Roving Gambler
He woke instantly, more pilot than person, swinging his legs from the bed as soon as his eyes were open. The three coordinate sets in his head were good enough if there was–
But there wasn't: the nearest ship deck was a cab ride and check-in away. The coords got mentally filed away in order, Lytaxin, Springwood, Tinsori Light. Well, that last one, that was one he'd been supposed to forget, to put out of his head as a last resort just ahead of, or maybe behind, Jumping into a sun. He'd not have had it at all except for the oddity of his grandmother knowing it, though she was not now and never had been a pilot.
Not dressed yet, Quin yos'Phelium Clan Korval stood in the cold of the near attic, falling into a dance routine to steady himself to gravity before he dressed. Surebleak's gravity was a bit light to his standards, not that the planet knew nor cared. Odd that he should still be dancing to the gravity of a world and school he'd been pulled from because of Plan B–but his small class at Trigrace was long graduated and he'd not be back there, probably ever.
There was a cat, briefly, a quick strop against his bare legs and away, regally.
"Silk," he called. "Silk?" He could use a moment of cat-time. . .
When calling the cat's name didn't halt the move toward the mystery space beneath the bookcase he made the silly Terran catchacat-catchacat sound this household preferred to the more sibilant Liaden fizwisswisswiss...
Cat eyes glowed at him momentarily from the cat-way, gave a slow, comforting blink, and then melted soundlessly into shadow.
"Tomorrow," he offered at the disappeared cat, and finished his stretches. His ring flashed in the morning light, reminding him he'd not chosen an earring yet. . .and that he was finally due for a quiet dinner with his father, the Boss.
#
It was Quin's rule never to leave his rooms without a gun–that had been the rule on the Rock, after all, to always go armed–and he'd not forgotten the memorable dust-up on the occasion of the recent All Boss party at Jelaza Kazone, where Cousin Theo'd showed Padi and him that, however good their training, they'd much to learn.
He'd been on the fringe of the action there–truthfully it was a good thing he'd not been in the middle of it else his martial failings would have surely been revealed to all.
But that action had been proof that things weren't settled here, so armed he and all the clan went.
Generally he had at least his gun, his backup, and knife. No one gainsaid him this–the clan was sure enough of him not to be concerned he'd misuse them and fond enough of him to permit what was hardly an ill-conceived notion on the chaotically burgeoning portside of Surebleak.
The guns were an added comfort for his familiarity with them, and the satisfaction he got from practice. He'd shot every other day when he was undertree and missed it dearly–both Nelirikk and Cheever McFarland applauded his skill, and he had no doubt that his last few impromptu matches there–he'd beaten both of them the last time–had been genuine. Nelirikk considered that he was the equal of his father with the pistol at distance. . .and that was good. He was also an excellent shot with a long arm, and improving on both.
He'd been set to shoot with his father and Natesa, perhaps a chance to test his skill against them both–but some necessity or another had always delayed that, and then he was called to the city, untimely.
Later this day was set a meal; he'd need be sure to be dressed for that as well. So he had worn two simple blue-gemmed bar cuffs, in case it meant a semi-formal event with his grandmother in attendance. She was stickler for detail. . .manners, cards, code, or clothes–she expected the best in all sides.
Checked, did he, on his protections then–glancing in the mirrors–and then looking to the infrared on the video to be sure that only the ornate public gun showed easily. It was an ostentation of a gun, in being only half-small and shiny, and on a trick-shot holster he'd won at Tey Dor's. Oddly, at Tey Dor's one would hardly ever wear such a thing–it was a holster meant for competition only. Here. . .
On Surebleak, there was such a thing as being over-subtle, a mistake the clan would not want made again. Showing no gun would be over-subtle. Showing this gun? A young person's fancy gun on a young person, who should be surprised? He knew his clan would forgive him since they knew it not to be his only protection. And this was the gun he'd matched shots even-up with Cheever. He would be forgiven for wearing it–it made him look in control.
In reality, control meant that he needed to recall that he was on Surebleak, and allow some play to his features, more than might be allowed on Liad–and that meant he had to feign a constant contentedness. He recalled the face that he'd practiced in the mirror, knowing his control was good.
So down to breakfast, reviewing his day's agenda. Besides attending a late-day discussion about Uncle Shan's possible relocation out of the port, his classroom piloting lessons–actually math lessons, without immediate reference to board or vids–were scheduled early. A Scout mentored him there, since his lacks were esoteric rather than generic. Lunch would be latish and he could walk from Griswold Plaza if he wanted, there being an opportunity to visit the rug and sock shop, or not, depending on time. Dinner–now that would be up to the Boss.
He sighed, considering the Boss, his father. Yes, Plan B had brought the family into open contention with their enemies, and Plan B had brought them here–here where his father, now the Boss, might insist that the proper study of a gentle born Liaden was the history of warring turfs, the balance of power between east side and west side, the weather–always the weather–and the details of neighborhoods and. . .
Well it was that the first thing he'd learned to study at Trigrace Eclectic was how to study, with classless independent study the norm and access to working scholars, and practical thinkers a requirement. Piloting, yes, he'd had that–something his father had never learned formally! He'd also had language study far beyond the usual Liaden range, and. . .well, since his early tests had shown he was neither destined for the Healer Halls nor the Scouts, he'd gone for Piloting as major, with a minor as Generalist. His father’s studies had been more independent than that, of course. Despite being clan-bred, his father was very much a self-made man.
Quin, clan-bred as well, was a pilot now, but in the tradition of the clans he was expected to follow orders, which now meant he needed to prepare to be Boss. From what little he'd seen of his father since being ordered from Jelaza Kazone to the city, being a Boss had no reprieve, and little enough joy. His generalist background–well, that was useful–perhaps he could learn, or get by until he could escape to pilot.
#
The stairs he took were old and creaky. Near the dark spot at the bottom he slowed, whispering "Mistress Miranda" but not finding that ancient cat in the cubby-corner she'd adopted for busy mornings–close to the kitchen and dining room but away from the sometimes rushed comings and goings. Mistress was an old cat, and still grumpily recovering from her evacuation from his father's former home on Liad, where she'd rarely been beset by more than three or four visitors at once. At her Liad town home, too, she'd been the solo cat–and here, of course, there was already a resident feline.
Quin hoped she was curled comfortably somewhere. He could certainly sympathize with her problems–brought across space unexpectedly after a long separation from Pat Rin, to a strange house, only to find interlopers: both a new cat and a permanently ensconced human often occupying favored spots.
Breakfast staff had the small table reserved for Grandfather and him set, but it was obvious by lack of steaming cup that Luken was off again–likely at Ms. Audrey's, just as likely never home from last night.
Quin smiled, just a little. Grandfather's hints in that direction were growing stronger and Quin had been with him when Grandfather'd taken a call about the property across the street from Ms Audrey's front door. He might set up an annex there for the carpet center, was one thing. But there were extensive living quarters above the store front–which had been of much interest to Grandfather as well.
