Your ship is your life. Stake your air before you stake your ship—and your soul before you stake either.—Excerpted from Cantra yos'Phelium's Log Book
PLAY WAS DEEP AND as usual Vin Sin chel'Mara was in the deepest of it, pulling cantra from the pockets of the young fancies-about-town like a magnet pulling iron filings to itself.
He was a wizard with cards, was the chel'Mara, any of his cronies would say so. And it took either a god-kissed or an innocent to sit across from him at the pikit table and lay hand on deck to deal.
The universe being itself, there was no shortage of god-kissed for chel'Mara to fleece, innocents being something rare in the neighborhoods he frequented. Yet it seemed that tonight one had muddled into the depths of Quenpalt's Casino, and stood watching the play with wide, misty eyes.
She was utterly out of place in the jewel-glitter, silk-whisper crowd of players. Her quilted shirt was large and shapeless, fastened tight around her fragile throat. Her only adornment was an antique silver puzzle-ring.
Her hair, dark blonde or light brown, draggled too close around her face, and her eyes, thought yo'Vaade, who saw her first, were gray, or possibly a foggy green.
She stood quiet as a mouse at the side of the table, flanked by two halflings in Scout leather, foggy eyes intent in the thin, hair-shrouded face.
At first he thought it was chel'Mara she was after, so raptly did she watch his play. And why not? He was a well-looking man, and of good Line, though that would matter less to her than the cantra piled before him. The chel'Mara would never consider something so dowdy, yo'Vaade knew, but what harm to let the mouse dream?
Then he saw that it was the cards she was watching and frowned to himself. Fastidious as he was in bedmates, chel'Mara would play against any who sat to table. But surely, thought yo'Vaade, a ragged girl, with scarcely a cantra for her quarter-share, if he was any judge—
"You find the game amusing?"
chel'Mara's query hovered on the edge of Superior to Inferior—proper enough for a High House lordling out of Solcintra when addressing a mouse of unexalted birth. It would have been more gentle to bespeak her otherwise, he being a guest in her city, but the chel'Mara was not a gentle man. He gathered in his latest winnings and stacked the coins before him in careful towers of twelve, hardly sparing a glance at the mouse's thin face.
"I find the game interesting," she returned in an unexpectedly strong voice, and in the mode of Adult-to-Adult. "And I cannot for the life of me, sir, understand why you continue to win."
chel'Mara raised his eyebrows in elegant amusement. "I continue to win because my line of play is superior."
"Not so," she returned with such surety that yo'Vaade openly stared. "It is a badly flawed line, sir. Indeed, a solid loser, over time."
chel'Mara leaned back in his chair and gazed blandly up into her face.
"How very—interesting," he purred and moved a languid hand, showing table, cards and cantra. "We have before us the means to test your theory. "
She hesitated not at all, but came forward and sat in the chair sig'Andir had just vacated. Her guardian Scouts came forward, as well, and stood, one behind each shoulder. "Certainly, sir."
"Certainly," chel'Mara repeated. "But it's a valiant mouse, to sit with the cats!" He bowed, seated as he was, the gesture full with mockery. "What shall you stake, Lady Mouse?"
"My quarter-share," she stated, and produced it—four cantra, which was better than yo'Vaade had thought, but nothing near chel'Mara's more usual stake.
"Four cantra it is," he agreed, plucking a matching amount from his treasury—
"Oh, yes, very handsome!" cried sig'Andir, who was a bitter loser. "The poor lady stakes her entire quarter-share and you match it with four from your hoard! Where's honor in that? Stake something that will pain you as much, should you lose it, and make the play worth her while!"
chel'Mara raised his eyebrows. "I cannot imagine," he drawled, "what could possibly mean as much to me as four cantra does to this—lady."
sig'Andir grinned tightly. "Why not your ship, then?"
"My ship?" chel'Mara turned wondering eyes upon him as a crowd began to gather, drawn by the ruckle.
"It would be done thus," the male Scout said unexpectedly, "in Solcintra." He grinned, fresh-faced, and bowed to chel'Mara's rank. "My Lord need have no concern of pursuing a melant'i stake here. I am assured that Quenpalt's aspires to be the equal of any casino in Solcintra." He raised his voice. "The Stakes Book, if you please!"
There was a shifting of the crowd as the floor-master came panting up with Book and pens.
"A melant'i stake," someone of the crowding spectators whispered loudly. "Value for equal value, absolute. Ship against quarter-share."
"Ship against quarter-share!" The information ran the casino. Play stopped at other tables and in the main room, the Wheel was seen to pause. yo'Vaade held his breath.
For a long moment, chel'Mara stared at the Book the floor-master held ready. Then one elegant hand moved, fingers closing around the offered pen. He signed his name with a flourish.
The Book was presented to the mouse, who took the pen and wrote, briefly. The floor-master made the House's notation and stepped back, reverently closing the gilded covers.
