James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

“ The Breshada?” asked the man, more surprised than dubious now.

Davian inclined his head, trying to look confident. “I was in Talmiel with her just last week. We cut these off a couple of abominations that were stupid enough to come into town.”

The man just stared at Davian for a few seconds, then nodded, gesturing to the empty chair. “A student of Breshada the Red is welcome at our game anytime,” he said, only a little reluctantly.

Davian gave him a tight smile, hoping it made him look arrogant rather than relieved, and sat. Seeing that nothing else interesting was going to happen, the rest of the patrons went back to their conversations, though Davian could still see a few of them casting sidelong glances in his direction.

Inwardly, he cursed Wirr. His friend hadn’t batted an eyelid. He’d known they were Hunters, and had kept Davian in the dark for fear he wouldn’t go along with the plan.

He would kill him if they made it through this in one piece.

The man who had been doing the talking stuck out his hand. “I am Kelosh,” he said, all traces of surliness gone now that he had made the decision to believe them. “This is Altesh and Gorron.” The other two men nodded to him as Kelosh said their names.

“Shadat,” said Davian, a common name from Desriel that he’d decided upon earlier.

“Keth,” supplied Wirr, who was still standing.

Kelosh glanced up at him. “You want to play?”

Wirr shook his head as he took a seat to the side. “Rounds are too short with five. Besides, Shadat already took all my money,” he added with a grin.

Kelosh chuckled, though he and the others gave Davian an appraising look. “Very well,” he said, shuffling and starting the deal.

Davian took a deep breath, concentrating. Geshett was fairly simple; Wirr had taught him the game over the past few hours. How Wirr had known these men here were playing it, though, Davian had no idea.

“So you’ve come from Talmiel,” said Kelosh, his tone conversational. “You wouldn’t have heard about the trouble up north?” Davian shook his head and Kelosh paused, evidently excited to find someone new to tell. “A boy in one of the villages up there found out he had the sickness a couple of weeks ago. First abomination in Desriel in ten years.” Kelosh’s lip curled. “He went mad. Killed his entire family, half the rest of the villagers too.”

Davian didn’t have to fake his reaction. “That’s awful.” Then he frowned. “Wait. How?” The First Tenet should have stopped one of the Gifted from hurting anyone, regardless of where they were born.

Kelosh nodded solemnly, clearly having anticipated the question. “That’s what has everyone talking.”

“They say he doesn’t have the Mark,” interjected Altesh.

Kelosh shot him a look of irritation, then turned back to Davian. “I heard that too, but unlike my idiot friend here, I don’t believe every whisper in Squaremarket. The Gil’shar are taking him to Thrindar for a public execution - making an example of him and all that – so they have it under control. They’ll let us know if we need to start looking for something new.” He rubbed his hands together nervously. “Still, word’s out that he was from here; I had three people today ask me if we were thinking of setting up posts in Thrindar again. People are talking about another Outbreak.”

Davian set his face into as grim a mask as he could muster. “Meldier send that day never comes,” he said, invoking the name of the Desrielite god of knowledge.

“I’ll drink to that,” replied Kelosh, and the others muttered their agreement.

Davian breathed a sigh of relief as the conversation died out, the others focusing on their cards. He mentally ran through the rules of Geshett again. Everyone started with ten cards. Players either passed – eliminating them from the round – or lay one, two, or three cards face-down on the table, called their value, and made a bet of any amount. The card value called had to be higher than any previously played.

Once a bet had been made, another player could claim ‘Gesh’ – becoming the Accuser - indicating that they thought the cards laid down were not of the value called. If Gesh was invoked, the cards were turned face-up. If the call had been honest, the Accuser paid the player double their bet. If it had been false, though, the player not only honoured their bet, but gave the same amount to the Accuser.

Whoever finished the round having played the highest cards – either honestly or without being caught – collected everything that had been bet during that round.

Davian settled in, focusing. It was meant to be a game of skill, where a person’s ability to bluff was key. He wasn’t sure how successful his own bluffing abilities would be, but as for the others, he knew they had no chance.

For a split second, he almost pitied them.

Kelosh slapped Davian on the back as Gorron continued to glare at the overturned cards.

“Do you ever bluff, my friend?” he asked as Gorron reluctantly slid two silver pieces in Davian’s direction.

Davian took them and added them to his pile, which had grown large in the last hour. “Only when I know you won’t call me on it,” he replied with a grin.

Kelosh roared with laughter. The drinks had been flowing, and the big man’s demeanour had loosened considerably since Davian had first sat down. Davian was grateful for that. He’d been careful in his play, as Wirr had advised – losing occasionally, letting the smaller bluffs go uncalled – but he had still won enough coin to last a couple of months, maybe more. And Wirr had been right. While the men had not enjoyed losing, Kelosh and Altesh had taken it in stride, almost seeming amused that they were being beaten by a boy.

Gorron had been less amiable. To be fair, his pile had dwindled the most of the three, and now consisted of little more than a few copper pieces. Once those disappeared, the game would likely finish for the evening. To that end, Davian intended to call Gesh the very next time he saw a puff of shadows coming from Gorron’s mouth. Despite feeling a little more comfortable than at the beginning, he still itched to be far, far away from these men.

“Breshada must be as good a teacher as she is a Seeker,” Gorron said with a growl as he watched his coins disappear into Davian’s pile.

“One eight. Three coppers,” said Altesh, laying a single card on the table. He looked across at Davian. “Tell us more about Breshada, Shadat. Is what they say about Whisper true?”

Davian tried not to panic. There had only been gentle banter around the table thus far; the game generally required too much concentration for small-talk. This was the first time he had been asked a question that he didn’t know the answer to. What was Whisper?

“I don’t know. What do they say?” he asked, trying to sound casual. He laid two cards face-down. “Two twos. One silver.” It was his standard bet, now he had the money. Small enough to not matter if he didn’t win the round, large enough to be worthwhile if someone called Gesh on him. Kelosh had been right – he always played it true, and folded if he couldn’t. He had a guaranteed way of making money. There was no point in gambling.

Kelosh snorted. “You know the stories. Whoever holds it cannot be touched, by abominations or the Gods themselves. One cut from Whisper steals your very soul and makes the blade stronger. That sort of thing.” He stared at his hand for a moment. “Two sevens. Six coppers.”

Davian hesitated. Kelosh was lying about his cards, but Davian ignored it, instead thinking back to that night in Talmiel when the young woman had rescued them. He thought about the way their captors had died. “I don’t know about stealing souls,” he said quietly, “but all it takes is a nick, and you’re dead. Instantly. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”