by V. Briceland
Ah, yes. He had appealed to the man’s greed as well as his vanity. “None better,” Macaque assured him. He strode around to the other side of the table and swept the cards together. “Are you suggesting we settle our differences through a game of chance?”
“Three games,” Nic replied. Macaque seemed to be confident of victory. Nic, however, had month upon month of the Drake’s victories at cards in mind. His former master would have eaten the would-be captain as an appetizer for his dinner. “When I win two of them, you’ll cede the title of captain to me.”
“Three games,” agreed Macaque. “And when you lose two of them, boy, I’ll put you and your comrades to work like you’ve never been worked before.”
Nic’s only reply was an icy smile meant to imply that the like would never come to pass. “Master Drake,” said Maxl. Nic noticed that his voice was more strained than usual. “Having word with you, please?”
“Of course. Excuse me,” he said to Macaque, and began to stride over to the room’s far side.
The man nodded, then handed off the collected cards to the brawnier of his men. “Urso.” He rattled off a series of instructions in a foreign tongue, sending the man lumbering in the direction of a desk in the cabin’s corner.
“What did he say?” Nic murmured in Maxl’s ear, once they had a small amount of privacy.
“He is asking him to get the more fresh cards,” Maxl replied. His hands dug into Nic’s shoulder. “Are you knowing what you are doing? This man, he loves his taroccho. He always is winning.”
“Is this wise?” Jacopo asked. He, too, seemed concerned. “I appreciate the vigor with which you have invested yourself in this endeavor, but it seems a dangerous caprice.”
“You are gambling with our freedom,” Darcy growled, more to the point. “Not just yours. Mine and my father’s as well.”
Nic dropped the character of the Drake to speak to his friends, but some semblance of the man remained in his tone. Perhaps it was the testiness of his voice that came through most strongly when Nic said, “I know what I’m doing.”
“How can you?” Darcy demanded. “What has made you such an expert on games of chance?”
“You will have to trust me,” Nic replied, his words low and even. “I wouldn’t have wagered our futures if I wasn’t confident I might win.”
“Might? What if you don’t win? What if we’re worse off than we were on the island?”
Darcy was angrier than she’d ever before been. Her eyes flashed with fire, and though she modulated her volume so that she couldn’t be heard beyond their little circle, Nic could tell she meant business. “How could you be worse off?” he asked, sounding a bit impatient himself. “Were you really enjoying your diet of fruit and sea-soaked biscuits that much? Do you want to hop back onto Maxl’s rowboat and head back to that oh-so-comfortable cave where you were living?” From her stubborn expression, Nic knew he was getting through. “Then trust me to win this bet.”
“What if you lose?” Darcy wanted to know. Her father placed a hand on her shoulder, still looking worried himself.
“Macaque is very, very good with the cards,” Maxl repeated, seeming almost as worried as she.
“If I lose,” Nic answered, watching Urso return to the table with a cleaner deck than the grimy set Macaque had given him, “then we’re still off the island. We can try to sweet-talk Macaque into thinking he can take over the rest of my fleet.” Darcy snorted, though Nic could tell she was weakening. “If he won’t take us to Cassaforte, then we’ll wait until we dock at a major port. We’ll escape. The point is that we’ll be on the move, which is more than when we were holed up on that island.”
“Yes,” nodded Maxl. “I agree. Is much better.”
“Are we ready?” asked Macaque, interrupting their chat.
“Are we?” Nic asked Darcy.
She hesitated a moment with a mouthful of doubts. Then she swallowed them all. “Aye, Captain,” she finally agreed.
Now Pelly is the girl that I love dearly
With her lips of coral and her eyes of foam.
But Pelly is the girl who warned most clearly
That when I set sail, I sailed to my doom.
—From a traditional sea shanty
Old man. Maxl.” Nic had assumed the Drake’s cool exterior once more. He snapped his fingers to attract the attention of the men. It seemed wiser not to use Jacopo’s name before the pirates. “Secure the deck and make sure no one disturbs us.”
“Qiandro, join them.” With a nod of his head, Macaque dispatched the scrawnier of his two comrades out the door as well. “Urso. Remain with me.”
