Husk: A Maresman Tale (11 page)

Dame Consilia came to Slythe’s rescue, though, and Jeb reckoned that was a mark in her favor. “Oh, Sendal, you are a wag!” she exclaimed.

Slythe’s face lit up around a broad grin.

“What is it you do, Mr. Skayne?” Dame Consilia asked Jeb. “Whatever it is, I’m sure Sendal can help. He still has his old contacts, don’t you, darling?”

Slythe held his palms up, both hands shaking, and gave an embarrassed shrug.

“Maresman,” Jeb said, knowing how that would go down with an ex-senator. It was as bad as letting the cat out of the bag about politicians getting into bed with the guilds.

“What’s that?” Dame Consilia said.

But Slythe knew. A frown furrowed his face, and he coughed politely into his hand. “Haven’t the foggiest, sweetling,” he said.

Jeb caught sight of someone watching them from behind Slythe, on the far side of the room. The man immediately turned his head, pretending to look at a marlin mounted on the wall across from him. Bones the taxidermist—Jeb was sure of it. No doubt admiring his own handiwork. Begged the question, though, what he was doing at the Sea Bed. Could be he was meeting his shady contacts, the sort who traded in stuffed husks captured near the Malfen Pass; but another, more worrying, possibility crossed Jeb’s mind. What if Bones had been sent to keep an eye on him? After all, it was inconceivable the guards and the stygian hadn’t said anything about him seeing the somnificus wagon on Boss’s land.

Jeb relaxed back in his chair, hand stroking the hilt of his saber. He ran his eyes round the room one last time before focusing in on the game, making sure to keep Bones in his peripheral vision.

His gaze was drawn momentarily to the empty chairs at the table he’d broken his fast at. Marlec had left. Hopefully, he wasn’t stupid enough to have gone after the husk by himself. It would be better for everyone if he just took himself back to whatever pious hole he’d crawled out from.

“Well, if you’re ready,” Stoat-face said. “I mean, it ain’t like we got all day now, is it?”

“You sure start early,” Jeb said, as Stoat-face dealt him seven cards.

“Early? Your first time at the Sea Bed, is it?”

Jeb spread his hands, as if to say, “So?”

“I have all day,” Slythe said, reaching over to pat Dame Consilia on the elbow.

Stoat-face ignored him and carried on speaking to Jeb. “Time ain’t got no meaning here. Most these scumbags are on orders from the guilds, and there’s never a lull. That’s why ol’ Black Barlow keeps the bar open night and day. Good for business, the Sea Bed’s and the guilds’, and he has a hand in both. Name’s Buttershy, by the way. Nate Buttershy.” He offered a hand, but Jeb pretended not to notice.

“Jeb,” he said, making a show of inspecting his cards and reordering them in a fan. Looked good for a flush, depending on what his opponents held, and what they exchanged the next round. He shot Buttershy a quizzical look. “Black Barlow?”

Farly perked up at that. “He’s the owner. Saves us the regular morning spot, which is when the pickings is—”

Buttershy pressed a finger to his lips, and Farly clammed up. Probably, the two of them had other games set up across town. Jeb had seen it before, professional gamblers moving from bar to bar, fleecing anyone naive enough to join them for a game.

Slythe’s cards were all upturned on the table, revealing his shabby hand, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was wittering away to Dame Consilia about the good old days, when she was the world’s greatest actress, in his estimation. She faked a smile, and turned her head away.

Slythe mistook it for embarrassment, and said, “Don’t be bashful, my dear. It’s the truth, I say.” He tried to take in the others at the table, but no one seemed particularly interested.

“We playing, or what?” Buttershy said.

Slythe sat bolt upright in his chair and belatedly covered his cards with a hand, before painstakingly turning them over one by one with trembling fingers.

“Fold,” Slythe said, dropping his cards in the middle of the table.

“Sendal,” Dame Consilia said.

The look she shot him must’ve cut to the bone, as he snatched the cards back up and said, “A moment, please. Perhaps I was a bit premature.”

Garth sniggered into his sleeve until Dame Consilia slapped him on the back of the head.

Slythe threw down four cards—a sure sign he had nothing—and Buttershy dealt him four more, which he organized into his fan, nodding pensively all the time.

“Can we move on?” Buttershy said.

Slythe held up a finger, still perusing his cards. He exchanged two more and gave a self-satisfied nod, but his tongue darting out to lick his lips told Jeb a different story.

