Esmeree and the beast eye each other warily. Hiisi snorts, "What? Yä’ve never seen an epos before?"

He slaps the huge horse’s flanks affectionately. Surely it must be one of the biggest, strongest steeds in Jacobus’s stable. On some level, she suspects Hiisi was trying to do her a favor by choosing this one for her, and now he’s a bit irritated that she doesn’t appreciate the gesture.

She shakes her head as she scrutinizes its powerful body. "I’ve seen them. I’ve even eaten them. But I’ve never ridden one before. Not even in a cart."

"What? Yä not used tä havin’ somethin’ big between yer legs, uh?"

Esmeree glares at him, a sharp retort ready on her tongue, but something about the up-turned curl of his braided beard and his squinting eyes gives her pause. Can he be joking with her?

"No," she says cautiously, "Not at least until I get you between them."

It seems the right answer. Hiisi laughs and leads the large sorrel back into Jacobus’s stables. When he returns, he is leading a much smaller horse. The gray pony nuzzles her hand when she reaches for it.

"This little marka’ll slow us down, damn yä," mutters Hiisi, "but it’ll be easier fer yä tä handle. When yä gets better in the saddle, we can see about getting yä a better mount, uh?"

She strokes the pony’s neck and decides she’s in no hurry.

The porters of their luggage are ready, the mounts are ready, and Hiisi watches her expectantly. Esmeree examines her simple saddle and stirrups. She’s seen soldiers ride in cavalry parades all the time. How difficult can it be?

She slips her foot into a stirrup and gingerly leans into it. Her pony turns its head and looks at her like she’s an idiot.

"Here, now," Hiisi growls impatiently, "Let’s get a move on, uh? It’s not like we’re on a pilgrimage tä Cærimonia."

"Look," she pleads as he approaches, "It’s just down to the docks, right? Why can’t we all just walk?"

Cupping her ass in his hand, he heaves her into the pony’s back. Esmeree shrieks and scrambles for purchase as the animal whickers and tries to adjust for her awkward weight. Clinging to its neck for support, she fishes for the second stirrup with her other foot and curses Hiisi roundly.

He laughs and slaps the pony on the neck. "Good inigena," he coos, "Yä just ignore that squawkin’ isean on yer back. And if she gives yä too much trouble, just turn around and give her a good bite, yäh?"

Esmeree freezes, looking down at the suddenly treacherous creature beneath her. "These things bite?"

Taking her pony’s lead, Hiisi swings onto his own huge war-horse. He looks down at her and smiles. "If they has teeth, they bites. And if they don’t have teeth, they probably bites anyway, yäh?"

Her reply is cut short as he spurs his Brackish epos forward. Esmeree reels in her saddle as her pony struggles to keep up with its lead. Though they don’t go very fast, they quickly leave their porters behind. Clutching desperately at the reins, she watches the men and their luggage disappear behind them.

"Just another argument for walking," her ember’s voice sighs to her, "Maybe Hiisi is trying to send us a message?"

"Shut up," she growls to herself.

Villeins dive for cover as Hiisi’s horse shoves through the streets. Esmeree’s teeth rattle with every step her horse takes. After the fourth near miss with man or cart, she just closes her eyes and prays to Hoël the Traveled for guidance.

Hiisi laughs back at her, "C’mon, inigena! Don’t bounce in the saddle like a mosac’s crèabag! Use those legs like Grandmother Mwarree intended and clutch that marka like a lover!"

He howls into the air and picks up speed. "Yä’ll learn soon enough, inigena!" he calls back, "Else, tomorrow morning yä’ll be walkin’ like a well-fucked oainjyr!"

She keeps her eyes shut and hopes no one she knows sees her.

 

***

 

Esmeree stands on the deck and enjoys the feel of the sea spray across her face. The massive steamship cruises through the swells, and with each dive between the waves, there is a delicious plunging sensation in her belly. All her life, she’s watched the Eye of the Fire Hell set across the Skudd Sea, but she’d never imagined just how vast these waters were. So far west they have traveled, she is certain one evening she’ll bear witness to the sun evaporating into the water like an over-sized chunk of burning coal. A flash and some steam, and it will all be gone.

