Winner Takes All [completed]

[Zhavi]

Her eyes were empty. She reached out with the hand that didn't have the case in it, and rested it on the back of his chair. "I found yer secrets."

 

The case was dangled in front of his face.

[Melkire]

It took everything he had - the little one's blissful obliviousness, Rings' aptitude for false-facing, Dirk's love for bluffing, Melkire's inhumanity, Ossy's self-control, the sergeant's stoicism - it took everything he had to keep from blanching.

 

"...oh?"

[Zhavi]

If he had been miqo'te, maybe he would have smelled the blood. Quiru's blood. Maybe. As it was, the stink of her, of the ocean, would be oppressive that close.

 

"I'll be takin' me coin now." Her voice was soft. Almost gentle. Almost forgiving.

[Melkire]

Slowly, carefully -- leaving the hand with the knife in it where it was, he wasn't stupid -- he dropped the whetstone into one belt pouch and reached into another. He came up with a small bag and held it out to her, held it by the neck between index and middle finger, palm turned up and waiting for the case.

 

"...y'gonna count it? 'cause I've no reason t'roll you f'such a pittance."

[Zhavi]

Zhi removed her hand from the chair, took the pouch, and tucked it into her belt. She straightened, and dropped the case into his lap.

 

There she stood, straight as an arrow, staring down at him. Her face was lax. Several beats passed. The silence was heavy. When she turned, it was abrupt; a fluid burst of energy that took her to the door on silent feet. She unlocked it. Her head was bent as if she was studying the knob when she said, "Melkire. I can't stop ye from enterin' th'city again. But ye best stay away from me takes. Stay away from me. I'll be keepin' an ear out fer yer names." She turned her head slightly to the side. The curve of her cheek was visible under the tangle of her hair. "I'll use 'em if it need be."

 

She opened the door, and took a step through the doorway.

[Melkire]

"Melkire--"

 

Kill her.

 

KILL HER.

 

The schooner descended into chaos as the sergeant and the helmsman jumped Melkire and seized his arms, as Rings rushed out in front of Dirk and held him back, pleading the way a younger sibling would. The little one retreated to a corner, sat down, and started to shiver.

 

That left Him alone with the whore.

 

"They're right, you know. She needs to die."

 

He grit his teeth. "No."

 

"She's going to betray you. And when she does, they'll find them. Ma. Dani. Cori. Thomys. All of them. Your fault. Unless you kill her."

 

"No. That's not who I am."

 

"Liar. Those children the other day--"

 

"Self-defense. You're talkin' cold-blooded murder. I'm not doing that again."

 

"You let her walk, you're murdering your family."

"I'll use 'em if it need be."

 

He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Held it.

 

"...thank you."

[Zhavi]

The step faltered.

 

Quiru was dead.

 

By Zhi's hand.

 

Thank you?

 

For his job.

 

For his privacy.

 

For his secrets.

 

Thank you.

 

"Jes get th'feck out o'me city," she said. Her voice was cold. Controlled.

 

She needed a new knife.

 

The thought popped into her head, random and utterly out of place. She had fresh coin. She could buy one, a decent one. Yeah, thank you. Right.

 

She slammed the door behind her.

[Melkire]

He frowned down at the waterproof case for several minutes. Then he opened the lid, took up the papers, and began perusing them.

 

Four moons. Four moons he'd been on the run, playing the hottest game of coeurl-and-rat he'd ever known, playing for his life. He'd spent several weeks being sheltered by Sisipu and Wawalago; wet and drenched he'd been, most of that time, only drawn forth from the water by the nets for meals and for sundown. Several more had been spent precariously perched high above the city, hidden in some recess or alcove in the marble masts of that ruined vessel of old, with only seagull eggs for food. In the end, he had won out, fooled them all, passed Mealvaan's Gate with the arcanists none-the-wiser.

 

His eyes scanned the dry documents.

 

...Merlwyb's Ghost...

 

...Dirk Problemsolver...

 

...Rings...

 

...Osric Melkire.

 

He exhaled with a shudder. He wasn't safe. No name was safe. Not one was his to wear.

 

Silently, wordlessly, he sent up a prayer of thanks to the Twelve, asking for their blessing upon Swift and Peak. The two men had smuggled him back here, four years ago, so that he could convince his family to fake his funeral, to grieve for him, to convince the city that the eldest son of Melkire had indeed been given to Llymlaen's waters. As a result, his family was safe from repercussions... or as safe as they could be.

 

That had been the reason for his row with Cori, the reason why she'd barred him from the Wench during her shifts: she'd been concerned that she would give him away, give them all away.

 

He glanced up at the door. Kink was a problem... but she'd sounded sincere. All his lives had thought the same: she'd not turn on him if he stayed the hells out of her way.

 

He tossed the waterproof case aside without a care in the world, sheathed his knife, pocketed the whetstone. He stood and made his way over to the only light in the room, and burned the papers over the open flame of that candle. The remaining corner of parchment, he dropped in the wax... then he was out the door himself, into the hallway... and that was when he collided with Baderon.

 

The man blinked at him, then smiled. "Ossy! Good t'see you! ...can I have twenty-three back now?"

 

He blinked. Ossy... Ossy might work. Might be safe enough, so long as it was whispered. So long as Tom and the twins could keep their mouths shut.

 

"Course, Master Tenfingers. Thank you."

 

"Nothin' to it, nothin' to it... ye ever need anythin', ye just speak up, aye?"

 

He blinked again. There was one thing....

 

"Mind keepin' an ear out for me over the next few suns? Missin' persons, and what-not."

 

"High life or lowsies?"

 

"Lowsies. A picker, or a trouper."

 

"That, I can do. Pass it along through Cori?"

 

"That'd be just fine."

 

He patted the man on the shoulder, the man he respected so much for risking life and limb to make a half-honest livin' in this shitesack city, and marched down the hallway.

 

Kink may have taken the pot, but he'd walked away with the playing cards.

 

He could always play again.