“Wouldn’t hurt you to smile more,” Melina muttered, counting out half the spoils and handing the rest back to her, along with a full-length copper chit. “Bonus,” she explained. “Your table brought in a third again as much as the others. Don’t expect the rest of the dealers to appreciate it though.”
The reason for the relative profitability of her table was simple: she never stole, unlike her colleagues. Lizanne was sure the Electress knew of the petty graft indulged in by the other croupiers, but appeared to tolerate it. A discreet enquiry to Makario regarding this curiously forgiving attitude had revealed a simple answer. “Sooner or later she’ll need an excuse to get rid of them,” the musician said with a shrug. “It happens every couple of months. In all honesty, dear, you’re the only dealer whose name I’ve bothered to learn for years.”
“Will I be needed today?” Lizanne asked Melina.
“No, she wants you in the shadows as much as possible. You standing close by on your first Ore Day will draw too many eyes. Make your own way there with the girls, but be sure to go armed.”
“Are you expecting trouble?”
“It’s Scorazin, we’re always expecting trouble. But the Scuttlers have been a bit antsy lately, so keep a keen eye out.”
The Scuttlers, Lizanne knew, were the gang with the strongest hold on Scorazin’s three deep-shaft coal-mines and holders of third place in the hierarchy of near-tribal groupings that ruled this city. She was learning that the internal politics of Scorazin were a fascinating if brutal microcosm of the power games played out beyond its walls. The various gangs existed in a perpetual state of flux, feuds and alliances came and went as the balance of power shifted. Currently, it seemed ascendancy lay with the Verdigris, the oldest gang in Scorazin, who ruled over the only copper mine, their position stemming largely from the fact that their ore commanded the highest price. The Furies, under the Electress’s astute but ruthless leadership, were currently ranked second in terms of wealth and membership, a position achieved through complete control over the two sulphur mines. The fourth tier was occupied by the Wise Fools, by far the least well-organised, but most violent gang, who had recently managed to seize governance of the three open-cast pyrite pits after an ugly massed free-for-all known as the Battle of Pitch-Blende Square.
“Am I looking for anyone in particular?” Lizanne asked.
“Oh, all the luminaries will be there,” Makario put in. “Failing to promenade on Ore Day is a terrible social mis-step.” He rose from his stool and came over to loop his arm through Lizanne’s. “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll guide you through the cast of rogues. Probably best if you don’t mix too closely with the ladies, anyway.” He leaned closer to add in a whisper, “They’re jealous enough to claw your eyes out as it is.”
? ? ?
The Ore Day Promenade began on a patch of muddy ground known, without apparent irony, as Apple Blossom Park. Makario led her to a row of chicken-coops abutting the park to witness the drab spectacle of Scorazin’s population gathering together for the weekly ritual. The principal gangs all seemed to arrive at exactly the same moment. Lizanne had yet to catch sight of a timepiece in this place but all the inmates seemed to share an ingrained knowledge of the routines that underpinned their existence. The four groups moved in dense masses, clustered around the hand-carts which bore their precious ore. The largest gangs moved to occupy four corners of the field, each leaving a considerable gap between the other and allowing Lizanne to gain an appreciation for their numbers.
“Which are the Scuttlers?” she asked Makario. They were crouched in the gap between two coops, ignoring the annoyed clucks of the scrawny, mange-ridden hens on either side.
“Off to the right,” he said, pointing. “The ones with the black patch on their shoulders. It’s supposed to be a coal scuttle, not that you’d know. Embroidery is a rare skill in here.”
Lizanne estimated the Scuttlers’ number at perhaps three hundred, though the musician assured her their true number was closer to twice that. “Have to leave some behind to guard the mines, lest someone takes advantage of the truce,” he explained. “Their friends will collect their share. See the dumpy fellow at the front?” Lizanne followed his pointed finger, picking out a ruddy-faced man who appeared to be little over five feet tall but with an impressively broad stature. “Devies Kevozan,” Makario said. “Current Coal King. Got the job when he strangled the last one. It was a fair challenge, so no one minded too much. He’s short on brains as well as height, but his untrusting nature means he’s not an easy fellow to plot against, and he’s far too ambitious for the Electress’s liking.”
Lizanne’s gaze rested on the Coal King for a moment before being drawn to a taller figure standing to his left. He was younger than Kevozan by several years, pale of complexion for most Corvantines and possessed of unscarred and undeniably handsome features. However, it wasn’t his face that piqued Lizanne’s interest, more the way he maintained an unmoving posture whilst his eyes roamed the crowd in unceasing scrutiny. “And him?” Lizanne asked. “The tall man?”
“Ah.” Makario’s grin returned. “Quite the peach isn’t he? Sadly, his only lust appears to be of the bloody variety. He calls himself Julesin. You might say he’s the means by which King Coal services both his suspicions and ambitions.”
Ex-Cadre perhaps? Lizanne wondered, her gaze lingering on the pale-faced man and deciding the suppressed violence in his posture was a little too obvious for one of Countess Sefka’s servants. Yet, Cadre or not, she had little doubt she was looking upon the most dangerous individual she had yet encountered in Scorazin.
“Oh, she does like to bait him so,” Makario sighed. Lizanne followed his gaze to see Electress Atalina lowering her bulky frame in a parody of a curtsy as she matched stares with the Scuttlers’ leader. Her features had an uncanny ability to convey both contempt and solicitation in the same expression. Lizanne saw the redness of King Coal’s face take on a deeper shade as he glowered in response. “I’m not sure that’s altogether wise,” Makario added.
An angry player is prone to revealing his hand, Lizanne thought, watching Kevozan turn and mutter a few terse words to his pale-faced subordinate. Something every croupier learns on their first day.
After the four principal gangs had taken their places the smaller factions arrived, standing in the no man’s land between the larger groups in tight, wary clusters. Makario named a few, the Red Blisters, the Forgotten Sons and so on, but it was the last group to arrive that interested Lizanne the most. There were about thirty of them, and they stood out due to the dozen women in their ranks, the other gangs all being overwhelmingly male. Although their clothing was as ragged as the other inmates’ they held themselves with a bearing that was almost regal, regarding the surrounding multitude with a stern defiance. “The Learned Damned,” Makario named them.