Master of the Game

by Jane Kindred

  Phaleg had continued to advance, and he stopped in front of Silk. “What do you mean, what’s good about it? About what?”

  “Fucking!” Silk hurled the word at him as if he’d vomited it, his hands white against the bureau and his whole body tense with resistance.

  The realization struck him that his outburst about Silk’s prejudice against his privileged status as an angel was absurd. Silk had been sold to a brothel as a child. Phaleg truly had no idea what he was talking about.

  He put his hand over one of Silk’s, and the demon flinched. “Silk… Did someone hurt you?”

  Silk began to laugh with a slightly hysterical pitch. “Did someone hurt me? Who do you think you’re talking to?” Though his demeanor radiated scorn, there was an edge of terror in his laughter, and he looked ready to bolt.

  Phaleg dropped the shirt and jacket he still clutched and wrapped both hands around Silk’s arms. “You can trust me. I’d never hurt you.”

  Silk began to shake. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”

  “So you keep telling me.” Phaleg enveloped him in his arms, and Silk collapsed against him, his knees buckling so violently they both slid downward to the floor, Silk sitting roughly against the bureau drawers with his knees drawn up, and Phaleg on his knees, still gripping Silk’s shoulders.

  Silk put his head in his hands and sucked in a wheezing breath as though his chest hurt. “I’m the one who hurt someone.” His voice was small and tight. Phaleg waited, almost holding his breath in the silence that followed, afraid to spook him. After several moments, Silk spoke again. “Kezef—he said he’d kill him. He was going to beat him to death right in front of me if I didn’t do as he said.”

  “Kezef. That demon who beat Vasily.”

  Silk nodded. “When I first came to the Fletchery, Kezef reserved my services. He was allowed to do what he liked and to keep me at the Fletchery indefinitely, so long as I remained ‘chaste’.” Phaleg ached for the child Silk had been. He’d done the math. Silk couldn’t have been more than Ruslan’s age at the time. “But he said he knew I’d been done before. And he wanted to watch me…do it.” Tears were sliding over Silk’s cheeks beneath his palms. “He would have killed him. He’d beaten him already. There was so much blood. I had to. I had to.”

  “Oh, Silk.” Phaleg’s heart twisted as he realized what Silk was saying.

  Silk’s shoulders were limp under Phaleg’s hands, as if the words had exhausted him. “Now you know what I am. You should go.”

  “What you are? You’re a demon who had his childhood stolen.” Phaleg cupped Silk’s soft, supple neck. “A beautiful, sensitive demon, despite what was done to you.”

  Silk lifted his head, letting his hands fall away from his face. “Done to me? Were you not listening?”

  “Yes, I was listening. And I’m sorry. For what he made you do. For what he did to you. For everything.” Phaleg dared to kiss Silk’s damp lips, tasting the salt on them.

  Silk stared up at him as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening. “Why aren’t you leaving?”

  “You said I could stay. All night. And I mean to.” He took Silk by the hand and rose, drawing the demon to his feet. “Come on. Let’s just sleep.” Silk followed him to the bed, bemused, and they climbed into it, Silk still wearing his dressing gown and Phaleg wearing his pants. Phaleg curled himself around Silk and held on to him.

  Their roles had reversed—and yet they hadn’t. He still longed for Silk to abuse him, and the memory of the chain around his neck, the lead in his mouth, and of the rope that had held him, turned him into Silk’s helpless toy, made his skin tingle. Not to mention that his ass was still throbbing from the cane. He winced slightly at the chafing of his pants against the stripes.

  “You all right?” asked Silk quietly.

  “My ass is on fire,” he murmured against him. He could feel Silk’s satisfaction in the set of his shoulders.

  “Good.” Silk pulled Phaleg’s arms tighter around himself, his next words almost too quiet to hear. “Dirty angelwhore.”

