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Like that one.”
    The straw-boss fingered the slip of paper, re-reading the newly-penned poem. “Are you putting this poem up as a bettor’s call? To the Carion Comfort ?”
    â€œNo, sir.” Malen gave him a wicked grin. “A raise. I think it’s safe to say we’re in new waters here. You’ve already shown that you’re content to wager real collateral against items whose only value is what I place on them. So there you go.” He pointed to the poem.
    The man made a long resonant sound that started in his nose and slid down his throat, the pitch dropping as it went. Clever , it seemed to say.
    â€œAnd I suspect that if I were to continue raising the stakes, I’d get a slew of poems.” Gynedo was nodding, as one does when impressed.
    â€œMy memory’s water-tight where Marta’s poems are concerned,” Malen replied, holding the pen poised as though ready to write another one down.
    The straw-boss barked a single loud blast of laughter. “Very well, my wharf friend. What say we call an end then? I’ve only so much paper, anyway.”
    There was some laughter from the spontaneous gallery that had gathered.
    Malen put the pen down and nodded. “Turn them up?”
    â€œTurn them up.”
    And together, they flipped over their down placks. Malen quickly calculated Gynedo’s cards, and felt a wave of relief when it came up well shy of his own feather count. He sat back, suddenly very tired. But the look on the other man’s face wasn’t the typical defeat or anger or appreciation for a worthy opponent. The man’s eyes and slim smile held the appearance of a winner. The casual good grace of one who doesn’t hoot over his victory, but takes it all in as though it was just as it should be.
    Malen glanced down at his own plackards. His gut tightened painfully. Disbelief and dread filled his chest. His twelve-count magpie … was gone. In its place was an eleven-count quail. He rubbed at his eyes and picked up the plack, staring closely.
    It’s changed. By every abandoning god, this was a magpie before!
    As calmly as he could, he set it down, his mind racing to find words. To his right, as though through a haze, he heard a few gamblers clapping or laughing or remarking to friends. With the magpie, his was a winning hand. With a quail, it was far from it.
    He finally looked dead into Gynedo’s eyes, trying to read the truth of what had happened. The straw-boss returned the stare, giving nothing away—a better gambler’s stare Malen had never seen. The fellow looked only amiable, maybe a tad sympathetic for Malen’s loss.
    â€œYou’re one hell of a chancer,” the man said, and offered his hand.
    Malen shook his head, keeping his hands on the table, just as he’d done for most of the game. Finger down, they called it. Save those times when he was writing, he’d left his hand laid casually over his down cards—an old bettor’s habit to avoid the simple cardsharp tricks of placks being replaced when distractions pulled his eyes away from the table. He didn’t see any way the man could have replaced the magpie plack.
    What, then? He puzzled it over quickly. A glamour? Did the straw-boss have that simple rendering skill? Or did he have an accomplice nearby who did? One of these onlookers?
    â€œâ€¦ don’t be sour,” Gynedo was saying. “Take my hand in good faith. It was a square game. A good one.”
    Malen gave him a dead glare. “The plack changed. I don’t know how. But this quail was a magpie. The pot is mine.”
    The straw-boss’s smile faltered, his hand dipped. Then he sat back, his expression becoming serious. “You’re calling me a cheat.”
    â€œThat’s not what I said. But I’m no plunger. Not wet like half the bettors who sit here. I know my count.”
    â€œYes, I’m sure you do,” the man said. “But a quail