Roger had the appearance of a man who was seriously considering attempting to bolt, despite the risk to his life and limb. Rose kept the blade firmly against his skin. “How are you going to get their attention?” he asked after a moment.
“You’ll see inside,” said Rose. “Now, you mentioned coin. How much do you have?”
“So, you are robbing me,” said her hostage, almost sounding relieved.
“If I’m mistaken, possibly,” she admitted. “If things go as they should, I’ll repay you. If not, you’re out a little coin—it’s better than the alternative.”
The man glared at her. “You haven’t given me any choices.”
“Oh, you certainly have choices,” she explained. “You can join me inside and loan me your purse, or you can spend the night in the city jail with a serious stab wound and charges of assault.”
“Why do I have to come inside? I’ll just give you my money,” offered the pimp. “I don’t want any part of this.”
“I need an escort,” she told him. “Dressed as I am, no one will take me seriously without someone to back me up. So, back to my question—how much do you have?”
“Twelve silvers,” admitted Roger.
“I’ll return double that to you,” said Rose. “Now, let’s go in.”
“You can’t keep a knife on me in there and still play cards,” observed Roger defiantly.
Rose smiled at him, flashing a set of teeth far too perfect for the sort of woman he had thought she was. “Trust me, Roger. I’m a better liar than you. Try anything after we step through the door and I’ll ruin you, knife or not.”
Chapter 10
It was apparent to everyone that Rose was out of place at the table. In the smoke-filled interior of Red Tom’s, she was the only woman playing cards and she was far more shabbily dressed than the women who lounged in shadowy corners of the room, drinking with their companions.
No, Rose looked like a fishwife, or perhaps a laundress, except for the man standing behind her chair, acting as her servant or bodyguard. The hard-faced men she was playing against had found her presence amusing at first, but they had begun to take her seriously now. Winning had that effect on people.
Things had been a little dicey at first, as she had suffered several bad hands in a row, but she had kept her losses small. After she had won her first big hand and replaced those losses the men around the table had begun to play more seriously, to their detriment. When they hadn’t taken her seriously, they had played frivolously, making their actions hard to predict, but now that they had lost some skin, they had become easier to read.
As the hours passed, the pile of wooden chips in front of her had grown considerably. Of course, the wise thing to do would have been to cash in after she had won a reasonable amount, but that didn’t fit into Rose’s plan for the evening. Not only did she in fact need the money represented by the chips, but more importantly, Rose needed their attention, even if it was not of the positive variety.
Rose studied the men around the table. The bald one across from her, whose name was Liam, kept glancing at his cards, though his face remained expressionless. His hand is bad, observed Rose. She had already gotten a firm grasp of the man. He rarely looked at his cards when they were strong. Simon, the tawny and rough dockworker to her right, was a different story. Over the past hour she had observed him deliberately creating false tells, but behind his façade he still had signs he couldn’t hide.
Simon rubbed at the rough callus on his right thumb, subtly indicating he was nervous, but Rose knew better; the man’s eyes told a different story. He’s hoping I’ll go in big on this hand, she noted. She met his eyes and smiled.
The last man, a jolly fool who had probably once been brawny but had now gone to fat, was named Tony. He was the most difficult for Rose to figure out. The pudgy fellow played the harmless fool, joking even as he lost, but she could sense more behind his act. Rose strongly suspected that he had thrown several good hands. That meant he was playing a deeper game. Either he was hoping to make her overconfident or the money on the table meant little to him.
Or both. Rose made her decision. Rather than fold or increase the bet, she called Liam on the last round of betting. It was a costly move, since she knew she didn’t have the cards, but she needed to lose a little to keep Liam in the game.
Once the cards were down, Liam did indeed have the best hand and he rubbed his hands together in excitement as he raked in the pot. Rose pouted faintly, pretending at disappointment. She lost smaller amounts over the next two hands, but on the third round she drew them in with a false bluff and took the largest pot yet.
The majority of the chips were in front of her now, and both Liam and Simon wore expressions of frustration and annoyance on their faces. Only Tony continued to smile.
“The bitch is cheating,” grumbled Liam.
Before she could respond, Tony spoke up. “Don’t be a sore loser, Liam. You never had a chance.”
“But To—”
“Shut yer damn mouth, Liam,” said Tony, breaking his character with his previously friendly persona. Then he turned to Rose. “So, how much do you think you’ve won?” he asked.
Rose gave him a sly look. “Never count your chips while they’re on the table,” she replied.
“I’ll wager you know exactly how much is in that pile,” said Tony, producing a small twig and picking at his teeth. “A girl as smart as you, Angela, or whatever your name is, I’m sure you’ve kept a careful count.”
She knew exactly how much she had won, down to the last copper. The pile of wooden tokens represented thirty-one crowns and twelve silver. “A lady never tells her secrets,” she replied, “and a gentleman never asks.”
“I ain’t no gentleman,” said Tony abruptly. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
The moment had come. “I need to talk to Red Tom,” said Rose.
“Tom doesn’t talk to just anybody, ‘specially not uppity bitches,” answered Liam.