Her fellow passengers seem to come from all walks of life. Wealthy Brackish and Palpi merchants disembarked early at Green Bridge and Anerin’s Fort. After that, they left the Palpi city-states and the Abaisd Territories, plying northwest along untamed Brackish shores. Seasoned soldiers-of-fortune and swarthy Brack cings went ashore at Aššu-Cìoch, one of the few Brackish dunum settlements large enough to support the steamer. The rest of the passengers are EroBernd soldiers, homesteaders, and the usual assortment of gamblers, oainjyr, missionaries, and confidence men. All occupations that cater to and prey upon vulnerable travelers. Esmeree is familiar with the type, though she is used to seeing them on their way back into Cliffs Reach–frequently as gator-food floating down the Brack.

Everyone left on board is bound for the ship’s northernmost destination, Ceilbyrig, the EroBernd Empire’s largest gateway into the remote and dangerous Ymyl Gwland Territories.

So far, most passengers have remained below-decks and refused to come up for fresh air. Their loss, Esmeree decides as she watches the mist-shrouded moors pass by. Tiny Brackish fishing dunums dot the coastline, wrapped in smoke and fog in the daylight and glittering with torches and bonfires at night. She shakes her head to dispel the romanticized images the scene conjures, remembering that bagaudas, Darkbloods, and worse haunt those hills. These villages are well-lit at night for a reason.

The days grow warmer as they creep towards Low Summer, but the sea breezes keep the heat and insects away. Esmeree is so enthralled with the sights from the deck, she can barely drag herself down to her cabin each night. Instead, she leans against the cool metal of the steamer’s forward cannon and enjoys the night air.

An unfamiliar man staggers past her and lurches against the railing. Esmeree watches with detached interest as he heaves noisily over the edge for quite a while. This boat sickness is a strange thing. The ship’s crew seems immune, but people new to the sea suffer terribly. Even Hiisi seems affected. The proud cing spends most of his time in his cabin and eats very little.

Esmeree is spared illness’ effects, though she knows her ember is working overtime to make it so. Thus far, the only side effect has been a persistent and nagging hunger. When she’s not above decks or sleeping, she’s eating.

The man moans and sags again the railing. Pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve, he dabs at his forehead and mouth as he struggles to regain his composure. He jumps slightly when he turns and sees Esmeree watching him. "Oh my!" he exclaims, "A siren!"

The cool wind pulls at her hair, and she removes an errant lock from her eyes. "Siren?"

He shrugs as he carefully makes his way across the deck to her cannon. His legs are still a bit rocky. "They’re some kind of sea spirit. Lure sailors to their deaths with their beauty and song or some such. I think they’re Fée."

She smiles, "Yes, I have heard of them. It just seemed a strange thing to say as an introduction."

"Ah." He seems a little embarrassed, though she’s not sure if it’s due to his siren comment or to his earlier gustatory emissions.

She smiles at him. "The compliment is appreciated, however."

"Well…" He shrugs nervously. He dabs at the back of his neck with his handkerchief before returning it to his sleeve. He still looks a bit green. "The waves," he asks, gesturing to the rocking of the ship, "they don’t trouble you?"

Esmeree is surprised to see he is wearing a uniform of the EroBernac navy. "No, I’m fortunate to say, they don’t."

"Ah," he sighs awkwardly.

She can sense him struggling to keep the conversation alive. The man is just a bit shy, she supposes. He isn’t unhandsome, a bit young perhaps. The uniform would look more dashing if it wasn’t draped over such a sickly body. A bit of this evening’s meal is still caught in his sleeve, and his collar has tiny wine stains in its frills. Esmeree has learned that eating and drinking onboard a ship at sea takes a certain degree of finesse and dexterity–but she’d expect an officer to have acquired it already–that, and an immunity to the boat sickness.

"I’m sorry you had to see that," he says, gesturing back towards the railing.

Esmeree subtly shifts her body language to encourage him. "Not to worry. It wasn’t the first I’ve seen."

"Ah. Well, good."

He’s not much older than Esmeree–perhaps by only a couple of years–yet the braids on his uniform seem to indicate a position of some importance. Myrdd knew little of naval tradition and culture; hence, Esmeree knows even less.

The officer’s eye drifts from her eyes to her bodice and ultimately to the cannon her hand is resting on. He smiles with recognition. "You like our Lady’s tongue?"

Her hand automatically jerks away from the cannon in mild disgust. "Excuse me?"