If Farly noticed, he didn’t show it. Buttershy’s permanent scowl was just as effective a mask for what he was thinking. Dame Consilia looked bored, but it was a practiced boredom, no doubt the fruits of her years on the stage. A single line of moisture threaded down her neck and collected between her plumped up breasts threatening to burst from her bodice.

Jeb forced himself to look away. His thoughts were like rats gamboling through garbage. As he tried to weigh up each of the other players and assess his hand, he could feel Dame Consilia’s need palpably, like waves of heat rolling off her body. He was partly inclined to go with it, too; giver her what she wanted, but when he tried to imagine the scene, all he saw was Maisie rubbing up against him, her cool fingers creeping inside his britches. Someone said his name, and he almost gasped.

“You exchanging?” Buttershy said.

Jeb nodded, trying his best to look carefree. He put back the four of swords and took a card from Buttershy in return. When he turned it over, his heart rippled, and he coughed to disguise his relief. The Dwarf King—could have been better, but unless anyone else had something exceptional…

Jeb waved Buttershy on and tuned out while Dame Consilia made her exchanges. He was still chewing over Marlec’s words. There was a second husk, a husk that hunted the hunters—out of revenge. Question was, revenge for what? For killing others of its kind? It was possible, but not very likely. The range of husks coming out of Qlippoth was so great that it was hard to imagine much in the way of kinship between them. They were as numerous and as varied as there were possibilities. The god at the heart of Aethir, the Cynocephalus, was said to dream wildly. He was also said to cower in his lair out of fear of his father, the Demiurgos, Lord of the Abyss. If the husks were the products of his dreams, if they mirrored the state of his mind, you had to pity the poor bastard. No wonder no one had clapped eyes on him—least not to Jeb’s mind. Judging by the horrors Jeb had faced in his years as a Maresman, the Cynocephalus must have been paralyzed with terror.

Dame Consilia folded with a weary sigh, and then it was Farly’s turn. He studied his hand probably more than was necessary, made a single exchange, and ceded to Buttershy, who stuck with what he had.

Those left in began some halfhearted betting, the sort that told you no one was overly committed. It was a warm-up for the new player’s benefit, Jeb knew that; make him feel comfortable, hopeful, even.

“OK, let’s see what you got,” Buttershy said.

Slythe spread his cards with a dejected smile. Nothing there.

Jeb showed his flush to an approving “Oh!” from Dame Consilia.

Farly betrayed no reaction as he conceded defeat, but Buttershy cursed under his breath and slid a pile of coins Jeb’s way.

Jeb wasn’t falling for it. He knew they’d gone easy on him, given it was his first hand. He’d seen it all before. Soften him up with a few wins and then hammer him when his guard was down and everything he had was on the table. Wasn’t going to happen this time.

Dame Consilia’s fingers danced across the back of his hand. “Seems my luck has passed to you, Mr. Skayne. Perhaps we should combine our resources.”

Jeb cocked his head to one side and felt a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Your funeral.”

“Don’t be such a defeatist,” she said, dumping her purse on the table, extricating a handful of gold denarii and counting them out. “I have every confidence in you. Is it permissible, Mr. Buttershy?”

“Money’s money,” Buttershy said. “Don’t care who I win it from.”

“Only you didn’t, did you?” Dame Consilia said. “Win, I mean. Mr. Skayne did, and together, we’ll win some more.”

“Reckon I’ll pair with Farly, then,” Buttershy said. “His mind ain’t so sharp these days. He’s gonna need all the help he can get.”

“But what about Sendal?” Dame Consilia said. “Does he have to play alone?”

Garth sniggered and muttered, “It’s what he’s used to.”

Jeb heard it, but no one else paid any attention.

Slythe stood and straightened his robe. “I have another engagement and probably should be off.”

His demeanor had stiffened, and his shallow bow to Jeb was even stiffer. “Mr. Skayne,” he said. “Gentlemen.” He acknowledged Farly and Buttershy. “My lady.” He bowed from the waist to Dame Consilia, cleared his throat, and abruptly left the table.

“Oh,” Dame Consilia said, looking at Garth beside her. “Did I do something to upset him again?”

“Of course not, my lady. How could you think such a thing?” Garth said, his narrowed eyes spitting venom at Jeb.

“I should be going, too,” Jeb said, half-rising from his seat.

That got a reaction from Farly, who shot a look at Buttershy. Before Buttershy could say anything, though, Dame Consilia gripped Jeb’s hand.

