1 Soul Bound
1.2 Taking Control
1.2.4 An Artful Carnivale
1.2.4.24 Master of the house
A soft voice next to her said: “They used to tie bears to it, and bet on how many dogs it would kill before it died. I stopped that. Uncivilised. The pit is used for trading futures now. I believe in the future. It is ours to make or throw away.”
She turned to look, and saw a man of medium height leaning against the railing watching her, a neutral expression on his face. He was dressed in the staff uniform, with a dice pouch and dagger at his belt. Other than his eyes, his only distinguishing feature was some flaky scaly skin on his forehead, probably psoriasis, that was mostly hidden by the hat which drew attention away from it. His eyes were cold and unblinking, unreadable; something about them reminded her of snakes, and a momentary chill ran down her spine.
“I am Beltrame, and you are Kafana.”
He stated it so matter-of-factly that she interpreted it not as an attempt to prove he knew more than her, but as impatience; a person who didn’t care to waste time with polite pretences and flattery. She decided to match him, and drew upon her Truesight skill, concentrating upon picking up cues from his body beneath his closely controlled exterior.
Kafana: “I’ve noticed that some people have great reluctance to recognise when the tide has changed. You have an uphill battle ahead of you, to win recognition of the Fiorio as an equal to Torello’s older exchanges. How’s it going?”
That got an increase in his blood flow that she recognised as interest, but not a flicker of it showed in his face. His tone of voice remained absolutely neutral as he responded.
Beltrame: “That applies to Adventurers too. You bring innovation, and not all appreciate that. I appreciate innovation. I have invested heavily in improving the Fiorio. Let me show you.”
The conversation was oddly disjointed. He tended to use short declarative statements about things he could prove. He didn’t talk about his pride or other emotions, only about thoughts, intentions and actions. He didn’t try to evade or talk around things he didn’t wish to reveal; he just didn’t respond to them, saying instead what he did want to say, as though he had a carefully pre-planned destination for the conversation and all else was irrelevant.
He showed her around the ground floor, naming the games played on each table and drawing her attention to the chalkboards on the walls where sporting wagers were listed on everything from who Pasquale Trinci would marry to which district would win the prize for the best float in the Carnivale procession. There were even wagers laid upon who would be assassinated next, given no greater or lesser prominence than any other entry. She was unsurprised to see her own name on the list, but reassured by odds being listed at 20 to 1.
Kafana: “Who placed money upon me dying next? Couldn’t an assassin profit by placing a bet just before they set out to kill?”
Beltrame: “We insist upon knowing who places each bet, so we don’t pay out winnings to the wrong person. Tickets are too easily lost or stolen. But the policy at the Fiorio is to keep such information confidential. After all, people don’t need a coffee house to bet against each other. Our role is to ensure our customers’ safety.”
Alderney: {I got a sample of Beltrame’s skin while he was distracted by you, but I don’t want him to get too close a look at me. I’ll be around. Somewhere.}
Bungo: {I’ve found a place in a strange dice game with a sharp-faced printer named Cardano. He’s willing to talk, so I’m going to stay down here and listen for gossip until Wellington says otherwise. It’s named “the game of the Four Seasons, called the World”, and you play it with 7-sided dice!}
She glanced his way. Bungo was sitting at a square table containing a throwing area for dice that looked a bit like a four-leafed clover. He was balancing some small dice carved from sheep’s knucklebones on the back of his hand and then throwing them up and trying to catch them, while Cardano patiently set out red, black, green and yellow pieces, and tried to explain the rules. She shook her head. At least he was having fun, and he probably wouldn’t lose too much money.
Beltrame took her up some creaky wooden stairs to the first floor, with Tomsk, Wellington and Bulgaria tagging along. The atmosphere was different here. Below the gamers were invoking Lir’s aid, wrenching their hair and swearing at their dice when things went badly. Here groups at tables were looking nervously at the boards on the walls, drumming their fingers and exchanging whispered gossip and ignoring their coffee or gulping it unthinkingly.
The people sitting at the tables were nearly all men, though some of the few who were looking satisfied with themselves that evening had drawn the attention of the occasional strumpet from below who sat snuggled against them, flattering them and being squeezed. Behind the bar counter, in a pool of shade, she could see the outline of a shapely woman with long hair handing steaming cups of coffee to the servers who delivered them to tables. Kafana turned her attention to the boards. The first she looked at was labelled rare metals:
3.72 Hepatizon
Stolen novel; please report.
