Chapter 6
Two hours into MidNight the streets were alive. It was a phenomenon Kasimir Sukui had documented repeatedly in his diaries. It was a synergy, a multiplication of parts. The crowds of the streets of Orlyons were like an animal, alive and eager. Hungry.
In the Gentian Quarter the crowd-animal was nervous, twitching and jinking at the slightest provocation. Mono tugged at Sukui's hand. Her grip was delicate and he felt that he might lose her, at any moment, to the crowd. She led him along a smooth pavement, across the Rue de la Patterdois, and through a jumble of stalls, set up to sell pleasures to the night. Passing through the Leaning Arch they skirted around a knife fight, ignoring a tout who offered them miserly odds on the outcome. 'Three-twenty for a cut throat,' he called, but Sukui was not interested, the variables were too great and the likelihood of a rigged contest was high.
Mono released his hand and disappeared.
Looking around, Sukui recognised a landmark: across the street was the drinking house known as Salomo's. He crossed over, pushed through the door and surveyed the packed room for his companion.
Mono stood in a doorway on the far side of the bar. She nodded and then let the door close. She was like that. If he had wanted her to hang on his arm in public she would have charged him more. He did not mind about that, he was not vain. He knew what she was like when they were alone and that was enough.
Sukui made his way across to the door. It was to be a closed school, but buying him in would be no problem for Mono. His throat felt dry already. The smoke in the bar was thick and a proportion of it was heavily narcotic. He entered the back-room and closed the door behind him, breathing deeply in the clearer air and wishing his head would stop swimming.
The room was more crowded than Sukui would have preferred and the game was already in progress. A space had been made at the table and a chair squeezed into it.
Sukui took his seat and studied the players.
There were four of them. One was old and balding; his face grey and swollen and netted with burst capillaries. This was Salomo—Sukui had played him before. His game was sloppy and he was easily distracted; he was there because of who he was.
Opposite Sukui was a younger man, curly black hair, stubble, the physique of a labourer. This one was laughing and merry and needed continual reminding of when it was his turn. Despite this, he had a good stack of coins in front of him; Sukui was reminded that the game involved luck as well as skill.
The third player was tall and her features were pointed and tightly controlled. Her eyes followed every move, every flash of expression on her opponents' faces. She had already acknowledged Sukui's presence with a brief, appraising glance.
His fourth opponent was mature and strong-featured, a pragmatist, a grafter. This one would take no risks and would miss no openings. He would probably break even on most occasions.
Sukui opened his notebook and marked down his preliminary observations in the margin of the previous page, keeping his paper consumption to the minimum. Over the years he had learnt the value of first impressions in the statistical science of gambling. Technique was intimately tied to a player's approach to life and this was one of the first things that could be observed.
Sukui closed his book and sat upright. He would join the game when the round was complete. He watched the play. He felt confident tonight.
There were seventeen other people gathered in the room. Sukui knew that he must keep his cards close to his chest; he had studied the tactics of deceit closely on his visits to Orlyons. He knew few of the faces, other than Mono's. She was like a firefly, full of energy, flitting from person to person about the room. She was entirely different in company—her wildness was more evident. Eventually she settled behind the young man, opposite Sukui. He was not surprised when she put a hand on the man's shoulder, he knew she maintained other relationships, both business and private. He had never pursued the matter, it was irrelevant. Still, he felt pleased that he had not allowed himself to ask her back to Alabama City. He saw it now as no more than a sexual response, an emotional erection. He returned his attention to the game. The round was over.
The players each nodded formally to Sukui and then Salomo threw the stones into the centre of the table. Each player followed in turn and Sukui threw the final combination. This part was purely luck and it went the way of Mono's manfriend. Salomo dealt him four cards, face up, face down, up, down. The combination bore potential. The man glanced at his concealed pair, tossed the face-up jake into the centre and then turned back to his noisy group of friends.
