1 State of Grace

by John Phythyon

The club dripped with money. This was where wealth met fashion. The idle rich and the powerful gathered here to socialize. The interior was laid out with oak and marble. It was cozily lit with magical light. Portraits of past club presidents and other officials, as well as an enormous one of the queen, adorned the walls. A lounge accommodated those who wanted to simply drink and talk; a restaurant served fine food; and a gaming room offered diversions of another kind.

  Silverleaf liked to gamble, according to the file Bartleby gave Wolf. He decided the gaming room was his best bet.

  Wolf had no trouble finding him. Silverleaf was seated at a large table playing Conquest with a human noble. Wolf had never seen an elf before, and he was somewhat taken aback. Even seated, Silverleaf was tall. He had skin the color of dark chocolate, and he wore his hair in braids, which were woven with delicate silver chains. His face was the very image of perfection – properly spaced brown eyes, a square jaw enhanced by a goatee, and pointed ears. He wore a blue, sleeveless tunic with silver highlights that exposed well muscled arms, and a large pendant of a silver leaf hung from his neck. There seemed to be a light emanating from him. He was profoundly beautiful in an almost disturbing way. Wolf found it difficult to look at him.

  He moved closer to the table to watch the game. A large crowd had gathered and was buzzing with excitement.

  “Looks like I’ve got you this time, Ambassador,” Silverleaf’s opponent said. He was a large man, with thinning grey hair. Wolf couldn’t tell if he’d once been muscular and had gone to fat or if he had always been soft. Regardless, he was sweating through his yellow, silk tunic. Wolf, who had no use for fashion, was nevertheless disgusted.

  “I’ve got you surrounded,” the fat man continued. “Between my siege engines, infantry and, cavalry, your dragon can’t get them all.”

  Silverleaf stared at his opponent without saying anything. He stroked his beard thoughtfully.

  “Well, I’m an optimist, Sir Leslie,” Silverleaf said. His voice was deep and powerful, but it had a melodious quality to it that was haunting. “What do you say we bet an additional thousand my dragon defeats your forces?”

  Wolf’s eyes narrowed. Silverleaf’s wager was outrageous. He clearly had a nearly impossible position.

  And yet, Sir Leslie did not immediately accept the offer. Neither did any of the spectators who were allowed to conduct side bets on the game.

  “Why hasn’t he taken it?” Wolf whispered to the man next to him, a shabbily dressed noble, who looked as though he couldn’t really afford to be here. The buttons on his coat were tarnished, and the fringe lace was stained and fraying. Wolf suspected he had once been somebody, but that was long ago. He now hung around the Dubonney Club trying to hold on to the last tatters of his name and position.

  “The ambassador never loses,” the shabbily dressed noble replied.

  “Never?” Wolf said.

  “Never,” his new companion said. “He’s very good. Well, very lucky is more like it. He always seems to get the card he needs when he really needs it. It’s uncanny.”

  “Really,” Wolf said.

  “Some people think he’s cheating, but no one can figure out how he does it. He always plays with his arms bare, so he can’t be hiding any cards up his sleeve.”

  Wolf studied Silverleaf. The big elf stared quietly at Sir Leslie, a slight smile on his face. He drummed his fingers patiently. Silverleaf had changed the dynamic of the game. By making his outrageous bet, Sir Leslie had to either accept or forfeit. Because the ambassador always won, Sir Leslie had to consider whether it was worth risking another thousand gold to see if Silverleaf’s luck had at last run out.

  “All right, Ambassador,” Sir Leslie replied at last, mopping sweat from his brow. “I’ll see your thousand. There’s no way out of this.”

  Sir Leslie’s confidence seemed to settle the observers. Nearly all of them placed bets on the sideboard supporting the fat noble.

  “Last call for bets, ladies and gentlemen,” a croupier announced.

  “Three hundred on the ambassador,” Wolf said.

  The room fell silent. Everyone turned to stare at the newcomer. Wolf smiled roguishly. Silverleaf looked him over with disdain.

  “Are you sure, Mr.—?” the croupier asked.

  “Dasher,” Wolf replied. “Yes, I’m quite sure.” He turned his attention to Silverleaf and met his stony gaze. “I’m sure the ambassador doesn’t want to lose for the first time.”