Lazily, almost lovingly, chel'Mara replaced his four coins on the proper stack. Likewise, he produced a set of ship keys strung together on a short jeweled chain and lay it gently beside the mouse's quarter-share in the center of the table.
"Ship against quarter-share," he murmured and inclined his head. "Your deal, Lady Mouse."
IT WAS A LONG GAME, and the mouse a better player than yo'Vaade would have guessed. Indeed, she won at first, made her four cantra into six—seven. Then chel'Mara found his stride and the mouse's cantra went back across the line, until only one remained her.
yo'Vaade thought it was ended then, but he had reckoned without the Scouts.
Indeed, he had quite forgotten about the Scouts, who had remained standing, silent and patient as leather-clad statues, behind the mouse's chair. It was doubly startling, then, to see the boy lean across the mouse's shoulder, ringless hand descending briefly to tabletop.
He straightened and yo'Vaade looked to the mouse's bank, richer now by three cantra.
chel'Mara frowned into the Scout's face.
"Do you buy in, sir? I had understood this a test of theory between the—lady—and myself."
"Payment of a long-standing debt, Your Lordship," the Scout returned blandly. A murmur ran the crowd.
There was no comment from the mouse. Indeed, there had been no comment from her since play began, she apparently being one who concentrated wholly upon her cards.
A moment longer the chel'Mara stared into the Scout's face.
"I have seen you," he remarked, in such a tone that said, Having seen you twice, I shall remember you long.
The Scout bowed. "Indeed. Your Lordship saw me but three nights ago, at the Stardust in Solcintra Port, where Your Lordship was pleased to win the quarter-share of Lyn Den Kochi and certain payments from three future quarter-shares."
chel'Mara lifted an ironic hand. "There are those who are not friends of the luck."
"As Your Lordship says." The Scout returned to stillness and chel'Mara went back to his cards.
"ARE YOU MAD?" Rema hissed into Var Mon's ear. "To set her against Vin Sin chel'Mara—"
"My dear comrade, I didn't set her against my lord, she set herself. Where's the harm?"
"You ask that, when you saw him ruin Lyn Den? What if she should lose, tipsy as she is?"
"She's winning and you know it. I can almost see where that line of play is going, and you're quicker than I am. Where is she going, Rema?"
"I—am not certain."
"But she's winning."
"Perhaps."
"No perhaps about it," Var Mon asserted, eyes on the fall of the cards. "You don't see it and I don't see it, but Scholar Caylon sees it—and it's her board." He paused as Aelliana took a trick, then continued, softly.
"As for being tipsy—look at her! She looks as she does when she lectures—I should be so cool when I sit to Jump!"
"If he should take exception. . ."
"The cameras are on it," Var Mon told her. "The Scholar's line is fair—she's got the pattern and she's got the break-key, even if her students are too stupid to see it. How can he take exception to a fair line? Stop fretting."
THE TEMPO CHANGED shortly after the Scout's three cantra entered the game.
It was as if, yo'Vaade thought, the mouse had at last found the path she had been seeking, though her previous play had in no way been marred by hesitation.
Now she played with a surety that was awesome to behold, calling the cards to her hand like kin. It took less than an hour for all the coins to cross back over the line, until it was seven on her side and the keys alone, and chel'Mara bidding a Clan Royale.
It was what all the rest had been building toward—this last hand, this locking of wills. The crowd held its breath, and yo'Vaade held his. chel'Mara's face was seen to be damp. The mouse sat cool as water ice, cards a smooth fan between quiet fingers, and called for her seconds.
"Scout's Progress," she announced in that surprisingly clear voice, which was esoteric enough, surely, but no match for a Clan Royale. One by one, she lay the cards out, face up for all to see, and looked over to chel'Mara.
"Ah." He sighed, and a great tension seemed to go out of him all at once, so that yo'Vaade began to feel sorry for the poor, valiant mouse.
chel'Mara's cards came down in a practiced sweep, face up for all to see: Delm, Nadelm, Thodelm, A'thodelm, Master Trader. . .
"Ship," the crowd whispered among itself. "He's missing the Ship. A broken run . . . The lady wins. . ."
"The lady wins," Vin Sin chel'Mara announced, loud enough to be heard in the far corners of the room. He snapped his fingers. "Bring a port-comm!"
"A port-comm!" the crowd babbled. "A port-comm for Lord chel'Mara!"
It came and he tapped in one sequence, then another, and looked over to his erstwhile opponent, who was staring down at her run as if she had never seen cards before.
"Your name?" he inquired neutrally and when she looked up with a start, explained with overdone patience: "In order to change the registration of the ship, I will need to file your name as new owner."
"Oh," she said, and picked up the keys to frown at before replying. "Aelliana Caylon, Clan Mizel."
There was a flutter of something through the crowd at that, and yo'Vaade considered the taste of the name. It meant nothing to him: it obviously meant nothing to chel'Mara. Behind the mouse's chair, the Scouts preserved attitudes of silent attention.
chel'Mara had recourse to the port-comm's keyboard, finished his entry, tapped the send key and lay the comm aside. He came to his feet and stood gazing down at the mouse. The look in his eyes, thought yo'Vaade, was not good. Not at all good.
