The woman clicked her tongue. “That’s not what we wanted,” she said, and he could hear the pout in her voice.

“Ah, well,” said Thorne. “We can’t win them all. Or, apparently, any of them.” He waited until the bidding came around before folding. The woman leaned closer from behind him and nuzzled his neck. “The next hand will be yours.”

Thorne grinned. “I am feeling lucky.”

He listened as the bidding went twice around the table and the winner claimed the pot with jesters and sevens. From the man’s gruff voice, Thorne pictured a scraggly beard and an excessive belly. He’d drawn up detailed mental images of all the players at the table. The dealer was a tall and skinny man with a fine mustache. The lady beside him was elderly and something kept jangling when she took her cards, so Thorne pictured an abundance of gaudy jewelry. He judged the man to his right to be scrawny with bad skin, but that was probably because he was winning the most.

Of course, the woman who had draped herself over Thorne was viciously hot.

And not at all lucky, it turned out.

The dealer dealt out another hand and Thorne raised his cards. Behind him, the girl let out a sad whistle. “So sorry, love,” she whispered.

He pouted. “No hope? What a shame.”

The bidding opened, moving around the table. Check. Bet. Raise.

Thorne tapped his fingers against his cards and sighed. They were useless, judging from the woman’s sad inflection.

Naturally, he put his palm against his chips and slid the entire stack toward the center of the table, listening to the happy clatter of chips falling against one another. Not that he had a lot of them. “All in,” he said.

The woman behind him was silent. The hand on his shoulder didn’t even twitch. Nothing to acknowledge that he’d gone against her suggestion.

Poker face, indeed.

“You’re a fool,” said the scrawny player, but he folded.

Then the bearded man snorted with a sound that made Thorne’s spine tingle—not from concern, but expectation. This was his man.

“I’d raise if I thought you had anything left to bet,” he said, followed by the clicking and clacking of chips.

The last two players folded. The dealer passed out cards to replace the throwaways—two to Thorne’s opponent.

He kept all his cards. If his lady disapproved, her statuesque hands hinted at nothing.

They didn’t bother to bid for the second round, knowing that Thorne was maxed out. Thorne fanned his cards out on the table. The dealer called them out, his finger thumping against his opponent’s hand. “Doubles.” Then—“Royal triplets win!”

Thorne arched an eyebrow as the old lady with the jewelry let out a delighted giggle. “To the blind man!”

“I trust the royal triplets were mine?”

“Indeed. Nice hand,” said the dealer, pushing the chips in Thorne’s direction.

He heard a chair crash to the ground. “You outdated piece of junk! You should have told him to fold that hand!”

“I did,” said the girl behind Thorne, in an even tone that failed to acknowledge the insult. “He chose to ignore my recommendation.”

Thorne tipped back in his chair. “It’s your own fault for teaching her the game so well. If I’d won even a couple hands I wouldn’t have been suspicious, but even my luck isn’t this bad.” He twirled his fingers through the air, enjoying the explanation. “I just had to wait until there was a hand she claimed wasn’t salvageable—and then I’d know I had a winner.” Beaming, he leaned forward and scooped the chips toward him, enjoying the way they filled up his arms. He heard a couple drop to the floor, but left them, unable to suffer the indignity of rummaging around with his fingers.

“But,” he said, beginning to stack up his earnings, chip by chip, having no idea what color or value any of them were, “I’m willing to make you a deal, if you aren’t too sore a loser.”

“What deal? That was almost everything I had.”

“Your own fault, of course. For cheating.”

The man gargled something incoherent.

“But I’m nothing if not a businessman. I’d like to buy your escort-droid from you.” He waved his fingers over the stacks of chips. “Would you say she’s worth about … this much?”

The man spluttered. “You can’t even see her!”

Smirking, Thorne reached up and patted the hand that still rested on his shoulder. “She’s very believable,” he said. “But I’m a man of keen observation and, what can I say? She seems to be missing a pulse.” He gestured at the chips again. “Fair trade?”

He heard the screech of chair legs on tiles and the clomping of the man’s boots as he rounded the table. “Uh-oh.”

Thorne grabbed his cane from where he’d propped it against the table, just as he was pulled out of his seat by his shirt collar.

“Now, let’s be gentleme—”

A crunching pain rattled through his skull, snapping his head back. He fell onto the floor, his cheekbone throbbing and the taste of iron on his tongue. Testing that his jaw worked, he pressed a hand against his face, knowing the punch would leave one heck of a mark. “That,” he muttered through his muddled thoughts, “was not politically correct.”

A man roared, followed by more chairs screeching and furniture falling and something like dishes shattering and people yelling and then there was a mess of limbs crawling and tumbling as a full-scale brawl broke out in the bar.

Thorne curled up on himself, holding his cane above his head as a pathetic shield against the chaos, trying to make himself as small a target as he could. A wayward knee connected with his hip. A falling chair battered his forearms.

Two hands snaked beneath his armpits, hauling him backward. Thorne kicked at the floor, allowing himself to be pulled out of the cluster of elbows and knees.

“You all right?” said a man.

Thorne used his cane to level himself onto his feet and shoved his back against a wall, glad for its support and protection. “Yeah, thanks. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a guy who goes berserk when he gets caught cheating. If you’re going to do it, you have to be ready to take the fallout like a man.”

“Good policy. But I think he was more upset over you insulting his woman.”

Thorne cringed and wiped some blood from his mouth. He was glad that at least all of his teeth felt secure. “Don’t tell me she’s not an escort-droid. I could have sworn…”

“Oh, she’s definitely an escort. Cute one too. It’s just a lot of men don’t like admitting that their arm accessory is bought and programmed.”

Readjusting the bandanna, Thorne shook his head. “Again. If you’re going to do it, own it like a man. Not to be rude, but do I know you?”

“Jamal, from the caravan.”

“Jamal. Right. Thanks for the rescue.”

“My pleasure. You probably want to get some ice on that eye. Come on, let’s get out of this mess before anyone else takes a dislike to you.”

Thirty-Two

“Oooooooww,” Thorne moaned, placing a cooling pack against his throbbing cheekbone. “Why did he have to hit so hard?”

“You’re lucky he didn’t break your nose or knock out any teeth,” said Jamal. Thorne could hear him shuffling around, followed by glasses clinking together.

“That’s true. I am rather attached to my nose.”

“There’s a chair behind you.”

Thorne tested the floor with his cane until it struck something hard, and eased himself onto the chair. He leaned the cane against the side and adjusted the pack on his cheekbone.

“Here.”

He held out his free hand and was glad when a cold, condensation-slicked glass was put into it. He sniffed first. The drink smelled faintly of lemons. Taking a sip, he found that it was cold and frothy, tart and delicious. The absence of sudden warmth suggested there was no alcohol.

“Tamr hindi,” said Jamal. “Tamarind juice. My favorite thing in the trading cities.”