Blackguards

by J. M. Martin

  Marcus looked at the woman. “Jaryn?”

  She returned a tortured gaze. Tortured, Jastail knew from experience, for her loved one. Not for herself. She’d already weighed the stakes and folded her cards.

  Then Marcus shifted his gaze to Jastail. “If you take her, I’ll follow. And I’ll bring help.”

  “Of course you will.” Jastail nodded to the fact with good humor. “And you’d have time to get your little ones someplace safe, so you can make an unencumbered rescue attempt. Quite practical.”

  In all the time Jastail had lain this type of ambush, only one man had ever successfully reclaimed the woman Jastail had taken. Good odds. And he didn’t mind the game of it when a husband had wit and skill.

  Marcus lowered his knife and hammer.

  Jastail smiled apologetically—a touch of theater on his part. Then he put his hand on the woman’s arm and began leading her northward. Their horses weren’t far.

  Marcus stood still as Nichols, Jastail’s most seasoned man, passed by him. Then the would-be hero brought his shoeing knife up in a swift motion and plunged it into Nichols’ kidney. A pit fighter’s move. Debilitating. And lethal. Nichols cried out and fell.

  Medi, one of Nichols’ good friends, lunged at Marcus, blade and dagger slicing through the air.

  Marcus shuffled back, avoiding the blades. He then closed fast, dropped low, and brought his hammer around hard on the side of Medi’s left knee. The bones crunched as Medi’s leg bent at an impossible angle and he fell. Marcus pounced, driving his hammer down on the man’s throat, silencing his cries of pain.

  Jastail pulled the woman away, clearing the area for the fight. He has real skill. Jastail nodded with approval, and smiled with eagerness.

  The rest of his band formed a circle, caging Marcus in. But the man seemed unconcerned, keeping a fighter’s crouch, and turning constantly to meet every eye. When he came last to Jastail, he showed a cold, reasoning expression.

  “You won’t harm her. She’s your prize.” Good wit. “And you’re content with just the woman, which means you’re a womb trader. You don’t care for trafficking brats.” Damn, but I like this fellow. “And I’ve a bit more skill than changing a horseshoe. I’ll take my chances here, since I don’t like them once she’s gone.”

  A gambler, too. Jastail must have looked like he was beaming to his fellows, since he never could have imagined so good a contest coming on a minor highway in the south of So’Dell.

  Jastail raised his sword. “You and I, then. For the lady’s honor.”

  Marcus flipped the hammer up, spinning it twice, and caught it again. He nodded.

  The two began to circle, each feinting several times. Finally, Marcus stepped in with a clever combination of stab and swing. Jastail didn’t fall for the dagger strike, anticipating the hammer from the other side. Good way to get an arm broken.

  When the hammer came around, he wind-milled his sword and cut Marcus’ upper arm deep. Blood soaked the man’s sleeve with a spreading crimson.

  Jastail hoped it wouldn’t be so easy, and switched hands with this sword, shuffling his feet to a right-handed stance. His weaker side.

  Marcus adjusted his grip on his knife, taking a standard hold. And did something surprising. Instead of circling in, he took half a step back and threw the dagger with a quick, flip of his wrist.

  Jastail had no time to evade the attack. The knife sank into the meat of his upper chest. If he hadn’t been ducking, it might have struck his heart or lung. He stumbled backward, as Marcus leapt forward, bringing his hammer down in a vicious arc.

  Jastail spun, just escaping the blow, and brought his sword around with his momentum, forcing Marcus off-balance. As the two faced each other again, Jastail pulled the knife from his body and smiled. He loved to be surprised. And he loved to surprise others. He slowly tossed the knife back to Marcus handle first. The man caught the weapon and stared back in confusion.

  “Again,” Jastail said, and started forward.

  Marcus crouched, looking more a pit fighter than before. Jastail rushed, feigning a sweeping overhand stroke, then lowered his sword fast and came in under Marcus’ guard. The move put the man off-balance, and Jastail kicked him to the ground.

  Before Marcus could roll, Jastail had his blade at the man’s throat. A simple stab and the man would die.

  “No, Da!”