Breakfast for him came with two steaming cups–today's task was to name each beverage–so said the note with his tray. One was, thankfully, Morning's Fresh Blush Tea–and the other was much harder, it being a coffee. Like tea, coffee was said to have provenance. And like tea, coffee was said to have a perfect brewing time.
He sighed, taking the dark drink without recourse to any available additives. Those things confused the palate as much for coffee as for tea–and he'd been trying to get used to dealing with his food and drink as he might find it visiting in any honest home on Surebleak, where additives might be too expensive, or too chancy, for the hosts.
He sighed again with the first sip. Not, then, what Cousin Miri would hold up as Merc Super–Merc Standard being a coffeetoot still worthy of two or three of the poorer food stands a distance from the Road, and Merc Super being what happened when a Merc cook dumped real ground coffee into a pot and kept it at near boil for a day or two, so as to always be ready for a needy troop.
He settled, after a third sip, on Lankshire Lakes Bold. That was a half-cheat, though, and it made him wonder. He'd seen the new packs arriving several days earlier. . .but no, that's what it was. Results and answers were required of him, not explanations about how he arrived at his conclusions.
His ride today was to be Mr. McFarland, a man who was as much a pilot as anyone on the planet, as far as Quin could figure, a man with amazing patience and. . .
. . .he ought to be having breakfast now, too.
That eight person "ready room" table where the Boss and his immediate hands often sat, was empty.
He looked again, analyzing. It wasn't merely devoid of people, it was devoid of–everything. No set-up, no cups, no utensils. It had been cleared then, and not set for a morning snack or lunch yet.
Too, there was no sign of Natesa–called Natesa the Assassin by some, and called Boss Natesa by others, and called Lifemate by his father. He sighed at that, for worse than the "natural lifemating" that happened to some in his clan, where the universe and genes conspired to make two people into one as with Delm Val Con and Delm Miri, this lifemating of Natesa and Pat Rin was a voluntary thing, born out of. . .born out of he did not know what. That they admired each other was sure. He'd heard one of the Surebleak hands say that they "deserved each other". . .and might be that was as good a reason they were together as any other.
Natesa had Boss duties of her own and so when the Boss was away she often sat solo at a table on the kitchen level above the half-stairs, like a cat with a perch of her own, overlooking the street through a gunslit converted to bulletproof window.
"You'll have more?"
Quin had heard the steps behind him, and recognized them, but he sat staring at McFarland's usual place at the empty table next to where his father often sat at morning council.
"Am I waiting for Mr. McFarland? He appears to have overslept."
"Nah, you know better, youngster. Overslept ain't like that man, and never was. That table's clear to supper or beyond. Cheever, he's with the Boss–the Port's decided to do their ship-station move early and they need all the pilots they have to. . ."
The coffee continued motion to his lips, the turn he'd begun to the cook's assistant never slowed. He nodded an acknowledgment of the news at her, his recent extra training at the knee of his grandmother serving him in good stead, his near smile still wedded to his face.
"Indeed? They needed pilots, did they? I wonder that I was not called. . ."
The assistant shrugged artlessly.
"Foo, Master Quin, how'd I know it? The messages come all in a rush while I was starting the bread oven to going; McFarland, the Boss, don't know who else called out. Oh, Ms. Natesa, she went. They'll let you know later, I'm sure–but might have been a Boss secret in it."
He finished his cup in a rush, which he knew better than to do, and looking into its depth he conceived a need to steady his face.
Him a pilot, and not called. His lessons, his plans all put aside. Clearly the duty-day schedule was wiped. . .
He fumbled for words, seething, his stomach fighting him momentarily, then a need to not move, for if he did get up now he'd run all the way to the tree. Best to stay here, in the seat, to pin himself to this place.
He covered the fumble with cough smothered in a napkin, followed by downing the last of his juice. He must not run!
Breath caught, he managed to gain time to think.
"More of this exact coffee, Jennetta, if I can, and yes, if I'm not on call, some of what's hot, sausages and spuds and rolls bashed with butter!"
"Why, that sounds like an honest breakfast for a change, don't it? It'll take a minute."
The servant dashed away, pleased, and he could hear her trading the news in the kitchen that "that boy's hungry today, without answering quiz-questions of the Boss and company for a change. . ."
Normally he'd be put out of humor to hear himself called "that boy," but he let it pass. He was practicing what Grandmother called appropriate restraint.
Grandmother. Well, yes, she and Grandfather had been firm while they were off on Runig's Rock–studies along with gun training, studies of card-games and card-skill, studies along with security work, studies along with ship-sitting. Studies. . .they'd had no moment for ruminations, that they had seen to.
He stared at but didn't see the table for some moments, memory returning to that haven, to the days when he had been the best pilot available and the clan's last hope if the enemy had come to them.
He went weak–he'd brought the ship out of there, he had, Runig's Rock under attack, Padi backing him up and. . .
And here he sat, while pilots were needed? What did they think, that he'd forgotten how to fly? What secret could be more precious than a cargo of the clan's last children? What. . .
But Grandmother had schooled him well, and to any observer still in the house his face was as unconcerned and uncomplicated as that of any simple day laborer on Wall-down duty.
"But here, Master Quin," came Jennetta's carrying voice well before her appearance from the kitchen, "there's a note left for you–for personal delivery at breakfast, the driver said."
She held it out for him with one hand, juggling a perilously filled bowl of rolls, a dish of butter, and a jam jar in the other before precariously bringing them successfully to table.
Dear Grandson, the note said in impeccable Liaden longhand. It was a familiar hand–not surprising, since Luken bel'Tarda, his grandfather, was quite fond of sending notes and letters and signed books–
Boss Conrad's business is quite pressing today and he has commandeered your driver and your pilot-mentor, and deputized myself and many others, likely for the whole of the day. I consulted with the Boss, who feels it is perhaps best for you to stay busy – and that rather than staying in house and being bored or joining me at Ms Audrey's, where I am involved with delicate negotiations, that you relocate for the day to The Emerald Casino and find occupation there. You will await the Boss, who will meet you there as time permits.
To call upon the casino for refreshments or a private parlor, merely show your dragon pin and say your name, and they'll have a scanner that will read your credentials.
You'll find Jemie's Cab Service is awaiting a call from you at your earliest convenience.
Text and subtext–whatever the Boss was doing was important, too important to share with the inexperienced. Too important for a note even from the Boss–his grandfather'd taken the informant role upon himself. Yes, Grandfather was a kinder man than his father, and more alert in some ways, too.
Perhaps unwisely he chugged the not half-full cup of coffee.
Jannetta, alert as she returned with the rest of his food, rushed to refill his cup, face full of smiles.
"Oh, good, I'm so glad you like it. We have a lot of it, and the tea bin got damp when the sink backed up. You'll be set for weeks!"
He nodded absently at her, wishing he was alone, or maybe doing the perimeter tour on Runig's Rock, one more time.