  They held each other’s eyes for a moment. No one said anything. The croupier broke the tension.

  “Your wages, Mr. Dasher?” he said.

  “Oh, forgive me,” Wolf said, turning away at last. He produced a sack of gold coins from his belt and placed it on the sideboard.

  “You may play, Ambassador,” the croupier said.

  Silverleaf returned his attention to Sir Leslie. He tapped his fingers twice on the board and then drew a card. The moment he did, Wolf saw something no one else in the room saw – a flash of magic. Wolf’s Shadow abilities allowed him to perceive its unique energy when it was in use. That was how he knew the light in the Dubonney Club was magical. When Silverleaf drew a card, his left hand flashed green from the eldritch energy it expended. Something was up.

  “It seems Mr. Dasher’s confidence was well placed, Sir Leslie,” Silverleaf said as he stared at the card he had drawn. He placed it face up on the table. “Gargantuan.”

  There was an audible moan from the observers. Sir Leslie’s shoulders sank.

  “I’m afraid that by playing that card on my dragon, I can double its attack and defense values,” Silverleaf continued. “That will be more than sufficient to deal with your soldiers and siege engines.”

  “Bloody hell, Ambassador,” Sir Leslie said. “How can you always draw exactly the card you need when you’re in trouble?”

  “What can I say, Sir Leslie?” Silverleaf replied with a smug smile. “It’s magic.”

  Of course, Wolf thought as Sir Leslie grumbled about his misfortune. He was disgusted. He hated cheaters.

  “How did you know?” the shabby noble asked Wolf.

  “You told me,” Wolf said through his teeth. “He never loses.”

  “Sagaius,” a woman with a thick Gallican accent whined. “When are you going to buy me a dreenk?”

  Wolf caught sight of her and was immediately aroused. She had gorgeous, soft-white skin, immaculately manicured fingernails, and luscious, raven-black hair that fell halfway down her back. Her eyes were an icy blue and were set wide apart over a button nose and two perfectly plump lips, which were painted a deep red. The lower one was stuck out in an exaggerated pout. She wore an orange gown designed to show off her lean body. It plunged dangerously low and was cut out on the sides and back, making it impossible for her to wear undergarments. As he stared at her, Wolf discovered his codpiece wasn’t fitting comfortably.

  “Not now,” the ambassador snapped at her. “I’m in the middle of a game.”

  Before he had time to think about it, Wolf made a move.

  “May I be permitted to buy the lady a drink?” he said.

  Silverleaf stared at him again. He searched Wolf looking for his motive.

  “Why would you want to do so?” he asked at last.

  “Ambassador,” Wolf replied as though it should be obvious. “You just won me three hundred gold. Consider it a very paltry thank you.”

  Silverleaf continued to stare. His expression changed, though. He was no longer quizzical. Now he just looked disgusted.

  “Very well,” Silverleaf said at last.

  “Mademoiselle?” Wolf said.

  He offered his arm. She approached him with a surprised look on her face.

  “Merci beaucoup, monsieur,” she replied with a sexy smile.

  Wolf breathed in her perfume. It hinted of pears. He tried not to stare at her as she took his arm. He didn’t want to give Silverleaf any cause for jealousy. At least not yet.

  Wolf escorted her over to the bar. She never
took her eyes off him.

  “Cabernet,” he said.

  “And for the lady?”

  Wolf turned to her and asked the question with his eyes. She smiled.

  “Mead,” she told the bartender, continuing to stare at Wolf.

  “Very good,” the bartender said, and went to fill flagons for them.

  She looked Wolf up and down. He only smiled.

  “You know ’e only let you do zat because ’e ’ates Urlanders, don’t you?” she said after a moment. Wolf flashed her a quizzical look.

  “Why would he let me buy you a drink then?” Wolf said. “Wouldn’t he refuse me if he hated me?”

  “Non,” she replied. “’e is forcing you to spend your money. Why do you zink ’e comes ’ere? ’e likes to take money from your people.”

  Wolf glanced over at the table. Most of the crowd had broken up. A few of the faithful were hanging on, but they all looked glum. They knew Silverleaf was going to win. He always wins. It all was starting to make a certain kind of sense.

