Palanti-Aarbo: Casino
The scent and smoke and taste of a Draeg casino were lovely at three in the morning. To keep the players in the Dragon’s Nest until daylight bled over the horizon, the owners pumped jasmine, lavender, and burnt hickory incense into the casino’s various rooms to keep their patrons refreshed and relaxed. The delicate wisps of smoke cradled each player as he or she hunched further over the silk-topped gaming tables, attempting to claw back some form of victory against the house.
On paper, Palanti-Aarbo should have been among the hunched. For the last hour he had lost steadily, and with each poker hand a few more chips melted away from his stacks. Yet he was playing a longer game than merely from pot to pot. It had taken the wiry, mustached Vijari two months to bribe, cajole, and play his way into the Dragon’s Nest, as the Draeg weren’t about to let an offworlder simply walk into Exoranc’s most exclusive gambling palace and plunk down bets alongside the wealthiest and best born on Xydak without earning the privilege.
There were only two other non-Draeg in the casino that night: a Krysar advisor trying to teach its client the subtleties of Crycean Avalanche, and the Human dealer sitting across the table from Palanti-Aarbo. The previous year some Human traders had introduced the Draeg to five card stud, and the entire species went wild for it.
Jared, a thin blonde with a thin nose, cleared his throat. “Your cards, sir.”
Palanti-Aarbo nodded absently, slapping his cards to the silken tabletop and flicking them to the Human. Narrow, carefully tended fingers slid the cards to a narrow slot, and a second later a grey puff of smoke floated out. It was the Dragon’s Nest signature way to stop cheating and card counting: incinerate every hand.
For all the incinerators, the bulky and somewhat scarred guards in their polished leather jerkins, and the fidgety floor bosses, one thing surprised Palanti-Aarbo when he first walked into the poker chamber: no dealer ever counted the cards they received.
Perhaps it was because rich Draeg never considered sleeves a fashion accessory. Indeed, on this night, the only other two players at the table—the sole survivors out of eight to make it this far—were resplendent in an electric cyan waistcoat and olive green vest, but neither had sleeves, which allowed their scales to shimmer in the false firelight.
By contrast, Palanti-Aarbo had sleeves so long he had to keep shoving them back up his arms to keep his hands free. If the Vijari hadn’t taken his stolen spa robes to the tailor and had more than a foot of cloth sliced off, he could have worn it as a wedding dress. But the sleeves stayed intact.
Those sleeves concealed a few of Palanti-Aarbo’s hidden compartments. He could have concealed an entire deck of cards in his left arm if he wanted, but he only needed five for tonight’s scheme.
All this was his holy mission for the goddess Palanti, divine protector of thieves and dispenser of mischief. He was her priest and she needed a gilded temple. He would do right by his creation and personal deity by providing her with an appropriately ornate place of worship. An old bar was a good start, but the exorcism had caused more damage than he’d expected, and the waste removal wasn’t cheap either.
The hands wore on and more chips disappeared from Palanti-Aarbo’s stacks. The Draeg on his left, the one in the electric cyan waistcoat—who he had named Frank because he couldn’t remember the mass of consonants and vowels making up the Draeg’s name—narrowed his eyes a fraction as he placed his chips next to Palanti-Aarbo’s messy ante pile. The other player, the one wearing the olive vest—who was now named Ike because it sounded a bit amusing—similarly placed his chips in a fussy manner.
Why Draeg made such a production out of a game Humans either play drunk or half naked Palanti-Aarbo didn’t know, but he did know he needed one more card to pull this off.
The card arrived during the next hand, perhaps delivered on the fictional whims of Palanti herself: the Ace of Spades. It went into his left wrist.
Folding at the earliest opportunity, the Vijari slid back and spent the rest of the hand staring at the complicated blown glass light fixture overhead, watching the endless fire crackle inside. He made sure to smack his lips loudly, putting a lot of saliva into the act so it sprayed through the air and dotted the silk top. Ike won the hand. Or maybe it was Frank. It didn’t matter.
