Dragon (S)Layers: The Paladin Gambit

by Tammy Silverwolf

  Through it all, the goddess was polite and warm to everyone that crossed her path-- even those who tried to treat her like a whore. Never once did She give up Her poise or candor, She didn't get mad or even offer rebuttal, maybe it was telling that She didn't really interact with people so much as gloss over them and their little concerns. . .

  It struck Leslie then that She wasn't the only one who felt alone in a room full of people. Isira kept them at a distance because they had little to do with one another-- even as She made them smile, She kept herself distant.

  She also drank like a sailor. Every few minutes She'd get a refill on her ale and have it gone in mere moments. Somehow She didn't fit the stories that'd been told about Her, but to Leslie that made all the more sense. It made Her all the more beautiful.

  "Hey, lass!" Someone shouted to her. "Why don't y'take a load off," It was the man who'd smiled at her earlier. When she started to reject him Isira's presence swelled in her mind, She pushed on Her mortal minion like a finger against the back of her neck.

  Leslie rubbed at the spot, stealing a glance at Isira who winked in return. Maybe it was divine matchmaking, maybe there was something she was supposed to learn. Leslie wandered towards the table trying not to get jostled by the dancers. "That's got to be the most civil version of 'why don't you sit on my lap and we talk about the first thing that comes up' I've ever heard."

  He chuckled, "Could do that, too." Without a thought he kicked the chair out beside her, "but I leave that to the kids. Getchya somethin' to drink?"

  "Uh, sure. I'll have what you're having."

  "Water it is!"

  Leslie waited for him to return with a pitcher and tankard, her gaze wandering to watch the dancers. Someone in a nearby table shifted their hand displaying a set of cards and collected the pot that filled the middle. She wrung her hands warily. It was just harmless betting between friends, that was all.

  There was no need to worry, she promised herself.

  When the older man returned he poured her a drink, it took some effort for her to take it and her smile felt empty. His face wore the miles of the road like broken clay, potted with years under the sun and a weight under it all that made him seem older than he should have been. Yet, through all of it he had a strength about him, as if defying the world and his age was a challenge rather than a death sentence.

  "So," Leslie ventured. "This is probably where I pretend I'm either more interesting than I am or mysterious or something."

  "Y'could." The man shrugged, took a drink. "Aint like I haven't seen it before. . ."

  "Right." She looked to the table as if it'd provide some kind of answer as to what she was supposed to do next. He graciously let her stew in her awkwardness. "So--"

  "So."

  "Yeah. Not very good at this social thing,” Leslie tried another smile. “So if you've got something in mind. . ."

  "Not really," he sipped his water. "Y'just looked miserable. Everyone around ya smilin and you doing a good job o' fakin it, but y'know what they say about misery, right?"

  "It loves company?"

  "Psh, nah. Misery's a cold bitch who wouldn't know a good time if it slapped her in the face, but she can't stand it, absolutely cannot stand it when," he leaned in for effect, "the thing that's slappin her in the face is the one that's miserable."

  Leslie fingered the side of her mug absently. As she traced the grain of the table a thought struck her. "So what happens if I slap Her?" she flicked her head towards Isira just to see if the goddess was paying attention. Surrounded by so many dancers She didn't seem to be.

  The man cracked a smile. "Ah, lover's spat?" He said it with a calm that suggested he was familiar with such relationships.

  "No! No, no, gods no. . . .she's not like that-- well maybe. But not with me, I don't think? No, think-- I don't know."

  "Well when you put it like that."

  Leslie waved it off. "I'm just. . . .confused. I mean, there's knowing things and then there's knowing things."

  "Like what?" The man slid his tankard aside and clasped his hands, she could sense him looking at her and it took Leslie a moment to realize she wasn't actually looking at him. It was a habit from when she was blind, a way of acknowledging someone without having to 'look' at them. She turned her gaze up.

  Where did she even begin? "Where I come from the stories of the gods being uh. . . .not so friendly to mortals are pretty common. But let's say I had my mind changed, then let's say I was shown first hand that maybe I was wrong."

  "With you so far."

  "I don't mean that I was dipping into pasture pies plucking multicolored mushrooms, but actually saw reasons why I was wrong."

  "Uh huh? Not seeing a problem here, grow'n up isn't a bad thing. Y'gonna get older every day anyway, why not get a bit wiser, too?"

  Leslie dampened her lips. "So what if I wasn't wrong-- what if the gods are assholes and I'm gonna be used?"

  The man let our a hoarse chuckle, "You sound like one those plainswalkers. Tribal lot, but good folks. Somethin' happened that left their home a smokin mess, the skies are all purple except when it storms, then you get lightning that breaks rocks and wild creatures that eat magic--” He patted the table a couple times. “Ever hear the saying 'the world churns in Mawik' lass? Not a lie by any stretch.