  “Is that why he cheats?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she replied.

  “He’s using magic to make sure he draws exactly the card he needs,” Wolf said.

  “I don’t know ’ow ’e does it,” she said. “All I know is ’e always wins, and ’e does it to take money away from your people.”

  Wolf nodded. There was a lot more to Sagaius Silverleaf than cards. The elf had some sort of agenda.

  “If he hates humans so much,” Wolf asked, “why is he keeping you as a girlfriend?”

  “I did not say ’e ’ates ’umans,” she said. “I said ’e ’ates Urlanders.”

  Wolf nodded and returned her smile. This woman was incredibly beautiful, and he was pretty sure she was playing the field, despite being attached to a very powerful elf.

  “So Gallicans are okay,” he said.

  “It would appear so,” she answered. “’e doesn’t seem to complain.”

  Presently, the bartender returned with their drinks. Wolf paid him along with a generous tip.

  “Why did you offer to buy me a dreenk?” she asked.

  Wolf smiled again. He looked deeply into her eyes.

  “Because a beautiful woman shouldn’t have to wait for what she wants,” he replied.

  She said nothing for a moment. She looked him up and down, and then gazed into his eyes.

  “Be careful, Monsieur Dasher,” she said at last. “Silverleaf is not a nice person. ’e is a deadly enemy.”

  “I know,” Wolf answered, flashing confidence. She smiled demurely. “By the way, I never got your name.”

  “Simone de Beausoir,” she replied, blushing a little. “It’s nice to meet you, Monsieur Dasher.”

  “Call me Wolf.”

  “I zink zat would be a bit presumptuous,” she said. “I don’t know you well enough to call you by your first name.”

  “Then we should get better acquainted,” he said.

  She smiled at him over the rim of her flagon. Then she took a sip of mead, still not taking her eyes off him.

  Wolf was growing very attracted to Simone de Beausoir. She was so beautiful, and her accent completely charmed him. He liked Gallican. It had a pretty sound to it, and Gallican-accented Urlish was even better, to his mind. The way she pronounced her soft “th’s” as “z’s” and her short “i’s” as “ee’s” got his blood flowing. She sounded very exotic, and she had a body and a face to match.

  “I zink you should quit while you’re ahead, Monsieur,” she said.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I like you very much, Wolf Dasher, and I don’t want to see any ’arm come to you.”

  “And you’re afraid I’ll meet a bad end if we continue this any further?”

  “I know you will. Silverleaf will make sure of it.”

  Wolf searched the girl’s eyes to see if she was sincere. There was a worried look in them masked by the sexy, confident smile. He decided she was.

  “Hmm,” he said. “We’ll see about that.”

  He looked back over at the game table. The crowd had broken up, and Sir Leslie was waddling away, his head hung. Silverleaf had obviously beaten him.

  Wolf chewed his lip for a moment. He didn’t like Silverleaf. The elf was a cheater, and Wolf abhorred that. Moreover, he was doing it to punish his opponents. Wolf wanted to know more about that. What was the source of the ambassador’s anti-Urlish sentiment? Finally, Simone was afraid of her lover. Wolf had little patience for a man who didn’t know to treat a woman well, especially a beautiful one like Simone de Beausoir.

  His assignment was to observe Silverleaf and see what he could learn. So far, he’d ascertained that the Alfari ambassador was a jerk. It wasn’t exactly the kind of intelligence that would tell him anything about Sara’s death. He decided it was time to take the measure of Silverleaf in a new way. He stood up.

  “Thank you for your company,” he told Simone. “I enjoyed talking to you very much.”

  Then he walked straight towards Silverleaf’s table, setting his shoulders as he went.

  “What are you doing?” he heard Simone say behind him, but he ignored her.

  At the table, Silverleaf was counting his winnings, a classless thing to do. He was further rubbing in his victory. Wolf approached and threw a winning smile at the big elf.

  “Fancy a game, Ambassador?” Wolf said.

  Everyone in the club stopped talking. All eyes were on Wolf and the foreigner. Wolf smiled innocently.

  “I assume you know how to play, Mr. Dasher?”

  “I’ve played a few times,” Wolf answered.

