Throughout the game, people flitted in and out, a variety of unnamed strangers who all seemed to know Fox personally. None of them really spoke except to shout profanity, and all of them left the table a lot angrier. Fox was good at this. He was good at reading people and employed that talent in hustling the table.

Holsley, on the other hand, was doing poorly. He suffered embarrassing loss after embarrassing loss until his purse looked more like a leaky waterskin. He was learning but not quick enough to turn the game around.

Besides Holsey and Fox, the only other consistent occupant was an older gentleman who had made a hobby out of coughing into his gloved hand. Oddly enough, he’d roll his dice, count them, and never lie. Whenever someone challenged him, he’d reveal his dice, and they’d yell an expletive. Then, he’d smile as he watched them struggle to stack the tower.

It was strategy. Holsley knew that. Everyone around the table, even those arriving new, had a strategy. They went into this game knowing what they were going to do. This made Holsley a bit of a wild card in comparison because he constantly changed his tactics. In one game, he’d be completely honest; in the next, he’d lie at every turn, and in some, he’d do both.

It hadn’t worked out so far.

‘So, how do you know Roland Darrow?’ Fox eyed him from across the table, and it was hard not to feel belittled by his stare and over-eccentric manner of speaking. ‘I assume you’re here for his execution?’

‘We’re old friends.’ Holsley just about managed to get out. ‘Uh, that’s about it, really.’

‘I could say the same.’ Fox retrieved his dice, as did everyone, and the table shook as they clattered against the woodwork. A scurried frenzy followed as people secretively hid their rolls and considered their strategies. Holsley had, as usual, rolled utter rubbish. ‘How did he stab you in the back?’

‘Excuse me?’ Holsley sat up a little straighter. For a second, he thought he hadn’t heard Fox correctly. ‘What did you say?’

‘He stabs everyone in the back,’ Fox said this in the same intonation as someone reading off the back of a menu. ‘If you know Roland, you’re either being stabbed in the back, waiting to be stabbed in the back, or trying to stab him in the back. That’s how it works with that particular thief.’

Were they talking about the same Roland?

‘Oh, he’s not stabbing me in the back,’ said Holsley. He took a sip of his water. ‘I’ve known Roland a long time. He’s one of my closest friends!’

‘I was his friend once,’ replied Fox with a sneer. I can still feel the figurative dagger in between my shoulder blades. And they call foxes vermin.’

Roland had never really mentioned anything about his life before meeting Holsley. In fact, he’d actively avoided the topic of discussion whenever it came up. Holsley had gathered from the available evidence that it hadn’t been a good upbringing. The guild was merciless and unnecessarily cruel.

When Holsley first met Roland, the young rogue was bleeding to death from a vicious stab wound in his back. He had told Holsley that the guild had given him that mark in response to a betrayal, but he’d never mentioned what that was.

‘Do you ever bet any higher than this?’ Holsley leaned back and feigned boredom. ‘I’m getting a little tired of small bets.’

‘I’d believe that more if you’d won any of the games,’ said Fox. ‘Are you going to goad me into betting my ring now? You know, so that you can try and spring Roland out from the dungeons?’

Holsley sat up. ‘How did you—’

‘Don’t bullshit me.’ Fox waved him off and rolled his eyes. ‘It’s stupidly obvious. Why else would you be here on behalf of Roland Darrow?’

‘Oh.’

‘Roland could do it too. That is if his skills haven’t gotten lazy in the years since his last visit to Tressa. If he had this ring, he’d be out of the dungeon before the guards had even thought to check in on him.’ Fox idly rotated the ring on his furry finger. ‘Problem is, he doesn’t have the ring. I do. If you want me to part with it, I’m going to need a lot more than that pitiful bag of coppers.’

‘I’ve got a magic item.’ Holsley had said it a little too desperately. He knew that. ‘It’s a, uh, magic wand. They’re pretty valuable, right?’

‘Let’s see it.’

Holsley dove a hand into his satchel and pulled up the gnarled wood of the wand. At that moment, he could not have been more aware that it looked like a common household stick. A simple tree branch. Same as a thousand others that could be easily found on any woodlands walk.

‘Morrely.’ Fox’s eyes rotated towards the older gentleman. After Morrely coughed into his hand, he held it out to Holsley. The young bard winced and handed over the stick, carefully not to graze the spots of phlegm. Morrely was a wizard— the thought struck Holsley quickly. Of course, he was a wizard; that’s why he kept his hands gloved.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Fox returned his stare to Holsley. ‘This is my appraiser. In return for evaluating high-interest objects, I cover his bets at the table. Morrely here is quite well-versed in the world’s magical items and can even utilise magic to identify them. A rarity in a city like this. You don’t mind if he takes a look?’

‘Not at all,’ Holsley replied uneasily.

Morrely, without saying a word, withdrew his glove. Holsley noticed the little circles on his fingers. Four on the little finger of his left hand and two on the next finger up. Not the most powerful wizard in the world, but a far sight better than the young bard.

Morrely held up the stick. He took a small white pearl from his pocket and kissed it before saying a few words while waving his fingers above the wand. Like magic, for that was what it was, the stick hovered a few centimetres up from his palm and was left to levitate for a moment. Then it was done, and only mere seconds had passed.

‘Worthless,’ he coughed into his hand. ‘No better than a meagre stick. It was a powerful wand once, but the charges are burnt out. It has perhaps one left, which could be used to spark flames into existence, but it is hardly worth anything when compared to the ring. I would not advise gambling against this.’

