close to stamping on Varl too. A tidal change swept through the secondary betting, some of it in sympathy with the damaged Ghost and his crushed pets, some sensing trickery was routed and heaping money on the Blueblood major.
'You could have drugged them, overfed them – they seemed docile. You could place your money on the lower holes so that the sluggish things simply fell from the bottom as gravity pulled.' Gilbear smiled at his deduction and his men growled approval. So did several of the wily Slammabadden, and Milo was afraid the mood might turn ugly.
'I'll tell you what,' Varl said to the major as he got up. The Blueblood's second was returning with a jar packed full of agitated lice and semi-digested meal where he had scooped it from the dank silos. 'We'll use your pick of the bugs…and you can set the censer whichever way up you like.' Varl pulled a cargo hook from the crates behind him to use as a makeshift base. 'Happy?'
Gilbear nodded.
They made ready. The gamblers, Milo included, prepared to make their guess on the paper slips provided. Varl flexed his good shoulder, as if easing out an old hurt. A signal, the next icue.
'I'll play this too,' Caffran said, pushing forward through the huddle. He seemed to sway and he stank of sacra. Many gave him a wide berth.
'Cafy, no… you're not up to it…' Varl murmured.
Caffran was pulling out a weight of coins, rolls of thick, high-issue disks.
'Give me the paper… Hike a bet,' Caffran mumbled, slurring.
'Let your Ghost play,' Gilbear growled with a smirk as Varl began to protest.
It looked to all present like the Tanith showman had lost control of his simple game, and if there had been any trickery in it, any guile, then all of it was ruined now.
The first lice went in. Gilbear spun the censer and set it down. Markers were overturned. A Slammabadden came closest, closest to guessing the exit by three holes. Milo was nowhere near and seemed to whimper. Caffran raged as his money was scooped away. He produced more.
A Deeper won the next, the winner of the last round given the honour of placing the censer. He was no closer than five holes, but the others were grouped and very wrong. Milo begged Varl to let him stop but Varl shook him off, glancing sidelong at the glowering Gilbear.
Gilbear won the next by guessing within two. He collected a massive pile of coins and one of the Deepers dropped out in disgust. The level of the bets – and off-game bets – had risen considerably and now real money was at stake. Cash was changing hands all around. The Bluebloods were jubilant and so were others. Others still bemoaned their losses. Two more Slammabadden and another Deeper stepped up to play, their bets bolstered by whip-rounds amongst their friends. No Blueblood dared to play against Gilbear. Flushed with success, Gilbear placed his won pot again, and doubled it. Some of the guardsmen present, especially the Deepers and the watching Ghosts, had never seen so much ready cash in their lives Caffran made a fuss and swigged from a bottle of sacra, imploring his friend Brostin for a sub which was eventually, reluctantly, given.
The next round. Gilbear and a Deeper, each three holes away from the winning aperture, split the now considerable pot.
The next round. Playing was Gilbear, three of the Slammabadden, two Deepers, Caffran (now subbing from a worried-looking Raglon, Brostin having exited in a convincing rage) and Milo. A huge pile of wagers.
Caffran came out two off the mark, a Slammabadden was one off. Gilbear was on the other side of the censer. Milo was spot on.
Howls, anger, jubilation, tumult.
'He was just lucky,' Varl said, collecting up the winnings. 'Are we done?'
'The boy got a fluke,' Gilbear said, ordering his subalterns to empty their pockets. Another big wager was assembled. The Deepers had dropped out, and so had Caffran, leaving the chamber with Raglon. The Slammabadden mustered their strengths into one wager.
Milo turned the censer and set it down.
Silence.
The bug ticked and bounced against the inside of the metal ball. It emerged.
Milo had it again, spot on.
Pandemonium. It seemed like a riot would overturn the troop bay. Varl collected the winnings and the censer and pulled Milo out of the chamber by the scruff of his tunic. Men were shouting, milling around, and a fight had begun over the outcome of one of the side-bets.
In the companionway that led back to the Tanith troop deck, Varl and Milo rejoined Caffran, Raglon and Brostin. They were all laughing, and Caffran seemed suddenly sober. He would have to wash his tunic to get the stink of sacra out of it, of course.
Varl grinned at them and held up the bulky pouch containing their winnings. 'Spoils to be divided, my friends!' he announced to them, slapping Milo across the back with his bionic arm. He had never got used to its strength and Milo nearly fell.
Caffran uttered a warning. Dark shapes loomed down the companionway behind them. It was Gilbear and four of his men.
'You'll pay for that trickery, whore's-son,' Gilbear told Varl.
'It was a fair game,' began Varl, but realised at once that his silver tongue was useless now.
There were five on each side, but each of the Bluebloods towered over Brostin, the largest of the Tanith present. In a close-quarter brawl, the Ghosts might score, draw even perhaps, but it would be bloody.
'Is there a problem?' asked the sixth member of the Tanith scam team. Bragg pulled his vast bulk into the light behind his comrades, squinting in a relaxed way down at the five Bluebloods. He seemed to fill the corridor.
