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smile that followed was all expectation and devious delight.
    Malen mentally cataloged all he owned, all he thought he could get or borrow if pushed to do it. But the exercise was futile. A few long moments later, he pushed the note back to Gynedo. “I’ve nothing left to bet.”
    It was a breach of etiquette. More than that. It broke the game rules. If he couldn’t match, he had to throw in. But Malen couldn’t do that. He couldn’t let Marta’s things go like that. He couldn’t fail Roth. So, back the note went, as firmly as he could do it.
    â€œTsk tsk tsk.” Gynedo made the disapproving noise with his teeth and tongue. “But of course you do. You’re just not broad-minded enough to see it. Your greatest asset, my wharf friend.” He paused. “Your son.”
    It took Malen’s every bit of strength to keep from lunging at the bastard. He swallowed, giving himself a half-moment to frame his words. “That’s a very nice attempt to strike fear in my heart. But I don’t own the boy.”
    The straw-boss laughed out loud again. “Nonsense. Here.” He pushed a slip of paper over to Malen and handed him his pen. “Promise me the boy. You realize, the life I can give him is a far cry better than you ever will … unless you win out tonight.”
    Malen began shaking his head.
    â€œConsider it like this, my fine wharf friend. Either way, you win. Either all this,” he swept an arm over the pot at the center of the table, “is yours. In which case your wharf worries are through. Or, should your plack count come up shy tonight,” he now swept his arms grandly, indicating the entire riverboat, “you’ll have given your son a life of daily meals, soft beds, and—dare I say—adventure, that he’d never have had running the docks.”
    Malen listened, but didn’t give a tinker’s damn for the exchange. There were inviolable limits. He’d turn full thief before betting a life. Roth’s life. And still, he did have to counter. That was clear. Gynedo wasn’t going to let the stakes be called. But what can I offer?
    Looking at the slip of paper and the pen in his hand, an idea flared. He shot the straw-boss a glance. Without asking, he reached and took Gynedo’s ink vial. He set aside the man’s pen, and gently reached into Marta’s writing set and retrieved the used stylus.
    He rolled it in his fingers for a moment, then dipped the tip and set to the paper with the slow hand of one remembering something he’d heard long ago.
    A girl will dream the day she takes a man
    Of satin, beads, and clear skies filled with blue.
    But I had no such dream or certain plan
    The docks had long since taught me to make due.
    But one thing I did hold as private wish
    Against what I could see in poor Mum’s face
    When bruises there from Father’s angry fist
    Made her feel a woman’s poor disgrace—
    That hands with which I shared my nightly bed
    Were only rough when standing my defense
    And gentler once to him I finally said
    That rough men should possess the simple sense
    To turn the fight against his actual fear
    His worry that his child will grow up here.
    When he’d finished, he let it sit for several moments, the ink drying naturally. The tension in the corner of the third deck of the riverboat grew thick, as onlookers waited with held breath. Finally, he turned the poem around and nudged it toward Gynedo, who read it with obvious interest. The man’s brows rose and fell comically, as his eagerness lapsed to confusion.
    â€œAnd what is this?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s one of the poems my wife never had the chance to write down. One of my dearest memories of her.” He stopped, realizing something himself in that moment. “I’m a hard man to talk to. To tell things to. But she could make me listen, make me … understand when she told me her rhymes.