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.