The Stranger (100 page)

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Authors: Max Frei,Polly Gannon

Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Horror, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Epic

BOOK: The Stranger
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“My name is Ravello,” he said.
Oh no it isn’t, you debonair player, you—it’s Abora Vala, as I recall.
“Don’t be shy, sir,” this cavalier liar whispered to me. “In Kettari it’s the custom to dispense with ceremony in making one another’s acquaintance, in particular if the gentlemen have the chance to while away the evening at a game of Krak. What is that you’re smoking, if I may ask?”
“This? A friend of mine brought it back with him from somewhere—from Kumon, I believe, the capital of the Kumon Caliphate.” I had read this name in Manga Melifaro’s
Encyclopedia of the World
, and, to be honest, I wasn’t sure whether such a place really existed. I truly hoped he hadn’t gotten it wrong.
“The chap is a merchant, or pirate—you never know with these sailors,” I added. “You’ve never seen anything like these smoking sticks before?”
“Never.”
This time I had every reason to believe that Mr. “Ravello” was telling the truth.
“And where are you from yourself?” he asked me.
“From the County Vook, the Borderlands. Isn’t it obvious from my accent? Well, let’s play, then, if you haven’t reconsidered. But no high stakes.”
“One crown per game?” my tempter suggested.
I whistled. Right—no high stakes.
The speed at which Lonli-Lokli had emptied our money pouch no longer seemed so improbable to me.
“Half a crown,” I insisted. “I’m not such a rich man, especially tonight.”
He nodded. A half crown for a game is no small potatoes either, I thought.
The only thing left to do now was to place my hopes in Sir Juffin’s success. Two losses, and I could begin to undress, or go home—which wasn’t really part of my plan.
We finally settled down at a small table by the far corner of the bar. Several pairs of sly Kettarian eyes stared at me from the nearby tables. I shivered. I felt sure they were going to try to bamboozle me. I wasn’t sure how, but I knew they would try.
“Be so kind as to tell me your name, sir,” “Ravello” probed cautiously. “Perhaps you have your reasons for not introducing yourself, but I have to address you in some way or other.”
“My name? Of course, it’s no secret.” I deliberated a moment. “Sir Marlon Brando, at your service.”
It was completely logical. Who else could accompany Marilyn Monroe? A bird of the same feather.
Of course, “Ravello” was no more surprised than Sir Juffin had been upon hearing my choice of names for Marilyn. Such is the fleeting nature of earthly fame. Whoever you might be in one World, in another World you might as well be nobody.
“You can just call me Brando,” I said. If this fellow started calling me by my full name, I’d laugh in his face for sure.
 
