Soon as they’d done with the pleasantries, Tom pulled up a chair and dropped into it.
Maybe he had been recognized; maybe he hadn’t. Whether it was the drink or something else, Tom had stopped caring. He hadn’t expected to find welcome company in this tall, pale stranger, but despite all his fine toffin phrasing, he thought he was starting to like Jean de Silver a fair mant.
So Jackson Robart handed the Gioran his worn old cards, and Jean started shuffling. Tom watched his long, pale fingers flutter through them, silver ring flashing.
“What brings me here any evenin’, Jean?” Jackson settled back with his arms crossed, but he looked to Tom like he was starting to warm up; he wasn’t smiling, but Tom thought there was a little mirth in the set of his eyes. He scratched at the pale stubble on his worn cheeks, looking thoughtfully at Jean. “Better to ask what brings you jents to a place like this,” he rumbled, looking at Jean, then Tom.
Tom caught his look with a shrug. “I’m visiting Brunnhold, and I wanted a decent drink,” he replied as Jean started to deal. “Reckon that rules out the whole east side, eh?”
It didn’t quite get a laugh out of Jackson, but he shook with something like a quiet snort. He wasn’t letting his guard down, even still; he kept his eye on the two gollies, more than a little distrustful, like he expected them to start casting any minute.
Tom slid his cards toward him, but he didn’t look at them yet. He caught Jean’s eye instead, and he raised his eyebrows at that wicked grin; he snorted, helpless to do anything but smile himself. He thought perhaps he felt his spirits lifting.
The kov’s field brightened up, something like anticipation shifting through the quantitative mona. He wondered, for a second, if de Silver planned on using his voo, but he didn’t seem the sort, not when there was a natt at the table. Maybe the noble uses could justify a high stakes game; Tom didn’t think he was the kind of galdor that could get away with that, but maybe Jean was. Regardless, using it at this table would’ve just been petty.
“You, Jean? Don’t think I seen you round here, neither.” Soon as he’d looked at his hand, Jackson put it face-down again. There wasn’t a glitter in his eye, or much of a smile on his face – no more than there’d been before. Tom suspected he was a good hand at this.
Tom took a look at his own cards, then raised an eyebrow at Jean again. “Gentleman says he’s from Gior, I believe,” he replied without a trace of humor. Jackson laughed.