5.07 Fulgrum
7.85 Orichalcum
17.4 Astarium
25.0 Manaccium
33.6 Panchellium
- Venium
239 Gnam
242 Tektine
613 Tumbago
1,000 Mithril
- Mutatis
As she watched, the number next to Manaccium changed from “25.0” to “25.1” with an audible click, but without anyone going up to the board with a piece of chalk. She turned to Beltrame whose attention was still unwaveringly fixed upon her.
Kafana: “Magic. One of the innovations you have invested in?”
Beltrame: “One of three. I have access to short-range paired writing surfaces. An observer at each of the other exchanges sends the current price to my staff on the third floor, who in turn keep these displays updated. This floor is for registered traders. If they wish to make a bet upon what the price of something will be in a day, a week, a month or even a year’s time, they use the same innovation to contact a dealer in the pit below, who gets the lowest cost match they can with someone willing to take the other end of the bet. Just five years ago it used to all be done by runners going up and down the stairs, and by hand signals from people leaning over the edge of the railings.”
Wellington: “What do you do if a company’s share price doubles overnight on the news of landing a big customer contract, and the trader on the short end of a bet about its price can’t cover the gain?”
Beltrame: “We’re still figuring it out. For now, some re-insure the risk with one of the big brokers on the second floor, and the rest face the penalty clause of the contract they signed in order to register here.”
Kafana: “Penalty clause?”
Beltrame’s body indicated excitement to Kafana’s Truesight, though nothing showed in his voice or on his face.
Beltrame: “My second innovation. The contract was created by a Bibliomancer and is magically binding. If you can’t settle your account within a week, your own lifeforce is used to power a self-curse implementing an agreed penalty that varies from individual to individual. A rake would become impotent, a pious man would forsake his family, a warrior might have to slay his favourite steed and a singer would find herself permanently destroying her own voice. Everyone has their fears, a breaking point you can find if you are patient enough. We don’t get many defaulters.”
He kept staring at her, and she slowly realised that Beltrame has used the pronoun “her” when referring to a singer. There was nothing she could object to in the words, but she had no doubt he was making a threat.
System: [Skill “Truesight” has reached level 17.]
A strident voice, like nails scraped down a chalkboard, cut through the air.
“Oh so proud of your skill at finding weaknesses, aren’t you dear? Lord and master of all you survey, too proud to help clean tables but not too proud to make your wife work shifts in this ridiculous hat. Work my fingers to the bone, and you spend your time dallying with the pretties. Not that you’d know what to do with them if any offered, Beltrame. Which they never do.”
Beltrame: “Now, now, Jolanda; Kafana is a potential client.”
Beltrame unlocked his gaze from her, and turned to face his wife who had stepped out from behind the counter and into the full light of the room. Kafana took an involuntary step back. Jolanda wore several extravagant rings on her fingers, but they couldn’t disguise the blackened fingertips that gave the hands a claw-like appearance. Her face vaguely resembled that of a toad, full of warts and pock-marks, and her tongue was thin and very long, writhing as she continued to spew venomous words at the impassive Beltrame. She jittered, moving in fits and starts, and one particular darting head motion revealed that the beautiful long hair was actually a wig, which she readjusted with a practised fidget of her narrow bony shoulders.
Jolanda: “Client, is it?” Kafana could hear the disbelieving air quotes in the words. Jolanda turned to her. “Tell me, girl, has he asked you a single question? Offered you a single service? Done anything other than leer at your body and talk, talk, talk?”
Jolanda turned back to Beltrame, not giving her a chance to answer or even shake her head.
Jolanda: “You think I’m blind, you think I’m stupid. You never look at me that way, you limp-wicked failure of a maggot-ridden goblyn’s bastard.”
Beltrame turned back to Kafana: “The third innovation is the wards that keep things fair here. They have detected your boosted luck, so do not be tempted to wager. I wish to talk to you about setting up a book for the volleyball. Perhaps you will wish to learn how one of my innovations works and we can come to an arrangement.”
A coffee cup hit Beltrame’s head, thrown with sufficient speed and accuracy to shatter despite the cushioning of Beltrame’s hat. Hot coffee splashed over him and narrowly missed drenching Kafana too. Tomsk interposed his body between Kafana and Jolanda.
Jolanda: “Don’t you dare ignore me, you miserable rules-lawyering prissy-knickered shadow worshipper. I’ve seen the drawings of women you keep in your collection on the fourth floor. They got nothing I don’t got.”
She focused on a transparent circle over Jolanda’s head, resulting in her Truesight revealing Jolanda’s chest area to be voluminous mainly because of the rags stuffed inside her bodice.
Kafana: “Thank you for the tour, Beltrame. I believe it will be best if I complete it with my friends. I suggest sending a paired writing surface to Emmanuelle Giambrone in order to continue our discussion.”