The Black Dove • The Rose
Evening on the 2nd of Bethas, 2718
Godsdamn, but the scrap was a cocky stopclocker. Tom’d been busy shuffling – such as he could, with these slippery, creased old things, and his drunk-numb fingers – but he’d kept an eye out, as you do. Shot glances at each of the men, the two dockers, the fisherman, then the wiry, fine-featured little lad with the swagger in his gait. Leander circled the table, looking at each chair like a cat with a choice of mice; he finally picked the seat next to Tom, and he sat down in it like a prince perching on his throne.
Oes, Tom thought, this toft was golly-born, or he was trying to look like he was. If he’d ever doubted, ever thought him a parse, there was just about no doubt in his mind, now.
Wasn’t just that. Leander returned his amused glance, and when he flicked a penny into the pot, tap-tap-hsssssk, it came to a stop right in the middle of the table. Spot-on. Tom’s mouth twitched – a brief, wicked little curl of a grin, a flash of crooked teeth. He raised his brows and went back to the business of dealing, but a ghost of that smile lingered on his scarred lip, amusement glittering in his dark eyes.
He nodded when each of the men introduced himself. Smooth as silk, maybe – hell of a lot smoother than the kenser piss they were drinking – he laughed just enough at the old fisherman’s pina joke, shrugged his big shoulders minutely at Harry’s good-natured hat-tip. Tried not to let it distract him from the cards, from each kov’s hands. “Tom,” he grunted when it was his turn, “Cooke,” tossed it out like it was part of the ante.
’Cause it was. Just like everything else – all the speculation about the scrap’s sobriety, all the little jabs. Tom shot another wicked glance at Leander as he slid him his worn, flaky hand.
“Kov ain’t guttered, ne,” he put in vaguely, pausing to shrug, then dealing to Desmond and Harry. He left that ne there to settle in the pot with the pennies and the names and the rest of the chroveshit. Dealing to Gus, then taking his own hand.
He didn’t think the lad was drunk. Not sloppy-drunk, leastways. Not like he’d thought when Leander’d waltzed in, trilling at the barmaid in that toffin voice and grabbing onto the first stable thing he saw. Then, he reckoned that was the point: he’d underestimated Leander when he’d looked at him and seen a lightweight scrap, an Uptown puppy in the Dog Yard. All the same, Tom knew a little something about functional drunks. The passive wasn’t guttered, but he wasn’t sober as an infant, neither.
He glanced over his hand, sucking at a tooth, taking another long drink. Tried to keep his face neutral. It wasn’t that hard, considering. Wasn’t a bad hand, but it wasn’t anything to sing about. Queen of stars, three of rooks.
They went round. Tom took another drink, then drained his glass, eying each man’s face. The squat docker looked fucking miserable, scratching at his jaw with dirty fingernails. Harry flashed his gap-toothed grin and upped the ante, and Tom thought him surprisingly hard to read. He had the lopsided face of a man whose jaw’d been broke more than once, traced with a couple of distracting scars. He had pale blue eyes, deep-hooded, sparse, pale eyebrows.
Desmond was the hardest, though. If Tom’d put his money on anyone, it’d’ve been the fisherman, with his long beard, his deep-set, sad eyes. His gnarled fingers, swollen and crooked, thick-veined. Tom couldn’t tell, but he had a funny feeling it’d be him, in the end.
Nobody folded, at least.
He burned a card before he laid out the flop; Harry made a little noise, that busted-up jaw grinding back and forth, and Tom just shrugged again. Kept his own scarred face blank, casual-like. Wasn’t much more complaint, with those scuffed-up old things.
Three of sparrows, three of moons. Ace of rooks.
Right off, Tom upped the ante, glancing over and down at Leander with another faintly amused twitch of his lip.