“Yes, the Greeks would be keen on this game.” And he’d thrown down the first of a series of quick payoffs, building up a steady lead, trying to force Hamilton to bet on something that might never happen. “It’s full of transformations.”
“Yet hardly classical.”
“What’s seen as classical changes with time, just like anything else.”
So he seemed to share the opinions that had made his arrival here possible. Or to be willing to join in the chorus, at least. But surely he might feel as if he were still a slave, a chattel taken by a raiding party from an invaded province? There was, after all, something of that in Hamilton himself. Hamilton had risked a glance at Turpin and decided to raise the temperature. “Shall we make it interesting?” Having heard how finely cut the boy’s accent was, he had let a little Irish back into his own.
“How much?”
Hamilton had tried to remember what would have broken his bank in his twenties. Not that much less than what would now. Or was that his memory distorting time again? He didn’t want to quote something that the boy would consider a trifle. Still, the value of money hadn’t changed much over the years, just his concept of what sufficed. “A thousand guineas?” The onlookers made shocked noises. Hamilton had realized his mistake immediately. It looked like he was bullying the boy. Precious was shaking her head at the young man, urging him to throw in his cards. “Or, no, perhaps not, let’s say—”
“A thousand guineas.” The boy had been roused by that. Of course he had. Hamilton had baited him in front of his girl.
He’d have done the same at that age if Annie were here, might have done the same now. He wouldn’t humiliate his younger self by backtracking now. “All right, then.”
The next three rounds seemed to go by in a flash. Hamilton and the boy had barely looked up as they drew, considered, threw in, the Warden calling the scores as they did so. Aces were high or low. The order of the court cards, to gasps from a few of those assembled who under pressure revealed a more traditional turn of mind, changed too. And the Ambassador, the Horse and the Devil could sometimes raise or lower the values of the numerals in Cups, Swords, Staves, and Coins.
With eleven minutes to go, everyone had surrounded the table where Hamilton and the boy were sweating, looking to their hands and then to each other, grabbing and throwing down, faster and faster. Hamilton was considering how hard it would be for him to take a loss of a thousand. It would mean selling something, perhaps the Morgan. He could deal with that pressure because of his experience, his training. The boy would have the surety and indestructibility of youth, but he had more to lose. His life, even, if he couldn’t pay, or if whatever he had here instead of a family or a regiment decided his existence wasn’t worth the expenditure. Perhaps his life, at least as a mind in his own body, was dependent, even, on the larger game they were playing tonight, whatever it might be. Hamilton had put aside a twinge of conscience. That was why he’d done this, wasn’t it? Not to harm the boy but to put him off his game. Or was that the whole of it? Then he cursed himself for losing his concentration in that second, as he saw, as he threw his hand down, that he could have kept some of those cards a moment more for much greater reward. The crowd cheered at the arrival of the last round and the last rule change. The boy was ahead, marginally. He was barely considering each hand before he threw it in, and now he didn’t have to think about what might be round the corner. They had turned the last bend and were sprinting for the finish line. Hamilton decided that the only way to go was to match him for speed, glimpsing the best hand, throwing in, hoping for better, hoping to push the boy that way too. The Warden shouted the score more and more swiftly. Fumbling fingers on cards became an issue. Hamilton drew level, and had found that all he had in the final seconds was luck. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d thrown himself on her mercy. He saw that he had tens of each suit, not the best hand and not the worst, and threw it down with just a moment left to play. The boy had looked at his own hand … and seemed to freeze. Hamilton could see his fingers trembling. Was he waiting, deliberately prolonging the misery? He himself had often been cruel, when a job had given him license to. The clock hand had thumped round the final three seconds … two … Hamilton was just a point ahead, surely the boy must have something? The boy fumbled with the cards and threw down his whole hand with a shout and the chimes of the chapel bell rang out across the room and the Warden rang his glass in unison and everyone had immediately leaned forward to see—
The boy had had nothing. He could have made nothing. And now he was staring at Hamilton, and Precious had stepped forward to defend him, her face furious, never mind that all tradition called for her to move in the opposite direction. And now, like a father, Hamilton had suddenly found he agreed.
“I’m satisfied,” Hamilton had begun, “I’ll just take one good bottle of—”
“Don’t you dare!” bellowed the boy. “Don’t you dare! I will pay what I owe!” And his voice had been fully Irish now, the sound that Hamilton heard often in his own thoughts and rarely in his speech. And with that the lad had leapt to his feet and marched out, without properly taking his leave or thanking his host. Precious had stared after him, outraged with the world. But she had not had the indecency in her to follow.
There had been only a brief silence before chatter had filled it.
Hamilton had looked over to the Warden, who was awkwardly closing the plate he’d used to keep the score. He didn’t meet Hamilton’s glance. There didn’t seem to be much joy in the room at what had happened. It wasn’t that this crowd had been on the younger man’s side, as such. But there was a sense of something broken. It was as if these people had suddenly discovered, upon being shaken, that a lot had changed, within them and without, and they didn’t know what to cheer for anymore.
Hamilton had got to his feet and taken a last sip from his glass. He had been pleased, despite everything, to find, a moment later, that Precious had joined him.
“He didn’t deserve it,” she said.
“No, he didn’t. But deserve is very rarely in it.”
Around them, the party had been breaking up. Farewells were being said. And now Turpin had chosen his moment to wander over. He had placed his hand on Hamilton’s shoulder. Hamilton wasn’t sure if he remembered his superior officer’s ever touching him before. Precious had stepped quickly away.
“Bad show,” Turpin had said very quietly.
“I’m sorry, sir. I assumed this was a contest.”
“You didn’t have to force him into a choice between bankruptcy and disgrace. I was hoping our young Herald here might be led, through her closeness to the lad, to begin a new trend in her College, to bring more of them towards His Majesty’s point of view. Win or lose, she’d have felt more taken with him, having seen him prove his mettle. But now she’ll be unable to see him and retain her position.” Turpin had looked over to where Precious stood, her face, now she thought she was unobserved, betraying a sort of calculation, as if she was working out propriety against length of time waited before she went after the boy. Then he had looked again to Hamilton, shook his head, and gone to take leave of his host.
And, until that card on his breakfast table, that was the last Hamilton had heard from him. Hamilton had said good night to his host, left the Warden’s rooms, and gone to the door of the Chapel. And he had found, in the despair that was already sinking into his stomach, that that building was now a horror to him after all.