  Jastail looked up and saw two faces peering through the brush at the edge of the trees. But it wasn’t mercy that kept him from killing their father.

  “Let go your weapons,” Jastail ordered.

  Marcus looked at him a long time. Pride and defeat battled in the man’s face. But not worry. Jastail wanted to meet more men like this. Marcus finally obeyed, and Jastail kicked the knife and hammer away.

  “Thank you for the contest,” Jastail said, bowing slightly. “A pleasant surprise. It hardly changes things for you, as it turns out. But you should feel good about your effort. And, of course, you can still come looking for us once you see to your little ones.” Jastail bent, and quite earnestly confided in the man, “We’re heading north and east to the river. I hope you’ll take your chances again.”

  Sparing no concern, and ignoring his fallen men, Jastail left Marcus there. He paused only to take an article of clothing from the woman’s wash—a child’s sock. Then he gathered her with a gentle hand and led her from her wet clothes and family.

  #

  The riverboat rang with laughter and the sounds of dice and odds-makers calling numbers. Tobacco smoke lazed in the air, thick and sweet. Beneath it the sharp tang of brandy—the drink of choice—rose from countless cups and goblets. Serving men went shirtless, and could be bedded for a full realm mark. Serving women wore a bodice so thin they might as well not have bothered, and could be had at the same price. Gamblers’ hands roamed to the delicate parts of servers and other gamblers as liberally as the drinks flowed. In the far corner of the riverboat’s third deck, Jastail took a seat at the table of the boat’s proprietor, Gynedo.

  Back in this corner, behind a low wall, the din eased a bit. Gynedo smiled as he shuffled a set of plackards, and stared at Jastail from beneath a broad-rimmed hat.

  “You think you’re ready for this game, my young friend? You understand the rules?” Gynedo set the plackards aside and prepared himself a long-stem pipe.

  Jastail nodded.

  “We’re not betting on coin value, you understand,” Gynedo explained again.

  It was a new game, something the gambling boss had conceived when money stakes ceased to hold his interest. That suited Jastail fine. More than fine.

  Gynedo struck his pipe alight and eyed their third player, a raven-haired woman of perhaps twenty-five, whose smile suggested carnal appetites that involved instruments. She wore a black hat from which cascaded a thin curtain of black netting. The net-holes were wide, making her easy enough to see, but the black mesh gave her an air of menace and deceit. Lovely.

  “Not even slave-stock,” Gynedo said. “I have more men and women for the blocks than I can trade as it is. And that’s messy, besides.”

  Jastail took a long drink of his brandy. “Wagers for this game are about the emotional loss of a person. Suffering, you might say.” He grinned at the thought.

  “And we bet a token of that suffering for each round we wish to stay in the game,” the woman finished. She turned to Jastail. “Since Gynedo hasn’t the manners to introduce us, I’m Fleur.”

  “Jastail,” he replied. “Pleasure.”

  She held out her hand as a noble might, expecting a kiss on her knuckles. Jastail took her hand and made a slight bow.

  “Just so,” Gynedo confirmed. “I’m still working out a system to place emotional value on the items. For now, we’ll take it by instinct and agreement at the table.” He smiled around the stem of his pipe. “Three rounds, I think. Escalating value. Game will be Suits.”

  Suits was a simple three plack draw. Placks of the same suit could be added together to get a total po
int value. All cards were kept face down, and turned one at a time, in turn. Very little strategy, but a serviceable game given their purpose and wagers tonight.

  Gynedo dealt out three placks to each of them.

  Jastail turned first. A hawk with eight feathers showing. He then gently pushed a folded piece of parchment into the center of the table.

  “And what do we have here?” Gynedo asked, a glimmer in his eyes.

  “A letter,” Jastail explained. “Written by a man awaiting execution for a crime . . . a crime that I committed.”

  There were false gasps from his table-mates.

  “I orchestrated a bit of misdirection, and got him pegged for it.” Jastail waved a dismissive hand. “Somehow, I was taken for his friend, and given the letter to deliver to his wife.”

  “What does it say?” Fleur asked, leaning in with anticipation.