He nods at the cool iron, caressing it affectionately. "God’s Traveler’s a beautiful lady," he sighs, "and she has a sharp tongue."

Ah, she realizes. He’s speaking figuratively of the ship’s fighting prowess.

"Guns are interesting," she answers, "I’ve never seen a ship fire its cannon before."

He nods, "Well, surely you’ll see these fine 16-pounders in action when we arrive at Ceilbyrig and pray not sooner!"

"Why is that?"

When he looks up at her, his eyes shine. His sickness seems forgotten. Perhaps it is because he is warming to the subject, or perhaps it is due to Esmeree’s presence, or perhaps her ember is simply interfering again. "Ceilbyrig’s been a bit jumpy lately–problems with Brack raiders, and all–so it’s usually a good idea to fire a few shots and let them know we’re coming."

"And why is firing the cannon sooner not such a good thing?"

"Ah!" he laughs, "because that means, we’re having troubles with Brack raiders!"

Images of a fantastic naval battle flash in her head. Countless Brack pirates pour over the steamer’s rails. The good officer defends her to his last breath, but she is ultimately carried off to be the mighty Brack bagaudas’s love slave. Hmmn…

"Not that you have any reason for concern," the officer adds hastily, "We know how to handle pirates."

"We?" she asks.

"Well," he stammers, "This ship. Ah."

"He has yet to even introduce himself!" her ember wonders. "Is this man clueless, embarrassed, or simply rude?"

"I don’t believe I’ve seen you before, sir," she hints, trying to ignore her ember’s nagging.

"Hmmn?" He looks at her with confusion at first, and then realization dawns. "Ah! Well, there have been duties to perform in my cabin." He removes his feathered hat and bows awkwardly. "I am Sir Triboet, Ship’s Master onboard the God’s Traveler."

This boy has been knighted? Esmeree wonders whose son he must be as she extends her hand and allows him to kiss her fingers. "Esmeree of Cliffs Reach. I’m–"

"Oh yes!" he exclaims, "We were told you were aboard."

"Really." Her eyes narrow. What could they have been told?

"Ship’s Master?" she asks contemplatively, "Sounds important."

He shrugs, "In its own way, yes, I suppose."

"Is a Master like the Captain?"

His face grimaces. "Somewhat, I suppose. Perhaps a bit lower."

"Ah! Like First Mate?"

He grimaces more. He’s begun to look a little green again. "A bit lower than that as well."

He raises his hand before she can guess again. "It is my duty to ensure the cargo of the ship is properly handled and accounted for. I’m basically in charge of the owner’s financial interests in this voyage."

She frowns.

"Ah," he sighs as his face falls, "Like a clerk."

The officer looks crestfallen and miserably embarrassed.

"Oh!" Esmeree says excitedly, rallying expertly, "A man of learning! Thank God we have at least one of you on board."

Triboet brightens slightly, believing every word. Esmeree is good at her job.

"Have you ever sailed to Ceilbyrig before?" she asks.

He sighs. He is looking very green now. "No. This is my first voyage."

"No kidding?" her ember echoes in her head. Esmeree concentrates on squelching any future remarks.

"What’s beyond Ceilbyrig?" she wonders, "Do you know?"

Triboet shrugs, obviously considering a return visit to the railing. "There are the Fists of Gock. But beyond that, I don’t know."

"Fists of Gock? I thought they were called the Fists of God."

He smiles. "Well, you most certainly are from the Abaisd Territories, aren’t you?"

Esmeree frowns. Does she come off as that provincial? "What do you mean?"

"The Bracks call it the Fists of God–Deuos Durnus to be preceise–EroBernd prefers Fists of Gock."

She waves it away as a technicality. "Whatever they’re called, wouldn’t it be marvelous to just sail right through them and keep on going? To see what lays beyond?"

Triboet grunts and belches sickly. He slowly works his way back towards the rail. "Hardly. The further north you get, the less safe it is. The seas become… unpredictable. Even a ship like the God’s Traveler would have a hard time."

This man is hardly a romantic. "A hard time with what?"

He shakes his head. "Things get mighty strange in those oceans. Sometimes, sea beasts slip in through the Fists and really cause problems along the Ehrech coast. I can only imagine what it’s like in their home waters."

