by Anthony Ryan
He set the cup down and turned to the serving girl. “I think my new adversary would appreciate something more full-bodied, my dear. Bring us the Umblin Valley Red, if you please. Now then.” He turned back to Derla, clasping his hands together. “What shall we say for the opening bet? Does two silvers seem fair?”
Derla met his gaze again, fixing it with a half-smile. “I regret that I neglected to bring any coin tonight, my lord.”
An extra line or two appeared in Mustor’s already creased brow as he gave a small huff of annoyance. “Charming as you are, I do not play for mere amusement. A game with nothing at risk is a dull affair indeed.”
“Oh,” Derla said, sweeping the cards and dealing out two hands with practised ease, “I’m sure we can think of something worth playing for.”
* * *
“Sorry,” Mustor groaned, breath hot and laboured against her neck as he subsided atop her. “Too much wine. If only the Umblin vintages weren’t so confoundedly tempting.”
“I think you more than demonstrated your fortitude, my lord,” Derla said as he rolled off her. His frame was a curious mix of bony and flabby, a substantial paunch married to spindly arms and legs, and yet he had proven more accomplished a bedmate than most of her clients, if somewhat lacking in stamina.
“How kind you are,” he said in a sleepy murmur. “I hope it’s not extra.”
“You won the bet,” she reminded him, shifting to lay her head on his chest. “Everything’s on the house tonight.”
He played a hand through her hair, fingers tracing gently through the thick auburn curls. “You shared these rooms with someone until recently,” he said. “How long since they left?”
Derla stiffened, all artifice suddenly draining from her as she withdrew from him and turned away. She sat on the edge of the bed, frozen and staring into the dark until she felt his hand on her back. “I apologise,” he said. “Clearly I have overstepped.”
“You see a great deal, my lord,” she said.
“Life as a drunk has a few advantages. Being continually underestimated is one of them.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder before climbing free of the bed and reaching for his clothes. “I should go. The palace guards get a mite prissy with me if I don’t stumble back before daybreak.”
“Palace?” she asked. Before now she had assumed he had a house of his own somewhere in the city.
“Oh yes,” he replied, pulling his shirt on. “I am a guest of his Highness King Janus Al Nieren. I even have a courtly title, Minister of Cumbraelin Affairs. Fortunately it doesn’t involve a great deal of work beyond signing the occasional document I’m not even required to read.”
He managed to don his trews after a protracted struggle then perched on the bed, attempting to pull on one of his shoes without much success. “Allow me,” Derla said, kneeling to manoeuvre the shoe in place before tying up the laces.
Mustor watched her, unshaven features suddenly sagging into a morose grimace. “In truth, I’m no more a guest than a dog is a guest in his master’s kennel.”
Derla reached for the other shoe. “Then why stay?”
His face gave a brief twitch of amusement. “Your question implies a choice in the matter, my dear. And I assure you, I have none. What hostage would choose to stay in his prison? Although,” Mustor smiled as he reached out to caress her hair once more, “I find I grow increasingly fond of the distractions to be found in this particular prison.”
“Hostage?” Derla finished tying the shoe and rose to retrieve his cloak.
“Oh yes.” Mustor rose to a reasonably steady stance and turned so she could fasten the cloak about his shoulders. “The king imagines having me in his clutches is surety against any mischief my father might get up to. A surprising misjudgement for a man of such renowned insight.” He turned, leaning close to kiss her, more fulsomely this time, then shifted to whisper in her ear. “Between us, he chose the wrong son.” He gave a conspiratorial wink then started towards the door.
“You’re always welcome here, my lord,” Derla said. “Pleasing distractions are my business, after all.”
He paused and turned back, eyebrow raised at a knowing angle. “And I can assume the next appointment won’t be free?”
“It depends.”
She watched him ponder for a second, hand hesitant on the door latch. “On what, might I enquire?”
“Cards,” she said. “You play better than anyone I know, and I know many a card player.”
“You wish me to teach you?”
