Liaden Universe Constellation Volume 3

by Sharon Lee

  And so Villy’d explained that if the man played him at the base rate that he, Villy, would represent the House directly . . . yet the man was still confused about the difference between the casino, the House, Villy and . . .

  The pilot arrived, looked to the man and then to Villy—

  “Has a bundle been purchased? Is there a game building? May I join?”

  “No decision there, Pilot, while deciding’s going on,” Villy managed respectfully, adding, “would you like to consult over choices? Would you care to challenge or be challenged?”

  Villy hopefully held a tube of each kind toward the pilot, who bowed acknowledgment and turned to the overdressed newcomer.

  “Surely anyone can see that the Solcintran style is superior for the player of quality and experience. The extra sticks make the game more difficult, and played for color, there’s considerable complexity! The Quick-sticks are light fare. They are perhaps adequate for someone passing time on the port while expecting a flight, or waiting to be joined by a companion.”

  Villy absorbed these words, offered in Terran, and held them to him: the pilot was young, not much older than Villy himself—despite which he was a man with good sense and excellent understanding. These words, repeated wisely, were worth bits in Villy’s pocket in the future, surely.

  “Obviously you see yourself as superior with the Liaden-style,” the tourist said accusingly—Villy thought of him as The Coat, for the purple and red-striped garment he wore—“but I’m willing to play a game and try them out. Name low stakes, sir, and I’ll try your choice.”

  The pilot slid his hand into his public pocket and pulled out a handful of Terran change, looking to Villy with a slight smile.

  “Let me see what I carry, sir—perhaps I’ll have my lunch money made into chips. I suppose we should start low, to find a range.”

  “Lunch money? Hah! They feed you here, if you win!”

  “As luck favors,” the pilot murmured. He nodded to Villy and stepped away, toward the bank.

  The pilot was as good as his word, returning to buy the first bundle with a five-pale chip and offering his opponent “Five pales to start, if you like, for the first game.”

  Villy had quick eyes—the five pales the pilot offered were matched by one in his hand. Villy worried briefly—perhaps the ten had been all the money the pilot owned?

  The other player laughed; it was an ugly sound compared to the pilot’s voice, and it faded into an ugly smile filled with ugly, multi-colored teeth. His coat stank of smoke and a hint of old vaya and sweat, and the striped sleeves waved gracelessly and then fluttered as he moved his meaty hands in emphasis.

  “Sure, why not get our fingers warmed up before we throw money at Lady Luck?”

  Villy looked around but saw no such lady. Lucks—formal, paid Lucks that is, people whose mere presence was said to change fortune for others—were specifically not permitted at the Emerald. The rule was clearly posted!

  The pilot bowed, acknowledging a witticism, “I’ll buy the second tube,” which was only fair.

  “Shall you twist, or shall I?”

  The pilot thus offered choice of first throw—but that was a Solcintran habit, Villy’d learned—and twisted the tube with a sharp snap, breaking the seal as his opponent waved him to it.

  With the game joined, Villy stepped back.

  Like the man’s voice, the throw was ugly. The table strike was awkward, with sticks bouncing rather than spreading naturally, and the clicks of the late-falls were ragged rather than rhythmic. Villy held his face close, but not as close as the pilot, who might have not seen anything amiss but the blandness. Meanwhile, The Coat nodded and smiled, as if everything was exactly like he wanted it.

  At this juncture, Villy’s job was as spotter—with the aid of the back-up camera, of course, if anybody called foul.

  He watched carefully as The Coat’s first three lifts went well. His technique seemed to require small motions over tortuous amounts of time, and both squinting and special breathing, not to mention craning his neck for the best view angle. Despite the second lift—using a dangerous leverage technique—he seemed in control. The fourth—no need for a camera there—the bobble was significant, clearly moving three other sticks and quickly admitted with an under-voiced curse.

  The pilot . . . was completely at ease as his turn started, in fact so at ease that he appeared to have no technique at all to his pick-ups—no special breaths, no extreme staring or checking of angles, and Villy sighed when the rest of that pile was done at about the time The Coat was muttering, “Remarkable!”

  The pilot nodded, glanced into the large man’s face and offered, “Another then, at the same rates, to see if Lady Luck walks by?”

  The pilot, having collected his fifth straight round-up, sighed gently. The Coat had been becoming louder, and twice had asked for screen-checks of pick-ups that were flawless. He’d insisted on doubling the bets after the third course, and had taken a moment’s break for some sort of meditative breathwork Villy didn’t recognize. Even after the break his attempts were growing less fluid, and taking absurdly long—in fact, the pilot might have called foul, so long had one taken.

  Villy was beginning to worry. The pilot was . . . very good, and Villy was supposed to watch out for pros, or for Sharps, roving gamblers looking for the less skilled to fleece. He hoped the pilot wasn’t a Sharp—in fact, if he wasn’t losing so bad, he’d have taken The Coat for a Sharp on actions alone . . .

  The pilot’s left hand held the sticks and he gently tapped the ends into his free right palm.

  “The matter seems not to be one of dispute, sir. The game is hardly a gamble for me unless we go to handicaps, and I’m not one to play . . .”

