The tavern the first and second lieutenants of the HMS Zoirys found on the harborfront had a charming, held-together-by-sheer-force-of-personality, sort of atmosphere. Though, from the sound and look of the crowd tonight, even the owner’s formidably strong personality might not be enough to hold the roof up.

Duncan thought so, at least. He’d been brought along by the Navy officers mostly to be the brunt of their jokes, and he observed the harried serving girls—all dressed far more provocatively than any of their counterparts further north would have been—rushing to tend to their customers, something approaching amusement in his eyes. The owner, a fat Ilvan woman whose name changed depending on how drunk you got her, sat in a corner behind the bar, keeping track of who had paid and who hadn’t.

“Your bet, featherhead,” a voice across the table reminded him. Duncan flitted his eyes back to the pot in the center of the table, not looking at his own cards, since he already knew the hand he’d been dealt.

“That’s right,” he agreed, tossing an eighth quilling to the center of the table. “Fold ’em now,” he advised sagely, though his own voice sounded a little cold to his ears, as his thoughts were drawn away from the comfortable revelry. He brought his colorless eyes to rest on his own cards, before trying vainly to find a way to smile.

“Big spender,” Yost said, not seeming to have noticed that their token Raven was far more reserved than usual—then again, he was also the drunkest man at the table. “I could save you time, and just take your pay right now, instead of taking it in eighths.”

A stray thought made its way through the gloom in Duncan’s mind, and the corner of his lips twitched at it. “And I could save you time by buying a whore for you, as you will doubtlessly do with your hypothetical winnings. . . . Brunette or one of those rare blonds?”

Yost laughed. “A joke!” he announced to the only other member of their game. “He’s actually making jokes . . . and crude ones at that! We’ve taught him well, Jyel.”

Jyel Meerlon, the youngest of the three and the second lieutenant of the Zoirys, smiled and nodded demurely, before laying his cards down in defeat. “I’m out,” he declared.

“You and me, Raven,” said Yost. “Feeling lucky?” He tossed another eighth quilling in the pot.

The thin smile eased into a neutral expression. “ ‘Luck is a human invention; something to pin your failures on,’ ” he paraphrased, matching the bet.

“Light, you’re a hard one to be cheery around.”

“If you want to be cheery go pester the Captain.”

Yost made a face. “He’s as bad as you. Even getting married didn’t take any starch out of him.”

“If you were married to Mrs. Malcolm Mirsunur,” Duncan said, pronouncing the Captain’s old family name easily, “you would be every bit as starched and stiff.”

“I don’t think I would be stiff, but to every man his own.” Yost cackled at the moment of confusion on the Marine’s face and again at the subsequent mortification. It was perhaps the most emotion they’d elicited from him that evening.

“That was not quite what I meant—”

“Which is mostly why I don’t want to pester him right now, as you put it,” Yost went on, blithely cutting the Marine off. “Doesn’t do to interfere with a man’s marital bliss—everybody’s got to put in their time with their missus before they’re allowed to escape to the arms of a loving woman . . . well, if they’re married anyway.”

Jyel blinked, then shook his head with an elaborate shudder. “I don’t want to think about her,” he said emphatically. “Who said that; all that about luck, and such?” he asked.

“An engil, a long time ago.” Duncan didn’t say that it had all been recorded by priests, and that the accounts of the Roser and Raven priests didn’t always line up quite right. He’d learned long ago not to discuss some matters with Rosers; no matter how intelligent they seemed. “He was the Raven, as a matter of fact.”

Yost snorted in faux-derision. “Bah—typical Ravenlander nonsense.” He set his hand down, face-up. “Roses and kings,” he said, leaning back and taking his glass of wine. The only trados-born officer at their table—a fourth son—he’d turned his nose up at anything less than a Temoran summerwine, even though this time of the year a bottle would have cost Duncan a month’s pay.

