Husk: A Maresman Tale (12 page)

Jeb held her gaze longer than should have been decent, but her eyes sparkled, and the flush that came to her cheeks wasn’t embarrassment.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he said, meaning to stand.

She got to her feet before him, though, and pressed down on his shoulders, peering intently into his eyes. “I meant with the game,” she said.

Her hips shifted, and for a moment, Jeb thought she was going to sit astride him, but then she let out a huff and wagged her glass for a refill. Jeb obliged and found himself watching the creases on her neck straighten out as she tilted her head back to down the whiskey in one.

“Now,” she said, slamming the glass on the table and reseating herself, “let’s win some more money.”

Buttershy looked at Jeb and spread his palms. “Well?”

Jeb gave the slightest of shrugs as he took another pull on the whiskey. Warmth flowed through his veins, fired the back of his throat. He gazed around the bar again, but this time, no one stood out. Looked to him everyone was just going about their business. It had emptied out some, and the only wench left serving was exchanging bawdy jibes with a table of hard-looking men.

“Play on,” Jeb said, almost to himself.

“Right you are,” Buttershy said as he commenced dealing. “Could be this is your lucky day.”

Dame Consilia giggled at that. She’d lost some of her starched poise and was starting to wilt. Probably wasn’t used to strong liquor. Problem was, her self-control was going the same way as her poise, and her fingers found Jeb’s crotch beneath the table. She gave him a sideways glance, and he did his best to emulate Farly’s stone-face in return.

She withdrew her hand and used it to fan herself. “Terrible thing, those murders,” she said to no one in particular.

“Say that again,” Buttershy said. “Won’t catch me near Carey’s anytime soon, that’s for sure.”

Farly looked up with wide eyes. “Thought we had a game there tonight.”

Buttershy frowned and said, “Yeah, well, after that, I mean.”

Dame Consilia leaned over the table and stage-whispered, “Clawed to death by a wild beast, and both in the throes of passion, so they say.”

“If it was just the one,” Buttershy said, “you’d have to think the punter didn’t pay up, and Carey or one of the pimps set the dogs on him. Course, what with it being two, you have to reconsider.”

“So,” Jeb said, “what do you think, Mr. Buttershy?”

“Me? Shogging lunatic’s what it is. One of them—what do you call them?” He shot a look at Farly but didn’t wait for an answer. “Them nutters. Like that—you know.” He nudged Farly this time. “Like what happened to the idiot’s dad.”

“Trent Fana?” Farly said.

“Yeah, him. Torn to shreds, they said. By an animal. Only, they reckon it was his crazy daughter that did it.”

“Ilesa?” Jeb said.

“Shogged if I know her name,” Buttershy said. “Happened before I moved to this dump.” He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head, as if mourning lost dreams, bad choices. “She’s long gone, but her brother’s still around. We call him the village—”

“Davy,” Jeb said. “Yes, I know him.”

Buttershy started to deal, while Dame Consilia snatched the bottle from Jeb and poured herself another.

“Well, we’re new here,” she said. “Passing through, as they say. Well, Sendal lured me, if I’m honest, with the promise of founding a theater.” She rolled her eyes at Jeb.

The chances of Slythe having the capital for such a venture, from what Jeb had seen and heard, were slimmer than the dame’s waistline.

“It’s a passion of mine,” she went on. “You know, playing to the provinces.”

“Won’t be no theater here, ma’am,” Farly said. “Never been no call for one.”

“No call?” Dame Consilia said. “Oh.” She knocked back her whiskey and ran the glass round in her hand. “Well, I’m not sure it would be appropriate. It doesn’t seem… safe isn’t the word I want… cultured. Yes, it’s not quite civilized enough for the arts.”

Jeb picked up their cards and arranged them in order. He was momentarily stunned, and trying his darndest not to show it. Four tens stared up at him, and beside them two queens and the five of serpents. A hand like that would’ve taken him a long way in the taverns of Malfen. With the right kind of gamblers in the right kind of establishment, could’ve made him enough for his house in the wilds and a lifetime of whores to boot. Mind you, getting out of Malfen with the loot would have been another thing. In the old days, the Ant-Man would’ve taken his cut, but even now, any number of cutthroats would be lying in wait as he made good his escape.

Dame Consilia tried to look over his shoulder, but he couldn’t let her see; she’d give the game away.

“What is it, darling?” she said. “What have we got?”

