Children of the Fox

by Kevin Sands

  I plunked myself down and threw three thousand crowns onto the table—five times bigger than anyone’s stack. Inside, I stilled my nerves, then fixed a grin on the other gamblers. “Evenin’, all.”

  The table regarded me with some interest. I’d worn the finest clothes Lachlan had scrounged up for us but added the gaudiest jewelry the boy could find. My fingers were laden with rings, cut glass and cheap gold, plus a similarly crass necklace, brooch, and bracelets. For my accent, I mimicked Lachlan’s.

  Altogether, my costume marked me as a kid from the slums whose family had struck it rich, and quick. There were only two types who fit that sort of thing. Either my father owned a piece of a mine—and where would a man from the slums find the money for that?—or my dad got his money through other, shall we say less legal, means.

  The favored son of a rising thug was the role I was playing tonight. And, judging from their reactions, they bought it. One man took a glance at my money and excused himself from the table. He didn’t like the idea of losing to me—or even worse, winning and risking angering whoever my father was.

  As for Padraig, he barely looked my way. Directly across the table from me, his eyes were focused on his cards. He was here to play.

  I shoved my stack of bills over to Donnelly. “Change this for me, will you, mate?”

  Donnelly gave no indication he’d ever seen me before. “Very good, sir,” he said, and after counting the bills, he jammed them into a slot in the table and returned three thousand in chips.

  I began to play. The rules were simple. Everyone got three cards, which they held in secret. Then, one by one, three more cards would be dealt to the center of the table, with a round of betting before and after each card. The winner was whoever made the best hand from their three secret cards, plus any of the three on the table.

  As befit my role, I played fast and loose, throwing chips into the pot like they meant nothing. In reality, I wasn’t as careless as I seemed. When playing against the strangers, I tried to win. When up against Padraig, I tried to lose. And this wasn’t easy to do.

  Like Donnelly had said, Padraig wasn’t a very good player. His moves were predictable, and he had several tells. The biggest was his tongue: he chewed it when he got worried. If I’d wanted to take his money, I could have, every time he bluffed. Instead, I kept mucking my hand and watched him double his stack.

  Over the next half hour, I took chips from the others and fed them to Padraig. His air of importance only got worse as his stack grew, from two hundred crowns to two thousand—most of which came from me. He tried to play it cool, but his flushed face and quickened breath made it clear: he wasn’t used to winning big.

  I tried to keep myself calm. So far, the night was going how we needed it to. Now it was time to up the ante.

  And so in walked the prettiest girl in the room.

  CHAPTER 23

  She wore the same dress she had when we first met: emerald green with the dragon print—though no ruffles behind the shoulders this time. Her raven-black hair was drawn back, letting a few ringlets curl strategically past her ears.

  Meriel placed one hand on Padraig’s shoulder, the other on the empty chair next to him.

  “Is this seat open?” she said. “Or is this table only for the boys?”

  She turned the full brightness of her smile on the High Weaver’s apprentice, and any objection he might have had died on his lips. Awkwardly, he stood. “Uh . . . of course not. Please, join us.”

  “You’re too kind.” She held out her hand, palm down.

  He froze for a moment before taking it.

  “Call me Scarlet,” she said. “I— Oh my!” She stared in delight at Padraig’s medallion. “Are you a Weaver?”

  Padraig flushed. “An apprentice, my lady.”

  The man to my left, sporting a tall hat and a glorious mustache, rolled his eyes and muttered, “Here we go.”

  “Apprentice to Darragh VII, High Weaver,” Padraig finished.

  “Told you,” Mustache Man muttered, and I had to fight not to laugh.

  “The High Weaver? Really?” Meriel touched Padraig’s arm and smiled. “That’s extraordinary.”

  Poor Padraig. He never had a chance.

  * * *

  The game continued. I kept taking from the others and losing it to Padraig. After a portly gentleman went bust on an unlucky draw, he stood and threw his cards onto the felt in disgust. “Girls at the table is bad luck.”