The cards went round until Sukui received his own, a modest configuration. He discarded a red nine, probabilities flashing across his mind. The stones went round again, the players shaped their hands and Sukui felt his own intensity grow as the game moved out of the realm of luck and into that of logic.
As the round progressed, Sukui made brief calculations in the margins of his notebook, noting the moves of his opponents on a fresh page. Salomo was the first to put money on the table, even though his hand was unlikely to come to anything. The pragmatist to Sukui's right followed with a matching bet, the safest move. Two rounds later, Salomo withdrew.
The sharp-faced woman played correctly, even cleverly, but her starting hand had handicapped her. She recovered her stake money on a side-bet with an onlooker and then modestly withdrew.
For a first game, the tension was high. Sukui revelled in it, sitting calmly and observing how it affected the people around him. He knew that some players believed the adrenalin sharpened their performance, but in his experience they were deluding themselves. Rationality was the key.
As the game progressed, Sukui became more aware of how it was being moulded by the absent-minded actions of the young man opposite. Casually he would throw away a card that was almost the one Sukui needed; sometimes he even placed bets without counting out how much money he was putting down. The pragmatist would always trail behind, copying and shadowing, never trying to seize control.
Sukui's own hand was maturing well. By his calculations he just had to stall the opposition for another two rounds, maybe three.
The pragmatist withdrew, his losses moderately heavy. Sukui caught his opponent's eye and discarded a red three and a black twelve. 'It is your move,' he said. 'Please, would you tell me your name? I am Sukui-san.'
His opponent laughed and drew a card from the pack. 'Sukui? I've heard the name. Me? I'm Matt Hanrahan.' He threw a pair of red aces on to the discard pile.
Sukui's surprise at his opponent's name was blown away by the sight of the two aces. They were just what he needed! But nobody would discard a pair at this stage... Was Hanrahan playing to his own devious rules? Sukui scanned his notes, tracking the game's progress. The aces would give him victory.
But this was Hanrahan. Why bad he offered the pair to Sukui?
Sukui was not accustomed to such a situation. Logic told him to accept the pair and follow his calculations. But logic also told him that Hanrahan was intelligent, his game was good, and no one could throw away a pair at a time like this!
Sukui drew a card from the pack. It was no good. He should have taken the aces. He felt humiliated.
Hanrahan was laughing with his friends, his back to the table. Sukui cleared his throat. Then he knocked on the table. 'Mister Hanrahan,' he said. 'I believe the game is still in progress.'
Hanrahan turned back to the table and glanced at his cards. 'Hey, did I do that?' He slapped himself on the forehead and laughed. Then he drew a blind card, sorted his hand and laid it out on the table. 'Mister Sukui,' he said quietly, 'I believe the game is no longer in progress.
Kasimir Sukui remained calm as Hanrahan sorted the money before him. He scanned his notebook, spotted where he had begun to lose control. The money was immaterial, Sukui's benefactor was wealthy. 'We will play again?' asked Sukui. 'MidNight has three more hours to pass.'
They played again. Salomo withdrew early, along with the pragmatist, who managed to recoup some of his earlier losses in a side-bet. The night progressed and Hanrahan appeared to pay little attention, yet he always managed to slip through Sukui's net, with moves no serious player would ever employ.
When the back-room at Salomo's finally emptied, the sky was lightening and the streets had returned to their normal, workaday bustle. Sukui felt drained. He had not lost so heavily in six years. He could not work out where he had gone wrong, why his system should fail him so drastically.
Standing outside the bar, be heard a voice he now knew and, without thinking, he hurried over and caught Hanrahan by the arm. Mathias was still laughing and, in the morning light, his face looked warm and open. He did not look at all like a man who could so casually humiliate Sukui and take all of his money.
'Please, Mathias,' said Sukui. 'Will you tell me how you did it? What system did you use?'
