The Hell of It Read Online Free PDF Page B

woman’s box. Any man can. A tumble in the sheets can be had on the wharf for a dry night in a warm bed.” He tapped the table near Marta’s pinchcomb. “What I’m betting is the memory of tumbling with a woman I love. A woman who loved me back. And your raise … it’s a disease ward. It may come eventually to be worth more. But today, right now,” he tapped again, “it don’t mean a plunger’s damn.”
    â€œA call then,” Gynedo conceded, still smiling.
    Malen nodded agreement. “First draw?”
    â€œTwo,” he answered, tossing in his two up placks, which were middling feather counts.
    â€œAnd two for me.” Gynedo dealt out replacements.
    The straw-boss then tapped his lip several times as he seemed to be considering what to do. He had the look of a man now fully enjoying the game, its slow waitings, its considerations, its swift turns and long odds and sharp bites when bad placks turned up.
    Gynedo looked up from his hand, giving Malen a long, thoughtful stare. He then picked up a pen, dipped it in ink, and scratched out a note on a small square of paper. When he was done, he slowly blew it dry, catching Malen’s eye as he did so. Then he slid the paper into the center amidst the rest of the plack pot.
    Malen sat still for several moments, denying his eagerness to read the man’s bet. When he’d held back long enough to seem dispassionate—a key for good gamesmanship—he leaned forward and turned the paper around so he could read it.
    A year’s free access to Gynedo’s provisions-and-goods account at the dock mercantile.
    His heart raced. This was an unreal bet. It took everything he had to keep his excitement off his face.
    As straw-boss, the man would have buying authority for the entire riverboat. His credit with wharf shops would be top drawer. It would mean as much food as he and Roth could eat for a year. It would mean household items they’d gone without: new mattresses, gifts on important days. It would mean academy for his son, since he’d have ready access to supplies and books and clothes that weren’t thrice-mended.
    When he caught Gynedo’s eye again, he saw the expectant look of a raiser, who sat anticipating what bettor’s response Malen would make.
    First, he took a long, silent breath, stalling his countermove. He had a twelve-feather magpie in his down placks. And he’d drawn a second magpie in his two up placks—a seven-feather. Not bad. This straw-boss either had powerful down plackards, or was expert at inspiring uncertainty in his opponents. Probably both.
    Still, Malen took his time, putting on the cool face of the unconcerned. And, if he was honest, it wasn’t easy to part with Marta’s things, even now. Yes, he believed what he’d told Roth—it was the memories that mattered, not the artifacts. But a measure of that was tough talk by a man pretending to be rather rough. We’re rough men , he’d told his boy. In this moment, the truth struck him: He might lose. And if he did, those memories would be his only connection to Marta. The thought left him heartsick. He hoped he was doing a good job of keeping all of this off his face. But he couldn’t be sure. At last, he nodded, and pushed Marta’s silver betrothal ring into the pot.
    â€œMy good man,” Gyendo began, “are we to do this every time?”
    He understood immediately. And with this wager, he’d have a harder argument to make. The ring might be an heirloom, but its main value was the memory of his shared love with Marta. He’d already spoken to that. The ring itself held scant rare-metal value.
    So, after a moment’s consideration, he silently picked up the rosewood flute. He fingered its stops, imagined one of the simple airs Marta used to play, and reluctantly placed it beside the pinch-comb and ring.
    He showed the straw-boss a hint of defiance, silently