  Jastail looked at the letter, smiled. “It’s filled with regret. Apology for petty wrongs. Declarations of love.” He paused, considering. “It carries the sad realizations of all the things this man will never see or do again. He wanted to say all this to his wife, but they wouldn’t let her visit him. The letter is all they’d allow.”

  Gynedo offered a low chuckle. “You should have saved this for a later round,” he observed. “You realize, of course, that this token isn’t just the suffering of the man. You’ve also prevented his wife from hearing his last, dearest thoughts and declarations of love. Your bet is double.” He patted the table in appreciation and acceptance of the wager.

  “You’re a lovely bastard,” Fleur declared. Her hand snaked beneath the table to cup his manhood. Jastail nodded thanks and gently put her hand back in her own lap. He knew the art of carnal distraction in a game of chance.

  “My turn, then,” Fleur said, turning her plack—a grey jay with twelve feathers up. She removed an emerald ring from her gloved left hand and placed it in the center of the table.

  “There’s a story behind this, I’m assuming,” Gynedo said with good humor, “since I couldn’t give a tinker’s damn for a ring.”

  “Well, of course.” Fleur cleared her throat dramatically, her face reminding Jastail of a young girl receiving her first kiss. “One of my former husbands ran a shipping trade. Profitable. Very profitable. Despite pirates and storms, we turned coin as though we minted it ourselves. A Soren Sea squall took one of our larger ships down. As an act of compassion, my husband not only made good on the lost freight with his customers, but gave to me 100 full realm marks for each crewman who died. I was to take that money to the spouses and families of those lost. ‘You have decorum,’ he said to me. I bowed gravely to the compliment, and went into the city and bought myself with that money this ring. It’s lovely, don’t you think?”

  She smiled wickedly at Jastail and Gynedo.

  “Suffering by omission,” Gynedo mumbled, seeming to sort through the value. He was still refining his new game. “Those left behind had no breadwinner and no compassion money from their loved one’s employer. I say it’s good.” He looked up and tapped the table again.

  Fleur sat back, looking pleased with herself.

  Gynedo turned his plack—a pine sparrow with three feathers. He reached into this pocket and produced a single, thin plug. He examined it a moment, as if he might not like to part with it. Then he solemnly placed it with the other tokens, making a show of it by doing so painfully slow.

  Gynedo sat back. “Men and women stroll on to my boat every day,” he began. “They come in two stripes. One has bags full of coin. And if this type leaves empty-handed, it means nothing to him. The other sort boards my boat with desperation in his heart. He hopes for a bit of luck. He hopes to turn a meager stake into meat and rent money, because not doing so means people who depend on him will go without.”

  “Then you must have bags full of coins like this,” Fleur observed, leaning forward and fingering the coin.

  Gynedo nodded. “But this one . . . this is one I took myself. And I took it with a cheat. The man had me cold with a high hand of triple draw. But I hate to lose. And it sets a bad precedent for me to be seen losing to a dock worker, of all things. So, I made a simple card exchange.” He paused, his eyes distant. “The look in the man’s face when he lost…I could see the ache of it. I could see those who depended on him losing a measure of hope.”

  Jastail stared at the coin, thinking of a line from one of his dark poets. “I’d have saved that for a later round.”

  They exchanged glances, silently agreeing that they’d all bought another turn. Jastail didn’t hesitate to turn up his second plack. Another hawk. Ten feathers. He now had a suited pair. And he promptly produced a child’s sock—the one he’d earned just a few days prior when he’d taken a woman by a quiet riverside. He shared the story of the article of clothing.

  “Lovely,” Fleur said.

  Gynedo tapped the table again.

  They continued around, each turning a plack, each offering a token. Jastail had the high hand when the third and final round came. But it was clear that both Fleur and Gynedo had dropped more suffering into the pot. He gave them both a long look, then reached into his inner pocket for his length of cherrywood. For perhaps the last time—should he lose tonight—he fingered the groove marks in the short stick. Then, he pulled it from his pocket and placed it with the rest of the wagers.

  Gynedo eyed the token. Fleur looked aflutter with eagerness to hear the story.

  “In Sever Ens, where I grew up, there’s not much for a woman if she’s not a soldier’s wife.” He smiled at dark memories. “My mother was not a soldier’s wife. She wasn’t a wife at all. And she couldn’t tell me who my father was, because she didn’t know.”

