Once that particular drug took hold, Rafe thought, she’d have the energy and focus to play for another five hours.
The men were still arguing, so Rafe glanced around the bar again, noting that it had thinned out a little. He guessed it was two or three hours past midnight, and most of the casual visitors had already called it a night. The ones left were the professionals and the diehards, too drunk or too stupid to go home. Or unlucky enough to have no home to go to.
Movement caught at the edge of his vision and he shifted to get a better look. A young woman was coming in through the front door—slinking in would be a better way to put it, opening the door just wide enough to admit her small frame and then skulking along the wall until she came to an unoccupied booth. She dropped onto one of the benches and shoved herself back until her hunched shoulder hit the wall. Then she seemed to draw herself together in a tight ball and ducked her head down, trying—or so it seemed—to make herself invisible. She even leaned down to blow out the guttering candle on her table, to put herself in shadow as much as possible.
Rafe continued to watch her from the corner of his eye, not wanting to draw attention to her by staring outright. Though she would be something to stare at. Her trousers and tunic were lacy, delicate, and highly expensive items, though they were ripped and muddy, as if she’d fallen down during a mad run for freedom. Her bare arms bore fresh cuts and scratches; her thick red hair was a wild mess. She wasn’t wearing any visible jewelry, but Rafe fancied he could spot a little lumpiness on the undercurve of her bosom, which should have been lusciously smooth. His bet was that she had stuffed a necklace down the front, and maybe a bracelet or two, when she realized she was making a detour through rough territory.
He could only guess what disaster had sent her off into the night, but that she was in dire distress was clear enough. She looked like she couldn’t be more than fifteen, was rich as a queen, and was pretty close to terrified. Surely she knew she was in absolutely the wrong part of town for her age, sex, and social standing. Surely she knew that any of a dozen hazards could sweep her into calamity before the night was even an hour older. This place could not have been her intended goal, and Rafe thought she must not have the faintest idea what to do next.
But she didn’t look entirely defeated. He watched as she examined the welter of plates and silverware left at her booth by the last patron. He thought at first she was trying to gain the nerve to eat some of the less-poisonous-looking scraps, so he almost laughed when the first thing she picked up was a dinner knife, sharp enough to cut fried meat. Actually, she found two knives among the dinner dishes and briskly pocketed both. Rafe silently applauded.
Next she sorted through the soiled napkins, grimacing a little at the unidentifiable stains. Rafe watched as she turned herself sideways in the booth so she could draw up her left leg, bringing that foot close to her body. She rolled back the silken edges of her fancy leggings and used the napkins to bind her ankle, biting her lip as she did so.
Ah. So her dash from danger had resulted in a twisted or sprained ankle. Rafe guessed that adrenaline had kept her going when there was no choice but to run, but if she’d sustained a real injury, the pain was going to become excruciating pretty quickly. That would make it difficult for her to flee again if fresh trouble presented itself here in the little tavern.
As it most probably would.
Not until she had armed herself and taken care of her ankle did the runaway survey the table again to consider her food choices. She was so obviously a well-bred girl—maybe even from one of the Five Families—that Rafe would have expected her to prefer starvation to eating off of strangers’ plates, but she surprised him again. She picked through the scraps, ate a few roasted vegetables and a strip of discarded meat, and drank without hesitation from a glass half full of water. His opinion of her went up several notches. Whoever she was, this girl was a fighter.
A slight clatter across the bar caught her attention—and Rafe’s. They both glanced over to see one of the serving boys gathering plates from some of the other unoccupied tables. That would be a complication for her. As soon as she was discovered, the owner would expect her to pay for something or leave. Rafe thought she had come to the same conclusion. He saw her delicate face pull into a frown as she drew herself farther back into the shadows to try and figure out what to do next.
“Well, all right, then, another hand, but if he wins that one, too, I’m gone,” Edwin said suddenly in a defiant voice. He had spoken loud enough to make sure they all heard; clearly the private colloquy was over.
