Muttonchops chuckled. “Never played rabbit before, eh? Sure you want to put a wager down?”
Detan felt the weight of the grains in his pocket, considering. He had scarce little to lose, and these louts were no doubt testing him to see if he’d buy into their probably-made-up rules. But they were guards. Remnant guards, if the black patches sewn on their sleeves held any truth, and he needed information. Better, he needed buddies on that island – and the best way to turn a target into a friend, Detan had long since discovered, was to lose a whole lotta grains to them.
“I’ll have you know I’m a man anxious for knowledge, thirsty for new experiences. I’ll play your rabbit – and roast it too.”
The guards laughed, comfortable with what they were certain was a sure win. “Suit yourself,” muttonchops said as he dealt out a fan of face-down cards before each of them. “I’m Garlt, and this here’s Yisson. Buy-in’s a copper.”
“Is that all?” Detan winked at Garlt to let him know he was being facetious. Willing as he was to part with grain for friendship, there were limits, and he didn’t want this man thinking he had much more to burn. With a flick of his wrist he rolled a grain out of his sleeve and back across his knuckles, then plunked it down in the pale chalk circle in the center of the table.
“None o’ that sleight of hand nonsense, Mister…?”
“Wenton’s the name, Wenton Dakfert. And I promise you, that’s the only trick I’ve got up my ratty sleeves. Took me nigh on a year to learn that bit of nonsense, so I show it off every chance I get.”
As he scooped up his hand, he let one card drop and fall face-up to the table. Mustering a blush, he pretended to fumble and snatch it up quick as could be, slapping his palm down over it in an effort to hide the face, but not fast enough. Detan let loose with a nervous chuckle.
“Ah, see? I’d say I had butterfingers, if I could afford butter.”
Garlt guffawed and thumped the table with his fist hard enough to slosh his cup of suspiciously yellow brew, no doubt trying to make Detan drop another card or two. He refrained. Just because he’d planned on losing to these two knuckleheads didn’t mean he was going to make it that easy for them.
“What is it you do, Wenton, that you can’t afford some butter for your bread?”
“Who said I could afford bread?”
Yisson snorted and tossed a card face-up onto the three antes. “Match house or color, toss it down the rabbit hole,” he said, not bothering to explain any of the finer points. Or any of the coarser points, really. “And you…” He snapped his fingers at a harried serving girl. “Bring Wenton here a beer, will you? I take it you can afford beer?”
“I would rather spend my grains on beer than bread, it’s true.” Detan pitched in a matching color of low house. Garlt’s brows shot up. Low houses were good, then.
“You so hard up, whatcha doing in this stinkhole?” Garlt asked, flicking down a high house.
“Ah, so you denizens had noticed the local… flavor. I was beginning to think I was hallucinating.”
“Can’t hallucinate with your nose, can ya?” Yisson slapped down a matching color and grinned. Detan had no idea what to make of that.
“If the odor is strong enough, certain visuals might become involved.”
“Would explain your card playing,” Garlt said, getting a chuckle out of his friend.
“Har-dee-har,” Detan drawled as he watched Yisson open a fan of a different house on the table and receive replacements from Garlt. Yisson scowled at his new hand and waved for Detan to play. He frowned. No one bothered to explain that move to him.
“Truth is, lads, I’m a prospector.”
Garlt worked up the nerve to ask the pertinent question, and Detan marked him as the aggressive player of the two. “Of what?”
“Metals, gems, whatever I can scrounge up out of this cracked dustbowl. What?” He smirked, laying down a random card. “You two think I might be some kind of sensitive?”
Garlt shrugged. “Lotta rumors of those lately, what with the empire losing its hold on Aransa. That shitty city lost a lot of sensitives the day Thratia took over. Fleeing being associated with anyone anti-Valathea, I’d wager. Some o’ em went to other mining cities to work, but some went rogue, too. Trying to find tiny caches they can siphon up and sell on the black market.”
Garlt snorted and took a deep drink of his pale libation as the serving girl appeared with the drink’s match. Detan paused, pretending to pursue his cards with care, as he tried to keep his expression from giving away his thoughts. He hadn’t heard that Thratia’d lost sensitives in her takeover. He’d assumed that, with half the city wearing her uniform, they’d been more than happy to see the old guard out and the new warden warming the seat.
But sel-sensitive refugees, scattered across the Scorched? If some sought employment at other mining cities he had no doubt they’d flock to his aunt’s city, Hond Steading. Why hadn’t she mentioned it in her last letter? She couldn’t be that cross with him.
“Wish I had a talent like that, sensing sel. Would mean I’d always have work, eh?” Detan said, watching Garlt’s expression over his hand of cards.
“I wouldn’t want it, that’s fer damned sure.”
“Right you are,” Yisson said. “At least when you sign on for the Fleet, you get good pay and the right to quit if you ever wanna. Those sorry sacks of sel-sniffers are stuck tight. Empire needs ’em to keep the Fleet afloat, and sure as the pits doesn’t want them falling into anyone else’s hands. Harsh punishment for those who get caught running, too.”
Yisson glanced at Garlt, who was too busy chugging ale to see the question in Yisson’s eyes. The big man thumped his drink down on the table and belched. “The Remnant’s no pretty place, but it’s better than a hanging.”
Detan’s heart kicked up its beat, and he didn’t bother looking at whatever card he lay down. Yisson chuckled and clucked his tongue, but Detan didn’t pay him any mind. So the Remnant housed rogue sel-sensitives. A nice, juicy bit of bait to stick on the end of the lure he wanted to lead out to Pelkaia.
“Sounds like a sweet gig, minding the ole bars,” Detan said. “The Fleet hiring?”
“For the island?” Garlt grunted. “Wish they would. Way it works now, we only get one day o’ leave time. Can’t get far from the Remnant in just a day, it’s Petrastad or one o’ those little fishing villages.”
“Pah,” Yisson tossed down a card. “They call ’emselves fishing villages but we all know they’re smugglers. Pearls, mostly, I think. Dunno why the empire doesn’t shut ’em down.”
“Probably because they like the cheap pearls and aren’t keen on doing the labor ’emselves.”
“When are they ever?” Detan interjected, winning a laugh and a thump on the back from Garlt that was, he suspected, designed to make him lose his grip on his cards again. He clung on, just to spite.
“You’re all right, Wenton.”
He took a swig of ale and grimaced. “Mind pointing me towards the bathroom?”
“Gotten to you already, has it?”
“Through me like piss through cheesecloth. Tastes like it, too.”
“Hah, that it does. Bathroom’s down the hall, but I warn you, the reason it’s called a bathroom is because the only thing you’ll want after visiting it is a bath.”
“A boiling one,” Yisson added.
Detan rose, effecting a sway, and left his cards face down on the table with full knowledge they’d peek at them the moment he was out of sight. He pretended an orientating glance, making it look as if he was searching for the door. Spotting Tibs in the corner of the room, he paused long enough to let him feel his gaze probing his back, then swaggered out into the hall.