by Jen Williams
‘Tell me, Chenlo – did you never come here when you were an agent? Did you never collect a fell-witch from Jarlsbad?’
‘We did,’ said Chenlo, somewhat hesitantly. ‘More than once. But we never stayed longer than we had to. Mother Cressin’s rules on what the agents were allowed to do were very strict. I have never seen it quite like this. And certainly not without the knowledge that I was about to take a girl away from her familiar life, forever.’
Without quite knowing why, Vintage took the woman’s arm and squeezed it briefly.
‘Here, look. This is the place we need.’
Vintage breezed through the shop, falling easily into old habits. After years of travelling, she knew by sight clothes that would fall apart after a few steps on the road, and clothes that would last and suit the wearer. She bought for herself a fancier version of her usual clothes: some fine leather trousers and boots, a silk shirt, a fitted jacket with many pockets sewn on the inside. For Chenlo she allowed herself a little more indulgence. With the agent’s vaguely bemused permission, she purchased a fine black silk frock coat with a scarlet stripe and a red silk shirt. With her striking black hair with its bolt of white and a new pair of delicate pig-skin gloves, Chenlo looked, well . . . beautiful.
‘This is quite inappropriate for the weather.’ Chenlo plucked at her sleeves. The eagle tattoo at her throat peeked out from the red shirt, as though the bird were rising from a wall of flames.
‘You look exquisite.’ Vintage cleared her throat. ‘Besides which, it’s what the rich here do – wear clothes inappropriate to the weather. Only people with pesky jobs have to worry about being out in the sun too long.’
Chenlo raised her eyebrows. ‘And that’s how the rich live, is it?’
‘Some of them. Come on, we’ve got an assassin to find.’
It was possible to hear The Shining Coin long before it was visible. Set in the centre of a busy plaza, the enormous gambling house was much more like the buildings of Mushenska. Rambling and built of wood, it featured balconies that sprouted all over, from which men and women would shout down the odds of various games to the people still in the plaza. These ‘small games’ could be bet on by the general public outside, and fees and winnings would be collected and distributed by men and women with tall conical hats. Many of these ‘small games’ involved the spinning of wheels, where punters could bet on which painted section the clattering peg would land on. The result was quite festive, in Vintage’s opinion. Spinning wheels painted all colours whirled all night and all day.
‘That is . . . that is quite the thing,’ said Chenlo. It was early evening, and lamps were being lit all over the building and the plaza.
‘Isn’t it, though? The real games are inside, of course.’ Vintage prodded at her hair. The clothes seller had allowed them to use her small bathroom, and she felt ready for a night on the town. Chenlo turned to her.
‘Lady Vintage . . .’
‘Please call me Vintage.’
‘Is this necessary? Or even wise? We should be returning to Ebora as quickly as possible.’
‘With what?’ Seeing Chenlo’s aggrieved expression, Vintage shook her head a little. ‘Listen, I lost Windfall for them, and it looks like she’s staying permanently lost. How can I go back with that failure on my hands? I need to bring back something useful.’ She took a breath. ‘And that potion Okaar gave us could tip the war in our favour. Do you not see? Historically, the winnowfire had little to no effect on Behemoths, or anything protected by moon-metal, but this stuff changes that. It boiled the armour right off that bastard bear, and, Chenlo, my dear –’ she grasped the woman’s arm again – ‘we have a small army of fell-witches waiting in Ebora for us.’
‘I see.’ Chenlo took her arm away. It was done gently enough, but to Vintage’s surprise she felt dismayed all the same. ‘That is your plan. To use these women who have come to you in good faith.’
Vintage looked away. ‘Come on. I don’t want to leave Helcate on his own all night, and this shouldn’t take too long.’
The doors to The Shining Coin were tall and elegant, almost an afterthought in the face of all the gaudy balconies. A pair of guards stood outside them, and Vintage clocked immediately that they weren’t just for show. Their armour was clean but obviously well-used, and they both stood with the easy confidence of those at home with swords and the severing of limbs.