"But aren’t you at all curious?"

He answers by turning and retching over the side. When he is finally finished, he sighs and looks at her warily. "Are these the kinds of things that really interest you?"

She is surprised. "Well, yes! Why?"

"Huh. I suppose, if I were you, I’d spend the time I have left pursuing other matters."

"What is that supposed to mean?" she snaps, suddenly frightened and angry at his tone.

He takes a step away but fetches up abruptly against the rail. "Surely, I meant no offense! I just thought… well… I just thought you’d want to talk about more interesting subjects or sing or…"

A sneaking suspicion grows in her stomach. "What makes you think I’d want that?"

He gestures weakly at the forecastle and the cabins where the passengers are lodged. "Your bodyguard told us–"

Her voice is low and deliberate. "He told you what?"

 

"You fucking vitchoor! You told them I was coept-inigena? A Gock-damned prizebride?"

Hiisi sits on his bed, staring drunkenly into his courmi mug. Perhaps he hopes to deaden the discomfort of the boat sickness through intoxication. While she is skeptical about the likelihood of success, right now she could hardly care.

Chuckling to himself, he rolls onto his back and covers his face with a damp cloth. "What do yä care, uh?"

"What do I care? What do I care?" she shrieks.

Hiisi doesn’t respond, and Esmeree glares at his silence. It’s not like she was planning to take a lover during this journey anyway, but it has been disconcerting that no one had approached her thus far. Hiisi moans beneath his towel. Now she knows why.

They believe her to be destined for some Brackish rix–perhaps as payment for land, hostages, or trade rights–and live her life in tongueless servitude. Bastards!

She paces the cabin, truly at a loss about what to say or do.

It is as she passes a certain corner of the room that she observes a peculiar pang in her stomach. The power in her ember dips and rises as she passes. Stacked there are some of the leather saddlebags the porters in Cliffs Reach carried to the ship. Searching among them, she finds iron shackles and some leather bags that Hiisi had previously refused to let her handle. Now, as she investigates closer, she feels the power of her ember rapidly drain away. The knot in her stomach worsens as a wave of nausea surges over her.

In each bag is a small bundle of sticks, just like Verole’s.

Dropping the bags, she staggers backwards, one hand covering her mouth in an effort to keep from vomiting.

Hiisi chuckles from under his towel, "Serves yä right, me coept-inigena, yäh?"

Esmeree reels into the corner furthest from the charms and gasps for air. Slowly, her ember’s power returns. It will take a while longer for her stomach to settle. "What are those things? What are they doing here?"

Hiisi glances out from under the rag. "What do yä think, uh? We’re catchin’ caragus, yäh? Yä thinks we’re going tä just tie them up with a little kiss? Yä thinks leather or chains would keep yä down?"

"But," she asks, "I thought I broke the only one."

"Nage."

Esmeree rises and, keeping a safe distance from the charms, sits next to Hiisi on his berth. "There are more than one?"

"Yäh. There’re plenty. And they ain’t holy relics either. What do yä think on that?"

Esmeree is stunned. When she broke Verole’s charm, she thought she destroyed something priceless, something unique. A relic blessed by one of God’s holy Prophets.

"Does Jacobus know about them?"

Hiisi doesn’t bother answering. Of course the Viscount knows. Most certainly, he supplied them–and they aren’t even holy relics–they’re filthy pagan artifacts from Gock knows where. This alone could condemn them all to the ordeals of the Inquisition.

She looks from the bags to the shackles and back again, and she begins to realize the enormity of their plot. Soon, real people will be locked in those irons.

"Are we about to do something horrible, Hiisi?" she asks quietly.

"Uh," he grunts. "Probably."

 

***

 

The game circles the table as each player draws and discards their cards. Snippets of history and legend are exchanged as plays are challenged and defended. Despite her unwanted label of coept-inigena, Esmeree still manages to thrive in the ship’s tight social circles. In fact, her perceived fate as prizebride seems to be garnering sympathy in areas she wouldn’t normally expect to find it, such as at the maru-catu table.

The game of Brackish maru-catu is fast-paced, verbose, and expensive. With a standard deck of 90 cards, it is almost impossible to build strong enough defenses against every attack. Game play circles the table quickly as players exchange money, cards, and lore fluidly. Slowly, however, favorites begin to stand out as skill, knowledge, and luck take their toll. Once a couple players go bust, the game really picks up, until ultimately it boils down to a deadly one-on-one standoff where the victor–and the money–can be decided in a single exchange of cards.