  "The people say the plains were the battlefield of the gods for a time, lotta promises were made on all sides but the people got left out in the end. They say only an idiot trusts the gods at their word."

  "That's great, just what I want to hear--"

  "Want and need aren't always the same thing," He shot back. "I met this Mawik girl in Sorash, pretty little thing. Really big-- uh"

  "Hair."

  "Hair, yeah." He said with a smile. "Said she was lookin for a friend of hers, now I think there was more to that friendship than she was letting on, but m'point is: this friend of hers was a cleric, elf blooded one at that. If a plainswalker can open herself to a servant of the gods, then maybe there's hope for you, too."

  Leslie must have been staring because the man gave her a subtle quirk of his brow. She muttered an apology, stealing a glance at Isira. "Maybe I should write a book or something. 'Lo, and she saw with new eyes that it was true; she was indeed an idiot.'"

  "A very lovely idiot."

  "I guess, if cows are your thing." Leslie took a deep pull of her water.

  As she did the man fished a small box from his vest pocket and set it down. "Suppose it'd be rude if I made a joke about eating beef, but I'm a betting man, so mind if I shoot in the dark?"

  "Uh. . . .sure." Leslie glanced at the box,curious.

  "Well now, I wager you don't get out much. But you're not shy, either. You've got a mouth and you use it well, so if I were t'say that you probably set a lotta hearts pounding, not just mine, you'd reply with. . ."

  "With. . ."

  "Something?"

  "Yeah, probably. Hang on, my brain got caught buying a caravan ticket trying to smuggle that silver tongue it just stole from your mouth. It's gonna be a while before it can reply."

  "Real shame, that. My name's Toir, by the way." He smiled faintly as he opened the box. Inside was a stack of playing cards. Leslie's heart sank. Her shoulders tensed. It'd been going so well, too.

  "Uh--" Leslie leaned back warily. "What've you got in mind?"

  "Mm? Everything all right?" Toir plucked his cards from the box, shuffling through them at lightning speed. It was the familiarity and speed that her husband had shown; he'd called it the Soldier's Shuffle, when getting caught on duty by officer or enemy wasn't an option. "See, thing is, my legs aint too useful for dancin-- though, my knees work just fine if that's yer pleasure instead." He spared her a wink.

  "Uh- Toir, I. . . .I don't think this is a good idea--"

  "Nonsense!" Isira appeared behind her and before she could even begin to be startled the goddess had Her arm wrapped around Leslie's collar bone and Her chin on the seamstress's head so She could watch.

 
Leslie reeled, digging her heel into the floorboard in surprise-- as if she could get away. Isira held her firmly leaving her no where to go, waiting until she stopped squirming before finally easing off. Leslie looked up without moving her head, frowning.

  Isira knew She didn't need to apologize and She took full advantage of it. "Hello there, Toir." She purred as She pressed her warmth to Leslie's back. "I see you've met my good friend."

  He smiled politely, seeming to ignore her for the moment. “So whatchya say? There's always room for beauty at a table, but bein' cute only gets ya so far. How about a couple hands? Of cards, I mean.”

  Leslie shook her head and started to decline-- Isira draped Her arms forward, dangerously close over Her servant's cleavage. Even as She pulled the heavy mantle back the goddess gave the man a smug grin.

  "She'd love to!"

  "N--" was as far as Leslie got before Isira's presence held her tongue firmly to the roof of her mouth. As smoothly as if it was she herself speaking, Leslie could feel her tongue working in new ways, twisting over her voice and carrying an inflection that wasn't her own; Isira spoke through her like a puppet. "Deal me a hand, we'll see where it goes."

  When she was 'released' Leslie shielded her mouth and eyed the bronze skinned goddess who's smile hadn't faded in the least. They watched one another for a moment before Isira lofted a brow, daring her to correct her new patron and 'friend'. Shakily, the lowly mortal turned back to the cards. "O- Okay, deal me in, I guess."

  "You don't need to make it sound like I'm tryin to get under your skirt."

  "Ironically," Leslie glanced up briefly. "I think that'd probably be easier." Isira flashed a playful smile in reply.

  "Well if that's your thing.” He gave her a good natured smirk. “Wanna invite someone else?”

  "I've always been more of a voyeur," Isira pressed her jaw to Leslie's temple. Her voice resonated through and through. "I do love a good show. . ."

  A command by any other name couldn't have been as clear. Leslie furrowed her brow tightly as she looked to the goddess. She was serious! How could She not have known-- why would She--

  Wait.