Feeling great reluctance—but not showing it—Rafe withdrew his attention from the runaway and presented a genial countenance to the table. “I can’t promise to lose just to continue the game, but I’m happy to play another round,” he said.
“And I’m dealing,” Edwin added, still in that belligerent tone.
Rafe pushed his sleeves back and placed his hands palm-up on the table, so everyone could see he wasn’t hiding any cards. “Happy to have you do it,” he said. “Let’s play.”
As it happened, he did lose the next round, and only partly because he thought it would appease the whining elay boy. Partly it was because half of his attention was on the redheaded girl who huddled in the booth trying to elude discovery. He couldn’t help it; his attention was caught. He wanted to see what happened to her.
And he wanted to make sure it wasn’t anything too terrible. His chivalric impulses were rare but powerful. All he had to do was imagine his younger brother stumbling through the slums and he couldn’t turn away from whatever lost soul he’d encountered. He’d handed out money more often than he could afford, intervened in a handful of fights, even offered the occasional stern lecture. He’d stopped mocking himself for these grand and probably wasted gestures. They were the price he exacted of himself for living the life he’d chosen.
So if anyone threatened the little runaway, he’d have to intervene.
He was so distracted by his thoughts that he misplayed a trump and heard Edwin the Loser crow in satisfaction. “My hand, I believe,” the elay man said grandly as he raked in the pile of coins. “Anyone care for another one?”
“I’ll play as long as you want!” exclaimed Sweela Woman. The drugs had brightened her eyes and brushed more color into her cheeks; she was grinning maniacally. Rafe figured she’d feel like strung-out death in the morning, but that wasn’t his concern.
Sad Boy nodded without much enthusiasm. “Why not?”
Rafe nodded at Sad Boy. “Your deal, I think.”
He had even worse cards this round, but it hardly mattered; the game couldn’t keep his attention. In the past few minutes, the redhead had had a low-voiced argument with the serving boy, which she appeared to have won, because the boy tramped off to the kitchen and returned moments later with a steaming mug. The girl must have had enough coins to pay for that much, earning herself the right to stay at the table another hour or so. But her luck was no better than Rafe’s. A thin, weaselly man from another table had spotted her during the transaction. As soon as she was alone again, he slithered over to her booth and dropped down next to her on the bench, effectively pinning her in place.
Rafe, playing his hand almost at random, watched as he made her some kind of offer and she vehemently refused. The man pressed for a different answer, and she dumped the contents of the mug into his lap. Even from across the bar, Rafe could hear the man’s howl of pain.
“You don’t crack a smile all night, but you lose a wildcard to a high trump and you’re grinning like a fool?” Sweela Woman demanded.
He turned his smile on her. “There’s no other way to respond when you become the plaything of fate,” he said. “You laugh, or you die.”
Edwin grunted. “That kind of attitude, I’d have expected you to be dead a long time ago.”
“Not at all,” Rafe said, shaking his head. “I’ve thrived.”
/> The random motion or the long night had caused a lock of hair to come loose from the ponytail he habitually wore, and he absently pushed it back behind his right ear. Sweela Woman’s overbright eyes sharpened as she stared at the sight suddenly exposed to view. He smiled faintly and fingered the triangular points sliced into the outer curve of his ear. There were five, and each one had been set with a small gold hoop.
The serrated edges he’d had since he was a baby. The hoops he’d added himself, an act of defiance against the world. If I’m forced to be different, then I’ll celebrate my differences. It was a credo he wholly believed in—though he generally preferred to keep his ear covered just to avoid conversation about it.
“I bet there’s a rare story there,” Sweela Woman observed.
“Rare and rarely told,” he replied, still smiling at her. The others hadn’t even noticed his ear, and he casually brushed his hair back in place to cover it up. “As I’m sure some of your more interesting tales are.”
