by Kevin Sands
This wasn’t going to work. Foxtail might have had the confidence to follow an omnibus at speed along the Thieves’ Highway, but I sure couldn’t. So I clambered down the nearest water pipe and hurried out into the street.
There’s a trick to following someone. The key is to remain just another face in the crowd. I placed myself in line a little behind Padraig, shielding my features by pulling my hat down and collar up, hunching my shoulders as if to ward off the evening’s chill. I kept my back to him, watching the street as if hoping the omnibus would come.
Padraig paid me no attention at all. He had a copy of the evening newspaper himself, and he read it, not even glancing in my direction. When the omnibus came, it was less full than usual; the night coaches carried the stragglers working late. Padraig sat in the main carriage; I took a seat on top.
We rode for some time, and where he disembarked caught me off guard. The run-down stores, the trash in the streets, the beggar children all gave notice that we’d entered a poorer part of town—based on the fishy scent, we were somewhere close to the wharf on Lake Galway. I dropped the three-sept fare into the conductor’s outstretched hand, then hopped off the omnibus when it started pulling away.
Something strange was going on here. Padraig’s clothing spoke of some means, yet no one bothered him, not even the beggar children, who should have been hounding him for a coin. I was puzzled by this—and then even more puzzled when a well-dressed man stepped from a private carriage and offered a hand to his lady friend to climb down. She tittered as she looked around, well out of her element.
Separately, Padraig and the well-dressed couple entered an alleyway. I trailed behind them, and out of the corner of my eye, noticed a handful of toughs following me. They were dressed like beggars, but if they actually begged instead of mugged, I’d eat my hat. Yet as soon as they saw where I was headed, they veered off and left me alone.
What was going on here?
My quarry wandered through the twisting alleys. I had to hurry to keep them in sight, and caught up just in time.
There was Padraig. He passed an overly large man, all muscle, standing with hands folded next to a hanging lantern. Then he disappeared through a steel door set in the back of a plain brick building.
The couple went to the same place. The guard outside said nothing as they approached. The gentleman spoke—I couldn’t hear him, but it wasn’t more than a word or two—and the big fellow stood aside. The steel door opened, and they went in after the apprentice.
As the door swung open, I heard the faint strains of music and a cheer from within. Then the iron clanged shut and all was still.
I ducked back around the corner. It was dark enough that the guard hadn’t seen my face, but he knew I was there. His voice rumbled. “No lookie-loos, mate. Off with yer.”
I took his advice and backed farther into the alley. I wasn’t sure where to go until a pebble plinked at my feet, thrown from above.
Foxtail.
I found a pipe with handholds sturdy enough to hold my weight and climbed the three stories to the top. Foxtail sat at the edge, looking down at the door I’d seen Padraig enter. I crawled over and stared alongside her.
“Is that place what I think it is?” I whispered.
She mimed dealing a deck of cards, rolling a pair of dice. I stared at the door, thinking of Padraig going inside.
“He’s a gambler?” I said.
She nodded.
My mind was a jumble, thoughts racing.
A gambler. The apprentice was a gambler.
Find a weakness, the Old Man had said.
This changed everything. New scenarios popped into my head as I remembered a gaff we’d sprung nearly two years ago.
I saw the Old Man, that twinkle in his eye.
Oh yes, he said.
And now we finally had a chance.
ONE DAY LEFT
CHAPTER 21
The man didn’t belong here.
The lobby was enough to let him know it. The steps were marble. The railings were plated gold, polished so smartly they reflected the light from the chandeliers glittering overhead. The carpet was soft, plush, deep red, marked everywhere with scepter and coronet: the emblem of the Emperor’s Crown Hotel.
The Emperor’s Crown was the most exclusive hotel in Carlow; the home away from home for the wealthiest, noblest visitors to the city. And it was clear, from the moment the man entered, he knew he was desperately out of place.