This cup of coffee was hotter, so he sipped it, scanned the food. Yes, he'd eat his breakfast and take his time; no reason to upset the staff by being short with them. They were not the ones ignoring him, they were not the ones forgetting his place in the family, they were not the ones forgetting his role in the clan!
Yes, he'd wait for the Boss. . .they had a lot to talk about.
He was basically dressed well enough for a daytime casino visit on Surebleak, of that he felt certain. First, of course, he'd need to call the taxi, and then, of course, select his jacket–and perhaps better jewelry, too, if his father was going to meet him there. Oh, and surely he'd not need snow-lugs at the Emerald Casino, if he was going by taxi, so he'd wear some better boots–at least his grandfather or grandmother might notice that he was somewhat dressed for society.
Halfway up the stairs he knew what jacket he'd wear, and so, which boots.
***
Villy Butler threw the sticks across the polished table, wrist snap sharp and accurate. Palaz Dwaygo sticks tumbled together in what he'd been taught to call a bar-galaxy, the kind of jumble that produced good betting and plenty of room for mischance. This was setup ideal for a challenge match – if he'd been playing House against it–well–he would. Good practice.
Studying the lay he posted two plastic practice chips on the bet line. Being the Stro Palaz, he added a blue to his, then to defense, and continued.
The morning was good for playing against the house and for the house, there being very few patrons in the casino at all and none yet wandering his end of the main hall.
The basic card players–they were a constant, like the dicers and the endless staccatos at the robot machines, and might be found round the clock, betting on a better tomorrow. The sticks players, like the roulettiers, tended to come in with the flow of traffic to and from the port. A busy day on port usually was a good thing, with the buzz of voices and the buzz of action.
Today–the whole place felt muted. The low-key morning music found few bodies to bounce off, none to excite to dance rhythm, none to inspire to sing along, none to drop coins or call for chips. The Emerald's automatics took care of sound levels and air-moving these days. Maybe if he coughed a few times he could prime a little energy into the place.
It was the weather, of course–the weather was good and the port's long-awaited changeover to new systems and orientation had been started in the overnight, with the advent of the good weather.
The weather and the port noise together could have put him to sleep if he'd not been scheduled here, though the night had been light.
Villy smiled, though he'd taken a financial hit–his late date at Ms. Audrey's had called off the tumble at nearly the last minute. At least it had been nearly the last; he hadn't lit the candles or started the oil warming or set out all the toys. He was sorry to loose the cash but the pilot promised him a bonus for the next time, to make up for what he'd called "opportunity costs."
There'd be opportunity costs today, too, it looked like–with no action, there'd be no tips.
In front of him, the sticks. Villy pulled seven. . .and then there was a slip.
Frowning, he added a chip to each side. . .and became the other player in the hand. . .and. . .sensed something, perhaps a shadow, moving.
The shadow half behind him was a Liaden, silent, precise, watching. His boots were pilot boots, as Villy had learned. The jacket was a pilot's jacket. The gun was a little bright, but if he was a pilot he'd have more than one, for sure.
He looked too young for a Scout, though he might have been–Villy had trouble figuring Liaden ages, smooth-skinned and beardless as they were–but he wore a pilot's jacket and ear rings rich enough to be a pilot of some experience or note.
But the jacket, worn loose, showed a local shirt and hint of glitter near the throat and the hair was looser and longer than he'd expect.
That was mixed signals, it was, and Ms. Audrey warned staff to watch for mixed signals at the House and he guessed the same mattered here at his share job. Something might be up and worth watching careful.
He weighed the pilot's looks, realized that he was closing in on staring, though the seeing was good.
"Pilot," he said with one of the careful nodding bows he'd learned from Cheever McFarland. "Are you interested in a game?"
Villy got back so exact a copy of his bow, with a hint of the lookover he'd been guilty of, and he wondered if he was being mocked. The face showed a firmness he was becoming used to among the Liadens he dealt with; in fact it could be of the same mold as Boss Conrad or the Keeper of the Road. Alert blue eyes reading his moves and face while giving back little enough. There was, maybe, a very little hint of an ironic smile. It made him feel, that look did, as if the observer had an advantage, and knew it, or had seen him looking a trifle long. The Boss himself had a look like that.
Still, Villy had experience looking at men; this one was interesting, nearly tempting. Perhaps there was advantage on two sides if they should play a throw or two.
"A game?" The voice was polished, with that Liaden lilt, and Villy held his sigh back. Perfect, even spoken in Terran with the slightest edge of a Surebleak click.
"Perhaps I will game later, but not immediately, no. I meant not to distract you, but rather to watch your practice."
"Watching a game as you participate is a wonderful way to learn," Villy offered, seeing the suppressed grin flit across the pilot's comely golden face. "Are you familiar with the game?"
Villy swept the practice sticks up, half-looking to the pilot, and was startled when the jumble revealed an escaping blue, which he let go rather than risk the bundle. The blue was snapped out of the air by the pilot well before it reached the floor.
In a single motion the stick was returned to him with a bow of some complexity.
"Indeed, V. Butler, I have some experience of it. It was wise of you not to attempt that recovery."
V. Butler–Ah, his name badge. Pilots were sharp ...
"I'm Villy Butler. And for this game, I am Stro Palaz, you know, Game Master, for the morning. To keep that, I gotta practice. This is a practice tube – for the games, we have Palaz Dwaygo Solcintra-style, with the standard thirty-six, with colors; else we have the local Quick-sticks, same length but light weight, twenty-five plus the pick-stick. The other tubes are sealed, and. . ."
"The Boss offers choice. I should have known."
"Of course the Boss offers choice! Why, the. . ."
But that quick the pilot's hand rose in sign Villy almost knew, and he said, "Peace, Villy Butler. If the Boss says it, so must it be, eh?"
Villy held his retort back, offering now a tube of each sort.
Again a mystery bow, this time with a bit more of a smile.
"Perhaps when there's more action, my friend, if I am here that long. I'm. . ."
Here it was as if the pilot was at a sudden standstill for words, as if his Terran had failed him. He went on–
"I'm to meet someone here," he said, "regarding occupation."
Then he shrugged, adding, "They could not tell me when they will arrive with any precision, other than today. I am, so to speak, at their convenience, as time permits. So, let me explore–the last time I was here there was no time to acquaint myself with the facilities–and perhaps I'll play if I have time."
Villy accepted a kind of half-bow, collecting the sticks carefully while watching the pilot move on, steps coordinated and silent. Well then, the morning wasn't half-wasted, after all. Practice, with a view.
***
Quin ambled away from the comely young Game Master, by habit acquainting and reacquainting himself with obvious exits, likely exits, and potential exits, as well as the permanent staff stations, the rest rooms, the doors to the private parlors. Off to one side, he knew, was the private room where staff had "held" the delm on their first visit. As if they'd be "held" by anything as flimsy as the port's real whosegow, much less a room with a lock on the plastic door.
The casino was remarkably devoid of patrons this morning, a mere dozen or so scattered throughout.