  Villy breathed a little easier—maybe the pilot was not a roving gambler in search of a victim but a man looking for some relaxation and play. . . .

  “Wait, no, if you really were playing your lunch money, now you’re playing with my money. I’ll buy a new tube and we’ll play at real rates—and we’ll have a coin flip to decide which style tube! I see how you play, like it means nothing to you. Stopping now means you’ve tugged me wrong! You’ve put me on!”

  Villy stepped forward, the rising animosity in The Coat’s demeanor concerning.

  “Sir, your opponent has suggested that more play would be unfair to you. I think that’s a sign that . . .”

  The pilot reached into his public pocket, showing his winnings.

  “These few chips mean I’ve tugged you wrong? I think you do not know what it is to be tugged wrong, sir. But so, we’ll play on, if you insist. I promise to concentrate, if that will permit you to concentrate.”

  Villy grimaced. The Coat seemed not to take the same sense from that last bit that Villy did . . . Still, there’d been discussion and agreement, and not an argument. That was good, he thought.

  Quin ran the pilot’s rainbow as the sticks came to his hand, and his throw was good: There was a complex stack to work with, and the bottom of the pile richer than the top. The purple crossed the blue under the red—good point value there.

  “Thus we’ll play for twenty-five pales plus five up for each color up the rungs?”

  The Coat looked at the pile and nodded, “Your call. I now reserve to match for any runs of over one hundred.”

  The pilot bowed, the minor tic of a smile at one corner of his mouth, and glanced around before giving an almost Terran shrug and taking position.

  Villy had noticed already what the pilot saw: Several passersby had become witness and audience, and another was moving closer. There seemed to be more people in the Emerald now, some of them workmen he recognized from frequent lunchtime play, one he knew as a functionary recently added to the port roster; a sometime client of his, from Audrey’s. He’d be the third in the gallery . . .

  The sound of the sticks absently tapped on end before the throw brought his eyes to the table, and there, the flash of color, and an admirable spread.

  Villy settled ba
ck to watch, and indeed, the pilot did seem more intent now. His concentration had improved, his hand-motions were more precise. He was also, Villy thought, he was purposefully—yes. There it was. There was a delay that Villy measured as one two three four, one two three four between pickups. If it was designed to distract, annoy, or to aid concentration, he couldn’t guess.

  In any case, the throw was run, and the pilot, intent, looked into the eyes of his opponent, who had remained silent.

  “Shall I continue? Same?”

  The chips moved, and it was so—the pilot went on. The tube was run again and once more . . .

  The pilot looked up, first at Villy, then at The Coat.

  Without hesitation he continued to pick up as he spoke . . .

  “When I finish this run, you’ll have a match of two hundred sticks. That will suffice for me. When your run is over, I’ll break for lunch.”

  The run continued, smoothly, and just shy of mechanically. The cadence continued, and colors and angle were of no moment as those smooth hands worked.

  Indeed, the pilot picked up his two hundredth stick, and then the five remaining on table he rolled under his hand carelessly, on purpose.

  “Yours!”

  That was awful familiar—that show of self-assured arrogance. In fact Villy thought he’d once—only once!—seen Boss Conrad do the same thing, right at this table. He did it to a guy who’d been bad-mouthing the Emerald as a back-water bar, and the Boss had shown the guy exactly the way the game was played, taking him down five rounds in a row.

  Villy smiled at that. The Boss was busy these days and he didn’t get to see him often.

  But at the table now, The Coat was sweating and seething.

  “Ruin a run to show off? You’ll destroy your luck for sure! I’ve got you now!”

  There was a murmur from the onlookers . . .

  The audience was grown to nearly a dozen, two-thirds of them native Terran, a reasonable gallery for a busy day, but for this one, it meant other parts of the casino were empty because they were watching the show here.

  He’d hear from the floor boss about that—he should have by now called for the drink-dancer. Easy enough, he touched the collar stud to call her. Someone besides the pilot ought to be making money . . .

  “These have been working,” The Coat said to Villy—“and now they owe revenge. We’ll continue!”

  The crowd grew closer and thicker and the sticks chittered when they were thrown. The Coat was hanging close to them now, muttering, staring, measuring with hand motions, leading his moves with dips of the shoulder, but moving more rapidly, also, as if he’d learned some lesson from the pilot’s measured movements.

  Around them whispered bets for and against The Coat, Liadens offering more against The Coat than for, their odds in dozens while the Terrans did tens and fifties.

  Oblivious, The Coat ran three tubes flawlessly and there were payouts in the crowd for passing the hundred, for passing the third tube, for . . .

  Then a very difficult lay, with several balance points at risk. The crowd hushed, and Villy’s eyes went to the camera views for close-up.

  On another day he might have thought he saw a movement, but if he did, the pilot’s eyes nor the crowd’s had seen it, and the play went forward. The next two pickups were easier, and the—

  The slip this time was perceptible to all, and led to a slow cataclysm of rolling, sliding sticks. The watchers watched, began to mumble, mutter, or laugh depending on their stakes in the matter, and the Terran seemed to deflate within his coat, the color going out of his face.

