The gambler cocked his head slightly to see Ulin. A brown eye twinkled at him from under a black arched brow. “There’s one chair left. Are you going to play or just gawk?”
Ulin gave a shrug, pulled out a fat bag of coins, and plopped it on the table with a solid chunk. “I don’t know this game. Could you tell me the rules?” He took the chair vacated by the Khur and pulled up to the table beside Kethril.
The other Khur smirked. Here was his chance to recoup some of his losses. The new man, an old mercenary by the look of the scars on his face and the knotted muscles under his leather vest, helped himself to the pitcher of torquil and shoved the pitcher over to Ulin. “Help yerself,” he grunted.
Kethril said nothing. His features were set in an expression of casual interest that revealed nothing.
Close beside him now, Ulin could see him better in the dim light. Even in his disguise he was tall, slim in the waist, broad-shouldered, and powerfully built. He wore a tunic, an embroidered vest, and long, tight-fitting pants all of rich and expensive fabrics. His hands were long and his fingers moved like those of a highly practiced wizard as he shuffled the cards, cut the deck, and began to deal seven cards to each player. As soon as the cards were dealt, he put the rest of the pack in a pile in the center of the table and turned one face up.
“Four suits in this deck: Leaves, winds, swords, and moons. Mage cards are high, ones are low. Fates are wild. We’ll play a copper a point for one hand so you can see how to bet, then we’ll shift back to silver.”
Ulin nodded. It didn’t really matter. He had never had the time or the desire to learn how to play cards well, and he usually had abysmal luck. The important part was to get into the game. They played the first hand, and as he expected, Ulin lost a few coppers. The mercenary added the meager pot to his dwindling pile and swigged down another mug of torquil. The second Khur sank into a drunken gloom.
The game continued. Gradually, the riverboat filled as night drew on. Ulin was vaguely aware of the background din of loud, indistinct voices, the rattle of crockery and bottles, and the stamp of boots on the sawdust floor. In the far corner, a worn-looking girl took the place of the lute player and played listlessly on a lap harp, singing songs no one listened to. The air grew thick and very warm. A few more lamps were lit.
Every once in a while Ulin looked up and caught a glimpse of Notwen leaning into a shadowy corner and watching the activity at the game table. The game was progressing as Ulin hoped. He and the other two were losing heavily, while Kethril continued to win. He noticed a pattern in the hands that Kethril dealt. The three playing would win a few paltry bounties to keep them interested, then Kethril would win big. Ulin felt like a fish on the line of a master angler. Although he couldn’t swear to it, he guessed Lucy’s father was cheating somehow, but his hands and fingers moved so skillfully that it was impossible to catch every move.
The mercenary watched the cards like a hawk and dealt his turn with ferocity, as if he could intimidate the cards into showing him some mercy. The Khur grew more sour and morose with every hand.
At last the mood at the table took the turn Ulin hoped for. The mercenary slapped down a Mage of Winds on a particularly large bounty, and his lips split in a thin grin. The Khur groaned, and his head dropped into his hands, but before the mercenary could claim his prize, Kethril shook his head in mock sympathy and slowly laid out a Shinare, a goddess of wealth card.
A howl rose from the mercenary. “You son of Hiddukel! You thieving—!” He flung his cards down and hurled himself across the table at Kethril.
In the ensuing tussle, Ulin took advantage of the distraction to withdraw a small packet from his sash, sprinkle the contents over the coins remaining in his bag and give the bag a quick shake. For good measure, he dumped the remaining fine gray powder into the pitcher of torquil as he swept it out of harm’s way.
“Gently, sir, gently,” he chided, setting the pitcher aside. He caught the mercenary by the shoulders and hauled him off Kethril and the mess of coins and cards on the table. While his back was to Lucy’s father, Ulin slid two cards surreptitiously into his belt. The mercenary was too drunk to put up a real fight, and he slumped back into his chair looking murderous.
“Feddor, my friend, you are tired and your cards are atrocious tonight.” Kethril suggested gently. “Wouldn’t you rather try again some other night?”
“Piss on you,” the mercenary snarled. “One more game, gambler. Your luck can’t be that good.”
Kethril turned to Ulin and offered him a knowing, man-to-man look of approval as Ulin straightened up the mess on the table, poured torquil into everyone’s mugs, and picked up the cards to deal the next hand. When the cards were dealt, Ulin looked at his and allowed himself a sound of satisfaction. While the Khur and the mercenary watched avidly, he dumped his remaining coins out of the bag and onto the pitifully small pile of coins in front of him.
Kethril leaned over and punched him jovially on the arm. “You play well, young man, and without rancor. A true games master never allows emotion or anger to get in the way of his play.”
“We shall see,” Ulin muttered aside. He laid the first card down, a paltry two of leaves. The others quickly followed suit.
It didn’t take long for Ulin to lose most of his money. His luck was worse than normal, and he intentionally made mistakes that allowed the other men, especially Kethril, to win his coins. He began to scowl and to move in clipped, angry gestures. Sweat gathered on his face from the thick, hot air in the room, but since it added to his appearance of agitation, he made no effort to mop his skin. The air made everyone thirsty, too, so even Kethril drank deeply from the pitcher of torquil.
The minutes ticked by while the game progressed to its end. Ulin watched each man intently and waited for the first sign that his powder was taking effect. At every opportunity he wiped his own fingers on his pant’s leg. Then Kethril shook his head. He frowned and held his cards at arm’s length as if he could not focus on them.
Ulin shot a look at Notwen and barely nodded. The gnome’s face answered with such a look of mischievous anticipation that Ulin had to fight back a laugh. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Notwen slip a pitcher of beer off a table when no one was paying attention and make his way toward their corner. It was his turn to play, so Ulin held his opponents’ attention by frowning at his cards, tapping his last few coins with a fingernail, and making the most of a pretended internal debate. Finally, he tossed in the last of his silver coins. “Three silvers for the Prince of Thieves,” he said.
The others looked at him oddly. “The Prince of what?” Feddor mumbled.
“Wrong game, my young friend,” Kethril said lightly. “That’s Dragon’s Bluff.”
All at once a small figure tripped over something on the floor and fell forward beside Kethril. The wet, warm contents of the pitcher slopped over the gambler’s lap in a frothy wave.
Kethril sprang to his feet, a curse on his lips. As he did so, Ulin also rose, and with a deft movement, he transferred the two cards in his sash to the table in front of Lucy’s father.
The Khur and the mercenary were too inebriated to see the blurred motion of Ulin’s hand, but they did not miss the sight of the two cards fluttering down to the tabletop in front of Kethril as if they had just fallen from his vest. Their eyes bulged in fury.
“I knew it!” Feddor bellowed at the top of his lungs. “You’re cheating!” He lunged to his feet, or tried to. His head lolled over his shoulders alarmingly, and he staggered sideways into the Khur. The Khur pushed him away and climbed to his feet, then his face turned blank, his eyes rolled into his head, and he pitched forward onto the table, scattering coins and cards in every direction. The table collapsed under his weight.