Book 1: Chapter 39 - Gaming [Part 2]

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The girls sat at a dark wood table, facing a bewildered Sergeant Frest. He sat stiffly as if caught in an unsavory act, brow furrowed as if he could not quite fathom the reason for their presence here Around them, the din of laughter, whispered wagers, and the shuffle of cards drifted through the gambling hall.

Four other men occupied the remaining seats, along with a surprising fifth presence—a third woman. Three of the men wore tailored jackets and polished boots, their appearances marking them as comfortably well-to-do. Still, none stood out: their faces were unremarkable, blending into the muted tapestry of the gambling hall. Their eyes flicked quickly to Seraphina and her maid, assessing newcomers with just the barest flickers of annoyance.

Then there was the old man seated beside the other woman. He had the broad, fleshy face of a seasoned drinker and droopy features that gave him the look of a walrus unconvincingly disguised as a human being—dark brown eyes, a robust mustache, and skin leathery from age and excess. The only thing missing, truly, were the tusks.

As for the other woman, she was just on the far side of middle age but carried herself with a certain Charisma. Her wild red hair, streaked dramatically with white, framed a face that had once possessed some considerable beauty. A black eyepatch covered one eye, lending her a rogue’s edge. She tapped the table lightly with one ring-laden finger, a hint of a smirk curving her lips, as if daring anyone to underestimate her.

“Lady Seraphina… I did not expect you here,” said Frest coolly, placing his cards face down on the table. “Will you be you joining us?”

“Oh, a noble like you, Guillaume, but much younger and better looking,” quipped the roguish-looking woman.

The three other men chuckled softly. One of them seized the moment to stoke the tension further. “I do say, Merala, you are quite correct.”

Seraphina met Frest’s gaze and answered smoothly, ignoring the uncouth men. “Indeed, Frest, you are correct. Miriam and I have been in need of a distraction, and we thought a few hands might help pass the hours. We’ve had little to do but watch endless fields and forests drift by between stops. One can only look at so many trees before growing bored. I trust that will not be a problem?”

The walrus-like old man gave a half-indignant grunt. “You must be the little slip of a girl Vellens the Lesser kept blathering about. You’re welcome to join us, but I must warn you, young lady, we play for very high stakes at this table.”

Seraphina smiled sweetly. “I barely know the rules myself, but my gold is as good as anyone’s. Also, I only taught Miriam what I know a few minutes ago. I do hope you’ll show us a little mercy.”

“All is fair in a game of Braggarts,” declared one of the men, running a hand through his thinning brown hair. “We’re all equal once seated before the gods—unless you are cheating, of course. Name’s Devon,” he added, pulling out a chair for her.

Frest looked even more uneasy, no doubt recalling how much Seraphina despised being addressed without proper formality. Yet Seraphina merely returned Devon’s hospitality with a pleasant, “Charmed, Mr. Devon. Quite the gentleman you are.”

It absolutely terrified Frest.

As if taking a cue, Frest hurried to awkwardly pull out a chair for Miriam, who looked genuinely surprised by the unexpected courtesy.

“We play a gold a hand minimum, no limits on the pot, miss…” Devon said, letting the sentence hang.

“Seraphina,” she supplied, “and this is my chaperone and maid, Miriam.”

“And half a silver per turn of the glass goes to the house,” he continued, explaining the terms of the game.

One of Devon’s friends snorted—a dark-haired man whose waistline was just beginning to expand. “I swear, if the wine weren’t so fine and the Dust not of such high quality, I’d never come here at what Vellens charges. Come along, let’s relieve the girls of their coin so we can get down to some serious play,” he said, somewhat rudely.

“No need for that now, Hugh,” said Merala, her red hair catching the lamplight. “There are ladies present!”

Hugh rose and offered her a mockingly elaborate bow. “As you wish, milady,” he replied sarcastically, then settled back into his chair and poured himself another glass of wine from a cut-crystal decanter.

Across the table, Frest looked as if he’d swallowed something sour. He knew Seraphina’s temper well, and her pleasant smile did nothing to ease his dread. In fact, it heightened it.

“Well then,” Seraphina said lightly, “shall we begin? Forgive us if Miriam and I make a few mistakes.” Her smile remained fixed, unwavering.

“Mistakes will cost you,” Hugh teased with a friendly laugh. “Last chance if you don’t want to lose your father’s money!”

He was skating on dangerously thin ice. For a brief, silent moment, Seraphina considered dire repercussions—bloody ones that would end with corpses drifting downriver. Yet such measures would be troublesome in the capital. No, she had a better idea: she would simply clean them all out.

Seraphina rested her chin on her interlaced fingers, tilting her head just so. “Please, deal the cards,” she said softly. “We wouldn’t want to overpay Vellens for the privilege of playing here.”

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Seraphina played the first few hands almost too well—just enough to lose more than she won, which was precisely her intent. Miriam, surprisingly, managed to break even, even winning the last pot with a rare and enviable hand.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Frest, feeling the rising tension at the table, had decided to excuse himself. Something about seeing to his men, he had said. Seraphina suppressed a knowing smile. The man could be many things, but a convincing liar was not one of them. He did, however, promise to return later.

Now, with Frest gone and her opponents none the wiser, Seraphina judged it was time to sink her claws in. Thus far, they had swallowed her act whole, convinced she was a hapless noblewoman dabbling in a game beyond her ken. Perfect.

It was Hugh’s turn to deal, and he flicked the cards out with smooth, practiced ease. This time, Seraphina did not even glance at her hand. She would leave this hand’s outcome to fate and simple raw Luck.

The other players watched her curiously. Hugh and Devon exchanged a quick look, suddenly uncertain about this new approach.