A careful appraisal revealed nearly as many visible staff as customers, which was well enough, for it permitted him a good look at the results of the recent upgrade. The lighting was more subdued than the last time he'd seen it; the seating improved, the flooring more resilient and sound absorbing. He'd heard discussions of the aromatics, mood lights, and sounds supplied by a nerligig sitting in a re-purposed closet–as the room filled, the music and scents would strengthen and the lighting would become more focused on the equipment, allowing patrons the feeling that they were not cram-full and reinforcing the reason they were there–to gamble.
Quin received nods of apparent recognition from several of the staff, as well as a few customers. A passing Scout accorded him a cordial bow, and he got two profuse pairs of bows from elderly Liaden gallants in last year's Solcintran afternoon wear.
The two gallants, now. He'd seen them, elsewhere, together. The first image came to him as he demanded it. Yes, the memory games Grandmother had taught on station were working! His saw the gallants now in his head, more than their faces, distantly sipping from crystal glasses at Trealla Fantrol, politely bowing to Uncle Shan. He. . .he must have barely been in public then.
Emigres, then, distant allies of Korval, coming to one of the few places on Surebleak with even a remotely Liaden tang to it.
Quin paused, wondering how many other such there were now on world, and how many arriving, wondering what more they could do here but stand in the wake of pilots. Here there were no Liaden clubs, no Tey Dor's to shoot and be seen at, no promenade, no. . .
Truth, he missed Tey Dor's himself, as rarely as he'd been there–so many stories of his clan echoed there, so many stories of yos'Phelium. . .so many of his father. He missed it not only because of the utility of practice and competition, but for the society of it.
He moved on, completing his tour. There wasn't much more to see. The Emerald might be the best casino on planet, but it was still a smaller operation than one would find on most port city peripheries elsewhere in the galaxy.
He sighed as he stood in front of a row of the robot bet-offs, having no pressing interest there. On the other hand, several of the card tables were peopled, and he moved into observe. . .
Alas, the occupied tables backed on a closed section, there being no need to spread out. Ah, well, no close up spectating this way, which was a shame. Quin looked about him. The wheels now. . .the gambling wheels usually permitted. . .
His scan took in the back of the room, where V. Butler was earnestly practicing the sticks.
A glance to the chronometer over the service counter showed him. . .that the clock was artfully sited to receive as much glare as possible, and thus was difficult to read.
He flipped his hand through several iterations of the pilot sign no details yet to himself. He took three steps forward, and now the clock was visible, but no real help.
The clock told him nothing: as ever, he didn't know when his father would arrive. He didn't know what was to be discussed. He didn't know. . .
The same often maintained at his new home: the Boss would arrive when he did, unless he'd stayed in working in his office, which he often did; sometimes he'd be held from dinner or lunch, of breakfast by some or another strangeness, sometimes he'd come to table a few minutes after his Natesa arrived and sometimes with her–and no time, either for Quin, no matter that he'd been warned to expect real duty, any day now. He'd been told the move from undertree was to train him to be Boss. To be Boss!
So here he stood while the real work of the Boss was going on within view of the front door.
Quin grimaced, ruefully pleased that Grandmother wasn't there to see him with his face so open. A pilot's quick relaxation exercise brought him some calm, but still –
What he should do was flash his Tree-and-Dragon, demand a quiet place to sit, and study. There were still unfinished lesson modules from TriGrace he could access, and there was always piloting math to ...
He felt the anger rising again, then.
No.
His father had sent him here. Or his father and Natesa. Or the Boss and his grandfather. They'd sent him here while there was work to be done, piloting work. . .and they'd sent him to the Emerald. For occupation.
Very well then. If he was to wait at the Emerald and be occupied there, if he was to wait "as time permits," he would damn well be occupied.
Oh yes, he would.
#
He made a desultory run at a console card sim picked randomly; it burbled game choices until he stabbed the button rapidly to change languages, annoyed by thing's terribly accented Trade. The hands were fast, but his coin was multiplied several times, and he challenged the machine to games and to languages, making it speak to him in homeworld Terran, and then in what it thought was Looper Terran, just for the practice.
Someone else was playing nearby, and apparently losing, for he heard what might have been the slam of disappointed hand on console.
His public pocket had been nearly to let when he'd started–in his sudden preparations he hadn't bothered to arm himself with Terran bits above what he normally carried. Now he had a game card. . .which he stuffed into that pocket, starting another. He'd heard a machine on the other side of the aisle make the player out of funds sound, and someone sighed, loudly.
The console card game was flat, though he was winning. Despite his practice of two calming mental exercises he still felt an undercurrent of tension which he couldn't resolve–and it didn't help that the casino was hardly soundproof, so the action at the spaceport rumbled through from time to time. He stood up straighter, remembering that he was a pilot, dammit, and not a school child, and moved down the aisle, waiting on the pleasure of his elders and stalking opportunity here.
He walked, cringing at some of the front panels, and moved by a machine calling itself Target Practice as numbers on a multiplier panel jumped from two to seven. There, the promise of an extra seven times payout–why not? It was denominated in half bits, which amused, and so he stopped to play.
Given the images of weapons, he chose the personal models, and then the rarities...
The machine took a fair portion of his earnings quickly, but he played with the choices of caliber, style, and targets. On the fifth run he threw his hand-arm against a longshot, and was rewarded with a slowly rising whoop of machine joy, which gave way to. . .oh! He'd hit that shot, at seven times the stake, with a red bonus. The bonus matched his original stake and–on screen–appeared as piles of energy packs. The multiplier was still in effect and the totals kept rising and voices announced he was into triple bonus round. He'd already won quite a bit–wouldn't his father be amused to discover he'd come away with a cantra? There was some amount of money in reserve, he wouldn't know how much until the next round.
Now he had to choose his weapons again.
He laughed, chose a silly looking zero-gravity dueling pistol, and touched the machine to urge it on. Targets began to arise.
Someone was standing close by, and then started playing the game next to his. Ah, searching for the lucky spot, no doubt. Well. No matter.
His machine blinked and brightened–now the multiplier was showing an even dozen!
Quin laughed again, for there were a dozen targets to chose from on the machine, all valuable gems on distant pedestals. Well, all gems but for the gaudy necklace of pearled firegems with a firegem pendant–so he chose that, and palmed the trigger button.
The machine's antics were amusing as the pistol lined up on screen and a single bullet entered the firing chamber through a ghostly hand. Then it asked hm to choose windage and loft and if the pistol pulled high or to the right or. . .
His choices were random, and he pressed the shoot button.
The machine dutifully mimicked a supposed shooting sound and showed his shot traveling. . .arcing very neatly to hit the blazing firegem pendant full on.
The firegem spun in its virtual spot, spitting fire! Dancing from the flames were numbers, and each number accompanied by a beep, or a horn, or the flash of light or color, and sometimes all. . .
It was amazing, and then appalling.
