Card Game

Mila held out her hand to Roy, palm up, and crooked her fingers.

Roy looked down at that hand, then raised his head to look at the back of her head.

"What do you want?"

Mila glanced back at him as if waiting for him to realize he had asked a pointless question.

"Beli. Let's play a few rounds."

Roy reached into his clothes, where he kept part of the spoils from wiping out the Sea Serpent Gang.

There had originally been much more. The Sea Serpent Gang had collected "dock fees" at the harbor for so many years that the cash found in their warehouse alone amounted to several hundred thousand Beli. Add in the weapons, goods, and tavern stock, and it was worth at least a few million.

But Barlow said business required capital, so he pocketed the vast majority of it. Roy had only received thirty or forty thousand Beli.

He pulled out the money pouch and placed it in Mila's hand.

"You're really going to gamble?" He lowered his voice and swept his gaze around the casino.

"If you ask me, we shouldn't have handed over our knives. We should've just killed them all and left one alive to force out the location of their hideout."

Mila turned back around. She looked at him the way one might look at someone pouring salt into a pot while mistaking it for sugar.

Roy looked away.

It was not as if he truly thought that plan was so good. He simply was not used to standing aside and doing nothing. He was used to solving problems with a knife.

With a knife in hand, problems were simple.

Once the knife was handed over, the problem became a pile of things he was not good at.

Mila took the Beli and walked to the counter in the corner of the casino.

A fat man sat behind the counter, a ring of keys hanging around his neck and a row of chip boxes before him. Mila pushed the Beli over. "Exchange all of it."

The fat man lifted his eyelids and gave her a look. A teenage girl with nothing at her waist, carrying a crumpled bag of Beli to exchange for chips.

He had worked in casinos for years. Every year, there were always a few people like this, convinced they could win their losses back, only to wager even their fare home in the end. He took the Beli, counted it, and pushed the chips over.

Mila carried the chips to the square table in the middle. Four people were already seated there: two middle-aged men who looked like dock shipowners, a thin man in a silk shirt, and a fat man wearing several rings.

The dealer was bald, with a deck of cards spread before him. The piles of chips on the table varied in height, and the thin man in the silk shirt had the largest stack.

Mila sat in an empty seat, arranged her chips neatly in front of herself, and rested her hand on the edge of the table.

The dealer began dealing. The first card slid toward her face down, spun half a turn across the green felt, and stopped.

She pinned the card with two fingers, lifted one corner for a glance, then set it back down. Her expression was exactly the same as when she had entered.

She lost all of the first three rounds.

Whenever the cards were revealed, hers was just a little lower than the dealer's—not by much, only one point. Each time she pushed out her chips, she moved slowly. With every push, there were fewer chips left.

The fat man with the rings glanced at her and gave a soft snort through his nose.

The fourth round began, and the dealer dealt.

Mila lifted the corner of her card for a look, set it down, then pushed all her remaining chips into the middle of the table. The chips slid from before her across the green felt, knocking against the edges of other stacks with a string of faint clatters.

Everyone at the table looked at her. Fourth round, newcomer, all in.

The dealer revealed his card. Mila revealed hers. One point higher.

She won.

She stacked her winnings neatly in front of herself again, making the pile a little taller than before, and then pushed everything out again. She won again, pushed it all out again, and won again.

The thin man in the silk shirt began wiping sweat from his forehead. His pile of chips had shrunk considerably.

The fat man with the rings stopped snorting. His fingers repeatedly tapped the table's edge. The two shipowner-looking men exchanged glances, and one of them stood up and left.

Mila's stack had gone from a small pile at the start to a thick tower. The chips were arranged neatly before her by color, from large to small, like a carefully built little tower.

Her posture never changed. Her hand rested on the table's edge, and every time she pushed out chips, she used only two fingers. Once she had done so, she withdrew them. She did not look at anyone else or say anything. Even her breathing remained at the same rhythm as when she had entered.

When the tenth round ended, a man in a dark vest rose from the corner.

He had been leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, no different from the guards standing by the wall.

He walked over, stood there for a moment, then bent down and whispered something to the dealer. The dealer nodded and began collecting the cards. The remaining gamblers looked at one another, gathered their chips, and dispersed.

The man in the dark vest sat down opposite Mila. He was probably in his early thirties, rather thin, with a small, neatly trimmed goatee on his chin. His lips barely moved when he spoke, and his voice was low, just enough to cover the sound of chips landing on the table. "You've got quite the luck with cards, miss."

Mila took the top chip from her tower, placed it in her palm, and rolled it around twice. "Get to the point."

The goateed man leaned back in his chair. "If you keep winning, this little casino of ours may not be able to afford it. Why not visit the underground casino in town? That's our headquarters. It's bigger, has more people, and is much livelier. You can show off your skills there. What do you say?"

Mila set the chip back atop the tower. Looking down at the chips in front of her, she nudged a blue one with her finger and made it spin half a turn.

"What about these?"

"You may take them with you and continue using them at the main casino." The goateed man paused. "However, our chips are specially made. They can only be used at casinos under our banner. Elsewhere, they are worthless."

The corner of Mila's mouth curled upward. She gathered the chips from the table. "Fine."

The goateed man stood and waved toward the back of the counter.

The fat man who looked like the manager emerged from behind the counter carrying a box. It was not large, only slightly wider than an adult's palm. It was made of dark red wood, its surface polished smooth, with a copper plate set into the lid. A line of tiny words was engraved on the plate.

The fat man opened the lid, revealing a layer of dark velvet inside. Mila's chips were moved from the table into the box and arranged by color. Once the lid was shut, Roy stepped forward and took the box, holding it at his side with one hand.

The goateed man took a card-sized slip of paper from his breast pocket and placed it atop the chip box. "The address is on the paper. It opens after dinner. We welcome your patronage."

Mila stood up and headed for the entrance. Roy followed.

The thin man who had taken their knives pulled two short blades from a wooden barrel by the wall. After hesitating, he handed them over. Mila and Roy took their knives and tucked them back into their waists.

The doors were pulled open, and sunlight poured in, making Roy squint. The two walked out, and the doors closed behind them. The iron lock snapped shut with a click.

The casino fell quiet. The thin man who had opened the doors and collected their knives walked over to the goateed man and tilted his head toward the entrance. "Why let them go? There are only two of them. Taking them down would've been easy."

The goateed man pulled out a cloth and wiped his hands. "What do you know? A few hundred thousand Beli is nothing. You need a long line to catch a big fish."

He tucked the cloth away and leaned back in his chair. "Do you think the main casino is harmless? Whatever they win here, they'll have to spit it all back out there, principal and interest."

"That box bears the mark of our branch. We just wait to collect our share."

On Harbor Street, the sea wind swept in from the docks, lifting a few loose strands of hair before Mila's forehead.

She walked ahead at an unhurried pace, every step landing on the seams between the granite paving stones.

Roy followed behind, holding the dark red chip box in one hand. The copper plate on its lid flashed beneath the sunlight.

He quickened his pace by two steps and came alongside Mila. "How exactly did you win?"

Mila lowered her head and reached for her right eye. Her fingertip lightly touched the surface of her eyeball and peeled away an extremely thin film. It lay over her fingertip, and beneath the sunlight, faint patterns appeared on it. It was exactly the same color as her original eye.

Once the film was removed, her right eye turned blood red.

She placed the film back over her eyeball and blinked once, returning it to its original appearance.

Roy looked down at the chip box in his hand. The dark red wooden box gave off a deep, muted sheen beneath the sunlight.

"So that's how it was," he said.

"So the address written there is..."

"Melton's main casino."

The two continued down Harbor Street toward the market.