Chris Wooding - Retribution Falls

‘Pretty part of the world,’ Frey commented. ‘You’d think the Aerium Wars never happened.’

‘Aulenfay missed the worst of it the first time round, and got none of it on the second,’ said Crake. ‘You should see Draki and Rabban. Six years on and they’re still half rubble.’

‘Yeah, I’ve seen ’em,’ he replied distantly. He was watching a young family who were approaching on their side of the avenue: a handsome husband, a neat wife with a beautiful smile, two little girls singing a rhyme as they skipped along in their frilly dresses. After a moment the woman noticed his interest. Frey looked away quickly, but Crake bid them a pleasant ‘Good day,’ as they passed.

‘Good day,’ the couple replied, and a moment later the girls chimed ‘Good day!’ politely. Frey had to hurry on. The sight of their happiness, the sound of those little voices, was like a kick in the chest.

‘What’s the matter?’ Crake enquired, noticing Frey’s sudden change in demeanour.

‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘Nothing, I just suddenly . . . I was worried they’d recognise me. Shouldn’t have made eye contact.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry. I told you, I picked up a broadsheet in Marklin’s Reach yesterday. There was no mention of you. And Aulenfay isn’t the kind of place where they stick “Wanted” posters everywhere. I think you’ve been forgotten by the general public.’ He patted Frey on the shoulder. ‘Besides, considering the age of the photograph and your newly raddled and insalubrious appearance, I don’t think anyone would recognise you unless they had a particular interest.’

‘Raddled and insalubrious?’ Frey repeated. He was beginning to suspect Crake of showing off, in an attempt to belittle him.

‘It means formidable and rugged,’ Crake assured him. ‘The beard, you see.’

‘Oh.’

They came to a crossroads and Crake stopped on the corner. ‘Well, I must be leaving you. I have to go and pick up my equipment, and the kind of people who sell daemonist paraphernalia are the kind of people who don’t like non-daemonists knowing who they are.’

‘Right,’ said Frey. ‘Have it delivered to the dock warehouse. We’ll pick it up from there. No names, though.’

‘Of course.’ The daemonist turned to go.

‘Crake.’

‘Yes?’

Frey looked up the street, rather awkwardly. ‘That thing with Macarde . . . him holding a gun to your head and so forth . . .’

Crake waited.

‘I’m sorry it went that way,’ Frey said at last.

Crake regarded him for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he nodded slightly and headed away without another word.

Frey made his way to the South Quarter, a less affluent part of the city, where he visited a tailor and a shop that specialised in theatrical make-up. After that, he went looking for a game of Rake.

The South Quarter was about as seedy as Aulenfay got, which meant it was still quite picturesque in a charmingly ramshackle kind of way. The winding lanes and cobbled alleyways were all but free of filth and litter. Statues and small, well-kept fountains still surprised visitors at every turn. There were no rag-tag children or crusty beggars. Aulenfay had a strict policy against that kind of thing.

The Ducal Militia were in evidence, patrolling in their stiff brown uniforms. Frey kept out of their way.

Despite the risks of coming to a big city, Frey had allowed himself to be persuaded by Crake. He did have some preparation to do before he went looking for Amalicia Thade in her secluded hermitage, but that wasn’t the whole reason. The crew needed a break. The disastrous attack on the freighter, the escape from the Century Knights, that frustrating time spent bored and freezing in Yortland—all these things had worn them down, and they were sick and tired of each other’s company. A little time off would do them all good, and Aulenfay was a fine place for it.

Whether they’d all come back or not was another matter, but Frey wasn’t worried about that. If they left, they left. He’d understand. They’d each make their own choice.

It took a little searching to locate the Rake den. He hadn’t been this way for a few years. But it was still there, in the cellar bar of an old tavern: a little room with three circular tables and a vaulted ceiling of old grey brick. Smoke drifted in the air and the shadows were thick, thrown by oil lanterns. Rake players didn’t like their games too brightly lit. Most of them only had a passing acquaintance with daylight.

Only one of the tables was in use when Frey was shown in. Three men sat there, studying their cards, dull piles of coins before them. There was a thin, po-faced man who looked like an undertaker, an elderly, toothless drunk, and a whiskery, rotund fellow with a red face and a battered stovepipe hat. Frey sat down and they introduced themselves as Foxmuth, Scrone and Gremble, which amused Frey, who thought they sounded like a firm of lawyers. Frey gave a false name. He ordered a drink, emptied out his purse on the table, and set to the game.

It wasn’t long before he realised his opponents were terrible card players. At first he suspected some kind of trap: perhaps they were feigning incompetence to sucker him. But as the game went on he became ever more convinced they were the real deal.

They went in big with their money, chasing runs that never came up. They jittered with excitement when they made a low three-of-a-kind and then bet it as if it was unbeatable. They allowed themselves to be bluffed away whenever they saw Frey pick up a dangerous card, frightened that he was holding something that could crush them.

From the moment he sat down, he was winning.

Several hours passed, and several drinks. Scrone was too plastered to keep his attention on the game, and his money was whittled away on silly bets. Eventually, he made a suicidal bluff against Foxmuth who was holding Crosses Full and lost it all. After that, he fell asleep and began to snore.

Foxmuth was knocked out shortly afterwards, following a chancy call against Gremble’s Ace-Duke paired. Foxmuth’s last card failed to produce the hand he needed, and Gremble scooped up all his money.

Frey was only mildly disheartened. All his careful work in maintaining his lead had been undermined by the bad play of the other two. They’d given all their money to Gremble, making the two remaining players roughly even. He settled down to the task of demolishing his final opponent.

‘Just my luck,’ Foxmuth moaned. ‘The wife’s going to rip me a new arse when I come home. I wouldn’t have even been here if they’d had the parade today.’

Frey was only half-listening. He dealt the cards, three each, then picked up his. A thin chill of excitement ran through him. Three Priests.

‘Why didn’t they have the parade?’ Frey asked, making idle chatter to cover his anticipation.

‘Earl Hengar was supposed to be coming to see the Duke. Big parade and all. But with what’s happened . . . well, I suppose they thought it was in bad taste or something. Cancelled last-minute.’

‘I should think so. Bloody disgrace,’ muttered Gremble. He rapped the table to indicate that he didn’t wish to bet.

‘Bet,’ said Frey. ‘Two bits.’ He pushed the coins in. It was a high opening bid, but he knew Gremble’s style of play by now. Instead of being frightened off, Gremble would assume it was a bluff and match it. Which was exactly what he did.

Frey dealt four more cards to the middle, two for each player in the game. Two face up, two face down. The face-up cards were the Lady of Wings and the Priest of Skulls.

His heart jumped. If he could get that Priest, he’d have an almost unbeatable hand. But Gremble, to the left of the dealer, got to pick his card first from the four in the middle.