Walls darkened with years of fireplace soot drank in the
lantern light, reflecting dim illumination. The dying fire in the
hearth offered scant warmth and, from the demeanour of those who
chose to sit before it, less cheer. In contrast to the mood of
most establishments of its ilk, this inn was nearly sombre. In
murky corners, men spoke in hushed tones, discussing things best
not overheard by the uninvolved. A grunt of agreement to a
whispered proposal or a bitter laugh from a woman of negotiable
virtue were the only sounds to intrude upon the silence. The
majority of the denizens of the inn called the Sleeping Dockman
were closely watching the game.
The game was pokiir, common to the Empire of Great
Kesh to the south and now replacing lin-lan and pashawa as the gambler’s choice in the inns and
taverns of the Western Realm of the Kingdom. One player held his
five cards before him, his eyes narrowed in concentration. An
off-duty soldier, he kept alert for any sign of trouble in the
room, and trouble was rapidly approaching. He made a display of
studying his cards, while discreetly inspecting the five men who
played at the table with him.
The first two on the left were rough men. Both were sunburned
and the hands holding their cards were heavily callused; faded
linen shirts and cotton trousers hung loosely on lank but
muscular frames. Neither wore boots or even sandals, barefoot
despite the cool night air, a certain sign they were sailors
waiting for a new berth. Usually such men quickly lost their pay
and were bound again for sea, but from the way they had bet all
night, the soldier was certain they were working for the man who
sat to the soldier’s right.