With a sweela mind’s quick understanding, she realized he wanted to change the subject, so she cheerfully did. “I bet I can guess your blessings,” she said. “Luck, am I right? You look to be mostly coru. Luck and resilience and charm.” She grinned at him. “A little sweela fire thrown in.”
In this situation, he routinely lied, sometimes claiming one set of blessings, sometimes another, depending on his audience and his mood. “Close enough,” he answered. “Luck and resilience and honor.”
Sad Boy didn’t look convinced. “Any man can claim a blessing. That doesn’t mean it was actually bestowed on him, or that he lives up to it if it was.”
That made Rafe laugh out loud. “True enough,” he said, tossing the three of skulls onto a pile of flutes. He might go the whole hand without taking a trick; this night had taken a decided turn for the worse. “Do you live up to yours?”
Now the sweela crone was swaying in her seat, either moved by some internal music or too dizzy to sit upright. “I do,” she cackled, tossing out a high flute and taking the hand. “Grace and contentment and courage.”
He couldn’t tell if she was joking, picking the three blessings that probably described her least, or exposing her own personal irony for all of them to enjoy. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that she then led with a trump, which would take his own final trump and ensure he didn’t win any points for this hand. It didn’t matter that Sad Boy groaned and Edwin said angrily, “Is everyone at the table cheating?” Rafe was watching the redheaded runaway, and her life had suddenly gotten very perilous.
Two men had joined her this time, one sitting beside her, one across from her. A third had sidled up to loiter at the head of the table, opening his coat and setting his arms on his hips to prevent other patrons from watching the action inside the booth. Which was clearly some kind of forceful persuasion—maybe a knife to the jugular, a concoction down the throat, or a pair of hands around the neck, tight enough to render her unconscious without killing her outright.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Rafe said politely, throwing down his cards and shoving away from the table. In a matter of seconds he was at the other booth, elbowing the lookout aside and slamming his hands down on the table loud enough to make the dishes rattle.
Everyone stared at him in astonishment—the girl, the men, the people sitting nearby. In this instance, the more attention the better, so he raised his voice to make sure anyone who was interested could hear.
“What’s going on here?” he asked. “You boys find yourself a little unwilling sport tonight? You planning on dragging her out of here to do—what? Rape her? Kill her? Hold her for ransom?”
A few of the patrons behind him started muttering. They were all career drunks and reprobates but not wholly bankrupt, ethically speaking. They didn’t mind a little free-for-all over marked cards or a flirtatious woman, but they didn’t approve of unprovoked brutality or crimes that reeked of true evil. Not this crowd. Not this close to the Cinque.
The one sitting across from the girl bared his teeth in a snarl. He was the biggest one of this band of ruffians, the ugliest and meanest. “What’s it to you?” he growled. “Take care of your own business, and I’ll take care of mine.”
Rafe shook his head, smiling slightly. Straightening up, he held his hands just so, fingers spread, barely touching the tops of his thighs. It would be clear to all of them that he was preparing to draw a weapon. Fighting had never been Rafe’s style; he was more likely to rely on quick wits and cold nerve. But anyone who lived in the slums knew how to protect himself, and Rafe could handle a knife well enough. Three to one—horrible odds, but it was late enough in the evening that Rafe figured someone else would join in a rumble just for the fun of it.
“Tonight my business is spoiling your game,” he said. “Leave the girl alone.”
The thug who had been guarding the table came at him suddenly from the right, aiming a blow at the side of Rafe’s face. Rafe punched back, hard, following up with a kick to the groin, and pulling his knife free for good measure. Someone behind him laughed. The brute staggered to an unoccupied table and leaned against it, coughing and wheezing.
“Leave the girl alone,” Rafe repeated.
A shape bulked up behind him, and he turned his head just enough to see Samson, the bar owner and Rafe’s landlord, standing at his back. Samson wasn’t too sentimental. He might not have put a stop to an abduction if it had been conducted quietly enough, but he couldn’t abide much ruckus; it drove away business.
