It had been a gift he’d intended to give her after Roth was born. Since their first meeting, she’d talked about writing down poems and thoughts and fables of her own making. She practiced on him in the evening hours when they’d lain together in bed. She’d liked the musical way of words, and thought someday it might be a delight to write down her best efforts and fashion them into a book. But a poet’s tools were expensive to come by. Especially when three days in ten she and Malen were boiling free butcher bones to make broth for supper.
He tenderly touched the pen. The vial of ink was so small it might scarcely have held enough ink to write a single sonnet. And the clever sander had been fashioned to look like the face of Angeline, the fabled muse of lilac and lion. He’d meant to encourage her to pen her poems. He’d meant to see to it that others could hear the music in her words. It was a thank you for standing beside him, one she’d never known about. She went to her earth before he could give it to her.
She would have liked it. She would have put her hair up, so it could be taken down. He smiled sadly, and looked up into the face of his son, still a picture of his mother.
“Are you sure, Da?” Roth asked.
Malen felt like crying. Emotions swept through him at dizzying speeds, upsetting even an old trawler-deck man. “They’re nice things. Your mother’s things. But like I said, things aren’t family. If she were here, she’d hesh me for dawdling then slap my ass to get to a skiller and price them in for coin.”
Roth’s mouth quirked in a sweet smile. Probably over his ass comment.
“Besides,” Malen said, “it’s the memories they stir that matter. And a sorry set we’d be if we needed them to keep her in mind, wouldn’t you agree?”
The boy nodded. “Are you going now? Aren’t the skillers all closed? Anyone taking a pawn at this hour isn’t going to give you good trade.”
It was true. Reputable skillers kept reputable hours, even on the wharf. Men who traded goods by moonlight were pushing ill-gotten gains or buying cheap what had been stolen. Roth knowing this was just another sad reminder of their circumstance. It made him wonder if his boy had guessed at his true intent—where else did you go with nice things in these hours of evening?
“I’ll find a worthy buyer,” he said, maintaining a bettor’s composure.
He sighed heavily, closed the cedar-box lid, and drew in the corners of the cloth to bundle up Marta’s nice things again. If it weren’t for the new levies, he probably wouldn’t need to do this thing. In all likelihood, the Leagueman he’d brushed by on his way to see Captain Lowell had been there to collect the city’s purse, leaving the captain with no option but to trim his crew.
“Pull down the brace when I leave, and get yourself to bed at a decent hour. Hear me?”
Roth nodded again. He came around and gave Malen a shoulder hug. Malen returned the lad a firm embrace, and held on to it for as long as he could. Then he got to his feet.
“We’re rough men,” he said softly, and winked.
Roth winked back. “Rough men don’t wink,” he said, and giggled.
Malen belly-laughed, and got going. Out the door and down the road a piece, he turned not left toward the skiller shops, but right toward the harbor. Toward the riverboat he knew was moored along the Saelish pier. Where he’d do his level best to resurrect his skill as a man of chance.
The riverboat teemed with bettors and whores and cardsharps and gamble-makers and men hired to keep fights brief. Laughter and scowls and jangling lutes filled the air as Malen approached. His heart began to thump a mighty pattern. He’d put all this away at Marta’s insistence when he’d given her the ring he now carried in the bundle slung at his waist. A ring that might fetch a bag of meal, or half a silver in a skiller’s shop, where booty turned back a tenth its value. But a sharp wit with odds could make a thing worth a hundred times its purchase price. And Malen had been damned good at it in what he thought of as his net years—when his back could handle sea-work.
And he wouldn’t deny the bit of thrill it gave him, coursing again now in his middle-years blood.
At the plank that ran onto the boat, three men milled like tethered, restless sentry hounds. A finely dressed couple—they both wore hats—had just boarded, as Malen approached the men.
Rather disinterestedly, the tallest man sized him up, his eyes quick and appraising. “Three plugs.”
This was new. Years ago, when he’d frequented the gambling barges, the only boarding requirement had been that you didn’t carry onto the boat anything you could get foolish with if your luck spoiled—knives, knuckle-punches. Usually, a heavily oiled deck locker—the kinds used to store perishables—sat dockside, where it was repurposed to hold such things while you played your chances. But an actual fare?
Malen had only Marta’s four nice things. And he’d need them all for actual wagers. He thought quickly. The dock hound had seemed to make a bidder’s assessment of him. Which the man wouldn’t have needed to do if the price to board was standard.
Malen took a step to one side and called over the railing to the elegantly dressed couple now striding the deck. “Excuse me. You there.” They continued to walk, unaware he was calling to them, in particular. “You, with the two-feather hat.”
The woman stopped and turned back, a question in her face. Her man, arm linked with hers, was jerked to a stop, and stared back with irritation.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Malen said, bowing in apology, “But may I ask, did you pay more than six plugs to board?”
The gentleman turned to face him fully, just as the three dock hounds laid hold of Malen.
Quickly he shouted out, “Please just tell these fine men that your coin also paid my way. I’m sure they mean no harm.”
The woman’s face tightened in understanding a half-moment before her gentleman’s did.
“Well, indeed. We’re not half-wits. And you’re terribly slow. Now, hurry.” The woman made an almost comically scolding gesture, wagging her finger. Malen nearly smiled, seeing how much she relished playing her impromptu role.
“You heard the woman,” Malen said quietly. “Or do I have my lady fair go in and find someone who might care that you’re fleecing the gamesters before they can come aboard? Less coin for those who pay your wage to troll the plank, isn’t it?”
The tall man pulled Malen’s face into his, so that their noses mashed together. The fellow glared, his eyes perfectly still. Then he sniffed, and Malen felt it in his own nose. Finally, the man muttered, his lips so close Malen could feel his breath. “You’re too desperate. It will please me to watch you walk away out-at-the-pockets. Or go over the side into the drink when you can’t pay a mark.”
They let him go, and Malen nodded gratitude before high-stepping across and onto the riverboat. The woman with the two-feather hat kept up appearances, reproving him lightly as they walked through the first-deck doors together.
“Thank you,” he said, once they were safely out of view of the dock hounds. “And if you care, anything more than a thin plug each is more than you should have paid. The boat’s straw-boss can see you get it back.”
The woman patted Malen’s shoulder. “We plungers must stick together. River’s luck to you.”
Malen bowed slightly. “River’s luck to you, too.” Plungers. That was the word heavy-purse and clean-boot folk used to refer to themselves when they came a-gamblin’. For them, it had to do with condescending to the places where they could play at chances. Its original meaning was a reference to those who went over the rails into the river when they failed to pay a mark. He couldn’t fault her for knowing only one side of the word’s meaning. And she’d done him a kindness. He was half-tempted to warn them, too. Their mistaken sense of a bettors’ fraternity would likely cost them dearly, since no such thing existed. It was a telltale sign of their inexperience in a place like this.