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letting him know not to challenge this one. To his credit, Gynedo only pursed his lips and nodded approval.
    â€œSecond draw?” the man asked, gesturing at Malen’s placks.
    â€œOne,” he replied, tossing in a five-feather crane.
    â€œAnd me,” the straw-boss echoed, and dealt them each a last plackard.
    Malen had drawn a third magpie, a nine-feather. He had an exceptional hand. Gynedo had one magpie up, a ten-feather. The other of his cards was a twelve-feathered grebe. A very strong card.
    At this point, Gynedo could turn up his down placks and they’d count out. The drawing of cards was done. But the straw-boss was again fingering his lower lip, looking over Malen’s hand, his own, and the pot piled up between them.
    As the man pondered his next move, Malen realized they’d drawn more than placks. Around them, standing pressed against the low wall, were countless plungers watching, anticipating, muttering to one another.
    When he looked back at Gynedo, he found the man’s eyes fixed on him with a penetrating stare. “What really brings you here, my friend? Is it as simple as an empty breadbasket? Is it an impatient landlord?” He paused a long moment before saying in a softer voice, “Or is it the thought of failing your child that has you wagering your past?”
    The riverboat straw-boss was goading him. The man had a devilish light in his eyes, as though a game had finally captured his imagination again. But Malen wouldn’t be a part of any of that. Not over Marta’s nice things.
    â€œAre you calling for down cards, then?” And Malen offered a subtle smile of his own.
    Gynedo laughed hard, from deep in his chest. “You’ve got salt, my friend. And by the deafened gods, no. Here’s what.” He took up his pen again, dipped for ink, and scratched out another promissory note.
    He didn’t bother to blow it dry before pushing it across to Malen, whose jaw dropped at the words there: Three years guaranteed labor on the high-seas trawler Corian Comfort .
    â€œWith access to my mercantile account, a dry place to sleep, and steady work, you’d be flush, my wharf friend.” Gynedo tipped his hat back a stitch further, staring wide-eyed at Malen.
    For his part, Malen looked down at the used pen set. It was all he had left to wager. It would have to be enough. Again, he took his time, thinking, not rushing to match. Fingering open the clasp, he lifted the lid to the cedar box and stared down at the face of Angeline, muse of lilac and lion. Tell me what to do , he thought.
    But that was late-game weakness. There was only one play. Pushing aside thoughts of the poems Marta never got to write down, he slid the pen set into the pot. “That’s all of me,” he said, indicating that they would have to turn up placks and be done.
    Strictly speaking, Gynedo could raise again, and Malen would be required to try to match or throw in.
    His heart began to thump when the straw-boss picked up his pen. Dear abandoning gods, I’ve nothing left to bet.
    Twice, while he wrote out this new promissory note, Gynedo glanced up at Malen, gauging his reaction, looking for him to falter somehow. Malen kept an even eye, though his blood raced. He’d been arrogant to sit at this table, no matter how good a chancer he’d actually been as a younger man. I might have put some romance on just how good I used to be. He should have guessed that this straw-boss would push the game beyond his grasp. That he’d devise to win at any cost, especially given the glint this game had put in his eye, the glint of new excitement over an old game.
    When he was done, he actually sanded over the note to dry the ink, drawing out the moment, before slowly pushing it across the table. Gynedo had one-upped his last raise: Title and deed to the high-seas trawler Corian Comfort .
    â€œYour own catch, my wharf friend. Put a price on that, if you can.” The slim