“Thorntongue,” Nic said, with a snap of his fingers in Darcy’s direction. “You’ll be staying here as well.” He walked back over to the table and slid into the chair with a view of the cabin door, forcing Macaque to sit with his back to the entrance. It was the type of ploy of which the Drake had been fond—a silent chess move designed to put the other player at a disadvantage no matter how insignificant.
Darcy seemed about to open her mouth to protest her new nickname, but in the end she kept quiet. “Thorntongue, eh?” said Macaque, rubbing his jaw where Darcy had struck it a few moments before. He settled down in his chair with his legs spread wide apart, and wiped his hands on his belly before shuffling the fresh cards. “Apt name for a spirited wench.”
Darcy smiled back sweetly. “The last man who addressed me as wench returned to his wife minus two of his precious baubles.”
“There, there, Thorntongue,” Nic warned. “Play nice with our new friend. She can’t help it,” he assured Macaque with a lazy drawl. “Raised by wolves. None of the social niceties.”
“I imagine not.” The pirate seemed a little put out by the girl’s barbed retort. If he was the sort of man who expected all women to simper and giggle at his remarks, no matter how boorish, Nic thought to himself that he was in for quite a shock when it came to Darcy Colombo. Macaque evened out the edge of the deck onto the wood with a sharp crack, and then set it in the table’s center. Once Nic had cut, as was the custom, Macaque dealt out seven cards for each of them, played the head and the foot cards in the table’s center, and then set the remainder of the deck between them. “Your move, fancy-pants,” he announced, almost insolently.
Taroccho was a simple and fast-paced game in which players had multiple draws from the deck to form the best collection of runs within the deck’s suits, or matches across them. The twenty-two arcane cards, favored by fortune-tellers for their soothsaying, acted as stoppers; they could neither be used nor discarded, and a handful of them could ruin a player’s chances of forming anything useful. The head and foot card Macaque had just dealt, which both players could use for their runs and matches, were from the arcane suit—The Fool and Fortune’s Wheel. So they were no help at all. “I’ll have a pair,” announced Nic, discarding the three and knave of cups and drawing two cards to replace them.
From the Drake, Nic had learned that most card players often gave away the quality of their hands with subtle, unspoken cues. The man holding four kings and a trio of queens might lean forward and smile, or tap his foot in nervous excitement as he waited to collect his winnings. The unlucky fellow with little but arcane cards trying to bluff his way into a pot of winnings might bite his lip, or slump almost imperceptibly. Macaque sweated. Perspiration rolled from his brow, making runnels down his red cheeks when he was not mopping at them with his kerchief. Whether or not this was an indication of what he held was difficult to tell, for it was warm in the captain’s cabin. “I’ll be taking three,” he announced, after staring in Nic’s direction for a moment.
Nic already held a pair of sevens. During the second round, Nic found himself favoring the pentacles for the rest of his combination. He very nearly had a run of three or four. “Two more,” Nic announced, swapping out the cards. Both were pentacles, but n
either of them completed the run. He waited for Macaque, watching as the man mopped his brow some more. “Your turn, friend,” he said at last.
“I know,” muttered the pirate. For so long and so hard did he stare at Nic’s fan of cards that for a moment Nic wondered if he was willing himself to see through the thick paper to the card’s faces themselves. It seemed an eternity before Macaque opened his mouth. “I knock,” he announced, reaching out to rap on the table three times.
Nic’s lips parted in astonishment. Knocking brought a round of taroccho to an end. It was an imperative that any player could make before he took his turn, forcing everyone to lay down their hands and compare who had the winning combination. In games with multiple players it was often put off for as long as possible so that the amount of money in the pot might grow, but this game was for higher stakes than a few coins. Nic spread out his cards upon the table, with the pair to the left and the non-connecting pentacles to the right. “Sevens.”
“Eights,” replied Macaque, dropping his cards unceremoniously to show several arcane cards, and the eights of cups and swords. Urso clapped slowly with his enormous hands.
Nic’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Only a fool or a genius would have knocked a round so quickly with that hand. “You must have been very sure of those eights.”