Yeah, Holsley had been afraid of that.

‘You heard him.’ Fox turned to Holsley and tossed the stick back at him. ‘Do you have anything more to bet with? If you don’t, I’m afraid—’

‘If I may, sir.’ Morrely interrupted. ‘The young bard is carrying something that, in my expert opinion, is worth more than the ring.’

Fox raised a furry eyebrow, but Holsley knew what he was talking about in a second.

‘The lute he came in with is of fine make and design, clearly magical, and could be quite powerful in the right hands,’ said Morrely confidently. ‘Why, I would wager that its value is at least four times as much as the ring and could be worth the risk of gambling.’

‘Thank you, Morrely,’ said Fox without averting his eyes from Holsley. ‘Well, you heard him. If you want the ring, it might cost you the lute. Care to take that bet?’

This was the last thing Holsley wanted to happen. It was unthinkable to bet the redrose lute, especially with the curse upon him. Losing that lute would mean he could never play another instrument again. Any hopes of becoming a world-famous bard would be dashed. He hadn’t taken it to gamble with, he had taken it to defend himself.

How else was he going to get the ring, though?

‘Uh,’ Holsley mumbled. It would have to be a split-second, poorly thought-out decision. ‘Okay.’

That was all it took to cement the deal in place. The pair, across either side of the table, placed their bets near the centre. The ring took up next to no space, whereas the bulging lute made it difficult for people to peer over.

‘How’s one game of Towers sound?’ asked Fox, eagerly gathering the dice. ‘One game. The winner takes the magic items and the gold in the other’s purse. Seeing as your lute is worth so much.’

Holsley smiled. ‘Sounds good to me.’

‘I’m starting to hope you’re hustling me,’ Fox said, then laughed. ‘If that’s the case, you must be the greatest hustler in the history of hustlers.’

***

A game of Towers is played in multiple rounds until all players are out except one. The last person with any dice left takes all of whatever has been bet, while the others walk home with nothing. Holsley was hoping not to be the latter, but by the fifth round, it was clear he was outmatched.

The tower of dice, which now stood erect in the centre of the table, consisted mostly of his dice. The wobbly behemoth reached up at about six dice tall. Surely, he thought, the next die added would topple it. At this point, it was his only chance of winning. If he could struggle through and force Fox to place the next part of the tower, he might make it fall and forfeit the game.

How to do it, though?

Holsley had whittled his dice to two, while Fox was left with double that amount. The one thing going for Holsley was that he had managed to roll two sixes on the dice, giving him a tally of twelve — the highest he could conceivably get on two dice. He kept his expression as neutral as possible while he looked down at the table at Fox.

Fox had to go first this turn, as Holsley was first last turn. The cunning vulpine inspected his own set first and then spent an uncomfortable amount of time studying Holsley. The young bard stared back at him, but it was like staring down a stuffed animal. Fox’s expression was so indifferent and deadpan that it made Holsley wonder if he was a real person.

‘Ten,’ Fox said finally, leaning back. ‘My bet is ten.’

Fox had four dice left, each with six sides. If he’d rolled nothing but sixes, he’d have twenty-four. If he’d rolled nothing but ones, he’d have four. Ten was a strange one to say. If he had gone higher, Holsley would’ve had no choice but to call him out and lose a die, which made him believe that Fox was telling the truth.

‘Twelve,’ Holsley replied honestly. ‘I’m higher.’

In Towers, once a player had announced their number, other players could challenge them on it. If no one did, the highest number won the round, and everyone else would have to return a die to their bags and weaken their hands.

‘You’re lying,’ said Fox with a snide grin. No doubt, he had calculated the odds in his mind. Two sixes on two dice was not impossible, but it was perhaps a bit too convenient for what could be the last round. If Fox didn’t call him out on it, in any case, he’d still have to forfeit a die from his own set. Though, he wouldn’t have to stack the tower.

It was Holsley’s turn to grin.

He revealed his dice happily and watched Fox curse himself for not getting it right. Sometimes, it simply came down to luck. With a grunt, the werefox grabbed one of his dice and reached tentatively towards the tower. Holsley bit his lip. If the tower fell, Fox would be out of the game, and the winnings would be his.

Would Fox notice if he wobbled the table with his leg? No, he couldn’t cheat, not after what Roland had told him concerning Fox’s anger.

Pinching his tongue between his fangs, Fox carefully placed the dice on top of the tower. For a moment, a single moment, it appeared as if he had done it. The tower was stable, the dice was on top, and he could retrieve his fingertips. However, before he had the chance to, there was a loud clatter from just outside the room that sounded like a jumble of heavy footsteps.

Tubheads suddenly barged through the door. Seeing this, the gamblers suddenly scurried for the walls like cockroaches, knocking the table and, unfortunately, destroying the tower and knocking over the dice. The game says whoever’s dice went on last, which was undoubtedly Fox’s.

Holsley almost jumped for joy at his fortunate victory, but his face soon fell silent when he turned to look at who had come marching through the door. Kythos stood there with a menacing scowl, his eyes red and piercing, and a giant two-handed mace held gallantly over his shoulder.

The slob of a tiefling hadn’t even noticed Holsley. No, he was too busy throwing his furious eyes towards Fox. Then, with a voice like a door thrown open against a plaster wall, he bellowed, ‘Where’s the ruby, Fox!?’