She glared at him. "Don't ever touch me like that again. You're right. I don't approve of your methods, and I certainly don't approve of you throwing me against a wall. But if this is how we get out of Albion, then let's just get out of Albion." She shoved his body away and gritted her teeth. "What do I need to do?"

"For one, your name is known all over the city, so you need to go by something else, something common. How do you feel about Haenah?"

Cyrene rolled her eyes. "Haenah de'Lorlah? Like the dance?"

"Whatever works for you. The person we're about to meet might appear nice, but he has loaded dice behind every question. He doesn't play fair, and he doesn't answer fair."

"We're gambling, too?" she squeaked, wanting nothing more than to leave this place.

"Yes. He has a penchant for taken women. So, act like you belong to me, and we'll get our answer."

"Taken women?" she scoffed. The skin on the back of her neck p.r.i.c.kled, and she briefly glanced behind her, seeing if anyone else were around. She turned back to Ahlvie, angry that the environment was making her chase shadows but even angrier with him. "What exactly are we doing?"

"Trust me on this." He was asking too much all at once.

He offered her his arm, and she rolled her eyes, wondering why on earth she would ever go along with this absurd plan.

"Come on, Haenah."

She sighed and reluctantly placed her hand on his arm. She wondered what the h.e.l.l she was getting herself into as Ahlvie walked them toward a ramshackle inn with a swinging sign that read, The Silver Trinket.

The Silver Trinket was the seediest establishment Cyrene had ever entered. It was beyond run-down and packed to the brim with men throwing dice or sitting around beaten-up wooden tables and cutting cards. Women wore dresses showing excessive bosoms and giggling at the men who grabbed them as they pa.s.sed to bring their beer. Several men slept on the dimly lit bar in the back, and more cheered on a card game. Dilapidated stairs beckoned upward, and a hearth had an enormous cooking pot hanging over it. One of the largest of the serving women walked over to the pot, sloshed some nondescript stew into two bowls, and handed them to men sitting nearby. As she tried to walk away, a man pulled the woman into his lap and started laughing.

Cyrene was horrified. Who treats women this way?

Ahlvie tugged her closer, and she didn't leave that position. She scratched the back of her neck and glanced around the room at all the dirty faces staring back at her. Or maybe none of them were staring at her. She didn't know. It felt like it since she was the only clean person in the place.

Ahlvie walked to the bar and ordered a beer. But he held it in his hand, barely drinking any of it.

A few minutes later, when another man wasn't looking, he switched it out with another patron at the bar. His demeanor had changed. He was stooping slightly, like he'd had too much to drink already, and he smiled up at her.

He nodded in the direction of the dice table, and Cyrene angled her body so that she could see.

"Who's he?" she murmured.

"The owner."

The man sitting at the table was surprisingly tall and thin with a trim beard and much cleaner clothing than the men surrounding him. He exuded confidence. She wondered what his importance was in their endeavor as Ahlvie supposedly finished another drink.

Moving closer to the tables, they watched a few rolls of the die. Cyrene didn't know the particular game and stared at it in fascination, trying to determine the rules. When she glanced at Ahlvie, he had a completely different look about him. His eyes were glazed over, and he leaned on one side, but she could see that he was playing the game in his head and waiting for his turn.

When that moment came, he grabbed her hand, barreled forward into the crowd, and slapped down two silver trinkets. "I'm in an' me pretty wife, too," he said. He forced her into a seat right next to the man they were interested in and plopped down next to her.

"We don' 'ave room fer two!" a guy yelled.

"Let them stay," the man said. He matched Ahlvie's two silver trinkets and glanced not so subtly at Cyrene. "What's your name? This doesn't look like your type of establishment."

She smiled, not knowing what her role was supposed to be. "Haenah."

She downcast her eyes and looked over at Ahlvie. He purposely didn't pay attention to her.

"My husband likes to dice."

"And you? Do you like to dice, Haenah?" The man placed the set in front of her.

"I'm no good," she said.

Her gaze darted up and across the table to the darkened stairwell. She could have sworn that someone was standing there a second ago, but no one was there now.

"It's all a matter of luck."

"I'm not lucky either."

"Maybe you will be tonight." He encouraged her to pick up the dice. "I'm Jestre Farranay, owner of this establishment, and I believe you make your own luck."

She swallowed, picked up the dice, and let them loose on the destroyed wooden table. They bounced and rolled a few times before lying still, revealing straight snake eyes. Her heart dropped. In every game she had ever played with dice, that meant bad luck. But before she even had a chance to frown, the men all around her whooped.