  “The wood belongs to your mother?” Gynedo asked.

  Jastail shook his head. “Money was hard to come by. She was fifteen when I was born, and she struggled along until the day came I could help her earn a coin. I was six.”

  Gynedo sat forward. “Jastail?”

  Fleur made a sound of delight at the story.

  “Like anyplace, Sever Ens has its whoreboy trade.” Jastail said it matter-of-factly. “But those are usually gangs of runaways, orphans, or snatched sons brought into the city from far places.” He shook his head. “My mother started asking me to take meals with strangers who came by our shanty. ‘A full, warm meal,’ she’d say. ‘Be grateful,’ she’d say. And sometimes there was, in fact, a meal. But they were bugger meals. And just as often, the bugger bought me nothing.”

  He looked up at his two table-mates, and flashed a wicked smile. “After the first time, I found something to hold in my teeth when these meal-men set to their sport. It kept me from screams, which only ever earned me angry fists anyway. It helped me . . . suffer through.”

  Fleur removed her gloves and picked up the cherrywood, fingering the bite marks. Her expression held fascination and a glint of something Jastail had only seen in a woman at the peak of orgasm. She handed it to Gynedo, who wore a serious look as he studied the token.

  Making the bet felt like pulling a knife slowly through one’s own palm. It burned. Seared. But it exhilarated him to have the will to do something so personally painful.

  He’d hate to lose the cherrywood. But he played to win.

  Gyndeo placed the stick back at the table’s center, knocked the table once rather weakly, and the round continued.

  Gynedo won. He gathered in the pile of tokens, placing them gently into a felt bag. Fleur stood to go. As she passed Jastail, she bent near him, placing her face gently against his neck, and took a deep breath through her nose. She’s smelling me. Then she ran the tip of her tongue over the delicate folds of his ear—a clear invitation—and returned to her room below-deck.

  “It’s an interesting game,” Jastail remarked, as Gynedo settled him a firm stare.

  “It’s rough yet, but it’ll smooth out.” Gynedo gestured for Jastail to follow him into the small quarters just behind his rear-room table.

  Once inside, t
he man closed the door, dimming the riverboat noise to a low roar. He came around to face Jastail square, and held out the length of cherrywood. “Take it.”

  “I lost.” Jastail shrugged. Then he grinned. “Unless you cheated.”

  Gynedo returned a wry smile. “Not this time, I didn’t.” The smile fell away. “But I won’t keep this.”

  “Why? Tender heart?” Jastail tried to push the length of wood away.

  “You and I, we’re not tender men,” Gynedo said. There was no lament over the fact for either of them. “But a man who carries something like this is a man who has unresolved quarrels with his past.”

  “You sound like a priest. It was a wager, Gynedo, not a confession.” Jastail thought a moment. “And certainly not a plea for help. I have my poets for that.” He offered a mild but genuine laugh.

  “Then it wouldn’t bother you if I burned it.” Gyendo strolled to a lamp and removed the glass windbreak to expose the flame.

  Jastail felt a tug of panic low in his gut. “I rather thought I could win it back at our next round of the game.”

  Gynedo began lowering the cherrywood toward the flame. “Snatching travelers from the road and selling them as stock on the blocks has grown tiresome, hasn’t it? Oh, it’s profitable, but hardly thrilling anymore for you or me.”

  Jastail spoke fast. “You think my holding onto the wood speaks of a weakness. A sentimentality, perhaps.” He laughed. “Did I tell you I’ve completed my first stock sale to Bar’dyn out of the Bourne. Dead gods did that pay well. But, to your point, the risk was quite a thrill. One of every two men die trading with the Bar’dyn.”

  Gynedo looked unimpressed, and continued to lower the cherrywood. It was a hand-length from the flame now.

  “Your new game has raised the stakes, too,” Jastail quickly added. “You’re right. I don’t think much anymore about the wombs I gather for Bar’dyn buyers, though I like walking that line of uncertainty every time I meet with the beasts. No, when I’m collecting wombs, I think about what small token I might find to wager at your table.” He gestured toward the gambling deck, where they’d just concluded their round of the new game.