In this rugged, barren land, trees only grew along the river in a thin ribbon of green that barely screened the reds and browns of the eroded hills. The riverbanks lifted high above the water in some places and slid down into silt bars and beds of reeds in others. The water, what there was of it, was silty brown and sluggish. “Too thin to plow, too thick to drink,” was a common description in that region. About the only creatures who seemed to appreciate the river were the long-legged wading birds and the mosquitoes.
It was near full dark when Ulin and Notwen looked for a place to tie up for the night. The Second Thoughts chuffed around a bend, and Notwen was about to steer it toward a likely looking cove when Ulin’s head lifted and he gestured fiercely for Notwen to shut down the engine. Steam hissed from the relief valves, and gradually the little boat drifted into silence.
Ulin pointed ahead to a thick grove of willow and cottonwood shielding the next bend in the river. Barely seen through the new canopy of spring leaves, the yellow light of torches flickered.
Silently as possible, Ulin and Notwen poled the boat into the side cove, made her fast, and banked the fire. Together they slipped through the underbrush toward the lights until they could see through the trees to the riverbank beyond the curve. There sat a large, flat-bottomed boat anchored fore and aft in a broad, deep river hole. Lamps were already lit on the deck, and light shone through the portholes. Several men stood guard at the gangplank. It was the Golden Carp.
They swiftly worked their way back to the Second Thoughts and finalized their plans.
“He may not come. He may not even be around here,” Notwen pointed out while Ulin washed the mud off and changed his clothes.
“I know.”
“It may be several days before he appears.”
“I know.”
“He won’t want to be caught,” the gnome added worriedly. “He’s got to know the city council will hang him if they get their hands on him.”
“I know,” Ulin said. He finished wrapping a sash belt around his waist and put his hands on Notwen’s shoulders. “I’ll be careful, and I’ll have you to watch my back.” He slid the rose glasses over his nose and tucked several small packets into the folds of his belt. When he was ready, they doused the single candle, closed the door, and headed for the Golden Carp.
A black night had settled over the river when they approached the gangplank. A narrow ramp had been tied to the bank and extended to the upper deck of the boat. Ulin saw now that the boat was really a barge meant to be towed up or down the river, probably by mules or a horse. Five or six canoes and several flatboats were tied near the shore, and a picket line under the trees held five horses. Voices rang from the open widows of the barge, and somewhere within someone was playing a lute. Badly.
The guards met them at the gangway. “If you plan to play,” one demanded, “you must show us your money and check your weapons at the door.”
“And if we don’t plan to play?” Ulin inquired.
“You will leave,” the second replied in a tone that brooked no argument. “Now.”
Ulin had not brought his sword, guessing this would happen, but he turned over his dagger and drew out his coin bag to show the guards his coins. He did not mention the knife in his boot. They waved him through, searched Notwen, and let them pass.
Trying to look nonchalant, Ulin wandered toward the bar. Notwen stayed close behind him to attract as little attention as possible. The main room of the gambling boat was arranged with tables and chairs set about them. A large bar made from heavy planks and saw horses sat at the bow-end of the room. The room was smoky and disheveled. The few brass lamps that hung from the ceiling beams did little to dispel the gloom. Sawdust covered the floor. Perhaps fifteen to twenty people—mostly humans, a few dwarves, and two small baaz draconians—sat at the playing tables or stood by the bar. Kender were not allowed in the door.
A tired-looking woman in a stained dress served mugs of beer and spirits. She saw Ulin and said, “What’ll it be? Beer or torquil?”
Ulin winced. The beer was bound to be bad in a place like this, and torquil, a rot-gut fermentation of some cactus-juice preferred by the Khurs, gave him a fiery headache every time he tried it. “Beer,” he said. At least his head would not explode.
She slid a coarse stoneware mug across to him. “What’s with the funny glasses?”
“Pink eye,” he growled.