Duncan shrugged silently, his face bland as he set down his own hand. “Iron Pental,” he said, ignoring the snort of disbelief from Yost. He began sweeping the pot toward his side of the table, and stacking the eighth quillings into a neat pile.

“Damn you, featherhead,” Yost said, laughing good-naturedly. “I think the next round’s on you. What do you think, Jyel?”

“Seems fair, given he’s just swindled us out of most of our pay; not that we should have thought a Marine at our table wouldn’t try to rob us blind.”

“Poor losers,” Duncan commented, idly shuffling the cards now that they were collected into the deck again. Neither of his comrades seemed overly eager for another game, and he couldn’t blame them. As much as he claimed to not believe in luck, he had to admit that, if there was such a thing, it had been unusually kind to him. The pair tharos clipped to his hat was all the evidence he needed.

The thought prompted the gloom again, and a frown settled over his features. He was suddenly grateful for the deck of cards in his hands; it kept them from showing just how much they were wont to shake.

One of the harried barmaids came by, carrying a cherished bottle of summerwine and refilling Yost’s and Jyel’s glasses. She had to ask the Raven twice before he looked up and shook his head automatically. Only when she was walking away, he realized that a refill and the oblivion it offered was preferable to the memories of pain and the stridsefttand.

Yost grinned at the barmaid as she walked away, trying to survey her assets from behind. “She’s a sweet one,” he commented.

The words tugged at Duncan, but he was sliding further and further away. Still, he managed to say, “Why? Because she fills your glass without covering her nose?” His words seemed distant.

“Oh, come now, you saw the way she smiled at me.” Yost nudged Jyel. “I bet she’s got a thing for medals and heroes.”

“Find a hero, and we’ll test the theory,” Jyel said, laughing at Yost’s wounded expression. “I’m no prude,” he glanced pointedly at Duncan, who just snorted faintly, “but, do you really think a woman’s going to just jump in bed with you just because you’ve got a little brass on your hat?” He laughed again. “God above, you’re the most libertine man I’ve ever met, Hughumon.”

“Well . . .” Yost said, looking slightly embarrassed, before his character managed to reassert itself, “yes, matter of fact. I was nearly killed by a bunch of godless heathens and then nearly sold into slavery by the aforementioned heathens—I’m entitled to cast my net wide.”

“If you say so,” the younger Navy officer responded, shaking his head.

Yost looked between Jyel and Duncan, amusement creeping into his flushed features. “You’ve been a bad influence on our young Jyel,” he said chidingly. “What you need is a woman to loosen you up. If you ever did show those tharos off, instead of hiding them under the table like that, I’m sure you’d find a willing fumble. Hell, you might be the only man alive with two of them!”

The Ravenlander shrugged, the weight of the past threatening to pull him down to the floor. “How about you go bed the maid on my behalf? You’re welcome to all the trouble a woman can bring you,” he managed to say.

The half-drunk officer laughed outright, clearly liking the notion, and pulled Jyel up beside him as he stood. They both wandered off in the direction of the main bar, unsteadily following after the barmaid. Their hats were tucked under their elbows; care taken to be sure their tharos’ were visible still.

Duncan continued idly shuffling the worn, dog-eared cards, studying the alcohol-fueled confusion that passed for a bar with glazed eyes. He could almost still see the People laughing at what remained of Zhost.

He studied his half-finished drink, and set the cards back on the table before downing the liquor in one swallow.

It didn’t help, and Zhost’s dead eyes were wide with shock, unflinching in the face of pagan mockery.

Blinking rapidly, he stood quickly, retrieving his hat from where he’d hidden it under his chair. He paid for the pair of drinks he’d had, and began pushing his way through the crowd toward the door. 

Raised voices cut through the room. He started and turned to glance at the bar.

Men were beginning to clear away from two Navy officers who were arguing with three uniformed members of the City Guard while the barmaid they had been pursuing stood to apart, watching both sides with ill-concealed glee.

For a moment, he considered turning back, but, as the first punches were exchanged, he pulled his hat on, and walked out into the night.