“Nothing much,” Jeb said. He topped up her glass and drained the rest of the bottle himself. He felt a bit lightheaded, but the thrill of the game was countering it. This would be the last round, and he was exiting with his winnings. Dame Consilia could take her half and do what the heck she liked with it. Too much time had been lost already, but when you had an opportunity like this, it would be stupid to pass it by.

Dame Consilia sipped her drink more slowly now. She swayed slightly in her seat and was making a valiant effort not to slur her words.

“This Ilesa, why would she kill her own father? I mean, do you think it’s her doing the killings now?”

“Way I heard it,” Jeb said, “her old man had it coming.”

“It was the boy,” Farly said. He shook his head, and for once his eyes held an expression: sadness or regret. “Trent Fana was a sleaze bag. Harm he did that boy…” He shook his head again and let out a long whistling breath through his teeth.

Buttershy rolled his eyes and tsked. “We playing, or what?”

Dame Consilia glanced at Malvin with his head on Garth’s shoulder. Both were half-asleep. She drew in a heavy breath and let it out in a heavier whuff. “How do you know he harmed the boy? I mean, was there a trial?”

Farly gathered in the cards Buttershy dealt him and took his time getting them into order. He licked his thumb and plucked a card from the middle of his fan, placing it nearer to one side. “I asked him.”

Dame Consilia’s hand covered her mouth. “And he admitted it?”

“Nope. But he was lying.”

“Lying? But how—?”

“Trust me,” Buttershy said with a tight grin. “Farly says he was lying, then he was lying. Has a talent for the truth, don’t you my ol’ mate?”

Jeb remembered Madam Sadie saying as much. He leaned in and asked, “What kind of talent?”

Farly tapped his eyelid, his ear, and his nose. “Nothing supernatural, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“A skill, then,” Jeb said. “Honed through practice.”

Farly chewed his lip as if considering, and then said, “Reckon that’s about the way of it.”

Buttershy sneaked a glance over Farly’s shoulder and let out a soft whistle. Dame Consilia tried to see Jeb’s hand again, but he set the cards face down on the table.

“I’ve got this one,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

She gave his knee another squeeze. “I’m in your hands, Mr. Skayne.” She grabbed the bottle and tipped it up to milk the last drops from it.

“Don’t think we’ll be exchanging,” Buttershy said.

Farly’s mask-face apparently concurred.

Buttershy’s soft whistle had been the giveaway Jeb was looking for. A seasoned player letting on he had a good hand like that just didn’t happen. He was trying throw Jeb off the scent. He was bluffing.

Jeb picked up his cards and spread them in a fan. He made a show of deliberating, then threw down the five of serpents. “I’ll take one.”

Buttershy did his best to look nonchalant as he slid a new card across the table. Jeb turned it, careful to shield it from everyone. Eight of dwarves. Didn’t improve things none. He dropped it back on the table and held his hand out for another.

“Last one,” Buttershy said with the slightest of smirks.

Queen of demons. Made a decent full house. He shut his eyes for a second, let his chin drop to his chest, and ran his tongue about the inside of his cheeks. When he lifted his head, he let out a sigh and nodded to Farly to begin betting.

The old man slapped down a single gold dupondii. Jeb had been expecting more. It wasn’t a small bet by any stretch, but if you wanted to give the impression of a strong hand, you tended to bet a little less conservatively. He considered raising Farly five, but when Buttershy leaned in close and whispered in Farly’s ear, he toned it down to three.

Buttershy arched an eyebrow at that and took the next turn to raise Jeb four. Jeb matched that and raised him another two. Three more rounds, and three more raises. Thing about seven-card that made it so compelling, but also so deadly, was that there was no limit to the betting, except for the amount of coin brought to the table.

Dame Consilia’s eyes lost some of their drunken glaze as they tracked between their dwindling funds and the money heaped in the center.

Buttershy wiped his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. After a pause, he raised Jeb twelve.

Dame Consilia gasped and put her hand over Jeb’s as he reached for their coin stack. “What have we got?” she whispered. “You’d better not be bluffing.”

Jeb extricated his hand and counted out ten gold. Besides that, all they had left was silvers and a few brass. He looked up at Buttershy.

“Everything you got left to see us,” Buttershy said. “Sound fair to you?”

It was either that or fold, and Jeb was in too deep for that. He’d arrived there again: that all-or-nothing moment that could make or break a man, and he had no idea how it had happened.

