Retribution Falls - Chris Wooding [94]
Sharka’s Den had survived two wars and would likely survive two more. Hidden in an underground bunker, accessible only by tortuous, crumbling alleys and an equally tortuous process of recommendation, it was the best place in the city to find a game of Rake. Sharka paid no commission to any guild nor any tax to the Coalition. He offered a guarantee of safety and anonymity to his patrons and promised fairness at his tables. Nobody knew exactly what else Sharka was into, to make the bigwigs so afraid of him, but they knew that if you wanted a straight game for the best stakes, you came to Sharka’s Den.
Frey knew this place well. He’d once picked up a Caybery Firecrow in a game here, on the tail end of a ridiculous winning streak that had nothing to do with skill and everything to do with luck. He’d also wiped himself out several times. As he stepped into the den, memories of triumph and despair sidled up to greet him.
Little had changed. There was the expansive floor with its many tables and barely lit bar. There were the seductive serving girls, chosen for their looks but well schooled in their art. Gas lanterns hung from the ceiling, run off a private supply (Sharka refused to go electric; his patrons wouldn’t stand for it). The myopic haze of cigarettes and cigars infused the air with a dozen kinds of burning leaf.
Frey felt a twinge of nostalgia. If he didn’t count the Ketty Jay, Sharka’s Den was the closest thing to a home he had.
Sharka came over to greet him as he descended the iron steps to the gaming floor. Whip-lean, his face deeply lined, he was dressed in an eccentric motley of colors, and his eyes were bright and slightly manic. There was never a time when Sharka wasn’t on some kind of drug, usually to counteract the one before. He was overly animated, his face stretching and contorting into grins, smiles, exaggerated poses, as if he were mouthing words to somebody deaf.
“Got you a private room in the back,” he said. “She’s in there now.”
“Thanks.”
“You think she was followed?”
“No. I was hiding out there awhile. I watched her go in, checked all the alleys nearby. She came alone.”
Sharka grunted and then beamed. “Hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I always know what I’m doing,” Frey lied, slapping Sharka on the shoulder.
Sharka was as much a survivor as his den was. Since the age of fifteen he’d pounded his body with every kind of narcotic Frey had ever heard of, yet somehow he’d made it to fifty-six, and there was no reason to suppose he didn’t have thirty more years left. The man’s blood must have been toxic by now, but he was tough as a scorpion. You just couldn’t kill him.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. You can find your way, eh? Come see me after; I’ll make sure you get an escort to wherever you need. Can’t have Dracken’s men jumping you on the way out.”
Perhaps the stress of what was to come had made him over-emotional, but Frey was deeply touched by that. Sharka was a dangerous man, but he had a heart of gold, and Frey felt suddenly unworthy of his kindness. Even if he didn’t exactly trust him, it was nice to know that someone didn’t want him dead.
“I’m grateful for what you’ve done, Sharka,” he said. “I owe you big.”
“Ah, you don’t owe me anything,” Sharka said. “I like you, Frey. You lose more than you win and you tip big when you score. You don’t piss anyone off and you don’t re-raise when you’re holding dirt and then catch a run on your last card. This place is full of cocky kids with money and old hacks playing percentages. Could do with more players like you at my joint.”
Frey smiled at that. He nodded his thanks again and then headed