Skye watched the three players as they scrutinized their
cards. ‘Stupid’ smiled, Sid’s left eye twitched. The hairy man downed his
tankard of homebrew.
Skye looked at her cards, she had two of pawns and a prince.
On the table were a five and a seven of shields, a castle, and a three of
pawns. Skye wasn’t sure what ‘Stupid’ thought he had, but Skye was pretty sure
Sid had a castle, giving him the highest pair from the table.
Skye’s attention turned to the hairy man. The more she
watched him, the more he seemed a ‘Stupid’ and in that case, no threat to Skye.
He was only lucky with the previous hand.
Skye had the winning hand if she switched her two of pawns
for the prince in her sleeve. ‘Stupid’ started the bets, throwing half his coin
in, four silvers. Sid saw the bet and the hairy man added a silver.
She didn’t want to chase away Sid, so she also raised with
only a silver coin. Keep it modest,
keep it moving.
As the bets evened out around the table, Skye shifted her
weight slightly and slid one hand under the edge of her sleeve. A quiet motion,
a simple flick. She switched her cards—replacing a dud with a prince. Now she
had two.
But just as her fingertips closed over the edge of the second
card, a hand clamped down on her shoulder.
Steel. Not touch. Not pressure. Just steel.
“That is enough. We know what you are,” a male voice said.
“Good call, Jim, you will get your reward. And you,” the man’s grip tightened
slightly, “Finn Skylar, just won yourself a meeting with the gambler’s guild.”
Her heart jumped. Breath caught halfway up her throat. The
hairy man had a smug cat-smile. He’d caught his mouse.
Her gut twisted. A setup. She should’ve seen it. Should’ve felt it. No wonder he was unreadable—he wasn’t here to play. He was here for her. Cold
flooded her limbs.
What did they know? That she was a
cheater? A woman? An alitur?
Or all three?
She relaxed her face into neutrality, but her mind raced.
Could she run? No. Not yet. Too many eyes, too close to the table. No one had
drawn steel, which meant they still wanted her alive—questioned, not killed.
Yet.
“What? You have nothing to say?” the hairy man–Jim–said. He
leaned over and took Skye’s tankard of homebrew and downed it. “Cheers.”
Skye didn’t answer. She reached down, slow and measured, and
picked her tricorne up off the floor. Her hat was just fabric—but it made her
feel armed. Steady. Like herself.
She rose to her feet.
“I don’t know what this guy told you,” Skye gestured towards
Jim, “but I didn’t cheat. I haven’t seen him before in my life.” She truly
hoped that was the only reason they were confronting her.
The house-muscle behind Skye chuckled, or that was what she
assumed the rumbling noise was.
“We have been watching, and you have an appointment with the
gambling guild.”
“No one told me,” Skye said with a shrug.
“I did. Just now.”
Skye looked over her shoulder at the house-muscle looming
over her. Tall. Broad shoulders. A scar cut down his right temple, hugging the
cheekbone like a crack in old stone. His stance was heavy, but not rooted. A
bit off balance. Good.
The short one would be slower, maybe better in a brawl, but
easy to outmaneuver. The tall one could be clumsy. The real problem was her
coat—it would get in the way if she had to move fast. If she had to fight.
But—
She ran through options. Surrender. Fight. Flee. None was
good. She shifted her weight, breath held shallow in her chest.
“Where is this meeting?” Skye asked.
“At the boss’s office, at the pits,” the tall one answered.
Skye scanned the room. No escape. Everyone watched. Waited.
Sid had crushed his cards in his hands. Only Jim kept drinking, he found his
entertainment for the night.
“I don’t go to the pits,” Skye said.
The tall one rumbled again from behind, “I don’t care, you
are going.”
The room inhaled.
Jim smirked at Skye and lifted his tankard off the table.
With a flick and a flash of her hand, a knife plunged into Jim’s eye.
Gasps.
The cup fell, and Jim followed.
Fran Zuid lives in a village on the outskirts of Cape Town,
South Africa, with two dogs and four parrots (her personal dragons, without the
fire-breathing part—which is a bonus). If she is not submerged in a creative
fantasy world, or playing old games, she is fiddling in her garden, sipping
wine at a vineyard or conquering a hiking trail somewhere—that is, if her
“dragons” allow it.
