A World Without Heroes - Brandon Mull [90]
They walked across the dining room and down a wood-paneled hallway, then mounted carpeted stairs to a room with a small bar in the corner and a fire blazing inside a green marble fireplace. Several men stood around a long felt table casting dice. A big man whose wavy red hair fell to his shoulders slapped his thigh and let out a booming laugh. A few of the other men groaned.
“Viscount Wershon,” Tedril said.
The red-haired man turned, smiling.
“You remember Lord Jason of Caberton.”
“Caberton, you say?” Bartley repeated boisterously, staring blankly at Jason.
Jason felt like a fool. So far only Bartley was facing him—the other men remained occupied with the gaming table. His little gamble to establish credibility was about to destroy it. Holding Bartley’s gaze, Jason winked.
“Yes, Jason, my friend, how have you been?”
Jason could breathe again. “Quite well.”
Bartley strode over and put an arm around his shoulders. “Walk with me, my friend, so we can reminisce. Excuse us.”
Jason did not look back at Tedril.
Bartley guided Jason to a neighboring room.
“So who in the blazes are you?” Bartley asked in a husky whisper. His breath reeked of spicy sausages.
“My family was exiled years ago. I’m here to help us regain some respect. I really am Lord of Caberton.” Jason held up the ring.
Bartley squinted. “So it would seem.”
“I’m hoping the regent will confirm me Lord of Rubble.”
Bartley laughed explosively and slapped Jason on the back hard enough to knock him off balance. “Caberton is a start. You’re dressed well. Your family had reserves?”
“I have money.”
“You enjoy gaming?”
“I’ve never been a careful person.”
“You play Bones?”
“I don’t know the game.”
Bartley paused. “But you have money?”
“Yes.”
Bartley threw an arm around him. “This is a dream! A young, well-funded novice! I wish we were playing Knuckles! Tomorrow, perhaps. Come, join us.” Bartley released the embrace but gripped Jason’s elbow, pausing, his eyes suddenly sober. “But first you must tell me how you acquired the ring. It’s authentic.”
“My father spent time in prison with Galloran.”
“No, really, the truth.”
“My father bought it,” Jason confided quietly.
“Bought it?” Bartley asked, his grip tightening.
“Right. I don’t know all of the details. The merchant claimed it truly came from a prisoner who spent time with Galloran.”
Bartley released his elbow. “Galloran,” he whispered, looking haunted. “Did any knowledge come with the ring?”
“I have no reason to think Galloran survived,” Jason said, since it seemed to be what Bartley needed to hear. “I plan to say my father was the prisoner who received the title and the ring. The real story could weaken my claim.”
“You’re too free with your information,” Bartley said, recovering.
“My parents thought I could count on you,” Jason said. “I decided to roll the dice.”
Bartley harrumphed. “Right, the dice. Off we go.” Bartley began walking, motioning for Jason to follow. “Bones can feel complicated at first. Two shooters. One shoots for the house, one for himself. Players can bet in several ways. Stay close to me; you’ll catch on. You have bronze?”
“Gold and silver, mostly.”
Bartley grinned. “I can make change for you.”
Jason joined the men around the table. Bartley introduced him as Lord of Caberton. The house shooter wore a black vest with gold embroidery. He rolled a pair of ten-sided dice, one black and one white. The other man, a simpering gentleman wearing white gloves, threw a similar pair of dice, except one was blue and the other yellow.
Jason stuck to bets with decent odds. He won a bit, started betting more boldly, then lost a lot, falling more than a hundred drooma below even. After a risky bet paid off amid laughter and applause, he was back up two hundred and fifty.
The men