Текст книги "Ice Country"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Easing the stew pouch from her grip, I say, “Thank you, ma’am. For the stew and…well, for everything.”

Chapter Three

I take the trail to the lower Brown District, where Buff lives. The further you go down the mountain, the less silver people have and the shivvier their jobs are—if they have work at all. Buff’s father’s a treejacker, earning a sickle a day from backbreaking work that supplies all the timber to the White District and the palace. There’s not much new construction in the Brown District, so little of the wood is sent our way. By the time Buff’s father gets home he’s so bone-weary that it’s all he can do to take dinner in bed and go right to sleep.

Buff’s younger sister, Darce, is a pretty little thing of all of twelve years old, like Joles. After their mother died of the Cold three years ago, she took over the motherly duties of raising all six of Buff’s other little brothers and sisters, as well as feeding Buff and his father. She’s a woman trapped in a girl’s body. The exact opposite of what my mother has become.

I pause on the edge of a large, snow-covered rock before I make the final descent, breathing in the crisp, pine-scented air and gazing down the mountainside. The first part is covered in a winter blanket of white, smooth and unmarked except for the handful of trails where the snowshoes of treejackers and miners have trod a deep path in the high crests of powdery snow. But eventually, beyond the snowy slopes, the mountain turns brown, dotted with heavy boulders and spindly, leafless trees. Further down still, heavy oaks rise tall and majestic, all the way to the edge of ice country, where it seems to collide with fire country. The desert, they call it, bare and lifeless. Even the sky seems to recognize the difference, as the moment the forest gives way to sand and dirt, the clouds stop, as if running up against an invisible barrier that ends their unceasing march across the night sky.

For a moment, as I have many times before, I wonder what’s out there, in fire country, beyond the borders. From what the men at Fro-Yo’s say, there are the Heaters, a peaceful tribe of desert-dwellers. Then there are the Glassies, who I like to call the Pasties, on account of how eerily white their skin is, even whiter than most of ours. No one really knows where they came from, but they’re our friends, too, apparently. According to King Goff’s shouters, who come down from the palace a few times a year to present us with news from the crown, we have trade agreements with both the Heaters and the Pasties. We give them wood, bear meat, and a few other odds and ends, and the Heaters give us what they call tug and ’zard meat, which have become something of a delicacy. I don’t know what either a tug or a ’zard is, but the few times I’ve been lucky enough to eat their meat, I’ve been impressed—it’s much better than bear or rabbit. The Heaters also help guard our borders, although I’m not sure who they’re guarding against. The Pasties, on the other hand, are something of an enigma. No one seems to know what we get from them in exchange for the provisions we provide them with.

I’ve never seen a Heater before, but the men at the pub say they have brown skin and are scared of being cold, whatever that means. That’s why they never come up the mountain. The Pasties, however, appear from time to time in the White District, on their way to the palace. They never stop at any of the local businesses, nor do they speak to anyone but each other. After disappearing through the palace gates, they reappear a few hours later and march right back down the mountain and toward fire country and their Glass City, which I’ve also never seen, other than in the paintings you can buy in Chiller’s Market. But as far as I’m concerned, the drawings are pure fiction—no one could build a glass structure big enough to enclose an entire town.

In fire country, there’s also the Fire, which we call the Cold, an airborne plague that kills many each year, both in fire and ice country. Only, down there, on the flatlands, it’s much worse, or so they say, killing many of them before their thirtieth year. I shudder as a burst of ice runs down my spine. If I lived in fire country, I’d be more than halfway through my life. At least up here where it snows almost every day of the year, the Cold is slowed, allowing us to live into our forties. It certainly puts things into perspective.

It’s forbidden to go to fire country, on account of the disease.

I turn to look up at the monster-like peaks rising above me to the north. Sometimes during the day, when a rare ray of sunlight manages to squeeze through the towers of clouds, one of the peaks looks like the head of a wolf, with caves for eyes and a gaping crevice with fang-like rock formations protruding from its craggy lips. But at night it just looks like a superior being, sturdy and unchanging, even when the whole world around it seems to be constantly moving in a million directions.

Under my breath I whisper a silent prayer to the Heart of the Mountain for luck tonight, and continue down the trail.

Buff’s family’s place is a dilapidated wooden structure that’s half the size of our sturdy house. Unlike our thick, full-trunked walls, their walls are constructed of thin planks with chunks of mud frozen solid between them. It does well enough to keep the cold air out, but only when there’s a fire going in a pit in the center and you’re wearing three layers of clothing. For Buff, going to Fro-Yo’s means a bit of real warmth he can’t get at home. I want to help him recover that right more than anything.