Quin took a half-step back as the sound continued and numbers ran, all in bits. He translated as best he could to the latest approximation in cantra as the numbers ran on. . .and then halted.
Had it actually come to a cantra? Well, more or less, since the exchange rate varied. Still . . .maybe more than a cantra!
Quin saw the screen reform into a fire-rimmed challenge:
"Double or Nothing, sharpshooter?" it asked.
It took no time to decide that question.
Quin cashed out, waiting patiently for the card to clear, then holding it in hand a moment.
Around him now, others–staring at the machine. A casino employee came by, nodded brusquely.
"Done with this session, sir?"
"I am," Quin bowed, stuffing the chit into his public pocket with the other.
"Need security?"
It was not a silly question on a world like Surebleak, and if he'd needed a ride to quarters he'd not have been behind with the request. . .
"I do not."
"My turn," a Terran voice demanded, but the security man said, "Hold, friend," and waved a portable read-wand at the machine. "We have to take records of the major wins, you know. Just a moment."
The machine blinked, chattered, rebooted into brightness–and the multiplier lights fell from 12 to 1.2.
The man beside him made noises–a local by the hard-worn looks of him–and he stared at the machine, a low continuous stream of cussing going on.
"My run," he was muttering, "shoulda been my run!"
#
Quin stood, surveying the rest of the casino distantly. Not another robot game at this point, especially not with the burly Terran already busy shoving funds into Target Practice. . .
Well. The cards were in progress, but perhaps not those, either–he'd chosen the robogames because leaving would be easy, when the Boss arrived.
The sticks–Villy seemed a pleasant enough table host. That was an idea now that he had enough cash to buy a bundle or two. By now there might be a game there–or he could start one.
His steps led that way, and there was Villy, packing his practice sticks away one by one. At tableside was a Terran as badly dressed as the one he'd just left behind, hulking, and apparently waiting.
The sticksman now was presenting two tubes to the newcomer, who was larger even than Mr. McFarland, very pale, and extravagantly overdressed unless one had never before been challenged to meet the mere freezing point of water.
Quin moved forward, hand motioning his desire to buy in.
* * *
The pretty pilot was back, which was a relief. The 'reesta, meanwhile, was either a fool or a fraud; could anyone really be that unaware of the way things worked in a casino after having been in the Emerald hours at a time these past five days? Well, Villy'd never had him at this station, but he had seen him and his crony about, hanging at the low robots for long stretches and sometimes drifting to the cheap cards. It was hard to miss men so unused to Surebleak's weather, or so willing to play the cheap games.
And so Villy'd explained that if the man played him at the base rate that he, Villy, would represent the House directly. . .yet the man was still confused about the difference between the casino, the House, Villy and. . .
The pilot arrived, looked to the man and then to Villy–
"Has a bundle been purchased? Is there a game building? May I join?"
"No decision there, pilot, while deciding's going on," Villy managed respectfully, adding, "would you like to consult over choices? Would you care to challenge or be challenged?"
Villy hopefully held a tube of each kind toward the pilot, who bowed acknowledgment and turned to the over-dressed newcomer.
"Surely anyone can see that the Solcintran style is superior for the player of quality and experience. The extra sticks make the game more difficult, and played for color, there's considerable complexity! The Quick-sticks are light fare. They are perhaps adequate for someone passing time on the port while expecting a flight, or waiting to be joined by a companion."
Villy absorbed these words, offered in Terran, and held them to him: the pilot was young, not much older than Villy himself–despite which he was a man with good sense and excellent understanding. These words, repeated wisely, were worth bits in Villy's pocket in the future, surely.
"Obviously you see yourself as superior with the Liaden-style," the tourist said accusingly–Villy thought of him as The Coat, for the purple and red-striped garment he wore–"but I'm willing to play a game and try them out. Name low stakes, sir, and I'll try your choice."
The pilot slid his hand into his public pocket and pulled out a handful of Terran change, looking to Villy with a slight smile.
"Let me see what I carry sir–perhaps I'll have my lunch money made into chips. I suppose we should start low, to find a range."
"Lunch money? Hah! They feed you here, if you win!"
"As luck favors," the pilot murmured. He nodded to Villy and stepped away, toward the bank.
#
The pilot was as good as his word, returning to buy the first bundle with a five pale chip and offering his opponent, "Five pales to start, if you like, for the first game."
Villy had quick eyes–the five pales the pilot offered were matched by one in his hand. Villy worried briefly–perhaps the ten had been all the money the pilot owned?
The other player laughed; it was an ugly sound compared to the pilot's voice, and it faded into an ugly smile filled with ugly, multi-colored teeth. His coat stank of smoke and a hint of old vaya and sweat, and the striped sleeves waved gracelessly and then fluttered as he moved his meaty hands in emphasis.
"Sure, why not get our fingers warmed up before we throw money at Lady Luck?"
Villy looked around but saw no such lady. Lucks–formal, paid Lucks that is, people whose mere presence was said to change fortune for others–were specifically not permitted at the Emerald. The rule was clearly posted!
The pilot bowed, acknowledging a witticism, also bowed to the, "I'll buy the second tube," which was only fair.
"Shall you twist, or shall I?"
The pilot thus offered choice of first throw–but that was a Solcintran habit, Villy'd learned–and twisted the tube with a sharp snap, breaking the seal as his opponent waved him to it.
With the game joined, Villy stepped back.
Like the man's voice, the throw was ugly. The table strike was awkward, with sticks bouncing rather than spreading naturally, and the clicks of the late-falls were ragged rather than rhythmic. Villy held his face close, but not as close as the pilot, who might have not seen anything amiss but the blandness. Meanwhile The Coat nodded and smiled, as if everything was exactly like he wanted it.
At this juncture, Villy's job was as spotter–with the aid of the back-up camera of course, if anybody called foul.
He watched carefully as The Coat's first three lifts went well. His technique seemed to require small motions over tortuous amounts of time, and both squinting and special breathing, not to mention craning his neck for the best view angle. Despite the second lift–using a dangerous leverage technique–he seemed in control. The fourth–no need for a camera there–the bobble was significant, clearly moving three other sticks and quickly admitted with an under-voiced curse.
The pilot. . .was completely at ease as his turn started, in fact so at ease that he appeared to have no technique at all to his pick-ups–no special breaths, no extreme staring or checking of angles, and Villy sighed when the rest of that pile was done at about the time The Coat was muttering, "Remarkable!"
The pilot nodded, glanced into the large man's face and offered, "Another then, at the same rates, to see if Lady Luck walks by?"
#
The pilot, having collected his fifth straight round-up, sighed gently. The Coat had been becoming louder, and twice had asked for screen-checks of pick-ups that were flawless. He'd insisted on doubling the bets after the third course, and had taken a moment's break for some sort of meditative breathwork Villy didn't recognize. Even after the break his attempts were growing less fluid, and taking absurdly long–in fact, the pilot might have called foul, so long had one taken.