Frank glanced at the Vijari, while Ike ignored him. Palanti-Aarbo stopped smacking and graced everyone at the table with a wide smile as Jared dealt out the next hand.
The Vijari looked at his cards, eyes scanning the corners. He had the Ace of Spades again, and that encouraged him, as it ensured one of his stolen cards wasn’t back out on the table.
That was the one flaw in his otherwise perfectly simple scheme. Parts of his Royal Flush could be sitting around on the table somewhere, but it was an acceptable risk. He had a flash bomb in his right wrist and a virulent stink bomb in his left knee. He could make it out of the Dragon’s Den, but poor Palanti wouldn’t get her proper temple nearly as soon. Stealing from the rich was the fastest way to his goddess’ nonexistent heart.
Adjusting the stuffed chicken that served as his official headdress, Palanti-Aarbo casually tapped his hand into a neat stack, set them down, and by the time he shoved his sleeves back for the hundredth time that night, the new hand was out of his wrist.
Ike took two cards from Jared.
Palanti-Aarbo politely turned the Human down.
Frank and Ike stared at the Vijari.
The Vijari smiled back.
The chicken headdress stared at Jared.
Jared tried to avoid the chicken’s gaze, as he had all night. His parents had owned a chicken farm, and Columbus the rooster had been a horrible, perverted bird.
Frank took a single card, and his face never shifted as he looked at his new hand. He had an excellent poker face, which came from hours of practice and instruction costing more than 1,000 yils a day.
Ike had spent 1,500 yils a day on his poker face tutorials, and his blank gaze was even more perfect. He could have been an oil painting for as much as he moved.
Palanti-Aarbo shoved all his chips to the table’s center when his turn came around, and the Draeg wasted no time going all in as well. By the time every last chip was in the pot 184,328 yils sat there. Entire Xydak villages didn’t have that kind of cash on hand. It offered obscene opportunities to the newly minted priest.
Two Draeg and a Human watched Palanti-Aarbo as he sat down his cards one at a time: five cards running from the 10 of Spades to the Ace. With each card the Draegs’ lower lips faltered. When the Queen made her appearance Frank let out a blubber, and when the Ace came out Ike sighed like a deflating balloon.
Frank had a full house, eights and two red Queens. Ike had four of a kind, all sixes.
Palanti-Aarbo couldn’t stop smiling. Even the stuffed chicken seemed pleased.
Thanking the dragon descendants for their chips, and tossing a handful at Jared as a tip, Palanti-Aarbo hopped off his chair, asked the attendant to gather his winnings, and strode toward the cashier. The chicken swayed wildly with each exaggerated step. Half an hour later, after a stilted congratulation from the prissy head floor boss, Palanti-Aarbo had his yils in his account.
Yet he did not have satisfaction. It was too easy. He had been hoping to get caught, truth to tell. That would have been fun.
He turned to the banker on the other side of the heavy iron bars there only for show. Each cashier window had a laser screen that crackled like real fire. The cashier turned this screen off as the diminutive priest wearing a chicken held out a hand.
“A tip for your fine service this evening, my friend.”
The Draeg gave his thanks, but was confused when a small chrome orb greeted him instead of a 1,000 yill chip. He barely got out a “what” when it exploded, blinding him and every cashier, patron, and attendant in a 100-foot radius.
As the strobing light reflected off high chandeliers and glossy silks, Palanti-Aarbo reached into his left knee to retrieve the stink bomb. After short consideration, and much sidestepping of blindly flailing patrons, he tossed it into the darkened Uarlock Pit where Draeg focused on the small glowing tiles as they tried to outmaneuver their opponent.
The sound of vomiting reached his ears a moment later. The retching quickly developed a rhythm that, combined with the continual cries of “Oh god, I’m blind,” formed a spritely tune. Palanti-Aarbo removed the chicken from his head, gently cradled it in his arms, and waltzed with it toward the front door. Arcing the stuffed bird out from him as though it were his courtly love, the Vijari spun and swung his arms with such abandon the massive sleeves fluttered behind him like pennants.
Palanti would be so pleased with her priest’s performance tonight, he knew. She was quite the dancer.