My hands are too cold to pound on another door, so I just open it.

Inside, there’s chaos.

One of Buff’s little sisters is shoveling spoons of soup into her mouth so fast that it’s dripping from her chin, while he tries to get her to eat slower. One of his younger brothers, who’s practically a clone of Buff, is running around naked as Darce tries to corral him into a melted-snow bath. Yet another little-person is painting streaks of brown on the wall with his hands. Only it’s not paint. It’s mud, which he’s collecting from a mushy pit on the dirt floor. The unmatched assortment of beds against one wall are scattered with a few more dozing children. Buff’s father isn’t there—another late night at the lumber yards.

When Buff sees me, he shoots me a thank-the-Heart-of-the-Mountain look, grabs his heaviest coat, and pushes me out the door, shouting, “Darce, I’m going out—be back late.” He slams the door behind him. “What took you so freezin’ long,” he snaps, his eyes darting around as if more of his maniac siblings might be hiding outside somewhere.

Smirking, I lay down my trump card. “Joles,” I say, not admitting to the five minutes of peace I spent on the mountainside.

His face softens and his eyes focus on me for the first time. “Alright, alright, you got me. C’mon.”

We make our way through his neighborhood, catching a few glances from the lucky few who happen to have windows in their huts, giving us looks and shaking their heads as if we’re no more than common hooligans. Don’t they know we have an almost perfect pub-fighting record? I stare right back at them, give them a growl, and a few of them shrink back and out of sight. I laugh.

“Do you have to do that?” Buff says.

“Yah,” I say. “What’s eating you, man? You’re acting all uptight tonight.”

Buff’s steps are more like stomps beside my easy footfalls. “I am not uptight!” he snaps, proving my point. He realizes it, shakes his head, and says, “I don’t know, I’m just nervous and frustrated about…” His voice fades into the night breeze.

“About Fro-Yo’s?”

Stomp, stomp, stomp. I stop him, put both hands on his shoulders. “It’ll be fine, all right? We’ll get the money, get our pub rights back, maybe even get real jobs afterwards. Then we’ll start our climb to the top, where it’ll be full of White District ladies dying to take us home to meet their parents. But we’ll reject every last one of them.”

Buff snorts. Finally my easygoing best friend is back. He slaps my arms away. “You can reject them all you want, but that doesn’t mean I have to.”

“Whatever pulls your sled,” I say.

We trudge along in silence for a few minutes. “Hey,” I say, remembering Looza’s pouch. “Want to share my stew?”

Buff flashes me a do-you-really-have-to-ask look, so I hand him the pouch. He slurps at it, groaning in delight. “You made this?” he says between his slurp-chews.

“Naw. It’s Looza’s.” I grab it back after he sucks in another mouthful. “Leave me some, man.” I ease some of the chunky liquid past my lips, relishing the perfectly balanced combination of flavors. Looza may not trust me to do the right thing by my sister, but she sure can whip up a good stew. I finish it off, wishing I’d asked for two servings, and then tuck the empty pouch in my pocket to return to her tomorrow.

We fight our way back up the same hill I just descended, and with each slipping, sliding step I wish we’d agreed to meet at my place. After a lot of heavy breathing and near falls, we reach the path to the Red District. It’s not really the kind of place most people would want to go at night, but we know our way around better than most.

As we pass a two-storied wooden structure on our left, a dark-eyed, silky-haired head pops out of a doorway, spilling soft reddish-orange light on the snow. “Hi, boys,” a lustrous voice drawls.

“Evenin’, Lola,” Buff says. “It’s a cold ’un. Better keep that door shut to keep the warmth in.”

With a full-lipped smile that says she lives for contradicting people, Lola takes two strutting steps outside into the snow. Her feet are bare and she’s wearing a sheer, lacy dress that lets through more than its fair share of light. Underneath she wears only the barest of essentials, something lacy up top and down below, leaving little to imagination. She’s got to be freaking freezing her perfectly sculpted buttocks off, but if she is, she doesn’t show it.

“Sure you won’t reconsider my previous offers?” she says in a seductive, lilting tone, swaying her hips side to side, in a way that’s completely different to how Looza was earlier when she was mixing the stew.

“Uh, well, I think, we have to…” Buff is a tangle of words.

“Sorry, Lola. Not tonight,” I say. Not ever. When I find the right girl and the time is right, I certainly won’t be looking to pay for it.

