Chris Wooding: The Ace of Skulls

Jez was sitting at the end of the table, talking to no one. Her gaze darted about the room like that of a wary animal; her whole body was tensed. She’d never been the sociable sort, but these days she could barely handle crowds at all.

Frey worried about her. The crew had been able to accept a half-Mane in their midst because she only flipped out on rare occasions. The rest of the time, she’d just been. . well, just Jez. And they all used to like Jez. But now it was different. Now she unsettled everybody. He noted Harkins’ petrified glances, and the way the crew unconsciously moved along the table to be further away from her. They sensed the change in her.

He hated to admit it, but Jez — loyal, reliable Jez — was becoming a problem.

Her head snapped around and she stared at him, right into his eyes, across the width of the room. Frey’s blood ran cold.

As if she heard what I was thinking.

‘Oi! Are you playing this hand or not, Mr Lucky?’

It was the angry man with the port-wine birthmark whose money Frey had just taken. Frey turned back to the table, grateful for the distraction. He coughed into his fist, took a swig of grog, and waved them on. ‘I’m in,’ he said. ‘Deal.’

The cards came out, three for each player. Frey peeked at his cards. Two Dukes and an Ace of Crosses. A good hand, a very good hand. He bet big. Port-Wine and Pinch-Face matched him, while the last player dropped out.

The middle cards were dealt, three face up and three face down. Frey felt a flutter of excitement as he spotted the Duke of Fangs. The thought of beating Port-Wine with Three Dukes twice in a row was too much to resist.

He was first to pick up. He took the Duke. Port-Wine took the Four of Wings, and Pinch-Face took one of the face-down mystery cards.

Frey bet big again. He knew Port-Wine would match it. That man had too much pride to fold, and it was going to cost him.

Port-Wine more than matched him. He pushed all his money in.

Oh, damn, now he’s made me think he’s got something.

Pinch-Face dropped out, as Frey had known he would. He was easily intimidated. But now Frey had Port-Wine to deal with. What could he possibly have that could beat Frey’s Three Dukes? All he could think of was that Port-Wine had picked up three fours in his original hand, and added a fourth, but the odds against that were ridiculous.

He just wants to beat me. He wants to see me fold.

Frey pushed his money in too. ‘Show ’em,’ he said.

Port-Wine laid down his cards. Frey felt a little bit sick.

Four fours.

Port-Wine leered smugly. He knew before Frey showed his cards that he had the hand sewn up. Frey thought of all the money on the table, and resisted the urge to punch his opponent.

‘Reckon you need another Duke,’ said Port-Wine, running his finger through the air above the two face-down cards on the table. ‘You think it’s one of these?’

‘It ain’t,’ said Pinch-Face. He flipped over a card from his own discarded hand. ‘I had it.’

‘Well,’ said Port-Wine. ‘That just leaves the Ace of Skulls.’

The Ace of Skulls. The most dangerous card in Rake. It could turn a winning hand to shit or make a losing hand unbeatable. Frey reached out, let his hand hover over the cards, as if he could sense through his palm which of them could save him.

Probably none , he thought. He flipped a card.

‘Oh, look,’ he said with a smile.

Port-Wine had to be physically restrained by the other players. Frey gathered up the money on the table and left before the urge to gloat got him shot. His impoverished opponent was still yelling abuse when Frey was intercepted by a tall man with waxed black hair, polished leathers and a shoulder cloak.

Frey raised an eyebrow at the stranger’s attire. He took care of himself far too well to belong in a place like this. ‘Reckon you’re Pelaru’s man.’

‘I’ve come to ensure his payment arrives safely,’ came the reply. ‘There’s transport outside.’

‘Right you are,’ said Frey. He looked over at the table where his crew were carousing. ‘Silo! Jez! Doc! We’re going! The rest of you. . I dunno, amuse yourselves.’

Ashua raised a mug to him. ‘We’ll manage!’ she shouted.

The three he’d called got to their feet. As they walked over, the men and women in the crowded bar drew away from Jez like oil from a drop of soapy water.

‘Pinn? Artis Pinn?’

Ashua looked up at the two shambling drunks who’d just materialised at the edge of the table. They were gawping at the Ketty Jay ’s outflyer with something akin to awe in their eyes.

‘Did I hear someone say you was Pinn?’ asked one of them.

Pinn looked around the table, unsure whether he was in some kind of trouble. Nobody else knew either. ‘Might be,’ he said neutrally.

‘Artis Pinn the pilot? The man who beat Gidley Sleen in that race at the Rushes? Who brought his craft down out of the sky with no engines and lived to tell about it?’

Ashua felt Harkins go tense next to her.

‘Yeah!’ said Pinn, brightly. ‘Yeah, that was me!’

‘We’d be honoured if you’d come join us for an ale,’ the other drunkard gasped.

Pinn beamed, his tiny eyes almost disappearing in his chubby cheeks. ‘Why not?’ he said magnanimously. He squeezed his short, round body from out behind the table. ‘ ’Scuse me, everyone,’ he said. ‘Some fans want to say hello.’ He disappeared into the sweat and heat and murk.

Ashua turned to Harkins. His narrow, hangdog face had gone a strange shade of purple.

‘Didn’t you do that, not Pinn?’ she asked him.

‘ Yes! ’ Harkins fairly screamed it, before his voice wobbled back to normal pitch. ‘Yes, that was me! But I. . I had to fly under his name. . It was. . I mean. .’

Harkins gave up speaking. He looked like he was about to strangle on his own neck veins.

‘Why didn’t you stand up for yourself, then?’ Ashua asked.

‘Oho!’ said Crake, who’d been watching with wine-addled amusement over the rim of his cup. ‘Now that’s quite a question to ask our Mr Harkins.’

‘I. . you. . I mean. . It’s not as simple as that, now, is it?’ The ears of his battered pilot’s cap flapped about his unshaven cheeks as he waved about in agitation.

‘Why not?’

He seemed stumped. ‘It’s. . er. . I don’t know! I just can’t! I never could, alright?’

‘He never could,’ Crake agreed, nodding sagely.

Ashua blew out her lips to show what she thought of that. ‘How’d he get to be such a good pilot when he’s such a chickenshit?’

‘I’m not a chickenshit!’ said Harkins.

‘You sort of are,’ Crake commiserated, and took another mouthful of wine.

‘Yeah,’ said Ashua. ‘What about that time when Pinn burped behind you and you jumped so high you fell down the stairs in the cargo hold?’ Crake had broken apart laughing before she was halfway through the sentence.

‘But he pushed me!’ Harkins whined, a protest so pathetic that nobody believed it now or then.

‘ I heard,’ said Ashua, then took a gulp of rum because she’d momentarily forgotten what she’d heard. ‘ I heard that you were a pilot for the Navy in both Aerium Wars. That you shot down dozens of Sammies. Didn’t you?’

‘It was different then,’ Harkins mumbled.

‘How was it different?’ Ashua asked. The Ketty Jay ’s crew were usually a closemouthed lot, but she was drunk enough to be nosy.

Harkins squirmed. He didn’t like to be on the spot. ‘I. . er. . it’s. . well, I suppose. .’

‘Come on, it must be something ,’ she said. ‘What was different back then? What did life in the Navy have that life on the Ketty Jay doesn’t?’ She tried to think of the most obvious thing. ‘Discipline?’ she guessed.