Gregory House - The Lord Of Misrule

Nick, as expected, had drawn out the games, full of pleasant banter and clouded allusions. The Lord Chancellor’s recent troll through the Liberties, a hunting for heretics, was just one — though its relevance was unclear. Was this an offer of ‘protection’ or another threat? Thus they came to the last round of play. Ned had watched and watched and still he hadn’t caught it. What was the cony catchers trick?

Nick peered over at Ned’s revealed hand with a quiet smile. The knave and ace obviously were there on the table and even a fool knew they made twenty one. The Master of the Liberties’ own hand displayed a similar number, so on that they were equal. It now came down to the dice. Nick had predicted a combined roll of six. That was a low score to claim, though if Ned exceeded his ’stake’ he’d still lose. The dice were carved ivory, only the best and, following the German fashion, one was shaped as a naked woman, the other a man, both squatting hands on arse and complete in all detail. Nick had called them his lucky ducks and Ned knew they were as fixed as the crookedest fullans, but how? Maybe if he concentrated on how Nick held the dice? They were always in the cup and it was a standard horn beaker so that couldn’t be it. The cup was always in the right hand and in keeping with his fastidiousness, he wiped his hands on a clean cloth vigorously before each play. The fellow was obsessed with clean fingers!

Nick tapped the horn cup three times on the table and cast. The dice, obeying some hidden rule, spilled onto the table and came up six! At the conclusion of his play Ned’s opponent had the relaxed posture of a satisfied cony catcher. The self proclaimed Lord of the Liberties knew he had Red Ned boxed in, and he deeply enjoyed the entertainment of the struggle before the trap closed with an imaginary snap. Ned had been puzzling over Roger’s report of the sequence ever since the Red Boar and, damn it, he’d watched Earless Nick play the dice successfully four throws out of five. So how did he do it? How could the self proclaimed Lord of the Liberties know? Gruesome Roger’s advice on how Nick rigged his pair of ducks was unknown, though he said it was the same ritual every single time afore he threw them, and Nick always won whenever he chose. Though was it always one set of numbers? He’d forgotten to ask ‘Hawks’ that and it was too damned late now.

Desperately Ned prayed for guidance. It was a trick, a gambit, a sleight of hand, but in the open where only those with the same secret knowledge would understand. Before every throw Nick rubbed his hands on the silken cloth, afterward the dice was placed back into the cup. But what, what was different or the same?

And in a flash of inspiration Ned had it. Lady Fortuna was with him!

***

Such a simple trick — but only for the most learned. That was a damned clever ploy, Ned thought, no wonder no one twigged to it. Putting up a hand to stall his play, Ned reached around to his belt and slowly unbuckled his poniard, then placed it carefully down on the table.

This move clearly gave Earless Nick a moment of puzzlement, though that flicker had only been for a second. Then the Master of Liberties had relaxed with a happy smile. To him it must have seemed that the famous Red Ned was cracking under the strain and taking ‘foolish precautions’ like having a blade to hand.

“Master Throckmore…”

A languidly waved hand halted his words. “Oh no, Red Ned. Not so formal. You can call me Nick, as do my closest friends.”

Oh now that was a rich sop considering his ploys. “All right…Nick, you have been the most hospitable of hosts to Mistress Margaret and myself. However I feel that you have been too generous. Therefore, since we’ve been playing for mere tokens, I wish to pledge this blade as a wager for my hand.”

Those light blues eyes of Nick’s shone with a potent combination of avarice and anticipation. He lost all trace of his former ‘disinterest’ and bent over the table to inspect the poniard. “I am overcome Red Ned. It is a splendid piece. Is it perhaps…Spanish?”

With deliberately slow hands Ned took the hilt in his right hand, held the sheath in his left and pulled the blade out a few inches, then lent back. For the first time that night Earless Nick displayed his true emotions. He ran a light finger over the spine of the blade, tracing the engraved inscription. Lust was clearly written upon his face.

“Yes, Spanish craftsmanship — from Seville I think. Red Ned, that is a very fine wager.” Nick slapped the table and laughed clearly enjoying the theatre. Ned’s daemon warned him that whether the blade was seen as a bribe or ransom, Nick was certain it’d be his before the evening was over. “I accept Red Ned! In return I offer you one Liberties pardon.”

Keeping up the spirit of the occasion, Ned replied with his own gracious bow. So it was a deal. Honesty and trust were, however, still up for debate. Repositioning the poniard so that the hilt lay across the table on his right, Ned picked up the horn beaker. “So Nick, heard any word of this young lad, Walter?”

The Master of the Liberties pouted ever so slightly and shrugged. “Mayhap my pursuivants will report something. They sweep the Liberties each evening and bring me news of its doings and goings on by ten o’ the clock.”

Ned inclined his head as he tapped the beaker, once almost touching the poniard. So Nick was getting overconfident. He’d let slip that he’d reinforcements coming. “I do hope so, Nick. It must be so difficult for a lad lost and alone without a friend in the city.”

Earless Nick’s eyelids flickered and for an instant his eyes darted towards the stairway to his left. Ned gave the horn beaker another tap beside the blade. “So true Red Ned. The city can be a fearful place without a friend or patron.”

There it was again — Nick’s eyes returned to the stairway. “While a patron on the Privy Council can be real solace in these decayed times.”

Now it was Ned’s turn to blink. What was that? Where did it come from? Was it a hint or a threat? For the third time he tapped the beaker on the table then paused. “I call a roll of seven, a ‘nick’ I believe.” Then with the entire table watching with a hungry eagerness, Ned up ended the beaker, spilling the dice onto his cards. They rolled briefly and stopped, a five first then a moment later a two. He’d won and the silence was broken by a roar.

“WHA….!” Whatever Earless Nick meant to say was drowned out by a booming roar. Almost instantly the tavern’s common room was lit by a bright red flash and filled with boiling clouds of acrid smoke fountaining out of the fire place. Accompanying that confusion, a chorus of shrill screams echoed from up the stairway.

In the midst of this turmoil, Ned grabbed his blade from the table and joined Meg Black crouching underneath. He put his mouth close to her ear and whispered, though between the screams, curses and the thump and clatter of upturned benches, if the Last Trumpet sounded none would hear it. “Head for the stairs. That’s where Walter is being kept!”

Still on their knees Ned, his head down by the rush covered floor, pushed Meg Black forward through the stinging smoke. She’d warned him that her little surprise would cause consternation and panic, and had offhandedly hinted breathing may be strained. Right now however, Ned noted that her use of the truth was positively miserly. This place stank worse than a fart from Satan’s own arse. When Mistress Black, some two hours ago, had volunteered the use of her skills, Ned had first thought she was offering to reveal a generous spread of breasts and cleavage to help entice and distract Earless Nick. As with any healthy lad, this was too good an opportunity to miss, so he’d readily agreed. However what they got instead was a vivid example of alchemist’s tricks- red flame, smoke and a burning stench of hellfire, thick and acrid. So that’s why she’d needed the chair by the fire.