“If you’re so minded. Although, I find I learn best through simple observation.”
She saw his brow furrow once more, eyes narrowing in calculation. She could see the depth of his intelligence in that frown, it was one she had often seen on her father’s face. Drunk or not, he’s far from stupid. “The Margentis,” Mustor said finally, grinning a little. “Heard about my invitation, did you? Keen to get yourself aboard? For what, may I ask? I find it hard to believe you’re short of custom.”
“I am not. But I do have a keen eye for fresh opportunities. Besides the Invitational there are numerous other games played aboard the Margentis, games frequented by inebriated outlaws likely to underestimate a whore, as many underestimate a drunk.”
Mustor thought for a moment and shrugged. “Oh, why not? It’ll be amusing if nothing else. Though, I’m told they’re a rowdy lot, the kind that might not take well to having their purses emptied by a woman, or anyone else for that matter.”
“Your concern is touching.” She moved to him, planted a kiss on his cheek and opened the door to usher him out. “But I have a sense my reputation will protect me.”
“Reputation?” he asked, lingering at the top of the stairs. “For what?”
“Merely a spot of torture along the way, my lord. Best not keep the palace guards waiting.”
Chapter 9
The Margentis lay at anchor a good distance beyond the outer mole of Varinshold harbour, presumably as surety against the night’s festivities attracting any unwanted attention from the City Guard. She was one of the largest ships Derla had seen, broad in the beam with three tall masts and a wide, curving hull. The freighter reminded her of a toad squatting atop a lily pad in the way she rose from the surrounding cluster of boats. The dozens of small craft that had conveyed a host of senior Varinshold criminality from the docks were all tethered together, forming an undulating walkway across which Derla and her lordly companion were obliged to navigate in order to reach the ship.
“I’ve always regarded sea travel as an unnatural pursuit,” Mustor griped as he made a clumsy leap from one bobbing deck to another. “If the World Father wanted us to traverse the oceans he would surely have given us fins.”
“Not much farther now, my lord,” Derla said, glancing up at the ship’s hull. The portholes were all open and brightly lit from within, casting forth a discordant chorus of raucous merriment. “It appears we’ve arrived somewhat late to this gathering.”
“A certain lack of punctuality is expected of the noble class, dearest Derla. It’s one of the tricks we use to maintain the illusion of innate superiority. My father kept my mother and the entirety of Cumbraelin nobility waiting for several hours on his wedding day. Although, rumour has it the delay could be blamed on a dalliance with a maid in the mansion house cellar, not to mention the fact that he detested the very sight of his bride, of course.”
Derla allowed a reluctant smile to play over his lips. She had been in his company most nights over the preceding two weeks, during which time Mustor’s facility for indiscretion had been one of his more endearing traits. She found herself harbouring a slight resentment at his ability to make her like him, it chafed on her professional instincts, both as a spy and a whore. He’s a client and a subject of the King’s scrutiny, she reminded herself, not for the first time. Nothing more.
After several minutes of precarious navigation they came to a steep gangway ascending from the deck of a large boat lashed to the ship’s hull. Musto
r was not the most physically able of men and spent a long moment gasping for breath after they stepped on to the upper deck.
“Lord Sentes Mustor and companion,” Derla introduced them to a pair of scowling Meldenean guards as Mustor leaned heavily on the rail, too winded to speak. “We’re expected.”
“He is,” one of the Meldeneans replied, a hand resting on the hilt of his sabre as he jerked his chin at Mustor. “You aren’t.”
“Mistress Derla…” Mustor began, wheezing as he straightened to address the guard in lofty tones, “is here at my invitation. If her presence is unacceptable we shall adjourn forthwith.” He turned back to the gangplank, gesturing for Derla to follow.
“Alright,” the Meldenean growled. “Your whore can stay.” He turned and nodded at the stairwell leading to the hold. A heavy glow emanated from the hatch along with the sound of many voices raised in inebriated jocularity. “Better get y’self seated, m’lord,” the Meldenean said, offering Mustor a humourless grin. “The Invitational was s’posed to start and hour ago and your opponents aren’t the most patient of folk.”