Hanrahan shrugged Sukui's hand from his arm. 'System? No, Kasimir, I just played the game. That's all. Listen, you play well, you're just a bit stiff, that's all. Are you stuck for money or something? This isn't your place, I know how it is. Here,'—he held out a handful of money—'take it back. I don't play for the winnings.'
Sukui could take no more. He turned and strode away from the young Hanrahan, keeping his shoulders square and proud. How could he say he had 'just played the game'? It was a blatant lie. No one could win like that without some sort of logical understanding of the game's dynamics. No one. Sukui paused to make a note in his book. A rational man could learn from any situation and Kasimir Sukui knew that there were few as rational as himself.
Calmer, he headed for the docks. MidNight was over and now he must return to his duties.
~
There was a stall on the Rue de la Patterdois that Kasimir Sukui had known for a long time. It was invariably in a different place, sometimes even on a side street, but he could always locate it. The proprietor, a bloated, red-faced woman by the name of Alya Kik, was Sukui's best contact in the port of Orlyons. If she had nothing of interest she knew it and did not waste his time in trying to sell him bric-a-brac; instead she would tell him where he might just find something he would wish to purchase. Even if she made a deal with him she would pass on this sort of information and Sukui treasured the relationship.
'Alya!' he called, spotting her among the stalls in the Playa de l'Or. 'Alya, you are trying to avoid me!' He had been walking with Sanjit Borodin and Egon Petrovsky, his two juniors, but now he gestured for them to stay in the background, ready to assist when details became tedious but out of his way all the same. That was how Sukui liked to work.
'Ah! Sukui-san, you old rogue. You've not been to Orlyons for a time, now. It's you who's doing the avoiding, you rogue.' The banter formed a framework to their communication. Sukui was never sure if he was putting it on for Alya, or she for him; either way, he was pleased to see her.
'What's this "Old Rogue" then? You're old enough to be my mother.' He laughed with the woman. 'To business, Alya. I have little in the way of time, on this occasion—my lord likes to keep his advisers by his side in periods such as these.'
'The conflict is serious, then?'
Alya was a tough and experienced trader; already she was probing for information, anything to boost her importance in her own circles. The border conflicts between clans supported by the Andricci and those supported by the Hanrahans were minor and seemingly interminable; Sukui did not think they would last. Fighting was primitive and, under his own guidance, Salvo Andric was leading Expatria away from such sources of waste. 'No, Alya,' said Sukui. 'My lord is merely prudent. Now, to business?'
Alya had little for Sukui and she knew it. He took some permi-bulbs and some documented microcircuits off her and paid with cash. She looked like she needed it. 'You might see Lui Tsang, on your way,' said Alya, as Sukui turned to leave. 'By the Leaning Arch. Tell him I say hello.'
Sukui muttered his thanks and left. Lui Tsang. After a few paces, he paused and noted the name down in his diary, along with the details of his deal with Alya Kik.
He found Tsang's stall in Greene Gardens, a good distance from the Leaning Arch. Sukui knew from experience that location was a fluid concept in Orlyons.
'Alya Kik said you might have something to sell me,' said Sukui, looking over the stall's wares and frowning. 'I fear she may have been playing a minor joke at my expense.'
'Sukui-san, right?' The young trader was not fooled by Sukui's attitude. 'She said you were in town. I have these...' He. gestured to a stack of circuit-discs.
'Plentiful.'
'These...' A selection of crudely ground lenses, clearly not the terran artefacts he was trying to pass them off as.
'Fake.'
'This...' An assortment of fibre optics set atop a large coil of heavy-duty power cable, something that interested Sukui.
'Commonplace.'
'These...' A good range of tools, including a soldering pen and a small TV unit that appeared intact.
'Hmmm. I would need to test it, before agreeing a price.' He knew it was not worth feigning indifference at these last offerings. 'But still I am disappointed. I had hoped...'
