Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (28 page)

Despite language and technological barriers, other things seemed obvious. Apparently, this green paper possessed some value. It seemed odd to Taziar, but he accepted it with no way to question. Clearly, the object of the game was for the bettor to pick out the odd card based on watching the shuffle. The one card in three odds of selecting the correct card by random chance did not seem to bother the audience. By nature, people trusted their eyesight and ability to outwit scams as surely as the monte believed in his skill at deception.

As Taziar suspected, the pimple-faced teenager turned to a nearby man, speaking quickly and earnestly in low tones while the monte shifted from foot to foot with mock impatience. Taziar scanned the crowd for evidence of other shills. A petite brunette in an indecently short skirt watched with an expression and stance that revealed more than casual interest. From long practice, Taziar picked out the last two members of the monte’s gang. A densely-muscled, black youth and a wiry Hispanic studied the proceedings with feigned indifference, occasionally measuring the crowd with glances. Of them all, Taziar felt most certain about the loyalties of his last find. The Hispanic teen carried a deck of cards in his jeans pocket, one back clearly visible above the stitched edge. The pattern matched the cards on the dealer’s table.

As Taziar scrutinized the crowd, he also discovered a schemer unrelated to the gang. A nondescript, middle-aged man moved adeptly through the masses. Paunchy and balding, he was small, barely the height of an average woman, though he still towered nearly a full head over Taziar. Attracted by the same inconspicuousness that made the rest of the spectators ignore the stranger, Taziar watched him approach a jovial man clutching the hand of a young boy. As the thief maneuvered past the father, he deftly flicked a leather billfold from the father’s back pocket. Stashing it in his own hip pocket, he barely paused before gliding toward his next victim.

Ordinarily, Taziar would have let the heist pass without comment or action. But the thief s bulging gut and carefully tailored clothes led Taziar to believe that he was not stealing from need. Drawn to the conclusion that father and son could make better use of the money, Taziar considered his options.
I have to find Allerum. Now isn’t the time to get involved in conflicts that could get me into trouble.
Still, the simple challenge offered by the situation sent his heart into the familiar, calm cadence that preceded action.
I’ll handle the bizarre things happening around me better if I’m composed. What could possibly lull me faster than the chance to match wits with a thief?
Decision made, Taziar closed on the pickpocket.

A collective sigh rose from the audience as the pimple-faced teen and his victim lost their money to the monte’s sleight of hand.

While the crowd’s attention was on the exchange of bills, the pickpocket swiped another wallet. Taziar moved simultaneously. Even as the thief stuffed the new cache into his pocket, Taziar relieved him of the father’s wallet, along with a fat wad of loose bills.

Apparently oblivious, the pickpocket waded into the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk and wandered out of sight.

A warm sense of accomplishment filled Taziar. Grinning, he approached the father and son, aware a slip now would turn a good deed into a fatal error. Briefly, he considered openly returning the man’s property but discarded the idea as quickly.
Allerum said the people in his city tended to mistrust strangers. I’ve got no words to explain the truth if this man blames me for the theft.
Taziar held the wallet in his palm. To free his hands, he stuffed the additional, loose packet of bills into one of the inner pockets lining his shirt.

The father shifted for a better view. As Taziar slipped behind the man, the boy glanced around, a finger drilling into one nostril.

Taziar smiled at the child.

Apparently recognizing Taziar as a small adult rather than another child, the boy lost interest. He tugged at his father’s sleeve.

The man looked down. A brief exchange followed from which Taziar managed to glean only a few prepositions and definite articles. The man hefted the boy, placing the child on his shoulders.

As the man moved, his attention fully focused on his son. Taziar tapped the wallet back into its proper pocket. The Climber hesitated, practiced at looking casual, aware a mad scramble from the site, though tempting, would draw attention. With appropriate nonchalance, he sauntered back into the milling crowd.