  Desyataya

  Gaspard seemed to have noticed nothing at the master table, which Vasily took as a testament to his own skill. The merchant was happy to slip out of the Brimstone once he’d recovered enough to stand, and Vasily managed to maintain a somewhat normal demeanor as they walked arm in arm toward Gaspard’s cab. It was a common enough occurrence in Raqia for men who had been drinking to be chummy, and unlikely to make anyone think twice, but it was rather daring for Gaspard.

  “Why do you let him treat you that way?” Gaspard asked as they reached the conveyance. Apparently, he’d noticed more than Vasily had guessed.

  “What way?” he replied sullenly.

  “Don’t be coy. He was betting you, wasn’t he?” Gaspard shook his head. “First he auctions you off, now he uses you like currency.”

  Vasily unhooked his arm from Gaspard’s. “You offered to play him for me, if you recall.”

  “So I did. That was in poor taste. I apologize.” Gaspard opened the door of the cab and stepped up. “You shouldn’t go back to his bed after that display. Come home with me. No services required, just a place to sleep for the night.”

  He wouldn’t normally have accepted such an offer, but the more he thought about it—Belphagor betting him was bad enough, but to Kezef, of all people. He was livid and humiliated. And hurt. He took Gaspard’s offered hand and stepped up into the carriage.

  The game went on all night. Kezef confounded his influence, and Belphagor blocked Kezef’s numerous attempts to rig the game through whatever magical charm he was invoking. It was exhausting playing on two levels with equal concentration devoted to each. Kezef also played very well, magic aside, and for every hand Belphagor won, Kezef would win the next. But there was no way Belphagor was losing this game.

  As the darkness began to pale to gray through the windows on the street, one of the onlookers proposed they play a final death-match round to decide the winner, and the rest of the crowd took up the call. Nearly every demon in the house had wagered facets on the outcome, and they wanted to go home to their beds.

  Kezef studied him as he shuffled the deck. “I’m game if you are.”

  Belphagor called for another pint of mead and downed half of it before he answered. Belching, he set the glass on the side table. “If you think you can abide by the outcome, deal the cards.”

  The rules of wingcasting allowed for any number of cards to be maintained in a single hand after the initial seven were dealt. As a player was forced to relinquish a card to the discard pile by missing a call of the die cast by an opponent, the opponent could take the relinquished card without discarding any of his own. Thus, if one’s opponent had no better hand, one could win with as few as the three cards of a full choir—all the orders of a particular choir in the same suit, such as the Dominion, Virtue, and Power of spindles—while a hand such as a scarlet wing, consisting of a full choir and a fourchoir in the red suits, could have as many as seven cards if both facets and tricks were in play. And the best part was that a player could take an opponent’s hand once shown if it gave him a winning hand combined with the cards in his own.

  Part of the art of bluffing that required no overt influence included taking cards one didn’t need. It was a careful balancing act. Take too many with no obvious connection—particularly if you then discarded some of the same cards—and you might tip your hand if the opponent was paying close attention. And influence could only take you so far. You might convince your opponent you had a winning hand when you didn’t, but this was unlikely to work on any but the most inexperienced, and rarely worked more than once. While influence couldn’t change the cards themselves, it could, however, alter the way the die landed, and with the addition of a little misdirection and sleight of hand, it was possible to swap cards without your opponent noticing. But again, this rarely worked on a seasoned player. And with an audience, such tricks became even more difficult to pull off.
Your opponent might miss a palmed card, but an observer was likely to catch it.

  But Belphagor couldn’t afford to lose this round.

  Since their tournament had begun, he’d been training Kezef with every hand he played to read him incorrectly—inventing a false tell, folding on several occasions when he knew with certainty he had a better hand, and on others relinquishing certain cards he knew would give Kezef the advantage. Careful not to risk enough losses in a row to allow Kezef to claim victory, Belphagor had deliberately lost just enough hands to let him become overconfident. Kezef had been playing an invented opponent for the entire tournament. Now to confound him by letting him play against the true master of the game.

  Belphagor dealt the round, and in the uncharacteristic silence of the gaming room as the spectators held their breath in anticipation, every card dropping onto the table was audible. After perusing his cards intently, Kezef set them facedown in front of him, wove his fingers together to crack his knuckles and picked up the die to cast. The snap of the die against the marble corner and Belphagor’s call of “Damselfly” were swallowed up into a sudden uproar from the front of the tavern.

