“Chits on the table or fold, please, gents,” she said, dealing one card to each player. “Mr. Semper, first throw to you when you’re ready.”
Semper, a member of the Verdigris, was another regular at her table, drawn by a quickly acquired reputation for honest dealing. She could tell from his style of play that Pastazch had been his principal occupation before being consigned to Scorazin. He judged the odds with practised swiftness, never allowed emotion to colour his judgement and tended to leave the table richer than when he sat down. Unlike Earless Jozk, he had no aversion to spending his winnings on the ladies upstairs or on the establishment’s most potent drink. Lizanne suspected such indulgence was due to a wasting illness that made his visage more cadaverous with every game and would surely see him cast onto the midden before the year was out.
Semper tossed his chit into the pot, glanced at the card she had dealt him then reached for the die with a bony hand. Some players liked to blow on the die before the throw, or offer it to Lizanne to do the same. “For luck,” they said. Semper had no truck with such superstition and always threw without preamble, on this occasion turning up a four.
“Four cards to Mr. Semper.” Lizanne dealt the cards and turned to the man on his left. “Your throw, sir.”
The three other players all folded after their throws, leaving Semper and Jozk to battle over the pot. The Fury’s throw earned him only two more cards, making this game a somewhat hopeless prospect, and yet his eyes betrayed the same excited gleam as before.
“Second throw,” Lizanne said. Semper’s next toss of the die earned him three more cards meaning Lizanne could only deal two in order to bring his hand up to the maximum of seven. Jozk’s throw earned him one card, at which point his brow began to shine with sweat.
“Bet or fold, gents,” Lizanne said.
The two men matched stares as the murmured voices from surrounding tables mingled with the lilting notes of Makario’s pianola.
“You don’t have it,” Semper told Jozk, weary certainty colouring his rasp of a voice. Lizanne knew his meaning. There was only one hand in Pastazch in which four cards would be sure to triumph over seven; the rarely seen Imperial Quad.
“You don’t know what I got,” Jozk returned and pushed all of his chits into the pot.
“You had two Imperials on the last deal,” Semper said, brows raised in an oddly sympathetic gesture. “The odds of having four in this one are . . .” He laughed and shook his head. “It’s a poor time to choose for a bluff, Jozk. Take your money back and fold. I’ve no desire to make you an enemy.”
“You won’t.”
Semper’s gaze narrowed a little, Lizanne detecting a small flicker of uncertainty. He doesn’t have any Imperials, she realised. Meaning there’s still a chance this is no bluff, however small.
“As you wish,” Semper sighed, pushing his impressive stack of chits to the centre of the table.
“Mr. Semper bets his entire stake,” Lizanne said, reaching forward to count the value of the pot. “Mr. Jozk, you require . . .”
“Waiver,” Semper cut in, offering Jozk a humourless smile. “Let’s play it out. If this comes off it’ll be one for my memoirs.”
“Mr. Semper waives the matching bet,” Lizanne said. “Gentlemen, show your cards.”
A small crowd had gathered by now, a dozen or so patrons sidling closer to watch the outcome. Semper’s slender fingers tapped his cards briefly before flipping them over, the onlookers voicing a collective gasp at the revealed hand.
“Seven-card flush,” Lizanne said, raising an eyebrow. “Roses, no straight. Double points value makes for a total of one hundred and two. Mr. Jozk, you require one hundred and three points to take the pot.”
Earless Jozk for once maintained an unreadable visage as he rested a hand on his cards, remaining still and silent as the moment stretched. Lizanne couldn’t decide if he was enjoying the moment of triumph or contemplating his worst humiliation to date. She allowed him the time and let the tension draw yet more eyes to the table. A game like this had a tendency to stir the patrons up, making them more inclined to part with their chits, something the Electress always appreciated.
Finally a ghost of a smile flickered across the chapped lips of Earless Jozk’s besmirched and prematurely aged face as he gave a wry shake of his head and began to turn over his cards.
Glass shattered off to Lizanne’s right and something small and fast buzzed the air an inch in front of her nose. Her eyes instinctively followed its course, drawing up short at the sight of Jozk with a metallic dart embedded in his forehead. He met her gaze for a second, wet lips fumbling over final words no one would ever hear, then slumped face-first onto the table, leaking copious blood over the faded green baize. More shattered glass and the air was filled with a swarm of buzzing darts and the shouts of patrons.
Lizanne slipped from her chair and crawled under the table, watching men fall around her amidst a cacophony of panicked voices and stampeding feet. One of her regulars collapsed near by, clutching at a dart in his shoulder. She watched as his hands spasmed and bloody foam began to seep from his mouth before he slumped onto his back, still twitching. Poison on the darts, she reasoned. Clever.
She realised Makario’s music had fallen silent and looked up to see him still sitting at the pianola, gazing about at the unfolding massacre in wide-eyed bafflement. Lizanne rose to a crouch and scurried to the musician, feeling a dart flick through her hair. She grabbed Makario’s arm and dragged him from the stool just as a dart embedded itself in the pianola, birthing a discordant howl of breaking strings.
“No,” Makario breathed, rising and reaching out to the ruined instrument, face riven with grief.
“Don’t!” Lizanne wrapped her arms around him and held him down as darts continued to streak through the shattered window above their head. Patrons littered the floor, dead or dying, whilst a thrashing knot of survivors jammed the stairwell in an effort to flee. Lizanne’s attention was soon captured by the sight of Semper, standing upright as the darts thrummed around him. She could see one embedded in his arm and knew he wouldn’t be long in joining the dead. He paid no mind to the injury, however, his gaze fully occupied by the four cards he held in his hand. Another dart slammed into his chest, making him stagger, but he stayed on his feet, his gaze slipping from the cards to find Lizanne.
“Emperor’s balls!” he called to her in cheerful amazement, holding up the cards; the Chamberlain, the Landgrave, the Elector and the Emperor, all four cards of the Imperial Quad. “He actually had it!”
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