Round and round they roll, rattling around in their cage. A final shake and then cast out, clattering across the table.
“Dammit!” says the man, bearded and heavyset, sitting to my right. Only three pips showing from his throw.
“Sorry,” laughs Rath, still mostly sober, as he set about scooping up half the pot. “This just isn't your night.”
“Look, mate, pack it in,” says the other man scooping up the pile, a ne'er-do-well with a face full of scars. “You've been throwing garbage since we started. Used up your luck betting on the tournament and now you're throwing away everything you won in the semis.”
“Mmm,” says the last member of a table, a giant of a man.
“You know,” says beard, “that might be it. I used it all up. That's gotta be it. It's all gone and now all I got is bad luck. So I figure I'll keep playing 'till my luck turns and I end up getting back to the good.”
“You know,” says Rath, with no sincerity, “there could be something to that. I'd be glad to help you get over the rest of your bad luck.”
A mug shattering a few tables over and loud voices from that direction cutting off beard's next comment. The bouncer near the door getting to his feet, causing the two ruffians to make a show of re-sheathing their drawn weapons. A serving girl coming over right after with a couple of fresh mugs to soothe any hurt feelings. The Rat Cellar, nothing if not lively.
“Alright, alright." My voice bringing everyone's attention back to the game. "Who's in? Ante up.”
The mood, easy and relaxed, started taking a turn as the games went. A morbid fascination growing, slow at first, but building with each round. The jokes gradually coming out fewer and fewer, and for the last couple throws we'd shared an awkward silence even as the rest of the barroom had been filled with the usual noise. These were low stakes games, could be up, could be down, and while wins and losses may add up over a night, usually there's no serious damage done. This go around beard's pile had dwindled to nothing after only an hour of drinking, with not a single round won, or even tied. With two cubes for dice he hadn't rolled higher than five.
“Never seen anything like it,” says Rath.
“Mmm,” says the giant.
“When'd this start, what'd you do?”
“Only since I been here, and I didn't do nothing. At lunch me and some of the boys were shooting for coppers and nothing weird was going on. Finished loading up the freight a couple hours ago.”
“Pick up anything?”
“How you mean?”
“What I mean is,” looking at beard, giant and scar in turn, “I know what you all used to do, so I was wondering if anything on that shipment caught your eye. You know, something that may have fallen off the boat. Something that someone could've gotten a little upset about.”
The three exchanging a quick look, beard questioning, scar with a smirk, and giant impassive.
“Mac,” says the scar faced man, after a moment, “all of what you're saying, what's it matter?”
“Seems to me this doesn't seem like some normal run of bad luck. Seems to me something's going on and I figure he might've got his hands on something he shouldn't.”
“Nope,” beard reiterating his assertion.
“Mmm,” says the giant.
“Yeah, that may be the case,” says Rath.
“Yeah,” says the scar faced man, taking it in, “that could be.” Then, to beard. “Empty your pockets. Now.”
“But-”
“Shut it. We all seen it. I don't know what kinda dumbassery you did, but something stinks. You know whose stuff we was loading up today, right? A couple lost games of dice'll be the least of your problems. And that won't be the end of it, neither. It'll come onto me. So let's see it.”
“I didn't take nothing,” comes beard's sullen answer, but he begins emptying his pockets and pouches out onto the table all the same.
And it does mostly seem like a lot of nothing. After the losing streak beard's total wealth on hand amounted to 12 silver, 55 copper. In his possession a tobacco pouch, a small tin of sweet smelling resin, a carved ironwood pipe, a badge denoting partial citizenship in the City of Lumeer, a crystal amulet, a notched steel dagger, a wooden handled hatchet, some nails and screws, rope, a corroded House Stormhawk symbol, some fishhooks, a measuring tape and a betting slip in the amount of 5,000 silver on Karson winning the tournament.
“You're crazy,” Rath giving a laugh as he picked up the betting slip. “Five thousand on one fight? You just want to flush everything away, don't you?”
“Mate, this stuff isn't even mid grade,” says scar, inspecting the tobacco. “Pay enough to get Bailee's, at least. Or Melder's.”
“Mmm,” says giant, poking his finger into the tin.
Each of the items spread on the table had certainly endured a lot of love. The knife and hatchet, work tools, likewise for the rope, fasteners and tape. The pipe seemed like it had never been cleaned, the citizenship badge marked with dings and dents. The House Stormhawk symbol also sporting obvious signs of corrosion.
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“How long you had this?”
The symbol, metallic and featuring the golden outline of a bird with wings spread on a field of blue, had a dark purplish corrosion, not rust, spreading from the center and covering roughly a quarter of the design. Rolling through my fingers, seems warm to the touch.
“I got that at Sam's a couple hours ago,” says beard. “This girl was handing 'em out to anyone putting bets on Karson and Sly. He ended up making it to the finals.”
“You mean Davos.”
“Just 'cause you don't like him no more don't mean that ain't his name.” Beard's retort forcing me to shrug. “They're both Stormhawk and she was wearing the House colors. Figured she was there drumming up support for tonight.”
“Hmm, that right? I want to check something. Let's go a couple rounds, just for coppers, you and me.”