“Strike while the iron is hot,” Macaque said, clearing his throat. “That’s my motto. One game is mine, Drake. Good luck on the next.” He pulled together the cards, arranged them into a single deck, and pushed it over to Nic for shuffling.
Why was he so hoarse, if he spoke so confidently? Nic didn’t know. The only thing of which he was certain was that his own self-assurance was shaken. He’d thought that besting Macaque would be easy. But then again, the Drake hadn’t won every hand he’d ever played. He certainly had lost the all-important one that had set Nic free. “The iron must be very hot indeed,” he remarked, as he riffled the cards in his hands, with a pointed look at Macaque as he blotted his forehead again. The pirate ignored his jibe. It was most curious, though, that the man was so tense and nervous, and so intent upon Nic’s hand when he should have been paying attention to his own …
Oh. Of course. The answer came to Nic instantly. It was small wonder that Macaque had been staring at the backs of his cards. They were marked. The Drake had always kept a sharp eye out for cheaters. Woe betide the man who dared attempt to fleece him, for it would not be long before the canal tides were stained with the offender’s blood. Perhaps one of the very few things that might be said in the Drake’s favor was that he never stooped to use a marked deck himself—and it was indeed fortunate that he was so wary of cheaters that he had taught all his servants how to spot cards that had been altered to favor their owner. Macaque’s special taroccho deck was marked in a common enough pattern. Certain small dots had been filled in among the embellished floral corners of each card to give away its suit and the rank. Only the arcane cards had been left untouched, as they did nothing but block a player from collecting anything more useful.
Nic reached the end of his shuffling and set the deck on the table. “Cut,” he commanded. Fine. If Macaque wanted to cheat, let him. What he wouldn’t know was that Nic would be onto his every move.
“Sir.” As the pirate took the bottom half of the deck and placed it on the top, Darcy attempted to get Nic’s attention. “A word?”
“What is it, Thorntongue?”
Only Darcy’s fingernails digging into the back of his shoulder betrayed how very much she disliked that impromptu nickname. “You are going to lose us our freedom, fool,” she growled into his ear. “Let me kill him now.”
“No. No killing.” Nic kept his response to a whisper. They were overmatched, with enormous Urso glowering at them both.
“Fine. You do it, then. Obviously you’ve gotten in over your head. Don’t ignore me!”
“A good round,” Nic commented in a public voice, beginning to deal the cards. He pulled his shoulder out of Darcy’s grasp. “May my luck be as good this deal.”
“Indeed,” rasped out Macaque.
Nic smiled. Instead of fanning out the cards this time, or arranging them by suit and rank, he kept them in a tight bundle in his hand, peeking to see what he had very quickly. Three of his cards were arcane, of all the luck, but of the remaining four were the two and the four of staves. The three of staves lay upon the table as the foot card. It was the lowest of all possible runs and, in a normal game, nothing more than a beginning of a good set of combinations, yet the stakes of this match were different. Macaque’s lips pursed and worked as he tried to make out what Nic held, but Nic merely kept his hand cupped and lolled back in his chair. “Are you planning to draw?” he asked at last.
“Yes. Yes!” Macaque slapped down a pair of cards and replaced them. Cheat that he was, he apparently never thought to suspect his opponent of the same tactics. His own cards were fanned out so plainly that Nic could easily tell that in addition to the four arcane cards he’d managed to pick up, his hand held nothing of worth. “Very well. Your play.”
The look upon Macaque’s face when Nic reached out to knock upon the table was priceless. The perspiration beading his forehead seemed to double in volume. “Are you certain, boy?” he asked, mopping away, though by now the kerchief was so soaked with moisture that it was nigh useless. “You haven’t even taken any cards yet. I’ll let you take it back if you’ve misplayed.”
“Quite certain.” Nic dropped his hand on the table, exposing the run.
It was with a number of choice expletives—none of which brought so much as the faintest of blushes to Darcy’s cheek, Nic noticed—that Macaque reluctantly displayed his own lack of a hand. “You were lucky,” he commented, casting dark looks at both Nic and at Darcy, as if he suspected her of reporting to Nic what was in Macaque’s hand.
“Very,” murmured Darcy, who had been standing behind Nic the entire time.
