Aces and Eights
Part 1: Card
Traveling, en route to somewhere, in
search of something; employed by a king, interrupted by a dying man . . .
I awoke when the sounds of tumbling
rocks and sliding gravel reached the dream-etched realms of my subconscious,
which at the time happened to be buried beneath several tons of sleep. I sat up,
immediately reaching for the 9mm lying atop my pack. The bright stars were dimly
reflected along the barrel of the pistol.
About eight feet away, from the lip
of the rock shelf that I occupied, came a gasp. Then a bandaged hand. I watched
the scratched and bleeding fingers for only a second before moving over to the
edge. The man clinging to the side of the cliff did not seem capable of doing
anything particularly vicious, so I tucked the pistol into my belt and reached
down to help him. I took hold of the man's wrist and lifted, bringing him safely
up and over. As I lowered him to the stony ground, he groaned softly, then
shuddered and went limp. Leaving him lying there on the edge of the shelf, I
fetched a canteen from my pack and brought it over to where he lay. I crouched
next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
The man stirred and looked up at me.
Then, when I offered him the water, he reached out and, with shaking hands,
managed to choke down a few gulps. He was lean, with rat-like features and dark
hair. There was an odd design tattooed over his left eyebrow. Composed of wavy,
interwoven lines of green and black, it looked like a character from some
pictographic language. He needed a bath badly.
When he suddenly began to tremble, I
moved back a pace, and drew the corner of my cloak across my mouth, thinking of
plagues and sickness. "Don't worry," he whispered hoarsely, "It's
nothing you can catch."
"What's wrong with you?" I
asked.
"I'm dying."
A quiet moment hung between us,
during which the wind swept across the ledge. "I'm sorry," I told him.
"Is there anything I can do?"
"That depends." He forced
himself up on one arm and rummaged through a leather sack secured to his belt.
He retrieved a worn brown envelope. "See if you recognize this."
I took the envelope and opened it
carefully. It fluttered with the wind, and I leaned over slightly to shield the
contents. Inside there was a piece of paste board roughly the size and shape of
a large playing card. The thing's coolness must have startled me some, because
he smiled at me then.
"I knew you'd know what it
was," he said. "Now I can rest."
"You knew I'd recognize
this?" I asked, irritated that I had allowed him to see my surprise. I
examined the card I held. It was a Trump, something that people outside the
royal families of Chaos and Amber rarely have access to. This one showed a tower
on a small, rocky island. "How?"
"I saw you talking into one, in
a bar, several weeks ago. I've been trying to catch up with you since then. You
travel fast."
"Where did you get this?"
I asked.
"Use the card," he said,
lying back down again. A series of violent coughs shook him. "I haven't got
the strength to explain."
"Sorry, but I've got to
know."
"Please. . ." he choked
out, "ask me again in the morning." His voice was a wheezing sigh.
Considering, I tucked the Trump
away. Then I got him a blanket and built a fire. I spent the remainder of the
night watching over him, but his condition was fragile and by morning he was
dead.