeb to the brink, bring his husk blood to the boil. Because that’s what it was; he knew from experience. Either he had to let off steam, and soon, or he was going to get a whole lot nastier, and in a town like Portis, as he’d already learned the hard way, that meant a heap of trouble he could well do without.

  Slythe was shaking his head and muttering. “And after I bought you a drink, too!”

  “Here,” Jeb said, and tossed him a copper. It should have been an insult, but Slythe snatched it out of the air and pocketed it.

  “Good day, to you, Senator,” Jeb said.

  He turned and left the bar. The way he felt, it may as well have been nighttime, not midmorning. In spite of his tiredness, though, he needed to fetch Tubal for the ride to Boss’s land. Just the thought of heading to the stables made his legs ache, and he barely stifled a yawn.

  He hovered for a moment then decided a short nap might be best after all. It’d be suicide going after the stygian while he was half asleep. He made his way back to reception and climbed the stairs to his room.

  16

  CLEANERS WERE BUZZING about, carrying away dirty sheets, sweeping floors, and rubbing a sweet-smelling oil onto the banister’s intricately carved spindles and newels. Packs were arrayed outside some of the rooms, and a couple of punters in travel clothes were downstairs settling their bills with the receptionist.

  Last thing Jeb expected was Dame Consilia leaning against his door. Her platinum hair had been set loose to tumble over her shoulders in coils and springs. Dark smears sat below her moist eyes, and her red dress hung lower on her shoulders, giving Jeb a glimpse of near-chiseled perfection. If it hadn’t been for the neck, he’d have taken her for half her age.

  Her breasts heaved as he approached, straining at the fabric containing them. She dabbed at her eyes then flicked back her hair and parted her lips.

  Jeb wasted no time in putting a hand on the small of her back and pulling her close. She gasped and leaned in for a hot kiss, full of want and passion. She stank of cheap perfume, but the musk in it inflamed him anyway. He fumbled his key into the lock, lips still snug with hers, tongues probing, darting, intertwining. The lock clicked, and he half-pushed, half-carried her into the room.

  Before he could heel the door shut, footsteps came padding down the landing, and he broke free from Dame Consilia’s hungry mouth to see Malvin and Garth trying to bustle in behind them.

  “Out,” Jeb growled. “Now!”

  Garth whined like a four year-old. “But we always stay.”

  Malvin was nodding like an imbecile. “We are both highly skilled.”

  “What?” Jeb looked at Dame Consilia, and she smirked, a wicked twinkle in her eye. “Oh no,” he said. “Not my thing.”

  “Oh, but they are such fun,” Dame Consilia said. “Go on, give it a try.”

  “No, thanks, I’ve just eaten,” Jeb said, pushing Garth and Malvin back with the door.

  “No need to be so rude,” Malvin said. “It’s perfectly natural.”

  Jeb slammed the door on them.

  Not in Malfen it wasn’t. Suggest such a thing and they’d string you up by your fru
its. Funny how such a nest of vipers could prove so conservative on some fronts. Funny how he could, too, he realized. The husk blood was pretty indiscriminate when it came to women, but anything other than that left him feeling mighty oppositional.

  Dame Consilia took off Jeb’s hat and flung it on the bed. “It’s all the rage in New Jerusalem.”

  “Yeah?” Jeb said. “Well, thank shog we’re in Portis.”

  Dame Consilia shrugged one shoulder out of her dress, then the other. Jeb forced himself to be patient. It wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy the spectacle, but a nagging sense of urgency was hammering away at the back of his skull, and he wanted this over and done with. It wasn’t exactly shaping up to be the rest he’d been hoping for.

  Telling Marlec the second husk wasn’t his problem didn’t take away the threat it posed, and he was starting to think he’d be better off walking into the trap his fellow Maresmen had cooked up for him. After all, if he was lucky, he’d be killing two birds with one stone. Last thing he needed was them accusing him of not getting the job done, and his ploy to claim the stygian was the one he’d scented was wearing thinner by the minute.

  He raised an appreciative eyebrow at the firmness of her breasts, then the dress fell below her waist and collected on the floor around her finely tapered ankles.

  Jeb drank in the view just long enough to be polite, and she cocked her head to one side and smiled, knowing full well what she had. She shuddered as she breathed. Beads of sweat collected in her cleavage and trickled down to her flat belly, where a fake ruby glinted from her navel. He had half a mind to push down the urge to get on with the hunt and take his time ogling her, running his hands over every inch of that perfect body. She must have mistaken his hesitation for teasing, and winced with suppressed lust. She stuck one hand on the curve of her hip and posed for him, daring him to resist, but then her own resolve collapsed and she dropped to her knees and started to unfasten his britches.

  Jeb shut his eyes. Suddenly, it was Maisie going to work on him, and the nagging distraction shattered into a thousand pieces. He bucked, and Dame Consilia gasped. She pulled away, and the spell was broken.