"The ship is called Ride the Luck," he said. "It is kept at Binjali Repair Shop, Solcintra Port. Ownership entire remits to you at Solcintra dawn. I shall require the hours between to remove my personal effects." He bowed, low and mocking. "I wish you joy of your winnings, Lady Mouse," he said softly.
He turned to go, his eye falling on sig'Andir, who was openly smiling. "Satisfied, sir?" he purred and waited until the smile died and all color drained from the boy's face before he swept away through the crowd, toward the lounge-room and the bar.
"GOOD EVENING, JON."
The man at the desk finished writing out his line before glancing up. As it happened, he needed to glance up quite a way, he being seated and his visitor being somewhat above the average height, for a Liaden male.
He was also dressed in work leathers, his hands innocent of rank ring, which meant High House gossip was not the purpose of this visit. The spirited dark hair was neatly confined in a tail that hung below his shoulders; from his right ear dangled the twisted silver loop he had earned from the headwoman of the Mun.
He bowed, Student to Master, and straightened; the glow off the desk lamp underlit his sharp-featured face, throwing the black eyes into shadow.
"I need work," he said, speaking in Comrade Mode, which was how they always spoke at Binjali's.
"Hah." Jon rubbed his nose. "Happens we have work." He jerked his head at the window and the repair bays beyond. "Go on out and call yourself to Trilla's attention."
"Thank you."
Another bow and he was gone, walking with a Scout's silent stride, melting out of the light as if he had never been. A moment later, Jon saw him crossing the bay, lifting a hand toward Trilla on the platform. The office noise-proofing was top-grade, so he missed the shout that must have accompanied the gesture. But he saw Trilla wave back and the flicker of hand talk: Come on up.
Needed work, did he? Jon thought, between a grin and a worry. He sighed and returned to his papers.
"MAY I WORK AGAIN tomorrow?"
Jon deliberately finished cleaning his hands, shook the rag and hung it back on its nail.
"We're open to casual labor. You know that."
"Yes. I only wanted to be certain I would not be—inconvenient."
"Inconvenient." Jon grinned, reached out and caught the younger man's elbow, turning him toward the so-called crew's lounge. "Let's have a cup of tea. I'll ask some nosy questions, you'll snatch what remains of my hair from over my ears and we'll part friends, eh?"
The other laughed, a rich, full sound that had pulled Jon dea'Cort's mouth into a grin from the very first time he'd heard it.
"A bargain," he cried and appeared to sober abruptly, glancing sideways from glinting black eyes. "How old is the tea, I wonder?"
"Must be six, seven hours old by now," Jon admitted without shame.
"Perfect."
A few moments later they were both seated on rickety stools. In addition to tea, Jon had helped himself to the last of the stale pastries and was busily dunking it into the depths of his mug.
"How is it, Master Jon, that the mugs never melt?"
"Had 'em made special out of blast glass," Jon returned and disposed of his soggy sweet in two bites. He took a scalding swallow of bad tea and threw his former student a stern look.
"They don't keep you busy enough out in Dragon's Valley, Captain?"
"Alas, they keep me out of reason busy," came the reply. "I swear to you, Master Jon, if I am required to speak to one more Liaden I shall either go mad or strangle him."
Jon laughed. "Spoken like a true Scout! But the fact of the matter is that you're too important a man to either go mad or take it upon yourself to strangle the bulk of the population. Not," he admitted around another gulp of tea, "that most of 'em wouldn't be better for a throttling. But it's out of Code, child: the natives are likely to take issue."
"Understood. And so I ask for work."
"I can give you work. But I'd like to know you're not turning your face from matters needing your attention. There are those things, as we all learn in Basic, that only you can do, Captain. Leave them aside and the world could be a lot worse."
"You terrify me."
"Some respect for your elder, if you please. I can give you work, but is work what you need?"
The other man sipped gingerly at his mug, screwing up his face in comic distaste. "Magnificent," he pronounced, and gave Jon dea'Cort all his black eyes.
"My brother," he murmured, "falls just short of suggesting we remove to New Dublin."
"It delights me to hear your honored kin has, however late in life, come into his heritage," Jon returned with a touch of acid. "Had he anything useful to suggest?"
"You are severe. Yes, something useful."
"But you'll see me damned before you tell me what it was," Jon said comfortably. He finished his tea and rose to transfer the dregs from the pot to his mug.
"All right," he said, resettling on his stool. "You need work, I've got work. Casual schedule; call if you're expected and something forestalls you. But if your self-healing hasn't earned out in a relumma, I will cease to have work, young Captain, and I would then strongly suggest—as a comrade—that you visit the Healers."
"A relumma should be more than sufficient to relocate center. I thank you." The younger man stood, poured his tea down the sink, washed out the mug and put it to drain.
"Until tomorrow, Master Jon."
"Until tomorrow, child. Be well."