Kingdom of Scourge and Shadow (The Sightstone Series #1)

Chapter Four: Max

"Allerstad was built in the middle of a bog, on a spot perfect for ships sailing the Winter Sea. What its founders failed to take into account was that the canals and the damp would prove the perfect breeding ground for bad weather and disease."

-Gerard Van Daal, historian, Allerstad: Disease and Trade on the Winter Sea, Vol 1.

***

21st of Blood Moon

The Tempest, Allerstad, Rijkelund

There was a certain irony, Max reflected, to the whole concept of a pious escort. A pious assassin. A pious Specter. It amused him, really, yet, despite the irony, he'd never quite been able to set aside the beliefs he'd been raised with, his faith in the Allsaints.

His hand trembled slightly as he lit a taper and set it at the foot of the statue of St. Nikolaas. That was another piece of religious irony, really, that St. Nikolaas was both venerated by thieves, and the patron saint of Allerstad, whose wealthy class professed such piety. If that wasn't a perfect metaphor for the city that had been built in the wetlands on the edge of the Winter Sea, then Max didn't know what was.

Above him, the icon of St. Nikolaas stared unseeingly at the far wall, the paint of his face chipped and fading. Max's candle joined the small cluster of others at his feet, outshone by the vast collection of tapers that had been lit for St. Fortuna, the patroness of luck. Like at any other club in the Old Stad, at the Tempest, Fortuna was the favorite. Gamblers were their best customers, and, when they started losing, people always miraculously became more pious.

This late at night, the club was crowded. Max could hear the clink of gambling chips changing hands, laced beneath the urgent hum of conversation and the sound of a pianist playing softly in a corner. The air smelled of beer and anise from the drinks served at the bar, and of the tobacco smoke that curled from gamblers' pipes, cigars and cigarettes.

Breathing in the rich, smoky air that smelled of the only home he'd ever known, Max said a silent prayer to St. Nikolaas, as he did every evening when he knew they had Specters out on the streets, working–which was, of course, every night. Night was their playground, and their protection.

A pious escort. A pious assassin. What an epic, cosmic joke.

As the candles flickered gently in a faint breeze, Max got gracefully to his feet. Out of habit, he caressed the handle of the knife he carried at his waist. It was like a security blanket; it made him feel safe to know it was there, easy to reach.

Like most clubs and gambling houses, the Tempest's little chapel was set off the main room, right where gamblers could easily find it to leave offerings to their saints of choice. They'd found, early on, that the more pious gamblers played more if they felt they had the saints' favor, or could somehow attain it if they prayed hard enough for good cards or a stroke of luck.

Max left the chapel and melted into the shadowy, smoky embrace of the gambling den on the club's ground floor. Nearest to the chapel were the backgammon tables, built of the same rich wood as the rest of the club's furniture, tucked away from the chaos of the card tables, the roulette games and the bar, where players could have relative quiet for their longer, calmer games.

Beyond the backgammon tables, through a wide archway and up a single step were the card tables and the bar. Here, the air hummed and crackled with tension as players placed their bets, heckled each other, and shouted for the staff to bring them drinks or food. Max loved this room, loved the chaos, the possibilities. A punter fresh off a winning high would tip well if the club's escorts sauntered through, and players in the midst of losing streaks would pay the ones they thought brought luck to sit on their laps or on a stool beside their chair to touch or blow on their cards.