  Belphagor tried to ignore it. He couldn’t afford any distractions. The die had landed on the Crab and he examined his cards, maintaining an acute awareness of Kezef’s demeanor without seeming to while he selected his discard. But the commotion out front had spilled into the gaming room, and the table was nearly upended as demons began to jostle to get to the rear exit. The Brimstone was being raided.

  Kezef, who had been as intently focused on the game as he had, rose calmly and stepped out of the way, still holding his cards to his chest. His eyes were on Belphagor’s hands to ensure he didn’t try anything during the distraction.

  Shrieks rang out from the entrance. The Ophanim had arrived on the heels of the supernal officers, and demons were being arrested. The game was over.

  “We’ll have a rematch,” said Kezef, just as Belphagor opened his mouth to say the same. Belphagor nodded, and they put their cards down on top of the deck in near unison.

  He recognized one of the officers marching into the gaming room as one of the angels he’d solicited two winters ago as part of his plan to get Vasily back after he’d been abducted by Duke Elyon. It was after Belphagor had serviced the angel along with Phaleg and another officer that Phaleg had stayed behind in the rented room and fallen from grace—straight onto his knees, with his mouth full of Belphagor.

  Belphagor rose and stepped in front of the angel. “Lieutenant Phanuel.”

  The angel stopped short, giving Belphagor a disapproving frown. “How do you know my name, demon?”

  “I’ve made your acquaintance,” said Belphagor.

  The angel sniffed. “I highly doubt that.”

  “Two years ago. In the Demon Market. With your friend Phaleg.”

  Phanuel’s face went white, followed swiftly by a brilliant shade of red. His gaze darted about the room to make sure none of his fellow officers were within hearing range. “What do you want?” he demanded in a low snarl. “I could have you arrested for harassment of an officer of the Supernal Army.”

  Belphagor raised an eyebrow. “For saying hello to you? You mistake my intent. I merely want to know what’s going on. Why are these demons being arrested?”

  “On suspicion of conspiracy to incite a rebellion. Authorized by Major Phaleg, in fact.” So Phaleg was stirring the hornet’s nest because Belphagor hadn’t been stirring it enough himself. Phanuel took a clipboard from under his arm. “What’s your name, demon?”

  “Belphagor.” He gave the angel an extravagant bow. “The one and only.”

  The angel scrutinized the clipboard, running his finger down a list of names, and then frowned with apparent disappointment. “You’re not a suspect. Yet.”

  Belphagor shrugged. “Ah, well. Rebellion isn’t what I normally incite.” He winked, and Phanuel blushed again and hurried off to supervise the roundup. When Belphagor turned back to the wingcasting table, Kezef had gone. Just as well. He’d seen enough of him for one night. And it was no longer night.

  A frantic pounding on his bedroom door woke Silk from a dream in which Phaleg had been the principality and Silk, his queen. It had been absurd and delightful. His shameful revelation to Phaleg the night before rushed back to him as the pounding came again. He wanted to go back to sleep and return to wearing silk corsets and velvet gowns—and to feel as if he deserved Phaleg’s arms around him.

  “Silk? Are you in there?” It was Tilli, the eldest boy. Silk started with guilt as he realized he’d gone to sleep without waiting up for the boys to make sure they arrived home safely.

  He pried himself from Phaleg’s sleepy embrace and jumped up, tying the sash on his dressing gown before he threw open the door. “Tilli? What’s wrong? Is everyone okay?”

  “It’s the Stone Horse. They’re raiding it again.”

  Damn those bloody angels.

  Phaleg, now wide awake, came to his side. “Raiding it? Under whose authority?”

  Tilli scowled at Phaleg and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yours, of course.”

  “Mine?” Phaleg met Silk’s questioning gaze with an adamant shake of his head. “I haven’t authorized anything. I haven’t even been back to the palace yet to let the principality know I’ve returned. How could I have authorized a raid?”