“Aren’t you going to look at your cards?” asked the walrus-faced old man, Guillaume, narrowing his eyes.

“That would be a good idea,” Hugh said. Devon chimed in at the same moment, “Yes, indeed!” Their synchronized suggestion earned them each a scowl from the other, as old irritations flickered to life.

Seraphina raised her eyebrows, adopting a girlish tone of mock surprise. “Must I? Is it required by the rules, gentlemen? Please, do remind me.”

Miriam, keeping up the charade, added hesitantly, “Yes, Lady Seraphina, it might be wise.”

Seraphina turned a teasing smile on her maid. “But I don’t recall that rule…”

“She’s right,” spoke the man sitting quietly beside Hugh. Locke, his name was. He had so far been miserly with both words and bets. “There’s nothing against not looking at one’s cards.”

“That settles it, then!” Seraphina declared, flashing a bright smile. “I choose not to for this round.”

“This is most irregular,” Guillaume grumbled, lighting a fine pipe. He puffed leisurely, the smoke curling into the lamplight. “But not against the rules.”

“Then allow me to make it more interesting,” Seraphina purred, tossing another gold into the pot. The coin’s gleam caught their eyes. “A little extra to thank you all for teaching us ladies how to truly play.”

Her gesture hung in the air like a challenge, the tension around the table tightening. They had welcomed her, underestimating her all the while.

“You’ve got nothing,” Hugh declared, tossing another gold piece onto the pot. He studied Seraphina’s face intently, searching for the slightest hint of a tell. Yet how could he read what she herself had not seen? Without ever glancing at her hand, Seraphina’s expression revealed nothing beyond a languid smile and bright, unreadable eyes.

In answer, Seraphina took another leisurely sip of the heady liqueur. By refusing to look at her cards, she had transformed this game into one of pure probability—and probability was on her side. Arvan’s bracelet ensured she had more than just average Luck.

Across the table, Devon, Locke, and Miriam wisely folded, with Devon looking visibly frustrated. Merala’s predatory grin suggested a strong hand, while Guillaume also decided to stay in. The tension thickened as the final cards were revealed. By the slimmest margin, Seraphina won, narrowly beating Merala. The other woman merely rolled her eyes, while the rest of the table eyed their dwindling coin purses.

They continued to play, round after round. Although Seraphina lost now and then, her wins more than balanced the scales. The other players, including Miriam, dug themselves deeper into debt as they pitted their mortal fortunes against Seraphina’s extraordinary edge.

Eventually, Merala, a born gambler but now nearly a hundred gold coins poorer, decided she’d had enough. She stood up, exclaiming that she was done, and just started to bid everyone a good evening when Sergeant Frest returned. The former bandit’s curiosity compelled him to see how his charge had fared.

Seraphina hardly cared about the money. To her, it was nothing more than a way to keep score. What truly mattered were the notifications she had received, confirming that her Luck had increased not once, but twice. She nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all—improving her Luck as though it were a skill to be honed. But here she was, thriving at a table of chance, making it look almost effortless.

Like Merala, the other players fared poorly, their faces drawn tight with loss and humiliation. Hugh looked a complete wreck, having gambled away not only a solid eighty gold pieces but also the very rights to his family’s velvet weavery. Miriam, as expected, had not performed well either, losing just under forty gold. She was so easy to read that any half-wit could see through her tells. Locke, on the other hand, had managed to limit his losses to just under five gold pieces, his natural caution and aversion to risk sparing him from worse damage. The old man, Guillaume, resembled Miriam’s misfortune closely, walking away with a deficit of forty-nine gold pieces.

Devon, who had started the evening as something of a gentleman, finished with only a fifteen-gold loss, mainly because Seraphina had allowed him a few small victories. Sometimes, her own largesse surprised even her.

“I trust this friendly game has remained so…” Frest said carefully, measuring each word. “And I hope you enjoyed your evening, Lady de Sariens.”

Across the table, Hugh’s face fell as realization struck. “Wait a moment… you’re the de Sariens whelp! Vellens did not make any mention of that,” he spluttered, panic seeping into his voice.

Seraphina ignored him, turning instead to Sergeant Frest with a thin, controlled smile. “Have my winnings converted into Al-Lazarian notes if possible. I have no desire to be weighed down by gold while I complete my business at Court.”

“Yes, milady!” Frest snapped to attention, a dangerous gleam in his eye that dared anyone to object.

Seraphina surveyed her would-be opponents, now thoroughly bested. “Well, gentlemen—and you too, Merala, my dear—it has been most enlightening. Do tell my man where you acquired that lovely necklace.” Her tone brimmed with condescending charm. “Come, Miriam. I can’t have you losing any more of my money.”

With that, the young noblewoman rose, offering them a formal cursty worthy of a royal audience. Her maid followed suit. “Yes, milady,” Miriam murmured, executing a neat bow at the hip for the stunned players before trailing after her mistress.

As they departed, Seraphina caught a hushed complaint: “She must have been cheating…” A harsh whisper tinged with disbelief and resentment.

Frest’s low, warning tone drifted after them. “I wouldn’t speak ill of that lady too loudly, friend. The last man who tried that… well, let’s just say it ended poorly for him.”

At the door, Seraphina tipped the guards a silver coin each, and they bowed with surprising elegance. Their graceful acknowledgment pleased her.

Turning to Miriam, Seraphina allowed herself a wicked gleam in her eye. “Well, Miriam, it appears you owe me fifty gold pieces…”

“But Lady Seraphina! I lost only…” Miriam protested, eyes wide with shock.

“Sshh, Milly. Not so loud, you silly thing,” Seraphina chided, voice soft yet firm. “I have just the way for you to repay me. Now, tell me—what do you know about running a velvet weavery?”

Miriam could only stare, incredulous and speechless.