“Just our luck,” I said.
Frankie led us into the Arena of Introductory Games. With such a grand title, I was disappointed to discover it looked much like every casino and gambling house I’d visited in my time as London field agent for the Droods. No real difference from any of the after-hours drinking and gambling parlours that infest parts of the West End. Where you can get in only if you’re a member, but fortunately they sell memberships at the door.
There were roulette wheels, card tables, dice; all the usual means to part a sucker from his money. Deep pile carpeting, neutral-coloured walls, a general sense of opulence and comfort, but nothing distinctive enough to distract you from what you were there for.
The huge room was packed with people, expectation heavy on the air. Though soon enough that would be replaced with the heavier scents of perspiration and desperation. You don’t come to places like this to enjoy yourself; it’s all about the winning and the losing. After you’ve put a few hours in, and nothing’s gone to plan, and the people around you are betting more and more wildly to win back the money they’ve lost, that’s when eyes go cold and hearts grow desperate, and the wise man just chalks it up to experience and gets the hell out while the going is good. And your soul is still your own.
Casinos exist to take everything you’ve got.
Most people were just milling around, seeing what there was to see, not yet ready to commit themselves to a game until they’d seen what everyone else was doing. Waiting for someone else to take the plunge. There were no Big Names or Major Players here. They wouldn’t lower themselves to play this kind of game, in this kind of company. There was a continual low murmur of conversation, as people worked up the nerve to bet everything they had, and then beg for credit to lose even more. No one bets heavier than the man who can’t afford it and is desperate to hide that fact from everyone else. Pride, and face, are everything in the gambling world.
There’s no sportsmanship in games like these, and certainly no sense of fair play. It’s all dog eat dog, and devil take the hindmost. As far as the Casino management was concerned, these people weren’t even players. Just lambs to the slaughter, and sheep to be sheared. Games at this level were designed to bring out the worst in people, to tempt them and watch them fall. And then laugh in their faces when they begged for another chance.
I had been in places like this before, but I’d always had the good sense to stay away from the games.
“It feels . . . like walking into a room full of enemies,” Molly said quietly.
“We are,” I said. “No one here is on our side but us.” I looked at Frankie, who was smiling and nodding easily about him, perfectly at home. “You know this bear pit better than us, Frankie; where do you recommend we start?”
“Depends on your strategy,” said Frankie. “You do have a strategy, don’t you?”
“Win big, win fast, then get the hell out of here and on to the games that matter,” I said.
“Well,” said Frankie, “it’s risky, but . . . that’s your best chance, right there. Russian roulette.”
We looked across at the single table, standing empty and alone, with the gun lying on it. Two chairs, but no one sitting on them, yet. A group of people were slowly gathering around the table, looking at the gun with hot, expectant eyes and talking animatedly. While being very careful to stay well away from either of the chairs.
“It’s the old game,” said Frankie. “Two players, one gun, one bullet. Spin the chamber, take your turn, and hope you get lucky. It’s risky, but the odds are really no worse than most of the games here, and the side bets can make you a lot of money in a hurry. As long as your nerve holds out.”
“I can’t believe you’re even considering this!” Molly said angrily to me. “You are, aren’t you? We didn’t come here to die! It’s just another mission!”
“They have my soul,” I said. “I want it back.”
“No, Shaman,” said Molly. “I can’t let you do this. You’re still thinking like you have your armour to protect you. If anyone’s going to do this, it should be me.”
“No,” I said. “You can’t risk it, Molly. Not with your soul already owed to so many. I will do it, because I have just had a really sneaky idea. My Colt Repeater has no bullets in it because the gun teleports appropriate ammo into place, as necessary. You can tap into that magic, quietly and discreetly, and apply it to the Russian roulette gun. Any time a bullet threatens me, you just make it disappear.”
“I can do that,” said Molly. “But I can’t keep the gun empty all the time. Someone would notice. You might have to shoot someone, Shaman. Kill your opponent, to win. Could you do that?”
“He’d shoot me, if he could,” I said. “Are you in?”
“It’s sneaky,” said Molly. “I love it. Let’s do it!”
“You haven’t wasted any time getting into the swing of things,” Frankie said admiringly. “You’ll do well here.”
But I still hesitated. Molly was right. The whole point of Russian roulette is that you only really win when the other player dies. What was one man’s life, against the success of my mission? And any other game, you could get up and walk away when you’d had enough. I was pretty sure that wouldn’t be allowed in this game.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Molly. “You always were too ethical for your own good. That’s why I should do this. Pulling the trigger won’t bother my conscience. I don’t have one.”
“They’d detect your magic if you worked it at the table,” I said. “So it has to be me.”
“I really wouldn’t worry about it,” said Frankie. “The kind of person you’ll be facing, you’ll be happy to see them die.”
I moved quickly forward before I could change my mind, pulled out one of the chairs, and sat down at the table. I looked at the gun before me, but didn’t touch it. All around me, people began talking excitedly in loud breathy voices. They looked at me with admiring, condescending eyes, as though I’d just volunteered to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. And some of them were looking at me in an eager, anticipatory way, because they had come to this table to see someone die. A few of them knew Shaman Bond, by reputation at least, and sent my name racing round the circle. And then my opponent pulled back the chair opposite me, and sat down hard on it, and the buzz of his name was much louder than mine had been. Because everyone here knew Gentleman Junkie Jules.
He didn’t smile or even nod to me, didn’t even acknowledge my presence. Just stared at the gun, like there was nothing he wanted more in the world. I’d met Jules before in some of London’s more up-market early hours clubs, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t remember me. Gentleman Junkie Jules was wearing an expensively tailored suit that had seen much better days, like its owner. It hung shapelessly about him, as though it was a few sizes too large, draped unflatteringly about his spindly frame. No doubt the suit fit perfectly when he first bought it, but Jules had been through a lot since then. His face was thin and pinched, and unhealthily pale. His eyes were fierce and fever bright, and his colourless lips pulled back in a mirthless smile.