He paused, awkwardly, when the footman held the door for him, as if opening doors should be his job. Inside, he removed his hat and gawked, smoothing imaginary wrinkles in his vest.
I waited in an alcove near the promenade, until his surroundings had had their full impact. Then I strode to meet him. “Mr. Donnelly,” I said, as if greeting an old friend.
His eyes widened slightly as he shook my hand. He wasn’t expecting someone so young.
I spoke in my best upper-crust drawl. “Such a pleasure to see you again,” I said, though neither of us had ever set eyes on the other before. “I have a table waiting. Come dine with me.”
His gaze flicked toward the dining hall, attached to the south side of the lobby. He hesitated, every inch of his body screaming I can’t afford this. I just waited, hand outstretched, pointing the way.
“Thank you, guv,” he said quietly. His voice was softer than Lachlan’s, but his accent was the same.
The master of tables sniffed a bit at my guest’s wardrobe and placed us as far as he could from the other diners. That suited me just fine. Privacy in a crowd was what I’d hoped for.
We sat across from each other, Donnelly trying to size me up. He hadn’t been told much about me, just that I was a wealthy visitor in Carlow looking for a good cardslinger to deal a private game.
He might have come from the wrong side of town, but the man was no fool. Despite our surroundings, the look in Donnelly’s eyes made it clear: he knew I wasn’t who I’d claimed to be, that I was on some sort of gaff. That suited me just fine, too. We could avoid wasting time and get to business.
As for me, I knew exactly who Donnelly was. When I’d returned to the Broken Bow last night, I’d told the others what Foxtail had discovered, and explained my plan for getting the willbound stone that would let us in to the High Weaver’s mansion. They’d been skeptical, but they’d put their trust in me anyway. And I wasn’t going to let them down.
The first thing we’d need was an inside man in the gambling den Foxtail had found. Fortunately, Lachlan’s old Breaker contacts not only knew about the den, they knew exactly whom to talk to. After a sleepless night of Lachlan calling on every one of his remaining snitches—and twenty-three hundred crowns in bribes—we had the name of the gambling den (the Cat’s Paw), the password needed to enter (warhorse), the full name of the High Weaver’s apprentice (Padraig Halley), and everything there was to know about the dealer who worked the game Padraig played (Davey Donnelly, with a colorful past indeed).
Now Mr. Donnelly sat across the table from me, wondering what I really wanted.
“Do you like steak?” I said. Without waiting for a response, I called over the serving girl. “Two steaks, spicy fried potatoes, and a pitcher of ale, please. Charge it to room twenty-six.”
Donnelly watched the girl leave, relieved his wallet was safe. “Very kind of you, guv.”
I leaned in and spoke quietly, so no one else could hear. “I understand you work the Towers table at the Cat’s Paw.”
Donnelly scanned the room, checking that no one was listening. He hadn’t expected me to be so blunt. “I’ve dealt a hand or two in my time.”
“Ever deal one to Padraig Halley?”
Donnelly stared at me. Then he laughed. “He your mark? Padraig? Don’t think you want to roll him over, guv.”
“Why not?”
“That’s the High Weaver’s man.�
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“You sure?”
“Sure as the nose on your face. He won’t shut his gob about it. Makes sure he says he works for the big boss a half dozen times every visit.”
“Why should that stop me?”
Donnelly was taken aback. “Why should . . . ? You having me on? You don’t know nothing ’bout Darragh VII?”
“Tell me about him,” I said. “Padraig, I mean. How often does he come in?”
“Every night. Likes the thrill, see? Bit of flutter in the gut.”
That was common enough. But apprentices didn’t get paid. “Where does he get the money?”
“Dunno,” Donnelly said thoughtfully. “Some kind of allowance from his kin, I think. Win or lose, he’s always got five hundred in hand, first o’ the month.”
“How about this month?”
“Had a bad streak of late, he has. Left last night with about two hundred in his pocket.”