  This was the lesson, wasn't it? She was meant to be learning from this.

  Son of a bitch.

  Leslie dampened her lips. "N- Nah. Let's just go you and I. . ."

  Toir regarded her, "You okay?"

  "Yeah, fine as a cat tumbling down a hill in a barrel. Uh-- what's the game?"

  "How about Scuttle?"

  "Scuttle?" Isira tilted her head. "A bad omen if there ever was; you scuttle ships, not cards."

  Leslie fidgeted.

  "It's not that bad and it's pretty quick-- whatchya say, lass?"

  Leslie looked to Isira once more with a pleading expression. The goddess merely smile and traced Her finger across Leslie's collarbone, reclaiming Her spot against Her mortal's head. "F- fine. Yeah."

  "Y'know how to play?"

  "Yeah, I remember. . ."

  As Toir shuffled the cards Leslie dug her fingers into her palms taking several steadying breaths against the butterflies slamming against the walls of her stomach. The first cards began to fall.

  He dealt himself six cards, her five and set the deck down to the side. Her hand trembled as she reached for her cards. Isira laid Her hand over Leslie's, watching her out of the corner of Her impossibly deep eye. The lowly mortal gave a nod and scooped up her cards.

  She could do this. She was meant to learn something here.

  Scuttle was a fairly simple combat game that treated cards like soldiers or, as her husband had described, like resources. You could spend resources to remove other players' resources and if you got to twenty one, you won. Simple in theory.

  Easy enough to count.

  Leslie drew a breath along with her first card. She could do this. Yes. Isira believed in her, she could damn well do it. The older seamstress fingered through her cards shuffling them one way and the other.

  What was the point value for an ace? One-- positive one, wasn't it? No- No, that wasn't right. Face cards removed one from a count or did they? A four, a six--

  Leslie tensed. "Toir?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Ever wanted t- to see what it looks like when a deity smites someone?"

  "Not really, no."

  "Well, you might not have a choice." Leslie fidgeted and played a four. "Playing this for effect." He'd need to discard two cards from his hand.

  "And here I thought we were gettin' friendly like." He plucked two cards from his hand-- a nine and a king. A king?! Why the hell would he discard a king?!

  It had to have been a bluff-- having a king on the field meant reducing the number of points he needed to win, giving it up was literally throwing away a huge advantage.

  But it was just the point advantage he was giving away. Her husband's training clicked in at a glacial pace-- face cards lowered the count by a point. So that meant. . .

  Gods above. Leslie wiped her face. This was stupid.

  Toir drew a card and played a nine. "But I guess if we're goin' to be honest with one another." He dropped the nine by the scrap pile and plucked out his king, sliding it on to his side of the table. "I might not be so friendly myself." He gave her a cheeky grin.

  It didn't take long before Isira grew bored with the banter, She lazily traced her finger down Leslie's neck following a contour only She knew about down between her breasts. Toir pretended he didn't notice but Leslie could see his gaze wander occasionally.

  Not content to simply scare the hell out of her, it seemed Isira had other plans. Leslie swallowed, played another four. "For points."

  They went back and forth for a few turns, each passing exchange resulting in more cards piling up on the table with Toir's points swelling as Leslie's own diminished with equal rapidity. Every card she was forced to discard clouded her thoughts, made her question herself more and, more than that, made her keenly aware of Isira's wandering fingers.

  Those fingers could have been capable of incredible feats of magic or sensuality, but pressed against her chest they felt like a dagger tip. Leslie's gaze swept the cards laid out between them and her own hand. Fives-- fives added to the count. Yes, two through six added to it, eights and nines weren't worth anything. Face cards and aces removed from it.

  So that left her with a count of. . . .plus ten? That couldn't be right. High counts meant being conservative, didn't it? Y- yes. That made sense. She straighted up and played an ace worth one point.

  Toir looked at her oddly even as he played a second king, bringing down the number of points he needed to win to ten-- when he had twelve on the table. "They say age goes before beauty, guess I got that going for me."

  Leslie tensed sharply under her goddess's firm grip. She'd lost, she'd lost, she'd lost. Shit, shit, shit.

  "Hey, you okay?"

  "Y- Yeah, just fine." Leslie glanced at Isira. Her hand had stopped wandering. "Just fine?"

  "Just fine," the voluptuous goddess winked. Somehow it wasn't reassuring.

  "I- I- I think I need to go-- yeah, uh. Wifey things t- to do. yes. Thanks for the game!" Before the poor man could stop her Leslie was already to the door. Outside in another instant. Panting in gulps of evening air she clutched her sides and paced. She'd been an idiot to agree to serve Isira. She'd been an idiot to think she could be what She wanted.