Aside from the historical, story-telling aspect, Esmeree is a terrible maru-catu player–the finer points of wagering, ransoming, attack, and defense are lost on her–yet tonight somehow she’s already collected a fair cache of copper and silver in front of her.

Perhaps it helps being the only woman in the game–they probably want to keep her around just to look at her. Perhaps it helps that across the table from her, Hiisi’s intimidating bulk lurks behind his cards–no one is sure what he would do if they took all of her money. Perhaps it helps that she is a sorceress–she has summoned a charm over each of the players, and now she knows each bluff, each cheat, and each fortuitous draw. Perhaps it helps that when it comes to stealing cards, she’s probably the best in the game (though based on his number of cheats, she suspects Hiisi is a very close second).

The God’s Traveler creaks and moans with each swell. Timbers shudder, and everything is perpetually damp. As they play, the gamblers do what they can to ignore the stream of water trickling down the wall and into an overflowing pot. Count Aglovale, Captain of the God’s Traveler, watches with disgust as a sailor scurries in to replace it. "These damn leaks," he growls.

"Ship falling apart, Captain?" Esmeree asks with some concern.

"Nah," he sighs, turning back to the game. Her comment about his ship seems to have irritated him. "Damned kobolde. Seems we picked up a litter or two around Truemmerland. Made a home in the bilge, and now the cursed creatures are gnawing through everything. Worse than rats. Will cost a fortune to get them cleaned out in Ceilbyrig."

Esmeree draws the nine of gæsum, and the men around her watch with interest as she adds it to the defenses arrayed on the table in front of her. What they failed to notice was the second card she palmed. Slipping it into her hand, she rearranges her deck and takes a look. The slug of stones. She looks at the simple silver chalice adorned with a single star–players from the Seven Kingdoms call it the Krater or Grail–it’s a potent offensive card against gæsum and dusios suits, but effective defensively only when supported by man and nertos cards. Interesting.

She smiles brightly to the Captain as she passes her turn. "You got iron filings? Pour a couple buckets into the bilge. That’ll flush the koboldes out."

He frowns at her as he draws a card. "Iron? You saying kobolde are Fée?"

"Something like that."

He bursts into laughter, followed quickly by the others. Only Hiisi remains stone-faced. Esmeree sighs and shakes her head. Stupid men.

Captain Aglovale shows the seven of dusios and demands ransom from Hiisi. On the card, the alf winks mischievously from his stand of seven saplings. Of only middling strength, it is a favored card for bluffing–that’s what Hiisi is counting on now–but Esmeree’s charm knows better. Hiisi’s defense hand is strong in the gæsum and bri’ua suits, a typical Brackish tactic. She wagers against him. Hiisi calls the bluff, and the good Captain devastates him by adding the eight, nine, and ten of dusios–a full Demon’s Horde. Hiisi spits curses as he shovels most of his money over to Aglovale’s pile and glares at Esmeree. She arches an eyebrow. So he knows she’s been summoning and is pissed that she let him walk into that? Serves the ard-vitchoor right for calling her a coept-inigena.

Besides Captain Aglovale and Hiisi, three other passengers plus Ship’s Master Triboet are playing. The passengers are professionals, bagaudas in fancy clothes, hoping for a little practice before they go for the real money in Ceilbyrig. They were going easy on the other players at first, and nearly went broke for their efforts–with the possible exception of Triboet, no one was fooled by their clumsy wagers–and now they’re playing in earnest, and things are a lot more interesting.

"’Caddos Wrnach calms the waters’," the perfumed Mynyddi next to Hiisi mutters as he deals a minor blow to the Captain’s defenses. He lays the caddos of man on the four of nertos and throws both cards to the discard pile. Captain Aglovale considers countering and decides against it.

Apparently eager to make amends for his earlier gaff on the deck, Master Triboet keeps betting into Esmeree’s strongest defenses. She sighs as she takes his money. He might as well just give it to her.

Play is hers again, and she bites her lip as she studies her cards.

Her tell is intentional. When she has her head about her, she can be very good at concealing her emotions–life in the Mill does that to people–but the more her fellow players think she is a clueless girl, the better. In this room, it doesn’t pay to come across as a hardened card player.

