When he caught Gynedo’s eye again, he saw the expectant look of a raiser, who sat anticipating what bettor’s response Malen would make.
First, he took a long, silent breath, stalling his countermove. He had a twelve-feather magpie in his down placks. And he’d drawn a second magpie in his two up placks—a seven-feather. Not bad. This straw-boss either had powerful down plackards, or was expert at inspiring uncertainty in his opponents. Probably both.
Still, Malen took his time, putting on the cool face of the unconcerned. And, if he was honest, it wasn’t easy to part with Marta’s things, even now. Yes, he believed what he’d told Roth—it was the memories that mattered, not the artifacts. But a measure of that was tough talk by a man pretending to be rather rough. We’re rough men, he’d told his boy. In this moment, the truth struck him: He might lose. And if he did, those memories would be his only connection to Marta. The thought left him heartsick. He hoped he was doing a good job of keeping all of this off his face. But he couldn’t be sure. At last, he nodded, and pushed Marta’s silver betrothal ring into the pot.
“My good man,” Gyendo began, “are we to do this every time?”
He understood immediately. And with this wager, he’d have a harder argument to make. The ring might be an heirloom, but its main value was the memory of his shared love with Marta. He’d already spoken to that. The ring itself held scant rare-metal value.
So, after a moment’s consideration, he silently picked up the rosewood flute. He fingered its stops, imagined one of the simple airs Marta used to play, and reluctantly placed it beside the pinch-comb and ring.
He showed the straw-boss a hint of defiance, silently letting him know not to challenge this one. To his credit, Gynedo only pursed his lips and nodded approval.
“Second draw?” the man asked, gesturing at Malen’s placks.
“One,” he replied, tossing in a five-feather crane.
“And me,” the straw-boss echoed, and dealt them each a last plackard.
Malen had drawn a third magpie, a nine-feather. He had an exceptional hand. Gynedo had one magpie up, a ten-feather. The other of his cards was a twelve-feathered grebe. A very strong card.
At this point, Gynedo could turn up his down placks and they’d count out. The drawing of cards was done. But the straw-boss was again fingering his lower lip, looking over Malen’s hand, his own, and the pot piled up between them.
As the man pondered his next move, Malen realized they’d drawn more than placks. Around them, standing pressed against the low wall, were countless plungers watching, anticipating, muttering to one another.
When he looked back at Gynedo, he found the man’s eyes fixed on him with a penetrating stare. “What really brings you here, my friend? Is it as simple as an empty breadbasket? Is it an impatient landlord?” He paused a long moment before saying in a softer voice, “Or is it the thought of failing your child that has you wagering your past?”
The riverboat straw-boss was goading him. The man had a devilish light in his eyes, as though a game had finally captured his imagination again. But Malen wouldn’t be a part of any of that. Not over Marta’s nice things.
“Are you calling for down cards, then?” And Malen offered a subtle smile of his own.
Gynedo laughed hard, from deep in his chest. “You’ve got salt, my friend. And by the deafened gods, no. Here’s what.” He took up his pen again, dipped for ink, and scratched out another promissory note.
He didn’t bother to blow it dry before pushing it across to Malen, whose jaw dropped at the words there: Three years guaranteed labor on the high-seas trawler Corian Comfort.
“With access to my mercantile account, a dry place to sleep, and steady work, you’d be flush, my wharf friend.” Gynedo tipped his hat back a stitch further, staring wide-eyed at Malen.
For his part, Malen looked down at the used pen set. It was all he had left to wager. It would have to be enough. Again, he took his time, thinking, not rushing to match. Fingering open the clasp, he lifted the lid to the cedar box and stared down at the face of Angeline, muse of lilac and lion. Tell me what to do, he thought.
But that was late-game weakness. There was only one play. Pushing aside thoughts of the poems Marta never got to write down, he slid the pen set into the pot. “That’s all of me,” he said, indicating that they would have to turn up placks and be done.
Strictly speaking, Gynedo could raise again, and Malen would be required to try to match or throw in.
His heart began to thump when the straw-boss picked up his pen. Dear abandoning gods, I’ve nothing left to bet.
Twice, while he wrote out this new promissory note, Gynedo glanced up at Malen, gauging his reaction, looking for him to falter somehow. Malen kept an even eye, though his blood raced. He’d been arrogant to sit at this table, no matter how good a chancer he’d actually been as a younger man. I might have put some romance on just how good I used to be. He should have guessed that this straw-boss would push the game beyond his grasp. That he’d devise to win at any cost, especially given the glint this game had put in his eye, the glint of new excitement over an old game.
When he was done, he actually sanded over the note to dry the ink, drawing out the moment, before slowly pushing it across the table. Gynedo had one-upped his last raise: Title and deed to the high-seas trawler Corian Comfort.
“Your own catch, my wharf friend. Put a price on that, if you can.” The slim smile that followed was all expectation and devious delight.
Malen mentally cataloged all he owned, all he thought he could get or borrow if pushed to do it. But the exercise was futile. A few long moments later, he pushed the note back to Gynedo. “I’ve nothing left to bet.”
It was a breach of etiquette. More than that. It broke the game rules. If he couldn’t match, he had to throw in. But Malen couldn’t do that. He couldn’t let Marta’s things go like that. He couldn’t fail Roth. So, back the note went, as firmly as he could do it.
“Tsk tsk tsk.” Gynedo made the disapproving noise with his teeth and tongue. “But of course you do. You’re just not broad-minded enough to see it. Your greatest asset, my wharf friend.” He paused. “Your son.”
It took Malen’s every bit of strength to keep from lunging at the bastard. He swallowed, giving himself a half-moment to frame his words. “That’s a very nice attempt to strike fear in my heart. But I don’t own the boy.”
The straw-boss laughed out loud again. “Nonsense. Here.” He pushed a slip of paper over to Malen and handed him his pen. “Promise me the boy. You realize, the life I can give him is a far cry better than you ever will… unless you win out tonight.”
Malen began shaking his head.
“Consider it like this, my fine wharf friend. Either way, you win. Either all this,” he swept an arm over the pot at the center of the table, “is yours. In which case your wharf worries are through. Or, should your plack count come up shy tonight,” he now swept his arms grandly, indicating the entire riverboat, “you’ll have given your son a life of daily meals, soft beds, and—dare I say—adventure, that he’d never have had running the docks.”
Malen listened, but didn’t give a tinker’s damn for the exchange. There were inviolable limits. He’d turn full thief before betting a life. Roth’s life. And still, he did have to counter. That was clear. Gynedo wasn’t going to let the stakes be called. But what can I offer?