Casino

After leaving the Red Skull Tavern, sunlight cleaved down between two rows of eaves, cutting the stone-paved road into one bright half and one dark half.

Barlow walked in front, not too quickly, each step landing on the bright half.

Roy followed behind him.

At a fork in the alley, Barlow turned left, toward the dockside warehouses. Roy turned left as well.

Barlow stopped.

Without turning around, he raised a hand and swatted backward.

His palm landed on Roy's forehead, right about two finger-widths above his hairline, knocking Roy's head forward.

"Go watch your sister."

Roy rubbed his forehead. Barlow had already withdrawn his hand and continued onward.

Roy turned around. Mila stood on the other side of the fork. She glanced at him without speaking, then turned toward town. Roy followed her.

Orange Town's market stretched three streets northward from the docks. Though it was called a "market," it was really the town's busiest commercial district.

The street was more than twice as wide as the stone road by the docks, paved with square granite bricks shipped from the Goa Kingdom and polished smooth by cartwheels and shoes.

Shops crowded both sides of the street—cloth sellers, ironmongers, ship supply stores, fruit vendors, herbalists. Their signs jutted out horizontally and vertically, slicing the sky into strips.

Stalls stood outside the shops, piled with oranges, apples, dried fish, bundled ropes, and neatly stacked clay jars. The vendors shouted themselves hoarse.

There were even more people here than at the docks. The dockworkers were all men, but the market had men and women, old and young alike.

Women in aprons carried baskets and crouched before fruit stalls to pick oranges. They chose one, held it up to the sunlight, put it down, and chose another.

Several children darted through the crowd, barefoot as they ran over the granite bricks, their soles slapping sharply against the stone.

An old fish seller dozed behind his stall. Whenever flies landed on the fishes' eyes, he waved them away with a fan.

Damian walked at the front. His shoulders were broad, and with so many people around, he had to angle them every few steps to squeeze past oncoming pedestrians.

He stopped midway along Orange Street and turned around.

"I'm going to ask around about the mayor's family."

Mila nodded once. Roy stood half a step behind her and nodded as well.

Damian gave them a glance, then headed toward the town hall.

His figure swayed twice amid the crowd, briefly blocked by a fruit peddler carrying a shoulder pole. When he appeared again, he was already ten paces away.

Roy took his gaze off Damian's back.

"What's your plan?"

Mila was already walking on without looking back.

"Ask less. Just do as I say."

Roy caught up, lowered his head, and silently moved his lips. Does this girl have even a little respect for her older brother?

Mila did not head for the liveliest stretch of Orange Street. She turned into a side street.

This street was narrower than Orange Street. There were no shops on either side—only high walls. To the left stood the stone rear wall of warehouses, and to the right were residential courtyard walls.

There were far fewer people here. The occasional passerby hurried along.

Mila stopped before an inconspicuous storefront at the corner. It was small, with a wooden sign hanging from the door that read: "Herbal Shop."

The window stood half open, and the smell of aged herbs drifted out. Mila pushed open the door, and Roy followed her inside.

The herbal shop was even smaller inside than it looked from outside. Every wall, from floor to ceiling, was covered in drawers. Each drawer bore a label, some with herb names and some with numbers.

A thin old man sat behind the counter, wearing round-framed glasses with lenses covered in scratches.

He was weighing a brown powder on a small brass scale, its pan gently swaying in the air.

"What can I get you two?" the old man asked without looking up.

"Where's Melton's place?" Mila's tone was exactly the same as if she were asking for directions on the street.

The scale pan stilled for a moment. He lifted his eyes over his glasses, looked at Mila, then at Roy.

He continued weighing the powder, and the scale pan began to sway again.

"Little girl, herbal shops sell herbs."

Mila placed a coin on the counter. It was silver, one of the few relatively valuable little items left from the Sea Serpent Gang's inheritance.

The silver coin struck the wooden counter with a light, crisp ding.

The old man's gaze lingered on the coin for a beat. Then he set down the scale and pulled out a piece of paper folded into a small square from beneath the counter, placing it beside the coin.

"Harbor Street. At the end. Blue door. Knock three times, pause a beat, then knock twice."

Mila pushed the coin over. The old man put it into a drawer and resumed weighing the powder, the scale pan gently swaying once more.

Mila turned and walked out. Roy followed behind her.

"How did you know you could buy that information here?" Roy asked curiously.

"You'll know when you get a little smarter." Mila did not look back and walked a little faster.

"Respect! Respect for your older brother!" Roy hurried after her.

Of course, Mila would not tell Roy she had gotten it by interrogating someone in an alley yesterday.

This was her own special form of respect for her older brother.

Harbor Street lay at the northwest corner of Orange Town, a street along the sea at the edge of the market.

It was far quieter than Orange Street. Both sides were lined with warehouse back doors and abandoned storefronts. Sea wind blew in from the docks, spinning scraps of paper across the ground.

At the end of the street stood a large blue door. More than half the paint had peeled away, exposing grayish-white wood beneath.

There was no sign, no window, no marking of any kind. A tiny peephole sat above the doorframe, covered by an iron plate.

Mila stood before the door, raised her hand, and knocked three times. She paused a beat, then knocked twice more.

The iron plate over the peephole slid aside. An eye peered out, then the plate closed again. The lock clicked open, and the door was pulled inward a crack.

A skinny man in a gray shirt opened it.

His gaze fell on Mila first, sizing her up from head to toe before settling on the knife at her waist.

"Leave the knife."

Mila untied the short knife from her waist and placed its sheathed form in his hand. Her movements were casual, as though she were handing something unimportant to someone unimportant.

The skinny man took the knife and looked at Roy.

Roy removed his knife as well.

The skinny man took both knives and stepped back. The door shut behind them, and the iron lock fastened again with a solid, muffled clunk.

Using the last sliver of sunlight before the door closed, Roy swept his eyes across the room. More than a dozen square tables stood in the middle, their surfaces covered in green felt marked with white-painted grids.

A blackboard hung on the wall, chalked with several lines of numbers and symbols he did not recognize. There were around twenty people in the room, most seated at the tables with piles of chips before them.

Several people stood in the corners with their hands in their pockets and cigarettes hanging from their mouths. The air smelled of tobacco, sweat, and chalk dust. No one spoke; chips hitting the tables sounded more often than human voices.

He understood. This was a casino, not Melton's headquarters, but one of his territories.

The skinny man at the entrance put the two knives into a wooden barrel in the corner reserved for weapons. Several knives of varying lengths and a musket already lay inside. "Exchange for chips at the counter." He pointed toward the corner, then leaned against the door again.

Mila did not go to the counter. She stood at the edge of the casino, her gaze moving from one table to another, from dealers to gamblers, from stacks of chips to the numbers on the blackboard.

Roy stood half a step behind her, looking as well.

But he was not looking at the chips. He was watching the men in the corners, the slight bulge at the fat man's waist behind the counter, and a tiny ventilation opening in the corner of the ceiling. If smoke were pumped in through there, the entire room would become a blind zone within ten breaths.