She shook her head and took his coin without another word. He was right. To a palate raised on Caramon’s brews, this beer was bad. He drank it anyway, leaning back against the bar, and he studied the customers one by one. First he looked at each person over the rim of the spectacles then through the rose glass. He saw no difference.
He sat for perhaps two hours nursing his beer and watching the activities. People came and left, new games were started. Notwen wandered over to a khas table by the door and soon became engrossed in a game with a trapper. There was still no sign of anyone in a disguise of any sort or anyone even close to Kethril Torkay’s description. Ulin knew he couldn’t sit at the bar much longer without buying another beer or joining a game. The bartender was giving him evil looks and the serving woman suggested several times that he order another drink or leave.
The leaving option sorely tempted him. The lute player had not improved with time and had given Ulin a pounding headache. The beer was foul. Then again, if he didn’t throw some money around, the guards might get suspicious and not allow him back on the boat another night. He glanced around at the game tables to find something he could play, and at that moment, his decision was made for him.
Three Khurs staggered in the door arm in arm, laughing uproariously. They were full of gaiety, comradeship, and raucous pleasure, and obviously full of beer or something harder. They spotted a table under one of the brass lamps and unceremoniously dumped its occupying drunk in a corner and claimed it for their own.
“Torquil!” bellowed the tallest man with an eye patch and a full beard. “Torquil for my desert friends.”
Ulin’s eyes narrowed at the odd phrasing. Carefully, he studied the man over the rim of his spectacles. When he tilted up his head and looked at the same man through the rose-colored lenses, the difference was striking. The black hair, swarthy skin, rugged features, and bearded countenance of the tall man blurred and faded to reveal a white-skinned, fair-haired man with paler eyes and smoother features—an exact match of Lucy’s description. As if to complete the identification, the “Khur” raised a gloved hand to bring out a deck of cards and slap them on the table.
After all the miles he had traveled to find this man and all the stories he heard, Ulin found it very strange to see the man himself sitting in a rickety chair, moving and breathing, very much alive. The disguise was excellent. Too good to be simple false hair and skin dye. Ulin wondered if Kethril was in the possession of certain magic artifacts. Lucy never said her father was a mage, but maybe he’d learned enough to wield the old magic in artifacts.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Notwen murmured at his elbow. “He won’t come easily.”
“No, not yet,” Ulin agreed. “He won’t come willingly, and he may have friends in this place. I have an idea, though.” He showed his teeth in a feral grin. “I owe myself this one.”
In a hushed voice, Ulin told Notwen what he intended to do. The gnome bobbed his head in understanding and, as instructed, drifted off to melt into the background.
Ulin removed the pink spectacles. He checked the layers of his sashed belt to be certain the small packets were still there and easy to reach, then he took his mug and sauntered over to the table to watch the card game.
The men were playing a variation of Bounty Hunter, a high stakes game that involved skill and a high measure of luck. Silently, Ulin placed himself where he could see Kethril’s cards and his hands, and where, if Kethril paid attention to his peripheral vision, he could be seen by the gambler.
Ulin watched the game through a number of hands until he began to understand
how it was played. He also noticed Lucy’s father won steadily. The man seemed to have an innate knowledge of when to bet and when to fold. He played carefully, planning each move in advance. His opponents played hard, trying to beat him, betting more and more heavily as the game progressed, and their faces turned redder and more annoyed every time the “bounty” of coins and trinkets moved to Kethril’s pile. Ulin also noticed that Kethril rarely touched his mug, while the others drank a steady stream of torquil. He was a cool player, without a doubt.
Finally, a rotund Khur in dark robes slammed his palms on the table to end his play and stamped off to find a more accommodating game. The other one grimly held his seat and passed the cards to Kethril for a new game. A third player saw the empty chairs and came to join them.
The gambler cocked his head slightly to see Ulin. A brown eye twinkled at him from under a black arched brow. “There’s one chair left. Are you going to play or just gawk?”
Ulin gave a shrug, pulled out a fat bag of coins, and plopped it on the table with a solid chunk. “I don’t know this game. Could you tell me the rules?” He took the chair vacated by the Khur and pulled up to the table beside Kethril.