She hopes the tell also serves to conceal her true bewilderment. Looking at the cards in her hand, she has no idea what to do next. She knows the Captain’s and Hiisi’s hands are weak, but to attack them would leave her too vulnerable to the others. Triboet and the gamblers have very strong hands, and she has nothing that could challenge them. To do nothing would invite attacks on all sides.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

The rules of Brackish maru-catu are labyrinthine and endless–the interactions between the card’s suits and their values are nearly infinite–and frequently, it is the player who knows the most rules or the most lore that wins. What kind of game has six suits but no trump? How can it be that the suit of man loses to nearly every card of equivalent value from the other suits, and yet, no flush or straight is complete without one? Why is it that each card is more powerful than those numerically preceding it in most suits, except for nertos, where the power goes to the even-numbered cards and not the odd-numbered ones? And then there are the slug cards–sometimes they are considered ones, the most junior of the suits–others, they usurp the riges. It is all a matter of context.

Yet, such complexity has a purpose.

It is ironic that while the Mill taught Esmeree how to survive, and Myrdd taught her how to live, it was Andelliza who, while striving to teach her sorcery, also taught her maru-catu. The lessons were not to promote her career as a high-stakes gambler; rather, they were intended to convey a very important mystical principle. The game of Brackish maru-catu, and the cards it uses, illustrate in detail the fundamentals of Brackish mysticism and magic. Six suits for six disciplines of magic: man, gæsum, stones, bri’ua, dusios, nertos–or, as the Medianists call them: knowledge, tools, sorcery, indirect magic, circle magic, and elemental magic. Six face cards for the Council of Six in Johlpa’s Hall: the cuall, the caddos, the cing, the rixa, the rix, and the slug–or, as the Medianists call them: the fool, the saint, the knight, the queen, the king, and the ace.

The rix of dusios, also called Gock the Devil, is one of the most powerful cards in the deck, yet the simple five of man beats it when played with a four or higher from any non-dusios suit. This is because it is widely accepted that any man of wisdom can defeat evil if given the simplest of tools. Brackish lore tells many tales where this principle has been applied successfully. No one’s ever heard about the times it failed… probably because no one was left to tell it.

She looks at her hand with concern. Her strongest cards are the rixa of dusios and the slug of stones. The rixa of dusios–the Gwrach or Hag–is a potent attack card but has too many weaknesses. The slug of stones–the Grail–is one of the most powerful defensive cards in the deck, but its application is inappropriate here. The rest of her cards are fodder.

Absentmindedly, she rubs at her ember for the comfort it brings. It begins to tingle.

"‘…and the chalice was poured over the gwrach’," the voice of her ember whispers, "‘and all was laid waste.’"

Esmeree frowns at the voice, and this second tells sparks curious murmurs around the table. The fragment comes from an old legend she heard from a mad Brackish sacardd in Cliffs Reach. It told of a war between good and evil. The army of some obscure Brack rix tried to use an enchanted cup to kill a powerful witch. Somehow, she turned its power against them, and the army was wiped out.

Sudden realization sparks in her mind. Her ember’s suggestion is devious. Keeping her look of confused disgust on her face, she slowly pulls the rixa of dusios from her hand and lays it with her defenses.

"The lady plays the Hag!" one of the gamblers exclaims.

"The Gwrach?" Hiisi mutters in bewilderment.

Triboet leans over to her, "Are you sure you want to do that?"

"Shut up," she snaps, "It’s all I have."

Chuckling at the foolishness of women, Captain Aglovale lays down the five and cing of bri’ua–more than a match for the Hag. "I demand ransom," he says.

"Never." Her tone is petulant and stubborn. Bring it on, she leers internally.

Raising his eyebrows, he turns back to his deck. "Then, my dear," he sighs, "You will have to pay for your arrogance."

With dramatic care, he lays down five more cards against hers. He retains one card, holding it as his final trump. Some of the players suspect it to be a bluff, but Esmeree’s charm knows it to be deadly serious. His last card is a monster, and he plans to use it to eliminate her. What’s he waiting for?

He lays down his bet. The sum is easily all of what she has. "Fold, Esmeree?" he asks, "Raise? Call?"