“Another time, perhaps,” she says with a wink.

“Uh, yah, you too,” Buff says nonsensically as we walk away. He looks back several times.

“By the Heart of the Mountain, you’re pathetic sometimes,” I say.

“Says the King of Bad Breakups,” he retorts, magically finding order to his words again.

“At least I’m the king of something.”

“Hopefully we’re both the kings of boulders tonight,” he says. “Did you get the silver?”

I screw up my mouth. “Yah, but it’s only twenny.”

“Iceballs! It turned out I only had ten.”

“Son of a no-good, snow blowin’…” I spout off a few more choice words. With only thirty sickles we’ll be lucky if they even let us in the Chance Hole.

“Sorry. Darce had to use the rest of it to fix a hole in the wall.”

That brings me back to reality pretty quick. “Buff, I’m sorry. This is my fault. I never shoulda started something with Coker.”

“Icin’ right it’s your fault,” he says, but he’s grinning. “But he did have it coming to him. And it was kinda fun, at least until that freezin’ stoner dropped that stool on our heads.

I grin back. “It was fun, wasn’t it?”

Buff claps me on the back. “Like you said, Dazzo, we’ll fix things, just like we always do.”

~~~

We know we’ve reached our destination when the pipe smoke starts curling around our heads.

Against the stark white of the winter scenery, the gray smoke almost seems to take on a life of its own, with fingers that grab and clutch without ever actually touching you. The smoke wafts out from a stone staircase that descends cellar-like beneath a two story building that, based on the sign on the door, claims to specialize in Custom Doors. Other than in the White District, there’s not much demand for that sort of thing these days—most of us are just happy to have any type of door—so I suspect it’s just a front for the gambling operation.

Heavy voices rumble from below like distant thunder from some fire country storm. Moments later, a short man emerges from the cellar, looking distraught, glancing behind him with wary eyes, as if he’s likely to get knifed in the back. Which, coming out of a place like that, he just might.

He’s heading right for us, but not looking where he’s going. We just stand there, watching him, waiting for him to notice, but he keeps on coming. When he finally looks up, he’s so close he barely stops before running smack into my chest. “Oh,” he exclaims, twitching so hard that his knitted cap flops off his head and into the snow, revealing a head as bald as the day he was born. Buff reaches down and picks it up.

“Uh, sorry…and thanks…and, uh, sorry,” the man says, taking the cap and sort of bowing with his hands clasped together around the edges. He’s jerking every which way and can’t seem to keep his eyes focused on us for more than a few seconds. Each time they dart away, it’s toward the cellar steps.

“Are you waiting for someone?” I ask, nodding toward the steps.

“Oh, nay…nay, nay, nay, nay, nay! Most definitely not. But I really don’t know how I’ll…never mind, it’s not your concern.” The odd little man scurries off, his feet sinking into the snow up to his knees. “Not enough sickles in the world…ever pay them back?...What’ll Marta say?” he mumbles to himself as he plods away, trying to replace the hat on his head. But his hands are so jittery he can’t get it right, and eventually gives up, settling for cold ears until he gets to wherever his destination is.

“He lost big time,” Buff says. I nod, wishing it wasn’t true. Although perhaps if other patrons of the Chance Hole are losing, that means there’s plenny of room for us to win.

I hang onto that thought as we descend the steps. There’s no smoke or voices now, as the thick door at the bottom is closed again. A man as big as a boulder with legs like tree trunks stands in front of the door, thick arms crossed over his chest.

“I ain’t seen you two before,” he says in a voice that suggests his father is a bear. Given the thickness of his beard, his mother might be a bear too.

Buff lets me do the talking after his unfortunate tongue tie up when he spoke to Lola. “You haven’t. Usually we play small time, but we’re looking to up the ante tonight.” Yah, with the all of thirty sickles we have to play with.

He looks me up and down with a crooked smile, as if he doesn’t believe for a second that we’ve got the stones to play with the high rollers. My nerve falters under his gaze, but I don’t let it show on my face. When his heavy brown eyes return to mine, he says, “Buy-in’s twenny sickles, five-sickle ante per hand, betting starts immediately.”

When he opens the door the smoke and noise hit us like a morning fog.

Chapter Four

Inside is full of snakes. Not the slivery brown rattlers you’ll find in the woods sometimes in the heart of summer, but the greasy, venom-eyed, hustling kind who work the Red District underground. There are a dozen tables and all appear to be full. The slap of cards, jingle of coins, and groans of loss or shouts of victory muddle into one stream of sound that represents one thing and one thing alone: greed.