The other Khur smirked. Here was his chance to recoup some of his losses. The new man, an old mercenary by the look of the scars on his face and the knotted muscles under his leather vest, helped himself to the pitcher of torquil and shoved the pitcher over to Ulin. “Help yerself,” he grunted.
Kethril said nothing. His features were set in an expression of casual interest that revealed nothing.
Close beside him now, Ulin could see him better in the dim light. Even in his disguise he was tall, slim in the waist, broad-shouldered, and powerfully built. He wore a tunic, an embroidered vest, and long, tight-fitting pants all of rich and expensive fabrics. His hands were long and his fingers moved like those of a highly practiced wizard as he shuffled the cards, cut the deck, and began to deal seven cards to each player. As soon as the cards were dealt, he put the rest of the pack in a pile in the center of the table and turned one face up.
“Four suits in this deck: Leaves, winds, swords, and moons. Mage cards are high, ones are low. Fates are wild. We’ll play a copper a point for one hand so you can see how to bet, then we’ll shift back to silver.”
Ulin nodded. It didn’t really matter. He had never had the time or the desire to learn how to play cards well, and he usually had abysmal luck. The important part was to get into the game. They played the first hand, and as he expected, Ulin lost a few coppers. The mercenary added the meager pot to his dwindling pile and swigged down another mug of torquil. The second Khur sank into a drunken gloom.
The game continued. Gradually, the riverboat filled as night drew on. Ulin was vaguely aware of the background din of loud, indistinct voices, the rattle of crockery and bottles, and the stamp of boots on the sawdust floor. In the far corner, a worn-looking girl took the place of the lute player and played listlessly on a lap harp, singing songs no one listened to. The air grew thick and very warm. A few more lamps were lit.
Every once in a while Ulin looked up and caught a glimpse of Notwen leaning into a shadowy corner and watching the activity at the game table. The game was progressing as Ulin hoped. He and the other two were losing heavily, while Kethril continued to win. He noticed a pattern in the hands that Kethril dealt. The three playing would win a few paltry bounties to keep them interested, then Kethril would win big. Ulin felt like a fish on the line of a master angler. Although he couldn’t swear to it, he guessed Lucy’s father was cheating somehow, but his hands and fingers moved so skillfully that it was impossible to catch every move.
The mercenary watched the cards like a hawk and dealt his turn with ferocity, as if he could intimidate the cards into showing him some mercy. The Khur grew more sour and morose with every hand.
At last the mood at the table took the turn Ulin hoped for. The mercenary slapped down a Mage of Winds on a particularly large bounty, and his lips split in a thin grin. The Khur groaned, and his head dropped into his hands, but before the mercenary could claim his prize, Kethril shook his head in mock sympathy and slowly laid out a Shinare, a goddess of wealth card.
A howl rose from the mercenary. “You son of Hiddukel! You thieving—!” He flung his cards down and hurled himself across the table at Kethril.
In the ensuing tussle, Ulin took advantage of the distraction to withdraw a small packet from his sash, sprinkle the contents over the coins remaining in his bag and give the bag a quick shake. For good measure, he dumped the remaining fine gray powder into the pitcher of torquil as he swept it out of harm’s way.
“Gently, sir, gently,” he chided, setting the pitcher aside. He caught the mercenary by the shoulders and hauled him off Kethril and the mess of coins and cards on the table. While his back was to Lucy’s father, Ulin slid two cards surreptitiously into his belt. The mercenary was too drunk to put up a real fight, and he slumped back into his chair looking murderous.
“Feddor, my friend, you are tired and your cards are atrocious tonight.” Kethril suggested gently. “Wouldn’t you rather try again some other night?”
“Piss on you,” the mercenary snarled. “One more game, gambler. Your luck can’t be that good.”
