Retribution Falls - Chris Wooding [53]
Crake waited.
“I’m sorry it went that way,” Frey said at last.
Crake regarded him for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he nodded slightly and headed away without another word.
FREY MADE HIS WAY to the South Quarter, a less affluent part of the city, where he visited a tailor and a shop that specialized in theatrical makeup. After that, he went looking for a game of Rake.
The South Quarter was about as seedy as Aulenfay got, which meant it was still quite picturesque in a charmingly ramshackle kind of way. The winding lanes and cobbled alleyways were all but free of filth and litter. Statues and small, well-kept fountains still surprised visitors at every turn. There were no ragtag children or crusty beggars. Aulenfay had a strict policy against that kind of thing.
The Ducal Militia were in evidence, patrolling in their stiff brown uniforms. Frey kept out of their way.
Despite the risks of coming to a big city, Frey had allowed himself to be persuaded by Crake. He did have some preparation to do before he went looking for Amalicia Thade in her secluded hermitage, but that wasn’t the whole reason. The crew needed a break. The disastrous attack on the freighter, the escape from the Century Knights, that frustrating time spent bored and freezing in Yortland—all these things had worn them down, and they were sick and tired of one another’s company. A little time off would do them all good, and Aulenfay was a fine place for it.
Whether they’d all come back or not was another matter, but Frey wasn’t worried about that. If they left, they left. He’d understand. They’d each make their own choice.
It took some searching to locate the Rake den. He hadn’t been this way for a few years. But it was still there, in the cellar bar of an old tavern: a small room with three circular tables and a vaulted ceiling of old gray brick. Smoke drifted in the air and the shadows were thick, thrown by oil lanterns. Rake players didn’t like their games too brightly lit. Most of them had only a passing acquaintance with daylight.
Only one of the tables was in use when Frey was shown in. Three men sat there, studying their cards, dull piles of coins before them. There was a thin, po-faced man who looked like an undertaker; an elderly, toothless drunk; and a whiskery, rotund fellow with a red face and a battered stovepipe hat. Frey sat down and they introduced themselves as Foxmuth, Scrone, and Gremble, which amused Frey, who thought they sounded like a firm of lawyers. Frey gave a false name. He ordered a drink, emptied out his purse on the table, and set to the game.
It wasn’t long before he realized his opponents were terrible card players. At first he suspected some kind of trap. Perhaps they were feigning incompetence to sucker him. But as the game went on, he became ever more convinced they were the real deal.
They went in big with their money, chasing runs that never came up. They jittered with excitement when they made a low three-of-a-kind and then bet it as if it was unbeatable. They allowed themselves to be bluffed away whenever they saw Frey pick up a dangerous card, frightened that he was holding something that could crush them.
From the moment he sat down, he was winning.
Several hours passed, and several drinks. Scrone was too plastered to keep his attention on the game, and his money was whittled away on silly bets. Eventually, he made a suicidal bluff against Foxmuth, who was holding Crosses Full, and lost it all. After that, he fell asleep and began to snore.
Foxmuth was knocked out shortly afterward, following a chancy call against Gremble’s Ace–Duke paired. Foxmuth’s last card failed to produce the hand he needed, and Gremble scooped up all his money.
Frey was only mildly disheartened. All his careful work in maintaining his lead had been undermined by the bad play of the other two. They’d given all their money to Gremble, making the two remaining players roughly even. He settled down to the task of demolishing his final opponent.