‘How much is the door price to The Shining Coin these days?’ she asked the first guard. He was a tall white man with short gingery hair and a pleasant, open face. He smiled and nodded at them both.
‘You’ve been here before, my lady?’
‘More times than I’d care to admit, and more than my coin purse cares to remember. I am Lady Vintage de Grazon, and this is my friend.’
The guard named a price, and once Vintage had finished wincing and had paid up, he waved them through into the welcoming lounge. Inside, the place glittered with lights and polished brass, and a long bar circled the entire central room, which was filled with low tables and cushions. Many of these tables were covered in drinks and cards, while in the very centre there was a great dais, on which a very complex-looking game was taking place, involving multiple raised boards and large game pieces made of glass of all colours. The room was hectic and busy, filled with the voices of the rich looking to get richer, if only briefly.
‘There are other rooms,’ said Vintage, raising her voice a little over the general hubbub. ‘More exclusive games going on elsewhere. There should be a list at the bar.’
They stepped through the crowds – Vintage spotted several people glancing curiously at the bat-wing tattoo on Chenlo’s forehead – until they stood at the bar. There was a long board lining the far wall, covered in chalk scrawls. As they watched, one of the staff came over and neatly rubbed out one room’s activity and replaced it with something else.
‘There are new games all the time, you see,’ said Vintage, peering at the board. When a bar person came in range, she waved at the woman. ‘Anything particularly special on at the moment, my dear?’
‘Depends on what you’re after,’ the woman said in a cheerful Mushenskan accent. ‘High stakes or just a bit of novelty?’
‘Well I suppose—’
A man lurched up to the bar next to them. He had a carefully waxed moustache and wore a jacket with a multitude of shiny silver buttons. Catching sight of Chenlo, his eyebrows shot up towards his hairline.
‘Are you with them, then?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The bat women,’ he said, an oddly urgent tone to his voice. ‘You know. The ones who worship the new queen in Tygrish, the one with the giant snow bat. You must have heard of it.’
‘I most certainly am not with them.’ Chenlo’s hand reached up to touch the bat-wing tattoo on her forehead, as if she’d forgotten it was there. ‘I am an agent of the Winnowry. Or I was.’
Vintage leaned towards the man. ‘Queen Tyranny’s guard used to belong to the Winnowry too, but now they follow her. What do you think about it, if you don’t mind me asking?’
The man looked pleased, and took a sip from the drink he was holding. ‘Well. It was a shock, I can tell you that. Some woman on a war-beast chasing the royal family out of their palace, hoisting up her own flags. There was a lot of angry talk here, and in the other outlying cities. How dare she, how dare Ebora, and so on. But . . .’ He took a bigger gulp of his drink. ‘But it’s been quiet since. And, you know, the bloody worm people are back in the skies.’ Some of the pleasure faded from his florid face. ‘Queen Tyranny is not kind, or benevolent, but maybe that’s not what the world needs, in a time of war. Between you and me, I’ve thought about making my way to Tygrish. We all know a regular army is fuck-all use against the worm people.’ His cheeks turned faintly pink. ‘I do beg your pardon, ladies.’
Vintage grinned wickedly. ‘I am absolutely scandalised, my dear, and demand that you buy me a drink in recompense.’
The man gestured to the bar perso
n, looking pleased again, while Chenlo leaned towards Vintage.
‘Do we have time for this?’
‘I can drink very fast. Here, look.’ There was a section on the games board marked as ‘invitation only’, and one of the games was called CHOOSE YOUR POISON. ‘That’s got to be it. Excuse me, dear,’ Vintage grabbed a passing waiter, his tray laden with extravagant drinks, ‘how do we get into Choose Your Poison?’
‘I’m sorry, madam, but that particular game is invitation only.’
‘I can see that, but I’ve been here before, and I know very well what “invitation only” means. How much?’
The waiter continued to demur, but when Vintage opened her withdrawal bag and began counting coins out onto the counter, he seemed to change his mind, and in moments he was handing Vintage and Chenlo a pair of wooden tokens, painted black and red.
