The Knife's Edge

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A ROGUE'S LUCK

Darius rolled a die across the ridge of his fingers, holding his breath, his other fist clenched beneath the table. At last, the seven dice on the round wood table stopped their roll.

Seven ones.

He let out a strangled gasp of surprise. “Seven,” he said. All the other men grumbled and threw their coin, sitting back into their chairs. All except one.

Across the table, old Bueler eyed him with one squinted eye. “Had I not known all your tricks, Darius, I’d think ya was cheatin’.”

“What can I say?” Darius shrugged. “When you’re lucky, you’re lucky.”

Bueler snorted, “Aye—the Ronin’s own dark luck.”

Darius was startled by the comparison. He hadn’t heard them mentioned by name since he was a boy. He laughed uncomfortably and looked around the table. The other men looked equally unnerved by the name. At that moment, a group of shapely women passed closely by, flirting with the gamblers. Thank Lokai. Best make use of this. Darius pushed back his chair.

“Hold on!” Bueler croaked loudly. Darius saw the coin-seeking women hadn’t fazed Bueler. Instead, the man’s dark eyes narrowed, looking like small, angry lumps of coal. “Not going to let a man have another chance at his money?”

The others turned. Darius froze, half-risen from his seat. He knew where his dagger lay. He could get to it in the blink of an eye, but he didn’t move his hand. He didn’t want to fight nine men, not for a foolish wager. He debated giving the coin back, but something in Bueler’s eyes suggested the man wasn’t wholly interested in the loss of silver anymore.

“Settle down, Buel,” said Farley in his rumbling voice. He was Lakewood’s blacksmith, and his brawny arms attested to that, as they barely fit inside his tunic. “No use getting worked up. It’s just a game. And if you start a fight at the festival, the council will have your head on a pike.” Bueler didn’t seem to care. He stared at Darius with growing rage. He wasn’t sure about the others, but Bueler’s mind seemed more for blood than coin. The man was different tonight, a darker glimmer in his eyes. And while Bueler surely couldn’t fight, the fool could work the others into a lather. Once in his life, Darius had seen a mob form, and a man had died as a result. It was a terrifying thing what the irrational power of rage and numbers did to a man. It was time to work his charm, before things got any worse.

“My apologies, gentlemen, while I would love to stay and chat, it is just far too glorious a night to waste simply tossing dice, even with such fine company.” He bowed deeply, gesturing with his one hand, and with his other slid a portion of his earnings into his coin purse, leaving most of the heavy coins on the table—more than enough. Darius gestured to the coin. “A token of my appreciation. Until next time...” He turned, hiding a smirk. That should work, now to—

“Oh, you’re not going anywhere,” Bueler called. “Not this time.”

Darius heard the scrape of wood as the other men slid back their chairs. He cursed inwardly.

“Turn and face us, you scoundrel!”

Slowly, he turned, and saw the speaker. It was Bueler’s lackey, Ruben. Ruben was big, and while not as big as Farley he was still twice the width and a good hand taller than Darius. Moreover, the man’s face reflected his many fights and foul temper. A scar ran across his missing left eye and down his mouth, leaving it in a perpetual sneer.

Don’t look the bull in the eye. It’ll only anger it. He turned his gaze down and flashed his most disarming smile. “Look, this is clearly a misunderstanding. If you want another game, all you had to do is ask... I’m ready to lose my coin. That is, if you’re man enough to take it. Now sit, sit,” he ushered, “The next round is on me.” He looked around for a barmaid, but as the tension grew, a clear gap was dividing between them and the others in the hall. Dice! Where are they when you need them?