David Wise - Tales of Ravenloft

"First shooter," Unthar grunted as he took up his post as stickman. He leveled a finger at a mousy woman with graying hair. "You got here first, you shoot first."

"Rules of the house, I assume?" Oliver asked. "Any others? "

"No," Tisiphone said brusquely. "No other house rules."

At Oliver's side, Dorlon chuckled and slapped him on the shoulder. "Were you expecting her to have some silly unspoken rule she could use to winnow the flatts from the sharps? Not everyone here has your experience, Arkwright, but I assure you that there are no flatts here to be gulled."

"Always learn the rules of the house before you put a penny on the green," Oliver said. "Only a flatt would balk at asking for them."

Dorlon sniffed effetely at the barb, shoving past Oliver and working his way to the opposite side of the table. He lingered there, next to Tisiphone, and waited for the other players to lay into Oliver. After all, the insult had been directed at them, too, since no one else had thought to request the house rules.

But the five shooters remained silent. From the distressed, nervous expressions on their faces, Oliver decided that Tisiphone had drawn nothing but flatts, wealthy rubes who'd soon find themselves bust. He smiled inwardly and plotted the course his wagers would take. If he played this right, he could draw off more than a little of their blunt with side bets before Tisiphone took her haul.

And the game soon proved Oliver right. The first Souragnean silver piece the sharp fished out of his purse was the last of his own money he had to lay down, and he won that back immediately. As the five flatts squandered their cash on foolish side bets, he steadily built a sizable hoard. Only Dorlon avoided his carefully considered wagers; the grifter knew full well that Oliver would never allow himself to be drawn into a side bet that wasn't to his advantage.

Within two hours, the novices had been driven from the game. The death's-heads grinned up from the table time and again, their eyeless gazes proclaiming ruin upon one player after another. And for each disastrous fall of the dice, Oliver felt his heartbeat speed a little, felt his caution dwindle. The rigor of the game was seducing him, as it always did.

Dorlon acquitted himself no better than the flatts, falling victim to the death's-heads just before sundown. As the foppish grifter pulled his fur-trimmed cloak around his shoulders, Oliver flipped a coin at him. It disappeared into the rushes at Dorlon's feet. "For the road home," the sharp said. "Maybe you can pay the elves to leave you alone."

The grifter took the coin and left without comment, but Oliver heard Unthar grumble a curse under his breath.

"Is there a problem?" the sharp asked coldly.

"Unthar rode with Soth's patrols once," Tisiphone explained as she scooped up the dice and handed them to Oliver. "He saw firsthand what the elves can do."

"Maybe you'll see them cut someone up," the brute rumbled. "You'll be real close and have to watch everything, all the blades and the needles. Then we'll see if you can joke about it."

Tisiphone glared at the bouncer. Oliver recognized the look from the bloody game in Richemulot. Her mask of sweetness had cracked just enough to reveal the horrible fury lurking just below the surface. But there was something else in her eyes now as well. Desperation, perhaps. Or was it fear?

"We have to close up soon," Tisiphone said at last. "Lord Soth's orders. The game has to be shut down by dark."

She was lying. Oliver had no doubt about that. And as he tried to piece together a reason for her fear and her obvious, desperate lie, he realized what was troubling the woman so: she knew she was going to lose.

"Fine," the sharp said. "Let's get this over with."

All afternoon, Oliver had avoided being the shooter as best he could. He'd passed the dice frequently, preferring instead to earn himself a better position through side bets and wagering alongside the house, fading the other players. Now, he heaped all his coins on a nearby table, capping the hoard with the diamond cuff links he'd won from Duke Gundar. "Everything on this roll," he said calmly, then gathered up the dice and threw them down the center.

The first die turned up a death's-head, and Oliver's guts clenched. He watched the other die spin wildly on a corner, for what seemed an eternity. A wave of despair washed over him. "Come on," he hissed.

The die dropped as a three.

"Your point's four," Tisiphone said, voice quavering.

Oliver rattled the dice confidently. He'd stood on the brink of ruin and come away unscathed. There was no way he was going to lose now. Fate was smiling on him, bathing him in a radiance that blinded the death's-heads to him.

Certain of his good fortune, he cast the dice again.

"Double two. Shooter wins," Tisiphone said. The words slithered from her on a ragged sigh. But before Oliver could even congratulate himself, she added," I can't cover your wager."

"What?" he shouted.

"One of those cuff links is worth more than all the silver I took from Dorlon and the others," Tisiphone said.

Oliver stalked to her side. "You don't have anything else? No gems? Nothing hidden beneath the floorboards — besides the former owner, I mean? "

"I have the deed to the Warden. That's all."

The tears that began to course down Tisiphone's cheeks only hardened Oliver's heart against her. Did she think he was some bumpkin just wandered in from the fields to be swayed by such histrionics?" Then I suppose I'll just have to take the inn," the sharp said.

Shoulders hunched in resignation, Tisiphone took a rolled sheet of parchment from under the dice table. "This is the deed. "She tossed it to Oliver. "The Iron Warden's yours."

"I won't be staying here. If you want to manage the place for me, we might be able to work something out."

"No, thanks," Tisiphone said. The tears were abruptly gone, as was the quaver in her voice. She signaled to Unthar. "Hurry. The sun's gone down."

"You're leaving?" Oliver stammered. "What about the elves? "

"I'd rather take my chances with them than with what's coming here," Unthar blurted as he retrieved two packed saddlebags from behind the bar and hustled one over each broad shoulder.

The curved blade of Oliver's falchion hissed like a serpent as it slipped from its scabbard. Sword raised before him, the sharp started across the taproom toward Tisiphone. "No one's leaving until I get an explanation," he said menacingly.

The inn's front door slid open then, revealing a tall, armored figure, black against the crimson and gold of the twilight sky. "No one is leaving until I have my turn at the table," it corrected in a sepulchral voice.

Tisiphone and Unthar dropped to their knees. "Lord Soth," they murmured, gazes downcast.

The Knight of the Black Rose walked slowly into the room. By the wavering light of the candles, Oliver could see that the ancient armor Soth wore had been scorched, as if blasted in some mammoth furnace. The intricate embossings of flowers and kingfishers that had once patterned its surface were scarred almost beyond recognition. The icon spared the most destruction — a rose on the breastplate — showed hints of its original crimson hue, but soot, or blood, had stained most of its petals black.

Soth's cape of royal purple swirled behind him as he moved, a banner borne up by ghost winds. At first glance, the cape appeared regal and richly embroidered. But as the knight got close to Oliver, the gambler noted that the fabric was bloodstained. Like everything about the lord of Sithicus, the cloak recalled distant victories, battles won for noble reasons long ago transmuted by fanaticism, honorable men long ago tainted by depravity.

The knight stopped less than a sword's length away from Oliver, disdainful of the gambler's naked blade. He regarded the sharp with eyes that glowed like wills-o'the-wisp within the darkness of his helmet, then pointed at the parchment clutched in the man's hand.