Tsang drew a box, about thirty centimetres by ten by ten, from under his stall. 'Sukui-san,' he said. 'I was keeping this, but... I know you are a special customer. All the merchandisers of Orlyons come awake when it is known you are in town. See here.' The box was made of black plastic and there were switches and dials along one of the longer sides. Tsang activated the machine and held his hand behind it.
And instantly another hand appeared above the device, hovering in the air. The new hand was naturally coloured but faint in the bright sunlight of Greene Gardens. 'It is better in the dark,' said Tsang. 'Then it glows like the hand of an angel.' The hand moved and then vanished in a line that advanced across it; Tsang was moving his hand out of range of the device's receiver and, for a moment, only his fingers hung in ghostly replica. Then they were gone. 'It is fully documented, of course. What is your offer?' asked the young trader.
'A Toshiba trifacsimile,' said Sukui. He had read the device's name on the front of the box. 'I can see why you like it, it is a pretty toy, although it has little practical use. But we have trifacsimiles in Alabama City—the Lord Salvo Andric's nephew has one in his playroom and even he tires of his.' Sukui felt momentarily sorry for Lui Tsang. The youth was clearly convinced by his lies: if he knew the device's name then he must be telling the truth. Sukui wanted the trifacsimile, more for what he could learn from it than from any application it might have. He had come across references to these devices in the technical literatures back in Alabama City; having one to experiment with might be another step forward in uniting the theories of ancient technology that had become his life's work.
'Let me see. I will take everything.' Sukui knew from experience that job-lots came cheaper than buying items individually, and this way he did not have to reveal his real interest in the Toshiba unit. Sukui struck a favourable deal and then gestured for Sanjit Borodin to come forward and finalise the details.
The day's trading proved a moderate success. The stock of exchange goods and money was largely replaced by the delegation's acquisitions and Sukui was pleased with his work. As the streets darkened, traders closed their stalls and others opened new ones. Although tonight was not MidNight there was still a demand for some of the dealers in pleasure that Orlyons supported so lucratively.
'Hey, Sukui-san,' called a voice. 'Come, see what I can offer you.'
It was Chet Alpha, host of the travelling peep-show and General Purveyor of Pleasure (Most Tastes, No Surcharge), as his little trailer's placard proclaimed.
'Fine quality, certified clean,' he said, hanging an arm across Sukui's shoulders. 'I checked 'em myself.' He laughed drunkenly and Sukui stepped clear of his sweating arm. 'Sukui-san, I know you're a man of taste. Only the best. Come and see.'
Sukui was tired and he did not like Alpha, especially when he was drunk. But he did have a certain reputation. 'I want nothing myself,' said Sukui. 'But maybe you could visit Alabama City. The Lord Andric might look upon you favourably. He is a patron of the arts, you know.'
'Hey, I'll do that. I've lost trade since I stopped working Newest Delhi, you know. That Prime Edward, he's not keen on the arts, you see. At least his wife isn't! No, I don't go there now. Too dangerous.'
Alpha straightened, and shook Sukui's hand. 'Yes, I'll come down to your Alabama City, sir. Maybe I'll even set up base down there, the way this place is going. It's that Hanrahan, the one who killed the Prime; now that he's here, things are no good. They're after him, you see. They were asking me about him and I told them, "Look," I told them. "He's nothing to do with me," I told them. "He can—"'
'Who is after Hanrahan?'
'I recognised them from Newest Delhi,' said Alpha. 'Trade. You know. They were in the Guard then. I think they still are. Only, yesterday... You know who I saw yesterday?'
'Who?'
'Name's Ngota,' said Alpha. 'Lucilla Ngota. I reckon things are going to turn bad, round here. Reckon it's time I moved the show. Alabama City, yeah!'
Sukui left Alpha to celebrate the prospect of moving base. He paused in the light of an open tavern window and made a few notes in his diary. Lucilla Ngota. He knew the name. He smiled; things were certainly becoming interesting in the port of Orlyons. He noted another comment in his diary and then walked on, through the darkening streets.