With the amazement of the first couple tosses wearing off everyone at the table couldn't contain their laughter, and with each further toss beard grew more and more incredulous and angry. Ten rounds. Nine wins to beard and one tie.
“That- that is some,” beard spluttering, “Hey, that thing was jinxed! All those games from earlier, gimme back my money.” His demand only making everyone laugh harder.
“Okay, fine. I'll give you some back.” Rath raising his hand to signal to one of the serving girls and tossing her some of his winnings. “You can treat us to another round.”
A couple minutes later, with the corroded symbol now safely out of reach in the middle of the table and fresh pints in front of us, the implications had started to set in.
“So wait, just so we're clear,” says scar, “when you were at Sam's putting in your bet some girl was just handing those things out?”
“Yep,” says beard.
“And Sam's people were letting her do it?”
“It was busy. The place was a madhouse and the usual checkpoint way more sloppy. She was being real chatty with everyone coming in, seemed like a Stormhawk booster.”
“So what'd she look like?” My question, of course, aiming to fill in the most important piece of the puzzle.
“A real cutie. Short skirt and great tits,” says beard, with a grin. “She was one of your people. Looked like Priestess Vivian, 'cept ten years younger. Could've been her sister, but she definitely wasn't wearing church clothes.”
“Damn, Vivian. Never a good thing winding up over there, but Vivian's a silver lining.”
“Mmm,” says giant.
“Hey, Vivian's fine, no doubt,” says scar, “but have you seen-”
“Hey!” Rath banging his fist on the table. “Cut the shit. You're all getting distracted and missing the point.”
The four of us turning to regard Rath with a mixture of annoyance and exhaustion.
“What're you on about?” says scar.
“Well,” Rath gesturing at the House symbol, “we've got proof they're fixing tonight's fights. We should do something.” Unfortunately, beard, scar and giant's looks of skepticism didn't manage to deter Rath and he shifted his focus in my direction. “Mac you know I'm right. If we bring this to Stormhawk we can probably turn this whole thing to our advantage. One of the other Houses has to be behind it. I'm sure that information'll be be worth something.” Rath, so sure of himself, now starting to talk faster and louder. “Or we could bring it to the tournament officials. After everything they've done this year to make sure the fights are fair it'll be a huge scandal.” His last word practically a shout, causing the patrons at the surrounding tables to drop their own games of dice to see what he'd been yelling about.
“First,” bringing up my hand, “don't get so excited.”
The kid nodding with a sheepish grin.
“Second,” dropping my voice and giving an exaggerated glance left and right, “don't get ahead of yourself and don't go spreading this all over the place. If that girl had enough of those things to be handing them out there's more than just her behind this whole thing.”
“That's why one of the other Houses has to-”
“Hold on. Let's say you're right – and you might be, you might not be – don't jump off half cocked and wind up making an enemy of one of the other Houses. Or looking like a panicky idiot. Besides, one of them may not even be involved. It's a big world and there's a lot of money riding on tonight. Take it from me, don't pick a fight you can't win. Not unless you've got no choice.”
“That's fair,” the kid conceding, somewhat crestfallen. “Okay, I'll stop by Sam's and see if the girl's still there, see if I can learn anything. While I'm doing that you take the symbol over the Stormhawk and give them the rundown.” Nope, the kid's enthusiasm not reduced one jot by my scowl. “C'mon Mac, they'll take you serious. I'll head over and meet you there once I'm done at Sam's.”
His expression: earnest, even plaintive. Infuriating. As if he really has any idea. They'll take me serious as a heart attack but the last thing they'll do is listen. Probably get knocked on my ass for the trouble and get my pockets turned out. Best case. Have other plans, anyway.
“Absolutely not. They'll probably think I'm in on it.”
“But-”
“Look, I don't have anything against Stormhawk, in particular, and I'm not going to stop you, but I'm not going to get involved in some inter-House squabble. They can all take a flying leap as far as I'm concerned.” Rath setting his jaw but not saying anything. “Besides, this is nothing new. Every time they have these tournaments, or festival I guess they're calling this one, the fights are fixed or the betting's rigged, or there's mysterious disappearances or late entries, and each time they plug a hole there's something else that comes up. It was entertaining the first couple times, but now it's tedious. Like handing out cursed symbols, that's definitely new - at least the first I've seen it - but we don't know for sure if they'll affect the outcome.”
Beard giving a derisive snort.
“Okay, yeah, they probably will. The matches don't start for another couple hours, I figure you're going to head back over to Sam's and see if you change your bet, right?”
“Yup,” says beard, tapping his mug, “as soon as I'm done with this.”
“Great. Do me a favor and be a chaperon for this kid. Make sure he doesn't get overexcited and cause a scene.”
“Oh, come on, I'm not a kid,” says Rath. Petulant. Like a kid.
“Yeah, yeah. You say that but you're still pretty green. Listen, even if you don't manage to make any money tonight on this it'll still be good for you. A learning experience.” Rath with no response to that. “Anyway, thanks for the games fellas, lotsa luck tonight.”
“Hey, Mac, hold up,” says beard, “are you going out to watch the fights in the colosseum? Who'd you bet on?"
“Nobody. Not this time. And I'm not going to bother watching the fights.” Technically not a lie. “I'm gonna take it easy here for a bit and see where the night takes me.”