Villy was beginning to worry. The pilot was. . .very good, and Villy was supposed to watch out for pros, or for Sharps, roving gamblers looking for the less skilled to fleece. He hoped the pilot wasn't a Sharp–in fact if he wasn't losing so bad he'd have taken The Coat for a Sharp on actions alone. . .
The pilot's left hand held the sticks and he gently tapped the ends into his free right palm.
"The matter seems not to be one of dispute, sir. The game is hardly a gamble for me unless we go to handicaps, and I'm not one to play. . ."
Villy breathed a little easier–maybe the pilot was not a roving gambler in search of a victim but a man looking for some relaxation and play. . .
"Wait, no, if you really were playing your lunch money, now you're playing with my money. I'll buy a new tube and we'll play at real rates–and we'll have a coin flip to decide which style tube! I see how you play, like it means nothing to you. Stopping now means you've tugged me wrong! You've put me on!"
Villy stepped forward, the rising animosity in The Coat's demeanor concerning.
"Sir, your opponent has suggested that more play would be unfair to you. I think that's a sign that. . ."
The pilot reached into his public pocket, showing his winnings.
"These few chips mean I've tugged you wrong? I think you do not know what it is to be tugged wrong, sir. But so, we'll play on, if you insist. I promise to concentrate, if that will permit you to concentrate."
Villy grimaced. The Coat seemed not to take the same sense from that last bit that Villy did. . .Still there'd been discussion and agreement, and not an argument. That was good, he thought.
***
Quin ran the pilot's rainbow as the sticks came to his hand, and his throw was good: there was a complex stack to work with, and the bottom of the pile richer than the top. The purple crossed the blue under the red – good point value there.
"Thus we'll play for twenty-five pales plus five up for each color up the rungs?"
The Coat looked at the pile and nodded, "Your call. I now reserve to match for any runs of over one hundred."
The pilot bowed, the minor tic of a smile at one corner of his mouth, and glanced around before giving an almost Terran shrug and taking position.
***
Villy had noticed already what the pilot saw: several passersby had become witness and audience, and another was moving closer. There seemed to be more people in the Emerald now, some of them workmen he recognized from frequent lunchtime play, one he knew as a functionary recently added to the port roster; a sometime client of his, from Audrey's. He'd be the third in the gallery. . .
The sound of the sticks absently tapped on end before the throw brought his eyes to the table, and there, the flash of color, and an admirable spread.
Villy settled back to watch, and indeed, the pilot did seem more intent now. His concentration had improved, his hand-motions were more precise. He was also, Villy thought, he was purposefully–yes. There it was. There was a delay that Villy measured as one two three four, one two three four, between pickups. If it was designed to distract, annoy, or to aid concentration, he couldn't guess.
In any case, the throw was run, and the pilot, intent, looked into the eyes of his opponent, who had remained silent.
"Shall I continue? Same?"
The chips moved, and it was so–the pilot went on. The tube was run again and once more. . .
The pilot looked up, first at Villy, then at The Coat.
Without hesitation he continued to pick up as he spoke. . .
"When I finish this run, you'll have a match of two hundred sticks. That will suffice for me. When your run is over, I'll break for lunch."
The run continued, smoothly, and just shy of mechanically. The cadence continued, and colors and angle were of no moment as those smooth hands worked.
Indeed, the pilot picked up his two hundredth stick, and then the five remaining on table he rolled under his hand carelessly, on purpose.
"Yours!"
That was awful familiar–that show of self-assured arrogance. In fact, Villy thought he'd once–only once!–seen Boss Conrad do the same thing, right at this table. He did it to a guy who'd been bad-mouthing the Emerald as a back-water bar, and the Boss had shown the guy exactly the way the game was played, taking him down five rounds in a row.
Villy smiled at that. The Boss was busy these days and he didn't get to see him often.
But at the table now, The Coat was sweating, and seething.
"Ruin a run to show off? You'll destroy your luck for sure! I've got you now!"
There was a murmur from the onlookers. . .
The audience was grown to nearly a dozen, two-thirds of them native Terran, a reasonable gallery for a busy day, but for this one, it meant other parts of the casino were empty because they were watching the show here.
He'd hear from the floor boss about that–he should have by now called for the drink-dancer. Easy enough, he touched the collar stud to call her. Someone besides the pilot ought to be making money. . .
"These have been working," The Coat said to Villy– "and now they owe revenge. We'll continue!"
The crowd grew closer and thicker and the sticks chittered when they were thrown. The Coat was hanging close to them now, muttering, staring, measuring with hand motions, leading his moves with dips of the shoulder, but moving more rapidly, also, as if he'd learned some lesson from the pilot's measured movements.
Around them whispered bets for and against The Coat, Liadens offering more against The Coat than for, their odds in dozens while the Terrans did tens and fifties.
Oblivious, The Coat ran three tubes flawlessly and there were payouts in the crowd for passing the hundred, for passing the third tube, for. . .
Then a very difficult lay, with several balance points at risk. The crowd hushed, and Villy's eyes went to the camera views for close up.
On another day he might have thought he saw a movement, but if he did the pilot's eyes nor the crowd's had seen it, and the play went forward. The next two pickups were easier, and the–
The slip this time was perceptible to all, and led to a slow cataclysm of rolling, sliding sticks. The watchers watched, began to mumble, mutter, or laugh depending on their stakes in the matter, and the Terran seemed to deflate within his coat, the color going out of his face.
The pilot bowed then, first to Villy, and then to The Coat.
"Your time is up, sir. My play at the sticks is done for the day. . ."
The pilot's bow and meaning was unmistakable.
"But wait–you have to give me a chance to. . ."
Several others were coming forward as if to fill the void left by the pilot. The Coat's face was red, and he turned, one hand going out as if to reach for the pilot. Villy turned his back to the large man and gestured with his hands to the crowd, effectively thwarting the move.
"The tube's run," Villy announced with as much gravity as he could muster, "And," he said, very loudly, "this is my mandatory coffee break!"
That was enough to bring the nearest marked security sliding in from opposite sides of the room–"mandatory coffee break" being the week's code words for potential problem customer–but by then the crowd was in motion, many following the pilot toward his next station.
"Coffee break!" roared The Coat into the rapidly thinning crowd, "I'll tell you what. You owe me for breaking my chance here. It was my turn to win. Let me play you! I want your game!"
"Coffee break," Villy insisted. "I can't!"
"Look," The Coat said to approaching team, pointing toward Villy, " This guy ought to be playing me now! He owes me a shot to get my money back!"
Villy ignored the man, gathering the tubes into their lockbin and ostentatiously turning the key over to the uniforms.
"Coffee break," security insisted mercilessly, "Play continues later."
* * *
Quin took several steps away, then turned, meaning to tip the Game Master, but that worthy was already chatting profusely with Security and heading off to one of the backrooms. The man who'd had too much money stood staring after him.