Rose had been watching their eyes during the entire exchange, and she had her answer already. Liam’s remark only clenched the truth in her mind. Ignoring the bald man, she looked directly at Tony. “I really doubt that, since he’s sitting right here. Isn’t that right, Tom?” Simon and Liam’s faces tensed, confirming her guess.
Red Tom broke the ensuing silence with a deep belly laugh, then pulled out a pipe and began to pack it. He glanced at Liam. “I told you she was out of your league.” Then he leaned forward and studied Rose. “You guessed right, little lady. Now why don’t you tell me what you want so I can make up my mind about whether you and your pimp bodyguard get to walk out of here or not?”
Roger leaned forward and spoke softly beside her ear, his voice anxious, “Just let them have the money so we can leave with all our parts intact.”
Tom’s eyes watched Roger, and Rose worried that his advice might have cost her. She knew that the money on the table wasn’t Tom’s concern. It probably was of major interest to Liam and Simon, but they weren’t the ones she needed to convince. Ignoring her ‘partner,’ she spoke, “I need to talk to the Roach.”
Tom lit his pipe and drew deeply on it. “I run a respectable business. What makes you think I’d know someone like that?”
Without hesitating, Rose prevaricated, “The word is that you know everyone in Iverly. I’m new here and I don’t have many contacts yet. Talking to you seemed like a good place to start.”
Red Tom exhaled, blowing a thick cloud of smoke in her direction. “That’s as may be. What’s in it for me?”
The smoke made Rose want to wrinkle her nose in disgust, but she carefully schooled her expression. “The goodwill of my employer.”
“And who would that be?”
“I’m not at liberty to reveal that information. As you can guess, my purpose is to keep their identity safe. I can tell you that most would jump at the chance to earn his goodwill. If that isn’t enough, we could discuss money, or an exchange of information,” she r
eplied.
Liam leaned toward Tom. “Boss, this bitch is bluffing. She’s no one. We should just dump her in the river.”
Rose arched one brow but kept her gaze steady on Tom’s face.
Red Tom pulled on his pipe for a moment, his expression thoughtful, then, with a nonchalant sweep of his arm, he backhanded the bald man so hard he fell from his chair. The move was sudden and violent, and yet somehow also relaxed. “Shut your fuckin’ mouth, Liam. I won’t have you talking about a lady like that.”
Liam looked up from the floor, his mouth bloody as he responded weakly, “Lady?”
“A lady,” repeated Tom, staring at Rose. “If you knew how to use those useless balls of jelly you call eyes, you’d know yourself. Look at her hands, her skin—hell, look at her goddamn teeth. Angela here comes from gentility, as does her employer I’d wager.”
Rose covered her disgust at the violent display with a disdainful smirk but said nothing.
Red Tom glanced at Simon. “Take the lady’s chips and cash them in for her.” Then he addressed Rose, “Come back tomorrow evening, after the seventh bell. I’ll introduce you to someone.”
She nodded. “Seventh bell.” Then she glanced back at Roger, indicating he could get her chair as she stood.
A few minutes later as she and Roger stood outside she handed the pimp three crowns. “For your trouble,” she told him.
The pimp’s hand shook slightly as he accepted the coins. “Who are you?”
Rose flashed a quick smile. “Someone you want as a friend.” Then she added, “Can you recommend a decent inn for the night?”
“The Green Goat is nice, though a little expensive,” he answered. “But it would suit you better than one of the dockside inns.” He followed that with directions.
Before he could leave, she caught his sleeve. “If you know someone who would like to make a few coins, have them meet me there tomorrow. Someone with some meat on their bones. I’ll need a more impressive escort tomorrow.”
Roger nodded. “I’ll see.” He made no effort to hide his desire to be quit of her as quickly as possible.
Rose watched him leave, smiling faintly at his back, then turned and began making her way to the inn he had suggested.
***
In the Queen’s bedchamber, Tyrion brooded in the dark. Ariadne slept beside him, exhausted from their most recent passions. Her energy constantly surprised him, as well as the desperate need he felt in her lovemaking. Though, perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me. Her adult life has been devoid of physical intimacy, he thought.
While there was no light to speak of, he watched her breathing with his magesight. When he had initially contrived to seduce her, he hadn’t expected to care about her as much as he currently did. It had simply been a matter of lust and advantage. Then again, nothing about his return to humanity had been as he expected.
Was this really what it was like before? His memories of his original human existence were all second-hand, after all, granted to him by the true Tyrion Illeniel. While those memories carried a painfully intense amount of emotion, experiencing such things first-hand was still different. Should I really be engaging in things like affection and investing myself in these people?
He wanted to protect her, and while that was nominally his mission, he wasn’t sure he was supposed to want to do it. What if the Grove changed his mission? How would he handle it?
Hate was infinitely simpler and easier to manage. He wanted to kill his descendant, Mordecai, and Rose Thornbear, but if he was ordered not to, he could deal with it. Hate was a matter of business, and his business was hate. Love, and the gentler emotions—those he had trouble with.