All eyes are on her. Her charm tells her that all of the players believe she should cut her losses and fold, but they also expect her to ignorantly press on and bluff. She doesn’t disappoint.

She pushes her money, all she has, to meet his. "I meet your challenge," she sighs (trying to sound overly confident) and lays down her fodder cards as puny defenses against the onslaught. She doesn’t even bother citing precedents. She keeps the Grail turned down.

The Captain surveys her play, trying and failing to find her angle. He scratches at the tiny braids in his beard. His eyes shine as he adds 100 silver Guilders to the pot. "I raise."

Esmeree sits back. Damn. She knew he was going to do it, and there was no way to prevent it. If she folds now, she loses everything; however, she can’t meet his raise because she has no more money to continue betting. She can only hope that he hasn’t gone through all these theatrics just to try to bust her. "My lord," she sighs, "I cannot meet your challenge."

"Well," he smiles condescendingly, "I suppose you must fold. Or…"

Oh, here it comes…

"Yes?" she asks.

"Perhaps you have other wares you can offer instead?"

A small smile curls her lips. "What do you have in mind?"

He shrugs expansively, "Where I come from, it seems a waste to lose such a fine sellâria to the life of a coept-inigena. I propose, should you lose, that you share my bed for the remainder of the voyage." He winks. "Your betrothed need never know."

"Oh-ho!" exclaims one of the gamblers. "Excuse me, but you alone cannot battle for such a prize!"

The Captain curses as the Mynyddi gambler lays down a withering attack against what remains of his defenses. Soon, the table is in uproar as everyone–Hiisi a notable exception–throws cards and cites legend in effort to claim Esmeree as the final prize. All of the money is played out, but in many ways, it is no longer the reward they are all fighting for. She barely pays any attention. It is all she can do to remain calm as she watches the pile of coins at the center grow.

Finally, silence reigns. Focussing on the table, she sees an astonishing battlefield strewn before her. Regiments of cards face, cover, and flank each other on all sides.

The men likewise stare down at their handiwork with a mixture of awe and confusion. They’re obviously not clear who the victor will be. It all depends on the Captain’s final card, and on Esmeree’s. A round of maru-catu frequently ends this way.

Aglovale gestures to the table. "We await your decision."

"I accept your challenge," she purrs, "all of them–on the condition that should I win, I gain possession of the Captain’s cabin for the remainder of this voyage."

The Captain chuckles and nods. What does it matter?

"And," she adds, "The losers sleep with the cargo and the koboldes."

Captain Aglovale looks to the other players, and they all consent. She doesn’t need her charm–she can tell by his eyes–that all of this is just formality. The decision, he knows, will be in the cards. Esmeree’s conditions are irrelevant, everyone at the table seems to be thinking, because hers is a losing hand. What matters is which of them will win the pleasure of her company?

At last Aglovale lays down his final card. Just as Esmeree predicted, it is a monster: The slug of dusios–the Tower. "‘Thus armed and armored’," he cites, "‘the paladin Elidan rides forth from his castle to do battle.’"

There are universal groans around the table as the Captain leans back in his chair and folds his arms. Some of the gamblers already begin gathering their cards and preparing for the next deal. Perhaps they can win enough off the Captain in future hands that they can share in her favors for a little while.

Esmeree grimaces at the angry card. He must have just drawn it. Yet, she thinks quickly and can see no reason why her plan still couldn’t work. Doesn’t the card itself show the Tower being sundered by lightning?

Aglovale makes a show of waiting, pretending to be interested in the card she holds. She looks at the Grail for a long time and then shows it to the others. A couple of them guffaw when they see it.

"A bluff!" one of the gamblers snorts, "Just like a cuall oainjyr!" He actually gets up and slaps the Captain on the back.

Aglovale reaches across and begins pulling his winnings towards him. "After tonight’s meal," he begins, "meet me in my cabin, and we’ll discuss–"

"‘…and the chalice was poured over the gwrach’," she whispers, interrupting him, "‘and all was laid waste.’"

Aglovale freezes. "What?"

"‘…and the chalice was poured over the gwrach’," she repeats, louder, slowly, "‘and all was laid waste!’" She looks him in the eye. "Enjoy your nights with the kobolde, cuall. For your sake, I suggest you use those iron filings."

And she plays the Grail against her hand