Page 3 of Crooked Kingdom (Dregs 2)
“Marvelous,” Nina said, looking slightly green.
Wylan rushed through the swinging door to the servants’ pantry. It was stocked with plates, glassware, napkins, and a tin tub full of ice. A dumbwaiter took up a large section of the far wall, and there was a trumpet-shaped speaking tube next to it to allow the staff to communicate with the kitchen. Wylan set the dish of ice and shells on the table, then called down to the kitchen for oysters and buttered prawns.
“Oh, and another bottle of champagne.”
“What vintage?”
“Uh … more of the same?” Wylan had heard his father’s friends talk about which wines made for good investments, but he didn’t quite trust himself to choose a year.
By the time he returned to the parlor with Nina’s order, Kaz was standing up from the table. He made a gesture as if he was dusting off his hands—the sign that a dealer had finished his shift. Specht sat down, a blue silk cravat tied at his throat to hide his tattoos. He shook out his cuffs and called for players to ante up or cash out.
Kaz’s eyes met Wylan’s as he vanished into the pantry.
This was the moment. According to Kaz and Jesper, a player often thought his luck was bound to the dealer and would stop play at the shift change.
Wylan watched in distress as Smeet stretched and gave Nina’s bottom a firm pat. “We’ve had a good run,” he said, glancing at Jesper, who was staring dejectedly at his meager pile of remaining chips. “We may find fatter game elsewhere.”
“But my food just came,” pouted Nina.
Wylan stepped forward, unsure of what to say, only knowing that they had to delay Smeet. “Is everything to your liking, sir? Can I offer you and the lady something more?”
Smeet ignored him, hand still hovering over Nina’s backside. “There’s finer vittles and better service to be had all over the Lid, my dear.”
A big man in a striped suit approached Smeet, eager to snag his seat. “Cashing out?”
Smeet gave Jesper a friendly nod. “Looks like we both are, eh, lad? Better luck next time.”
Jesper didn’t return the smile. “I’m not done here.”
Smeet gestured to Jesper’s sad stack of chips. “Certainly looks like you are.”
Jesper rose and reached for his guns. Wylan clutched the bottle of champagne in his hands as the other players pushed back from the table, ready to grab their own weapons or dive for cover. But all Jesper did was unsling his gun belt. Gently, he laid the revolvers on the table, fingers brushing over their high-gloss ridges with care.
“How much for these?” he asked.
Wylan tried to catch Jesper’s eye. Was this part of the plan? And even if it was, what was Jesper thinking? He loved those guns. He might as well cut off his own hand and throw it into the pot.
Specht cleared his throat and said, “The Cumulus isn’t a pawnshop. We accept cash and credit from the Gemensbank only.”
“I’ll stake you,” Smeet said with studied disinterest, “if it will get the game moving again. One thousand kruge for the guns?”
“They’re worth ten times that.”
“Five thousand kruge.”
“Seven.”
“Six, and that’s only because I’m feeling generous.”
“Don’t!” Wylan blurted. The room went silent.
Jesper’s voice was cold. “I don’t remember asking for your advice.”
“The insolence!” said Smeet. “Since when do waiters involve themselves in game play?”
Nina glared at Wylan, and Specht’s tone was furious with disbelief when he said, “Gentlemen, shall we get this game rolling again? Ante up!”
Jesper shoved his revolvers across the table to Smeet, and Smeet slid a tall stack of chips over to Jesper in return.
“All right,” said Jesper, his gray eyes bleak. “Deal me in.”
Wylan stepped back from the table and disappeared into the pantry as quickly as he could. The dish of ice and shells was gone, and Kaz was waiting. He’d thrown a long orange cape over his blue jacket. His gloves were already back in place.
“Kaz,” Wylan said desperately. “Jesper just put his guns up.”
“How much did he get for them?”
“Why does that matter? He—”
“Five thousand kruge?”
“Six.”
“Good. Not even Jesper should be able to run through that in less than two hours.” He tossed
Wylan a cape and mask, the trappings of the Gray Imp, one of the characters of the Komedie Brute. “Let’s go.”
“Me?”
“No, the idiot behind you.” Kaz picked up the speaking trumpet and said, “Send up another waiter. This one managed to spill champagne on some high roller’s shoes.”
Someone in the kitchen laughed and said, “You got it.”
They were down the stairs and out the servants’ entrance bare moments later, their costumes allowing them to move anonymously through the crowds of East Stave.
“You knew Jesper would lose. You made sure of it,” Wylan accused. Kaz rarely used his cane when they were roaming parts of the city where he might be recognized. But despite his lopsided gait, Wylan had to jog to keep up with him.
“Of course I did. I control the game, Wylan, or I don’t play. I could have made sure Jesper won every hand.”
“Then why—”
“We weren’t there to win at cards. We needed Smeet to stay at the tables. He was ogling those guns almost as much as Nina’s cleavage. Now he’s feeling confident, like he’s in for a good night—if he loses, he’ll still keep playing. Who knows? Jesper may even win his revolvers back.”
“I hope so,” said Wylan as they hopped onto a browboat crowded with tourists and headed south down the Stave.
“You would.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Someone like Jesper wins two hands and starts to call it a streak. Eventually he loses, and that just leaves him hungrier for the next run of good luck. The house relies on it.”
Then why make him walk into a gambling den? Wylan thought but didn’t say. And why make Jesper give up something that meant so much to him? There had to be another way to keep Smeet playing. But those weren’t even the right questions. The real question was why Jesper did it all without hesitating. Maybe he was still looking for Kaz’s approval, hoping to earn back his favor after Jesper’s slip had led them into the ambush at the docks that had nearly cost Inej her life. Or maybe Jesper wanted something more than forgiveness from Kaz.
