Despite the risks of coming to a big city, Frey had allowed himself to be persuaded by Crake. He did have some preparation to do before he went looking for Amalicia Thade in her secluded hermitage, but that wasn’t the whole reason. The crew needed a break. The disastrous attack on the freighter, the escape from the Century Knights, that frustrating time spent bored and freezing in Yortland - all these things had worn them down, and they were sick and tired of each other’s company. A little time off would do them all good, and Aulenfay was a fine place for it.
Whether they’d all come back or not was another matter, but Frey wasn’t worried about that. If they left, they left. He’d understand. They’d each make their own choice.
It took a little searching to locate the Rake den. He hadn’t been this way for a few years. But it was still there, in the cellar bar of an old tavern: a little room with three circular tables and a vaulted ceiling of old grey brick. Smoke drifted in the air and the shadows were thick, thrown by oil lanterns. Rake players didn’t like their games too brightly lit. Most of them only had a passing acquaintance with daylight.
Only one of the tables was in use when Frey was shown in. Three men sat there, studying their cards, dull piles of coins before them. There was a thin, po-faced man who looked like an undertaker, an elderly, toothless drunk, and a whiskery, rotund fellow with a red face and a battered stovepipe hat. Frey sat down and they introduced themselves as Foxmuth, Scrone and Gremble, which amused Frey, who thought they sounded like a firm of lawyers. Frey gave a false name. He ordered a drink, emptied out his purse on the table, and set to the game.
It wasn’t long before he realised his opponents were terrible card players. At first he suspected some kind of trap: perhaps they were feigning incompetence to sucker him. But as the game went on he became ever more convinced they were the real deal.
They went in big with their money, chasing runs that never came up. They jittered with excitement when they made a low three-of-a-kind and then bet it as if it was unbeatable. They allowed themselves to be bluffed away whenever they saw Frey pick up a dangerous card, frightened that he was holding something that could crush them.
From the moment he sat down, he was winning.
Several hours passed, and several drinks. Scrone was too plastered to keep his attention on the game, and his money was whittled away on silly bets. Eventually, he made a suicidal bluff against Foxmuth who was holding Crosses Full and lost it all. After that, he fell asleep and began to snore.
Foxmuth was knocked out shortly afterwards, following a chancy call against Gremble’s Ace-Duke paired. Foxmuth’s last card failed to produce the hand he needed, and Gremble scooped up all his money.
Frey was only mildly disheartened. All his careful work in maintaining his lead had been undermined by the bad play of the other two. They’d given all their money to Gremble, making the two remaining players roughly even. He settled down to the task of demolishing his final opponent.
‘Just my luck,’ Foxmuth moaned. ‘The wife’s going to rip me a new arse when I come home. I wouldn’t have even been here if they’d had the parade today.’
Frey was only half-listening. He dealt the cards, three each, then picked up his. A thin chill of excitement ran through him. Three Priests.
‘Why didn’t they have the parade?’ Frey asked, making idle chatter to cover his anticipation.
‘Earl Hengar was supposed to be coming to see the Duke. Big parade and all. But with what’s happened . . . well, I suppose they thought it was in bad taste or something. Cancelled last-minute.’
‘I should think so. Bloody disgrace,’ muttered Gremble. He rapped the table to indicate that he didn’t wish to bet.
‘Bet,’ said Frey. ‘Two bits.’ He pushed the coins in. It was a high opening bid, but he knew Gremble’s style of play by now. Instead of being frightened off, Gremble would assume it was a bluff and match it. Which was exactly what he did.