Here is where fortunes are made and bigger fortunes are lost. Just by stepping through this door we’ve proved that we belong, certainly more than the bald-headed man with the unsteady hands who left earlier.

Through the pipe smog, I scan the crowd, laughing when a chubby guy with a lopsided smile scrapes a pile of coins from the center of a table while a hooded man slams his cards down. For every winner there’s a loser.

“Advance?” a nasally voice says from beside us.

A pointy-nosed woman sits at a desk, stacks of coins in front of her.

“Excuse me?” I say, being as polite as possible.

She lifts a hand to her curly red hair, shakes her head, rolls her eyes. Maybe we don’t belong here after all. Even she knows we’re new to this scene. Slowing her pace, she says, “Would. You. Like. An. Advance?” She motions to the coins.

Forget trying to act the part. This woman appears to be offering us money—which we desperately need—so I need to understand. Keeping my voice low, I say, “Look, you know as well as us that we’re new to…all of this.” I wave my hand across the room. “We’ve played cards plenny of times, but never in a joint like this—for high stakes. So can you please explain how it works. The advance, I mean.”

She sighs, seems to resign herself to the fact that I’m not going away without some information. “Most of our…customers…are high rollers. They play for big stakes and they don’t back down. You think they carry hundreds of sickles in their pockets? Forget about it. They come here empty handed, and we keep a tally of their balance. We can also advance you silver so long as you’re good for it. We can do up to a thousand sickles the first time, until you’ve proven you’ll pay it back. Then we can go as high as ten thousand.”

A thousand sickles? Ten thousand? I haven’t ever seen that kind of wealth in my life. “You’ll give me silver?” I say slowly.

She laughs, which comes out as nasally as her voice. “Not give—loan. Each day you don’t pay it back, the balance goes up by ten-hundredths of the amount you owe.”

Buff and I look at each other. The green of his eyes almost looks silver, as if he’s been staring so hard at the piles of coins that they’ve gotten stuck there. “What do we do?” he asks.

I shrug, trying to think. If we keep doubling our thirty sickles each time we play, we won’t really need anything else. But we could also lose it all in the first round.

I lean in, so only she’ll be able to hear me. “How far will thirty sickles get us?”

“Thirty sickles each?” she says, tapping her chin with a long, white finger.

“Uh. Thirty sickles total,” I admit.

Her nostril-heightened laugh is back. “You’re joking, right? Didn’t Ham tell you the buy-in’s twenny? You won’t both be able to play if you’ve only got thirty sicks.”

Decision time. Take the money now, or one of us has to walk out the door. Or we could both leave. But then where will we be? No money, no jobs, no pub. I steel myself and go for it. “We’ll take thirty sickles,” I say.

“Minimum advance is one hundred,” she says flatly.

“Make it two hundred,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

Buff nudges me, his eyes wide and green again. I shrug. Just go with it, I mouth.

Nostril-voice counts out the coins and hands them to me. “Welcome to the Hole. May you have bad luck,” she says, smirking. I hope she says that to all the customers, but I have a feeling she brought it out special just for us.

I lead the way, skating between the tables like I belong, even though inside of me Looza’s stew is sloshing and churning, like even it knows we’re doing something we shouldn’t. The slap of cards is like a hammer to the back of my head, which starts to ache again.

Every table appears to be full, except one, which has two chairs pulled out at an angle, as if whoever vacated them left in a hurry. One of them was probably the nervous-looking bald guy’s. They’re still playing, but the game almost seems friendly, as if they’re just having a bit of fun, without care as to whether they win or lose. Seems like our kind of table.

I approach, ducking my head to draw one of the gambler’s eyes. A round-faced guy with double-pierced ears looks up at me with a smile broader than Looza’s hips. His eyes are blue and twinkling with red flecks under the lantern light. “Hey, kid. You want in?” His tone is light and friendly. We’re just here to enjoy each other’s company, it seems to say.

“Sure, thanks,” I say, feeling more and more at ease. It almost feels like the cards we normally play back in the Brown District. Only we’ve got a hundred sickles each that aren’t ours to play with. “Mind if my buddy joins, too?” I ask, motioning to Buff.

“The more the merrier,” he says.

I give Buff a hundred sickles from the advance, and keep the same for myself. That should be plenny to get us started. Sliding into a seat, I watch Buff do the same. He looks less pale than before, as if he’s settling into things, too. We watch as the players finish out their hand, tossing in bets of a few sickles each, and laughing when the merry-eyed guy with the big smile wins a nice pot of perhaps forty sickles when he shows double boulders.