The ease of the maneuver disappointed Taziar, and he missed the exhilarating rush that usually accompanied danger.
Too simple. A blind beginner could have returned that purse.
He searched for a more interesting target. His gaze fell on the Hispanic member of the monte’s gang. The deck of cards outlined against the hip pocket of his jeans beckoned, a challenge worthy of a master thief. Taziar took a step toward the stranger. Then, logic caught up with his runaway thoughts.
What am I doing? I’ve got two Chaos-warped sorcerers chasing me and a friend to locate. Why am I looking for more trouble?

The answer came more easily than Taziar expected. Trapped in a world and time that seemed less ordered than Bolverkr’s Chaos, Taziar was clinging to the only familiar situation he had found. The chance to match wits with future hustlers and thieves, sharks with years of others’ experience to draw on, intrigued him; and the familiarity of the challenge soothed. Whatever technology the future brought, people apparently were still people, constantly seeking a fast and easy means to make their money. And it seemed there would always be other people willing to prey upon this basic flaw in human nature, sating the same flaw in themselves.

Now understanding his motivations, Taziar forced aside his curiosity. He turned to leave, tossing one last glance at the monte game. At the table, a small, oval-faced woman pulled a bill from her pocketbook.

Astryd!
Taziar stared, not daring to question, afraid he might lose her again.
Astryd!
He shoved through the crowd, skidding to a stop beside her.

As Taziar drew up near the woman, he realized his mistake. She stood slightly shorter than he, but there all resemblance to Astryd ended. Dark hair fell to her shoulders. Her muddy-green eyes followed the monte’s movements with a precision and concentration even Taziar’s sudden appearance could not shake.

Hope vanished in an instant, dashed beneath a rush of disappointment. Unaccustomed to sudden, impetuous actions, Taziar froze, uncertain of his next move. Concerned that grief could shake his judgment so completely that he could mistake another woman for Astryd, he concentrated on the game, hoping to ground his sanity.

The monte talked continuously as he shuffled. Taziar managed to pluck a few catch phrases from the pitch, by their repetition, the resemblance to his own language, and Larson’s hints. The phrase, “find the lady” seemed to recur with the greatest frequency.

The woman slapped her bill down before the center card.

The monte frowned, apparently displeased by the paltriness of her wager. He paused, as if waiting for her or someone else to increase the bet. When no one did, he revealed her chosen card as a black six. Collecting the money, he then showed her the queen as the leftmost card and another six on the right. He gathered the cards, a six tented in his left hand, the other six in his right with the queen beneath it. With a smooth, practiced sweep, he flicked the black card over the red and let it drop to the table. All eyes in the crowd then followed the displaced six as he rearranged them on the table.

Simple single substitution.
Taziar assessed the method naturally, hardly daring to believe such an easy maneuver could fool a crowd. Yet he had already watched several people lose their money to it. Trained to observe every subtlety, he had no difficulty following the exchange. The queen sat in the middle, the decoy to her right.

The woman hesitated, her hand in her purse.

The monte continued his pitch, his words uninterpretable but his voice wheedling encouragements.

Taziar could not help liking this woman. He wanted to point out the correct card but realized she had no reason to trust him.
Besides, if it seems too easy, it probably is. I could be missing something, and I’d hate to steer her wrong.

The woman sighed. She hauled a crumpled bill from her purse. Her hand hovered, her gaze shifting from card to card.

The crowd waited patiently, the monte less so. He said something that sent a ripple of laughter through the masses, making an undulating gesture with his hand to hurry the woman.

She placed the bill before the decoy.

The monte flipped it, revealing the six. He took her money then turned the other cards, gathering them for the next round.

The woman backed away, disappointment traced vividly across her features.

Before she could leave, Taziar touched her arm. He held up a finger, indicating she should wait, then closed in to win back her money, glad for the excuse to play.

The monte turned his attention to Taziar, gaze flicking over the dirty, overlarge cloak and the healing slash on his cheek.

Taziar plucked the stolen bankroll from his pocket.

Interest flashed across the monte’s face, disappearing beneath a mask of professional indifference, but not quickly enough. Apparently, the sight of money allowed him to dismiss his player’s battle-scarred appearance. The patter began again.