With a sigh he turned his mind back to more practical matters. His biggest concern was the fact that his progenitor, Tyrion the Elder, couldn’t continue to produce enough krytek to protect the entire world. They were already stretched thin covering the major human cities, and they only lasted three months. If he couldn’t find a solution to assure the complete elimination of the ANSIS presence within a few more months, his creator would begin to fall behind. As prodigious as the massive father-tree’s ability to supply krytek was, it was still limited.
Which is why I hoped collaborating with the humans of this age would provide some new solutions, he reminded himself. Starting a feud with the father of most of the world’s living wizards was not an ideal outcome.
But what choice had he had? He had offered his assistance to Lady Rose on several occasions, and still she had chosen to assassinate him instead. He had lost his temper when the arrows found him. Pain was one thing, but it was the betrayal that hurt him most, and he still nursed a deep-seated rage over the turn of events.
At such moments, he seriously considered just letting the world burn, but watching Ariadne sleeping beside him, he knew he couldn’t. Why did he have to create me?
The answer was obvious. Because he couldn’t bear to face the world himself.
Chapter 11
Matthew studied Myra’s letter with great interest. As he did, the others came and went, flitting by like moths, moving too fast to observe clearly. Time had become a strange thing. He was fairly certain his personal perspective was slowly speeding up to match theirs, but he couldn’t tell how long it would take.
Take the letter, for example. He had read through it carefully, over a span that seemed like a matter of minutes for him, but at his best estimate had actually been at least an hour. It was clear from the content that they expected some guidance from him, and for that he needed to study the probabilities of the future. He hesitated only because he wasn’t sure how long it would take.
On prior occasions, he had found that his sense of time was distorted, or even absent while doing so. He feared that if he did so now, he might spend weeks or months in a trance without realizing it. Obviously, that wouldn’t be helpful to his friends and family. But what else could he do?
Making a snap decision, he pushed his uncertainty aside. The sooner he began, the sooner he would know. Clearing his mind, he relaxed, stretching out his perception in the strange way he had discovered, letting go of his immediate surroundings and embracing the infinite. Reality dissolved into a complex pattern, one so vast it beggared the imagination.
It was beyond the ability of the human mind—or of any mind, for that matter—to grasp, but he was aided by a native intuition that existed outside of himself. The greater mind of the universe itself, composed of all the aythar in existence, guided him to the insights he needed. That was the deeper secret he had discovered in his previous explorations. The Illeniel Gift wasn’t a matter of magic, or of the She’Har, or people like himself or Irene. It was a connection to a greater whole that could inform the user, if he or she were capable of listening and understanding.
The first thing that became apparent to him was that the pattern was unravelling. Not at the edges, as a tapestry might, but at a point in the center, a place of such intense power that it was threatening to tear a hole in reality itself. He recognized it immediately. Father.
It was a sobering realization. To stop the destruction, his father would have to be removed, and there were no easy ways to do that. Only a few remote parts of the pattern could still exercise any leverage over the thing his father had become—was becoming. We need Rose.
But the current state of Lothion made recovering her difficult. That needed to change. He studied the pattern for an unknown time, letting it inform the deeper parts of his consciousness, and then he brought his awareness back to the present. The room snapped back into place around him, and he saw a blank sheet of paper in front of him, a pen and inkwell close beside it.
Back in the real world, his emotions struck him as he considered what they must do. Blinking, he rubbed at his eyes, which were damp. Then he picked up the pen and began to write.
***
Karen watched Matthew hold the pen and begin to move it over the paper with agonizing slowness. She had always considered herself a patient woman but seei
ng him slowly scrawl letters on the page was an exercise in frustration.
A hand on her shoulder made her look up. “Come eat,” said Irene. “You’ll go mad if you watch him writing like this.” The smile on her face was meant to be reassuring, but Karen could see that Irene was just as tense.
“You’re right,” she answered.
The meal was fairly standard, but the conversation revolved mainly around what they were all waiting for. “Anything yet?” asked Elaine.
Irene shook her head, but Karen replied, “He’s begun writing.”
“’Bout damn time,” opined Chad Grayson. “It’s been two days.”
“Considering his current perspective on time, he’s moving quickly,” offered Lynaralla.
“Considerin’ mine, I might die of old age before he finishes,” said the ranger.
Myra looked at the ring Moira had given her. In my case, that’s a real concern. “Hopefully he’ll finish within a day or two. I can’t stay long.”
“An’ they call me impatient,” remarked Chad.
Elaine glared at the archer. “She’s dependent on Moira for her life. It isn’t a matter of whim.”
Chad raised his brows in surprise. “Oh.”
“Perhaps we should consider our options,” suggested Irene. “At least we can lay out what our situation is, what we have and what we need.”
Sir Cyhan spoke first, “We have Lancaster, though it’s isolated in a foreign realm. No one can touch us here.”
“’Cept ANSIS, if they come back,” pointed out Chad.
“That’s a fair point,” agreed Irene. “We’re relatively safe here, but we’re also limited in our ability to affect what occurs in the rest of the world.”
“Meanwhile we’ve been declared outlaws in our homeland,” noted Elaine. “And our country is controlled by Tyrion and the She’Har.”
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