progress.
Dame Consilia came to Slythe’s rescue, though, and Jeb reckoned that was a mark in her favor. “Oh, Sendal, you are a wag!” she exclaimed.
Slythe’s face lit up around a broad grin.
“What is it you do, Mr. Skayne?” Dame Consilia asked Jeb. “Whatever it is, I’m sure Sendal can help. He still has his old contacts, don’t you, darling?”
Slythe held his palms up, both hands shaking, and gave an embarrassed shrug.
“Maresman,” Jeb said, knowing how that would go down with an ex-senator. It was as bad as letting the cat out of the bag about politicians getting into bed with the guilds.
“What’s that?” Dame Consilia said.
But Slythe knew. A frown furrowed his face, and he coughed politely into his hand. “Haven’t the foggiest, sweetling,” he said.
Jeb caught sight of someone watching them from behind Slythe, on the far side of the room. The man immediately turned his head, pretending to look at a marlin mounted on the wall across from him. Bones the taxidermist—Jeb was sure of it. No doubt admiring his own handiwork. Begged the question, though, what he was doing at the Sea Bed. Could be he was meeting his shady contacts, the sort who traded in stuffed husks captured near the Malfen Pass; but another, more worrying, possibility crossed Jeb’s mind. What if Bones had been sent to keep an eye on him? After all, it was inconceivable the guards and the stygian hadn’t said anything about him seeing the somnificus wagon on Boss’s land.
Jeb relaxed back in his chair, hand stroking the hilt of his saber. He ran his eyes round the room one last time before focusing in on the game, making sure to keep Bones in his peripheral vision.
His gaze was drawn momentarily to the empty chairs at the table he’d broken his fast at. Marlec had left. Hopefully, he wasn’t stupid enough to have gone after the husk by himself. It would be better for everyone if he just took himself back to whatever pious hole he’d crawled out from.
“Well, if you’re ready,” Stoat-face said. “I mean, it ain’t like we got all day now, is it?”
“You sure start early,” Jeb said, as Stoat-face dealt him seven cards.
“Early? Your first time at the Sea Bed, is it?”
Jeb spread his hands, as if to say, “So?”
“I have all day,” Slythe said, reaching over to pat Dame Consilia on the elbow.
Stoat-face ignored him and carried on speaking to Jeb. “Time ain’t got no meaning here. Most these scumbags are on orders from the guilds, and there’s never a lull. That’s why ol’ Black Barlow keeps the bar open night and day. Good for business, the Sea Bed’s and the guilds’, and he has a hand in both. Name’s Buttershy, by the way. Nate Buttershy.” He offered a hand, but Jeb pretended not to notice.
“Jeb,” he said, making a show of inspecting his cards and reordering them in a fan. Looked good for a flush, depending on what his opponents held, and what they exchanged the next round. He shot Buttershy a quizzical look. “Black Barlow?”
Farly perked up at that. “He’s the owner. Saves us the regular morning spot, which is when the pickings is—”
Buttershy pressed a finger to his lips, and Farly clammed up. Probably, the two of them had other games set up across town. Jeb had seen it before, professional gamblers moving from bar to bar, fleecing anyone naive enough to join them for a game.
Slythe’s cards were all upturned on the table, revealing his shabby hand, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was wittering away to Dame Consilia about the good old days, when she was the world’s greatest actress, in his estimation. She faked a smile, and turned her head away.
Slythe mistook it for embarrassment, and said, “Don’t be bashful, my dear. It’s the truth, I say.” He tried to take in the others at the table, but no one seemed particularly interested.
“We playing, or what?” Buttershy said.
Slythe sat bolt upright in his chair and belatedly covered his cards with a
Dame Consilia came to Slythe’s rescue, though, and Jeb reckoned that was a mark in her favor. “Oh, Sendal, you are a wag!” she exclaimed.
Slythe’s face lit up around a broad grin.
“What is it you do, Mr. Skayne?” Dame Consilia asked Jeb. “Whatever it is, I’m sure Sendal can help. He still has his old contacts, don’t you, darling?”
Slythe held his palms up, both hands shaking, and gave an embarrassed shrug.
“Maresman,” Jeb said, knowing how that would go down with an ex-senator. It was as bad as letting the cat out of the bag about politicians getting into bed with the guilds.
“What’s that?” Dame Consilia said.
But Slythe knew. A frown furrowed his face, and he coughed politely into his hand. “Haven’t the foggiest, sweetling,” he said.
Jeb caught sight of someone watching them from behind Slythe, on the far side of the room. The man immediately turned his head, pretending to look at a marlin mounted on the wall across from him. Bones the taxidermist—Jeb was sure of it. No doubt admiring his own handiwork. Begged the question, though, what he was doing at the Sea Bed. Could be he was meeting his shady contacts, the sort who traded in stuffed husks captured near the Malfen Pass; but another, more worrying, possibility crossed Jeb’s mind. What if Bones had been sent to keep an eye on him? After all, it was inconceivable the guards and the stygian hadn’t said anything about him seeing the somnificus wagon on Boss’s land.
Jeb relaxed back in his chair, hand stroking the hilt of his saber. He ran his eyes round the room one last time before focusing in on the game, making sure to keep Bones in his peripheral vision.
His gaze was drawn momentarily to the empty chairs at the table he’d broken his fast at. Marlec had left. Hopefully, he wasn’t stupid enough to have gone after the husk by himself. It would be better for everyone if he just took himself back to whatever pious hole he’d crawled out from.
“Well, if you’re ready,” Stoat-face said. “I mean, it ain’t like we got all day now, is it?”
“You sure start early,” Jeb said, as Stoat-face dealt him seven cards.
“Early? Your first time at the Sea Bed, is it?”
Jeb spread his hands, as if to say, “So?”
“I have all day,” Slythe said, reaching over to pat Dame Consilia on the elbow.
Stoat-face ignored him and carried on speaking to Jeb. “Time ain’t got no meaning here. Most these scumbags are on orders from the guilds, and there’s never a lull. That’s why ol’ Black Barlow keeps the bar open night and day. Good for business, the Sea Bed’s and the guilds’, and he has a hand in both. Name’s Buttershy, by the way. Nate Buttershy.” He offered a hand, but Jeb pretended not to notice.
“Jeb,” he said, making a show of inspecting his cards and reordering them in a fan. Looked good for a flush, depending on what his opponents held, and what they exchanged the next round. He shot Buttershy a quizzical look. “Black Barlow?”
Farly perked up at that. “He’s the owner. Saves us the regular morning spot, which is when the pickings is—”
Buttershy pressed a finger to his lips, and Farly clammed up. Probably, the two of them had other games set up across town. Jeb had seen it before, professional gamblers moving from bar to bar, fleecing anyone naive enough to join them for a game.
Slythe’s cards were all upturned on the table, revealing his shabby hand, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was wittering away to Dame Consilia about the good old days, when she was the world’s greatest actress, in his estimation. She faked a smile, and turned her head away.
Slythe mistook it for embarrassment, and said, “Don’t be bashful, my dear. It’s the truth, I say.” He tried to take in the others at the table, but no one seemed particularly interested.
“We playing, or what?” Buttershy said.
Slythe sat bolt upright in his chair and belatedly covered his cards with a
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