Sharka came over to greet him as he descended the iron steps to the gaming floor. Whip-lean, his face deeply lined, he was dressed in an eccentric motley of colours, and his eyes were bright and slightly manic. There was never a time when Sharka wasn’t on some kind of drug, usually to counteract the one before. He was overly animated, his face stretching and contorting into grins, smiles, exaggerated poses, as if he were mouthing words to somebody deaf.
‘Got you a private room in the back,’ he said. ‘She’s in there now.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You think she was followed?’
‘No. I was hiding out there a while. I watched her go in, checked all the alleys nearby. She came alone.’
Sharka grunted and then beamed. ‘Hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘I always know what I’m doing,’ Frey lied, slapping Sharka on the shoulder.
Sharka was as much a survivor as his den was. Since the age of fifteen he’d pounded his body with every kind of narcotic Frey had ever heard of, yet somehow he’d made it to fifty-six, and there was no reason to suppose he didn’t have thirty more years left. The man’s blood must have been toxic by now, but he was tough as a scorpion. You just couldn’t kill him.
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. You can find your way, eh? Come see me after, I’ll make sure you get an escort to wherever you need. Can’t have Dracken’s men jumping you on the way out.’
Perhaps the stress of what was to come had made him over-emotional, but Frey was deeply touched by that. Sharka was a dangerous man, but he had a heart of gold, and Frey felt suddenly unworthy of his kindness. Even if he didn’t exactly trust him, it was nice to know that someone didn’t want him dead.
‘I’m grateful for what you’ve done, Sharka,’ he said. ‘I owe you big.’
‘Ah, you don’t owe me anything,’ Sharka said. ‘I like you, Frey. You lose more than you win and you tip big when you score. You don’t piss anyone off and you don’t re-raise when you’re holding dirt and then catch a run on your last card. This place is full of cocky kids with money and old hacks playing percentages. Could do with more players like you at my joint.’
Frey smiled at that. He nodded his thanks again and then headed through the tables towards the back rooms. Sharka was a good sort, he told himself. Sharka wouldn’t sell him out for the reward on his head. Everyone knew that Sharka’s was neutral ground. He’d lose more in custom than he’d gain by the reward if there was the slightest suspicion that he’d turned in a wanted man. Half the people here were wanted by someone.
A serving girl in an appealingly low-cut dress met him at the back rooms and directed him to one of the private gaming areas. Sharka’s was all bare brick and brass - not pretty, but Rake players distrusted glitz.
He stepped in to a small, dim room. A lantern hung from the ceiling, throwing light onto the black baize of the Rake table. A pack of cards was spread out in suits across it. A well-stocked drinks cabinet rested against one wall. There were four chairs around the table.
Sitting in one of the chairs, facing the door, was Trinica Dracken.
The sight of her was a jolt. She was lounging in the chair, small and slim, dressed head to toe in black: black boots, black coat, black gloves, black waistcoat. But from the buttoned collar of her black shirt upwards, everything changed. Her skin was powdered ghost-white. Her hair - so blonde it was almost albino - was cut short, sticking up in uneven tufts as if it had been butchered with a knife. Her lips were a red deep enough to be vulgar.
But it was her eyes that shocked him most. Her lashes were almost
