The Lost Puzzler

Instead, I intercepted her again and flashed her the bags of coin I was carrying, letting their bulk do the persuading. She would be entitled to a small cut of the profit, I knew that for a fact.

“I want to play the house,” I insisted, “one-on-one. Are you in or should I find someone else?”

She hesitated, sensing the trap, but just as I thought she would move away she leaned over and grabbed one of the bags, weighing it in her hand. The clink of the metal coins was audible enough. Satisfied, she straightened her back. “Follow me,” she ordered, then turned and walked away without a glance to check whether I’d complied.

She walked over to the other end of the large room, where a very old tapestry that depicted a battle scene from the Pre-Catastrophe era was hanging. A guard nodded at her as we approached, then he grabbed the tapestry and moved it aside, revealing a short corridor and steps leading further down.

Using a key on a chain around her neck, she opened a wooden door and we stepped into a richly furnished room. Real oak furniture, and oil paintings hung from the walls. This was the private gambling room, and it was furnished to please the upper crust of society who came to lose a huge amount of coin and feel good about it. Looking around me, I immediately felt my anxiety level rise. I was way out of my league. Playing the house meant the odds were against you. I never knew why people chose to do this, but then again, I’d just passed several rich youths who descended to the Pit from the safety of the upper towers for the thrill and pleasure of getting beaten up and robbed.

“Anything to drink?” she asked casually, pointing at a well-stocked drink cabinet as I sat myself down in front of a gaming table. “We have Pre-Catastrophe moonshine.”

At least that was an easy choice: there was no way I was going to accept any liquid on these premises. She was obviously still trying to assess whether I was as foolish as I seemed, or a professional cleverly masking himself as a fool.

I shook my head and sat down at the table. She positioned herself on the other side and produced a set of cards, laying them faceup so I could see it was a full deck. It was a rare set, large cards featuring elaborate illustrations and made with real cardboard rather than the usual wooden slates and crude markings. I estimated the set cost more than what I was about to lose at the table.

“Your game, Milord?” she asked me, this time with a polite tone of professional interest.

“Trolls,” I answered.

That caught her off guard. “What’s your game, Mister?” she asked me pointedly.

“Like I said, it’s Tro—”

She cut me off. “No, what’s your real game? No one plays Trolls here,” she spat.

What could I have told her? That it was the only game I knew how to play? That it was the only game I had scrolls of strategy for?

“That is my game.” I tried to sound as if the fact that no one plays a children’s card game in the Den was the proprietor’s oversight.

She shrugged and shook her head in disbelief. “Odds eight to six.”

They weren’t good odds, but they could have been worse. I threw one bag of coins at her. She spilled the contents of the bag onto the table’s surface, counting the coins quickly with her fingers. She then shuffled the deck, offered me six cards, and drew eight for herself.

Her movements were not as fast or subtle as one would expect from a card dealer working at the Den, but they were precise. Each card flew in the air and landed exactly next to the other, facedown. She probably wasn’t going to try and hustle me; with odds of eight to six she wouldn’t need to.

“One friendly warning, Milord, as one tattooed to another,” she said, locking her gaze with mine. “I see any hint of you using those interesting eye tattoos of yours to peek at the deck or see through my blouse and we are done. The guards usually take your coin on the way out and break a few bones to teach you a lesson, so, be advised …”

I nodded and swallowed hard, fighting hard to suppress a blush of the guilty. We began playing.

The first round was short and painful and cost me a quarter of my coin bag. The second round took longer, but I lost it nonetheless and had to bring out another bag of coin.

The third, fourth, and fifth rounds were inconclusive and the sixth a draw, which meant the seventh would be for a bigger pot. She was starting to relax a bit, I could sense it. I was just another idiot she was trying to part from his hard-earned coin. It was time to up the stakes.

“You’ve been doing this for long?” I asked casually as I looked at my cards.

She nodded and said “Long enough,” almost as if talking to herself.

“But you did something else before,” I said, pushing two cards back.

She didn’t look at my eyes. Instead she changed three of her own cards and raised the pot.

“My older brother taught me this game,” I continued casually. “He was a Salvationist.” I saw her hand rise to touch her earlobe unintentionally, as if looking for the Tarakan earpiece that used to be wired into her brain.

She caught herself, grimaced, and threw two cards at me, which landed perfectly next to the others. I looked down and took a peek; a troll and a skull. The realisation dawned on me that perhaps I could win this hand, but time was running short. I had to leave soon, and I needed to know for sure.

I called for another card, and she threw it. Then I said, “Thank you, Vincha,” and watched her reaction. There was none. She didn’t even blink or look at me. She just raised the stakes with two more stacks of coins and threw one last card at me. The throw was a miss; the card began flying straight but then twisted midair and veered to my left. My eyes followed as it cleared the table, out of arm’s reach, and landed on the thick carpet. It sat faceup, revealing another grinning skull. That card would have won me the hand.

When I looked back it was already too late. She was sliding across the table. Her knees hit me square in the chest. I flew backwards and, for the second time that night, hit my head, this time on the carpeted floor. For a moment I could only see swirling colours in front of my eyes as she pinned me down, her knees digging into my chest. I could feel a blade at my throat, pressed hard, the cold steel biting into my skin.

“Who sent you?” she hissed at me as I tried desperately to blink away tears of pain from my eyes.

“No one,” I managed to croak while trying to breathe. The back of my head was hurting from the fall, and her weight was crushing my chest. Vincha was not a dainty woman, and she was holding a very sharp blade. I could feel blood tickling down the side of my neck and fought the instinct to try and push her away, a move that would have surely been my last.

“Go rust,” she swore. She pressed a hand to my forehead, pinning my head and making it hard for me to blink. Suddenly the blade at my throat vanished but my feeling of relief was replaced with horror as I felt the cold steel again, this time just under my eyeball.

“I can cut your throat,” she said menacingly, “or I can take out an eye. Tell me who sent you and it will be easier. Is it Fuazz?”

I steeled myself and tried to remain calm. One of my arms was expertly pinned down by an outstretched leg and quickly losing sensation. Trying to move my other arm was a mistake. The blade twitched and drew blood. I yelped.

“Talk now or we’re going to start a long process,” she said. Her cold voice was as sobering as the hot trickle of blood running down my cheek.

“Don’t,” I gasped. “I mean you no harm.”

“No kidding,” she chuckled bitterly. “Now who sent you? Was it that rust bucket Fuazz?”

“No.” Though he had pointed me in the right direction.

“The Grapplers?”

“No, please—”

“Ex-guild?”

“No, it’s not really lik—”

“The Omen Society.”

I paused, surprised despite my state of mind at that moment. “Surely you didn’t manage to get on their bad side as well?” I said, and surprisingly enough it made her laugh, though she didn’t ease the pressure under my eye.

“Look,” I tried again, using what I was hoping was a calm and reasonable voice, “when I said I came with no intention to harm you, I meant it. I’m not carrying any weapons.”

Walking into the Den unarmed and staying alive long enough to boast about it was something even Vincha had to check. She began a thorough search, shifting positions expertly, changing her blade-holding hand several times without easing the pressure, leaving me vulnerable and exposed throughout the entire procedure. Under different circumstances it would have been almost enjoyable.

Finally she said, “Your eyes.”

“What of it?” I kept my voice as light as possible. “I can see in the dark, cheat at cards, sometimes see through people or even thin walls, but what’s the worst I could do, squint at you to death?”

She nodded more to herself than for my benefit and the blade eased up a bit.