  “I find her rather good luck,” Padraig shot back. As well he should; his stack had just passed five thousand.

  Meriel looked chastened. “Perhaps I should leave.”

  Padraig placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “Nonsense, my lady. You’ve been an absolute charm. I daresay you’re blessed by Artha herself.”

  Meriel giggled, and Padraig puffed himself up. The bond was formed. Now it was time to strengthen it.

  As soon as Meriel was looking my way, I took off my hat and scratched the top of my head. “Well, this is gettin’ interesting.”

  Meriel shifted in her chair. She’d caught my cue.

  When the next deal was done, she opened the betting with a hundred crowns. I raised it by a thousand, a ridiculously large overbet. Everyone folded, except for Meriel, who glared at me—and raised another thousand.

  “You’re bluffing,” she said.

  “Nah, luv.” I smirked. “You’re my good luck charm, too.”

  And I pushed my entire stack into the pot.

  Padraig bristled. He didn’t like what I’d said. As for Meriel, she looked desperately at the now massive pot, then mucked her hand in anger.

  “How do you keep getting such good cards?” she scowled.

  “I don’t,” I said. And I showed her my hand.

  I held the Witch, the Merchant, and the Mountain—total garbage.

  The whole table went ooh and cringed. What I’d done was awfully crass. Bluffing a young lady out of a giant pot was part of the game; embarrassing her publicly afterward wasn’t.

  Meriel was livid. “You cockroach.”

  I gave her my best Lachlan grin. “All good fun, luv.”

  Padraig had had enough. “That was uncalled for.”

  “Oh, forgive me, your High-Weavership Lordly Apprenticeness,” I said. Mustache Man, next to me, smothered a laugh. “I ain’t playing to make friends. I’m here for the coin.”

  Padraig’s jaw tightened. “Then it’s too bad you’ve been losing,” he said nastily, and he waved his hand over his stack. Most of which had come from me.

  “The girl’s been your charm,” I agreed. “But that’s about to end, boyo. I’m going to take it all back, starting now. And it’s going to be magic.”

  Donnelly gave no sign that he’d heard our code word. He scooped the cards from the table and shuffled, and I couldn’t see a single thing he did differently. But when I looked at my hand, I knew he’d done his job.

  He’d dealt me three Towers. Together, they made a City, the second-strongest starting hand in the whole game.

  I opened confidently. “Three hundred.”

  Mustache Man called. The next two folded. Padraig raised. “A thousand.”

  Meriel folded. “Oh, take him, Padraig.”

  Everyone else folded back to me. “You want to give it back in one hand, boyo?” I said. “Fine by me.”

  I raised him three thousand.

  Mustache Man folded, wide-eyed. Padraig smiled and, without a word, shoved all five thousand of his stack in. Meriel linked her arm in his, glowing.

  All eyes turned to me.

  I barely hesitated, shoving my stack in to match. Then I locked eyes with Padraig. “So confident, you are. Want to bet more?”

  Donnelly stopped me. “It’s table stakes, sir. You may only bet what you started the hand with.”

  “A side wager, then
.” I ran my fingers down my left hand, letting all my rings drop to the felt. “Say . . . another two thousand?”

  The others watched, tense, as Padraig looked down at his cards. Idly, his left hand crept toward his breast pocket.

  He probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it, but he’d just told me the location of the keystone. Right there, left breast pocket. What’s more, he wanted to wager it.

  I was sure he wouldn’t. However strong his starting cards were, there were three more cards to come. He could still lose.

  He pulled his fingers away from his pocket. “The rules are table stakes,” he said. “We’ll follow them.”

  “Fine by me,” I said, and I laid down my cards. “Three Towers. I have a City.”

  Padraig looked at my hand for an awfully long time.

  “Well?” Mustache Man said to him. “Let’s see what you got.”

  Padraig slowrolled me, putting his cards down one by one.

  The Prince.

  The Queen.

  The King.