He hushed as the serving girl returned. She plonked down a foamy pitcher of ale and two mugs. Donnelly drained his as she left, smacking his lips.
“Good stuff, this,” he said.
“Help yourself.”
He poured another, getting comfortable. “Why you want to know ’bout the boy, anyway?”
“Is that your business?”
My tone made him pause mid-drink. “Didn’t mean nothing by it, guv. Just curious.”
“I don’t need curious. I need discreet. And the Weasel”—I named Lachlan’s snitch, the one who’d passed us on to Davey here—“said you knew how to be.”
“My lips are nailed, promise.”
“The Weasel also said you were right quick with your hands.”
“None quicker,” Donnelly said, without a hint of modesty. “Keep my eyes on the game. Can spot a cheat coming across the sea. And every deal’s a square deal.”
“Could you do otherwise?”
“How d’you mean?”
“Could one of your deals not be a square deal?”
Donnelly paused, the mug halfway to his lips. “Nah, guv. I don’t do that.”
“You’ve done it before.”
“Says who?”
“Says the rolls of Ragtop Prison.”
Donnelly turned pale. “I . . . That’s . . . I never been in there.”
Just from his response, I’d have known he was lying, even if the Weasel hadn’t already told Lachlan the truth.
“ ‘Davey Donnelly,’ ” I said, “has never been in Ragtop. But then, you haven’t always been ‘Davey Donnelly.’ You changed your name three years ago, when you came to Carlow. Before that, it was Sean Samson. And Mr. Samson did four years for switching sticks.”
He’d gone absolutely white. “Who . . . who told you . . . ?”
I shrugged.
“I . . . You . . . Please, guv,” he said. “Don’t turn nose. If the punters learn I was a mechanic, no one’ll sit at my table. The masters, they’ll . . .” He shuddered at what his bosses would do to a cheat. “Please.”
“Relax.” I refilled his mug, let him gulp it down, before emptying the rest of the pitcher into his glass. “I just need to know you’ve still got the touch.”
He sat there, quiet, watching the bubbles pop in his ale. Then he spoke.
“I can do anything with a deck,” he said softly, pride in his voice. “I could deal you four Towers a thousand times and you’d swear every hand was square. But I don’t do that no more.”
“Why not?”
“Too risky.”
“With risk comes reward.” I pulled a leather pouch from my belt and pushed it across the table. “This is for you.”
He eyed it warily. “What is it?”
“Two thousand crowns,” I said. “Plus three thousand more when the job’s done.”
He stared at the pouch for a long, long time, though he made no move to touch it.
“I have a family, guv,” he said finally. “A missus and a little girl. I was in when she was born. When I got out, I swore I’d never see those walls again.”
“And you never will,” I said. “All I need from you is one hand. One hand, dealt the right way, and your family will be five thousand crowns richer.”
“You don’t understand,” Donnelly said plaintively. “If Padraig complains, says I cheated him, it don’t matter if he sees nothing. The boss’ll believe him. And he’ll kill me. He’ll gut me out right in the street.”
“Padraig will never complain. That I can promise.”
“How? If I work the deck, help you win—”
“That’s the thing.” I leaned in close. “I don’t want you to help me win. I want you to help me lose.”
THE GAFF
CHAPTER 22
I waited in the darkness, listening for the bell to toll six. I smoothed my coat, took a deep breath, and wondered why I was so nervous.
I’d done a thousand jobs like this with the Old Man. But as I stood in the alley outside the gambling den, I couldn’t quiet the butterflies in my stomach.
Was I mad to think we could pull it off? After Davey Donnelly had agreed to our deal, I’d gone back to the others at the Broken Bow, where we’d practiced the gaff well into the night. Then we’d done it again today, over and over, until we could run it in our sleep. They knew their roles. And we’d all gone to the Fox shrine and dropped in a sept for luck. So there was nothing left to do but trust the team.