The hold was thick with noise and the mingled scent of five-leaf and spilled ale. Men grouped together to play dice or cards whilst others nuzzled the giggling, barely dressed women in their laps or dragged them into a secluded alcove for more fulsome entertainment. Derla recognised various outlaw luminaries amongst the throng, along with their more senior lieutenants. She drew a few nods of recognition as she and Mustor made their way aft, though most of the assembly were too drunk or lost in the varied delights on offer to afford her much attention. However, there was one exception, picked out of the crowd thanks to her recently honed observational skills. He was a slender fellow with long hair, leaning against a barrel and regarding her with a steady gaze as he puffed from a long-stemmed pipe. A pipe, Derla saw, that had no smoke rising from the bowl. She knew him only as the Stitcher, due to his rumoured habit of stitching closed the wounds of those he tortured so they wouldn’t bleed to death too quickly. One Eye’s man, she recalled, allowing her gaze to slip over the slender man’s face without obvious sign of recognition. Not drunk and puffing an empty pipe.
Her gaze found two more of One Eye’s crew in the crowd as she continued to follow Mustor forward, a stocky man known for his skills with the cudgel and a woman of far more worrying abilities. She was small and slight with a deceptively sweet countenance. Derla had never learned her true name but she had earned plenty of others in recent years, the most notorious of which was Lady Venom. She possessed a similar talent to Little Dot. But, whereas the diminutive healer’s skills were directed towards preserving life, Lady Venom’s were skewed very much to the opposite.
Like the Stitcher, neither the cudgel expert or Lady Venom showed any signs of intoxication, keeping to the shadows and taking no part in games or carnality. He must have sent them to oversee the festivities, she decided, although it wasn’t their typical role. Keeping watch on gatherings like this was a task usually reserved for low-status thugs like Ratter and Draker, but, as she had expected, those two had vanished from the city soon after Frentis’s as yet unexplained disappearance. Perhaps he’s short-handed. The notion afforded only a small crumb of comfort and she found she had to resist the impulse to place a reassuring hand on the knife concealed at the small of her back.
After much jostling they came to the wide oval table where the Invitational would take place. A burly Meldenean sat at the table with three other men. He was marked out as the captain of the Margentis by the red scarf on his head, which added a tinge of fury to his countenance as he growled “Where the fuck’ve you been?” at Mustor.
“‘Where the fuck’ve you been, my lord?’ if you don’t mind,” Mustor replied in a brisk but affable tone as he took a seat to the captain’s left. “I do prefer a civil tone when at table.”
This drew a laugh from two of the others and another growl from the captain. “No lords on this ship or at this table,” he said. “Here there’s just the cards and the luck the gods allow us.”
“Luck,” Mustor repeated, raising an eyebrow. “What a quaint notion of this game you have, good sir.” He smiled at the captain’s deepening glower, spreading his hands. “Shall we be about it?”
The captain gave another growl, wordless this time, then turned to beckon a short, neatly attired man from the shadows. “Wentel,” the Meldenean said and the short man gave a respectful nod to the players. “Our dealer for tonight. He’s renowned in Varinshold and beyond as an honest pair of hands. Any who find him unacceptable, speak now and state your reasons.”
“I’ve had the pleasure of sitting at Master Wentel’s table before,” Mustor said. “And I find him more than acceptable.”
The man seated on Mustor’s left was of dark complexion and clad in silks that marked him out as an Alpiran from the western provinces of the empire. He bared a wall of gold-inlaid teeth in a smile and inclined his head at Wentel, speaking in softly accented Realm Tongue, “I too know this man as both skilled and honest. Acceptable.”