  The table erupted. Padraig smiled smugly and folded his arms. He’d just shown the Royal Family—the best starting hand in the game.

  He was ahead of me now by a mile. I slumped, dejected. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Where’s your bold tongue now, boyo?” Meriel said, mocking my accent.

  “Game’s not over, luv,” I shot back.

  “You can only beat him with another Tower,” Mustache Man said, not unkindly. “And there’s only one left in the deck.”

  “Then I’ll just have to get another Tower. Give me one . . . now!”

  I wiggled my fingers like I was doing magic, then pointed at the felt where Donnelly was to place the three faceup cards. He dealt the first of them.

  And the table went mad.

  It was a Tower.

  The fourth Tower. My hand had just passed Padraig’s. I leapt from my seat and howled. “A Tower! A Tower! I have a Fortress!”

  Padraig went absolutely white. He stared, stunned, at the card that had now put him far behind. His eyes shifted to the pot—that beautiful pot, over ten thousand crowns, slipping slowly from his grasp. He looked like he was going to throw up.

  Meriel gripped his arm. “It’s not over yet, is it? You can still beat him, can’t you?”

  A crowd had formed around the table, drawn by the excitement. Mustache Man spoke over the buzz. “Now he needs one card. The Princess. It would give him a Dynasty, the absolute best hand in the game.”

  “So he can still win?” Meriel said.

  “Well . . . yes. But the odds are strongly against him.”

  Meriel squeezed Padraig’s arm. “You can do it. I believe in you.”

  “Yes, of course,” Padraig said. But the tremble in his voice showed he already knew he’d lost.

  The crowd hushed as Donnelly moved to reveal the next card. He laid down . . . the Bear.

  The crowd let out their breath. The Bear changed nothing.

  But Meriel didn’t see it that way. “Look,” she said. “Look. Look who it is.”

  Padraig didn’t understand. “I need the Princess to win, my lady.”

  “I know, but look. That’s the Bear. That’s Artha. And you’re a Weaver. She’s watching over you. Giving you her blessing, you see?”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.” He patted her hand, unconvinced.

  “The Bear don’t live down here, girly,” I said. “This is the home of the Fox.”

  “Blasphemer,” she spat. “Don’t listen to him, Padraig. I am your good luck charm.” And she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

  He looked at her, flustered. Then he looked down at the Bear. The slightest bit of hope returned to his eyes.

  “Give me the last card,” he commanded the dealer.

  The crowd went absolutely silent. Donnelly leaned forward. He discarded a card from the top of the deck, then pulled the final card out.

  He flipped it over. It was—

  The Princess.

  The room exploded. Underground, surrounded by walls of stone, the earth shook with the rumble.

  “A Dynasty! A Dynasty!” they cried.

  I collapsed in my chair, head in my hands, staring at the absurdity on the table. “Impossible,” I whispered.

  Padraig leapt from his seat. He looked about the room, as if master of it all, and I was sure, in that moment, he didn’t think he was an apprentice. He was the High Weaver himself, able to command anything—even a deck of cards—to bend to his will.

  Meriel gazed up in adoration. Padraig said nothing, but the fire in his eyes howled the words. I am invincible.

  And there, that moment there, is when I knew.

  We had him.

  CHAPTER 24

  I stood, sighed, and smiled ruefully. “Guess you found your charm after all.”

  “Bad beat,” Mustache Man said, clapping me on the shoulder in sympathy. A few others murmured their commiseration as the crowd began to disperse.

  I moved over to the bar and sat, head in hands, looking to all the world a defeated boy. Padraig, grinning like a fool, was too overwhelmed to return to the table. He accepted the congratulations of the crowd, while Meriel, arm wrapped firmly in his, whispered in his ear. I already knew what she was saying.

  Let’s do something fun. Let’s go to the carnival down by the docks.

  He agreed. The apprentice scooped up his winnings—over ten thousand crowns, ten times more than he’d ever won in his life—and the two of them headed off together. I waited a few minutes. Then I followed them out.