Quin sighed – that was a connection he wanted to sever. Coffee break meant that Villy Butler would be back at his station eventually and Quin could tip him later. Quin offered himself a pilot's loose return at will hand-motion and –
He hesitated, thinking to take a brief break among the robots, and perhaps have a snack. . .
Who were these people? Somehow he'd gained a cometary tail of gamblers and followers, something he hadn't expected. Seeing he'd paused, with neither bowing nor intro the following Terrans started in ...
"Pilot, good hands there!"
"Luck's with you–saw you at the spinners!"
"Oh, don't run–play's better here than that–he's a fluke and a hanger–saw him here yesternight begging play with his betters."
The locals, there were at least two, judging by accent, were less flattering.
"Shouldna wasted nowits time, and poor Villy outta the play, too, and dem chisletoes got the fingers of a branch-bumbling charcoal grubber."
Quin suppressed a grin on that one. That was close enough to calling the man a lackwitted fool as to make no matter–if the man only heard it to know it.
Uncomfortably close to his side now was someone he'd noticed before–one of the gallants unofficially attending the Scout. It struck him that the Scout, like him, spoke Liaden, and that the gallants might after all be lonely for the sound of home, in a place where Liaden was heard, but was hardly universal, and where etiquette sometimes meant stepping aside quickly to the implied demand of, "Coming through!"
A bow, and a murmured comment from that gallant.
"Pilot, your melant'i shows very well there. Continued play would be an affront to anyone of skill or breeding."
"Yes," Quin agreed, probably rather short, and his bow of acknowledgment even shorter. He desperately wracked his brain for the gallant's name or clan, but lacking–well, they were not on Liad, and he could walk on.
Two Terrans intercepted him now–
"Pilot, are you up to our challenge? Will you return to the sticks after the coffee break?"
The gallant began to say something more, but another Terran arrived, "Please, join me in a game. I'm sure that I'll offer more play and. . ."
The cometary tail had become a group, and he bowed a no, thank you, which was lost among the unseemly Terran waving and the voices.
"I am done with sticks for today," he said. "Clearly there's no competition."
"No competition? How can you say. . ."
Exasperated, Quin fought the Terran/Liaden/Trade interface, finally summing up with a rush.
"I have done sticks and am not beaten. I came to meet someone, and that is what I will do."
The noise continued, and one near his elbow was asking. . .
He raised his voice again, to reach the challengers at the far side who were calling out to him, "Pilot, you must play. Luck's running you but I can beat you!"
"Quiet! This is not luck. It appears I can beat anyone in the casino at will and. . ."
The buzz about him had fallen silent at his command, and now the entire room was watching him. The hidden nerligig amplified the silence, and then the rhythm of his words, producing new music, with power.
The gallant at his side was twittering over something, and the purposeful march of a leather-coated figure split his field of vision.
"Pilot," said the Scout he'd seen before, "You impugn all of us as lacksters and amateurs with such an attitude. I'll grant you the sticks–they're of little matter. Now, best of five at any station, or until you're out of funds, if you dare."
He had, of course, meant any challenge at sticks. He'd not meant to take on the casino. But this, this. . .
He laughed, allowing a smile to remain on his face. If I dare!
"Of course I dare," he said, "at any station you name. Until you give up, or until necessity calls me away. I await occupation."
She looked him up and down, took in his boots, and then his public gun.
"At will, pilot, is what you said. Best of five. How about piket?"
"Piket? Fine. That will be occupation enough."
***
Villy watched on the monitors while he ate and sipped coffee, hoping that the pilot hadn't fled after the rudeness at the sticks board–but he'd said he'd come to meet someone, and as far as Villy could tell, he hadn't yet. Sounded like the pilot was looking for a job. The casino was often used as a meet spot these days, the local restaurants and rooming houses weren't nearly up to the style some of the newcomers preferred. Ms. Audrey was even renting out parlors to some of the larger job searchers during the day, and had cut down on the perfumes in them since Liadens preferred rooms not quite so fancy smelling.
The pilot though, he'd gone off in a hurry. Maybe he had been risking all his blunt and need to count up before coming back to the fray. . .
In fact, there he was, which relieved Villy greatly. He and Scout dea'Liss were at piket with two side players, and whatever crowd the Emerald had were mostly assembled to watch. Hardly found that stuff in the daytimes, but a good crowd was worth money later, when everyone broke to play or challenge. . .
Villy grabbed a last sip of his coffee–one of the perks of the job was as much coffee as you wanted–and stood, catching camera fourteen's angle.
It was a good close up of his pilot, a good one. Serious face, strong more than cute, good ears and chin–and Liaden, which Villy was coming to appreciate greatly, since among other things beard burns were a real issue for someone in his regular line of work.
Well, his loss again. He wasn't allowed to pass a business card or referral for Ms. Audrey's when he was on duty here, not less he was directly asked. And the pilot hadn't asked. Good gambler–concentrated, had firm fine hands and a steady eye.
He flashed his thumbs over the reader and took a deep breath. Villy Butler, back on duty. Just an hour more and the rest of the day was his.
* * *
There were distractions Quin hadn't counted on, ranging from the smell of food–he turned down several trays on his way to the table, wanting only to get on with this challenge–to the motions and small sounds of the other patrons. The music and the other background sounds provided by the closeted nerligig helped. The establishment was using not Tey Dor's hallowed and time-tested undersounds, meant for refined Liaden gentlemen, but a rough mix meant to give patrons some small relief from the bustle of the port.
Nor was the Scout unaccomplished. Her game was considered, her demeanor flawless, and her gallants far more nervous than she. It was a good thing, he decided, that they watched from behind her–he'd hate to be concerned over double watching while playing someone with real skill. He was slightly amused by their choice of beverage and wondered if it was economy or curiosity which drove them to drinking the local beer. But there, if they were transplants of reduced means, they might yet need develop that taste–some of immigrants from Solcintra had come with their luggage, their names, and nothing more.
As was, the cards were keeping most of his attention; for the third hand in a row he was being forced to play defensively. He had experience there–at Runig's Rock they'd played hand after hand of piket while waiting for news that Plan B was over. Grandfather and grandmother were both resourceful players, and they told his mistakes over and again, not out of vanity but out of necessity. Who knew but that he'd have to take up his father's occupation when this was over? Who knew then, but that he'd be the yos'Phelium?
So far, none of the hands had gotten exorbitant, he had held off her rather obvious first hand attempt at a Clan Royale though it meant having to settle for barely above even Dozen's Lot in the first, she discarding judiciously to avoid either a Scout's Progress or a Triple Flash and thus taking that hand on a simple extra seven.
This hand was looking much like the last. He barely registered the added sounds of shoes and boots until it too went to an extra seven–this in his favor.
"Two hands to one," she said as the cards went to her, "you play well for a pilot with a such a new jacket. . ."
He failed to rise to the bait, though some of the crowd chuckled, and he saw there were indeed more than before, and wished they'd thought to call for a private parlor. There were Scouts and other pilots in the group, some back with handwiches, and before the deal two more tables got underway.