Taziar peeled through several, identical outer bills until he reached ones that looked like those the woman had played. He slipped two from the stack, then rifled through the others, gauging their value from the expressions on the faces of the monte’s gang. Apparently, the pickpocket had arranged the wad with the least valuable bills outside in a gradual progression toward the center. Accustomed to rapid-fire assessments of objects and human reactions, Taziar noted that the two different types of outer bills, including the ones he had pulled out, had single digits in the corners. He found three types of double digit bills as well as four identical bills with triple digits. And the gang’s interest told Taziar he carried enough money to mark him as a target.

The woman waited, watching.

The monte’s patience seemed to have increased exponentially. He waited until Taziar looked up before launching into the usual shuffle and banter.

Taziar remained silent, easily following the original switch and the subsequent arrangement of the cards. The brunette in the miniskirt, whom Taziar had pegged as a gang member, drifted toward the game.

Not wanting to reveal himself as other than a curious passerby, Taziar hesitated, looking over the cards as if confused. He liked this woman who reminded him of Astryd and saw no reason to let her know he was as crooked as any monte. He dropped his two bills before the center card, trying to make the selection look casual and random.

Instantly, the long-legged brunette tossed a pair of double digit bills before the decoy card.

The monte looked at Taziar apologetically and said something the Shadow Climber guessed to mean that only one bet was allowed per round. The monte managed to indicate that, since both wagers were placed at once, he would have to accept the more valuable one. Returning Taziar’s two fives, he concentrated on the female gang member’s money instead.

Annoyance gripped Taziar, though he hid it behind a pall of bland disappointment. He doubted anyone else in the crowd recognized the woman as a shill, so he alone identified the scam.
There’s no way to win this game. If the sleight of hand doesn’t fool the player, he uses the gang to cheat.
In his youth as a con man, Taziar had always relied on complex, showy tricks, believing the audience deserved entertainment in exchange for their gold. When hunger drove him to simple trickery or thievery, he always played fairly, preying only on the rich and sharing his spoils. There was an honor even among swindlers; unwritten rules specified that if one con outwitted another’s scam, the lesson learned outvalued the money lost. Now, suddenly, the stakes changed. The challenge escalated from a good deed designed to help a pretty woman to a temptation too difficult to resist.
There’s got to be a way to win.
Reclaiming his bills, Taziar handed them to the woman he had mistaken for Astryd to replace the ones she had lost in the previous round.

Features twisted in confusion, the small woman tried to return the bills, speaking in sentences Taziar could only identify as questions.

Taziar shook his head, refusing the fives, then turned his attention back to the monte who was revealing the decoy as a six. The monte collected the brunette gang member’s money as well as the cards, pausing only long enough to demonstrate that the central one was indeed the queen.

The monte gestured at Taziar with both hands, encouraging him to try again.

Taziar examined the youth more closely. His pants pockets bulged with money. He wore an open dress shirt over a white undershirt. His breast pocket contained a partially crushed box of white paper sticks, and the remainder of the deck of cards. He asked Taziar an uninterpretable question.

Taziar shrugged. “I don’t understand your language,” he said in the tongue of Cullinsberg’s barony.

The wiry Hispanic gang member moved in. He leaned past Taziar, talking with the monte in low tones. As close as the youth stood, Taziar could scarcely hear him. Yet, coincidentally, he chose words Larson had taught Taziar. “The little guy’s a foreigner.”

The monte’s reply emerged equally comprehensible and pitched too softly for the crowd to hear. “Who fucking cares? The ratty little dirtball’s got money.”

Taziar made no pretext of understanding. As the game ground to a halt, bystanders drifted away. The deck of cards in the Hispanic’s pocket hovered, temptingly close to Taziar’s reach.
I saw the rest of the leader’s cards in his pocket. That can only mean this man carries an unrelated deck of his own.
Grasping the opportunity, Taziar calmly edged the cards from the teen’s pocket and stashed them in his own.

A moment later, the gang member sidestepped, returning to his position. The monte spun the queen, face up, on the table. His speech became loud, slow, and broken, addressed directly at Taziar. “You play?” He made grand gestures at the table. “You find the lady?”