  * * *

  The carnival lit up the night. All along the waterfront, musicians, acrobats, jesters, and animal handlers played, shouted, and sang, while criers promised fun for the whole family inside.

  The shore was open and bright. Paper lanterns hung from ropes strung between tents, rivaling the twin moons, glowing nearly full as they rose over the horizon.

  The games were the usual standards: the ring toss, the knife throw, the hammer swing. There were other booths, too—not strictly legal—which promised more of a betting affair. Those were easy to spot: there was always a lookout standing by, ready to cry warning at the sight of a Stickman.

  For their part, the Stickmen kept their eyes less on the games and more on the crowd. Carnivals were notorious for pick-pockets; I spotted three within as many minutes. One of them, a girl half my age, actually homed in on me, with my fine clothes and gaudy rings. I gave her a pointed look and she veered away, offering a small nod of apology.

  If Padraig’s keystone hadn’t been protected by a willbind, here was the place we’d have swiped it. He’d already given away its location during the card game: in his left vest pocket. But we had to get him to give us the thing, and do it freely.

  I checked my pocket watch. It was already a quarter past eight. Time was running out. Where were they?

  My nerves returned as I caught sight of Padraig close to the water. He was strolling over the promenade, Meriel’s hand in the crook of his elbow. Every once in a while, Meriel would herd him toward a game, where Padraig would indulgently flick the attendant a sept so they could play.

  I kept a fair distance, hiding my face behind a giant cone of spun sugar. Meriel seemed so carefree, and Padraig was still glowing with his victory. So he didn’t notice as, carefully, she led him toward a less savory area of the carnival.

  Here was where the gambling went on in earnest. No Stickmen patrolled this part of the promenade; the carnies had already bribed them to stay away. Padraig was sharing a sticky dough with Meriel when she squealed in delight.

  “Oh, a Fox Hunt!” she said, pointing to a booth at the carnival’s edge. “Let’s play!”

  Padraig followed as she dragged on his arm. “What’s this?”

  I hung back as a crowd formed around the booth. On
it were three cards, bent in the middle so the boy behind the table could handle them with ease. He was tall and decently dressed, but nonetheless an awkward, even ugly fellow, rail thin, and of almost indeterminate age.

  “New player! New player! New player, welcome all!” Gareth said, his voice a constant patter. I’d practiced and practiced with him for hours, working away his natural anxiety to prepare him for the role. I was proud to see how well he handled his nerves. “Do you know the rules, sir?”

  When Padraig shook his head, Gareth explained. “There are three c-cards, sir, three cards to hunt. Only one of them holds the fox.”

  He flipped the cards over so Padraig could see. Each one depicted the same wooded grove. Two of the groves were empty. In the third, standing proudly, was a regal-looking fox.

  “We spotted the fox! Now comes the hunt!”

  Gareth picked up the cards, then tossed them back one by one, facedown, hand over hand. Padraig watched, slightly puzzled, trying to follow the backs of the cards as they shifted. All the while, Gareth kept up the patter.

  “Where’s the fox now, sir, where’s the fox? Hunt her down and win your prize!”

  Gareth stopped moving the cards. He looked expectantly at Padraig.

  Hesitantly, Padraig pointed to the card on the left.

  Meriel giggled. “You have to make your bet first, silly. Can I do it?”

  “Absolutely, lovely lady,” Gareth said. “Anyone can bet. But only the biggest bettor gets to play!”

  Meriel looked up at Padraig. He motioned magnanimously to allow her to put her money down. She tossed out a hundred-crown note, then pointed to the same card that Padraig had.

  “You sure, miss?” Gareth said. “You sure that’s your shot?”

  “Yes!”

  Gareth flipped the card over. It showed the fox.

  The crowd cheered, and she clapped her hands in delight. “Winner!” Gareth said, and he pulled a hundred crowns from his pocket to match hers. She grabbed both bills and looked up at Padraig, eyes shining.