He glanced quickly about–perhaps the port work was done?
No sign, yet, of his father, and none either of Mr. McFarland or Natesa the Assassin. There was, he saw, Villy Butler, now in a flattering coat and wearing no name badge, on the edge of the crowd, a spectator. Yes, there were more folks about, so the shifts were changing, and there'd be more people still if he recalled schedules right.
Quin looked to his resources, wondered if perhaps he'd been being too conservative. He ought to have come out far ahead so far, two hands up, he ought to have been more active. The blush of challenge was worn well away now, he could tell, and he felt the edge that he'd had in the first game and that serenity in the second had fled. A pilot's relaxation drill then, and the hand came to him.
He settled in, and the hand became a disaster in short order, the cards falling into something he'd be lucky to force into a Small Cluster or a Nebularity to keep her away from. . .the ship sounds from outside had faded and the sounds of boots and mumbling around. He heard a whispered voice, "That pilot said he can beat anyone in the casino at will. . ."
The whisper was shushed about then, his glance showing Villy Butler in the area, still. Quin took up his cards, looked into them, and knew he'd be hard put to name a worse hand to hold at this juncture.
The Scout's expression was almost apologetic as she quickly laid down the cards of an Arch Flush, all blue. "Mine," she said, "pilot."
"Even," he said, acknowledging the lost hand with a bow so bare it was a nod, "the cards bled blue."
So his shuffle, and a scrape of boot against a chair, of chair against table, and he looked up to see Mr. McFarland's acknowledging blink and guided glance.
There, Natesa, her face wearing an appraising look he'd not seen on her before. If she acknowledged him, it was only by not looking away.
Out of sight, or perhaps not yet arrived, was The Boss.
He felt himself blush, felt the tension rising in him. He'd waited for hours. He'd dealt with a rude Terran, and now, now that he had occupation, they came to stand on the edge of things and stare at him.
McFarland. McFarland's eyes were oh so lazy at times; but his face held more than a Liaden's would, and hidden among the shadows of nose and chin was a slight smile.
Well. That was something. . .
The cards were called and as he got them to deal Quin looked up.
His father was paused near the two gallants, face blander than a new 'crete walk, making small bows of acknowledgment to them. He wore the on-duty smile required of a mixed patron establishment but was making his way across the room slowly, his shiny near-new pilots jacket even more old-style than the Liaden finery the gallants wore.
The cards went out, in proper order, but they were nearly unattended by Quin, who found and then denied the relaxation exercise that presented itself. He'd felt out of breath and closed in, but as he lifted his cards and fanned them, it was as if the cards were closer and the color more intense than they'd ever been–as if the cards were there for him.
He must fly the cards as if he were at a ship's board. He would not acknowledge his father until play was through.
Again the necessity to glance up–and his father was not apparent–off to his office, most likely; Mr. McFarland and Natesa both leaned, listening, each to their own of the elder Solcintran pair.
The hand was built; it held several opportunities and he threw negligent chips to the pile, doubling his usual opening bet. He'd never played a serious game before his father's eyes, so now he leaned on the assorted wisdoms of those who had trained his father, and saw only the cards and the table; barely even glancing at his opponent but to measure her glances between chips and cards, between one end of her hand and the other.
The Scout may have said something mild when he added more freight to the chips; his bow saw her match, and add more. They evened the pile several times, and her glance between cards and pile grew longer as she matched again.
The hand held two possibles now, and it was his chance to challenge, if he dared.
"Luken would play this, aiming to cash in at the long range, a slow game, but surer," his grandmother seemed to say in his ears, "and I would play this, to complicate and force. The challenge tests the will rather than the cards."
They had not played this hand exactly, at Runig's Rock, but a mirror of it. Quin did the math and the cards were smooth as Silk's fur in his hands, and the Scout's small joke about his jacket came back to him. Yes, new and fresh, was it?
He showed a card that drew two, he showed another and it drew. The colors were running in his favor, but there was risk.
His turn now to challenge–"Will you double if I do?"
He held the chips in hand, and the Scout pursed her mouth, wrinkled her nose the way a Terran might when sniffing coffee in the morning.
"Pilot, I believe I will sue for the next hand."
There! She dropped her hand and waved her chips toward him. She said with a bow, "Your choice of a slow win or a fast, once your cards fall. Elegant enough, I need not see the demonstration."
#
The next hand then: no pause for a handwich, nothing but a sip of water for him. The Scout was drinking strong tea; and had taken a quick closed eyed stretch. None of that for him; what he did was to locate the towering figure of Mr. McFarland, who stood now behind the two gallants, watching over Natesa, the lifemate of Pat Rin yos'Phelium. Natesa, whose judge's eyes showed nothing to him at all when their glance crossed, other than she watched.
His father, the Boss, was still not in evidence at the moment.
Indeed. The casino's owner, after all, should not be playing favorites, and had work to do, besides.
Tension in has hands, tension also rose in Quin's stomach. Not much chance of the Boss playing favorites, eh? The casino's owner clearly had his priorities set, and a son not the most convenient among them.
The crowd now consisted of pilots and Scouts and local workers, too, with a smattering of Liadens like the gentlemen who'd be trailing the Scout so eagerly before times. Up in the crowd Quin saw some of the other non-locals–including his late opponent, standing just a step or two away from and behind Villy.
His problem, he was reminded, was the cards coming to him now; his problem, was winning.
The cards went face down before him. Quin put his hands on them, closed his eyes briefly, and before looking at them at all pushed the previous game's pot into play. All of it.
The sounds changed: some observers had gasped, some nodded, some laughed, and the sound trailed into the casino's sound systems and came back in a small wave, smoothed, bringing music of a deeper timbre and complexity from the hidden nerligig.
The Scout, afforded extra time to scan her hand, did so without complacency before making a small humming noise and matching the value of the pot. The rumble of some ship off port filtering through momentarily held them silent.
"Pilot, yes."
Quin nodded and picked up his cards, their feel in his hands all sharp-edged silk, peering at them to the exclusion of all else, pulling the numbers while one side of his brain calculated and the other side ruminated. A deeper portion of his mind sat behind it all, calmly measuring what he must do, encompassing at once three deep lines in the cards and the idea that really, there ought to be a place not quite beneath the space port's flight paths to play. . .
The Scout's first card hit the table with his as some other ship or plane lifted.
The nerligig added bass notes to the flow, and then his chances were measured. He'd felt the usual line come forward, and then the line Luken would play, and his grandmother's line. . .but there, his grandmother's was too knife edge, now, now that he'd seen the need to win. The usual line was too bland, and Luken's, well. . .there, Luken's line might add up to a stern chase. It would be interesting. Indeed, it would be interesting.
He let his gaze rise, let it wander the watchers, where some people had shifted, McFarland and Natesa perhaps a step closer. Villy, so intent that his flawless fair skin shone near as much as his hair, stood now in the first rank, with his Terran shadow an arms length row behind, towering.
The Boss was absent yet.
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