  “The angels say you did,” said Tilli.

  It wouldn’t be the first time Phaleg had raided one of his own brothels, but Silk decided to reserve judgment. There had to be some explanation. “Thanks, Till. I’ll take care of it. Everyone else okay? You boys didn’t get mixed up in anything, did you?”

  “Everyone’s fine. They’re watching through the attic windows.”

  “You go back and join them, then.” Silk gently prodded him out and closed the door before he went to the wardrobe and pulled out his best suit. Whoever had authorized it, he wasn’t going to stand for his boys being rounded up like common alley whores.

  Phaleg gathered the rest of his clothes. “If you’re going over there, I’m going with you.”

  Silk paused in shimmying into his pants. “You can’t show up there with me. Do you want to lose your commission?”

  “They don’t have to know I came from next door with you.”

  Silk shook his head, slipping into his best white shirt and hurriedly fastening the pearl buttons. “If it’s anything like last time, they’ll be rounding them up in the street. They’ll see you and they’ll know exactly where you came from—especially in those wrinkled pants. Just stay put until they’ve cleared out.”

  Phaleg watched him dubiously, and when Silk looked about for his socks and shoes, Phaleg fetched them and knelt to put them on him. Silk stroked the angel’s hair, touched and yet uneasy that Phaleg showed him such deference after what he’d shared with him. Why the hell wasn’t Phaleg running the other way? After Phaleg helped him into his jacket, Silk drew him close and kissed him. He couldn’t help it. It was foolish. Angels didn’t have feelings for demons. This could only end badly. But his heart wouldn’t listen.

  At the Stone Horse, things were worse than he’d feared. Not only were several patrons kneeling in the street in the custody of angelic officers, all of his boys were lined up outside in various states of undress, and a writ was being nailed to the door declaring the brothel’s business illegal. Some archaic anti-soliciting law had been cited that was obvious bullshit. There were a dozen houses of ill repute in the Demon District, and the law had never been invoked for any of them.

  “What are the charges against these gentlemen?” Silk demanded. “No one has been ‘soliciting’. All of our clientele come to us in need of custom services.”

  The angel in charge spat on the ground. “Gentlemen. You have some nerve applying that term to a bunch of demon whores and perverts.” He showed Silk a list of names. Most were patrons, but three of his boys were on it. “Your whorehouse is shut down. Your stable of ‘stallions’ can go back
to doing back-alley business. They aren’t worth the bother of arresting, but I’ve been authorized to bring in the names on this list for conspiracy to incite rebellion against the crown. Now step aside unless you plan to join them.”

  Silk stepped back to the curb where the rent boys were lined up. It was far too cold out for them to be standing in this weather with so little covering. He took off his suit jacket and put it around the shoulders of Sasha, who whore nothing but his drawers.

  Sasha drew it tight around himself. “Thanks. They wouldn’t let us grab our clothes.”

  “Bastards.” Silk tucked his hands under his arms against the cold.

  “I warned Arkady about doing that kind of business here, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Passing information for those ‘liberation’ types for extra facets. As if angels are ever going to do anything for us.”

  Silk narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. “You mean those three are actually guilty of what they’re being accused of?”

  Sasha shrugged. “If that amounts to ‘conspiring to incite rebellion’, then yes. Apparently, that Supernal Army officer you used to spank has had a spy here ever since the last raid to see if you were setting up the meetings. Good thing you kicked that little fascist to the curb.”

  Silk nearly clutched his stomach, the feeling he’d been punched in it was so strong. Phaleg had been spying on him? The momentary feeling of safety he’d had in the angel’s arms last night dissolved like a sculpture made of sugar in an autumn rain. How could Silk have been such a fool? He glanced up at the apartment. Phaleg’s silhouette was visible among the boys’ at the attic window.

  In the street, the liberationist conspirators were prodded to their feet, and the three demons who’d been consorting with them, having been pointed out by their patrons, were dragged forward for the march of shame to Elysium.