  The pilot bowed then, first to Villy, and then to The Coat.

  “Your time is up, sir. My play at the sticks is done for the day . . .”

  The pilot’s bow and meaning was unmistakable.

  “But wait—you have to give me a chance to . . .”

  Several others were coming forward as if to fill the void left by the pilot. The Coat’s face was red, and he turned, one hand going out as if to reach for the pilot. Villy turned his back to the large man and gestured with his hands to the crowd, effectively thwarting the move.

  “The tube’s run,” Villy announced with as much gravity as he could muster, “And,” he said, very loudly, “this is my mandatory coffee break!”

  That was enough to bring the nearest marked security sliding in from opposite sides of the room—“mandatory coffee break” being the week’s code words for potential problem customer—but by then the crowd was in motion, many following the pilot toward his next station.

  “Coffee break!” roared The Coat into the rapidly thinning crowd. “I’ll tell you what. You owe me for breaking my chance here. It was my turn to win. Let me play you! I want your game!”

  “Coffee break,” Villy insisted. “I can’t!”

  “Look,” The Coat said to approaching team, pointing toward Villy, “this guy ought to be playing me now! He owes me a shot to get my money back!”

  Villy ignored the man, gathering the tubes into their lockbin and ostentatiously turning the key over to the uniforms.

  “Coffee break,” Security insisted mercilessly. “Play continues later.”

  Quin took several steps away, then turned, meaning to tip the Game Master, but that worthy was already chatting profusely with Security and heading off to one of the backrooms. The man who’d had too much money stood staring after him.

  Quin sighed—that was a connection he wanted to sever. Coffee break meant that Villy Butler would be back at his station eventually and Quin could tip him later. Quin offered himself a pilot’s loose return at will hand-motion and—

  He hesitated, thinking to take a brief break among the robots, and perhaps have a snack . . .

  Who were these people? Somehow he’d gained a cometary tail of gamblers and followers, something he hadn’t expected. Seeing he’d paused, with neither bowing nor intro, the following Terrans started in . . .

  “Pilot, good hands there!”

  “Luck’s with you—saw you at the spinners!”

  “Oh, don’t run—play’s better here than that—he’s a fluke and a hanger—saw him here yesternight begging play with his betters.”

  The locals, there were at least two, judging by accent, were less flattering.

  “Shouldn’a wasted nowits time, and poor Villy outta the play, too, and dem chisletoes got the fingers of a branch-bumbling charcoal grubber.”

  Quin suppressed a grin on that one. That was close enough to calling the man a lackwitted fool as to make no matter—if the man only heard it to know it.

  Uncomfortably close to his side now was someone he’d noticed before—one of the gallants unofficially attending the Scout. It struck him that the Scout, like him, spoke Liaden, and that the gallants might after all be lonely for the sound of home, in a place where Liaden was heard, but was hardly universal, and where etiquette sometimes meant stepping aside quickly to the implied demand of, “Coming through!”

  A bow, and a murmured comment from that gallant.

  “Pilot, your melant’i shows very well there. Continued play would be an affront to anyone of skill or breeding.”

  “Yes,” Quin agreed, probably rather short, and his bow of acknowledgment even shorter. He desperately wracked his brain for the gallant’s name or clan, but lacking—well, they were not on Liad, and he could walk on.

  Two Terrans intercepted him now—

  “Pilot, are you up to our challenge? Will you return to the sticks after the coffee break?”

  The gallant began to say something more, but another Terran arrived, “Please, join me in a game. I’m sure that I’ll offer more play and . . .”

  The cometary tail had become a group, and he bowed a no, thank you, which was lost among the unseemly Terran waving and the voices.

  “I am done with sticks for today,” he said. “Clearly there’s no competition.”

  “No competition? How can you say . . .”

  Exasperated, Quin fought the Terran/Liaden/Trade int
erface, finally summing up with a rush.

  “I have done sticks and am not beaten. I came to meet someone, and that is what I will do.”

  The noise continued, and one near his elbow was asking . . .

  He raised his voice again, to reach the challengers at the far side who were calling out to him, “Pilot, you must play. Luck’s running you but I can beat you!”

  “Quiet! This is not luck. It appears I can beat anyone in the casino at will and . . .”

  The buzz about him had fallen silent at his command, and now the entire room was watching him. The hidden nerligig amplified the silence, and then the rhythm of his words, producing new music, with power.

  The gallant at his side was twittering over something, and the purposeful march of a leather-coated figure split his field of vision.

  “Pilot,” said the Scout he’d seen before, “you impugn all of us as lacksters and amateurs with such an attitude. I’ll grant you the sticks—they’re of little matter. Now, best of five at any station, or until you’re out of funds, if you dare.”

  He had, of course, meant any challenge at sticks. He’d not meant to take on the casino. But this, this . . .

  He laughed, allowing a smile to remain on his face. If I dare!

  “Of course, I dare,” he said, “at any station you name. Until you give up, or until necessity calls me away. I await occupation.”

  She looked him up and down, took in his boots, and then his public gun.

  “‘At will,’ Pilot, that’s what you said. Best of five. How about piket?”

  “Piket? Fine. That will be occupation enough.”