Crys clicked his fingers at the pretty girl hovering in his eyeline and plastered a wide grin across his face. He’d been watching this pair for the last hour, and now they were just drunk enough to be clay in his hands.
The men watched suspiciously as he cut and shuffled the cards, fingers blurring, and dealt them with a neat flick of the wrist only slightly marred by the fact the cards stuck in or skittered over the spilt beer. They’d be ruined, but he’d just buy more. What was the point in gambling if he didn’t spend the money he won? He slapped the remains of the deck into the middle of the table, scooped up his cards, examined them, swallowed ale to hide his glee and breathed thanks to the Fox God, the Trickster, patron of gamblers, thieves and soldiers. He was all three, on and off.
The faces of his fellow players were so wooden Crys could have carved his name into them, but the man to his left was tapping his foot on the floor. Man to his right? No obvious tell. No, wait, spinning the brass ring on his thumb. Excellent, he’d dealt the cards right.
‘Five, no, six knights.’ Crys opened the betting and tinkled the coppers next to the deck. He smiled and drank.
‘Six from me,’ Foot-tapper said.
Ring-spinner matched him. ‘And from me.’
Crys made a show of looking at his cards again, squinting at the table and his opponents. ‘Um, two more.’ He added to the pile with a show of bravado that sucked them right in. He leant back in his chair and scratched the stubble on his cheek, fingernails rasping. He’d better shave before tomorrow’s meeting. He’d better win enough to buy a razor.
‘So, you fresh in from a Rank, Captain? The West, perhaps?’ Foot-tapper asked.
Crys hid a grimace behind his cup: always the West. City-folk were obsessed with the West, with tales of Mireces and Watchers and border skirmishes. The crazy Wolves – civilians no less – were Watchers who took up arms to guard the foothills from Raiders and protect the worshippers of the Gods of Light from the depradations of the bloody Red Gods.
Crys didn’t reckon half the stories were true, and those that had been once were embellished with every telling until the Watchers and Wolves were more myth than men and every soldier of the West Rank was a hero. They’re soldiers watching a line on a map for two years, interrupted with brief bouts of fighting against a couple of hundred men. Yeah. Heroes.
Crys snorted. ‘The North, actually,’ he said, swallowing his frustration. ‘Finished my rotation there. Palace Rank next.’
‘Palace, eh? Two comfy years for you, then, eh? Must be a relief. But I’m Poe and this is Jud.’
Crys nodded at them both. ‘Captain Crys Tailorson.’
‘Captain of the Palace Rank? I’m sure no one deserves it more. I imagine King Rastoth is in the very safest of hands now you’re here, Captain.’ Poe watched him closely, looking for tells. Crys made a show of thumbing one card repeatedly. Deserved? He’d be bored out of his mind for two years, more like. Still, there were likely a lot more idiots prepared to lose their money here than in the North Rank and its surrounding towns. Few men had dared gamble with him towards the end of that rotation. Not to mention Rilporin bred prettier lasses.
Jud brayed a laugh. ‘You hear about those Watchers? Ever met one? I hear the men all stick each other up there. Ever see that?’
‘I haven’t served in the West Rank yet,’ Crys said, uncomfortable. It was all anyone could talk about of late, the rumours coming from the west; General Mace Koridam, son of Durdil Koridam, the Commander of the Ranks, increasing patrols and stockpiling weapons and food. ‘And that sort of business is against the king’s laws,’ he added belatedly.
‘Strange people, those Watchers. Civilians, ain’t they? Take it upon themselves to patrol the border. Why? They don’t get paid to do it, do they? Why risk your life when the West’s there to protect you?’ Poe asked. He seemed in no hurry to get on with the game. ‘I mean, West’s best, or so they say,’ he added with an unexpected touch of malice.
‘I know why,’ Jud said, laughing again. ‘It’s ’cause their women are all so fucking ugly. That’s why they fight, and that’s why they stick each other. Nothing else to do.’
‘Wolves fight, Watchers don’t,’ Crys explained. Jud frowned. ‘They’re all from Watchtown, it’s just they call their warrior caste Wolves and the Wolves have little or no regard for the laws of Rilpor. As you said, they take it upon themselves to fight. And there are Wolf women as well, I hear,’ Crys said as he flicked his cards again, letting the happy drunk mask slip for a moment. West is best? Maybe you don’t need all that coin weighing you down, Poe. ‘Fierce and just as good as the men,’ he added.
‘She-bears. ’Bout as pretty too, they say.’ Jud emptied his cup, helping himself to more as Crys eyed him. ‘They’re all touched with madness, those Watchers. Fighting for no pay, letting their women fight. Women! Can you imagine? What’d you do if you had to fight a woman, Captain?’
Crys licked his teeth. ‘Try not to lose,’ he said. ‘It’d look awful on my record.’
Poe laughed and slapped the table, but Jud had lost his sense of humour all of a sudden. ‘Look at his eyes,’ he hissed, waggling a finger in Crys’s direction and heaving on Poe’s arm.
Fuck’s sake, and it had all been going so well. Crys put his palms on the sticky table and leant forward, opening his eyes wide and staring them down in turn. ‘One blue, one brown, yes. Very observant.’
He sat back and folded his arms, the soggy cards tucked carefully into his armpit where they couldn’t be seen. Old habits. ‘But I had thought you wealthy, sophisticated merchants of this city and as such not susceptible to the superstitions of countryside fools. Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps I’ve been wasting my time here tonight.’
Jud and Poe eyed each other, clearly uncomfortable. They were nothing of the sort and all of them knew it.
Poe’s foot tapped and he managed a nonchalant grin. ‘But of course. A topic of conversation only. You must hear it a lot in the Ranks, no?’ He drained his mug and ordered a flagon. About fucking time, too.
Crys forced a mollified note into his voice, at odds with the irritation mention of his eyes always engendered. Splitsoul, cursed, unlucky. He knew them all. ‘I do, sir. Men either stick to me like bindweed thinking I’m lucky, or they refuse to be anywhere near me. It’s a real pain in the arse, has dogged me all my life.’ Poe tutted in sympathy. ‘Still, what can a man do?’
‘Cut one of them out?’ Jud honked and laughed into his cup, spraying Crys with froth. Crys unfolded his arms and watched him.
Poe thumped him in the arm. ‘Forgive my friend, Captain. Too much ale. He’s got a sword, you fucking idiot,’ he hissed to Jud, who was clutching his arm and whining.
Crys drew out the moment, but decided against it. ‘Come on then, let’s play,’ he said and Poe slumped in relief, thumping Jud again for good measure.
‘You heard the good captain. Play.’
‘Two,’ Jud said sulkily.
Excellent. And about bloody time. ‘I call,’ Crys said and plopped his cards face up, watching the others reveal. He’d lost by a dozen, as expected. Poe had the winner and scooped coins and ale to his side of the table, baring yellow snaggle-teeth in something that might have been a smile. On a bear.
Crys groaned and drank; he topped up the cups of his companions with fatalistic good cheer. Poe collected the cards and Crys watched him shuffle: not even an attempt to separate the already played cards through the deck. He dealt and Crys knew he’d have a poor hand. No matter, he wasn’t ready to win just yet.
Gods,