  “Well, this is a high-stakes game,” Silverleaf said, his magnificent eyes boring into Wolf. “The buy-in is five thousand gold. Side bets for the players are a minimum of five hundred. The pot for my game with Sir Leslie ended up being sixteen thousand, four hundred, eighty-three. I’ve never seen you here before. You’ll forgive me if I inquire as to your collateral.”

  Wolf struggled to hold Silverleaf’s gaze. He was so frighteningly beautiful, it was hard to look at him and harder still to meet his eyes.

  In the club, everyone stared at them. Silverleaf had been rude. One did not ask a gentleman or lady if he or she had funds to cover a bet. Their word as a noble was sufficient security that debts would be paid, especially in a club like the Dubonney. What would Wolf do, they wondered. Would he back down? Would he insult Silverleaf? Would he challenge him to some sort of duel? Wolf knew instinctively no one had ever dared to stand up to the elf. They were all too afraid of him.

  “I’ll stake him,” a crusty voice called out. Wolf turned to find its source. The shabby noble he’d been talking to had pulled himself up into a proud, defiant stance. Wolf smiled.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. “But that won’t be necessary. I have the funds.” He turned to the croupier. “I believe my family name should be more than enough insurance.”

  The croupier snapped his fingers, and a server in a red uniform designed to accentuate her cleavage, moved across the gaming room en route to the concierge desk. No one spoke. They all waited to find out what would happen next. Wolf supposed they hadn’t seen anything this exciting in a long time.

  “I wonder,” Silverleaf asked, “why you wish to play me.”

  “Well, I enjoy a little sport as much as the next man,” Wolf said.

  “Sport, eh?” Silverleaf said. He gave Wolf another disdainful look. “And what makes you think our game will be sporting, Mr. Dasher? You bet on me in the last game, because you know I never lose. Why do you think your fate will be different than Sir Leslie’s?”

  “Because I know your secret,” Wolf replied.

  “And what is that?”

  “Like you said, ‘magic.’”

  Silverleaf searched Wolf’s face, trying to figure out if Wolf really knew how he was cheating. Wolf smiled impassively.

  “And I suppose you have a little magic of your own?” Silverleaf said at
last.

  “No, I have something better.”

  “And what is better than magic, Mr. Dasher?”

  “Skill,” Wolf answered. This time he dropped the smile, so there could be no misunderstanding between them.

  Presently, the server returned. She looked flushed.

  “The Dasher family is a member of the Royal Court,” she announced. “Their assets are currently valued in the millions.”

  She smiled broadly at Wolf and brushed her curly blonde hair away from her face. Wolf couldn’t help but smile when she thrust her chest out a little bit. It was amazing what the smell of money could generate in people.

  “Very well,” Silverleaf said. “Sit, Mr. Dasher, and let us see about this skill of yours.”

  Chapter 4: Conquest

  (Twelve Days before Revelation Day)

  Wolf seated himself across from Silverleaf and flashed a casual smile at him. Unbidden, fear rose in his heart. He’d just agreed to play a very difficult and expensive game with an opponent who never lost and who cheated in a way that made it impossible to catch. What had he accomplished except forfeiting a bunch of the Shadow Service’s money? Wolf’s family name was good enough to secure him any amount of credit he needed for this mission, but the Dasher family would never pay his debts. He was disowned, a pariah. If he lost a lot of money, Her Majesty’s Shadow Service would end up being stuck with the bill.

  ... trust ...

  The whisper came in the back of his mind. Wolf’s powers came from The Rift – a poorly understood tear in the fabric of reality – that poured its black energy into the world, transforming some people into Shadows. The Rift was always whispering to him, to every Shadow. Most often, it was impossible to tell what it was saying. It mumbled its dark ideas nearly inaudibly. It was more intelligible in Mensch, the former capital of Bretelstein, where The Rift lay. Out here in Urland, it was just a murmur. But occasionally, a word or two could be understood, and it usually held some significance. Wolf hated that insidious, cloying voice, but he had learned to trust it.

  He took a long drink from his cabernet, savored the blackberry and chocolate flavors woven through it, and enjoyed the burn on the back of his throat. Then he cleared his mind. If he was going to beat Silverleaf, he needed his wits about him.