"An unbeatable throw." Jestre pushed the pot in her direction. "Seems you've found your luck."

Cyrene stared down at her winnings in surprise. Everyone else at the table threw in another silver trinket, and the game started all over again. Ahlvie lost the next hand, and Cyrene was pretty sure he had done it on purpose. The dice slid around the rest of the table. Some won, and some lost. After cheering, stomping, yelling, one punch to the face, one triumphant smile from Jestre as he collected from the pot, the dice were placed before her again.

She breathed in before collecting them. Cyrene pushed her hair off her neck and tried to keep the goose b.u.mps from showing on her arms. This place gave her the creeps.

"Only one more for me," she told them. "My husband can play the rest."

She shook the die in the small cup and threw them out on the table. She held her breath as the first one revealed just one dot, then the next, and the one after that. Nearly all of them were showing ones again, and she stared in astonishment as the last one rolled further and further down the table. When the dice finally came to a stop, it stood on its side, stuck in between two wooden boards on the table with a one and a small square mark with a slash through it.

"Break even," Jestre said when it didn't move anymore. "A Braj and a one cancel each other out."

Cyrene sighed. She just wanted to leave. She didn't know what Ahlvie was getting at by bringing her here or what the game had to do with anything, but she was ready to leave-now.

"I'm suddenly not feeling well." She placed her hand to her forehead and stood.

She really did feel warm to the touch. The room was too crowded, and the game was getting to her head.

"Nonsense," Jestre said. "You can't leave yet. You're on a streak."

"One hand is hardly a streak. Anyway, my husband is the gambler, not me," she said with a small smile. "If you'll excuse me."

"The woman requires a.s.sistance." Jestre pa.s.sed the dice to Ahlvie and followed Cyrene away from the game.

Ahlvie hastily pa.s.sed the dice along and trailed behind them. "A word, Mr. Farranay." He drunkenly grabbed the man's arm.

"I've no time." Jestre glanced at him like he was the sc.u.m of the world. "Your wife needs tending to. Did you even notice her fever?"

Cyrene watched as they stared each other down. What did Ahlvie have up his sleeve? And why is he dealing with a man like this? He was more than intimidating and towered over them both, and Ahlvie wasn't short.

"I 'ave a bit of a problem, and I thought we could work it out. Me, you, and me pretty wife." He gestured to Cyrene and raised his eyebrows.

Jestre seemed to understand and nodded. "Follow me."

They walked to the back of the bar and into a small room that could pa.s.s as an office. It was hardly big enough for the three of them with the desk in the room, but they squeezed in and shut the door. The walls were empty, only a few pieces of parchment were on the desk, and nothing more than a lock cabinet was in the corner.

"What can I help you with?" Jestre stood behind the desk and casually leaned against the back wall.

"We need a boat," Ahlvie told him.

"And how could I help you with that? I am but a simple owner of The Silver Trinket."

"A little birdie told me you have connections to a freighter leaving Albion."

"And who is this little birdie?"

Ahlvie shrugged.

"Right then. Clearly, you've been misinformed. Will that be all? Your wife doesn't look well."

"We need to get on that boat, and we need you to put us on it," Ahlvie continued, unaffected.

"Even if I had a boat, why would I help a drunkard like you? I've seen you in here before, wasting away your time in that mug. Was your wife at home the whole time? Did you think bringing her in tonight would garner you my sympathy?" he asked coldly.

Cyrene gulped. She wished Ahlvie had told her what his plan was. She hated walking into things unprepared.

"By the look on her face, I'd register she didn't even know you'd been here." Jestre had guessed correctly, but it was hardly what he thought.

"Haenah's my concern, and I'm doing best I can by 'er. Albion has nothing left for us, and I need your ship to get out," Ahlvie said, stumbling forward a step and resting his hand on the desk.

For show, Cyrene reached forward and steadied him.

Jestre stared down at Ahlvie. "You're a disgrace. You can run from the booze, but it'll find you."

"I'll dice you for the ride."

Cyrene gasped. "No."

"What do I get when you lose?" Jestre asked with a sly smile.

Ahlvie considered for a moment and then c.o.c.ked his thumb in Cyrene's direction. Jestre's eyebrows rose, and Cyrene's mouth dropped open.

"Are you mad?" she screeched.

"Done." Jestre held his hand out and shook with Ahlvie. "When you lose, I get the girl."