‘Take them to the topmost room,’ he said. ‘It’s where our most exclusive games are played.’
In the meantime, the man at the bar had purchased a drink for Vintage, and was smoothing down his waxed moustaches.
‘Now, ladies, may I ask where you have come from on such a fine –?’
‘Oh thank you, most kind.’ Vintage picked up the drink. ‘See you later, my good man.’
Leaving the man spluttering into his facial hair, Vintage and Chenlo headed across the gaming room to the far stairs, which led up to the balcony that encircled the upper portion of the chamber. From there they found another set of steps, then another, until Vintage was sure they must be in the roof of the building. All along the way they spotted other rooms, many with their doors shut, the sounds of merriment seeping out into the corridor. Others revealed men and women crowded around tables and boards, their faces flushed with alcohol and excitement. Eventually, they came to a final set of steps, and here another member of staff took their tokens.
‘Through the last door,’ she said, in a bored tone. ‘You’ll have to wait your turn.’
‘How do you know this is where he’ll be?’
‘Poison,’ said Vintage, trying to sound more confident than she felt. ‘He has a particular interest in poisons. Come on, let’s have a look.’
The room wasn’t very large, and in comparison to some of the other rooms they had seen, it was somewhat bare. The walls were covered in dark purple cloth, and the floor was bare floorboards. There were two screens at the back of the room, and a long table in the middle. This table was, to Vintage’s eye, the sort of thing you might find in a kitchen. The surface had seen a lot of wear, with stains and knife marks and dark burned patches. There were two staff members standing by the door, both burly men, and a small crowd of punters; rather like the room, they were more serious than the revellers they had seen in other parts of The Shining Coin. These men and women looked worried, with teeth gnawing at lips and sweat on foreheads. The last figure wore a cloak with a deep hood and thick black gloves. They emerged from behind the screens with a wooden tray full of anonymous beakers, which they placed on the table. Vintage smiled.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Chenlo.
‘Let’s watch for a bit. See what happens.’
A man stepped up to the table. At a gesture from the hooded man, he picked up one of the beakers and pressed it to his lips. Without hesitating, he drank whatever was in the cup and then turned to the small audience, his eyes wild. A tense silence stretched out for several long moments, until finally the hooded person nodded, and the man slammed his chosen beaker back on the table. The small crowd clapped politely, and the hooded figure passed the man a bag of coins from within his robe.
‘Ah,’ said Vintage softly. ‘You choose your poison, and if you survive, you win.’
‘That,’ said Chenlo, ‘is a very stupid game.’
A woman standing just in front of them turned and gave them an outraged look.
‘I agree, dear, although surely not much more foolish than other games of chance,’ said Vintage. ‘I wonder what happens when someone chooses the wrong brew.’
Another woman, young with heavy black make-up around her eyes, leaned in towards them, her voice low. ‘They can be sick, bring up all their dinner, or fall down suddenly blind. Supposedly it passes eventually.’ She shrugged. ‘I have seen men shit themselves, really explosively, you know?’ Vintage raised her eyebrows to indicate that yes, she did indeed know. ‘Once in every game, though, it’s something really bad. People can die, and you never know when it might happen. That’s why the prizes are so high.’
Chenlo frowned, turning to the woman with real concern on her face. ‘And you play this too?’
The young woman shrugged. ‘Like I said, you can win a lot of money. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the worm people are back, and Ebora are dead on their feet. We’re all fucked already, so why not have fun now?’
Vintage exchanged a look with Chenlo. ‘I have a friend back in Ebora who would quite agree with you.’
‘How much coin?’ asked Chenlo. In front of them, another man had stepped up to the table. He was taking longer to choose his beaker. ‘How much coin to make you leave this room without drinking the poison?’
‘What?’ The woman shrugged, looking bemused. ‘I already paid my way in here, lady.’
‘My friend here will give you that back, and more,’ said Chenlo. ‘If you leave, and don’t come back to this place.’
‘Will I?’ Vintage saw the look on Chenlo’s face, and nodded solemnly. ‘I will.’
