“What am I supposed to do with Cornelis Smeet after midnight?” Nina asked.
“Try to talk him into spending the night with you.”
“What?” Matthias had sputtered, red flooding his face all the way up to his ears.
“He won’t say yes.”
Nina sniffed. “Like hell he won’t.”
“Nina—” Matthias growled.
“Smeet never cheats at cards or on his wife,” Kaz said. “He’s like half the amateurs strutting around the Barrel. Most of the time he’s respectable, scrupulous—strict economies and half a glass of wine at dinner. But once a week he enjoys feeling like he’s an outlaw matching wits with the high rollers on East Stave, and he likes a pretty blonde on his arm when he does it.”
Nina pursed her lips. “If he’s so moral, then why do you want me to try to—”
“Because Smeet’s rolling in coin, and any self-respecting girl from West Stave would at least make the effort.”
“I don’t like this,” said Matthias.
Jesper had smiled his reckless gunslinger’s grin. “To be fair, Matthias, you don’t like much.”
“Keep Smeet at Club Cumulus from eight bells until midnight,” Kaz said. “That’s four hours of play, so stay smart about it.”
Nina was certainly doing her best, and Wylan didn’t know whether to be impressed or concerned. She was dressed in a sheer lavender gown rigged with some kind of corset that pushed her cleavage to alarming heights, and though she’d lost weight since her battle with parem , there was still plenty of her for Smeet to grab onto. She’d settled her rump firmly on his knee, arm around his shoulder, and was cooing prettily in his ear, her hands caressing his chest and occasionally slipping beneath his jacket like a beagle searching for treats. She stopped only to order oysters or another bottle of champagne. Wylan knew Nina could handle just about any man and any situation, but he didn’t think she should have to sit half-dressed in a drafty gambling parlor, perched on some leering lawyer’s lap. At the very least, she was probably going to catch cold.
Jesper folded yet again and blew out a long, exasperated breath. He’d been losing slowly for the last two hours. He’d kept his bids cautious, but neither luck nor Kaz seemed to be on his side tonight. How were they supposed to keep Smeet at the table if Jesper ran out of funds? Would the other high-stakes players be enough of a lure? There were a few of them in the room, lingering by the walls, watching the game, each hoping to nab a seat if someone cashed out. None of them knew the real game Kaz was running.
As Wylan leaned down to refill Nina’s glass, he heard Smeet murmur, “A card game is like a duel. It’s the little cuts and slashes that set the stage for the final killing stroke.” He glanced across the table to Jesper. “That lad is bleeding all over the table.”
“I don’t know how you keep the rules straight in your head,” Nina said with a giggle.
Smeet grinned, clearly pleased. “This is nothing compared to managing a business.”
“I can’t imagine how you do that either.”
“Sometimes I don’t know myself,” Smeet said on a sigh. “It’s been a hard week. One of my clerks never came back from his holiday, and that meant I was stuck shorthanded.”
Wylan nearly dropped the bottle he was holding; champagne splashed onto the floor.
“I’m paying to drink it, not wear it, boy,” snapped Smeet. He wiped at his trousers and muttered, “That’s what comes of hiring foreigners.”
He means me , Wylan realized as he backed away hurriedly. He didn’t know how to make the reality of his new Shu features sink in. He couldn’t even speak Shu, a fact that hadn’t worried him until two Shu tourists with a map in hand had waylaid him on East Stave. Wylan had panicked, made an elaborate shrugging gesture, and bolted for the servants’ entrance to Club Cumulus.
“Poor baby,” Nina said to Smeet, running her fingers through his thinning hair and adjusting one of the flowers tucked into her silky blonde tresses. Wylan wasn’t sure if she’d actually told Smeet she was from the House of the Blue Iris, but he certainly would have assumed so.
Jesper leaned back in his seat, fingers tapping the handles of his revolvers. The movement seemed to draw Smeet’s eye.
“Those guns are remarkable. Real mother-of-pearl in the handles, if I’m not mistaken,” Smeet said in the tones of a man who was rarely mistaken. “I have a fine collection of firearms myself, though nothing in the line of Zemeni repeating revolvers.”
“Oh, I’d love to see your guns,” Nina cooed, and Wylan looked at the ceiling in an attempt to avoid rolling his eyes. “Are we going to sit here all night?”
Wylan tried to hide his confusion. Wasn’t the whole point to get him to stay? But apparently Nina knew better, because Smeet’s face took on a slightly mulish cast. “Hush now. If I win big, I may buy you something pretty.”
“I’ll settle for some more oysters.”
“You haven’t finished those.”
Wylan caught the quiver of Nina’s nostrils and thought she might be drawing a fortifying breath. She’d had no appetite since she’d recovered from her bout with parem , and he didn’t know how she’d managed to slurp down nearly a dozen oysters.
Now he watched her swallow the last of them with a shudder. “Delicious,” she managed with a glance at Wylan. “Let’s have some more.”
That was the signal. Wylan swooped in and picked up the big dish laden with ice and discarded shells.
“The lady has a craving,” Smeet said.
“Oysters, miss?” Wylan asked. His voice sounded too high. “Buttered prawns?” Too low.
“She’ll have both,” said Smeet indulgently. “And another flute of champagne.”
“Marvelous,” Nina said, looking slightly green.
Wylan rushed through the swinging door to the servants’ pantry. It was stocked with plates, glassware, napkins, and a tin tub full of ice. A dumbwaiter took up a large section of the far wall, and there was a trumpet-shaped speaking tube next to it to allow the staff to communicate with the kitchen. Wylan set the dish of ice and shells on the table, then called down to the kitchen for oysters and buttered prawns.
“Oh, and another bottle of champagne.”
“What vintage?”
“Uh … more of the same?” Wylan had heard his father’s friends talk about which wines made for good investments, but he didn’t quite trust himself to choose a year.
By the time he returned to the parlor with Nina’s order, Kaz was standing up from the table. He made a gesture as if he was dusting off his hands—the sign that a dealer had finished his shift. Specht sat down, a blue silk cravat tied at his throat to hide his tattoos. He shook out his cuffs and called for players to ante up or cash out.
Kaz’s eyes met Wylan’s as he vanished into the pantry.
This was the moment. According to Kaz and Jesper, a player often thought his luck was bound to the dealer and would stop play at the shift change.
Wylan watched in distress as Smeet stretched and gave Nina’s bottom a firm pat. “We’ve had a good run,” he said, glancing at Jesper, who was staring dejectedly at his meager pile of remaining chips. “We may find fatter game elsewhere.”