“But we’re in this together now,” she said. Suddenly, her eyes grew bigger. “And here’s Malvin with your drink.”

Malvin set a glass of whiskey down. Jeb sighed and lowered himself into his seat. He needed to pull himself together, get his mind back on the job. If he didn’t find the sheriff soon and take the stygian down, he’d likely never see it again, and that would blow his ruse with the Maresmen. More than that, though, if Marlec was right, and if there was a second husk on the loose—and it was the one hunting the hunters—he had to start being wary, watching his back. The state its victims had been found in—the dozens in the Outlands, the three Maresmen, and now the two dead in town—it had to look human, and a woman at that. Almost imperceptibly, he withdrew his hand from Dame Consilia’s, shifted his chair away an inch. He nodded his thanks to Malvin and knocked back the whiskey.

“Not just the one, Malvin,” Dame Consilia said. “Fetch the bottle.”

Malvin’s shoulders rose up to his ears as he drew in a deep breath, and then he skulked back to the bar.

“A present from my late husband,” Dame Consilia said. She tapped Garth on the thigh. “The two of them. He was a prominent businessman, you know.” She raised a finger to her eye and wiped beneath it.

An unreadable look passed across Garth’s face. Jeb guessed he had a different opinion on the matter.

Buttershy clapped for attention and started to shuffle the pack. “Just the two hands to deal, then,” he said. “May the best pair win.”

“He helped out the senate from time to time,” Dame Consilia said, as if the game wasn’t just starting up again. “Which is how I know Sendal. Poor Sendal. He’s besotted, but between you and me, he hasn’t a brass dupondii to his name anymore. Lives on borrowed money. It’s why he left the senate, they say. Some kind of scandal, my husband said, but he wouldn’t be drawn on it.” She looked whimsical for a moment, then seemed to remember where she was. “Ready when you are, Mr. Buttershy. Deal away.”

Jeb’s next few hands were mediocre at best, but somehow—incredibly—his stack of coins continued to grow. He wasn’t falling for it, no matter how much Buttershy cursed and Farly did his best impression of a piece of sculpture. A couple more rounds and he was out of there, before they led him to a place he’d sooner not go.

Dame Consilia had taken to gripping his arm each time they won, and she kept rubbing her foot against his boot under the table. The longer the game went on, the more she seemed to believe the fairytale ending. No wonder she wore costume jewelry and had seemed so eager early on. She was exactly the kind of victim Farly and Buttershy preyed on, and she still didn’t see it.

“We’ll raise you,” Buttershy said, after a confab with Farly. He slid two gold dupondii across the table.

Dame Consilia’s grip on Jeb’s arm tightened, and she whispered, “Go on. Stay with him. He’s bluffing.”

Jeb raised an eyebrow. He held a good hand, but it wouldn’t have been a stretch for Farly to hold a better one. No matter how much he studied the old man, though, he couldn’t read a thing. Buttershy was more likely to let things slip; he wore his heart on his sleeve, though that was most likely a smokescreen; but at least there was more that could go wrong with his performance.

Jeb watched the corners of Buttershy’s mouth, the rate of his blinking; thought he caught a furtive look at Farly, maybe a twitch in his cheek.

Jeb leaned back in his chair and shook his head. Before he started second guessing himself, he needed to fold. Two dupondii was a lot to lose. Not exactly a fortune, but it was enough. No, he told himself, these men were pros, and although he’d played his share of seven-card, he was out of his league. Likely, this was the round they’d get him hooked, and the next they’d reel him in.

Left to himself, he’d have dropped out and thanked them for the game, but the way Dame Consilia looked at him with a pleading intensity, he had to do more.

“I’ll see you,” he said, sliding over two gold of his own.

“Jeb!” Dame Consilia said. “He was bluffing.”

Malvin chose that moment to return and plonked a bottle of whiskey on the table. He stumbled as he backed away, looking like he’d had too big a sample himself. Jeb was aware of him shuffling behind Dame Consilia and half-falling before perching on the edge of Garth’s chair.

“Should’ve listened to the lady,” Buttershy said, pushing the winnings toward Jeb. “Could’ve won a whole lot more if you’d kept going.”

Jeb poured himself a whiskey, but when Dame Consilia elbowed him in the ribs, he passed the glass to her and took a swig from the bottle.

“Told you,” Dame Consilia said, with a squeeze of Jeb’s knee. “It’s my game, too, you know. Now, come on, Mr. Maresman, and show a lady a good time.”