“We’ll let the last game decide it, then?” Inwardly, Nic was trembling, though he refused to let it show. He’d managed to find a way to turn Macaque’s cheating to his own advantage, though, and that was something. Perhaps he did stand a chance in the end.
Macaque had only just finished dealing the last of the fourteen cards and setting out the head and foot when the door from outside burst open, revealing Maxl. “Master Drake,” he said, out of breath.
“Later,” said Nic, picking up his cards. He was wary that Macaque might have been looking at the marks as he dealt, but the man didn’t seem particularly adept at recognizing the symbols very quickly. Certainly, though, he seemed to have seen that the last card was nothing but an arcane. The three of pentacles and the three of swords lay on the table.
“But Master Drake …”
“Are either you or the old man injured?” Nic asked, keeping his voice disinterested and cold.
“No, but …”
“Am I in immediate danger?”
“No. But Master Dra—”
“Then it can wait,” Nic pronounced, pretending to glare at Maxl. “You know better than to interrupt my pleasures.”
“I do?” Maxl immediately seemed to recall himself. “I do. Yes, I do. But—”
Darcy let out an enormous sssh! that not only quieted Maxl, but silenced everyone else in the room as well. Nic looked at his cards. The only ones matching were a pair that he brought to the front, concealing their backs from view. Four of the cards were from the arcane suit, leaving him only a single card with which to play. “One,” he announced, exchanging it. The look upon his own face was grim, he knew.
Macaque held a good hand, free of any of the arcane, Nic could tell. He concealed a pair of queens, and when he exchanged three of his hand, managed to pick up a pair of aces as well. “One,” Nic repeated, exchanging his sole free card. Into his hand came another arcane—The Lovers, whose entwined arms and glances seemed to mock Nic
in their very happiness. Unless he was to discard his pair, he had no further plays. He fanned out the five arcane cards as if examining his options, though he kept the pair obscured behind them, and set his hand face-down upon the table. “I’m blocked,” he announced. Behind him, Darcy softly swore.
A look of triumph crossed Macaque’s face. He knew he had Nic. Already he held two pairs, and with Nic blocked, he had three exchanges to make his hand even better. “Looks like your luck has run out, Drake,” he crowed, while he made the first exchange of three. Apparently he found nothing of use among the cards, because he exchanged three more almost immediately. “Indeed,” he said, riffling through the new cards. “I’ll enjoy having you swabbing my decks. Knock you down a peg or two, it will.”
“Will it, now.” Nic managed to sound disdainful, despite his nerves.
“Oh yes.” Macaque slapped down the three cards that he’d just drawn, and took their final replacements. “There’s something particularly satisfying about bringing a tilt-nose down to the level of real men. You think with all your high-and-mighty ways you’re better than the rest of us, but you’ve never done a lick of work in your life, mate.” He licked his fingers in order to better grab the cards as he rearranged them. He immediately laid down the three trash cards in his hand. The queens and aces he laid down side by side. He grinned wildly. “Well get ready, boy. You’ll be working harder than you ever have in your short and lazy life, once you’re under my command.”
Nic looked first at the two pairs, and then at the man who had slapped them down. Ice seemed to chill his stare. “The news may come as a surprise to you, Macaque,” he announced, picking up his hand. He lay down the first of his arcane cards, The Lovers. “But I am no stranger to hard labor.” Slowly and deliberately, he laid down the The Ruined Tower and The Moons as he spoke. “In my career I’ve gutted and skinned animals. I’ve scrubbed floors. I’ve emptied chimneys and tanned hides and pressed grapes and cleaned up after chickens.” He laid down The Chariot. “I’ve shoveled more shit than you’ve ever produced in your life. Which, judging solely by your appearance, has been no inconsiderable amount.” Macaque bristled at the insult, sitting up in his chair and reaching for the knife at his side. Darcy, in turn, brandished her sword as if she’d forgotten it couldn’t cut so much as a lump of butter. Nic tossed down the last of the arcane cards, The Hanged Man. “Hard work doesn’t scare me,” said Nic. He set down the pair he’d held down from the beginning. “And neither do you.”