A friendly game amongst friends. The others at the table appear equally easygoing. On my left is the guy who invited us to play, and on my right is a thin, clean-shaven guy with a long face that almost touches the table. He’s got at least two hundred sickles piled up in front of him, perhaps double what I’ve got. On either side of Buff are twins, each with jet-black hair and knit caps that they’ve kept on despite the relative heat of the crowded cellar. They’re all quick to smile and don’t seem to mind parting with their silver if it means one of their buddies wins.

“Ante’s five sickles,” Pierced-Ears announces.

Buff and I grab a five-sickle piece each and toss it in the center of the table. The other four do the same. Excitement builds in my chest at the prospect of winning even the ante, which is five times the normal one-sickle ante I’m used to. Twin-Number-One deals, two cards each, facedown. I’m feeling more and more at home. This is my element. I’ve been playing boulders-’n-avalanches since I was old enough to understand the rules. I’ve always been good at it. This is just like any other game.

I peek at my cards. Twin boulders! What are the chances? I think. I do my best to hide my excitement behind a blank stare, but my heart’s beating so hard I swear the others can hear it. Pierced-Ears takes a look at his cards and rolls his eyes, tosses them in the middle. “I’m out,” he says. A small stone and a minor tree branch. He was smart to fold. No chance of winning with cards like that.

Twin-Number-One dealt, so it’s Buff’s turn to bet. He glances at me but I can’t read him. Glances back at his cards. “Five sickles,” he says, tossing in another coin. There’s no way he’s got my hand beat, but it doesn’t really matter. Me taking his money is as good as him keeping it. We’ll split all the winnings anyway. Twin-Number-Two nods and tosses in some silver. Long-Face chews on his lip and then does the same.

My bet. I’ve got to play this one slow, or they’ll know right away I’ve got something good. I toss in the minimum required to stay in the hand, five sickles. We skip Pierced-Ears since he’s out. Twin-Number-One throws his cards in the middle, facedown. Another one out.

It’s time to show the first of the draw cards. An arrow. No impact on my hand, which is already very strong. Unless someone else has twin arrows, I’m probably still winning.

Back to Buff. He passes, lets the bet go to the twin on his left. The twin places his cards on the table, stretches his arms over his head, and then throws in two large coins. Twenny sickles. Already the pot is heating up and I’m starting to worry the remaining twin does have something good, like two arrows, which would leave him with a triplet, automatically beating my twins. Across the table, Buff’s eyes widen.

Without even a sideways glance, Long-Face throws in the required coins, along with two more, both ten sickle pieces! The bet for this round alone is up to forty sicks, more than we came with. If I keep playing and lose this hand, I’ll already be broke and owe Nasal-Voice silver. Sweat begins beading under my arms and below my knees. Feeling somewhat faint, I wriggle out of my heavy coat and drape it over the chair behind me. It helps, but my mind is still spinning. If I fold now, I’ll be throwing away the best hand I might get all night. Plus, maybe in a high stakes game every pot will be this big. If I’m going to take a chance, now is the time to do it.

I throw in forty, trying to breathe evenly.

Buff stares at me like I’m crazy. He’s gotta throw in forty to stay in it. He throws his cards in instead, face up. Twin medium stones. Not a bad hand, but not good enough considering how fast the pot’s growing. It’s all up to me now.

Twin-Two throws his cards as well, unwilling to match Long-Face’s raise. Down to me and Long. Twin-One flips over another draw card. A boulder! Chill freezin’ yah! I scream silently. I think the edge of my lip twitches, but that’s as much celebration as I’ll allow myself outwardly. There’s still money to be made, and there’s no doubt I’ve got the best hand now.

Buff stares at me—now he’s trying to read me. I can see it in his eyes: he knows what I’ve got. After playing a whole lot of cards with him, he knows me too well. I hope Long’s still in the dark.

The bet’s over to Long, who burns a hole through the two draw cards—the arrow and boulder—with his eyes, as if he hates what he sees. Either he’s an icin’ good actor, or he knows that last card wasn’t good for him. He passes to me.

A tough call. I know I’ve got the better hand, but if I bet big then Long will suspect it, too, unless he thinks I’m bluffing. He might fold, which of course means I’ll take a pretty nice pot. But on the other hand, if I can get him to keep betting, I can make it an even bigger take. I toss in a modest thirty sickle bet, beginning to feel like a real high roller, if only because I now consider thirty sickles to be modest. As if it’s nothing at all, Long slides the required coins across, smiling. He won’t be smiling in a minute.