I won the first two games easily and swiftly, to my great relief. Now at least I had a bit of breathing space—enough for four more hands anyway. And by that time, my poor head, tormented by incomprehensible matters, would be right as rain again. Well, that’s what I was hoping.
I lost the third game due to sheer stupidity. Mr. Abora Vala, alias Ravello, was suddenly no longer nervous. He realized I was that very provincial numbskull he had taken me for at first, and that I had just gotten lucky. I took this into account. If I started winning again, I’d have to force myself to lose from time to time. Otherwise my newfound friend would get bored.
Then I won four times in a row. Mr. Ravello began to get agitated and I realized needed to cut short my winning streak for a time. The fellow dealt the cards. I looked at mine and discovered that I wouldn’t be able to lose even if I wanted to. My paltry intellectual baggage was incapable of letting me lose with a hand like that. So I won again. It was pitiful to look at my partner. A thief who has just been robbed is a sorry spectacle. I took my cigarettes out of my pocket.
“Care to try one, Ravello? If there’s anything good about living in that backward caliphate, it’s the fine tobacco.”
“Really?” the distracted fellow asked with some hesitation. His furtive eyes stared at me as if trying to detect a local cardsharper behind Marlon Brando’s disguise. But my strange accent and the exotic taste of my cigarettes clearly witnessed to other, faraway origins. We started in on the next round. After considerable effort I managed not only to lose, but also demonstrated my indisputable dimwittedness. This worked to my advantage. I decided to raise the stakes.
“I seem to have just gotten richer,” I said thoughtfully. “And in an hour I think I’ll want to turn in. What do you say we raise the stakes to a crown per game?”
It was amusing to look at Mr. Ravello. The struggle between greed and caution on his expressive face was something to behold. I understood his problem perfectly. On the one hand, I was too lucky by far; on the other, I was a perfect dolt. Moreover, if the stakes were raised in the hour remaining, there would be plenty of time for him to win it all back. Otherwise, who could say? Of course, he agreed. The fellow was both daring and cunning—just ripe for taking the bait.
Then I won six rounds so easily I was surprised myself. My theory about inheriting a sizable chunk of luck from your card-playing mentor proved to be a sound one. Here was the proof, clear as day. Sir Juffin must have a huge surplus of this blasted luck.
“Not having any luck today, Ravello?” someone asked with studied indifference from the nearby table.
Up to now, the other patrons hadn’t paid the slightest bit of attention to our game.
He’s probably the local champion, some sort of rescue squad. Now he’ll have to come to grips with me. In my joy, I ordered another glass of Jubatic Juice. I never thought I’d let myself go like this.
“No luck,” my partner admitted mournfully.
“Well, if you’re not having any luck, you’d better go home and go to bed,” the new gentleman advised. “The moon is out tonight, and you haven’t so much as glanced at it.”
“You’re right about that, Tarra,” my victim said with a sigh. “Today the only luck I’m going to see is when my head’s on my pillow. But Mr. Brando here isn’t tired yet, is he?” He looked at me quizzically.
Not a chance, I said to myself. I guess the idea was that this local ace would step in and save the day. Well, we’ll just have to see about that. I’m rather curious to see how it will turn out myself.
“I think I’m just getting the hang of it,” I said, assuming the bemused expression of a victor who has won by chance rather than skill. “But if you want to stop the game, I won’t insist.”
“My friend’s name is Tarra. As far as I know, his partner, Mr. Linulan is always expected home by this time. But Tarra is a solitary man. Maybe you’d like to keep him company?” Ravello asked. It seemed I was meant to take the bait; and take the bait I did.
Mr. Tarra closely resembled his predecessor. He even had the same silvery gray hair surrounding a long-nosed face of indeterminate age. Is it just coincidence, or a widespread Kettarian phenotype? I wondered. Maybe it’s even simpler than that—they’re brothers, and this is a family business. Without engaging in too much idle chit-chat, Mr. Tarra and I got down to work. Suffice it to say, the so-called Mr. Ravello had the temerity not to go anywhere at all, but just to move to the next table. Of course, I pretended not to notice.
I lost the first round without much difficulty. Evidently, my new partner really was an ace. I won the second, though, since my luck seemed to be just revving up.
“Two?” I suggested.
“Two crowns per game?” Tarra drew out the words. “Well, I’ll be, Brando. You’re a guy who likes to take risks, aren’t you? Three!”
“Three it is!” I tried my best to look like a fool you could reason with.
Then I won six games in a row. I realized that Mr. Tarra might also be overcome by a sudden need for sleep, so I quickly lost two in a row. My new partner played well enough that it didn’t take much effort to lose to him.
“Six!” he wagered, after his second win. I nodded, and then won almost a dozen games. It happened so fast he didn’t know what hit him.
 
“Good morning, gentlemen, It’s already getting light,” I said as I stretched and stood up.
“Are you leaving already, Brando?” Tarra asked. It seemed to have just dawned on him that his money was leaving with me. “You could at least give me a chance to win it back.”
“I wouldn’t advise it,” I said. “You’d only lose more. Don’t be sad, friend! You’ll get lucky someday, too. Kettari’s full of tourists, as far as I understand. It’s just that your moon is crazy about me!”
“Moon? Well, well, well . . .” my partner drawled in confusion. “Who taught you to play Krak, Brando?”
“My aunt. You’re lucky she hasn’t left her house in three hundred years. Don’t grieve, Tarra. There won’t be any more visitors like me in Kettari in your century. You really can play! I hardly had to try at all to let you win now and then.”
“To let me win! Are you mocking me?” The fellow seemed to take it as an insult.
“Well, of course I had to lose occasionally,” I said in a conciliatory tone. “But it hasn’t been such a great blow to your business, has it? So a good morning to you all. I’m going to call it a night.”
With that, I left the sweet place, hoping wih all my heart that I wouldn’t have to play the hero in a big fistfight.
Nope! Made it out without a scratch.
 
At home, I carefully counted my winnings.
Eighty-one crowns and some change—a whole handful of it. It was still far less than Shurf had in his pouch before his charming antics got underway, but at least we could live like people again. I looked around. Lonli-Lokli was probably sleeping upstairs, and I decided I could sleep a spell, too. Right here, on the short divan I had already grown so fond of. Too short, to be honest, but I’m a creature of habit. That’s for sure. After thinking about it a while, I wrote a note: “Wake me at noon! No matter what,” and attached it to the wall above my head. We had things to do today.
This time I was shaken violently out of my sleep. Sir Shurf is nothing if not disciplined. And very thoughtful—he had prepared the bottle of Elixir of Kaxar beforehand, so my morning suffering lasted just a few seconds.
“Thanks, Shurf.” I was already able to smile not only at my tormenter, but at the pathologically bright noonday sun.
“I have two pieces of good news. First, we’re rich.”

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