By the time the young woman had left with her new bag of coins, the man had finally chosen his beaker. He held it up to the light and then sniffed it. For the first time, the man in the hood spoke, his voice bearing a heavy Jarlsbad accent.
‘Once you have picked the beaker up, you cannot change it.’
‘What was that all about?’ asked Vintage. ‘She’ll only come back tomorrow night, or the night after, you know.’
‘She was young, and foolish.’ Chenlo looked uncomfortable. She plucked at the collar of her red silk shirt. ‘She should be shown another path, at least. Maybe she will leave now and meet a future lover, and not think of this place again, or she will decide to travel, far from here. Or she will come back tomorrow. We all deserve at least a glimpse of these other paths.’
Vintage nodded, feeling slightly ashamed. ‘You are right, of course, my friend,’ she said softly.
In front of them, the man drank the contents of his beaker. He was hesitant, taking sips and stealing glances at the hooded man, as if trying to guess its contents. Eventually, he put the beaker down on the table and turned to the small crowd, his face flushing with triumph, but the hooded man did not reach into his robes, and abruptly the man doubled over, his face growing dark red. He let out a single shout of pain and dropped to the floor. After a moment, he began to shake violently all over. Vintage began to push her way to the front of the small crowd, determined to help the man, when the two burly guards got in front of her. Quite efficiently they scooped him up between them, paying no attention to his trembling or his guttural howls. He was taken from the room, and the little crowd muttered amongst each other.
‘Sarn’s bloody bones,’ said Vintage. ‘What will happen to the fool?’
No one answered. The hooded figure had retreated behind the screen, and returned with a fresh batch of beakers. A few of them were steaming softly. Vintage felt a great wave of dismay, a feeling of sadness for all of them; the men and women willing to risk an agonising death for a few more coins. This is what it does to us, this endless war, she thought bitterly. I talk all the time about how our land is poisoned, but what about our minds? When you know that the land itself may kill you, and that an unkillable enemy may return at any moment, what does that do to you? There’s no peace in Sarn, even during peacetime.
‘Right!’ She held her hands up. ‘I’ve had enough of this little spectacle. The lot of you, piss off. Go downstairs and have another drink. I’ve got business up here.’
The small crowd reacted with anger, several peo
ple protesting that they had paid a great deal of money to play the game. Vintage turned away from them and walked over to the table. The hooded figure was watching her.
‘Enough of this, my dear,’ she said. ‘I need a word.’
When the hooded figure didn’t respond, Vintage sighed heavily. ‘I know it’s you, and let’s be clear, I owe you one. I also respect your safety too much to start shouting your name from the rooftops, so do please stop messing about. Or –’ she turned to glance at Chenlo, who had moved away from the little crowd towards the screens – ‘maybe I will get Agent Chenlo here to start throwing some fire about. I don’t imagine The Shining Coin will continue to employ you if you get the place burned down.’
‘Hey, I don’t know what you’re on about.’ The hooded figure whipped down his hood to reveal a young man with blond hair the colour of wet straw. The Jarlsbad accent had entirely vanished. ‘But you can’t just come in here messing up my game and threatening to set people on fire!’
‘Oh Sarn’s bloody arse . . .’
‘Vintage?’ Chenlo was peering behind the screen. ‘Would this perhaps be who you’re looking for?’
Vintage joined her at the screen. Behind it was another table, this one crowded with flasks and powders and pots, and sitting in a chair was Okaar, his face partially hidden by a number of silk bandages. They left his eyes, mouth and nose free, and at the sight of Vintage, he flashed her a quick grin.
‘What trouble you make, Lady Vintage. But I am glad to see you survived our mutual friend.’
Despite herself, she laughed a little. ‘What is all this, my dear?’
He shrugged. ‘I used to do both, once upon a time – be the mysterious man in the hood, mix the poisons. But since I met your war-beast friend, I find being on my feet for too long painful, and, well –’ he gestured to the laden table – ‘I was always best at this part.’