The man on the Alpiran’s left was large, unshaven and seemed to have been wearing the same clothes for at least a week, judging by the multiple wine and food stains besmirching the fabric, and his somewhat ripe aroma. He spared Wentel a brief glance, large shoulders moving a shrug as he muttered, “Acceptable,” in an gruff Nilsaelin accent.
Derla couldn’t see the face of the final player who sat directly opposite Mustor. He reclined in his chair, features lost in the shadow beyond the reach of the lantern hanging from the beams above. Derla noted that he was of athletic build with a pair of broad, strong hands resting on the table. She saw two points of light glimmer in the shadow that masked the man’s face and realised he had blinked, but the two glimmers didn’t match. One was small and bright whilst the other was duller, as if the lamplight caught something other than an eye. She managed to conceal a start as the familiar voice came from the shadows, a voice she had heard only a few times, but had hoped to never hear again.
“Unacceptable,” said Hunsil, king of the Varinshold criminal class, now better known as One Eye. He lifted one of his broad hands and pointed a finger across the table, a finger aimed straight at Derla. “I want her.”
Chapter 10
“The Cumbraelin’s doxy?” the captain scoffed as One Eye’s finger continued to point at Derla. “I think not.”
Silence reigned at the table for a full minute during which the scorn slowly faded from the captain’s brow. The moment ended when Master Wentel, now noticeably more pale of face, turned about and walked swiftly into the shadows.
“Are there, ahem, any objections?” the captain enquired, voice suddenly hoarse and sweat staining his headscarf.
None of the other players said a word, although Mustor turned to afford Derla a puzzled frown. She laid a hand on his shoulder, leaning close to nuzzle his ear. “Don’t drink anything,” she whispered, squeezing his shoulder hard to emphasise the point before moving to take the dealer’s chair to the right of the captain. “Standard rules?” she asked, reaching for the deck.
“Asraelin No-blind,” the captain said. “Minimum bet one gold per hand, fold or not.”
Derla fanned the deck before giving it a rapid but thorough shuffle. The cards were all brand new, the ink fresh and the colours vibrant. She could see no obvious marks amid the spiral patterns on the back of each card, nor any subtle changes in dimensions which might afford a dishonest player an advantage.
“As per the rules of Asraelin No-blind,” she said, cards flying across the table as she dealt, six cards to each player, “all folded hands and exchanged cards to be shown. Coins in the pot if you please, good sirs.”
She watched each player toss a single gold coin into the centre of the table before checking their hand. Their experience was evident in the care with which they kept any expression from their faces, apart from the captain who bit down a curse and flipped his cards over with a distinct lack of grace. Owes his invitation to his captaincy
of this vessel, Derla decided, responding to the man’s suspicious glare with a placid smile before turning her attention to the other players. Mustor exchanged two cards from his hand, the Candle and the Poisoned Cup, both low value cards typically discarded at this stage of the game. The gold-toothed Alpiran exchanged three similarly poor cards and the ill-smelling Nilsaelin one.
Derla watched One Eye’s finger tap out a slow drumbeat. After a moment he shifted in his seat, leaning forward so that the lamplight revealed his face. He had been handsome before, possessed of well drawn features Derla had felt were wasted on a man of his profession. Now any pleasing aspect was completely overshadowed by the scar that bisected his left eyelid and the smooth orb of carved jet that filled the socket. He angled his head at her, the edges of his mouth curling in something that approximated a sympathetic smile.
“I heard about your recent troubles,” he said, voice soft with sincerity. “A bad business to be sure. What was her name?”
“Livera,” Derla replied.
“Yes, Livera. Alpiran, as I recall. Very comely to the eye, was she not?” He reclined a little, the upper half of his face lost to shadow once more, speaking on without waiting for a response, “Beauty can be dangerous. Still, I’m given to understand the matter was swiftly resolved, by your own dainty hand no less.”
“Sadly, the miscreant was taken from me. By a madwoman, so I’m told.”
One Eye’s lips parted to release a fractional laugh. “Of course he was.” He tapped the table with his thumb, indicating he didn’t wish to exchange any cards.