"I'll not stand for it!" She smacked Ahlvie on the shoulder as hard as she could.

No wonder he hadn't told her his plan. She would never have gone along with it.

What a completely moronic imbecile!

He couldn't wager her. He didn't have the right for that. What if he lost? She, an Affiliate, would somehow be attached to this...this man! If they made it through this, she was going to kill Ahlvie.

They ignored her as if her opinion had no bearing on the matter. She had never been in a world of any sort where her opinion didn't matter.

The two men barreled out of the small room and went back into the main parlor. Jestre cleared off a table and grabbed a container of dice. The rowdy men who had surrounded them before stopped their game to see the commotion in the middle of the room. Tables were eased together, and chairs sc.r.a.ped across the floor, so the men could watch the game.

Cyrene glared at Ahlvie from her vantage point of the game. She wanted to throttle him for bringing her here. He would surely never hear the end of this.

"Two out of three?" Ahlvie taunted.

"One throw," Jestre corrected. "Just one." He pushed the dice toward Ahlvie.

"You first." He shifted them back across the table. "I have more at stake." He chuckled softly.

"No matter," Jestre said with a shrug.

He had an air about him of someone who never lost. He was completely unfazed by Ahlvie's confidence. He was so used to winning that he couldn't even see the signs of inebriation falling off of Ahlvie or his fingers twitching to touch the dice.

Jestre shook the dice once before effortlessly tossing them on the table. They rolled a few times across the table, and everyone in the hall breathed in at once. The antic.i.p.ation cleared away the anxiety she had been feeling all night. She had been so worked up about where they were, and now, when her mind was focused elsewhere, she realized this place didn't have quite the same edge, quite the same uneasy haze about it.

The dice stopped, and Cyrene covered her ears to hold back the deafening applause from the onlookers. Jestre triumphantly smiled at her in the same way he had when he won the last hand in their previous game. "All but perfect," he informed her. One diamond side of a die marred the perfect snake eyes. "Your roll."

Ahlvie eagerly grabbed the dice, all signs of his earlier drunkenness gone. He swirled the dice in the cup a few times, testing it out. He covered the cup with his hand and shook it back and forth, letting the dice rattle and clink around the container. He smiled at Cyrene and then let them loose on the table.

She couldn't even look.

Her fingers covered her eyes to keep away the disappointment. She didn't want to know. Ahlvie had seemed so confident, but this man diced for a living in his inn. She couldn't believe Ahlvie could outsmart someone like that.

She pried her fingers from her eyes and watched as the last side turned over, twirled on one axis a few times, and then it dropped to the table. All ones. Straight snake eyes. He'd won!

Boos and cries were shouted all around them at Jestre's loss. The atmosphere in the room shifted at Ahlvie's win. She could make out a few angry grunts about Jestre never losing a one-on-one game. This wasn't looking good, and they needed to get out of here.

This was a mistake. Even if they'd won, and they had, Jestre wouldn't let them on his boat. They had humiliated him before all of his patrons, and he wouldn't soon forget it.

"You cheat!" Jestre cried, slamming his fist on the table. "You cheated me in my own game. You think you can get away with that in my establishment? You'll never dice again when I'm through with you!"

"Let's go," Cyrene said. She fearfully tugged on Ahlvie's sleeve.

"You promised us a ride!" Ahlvie cried over the noise that was reaching a crescendo among the drunken men.

"I promised nothing to a cheat!" Jestre grabbed the end of the table nearest Cyrene and threw it along with the dice across the room.

Cyrene jumped back in shock at the display of violence and ran into a large man holding a full mug of beer. The beer spilled onto a guy standing next to him, and suddenly, before she was even aware of what was happening, the guy threw his fist in the face of that man holding the mug.

Chaos broke out all around them. Cyrene screamed as a man tumbled to the ground next to her, having just been hit over the head with an old wooden chair. She moved farther away from the scene. Jestre threw himself at Ahlvie, pushing him backward into another table. They brawled, punching haphazardly. Mugs of beer sloshed onto the floor. Tables broke, women ran for the kitchen at the commotion, and blood flowed freely. The mixture of new smells combined with the stench of the bar turned her stomach, and she gagged as she moved out of the way of another swinging fist.

Ahlvie landed a few choice punches into Jestre's stomach, and the bar owner retaliated with his own. A man barreled into her side. She gasped as she fell to the ground, and all the air rushed out of her lungs. Hoisting herself off the ground, she did the only thing she could think of doing.

She ran.