The Price of the Stars: Book One of Mageworlds by Debra Doyle, James D. MacDonald Page B
Authors: Debra Doyle, James D. MacDonald
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cash in, I’ll draw your winnings. I pay my bets.”
“Of course,” said the Professor. “Did anyone suggest the contrary? Until then, if you could stake me to a couple of hundred to help me pass the time …”
“No trouble,” said Morven. He slid over a stack of chips—small ones, Beka supposed. Her own skills didn’t go beyond solitaire kingnote and a fair game of ronnen for decimal-credit stakes. She’d never been much for gambling; she worked too hard for her money to enjoy seeing it go out the airlock because she’d guessed wrong about a run of cards. The players around the table didn’t seem to share her prejudice, though. Most of the chips tended to wind up in front of Morven, but as the evening wore on a respectable stack began to grow in front of the Professor as well.
She quit counting the hands early on, having discovered that a game of cards, if you don’t care for it, is even more boring to watch than to play. The gilded antique chronometer above the door read well past local midnight when Morven dealt out the cards yet again and announced, “A thousand or better to stay in, gentle sirs and ladies.”
The Professor slid a gold chip into the center of the table. “I’m in.”
Two of the remaining gamblers—a spacer-captain in the colors of the Red Shift Line, and a plump woman in an Embrigan gown of bright green velvet—matched the gold chip with their own. The others looked at their cards, the table, and each other, then laid down their hands.
At ten thousand, the spacer-captain folded, and when the stakes reached twenty thousand the woman in green shook her head regretfully. “It’s not my night tonight,” she said, gathering up her fur-lined cloak. “Another time, perhaps.”
With her departure, the big table was empty except for Morven and the Professor. Across the room from Beka, LeSoit moved a fraction away from the wall, shifting his weight back onto his feet and casting a quick glance in Beka’s direction as he brought his hands clear. She met the glance and followed suit. Now, for certain, was a time to be ready for trouble.
“Twenty thousand,” said Morven again. “Are you still in?”
The Professor lifted two black chips off the stack before him and put them out onto the table. “I’m in.”
The sun had finished setting over Galcen Prime Base in a blaze of red, and the blue-white floodlights of the spaceport were coming on against the dark. Commander Gil watched from behind the safety line as the scheduled Space Force mail courier from the Latam sector settled gently onto the tarmac, and wished with all his heart that he could be elsewhere.
His duties over the past two weeks had not been congenial ones. First had come the unpleasant task of escorting Beka Rosselin-Metadi’s remains, such as they were, from Artat to Galcen. Then had come all the panoply and protocol of a full state funeral for the young woman who had been, however briefly and against her will, the last Domina of Entibor. Organizing that had been bad enough, but at least the details had all been codified centuries before—from the order of precedence for the eulogists to the color of the memorial garlands.
Tonight’s exercise, however, was something else again. “She was a starpilot,” the General had said to Gil. “And her ship was known. They’ll be expecting a wake, down in the commercial spaceport. See to it, Commander.”
Gil went off to do the General’s bidding. This time, he didn’t have any formal guidelines to help him—but anyone who’d made commander in the Space Force had spent time waiting for ships in various ports, and anyone who’d spent time hanging around the ports had seen at least one free-spacer’s wake. Some people even remembered how they’d got home afterward.
After Gil had settled on a day for the wake, he went down to the largest tavern in the port quarter.
“Drinks on the house,” he told the manager. “Send the bill to General Metadi on his
“Of course,” said the Professor. “Did anyone suggest the contrary? Until then, if you could stake me to a couple of hundred to help me pass the time …”
“No trouble,” said Morven. He slid over a stack of chips—small ones, Beka supposed. Her own skills didn’t go beyond solitaire kingnote and a fair game of ronnen for decimal-credit stakes. She’d never been much for gambling; she worked too hard for her money to enjoy seeing it go out the airlock because she’d guessed wrong about a run of cards. The players around the table didn’t seem to share her prejudice, though. Most of the chips tended to wind up in front of Morven, but as the evening wore on a respectable stack began to grow in front of the Professor as well.
She quit counting the hands early on, having discovered that a game of cards, if you don’t care for it, is even more boring to watch than to play. The gilded antique chronometer above the door read well past local midnight when Morven dealt out the cards yet again and announced, “A thousand or better to stay in, gentle sirs and ladies.”
The Professor slid a gold chip into the center of the table. “I’m in.”
Two of the remaining gamblers—a spacer-captain in the colors of the Red Shift Line, and a plump woman in an Embrigan gown of bright green velvet—matched the gold chip with their own. The others looked at their cards, the table, and each other, then laid down their hands.
At ten thousand, the spacer-captain folded, and when the stakes reached twenty thousand the woman in green shook her head regretfully. “It’s not my night tonight,” she said, gathering up her fur-lined cloak. “Another time, perhaps.”
With her departure, the big table was empty except for Morven and the Professor. Across the room from Beka, LeSoit moved a fraction away from the wall, shifting his weight back onto his feet and casting a quick glance in Beka’s direction as he brought his hands clear. She met the glance and followed suit. Now, for certain, was a time to be ready for trouble.
“Twenty thousand,” said Morven again. “Are you still in?”
The Professor lifted two black chips off the stack before him and put them out onto the table. “I’m in.”
The sun had finished setting over Galcen Prime Base in a blaze of red, and the blue-white floodlights of the spaceport were coming on against the dark. Commander Gil watched from behind the safety line as the scheduled Space Force mail courier from the Latam sector settled gently onto the tarmac, and wished with all his heart that he could be elsewhere.
His duties over the past two weeks had not been congenial ones. First had come the unpleasant task of escorting Beka Rosselin-Metadi’s remains, such as they were, from Artat to Galcen. Then had come all the panoply and protocol of a full state funeral for the young woman who had been, however briefly and against her will, the last Domina of Entibor. Organizing that had been bad enough, but at least the details had all been codified centuries before—from the order of precedence for the eulogists to the color of the memorial garlands.
Tonight’s exercise, however, was something else again. “She was a starpilot,” the General had said to Gil. “And her ship was known. They’ll be expecting a wake, down in the commercial spaceport. See to it, Commander.”
Gil went off to do the General’s bidding. This time, he didn’t have any formal guidelines to help him—but anyone who’d made commander in the Space Force had spent time waiting for ships in various ports, and anyone who’d spent time hanging around the ports had seen at least one free-spacer’s wake. Some people even remembered how they’d got home afterward.
After Gil had settled on a day for the wake, he went down to the largest tavern in the port quarter.
“Drinks on the house,” he told the manager. “Send the bill to General Metadi on his
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