Still. There’s a big difference between the practice, where no one gets hurt, and the real thing. If you get caught, that’s how you end up floating down the river.
I sighed. One way or the other, Mr. Solomon’s deadline was tonight. We’d come back with the Dragon’s Eye, or nothing. The payout—their lives—my future—was on the line. If we could just pull this off . . . I’d be free.
I thought of the Old Man and wondered where he was. What he was doing.
I wondered if he ever thought of me.
Then I blew out my breath and went to work.
* * *
I strode confidently toward the iron door of the Cat’s Paw. The guard outside was the same brute I’d seen two nights ago. He looked me up and down, waiting.
“Warhorse,” I said.
The door swung open with a metallic screech that echoed through the alley. Inside, a pair of men waited, barkers on their hips. They were dressed well, and they nodded pleasantly enough as I entered, but there was a deadness in their eyes. The guard outside, all muscle, was for show. These men were the true danger.
Fortunately for me, I wasn’t here to cause trouble. A narrow staircase behind them led down, lit on both sides by lamps. From below came the strains of music and the sound of a crowd. I followed it into the complex.
The Old Man had taken me to a gambling den before, but I’d never seen a place quite like this. We had to be forty, fifty feet underground, but the central room was dolled up like the emperor’s ball. A band played in the corner, the source of the music. Some patrons danced under the streamers, the whale oil in the lamps giving the room a fishy stickiness. Others crowded around in circles of laughter and gossip, shoulder to shoulder. And the class of those people always surprised.
Gambling dens were the great equalizers of society. You’d never see the poor at an orchestral theater, or the wealthy at the county fair. Women didn’t join men’s clubs, and men didn’t go for high tea. But down here, all the rules of society were stripped away. Here, citizens who’d never speak a word to each other on the street mixed and mingled like they were all the same.
And in a way, they were. Like Donnelly had said: all for the thrill of the chase.
In some dens, the chase was literal. Beyond the central hall, hundreds of punters ringed around an arena of dirt. In the ring was a man, holding tight on the lead of a bullrusher: a heavily muscled dog with flattened ears and a thick snout, bred for
killing varmints. The man spoke to the dog, lips close to its head, as across the way, a woman held a cage full of rats, scurrying over each other in an attempt to escape from their prison. She shouted over the din of the crowd.
“How many?” the ratcatcher said. “Twenty? Thirty?”
“Forty,” said the man with the dog.
“The challenge is forty!” the ratcatcher hollered, and the crowd cheered its approval. She laid the cage down and began counting out rats.
I turned away. The first time the Old Man had brought me to a place like this, I’d been upset by the cruelty of the blood sports. Life was hard enough. I had no appetite for adding pain.
Besides, the High Weaver’s apprentice wasn’t here. Past the blood arena, through a grand arch of molded gold, were two more rooms. One, to my surprise, held a restaurant. A different trio of musicians played in the corner, lute, bow, and pipes. I moved on to the final great chamber, and here I found the games.
The spinning wheels were closest to the entrance, all clattering noise, deep groans, and heavy cheers. The dice coffins were behind them, punters chucking ivory cubes with pleas to Shuna—or curses, when the dice didn’t roll their way. But it was in the far back, among the card tables, that I found my mark.
This was the first real scope I’d had at Padraig. He was a plain-looking boy, with a serious sort of face, the kind you can’t imagine cracking a smile. His clothes were modest: coat, cravat, and ruffled shirt, something a clerk might wear. And he sported only one piece of jewelry: the copper seven-pointed star pendant, marking him as a Weaver’s apprentice, hanging conspicuously around his neck. That alone made him stand out. Everyone else here kept their real lives close to the vest.
There were nine seats around Padraig’s table; eight for the players, one for the dealer—my new friend Davey Donnelly. None of the chairs were empty, so I waited until one of the punters busted out. When he rose from his seat, I moved in quickly, taking the spot to the dealer’s left.