Another card is flipped. Another boulder. Un-freezin’-believable!

Four of anything will win you a hand almost every time. Four boulders, well, that’s a lock. Long taps the table, signaling he’s passing to me again. Finally able to show my emotion, I smile, big enough to make him think I’ve got a good hand, which I do, but small enough to hopefully convince him I’m bluffing. The math’s gotten too convoluted for me to have any clue as to how much is already in the pot, but I know it’s more silver than I’ve ever had in my life, enough to pay back our advance, fix the stuff we broke at Yo’s, and buy something nice for Jolie.

I push every last one of my remaining coins into the pile in the center.

Long scrunches up his nose and folds, leaving his cards hidden. I’ll never know what he had, but I don’t give two shivers about that, because my hands are curled around a mound of silver, raking it in front of me, trying not to tremble with excitement.

There are smiles all around the table, except from Long. “Nice hand,” Pierced-Ears says.

“Thanks,” I say, standing up and starting to shovel the coins into my pouch, “for the game.” Buff’s already on his feet.

Pierced’s smile fades quicker than visibility in a snowstorm. “Whoa there, pretty boy. Didn’t they tell you at the door? It’s a five hand minimum for a seat at a table. No winning and running.”

I feel the color drain from my face. “No one told us that,” I say.

“Must’ve slipped Ham’s mind. He can be a bit of a snowflake sometimes. All brawn and no brains. You know the type, right?”

“Well, he didn’t tell us, so…” I push in my chair.

“Sit down, boy!” Pierced screams, his face red and snaked with popping veins. All activity in the Hole ceases abruptly. Someone drops a coin and we can all hear it rolling across the floor, not stopping until it runs into the wall.

Silence.

I stare at Pierced, who now looks nothing like the kind, fun-loving card player from before. Despite the fact that he didn’t lose anything but his five sickle ante in the last hand, he’s dead set on us playing at least four more hands. A hostile environment is nothing new to me, except normally I’m the one bringing the hostility. As I look around, I see more than a few faces that look like they’ll die before letting us leave.

My eyes meet Buff’s and he shakes his head. The odds are against us—not the right time to pick a fight. I pull my chair out and sit down, scattering my silver on the table. Buff does the same, although his pile is much smaller than mine.

Gone are the smiles around the table, replaced by narrowed eyes and glares. This is not a friendly card game anymore, if it ever was to begin with.

“Deal,” Pierced-Ears commands Buff. Buff scoops up the used cards and blends them back into the main deck. Hands them to Twin-Two, who does a bit of blending of his own before passing them back. Buff deals and I take a deep breath.

Four hands. We can just play it easy, fold out each hand, losing only the ante. It’ll take a chunk out of the winnings, but not so much that we won’t be able to take care of what we owe Yo.

I look at my cards, if only for show. A crown and small stone. Not the worst hand, but not the best either. I’ll be careful with it. Buff doesn’t even look at his, just tosses them into the center facedown. He’s got the right idea. Twin-Two bets twenny sickles and I add my cards to the center before the betting even makes it around. Pierced’s eyes never leave mine as he throws in the required silver. The betting goes around and around as they play out the hand, but still Pierced’s eyes are glued to me. I look down, look away, count and recount my coins, but I can feel him on my face, as if he’s physically touching me.

Pierced wins a sizeable pot and then it starts over again, with Twin-Two dealing. Three more hands and then we’re outta here, no big deal.

I lift just the corner of my cards to have a peek, and then toss them in the center immediately, just a second behind Buff’s even speedier fold. I had twin small stones. A playable hand, but not worth losing any more silver over.

The hand plays out quickly and one of the twins goes away with a pretty weak pot. Two to go. Fold and fold and we’re done.

Mimicking Buff’s technique, I fold the next hand without looking at my cards, but I can’t resist sliding them in face up, where the twin crowns stare back at me, almost gleaming brighter than the silver ante coins in the middle. A really strong hand. I grit my teeth, trying to bite back the regret that tightens in my throat. Regardless of whether playing the hand was a smart move, showing my cards is high on the list of stupidest things I could’ve done. Pierced smiles at me, but not kindly like he did before, but with icicle teeth, cold and sharp, knowing full well that I’m not playing for real anymore.