Worlds Burn

Coins and Killings

Cyril
The dice clattered on the table and came to a stop in front of Cyril's pile of gold. The other men craned their necks to see, and Cyril heard a collective groan as they saw the outcome.
"Five," Cyril gloated, unable to keep a grin from spreading on his face. He laughed and reached out as his opponents counted out their coins and pushed them to Cyril's side of the table. "If my lucky streak keeps going, I'll have enough money to buy the lot of you and sell you off as slaves." They growled at that, and Cyril saw more than one poisonous glare, but he couldn't care less. 

Those Gifted with Luck were strictly forbidden from the gambling table, but Cyril was an exception. Only a select few of his partners in business knew about his Gift, and no one could ever find a reason to suspect him. His light brown hair and pale skin rendered him distinctly un-Ropewalker, as did his preference of tunnels and the underground over the Raeli rooftops. The Raeli could be extremely ignorant. Hardly anyone seemed to realize that many were born with the Gift outside of the walls of Rael, and that the Gift of Luck was only restricted to the dark haired and dark skinned within the city.
Even so, Cyril was never one to be reckless....

"Care for another round, my friends?" he mocked, finishing off his ale. The barmaid scampered over to refill his drink. "I'll go easy on you this time."
"Don't get cocky over a few lucky guesses, boy," the oldest of the group growled. Cyril had noticed him around the tavern before; he frequented the gambling table almost as often as Cyril did. From the looks of it, he was a Rat, and down on his luck.
"Me? Cocky?" Cyril always remembered to act drunk during his winning streaks; others seemed to find him less intimidating then. Of course, being truly drunk helped. "Come on, old man. I'll cast again."
It took three tries before he rolled an eight. The others sat back, hesitating.
"I wager the boy has some spiritual favor on his side," one of them finally decided, a portly, red-faced Middling. He pulled ten golden pieces from his pile and pushed them forward. "Ten says he nicks."
"I'm grateful for your support," Cyril exclaimed. A few more bets followed, in Cyril's favor. The old man was the last. Scowling, he counted out his gold.
"I think your luck is about to come to an end," he said as he tossed the gold pieces forward.
"And I certainly don't. Why don't we make this more interesting?" Cyril gestured to his pile of winnings. "I'll bet it all, gentleman, that I nick myself an eight or a twelve this round. What do you say?"
"You're mad," the fat Middling said, patting his brow with his kerchief. "Mad and drunk, boy, that's what you are."
"So I am." Cyril smiled invitingly. "Shall we play?"

The dice clattered on the table. Cyril took a deep breath, closing his eyes. Even with his eyes closed, he could sense them leaning hastily to see the results, and could see the baffled expressions of disappointment and regret...and one expression of stunned triumph.
"Ten," one of the younger players said out loud as the old Rat leapt to his feet, howling with glee. "It's a ten, Cyril."
Cyril opened his eyes, smiling. He shrugged and sat back in his chair as the Rat came forward eagerly, scooping up the gold into his money bag.
"I suppose I was bound to get unlucky sometime," he said with a dramatic sigh. The younger man was staring at him with something like disgust.
"You really are a fool, aren't you?" he muttered, and turned away.

Cyril was putting on his cloak a few minutes later when he saw Destry enter the tavern. The glimpse of sky through the doorway as she slipped in revealed that it was almost dawn; Cyril had been playing the whole night.
The short, frizzly-haired girl wove through the tables and crowds to his side. She was dressed for the tunnels, a fringed leather vest fitted over dark leggings, with a leather pouch fastened at her belt.
"Won anything good?" she asked, her pale gray eyes scanning him with some disapproval. Cyril could detect a tense undertone to her casual words. Destry had a strong dislike for taverns and gambling rooms. Only something of utmost importance would motivate her to come find him here.
"I did, but Grandfather over there stole it all away," Cyril explained mournfully. He jutted his chin at the old man, who was still cradling his bag of money with glee. Destry raised an eyebrow, skeptical; she knew about Cyril's Gift, but more than that, knew that he would never put all his money into a bet if he wanted to keep it.
"Did he really," she said.
"Let's talk outside, shall we?" Cyril suggested. His slight drunkenness was beginning to wear off as the urgency set in; he had to know why Destry was here. "I'll see you tomorrow night, gentlemen." He grabbed her shoulders and steered her to the exit.
The moment the door closed behind them, Destry turned to face him. Her eyes were almost the exact heathery gray of the sky.
"Lilibeth is dead," she whispered without hesitation. If anything could get Cyril completely sober within a matter of seconds, it was that.
"How?" he asked after a minute of shocked silence.
"I have no idea. Eris found her, hanging by her ankle from the roof. Says she was just one giant bruise."
"Eris?"
"I'll explain in private." Cyril followed the girl down the street, where the first vendors of the day were starting to make an appearance. Cries of merchants hawking their wares could be heard.
The closest Rat hole was a few houses away from the tavern.
"What was going on back there, by the way?" Destry remarked as they walked. "I'd much prefer it if you stayed out of those places as much as possible, but while you're there, you might as well make some gold. What were you doing, losing to some old Rat?"
"A loss for today, a win for tomorrow," Cyril said. "I have to uphold the facade. Play the foolish drunkard who gets extremely lucky every once in a while, but always loses in the end."
"Are you sure it's just a facade?" Destry asked bitingly. Cyril ignored her.
"That way, they'll never take me seriously. And one day, I won't lose in the end, but they'll have no reason to suspect me."
"I hope it's worth the effort," Destry muttered. Like Eris, Destry never seemed to understand what he found so entertaining about gambling when he had control of every aspect of it. "Don't you like a challenge?" she often rebuked.
Neither Eris nor Destry seemed to understand that he really didn't. Cyril accepted challenges, not because he enjoyed them, but because he needed them to climb the ladder and find a comfortable spot at the very top. As far as he was concerned, that was where the fun began.
And that was where he was now. It had been a struggle, and gambling was his way of rewarding himself.