Kethril turned to Ulin and offered him a knowing, man-to-man look of approval as Ulin straightened up the mess on the table, poured torquil into everyone’s mugs, and picked up the cards to deal the next hand. When the cards were dealt, Ulin looked at his and allowed himself a sound of satisfaction. While the Khur and the mercenary watched avidly, he dumped his remaining coins out of the bag and onto the pitifully small pile of coins in front of him.
Kethril leaned over and punched him jovially on the arm. “You play well, young man, and without rancor. A true games master never allows emotion or anger to get in the way of his play.”
“We shall see,” Ulin muttered aside. He laid the first card down, a paltry two of leaves. The others quickly followed suit.
It didn’t take long for Ulin to lose most of his money. His luck was worse than normal, and he intentionally made mistakes that allowed the other men, especially Kethril, to win his coins. He began to scowl and to move in clipped, angry gestures. Sweat gathered on his face from the thick, hot air in the room, but since it added to his appearance of agitation, he made no effort to mop his skin. The air made everyone thirsty, too, so even Kethril drank deeply from the pitcher of torquil.
The minutes ticked by while the game progressed to its end. Ulin watched each man intently and waited for the first sign that his powder was taking effect. At every opportunity he wiped his own fingers on his pant’s leg. Then Kethril shook his head. He frowned and held his cards at arm’s length as if he could not focus on them.
Ulin shot a look at Notwen and barely nodded. The gnome’s face answered with such a look of mischievous anticipation that Ulin had to fight back a laugh. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Notwen slip a pitcher of beer off a table when no one was paying attention and make his way toward their corner. It was his turn to play, so Ulin held his opponents’ attention by frowning at his cards, tapping his last few coins with a fingernail, and making the most of a pretended internal debate. Finally, he tossed in the last of his silver coins. “Three silvers for the Prince of Thieves,” he said.
The others looked at him oddly. “The Prince of what?” Feddor mumbled.
“Wrong game, my young friend,” Kethril said lightly. “That’s Dragon’s Bluff.”
All at once a small figure tripped over something on the floor and fell forward beside Kethril. The wet, warm contents of the pitcher slopped over the gambler’s lap in a frothy wave.
Kethril sprang to his feet, a curse on his lips. As he did so, Ulin also rose, and with a deft movement, he transferred the two cards in his sash to the table in front of Lucy’s father.
The Khur and the mercenary were too inebriated to see the blurred motion of Ulin’s hand, but they did not miss the sight of the two cards flut
tering down to the tabletop in front of Kethril as if they had just fallen from his vest. Their eyes bulged in fury.
“I knew it!” Feddor bellowed at the top of his lungs. “You’re cheating!” He lunged to his feet, or tried to. His head lolled over his shoulders alarmingly, and he staggered sideways into the Khur. The Khur pushed him away and climbed to his feet, then his face turned blank, his eyes rolled into his head, and he pitched forward onto the table, scattering coins and cards in every direction. The table collapsed under his weight.
Kethril just stood there, his eyes glazed, his expression dumbfounded.
“Grab the coins,” Ulin hissed to Notwen, and he tossed him the empty coin bag.
“You!” the mercenary continued. “You filthy Khur! You thieving scum!”
Heads turned, and people stopped what they were doing to watch the fun. Feddor took a wild swing at Kethril’s head, misjudged the distance, and staggered forward into the gambler. He kicked Kethril instead, and Kethril punched him. Both men went down in a wild tangle.
Cheers rose up around them. Ulin stayed back long enough for the two men to land a few punches. By the time he intervened the fight had lost almost all momentum through alcohol and drug-induced exhaustion. He leaned over, grabbed a fistful of Kethril’s embroidered vest, and hauled the man out of the mess. Feddor, lying on his back by the table, protested weakly, but he didn’t move even when Notwen scrambled over him carrying the bag fat with coins.
Ulin saw movement through the crowd and realized the guards were coming to break up the fight. Hurrying, he dragged Kethril to his feet and pulled his arm across his shoulders. “Let’s go. You’ve had enough fun for one evening,” he said loudly.
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