He eyed the empty whiskey bottle, then turned a look on Dame Consilia. The color had drained from her face, and she held Jeb’s gaze with her lips parted, her chin trembling. “It’s all I have,” her eyes seemed to say. “Without this, I’m destitute.”

Whether that was the truth of it or not, Jeb couldn’t be sure, but he’d bet it wasn’t far from it.

Malvin and Garth were both fully awake now and leaning in toward the table.

“Your call,” Buttershy said. “Fold or see. You’ll get no pressure from me.”

Jeb looked to Farly for a reaction, but as usual there was nothing to go on there. It was down to Buttershy, then. Had he been bluffing with that whistling business? Or was it a double bluff? Jeb grimaced, and didn’t care who saw. It was too late to worry now.

He ran through his hand again: four kings, three queens. It didn’t get much better than that. The chances of Farly and Buttershy holding anything better were slim to none. It was all down to that soft whistle, to the careful bets early on. Were they leading him down the garden path, or had he done the same to them?

Holding his breath, he pushed the rest of their money into the center. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Buttershy snatched the cards from Farly so quickly that Jeb’s heart sank through the seat of his britches. Dame Consilia gripped his arm like a vise, her fingernails tearing the skin.

“Royal flush,” Buttershy said with a beaming smile as he spread his cards out in plain sight.

Jeb let his cards fall to the table in disarray.

Farly jerked into action and straightened them out. “Full house,” he said with a nod of respect. “Very nice.”

“But is it nice enough?” Dame Consilia asked, twisting in front of Jeb so she could look him in the eye.

Jeb shook his head.

Dame Consilia fell back into her chair with a whimper. Garth and Malvin were immediately at her sides, both of them glaring daggers at Jeb.

“Sorry,” Jeb muttered.

“I can’t…” Dame Consilia said. “I can’t believe it.” She looked from Malvin to Garth, jaw sagging, eyes wide with horror. “You…” she said to Jeb, then turned her face away. “I just can’t believe it.”

“I’ll win it back,” Jeb said, rummaging about in his pockets.

Nothing but small change.

Buttershy was already packing away the cards, and Farly was on his feet, as if waiting for the others to leave the table so he could fold it down.

“Love to stay and play some more,” Buttershy said, “but we got places to be.”

Jeb had a sudden inspiration. He whipped out the flintlock. “What if I wager this against everything we just lost?”

Buttershy gave him a look full of practiced sorrow. “Sorry, mate. Maybe next time.”

“Help me up,” Dame Consilia said, and her stooges supported her as she stood. She shot Jeb a withering look, tipped her chin in the air, and left without a backward glance.

“Excuse me,” Farly said, and pulled the table out from under Jeb, leaving him stranded on his barrel chair. Buttershy collected up the bottle and glasses and took them over to the bar, and by the time he returned, Farly had the table folded up and ready to go.

Jeb could do nothing other than stare blankly as they said their goodbyes and went on their way. Numbness settled over his limbs, and he wallowed in a murky pool of reflections: what might have been; what he could have done differently; what he should have.

Around the edges of his mind, a dark form flitted in and out of the shadows, scenting, prowling, drawing near. It was an almost tangible presence, and yet he knew it for what it was: self-chastisement. Here he was wasting valuable time, when he ought to have been doing his job.

But it wasn’t his, was it? He’d been set up, sent after the husk that was killing the Maresmen. It was a sentence, the way he saw it. But he was still wasting time, however he looked at it. He could accept the stygian was his responsibility, and sheriff or no sheriff, he needed to get back to Boss’s land and make the kill. Somehow. Anyhow. Problem was, what could he do about the guards? Right now it hurt just thinking about it. Each thought he followed grew slippery as an eel and wriggled from his grasp.

He needed something to rouse him from his apathy, and seeing as winning back what he’d lost had been denied him, and sating himself on Dame Consilia was now out of the question, he let his eyes rove around the room for an alternative.

Curse it for being so darned early in the day. The bar was emptying out as the rogues finished their breakfast meetings. Those that lingered looked like they’d come to Portis hoping for something that hadn’t been there when they arrived. The amount they were drinking, and the way tension grew thick around them, there was slim chance they’d ever find it, either. Scum like that, the dregs even among the guilds, would be wending their sorry way to Malfen in the not too distant future.