an upright position and nodded at Sangk.
“Three riner,” Sangk said, handing over Marius’ stake. The fat man examined them without interest, then turned and rummaged in a large wooden trunk behind his seat.
“Split into tenpennies,” Marius added. The fat man paused, then resumed rummaging. He straightened, and held out a purse. Marius took it, and emptied the contents into his palm, counting out the thirty coins within.
“You miscounted,” he said, removing a coin and flipping it to the fat man, who caught it without comment and pocketed it. Marius might not need a friend should anything become unpleasant. But he might. And if he did, that tenpenny piece might become money well spent. His business done, the banker slid back into his former position and recovered his tray. Marius returned the remaining twenty-nine coins to the purse. He and Sangk stepped into the centre of the hall.
A dozen tables were set up equidistant from each other, close enough that a player could choose to move tables without too much concern, but far enough apart that each game could be played out in relative isolation. Professional teams had infiltrated the hall in the past, and in the wake of some disastrous losses, Sangk had refined his arrangements. It would be very hard indeed for a player at one table to signal another without being seen by the three heavies who circled constantly, following each game. One nodded to Sangk as he passed – all was well. The tables were sparsely occupied at this time of day – only three had a full complement of six players, whilst two were completely empty. Marius nodded towards a table with three empty seats.
“What’s the game?”
“Kingdom.” Sangk smiled. “What else would it be?”
Marius paused, as if deciding whether or not to play. After a minute, he raised his purse and shook it. “Care to join me?”
“Oh, I’m afraid the house cannot play at its own table, friend. That wouldn’t be ethical.”
Marius dipped into the bag and withdrew a riner’s worth of coins. “My treat.”
“Well, in that case.” Sangk swept up the coins and led the way over. “My pleasure.”
They dropped into chairs on opposite sides of the table, just as the previous hand was being concluded. Sangk nodded to the dealer, and a new hand was dealt.
Though certain passages of play and various combinations have gone in and out of style over the centuries – the game underwent somewhat of a revolution during the Reign of the Triplet Kings, for example – the basic rules of play have remained unchanged since long before Marius’ day. Like any addiction, the rules seem simple on the surface, and it is only with repeated exposure that the full measure of their complexity becomes apparent.
Forty-five cards are arranged in eleven suits, from four king cards at the highest value to two dozen peasants at the lowest. A single wastrel acts as a most unpleasant type of joker, always feared and always unwelcome. Cards are dealt face down to each player until the full pack is distributed. Each player draws the top card from their pile, and places a bet based on the value of that card. Once the round had been completed, they take the next card and make another bet, and so on, until they hold the full pile in their hand. The aim of the game is to build the most powerful hand, politically – the hand that most resembles the current political environment. So, in Scorby, a hand containing one king, one queen, two princes, no princesses, two bishops and more soldiers than peasants would be a winning hand, whereas a hand full of princesses and peasants, with the wastrel, will result in a massive haemorrhage of money. Likewise, when played in Tal, a king with two queens, all four mistresses, and all four soldiers will prove unbeatable. The winning hand during the Asceticism, had gambling been greeted with anything other than the cleansing fire of a very large stake and bonfire, would have consisted solely of peasants.
The trick is to avoid multiples – two kings cannot both rule Scorby, so as soon as a player draws a second king he must discard both, and the bets he has already made are wasted – and always avoid the wastrel, for once he is part of a player’s hand he cannot be removed, and that player cannot win the hand.
Like any great card game, the cards themselves are almost irrelevant. A good player can read his opposition’s position by following his betting patterns and the number of cards he discards, and by knowing the lie of the political landscape. It is a game built on deception, wherein bluffs, brinksmanship, and outright lies have the greatest value.
Society ladies love it.
It is also the game of choice amongst the thousands of gambling dens that litter the length and breadth of the continent, providing both a common language and a quick political summation for the numberless travellers who move from town to town in an endless procession of shifting loyalties and commercial opportunity. It has survived dynasties, revolutions, repressions, banishment, cult worship, and war. Official histories will never say so, because official histories are always written for the sole purpose of kissing up to the monarch who commissioned them, but Kingdom has done more to tie together the lands of the Four Continents than any motivating force outside of the pursuit of money, and for most of the last thousand years it’s been rather hard to separate one from the other.
Marius’ table held five players, which meant that all the cards would be distributed, and none would have to be discarded. Marius was pleased by that – it made keeping track of hands a lot easier, and much of the success of a good card player lies in being able to estimate what an opposing player holds, if not before they draw their cards, then as soon as possible after. Marius laid his pile of nineteen coins on the table, drew his first card, and flicked a single coin into the centre.
“Not confident, eh?” Sangk laughed, checked his card, and threw down three coins. “Or just a cautious man?”
Marius kept his head bowed over his card. “I’ll warm to the task.”
Sangk was a braggart, and flashy. But he was a good card player, using a combination of bluff and intimidation to overwhelm opponents who lacked his capacity to stare straight at ruin without flinching. On a level table, he was at least as good as Marius. When the number of hands grew long enough to even out any margin of luck, he was probably better. Marius had one advantage in his anonymity, but it was going to be a victory won by inches. He needed to stay small, and gain control slowly.
The hand quickly progressed round the other three players. None were talkers, and all had the sullen silence that accompanies the hard-nosed gambler. Win or lose, they would be back tomorrow, and every day after, if not to these tables then to any of the other hidden games throughout the city. Risk is a way of life for such men, if not of living. They had no need of chat, or bravado. They were too hungry. Marius drew his second card, stared at it for a moment, then threw down another coin.
“Better settle in, my friends,” Sangk announced to their fellow players. “Our new friend looks ready to make it a long night. He must be jealous of his wealth.” He laughed, and threw down two coins before he overturned his cards. Marius repressed a smile. It was too early to be drawn into Sangk’s game of bluff and counterbluff. It was impossible to tell what the others were holding until the cards were revealed. Only once they were face up could he watch the shuffle, try to pick out the small marks and imperfections that marked a well-used deck. For the moment, he had a prince and a peasant. A weak hand, but it could become something stronger if the deal fell his way. He remained silent, and let the hand play out.
Inevitably, he lost the first hand, drawing little better than peasants and soldiers. He sacrificed the second, folding a pair of princesses in order to monitor the betting patterns of his opponents unhindered by the desire to protect his own stake. The third hand he won, just enough to make back his money and a touch more, and in such a way that Sangk’s jovial accusation of luck could be accepted with an acknowledging tilt of the head. Sangk won the next, drawing enough out of the other players to put himself well ahead of Marius’ initial gift. One of the others retired, leaving only four around the table. From now until they were joined by a fifth player, one card would be discarded face down after each deal, making the game that much harder. But Marius had gained valuable information during the previous hands. He knew the wastrel and two of the kings, and more importantly, he knew what signs the other players could not avoid making when they bluffed. It was these ‘tells’ that formed the most important part of any game.
Now, he decided, he was ready to start playing.
Four of the next five hands went his way. His stake slowly built until it rivalled Sangk's. Marius concentrated on slow playing – undervaluing each hand until he was sure he held the strongest combination, then suddenly plunging a large bet into the pot at the point where his opponents had already thrown so much wealth in that they were committed to matching him. Sangk’s comments grew increasingly acerbic, and started to flow earlier and