“Leave her alone,” Samson repeated. He was a big man, black-haired and burly. All muscle and all hunti. It was pointless to offer him physical opposition. “Go on home for the night, Becko. You know I don’t like trouble.”
For a moment, Becko’s snarl intensified, but it was all bravado. He jerked his head toward the door and motioned for Rafe and Samson to step back. Then he and his partner pushed themselves out of the booth, collected their friend, and stomped out the front door, slamming it as they went.
Samson didn’t even watch them go. He was eyeing Rafe, though his gaze flicked twice to the girl huddled in the booth. “What about her?” he asked.
“I’ll take care of her,” Rafe said.
“I don’t like trouble,” Samson repeated.
“There won’t be any.”
Samson watched him a moment longer, nodded sharply, and stalked back to the kitchen. Rafe slipped onto the bench where Becko had perched just a minute ago and gave the girl one comprehensive glance. “Looks like you’re having an interesting evening,” he said.
Staring back with a mix of defiance and uncertainty, she lifted her hand to show him one of the dinner knives clutched in her fist. He admired the fact that she didn’t indicate she had a second weapon stashed away somewhere. Fierce enough to fight, smart enough to keep something in reserve. Even without the red hair, she would have been easy to pick out as sweela. “Who are you and what do you want from me?” she demanded.
“My name’s Rafe Adova. I rent a room here, and I play cards for money. I saw you come in and I thought it looked like you were having a bad night.”
She lowered her hand to the table, but kept her grip on the knife. “That’s one way to put it,” she said bitterly.
“You don’t have any reason to trust me, but I’d like to help you.”
“Why?” she asked suspiciously.
“To annoy Becko,” was his prompt reply.
That made her laugh, but quickly enough she frowned again. “Why really?”
He shrugged and, unexpectedly, gave her the truth. “Because it’s easy enough to do. Because once in a while when I needed help, a stranger gave it to me. And other times when I needed help, no one stepped forward. And I remember what all of those times were like—the times I got help and the times I didn’t.”
She was listening closely, as if he was speaking in riddles and her only chance of surviv
al was to solve them. “How would you help?” she asked.
“If nothing else, I can find someone to carry a message for you,” he said. “If you want, you can go up to my room—”
“I hardly think so,” she interrupted.
He shrugged. “Or I can wait with you here so no one else bothers you. The place never closes. We’d just sit here till someone shows up to get you.”
“I was trying to find my sister,” she said abruptly. “But I got lost.”
“If you crossed the Cinque to end up here, you got really lost.”
“I meant to cross the Cinque,” she said impatiently. “This is where she lives.” She looked around expressively. “Somewhere in the slums.”
Even his professional impassivity cracked at that. This gently bred rich girl had a sister who lived by the southern canals? Was the sister a prostitute? A dealer in drugs and illegal substances? It was almost impossible to credit.
“Excuse me for saying so,” he observed, “but if she lives here, she might not be the best one to seek shelter with.”
The redhead surprised him with a grin. “She’s not that kind of person,” she said. “But that’s funny.”
“So,” he said. “What do you want to do next? Are you willing to trust me?”
She studied him for a long moment. Her brown eyes were large and expressive, and her face showed every nuance of her warring doubt, hope, and fatalism. She would make a terrible card player. “I don’t see that I have any choice except to trust you, so I will. Can we send a messenger to J— To my sister?”
Interesting that she didn’t want to offer a name; that meant she thought he might recognize it, which meant she would lie about her own name as well. “I’ll grab one of the serving boys,” he said.
But before he’d even stood up, his way was blocked by Edwin the Loser, who’d stalked over to glare at him. “Are you going to finish the game or not?” he demanded.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Rafe said, unfolding himself from the bench. He was at least four inches taller than the elay man, and much less ethereal; Edwin backed off fast. Rafe took a moment to rifle in his pockets and tossed a few quint-silvers on the table. “I’m going to send a kitchen boy over. Tell him your message and give him two coins. Use the rest to buy yourself something to eat.”