Gawkers are suckers.
Mam and Pa had taught Werrin that. A lesson they’d learned from Gramps during the days when he still ran the streets. Now, with Mam and Pa gone to the Long Keeper and Gramps’ head filled with little beyond Nizaa, it fell to Werrin to figure out how best to put that teaching to use.
Fortunately, the small crowd packing Ivory Square proved far from the wariest of marks. Some curious passersby merely interested in the game taking place, others who’d come from all parts of Praamis to watch, but all intently focused on the two figures seated at the table in the square’s heart. Too focused to notice Werrin’s light fingers relieving them of a few coins or trinkets.
Werrin grinned as he slid his latest acquisition into the concealed pickpocket’s pouch strapped to his thigh beneath his trousers. The silver half-drakes would make a fine addition to the small pile of copper bits he’d collected throughout the long, hot day. The fat-bellied merchant dressed in too-bright silks and too much self-importance would hardly notice them missing from among the gold filling his purse. But they’d make all the difference to Werrin and Gramps. A proper cut of beef or a few loaves of Tassia’s fresh-baked rosemary honey bread. Maybe even a little dram of whiskey for Gramps, if Janae was in a generous mood.
Like a mouse through a darkened warehouse, Werrin slid among the crowd, fingers deft and eyes sharp. He avoided the locals—they had little to spare—and even when picking the pockets of those few wealthier Praamians in the crowd, he kept his take minimal. Nothing would ruin things for him and Gramps faster than the Praamian Guard patrolling Ivory Square in response to some muckety-muck’s complaint of a missing purse or trinket.
As always, Werrin gave Lord Sour-Face a wide berth. He didn’t know the man’s true name—he’d never so much as spoken over the past two months he’d been making the trek to Ivory Square, merely stared and looked around with visible distaste—but the way his thin-lipped mouth and razor-sharp nose twisted made it look as if he’d just sucked one of Trina’s tartest lemons. His uptight demeanor was matched by a stiff spine, a ready sneer, and a tight grip on his purse. Lord Sour-Face was exactly the sort of flouncy-haired noble prig who’d flood Ivory Square with guardsmen should he find even a single copper bit out of place.
A cheer erupted from the crowd around him, followed by a swift groan, and a collective intake of breaths. Werrin moved faster. That sound told him Gramps would be almost finished and the crowd would soon disperse.
He emerged from the crowd in time to see the game’s final moves. He didn’t understand Nizaa—the rules were much too complex, the pieces far too many to keep track of—but he understood Gramps. The sly light in his rheumy eyes. The cunning grin tugging at the right corner of his lips, almost hidden beneath his bushy white moustache. The way the thumb and index finger of his left hand twitched on his lip as he stroked his chin with his right hand. The tension in his shoulders and lower back that spoke of his anticipation for the final endgame moves.
Gramps’ opponent—young Lady Forgolan was back for her weekly lesson—slid one of her smaller, stubby-looking pieces Gramps called “serfs” forward to the cheers and approval of the gaggle of attendants gathered behind her. All save Mouchon. The sharp-eyed steward gave the tiniest shake of his head behind his mistress’ back.
A moment later, it was over. Gramps advanced his Watcher to capture Lady Forgolan’s Bloody Minstrel and trap her Master in the back left corner of the board. Lady Forgolan’s face fell. After long moments of studying the board, she let out a little sigh and tipped over the final gamepiece. “Nizaa.”
Cheers, groans, applause, shouts, and laughter echoed all around Gramps and Lady Forgolan. Lady Forgolan’s dismay lasted only a second or two before her usual bright smile returned.
“Marvelously played, as always, Master Pauston,” she said, her voice as cheerful and sunny as the blue skies above.
“A pleasure, as always, Lady Forgolan.” Gramps extended a gnarled hand over the board toward the young noblewoman.
Lady Forgolan didn’t recoil as others of the nobility had when sitting across from Gramps. Instead, a beaming smile broke out on her face as she took Gramps’ hand in both of hers. Squeezing them gently between hers so as not to apply excessive pressure on his arthritic knuckles. “And to think, if I’d just remembered that Fetique defense you showed me last week, I could have gained far more ground during the middlegame.”
Gramps’ expression stiffened, his brow furrowing. “Fetique…ah, yes. Just last week, yes.”
Werrin’s stomach tightened. Another lapse in his memory. That made three today already. More numerous with each passing week.
“A defense I insisted you practice, my lady, if you recall,” put in Mouchon, his tone as scolding as the frown he shot at his mistress’ back.
“I do recall, thank you, Mouchon.” Lady Forgolan turned a sweet smile on her steward. “I merely thought I would give you occasion to trot out the ‘I told you so' you so love.”
Mouchon regarded his young charge with an arched eyebrow. In response, the young woman did the very un-noble thing: she stuck out her tongue at her steward. That earned a sigh from Mouchon, which in turn caused Lady Forgolan’s grin to widen further.
She sprang to her feet and held out a hand to the steward. Mouchon dug into his purse—untouched by Werrin’s light fingers—and produced eight copper bits, which he placed in Lady Forgolan’s palm. But the young woman merely looked at the steward expectantly. With another sigh, this one far more theatrical and put-upon, Mouchon produced another pair of copper bits for his mistress.
Lady Forgolan gave her steward a smile and turned to drop the coins into Gramps’ cup. “Another splendid lesson, Master Pauston. Your tutelage is appreciated, as always.”
Gramps didn’t look in his cup—he never did—but rose to offer the young noblewoman a bow made awkward by the stiffness in his spine. “Until next week, my lady.”
“Same time, same place.” Lady Forgolan rested a hand on Gramps’ arm—which served to offer him support and aid him in rising from his bow—with a smile. “But, I hope, not the same outcome.”
