The salon was filled with more people than at any time since sailing. It seemed everyone was in a partying mood as the prospect of reaching a port in the morning brought a little excitement to the passengers. The wine flowed. People smiled. Later, after the sun sank behind the land on the right side of the ship with a spectacular display of reds and oranges, they gathered into small groups and discussed future plans, and the docking of the Gallant the following morning. A few would leave the ship and never see each other again, but tonight all were fast friends.
At one table in a corner, four men played the nightly game of tiles. Since I had been a loser for three previous nights, they welcomed me eagerly and asked that I join them. My seat allowed me to keep my back to the windows and watch the room—and listen as I played. The voices were louder than normal, and the subjects all dealt with the following day.
It would have been nice to hear a fellow passenger say what would bind the mystery of mages, magic, dragons, and politics together in a manner that would answer all of my unasked questions. That didn’t happen. However, I did hear more tales of the corrupt city government, the decay in the city of Trager, and how the population had declined and continued declining. People were moving away or dying. However, nobody said where. Many were killed, often in the streets by city guards, ex-city guards, and throngs of thieves and criminals, some of them very young.
The players at the table tonight were excited and playing too aggressively. They over-played their hands. Coins came my way despite my efforts to lose a few, despite our games were for small stakes. A bellicose man who had relentlessly berated my poor play a few nights before joined the game. He was again rude and arrogant with his success. Long after nightfall, he found himself with a hand facing only me in the game. The pot was larger than normal. I bet a small amount. He raised, and I did the same, which caught his attention. His mouth never stopped insulting me. My anger grew.
My hand was a good one. I bet again. It quickly became the largest pot since sailing, by far. Every player and observer in the lounge watched intently, a small crowd gathered behind us. A year’s pay for a tradesman lay in the center of the table, which normally held the price of a few meat pies at most. Smalltalk ceased. The room grew utterly and strangely quiet. The combative player spoke again, warning me of how I’d lost to him before, so he advised me to throw in my hand and allow him to own the pot.
Tiny beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. His hands shook. He needed six spots on the next tile he drew, as all could see, so his odds of winning were one-in-ten. My small magic told me his next tile would have the six he desired—and I would lose not only the money on the table but the respect of others. I would also suffer his public rancor aimed at me. However, I would not use my magic to make the minor change.
He drew his six spots. He sneered my way. To remain even with him and remain in the game, I needed four spots. The tile I drew held only two, so I lost when I displayed them. I held back. There were still two options. Use my skill, not my magic. Without hesitation, as any over-eager player who had drawn a strong hand and a history of losing would do, I broke into a wide smile and confidently raised the bet with all the accumulated coins in front of me.
The man had expected me to fold or make a minimal bet, at most.
He blanched and lifted his eyes to meet mine, to see if I was attempting a bluff. I smiled wider yet said nothing. He now had two choices. He could use almost all of his coins that he still retained to continue playing—or fold. Folding would give me the pot. If he bet, I could change the number of spots on either his tile or mine. I could . . . but still determined I wouldn’t.
He looked hard at me, trying to determine if I bluffed. I still smiled like an inane bumpkin from a farm in the wilds. Neither of our expressions changed. His was one of disbelief and anger. None of the players or spectators moved or spoke. The tension grew.
“You got lucky,” he snarled as he threw his tiles to the center of the table in submission. “I’ll win that back and more before the night is over.”
The conversation around the room picked up again, but I saw triumphant expressions on two other player’s faces. They were like cats about to pounce and glad I’d beaten him. The small pile of coins in front of the angry man left him vulnerable to anyone willing to bet heavily. He’d have to win against players willing to bet large sums against him or fold his hands and drive him out of the game. It took only six hands to break him, none of them my doing.
He stood and announced he would be back with more money. His gait staggered as he left, through no fault of the motion of the ship. A spectator who had played with us several nights was invited to take the empty seat before the other could return, leaving him no seat to claim. The game returned to small-stakes and good-natured humor.
I didn’t wait for the bellicose man to return. The talk around the table was exciting but without substance. I gathered my coins into my purse and stood, taking my leave with good humor. The night air outside was warm and humid, warmer than any in Dire, and before sleeping a walk around the deck would do me good to clear my head of the wine and concentration of playing the game.
Instead of strolling to the bow and back down the other side of the ship as most travelers did, I found a seat on a hatch cover near mid-ship and sat, watching the stars in the moonless sky. There seemed to be more of them at sea. A few people were about. Not many. Most were probably sleeping in preparation for docking in the morning. Others were drinking, gaming, or socializing.
The uneven soft wind popped the sails. As it did, the mast creaked, the lines stiffened, and the air whispered past all of it with rustles and hisses. Despite the boredom of a sea voyage, it can also be relaxing and mind-clearing. When the sound of material moving against material made itself known to my consciousness, my ears brought me alert. Someone was sneaking up behind me—and was very close. I smelled him, stale and sour.
Whirling, I found the tile player who had lost to me, a short club clutched in his fist. He charged. I ducked under his wild swing and smashed my fist into his lower back as he roared past me. The blow was solid, and painful for him. Worse, as he reached the side of the ship, a shadow stepped out and shoved his shoulder, increasing his stumbling speed.
He hit the railing and tumbled over. It happened so fast I couldn’t have saved him in any circumstances unless I was a full mage and could levitate a man below water. The shadow stepped into the light, and it was the man named Will, the one who was sent to look out for us.
He said, “Sorry. I should have intercepted him sooner and knocked him out and placed him in his cabin. His death is on my hands, not yours.”
I heard no real remorse in his tone, no regret in killing him, but only in that he hadn’t performed his job as well as he believed he should. He turned and disappeared as Damme and Hannah walked through the door from the dining room. They were the couple from Dagger who had helped me learn a dozen words of the Kondor language. It should have been more, but my capacity for the language was poor.
“Good evening, Damon. Not feeling well?” Damme asked.
“Why do you ask?” I said.
“You appear pale and agitated. The result of winning that hand of tiles? The entire ship is talking about it,” Hannah said in her halting Common.
Damn. That was my only thought. I’d had a confrontation with the belligerent gambler, and now he’d fallen overboard, and all knew of the confrontation. Some aboard the ship were sure to connect the two instances. I said, “I don’t like people like that. They scare me.”