Slake

The few people standing nearby looked bored as the attendant strapped the glyph box onto my forearm. The black lacquered table in front of me was cold under my hands and sweat rolled down my underarms. My opponent was trying hard not to look in my direction as the attendant finished with my rig and moved over to him. I scratched around the little box—the corners dug in painfully and the straps were too tight—but caught myself and stopped. I didn’t want to give the audience any reason to bet against me.

A scream ripped through the open room from one of the other Slake tables, but for some reason the spectators gravitated to my game like they smelled my gut-deep terror.

This was going to hurt. I knew it would be bad, I’d seen other people play, but knowing and feeling were two different things. That was the whole point of Slake: it would hurt, and hurt a lot, and if I was smart and willing to soak up a whole lot of that pain, I could make it through.

Assuming I didn’t pass out from agony first.

The man lurking to my left caught my eye. Giraud Breeyon wore a gold chain around his neck and an amused smirk. His bodyguard stood behind him, hulking and mean. Giraud’s eyes narrowed as he tapped the end of his cane against the floor three times, three clicks, reminding me of my promise: three rounds or better. That was the deal we made before he fronted me the money to play. Three rounds and we split whatever I managed to win. If I managed to win. I was sweating pretty hard.

“Gentlemen, are you ready for the first round of betting?” The attendant placed eight cards face-down in front of me, repeated the process for my opponent, and moved back to the high chair he sat in during game play. The crowd murmured as my opponent took a deep breath and blew it out.

I picked up my cards: each was numbered one through eight. I began to slowly shuffle their order. Maya had cards like these back home, and I wondered what she was doing right then, if she was feeling sick again and spending the night curled up under blankets, or if she was well enough to go for a walk with her mother. Maya’s laugh, the way she brushed her fingers down my arm, the hard look she gave me when I talked about working in one of the new factories coming up in the Smoke. You have to think about the future now, Spiros. She was right. I was thinking hard.

My opponent didn’t touch his hand. He was older, I guessed in his forties, with a dark beard and a square jaw, and was dressed like he could afford to gamble. A good jacket hung over the chair, black waistcoat, white shirt still white despite this summer’s heat. He probably had a story. I didn’t want to know it. No names—it was better that way. Our little audience didn’t need us starting to feel bad for each other, not considering what was about to happen. The bloodier the better. I’d bet he was a Junyer, or maybe one of the new merchanters, it was hard to say in a place like Arahard. Things changed too fast. His fingers drummed against the table before taking a single silver coin from the stack at his elbow. He held it up to the light and placed it down in the middle of the play surface.

“Match,” I said and placed an identical coin beside his. No games, no bluster, just an even bet.

“Very good, gentleman,” the attendant said. I felt sick to my stomach. Is this how Maya felt every morning when she woke up retching? What a stupid thought. I hated this so much. “Please choose your first card.”

I resisted the urge to look at Giraud. If it were up to him, he’d pick something high, something heavy and brutal, because that made the best show. Except I’m not here to entertain. This was his money, and I wasn’t playing for him. You have to think about the future now. Maya lounging on her father’s couch with one hand pressed over her belly, a teasing smile on her face. Think you can afford a wife if you don’t even have a job?

The numbers gaped at me. My opponent swiped up his small stack and shuffled with quick movements. I refused to stare at him and instead thought of those numbers and what they represented. Eight would kill me. Seven would maim me. One wouldn’t be nearly enough. Three rounds, three agonies, and I couldn’t sit here thinking forever. My opponent placed a card face down on a spot marked with a red outline, and I still couldn’t bring myself to pick. The crowd muttered and the attendant gave me a hard look.

This was what I had come here for.

The choice would hurt, no matter which number I went with. The choice always hurt, and I just had to choose.

I put a card in position. I gave in and looked at Giraud, and he only seemed amused. Bastard probably couldn’t wait for this next part. My hands shook with nerves as the attendant called for another round of betting, and this time it was my turn to begin. I pushed two silver coins into the pile, which my opponent matched, looking much too calm.

“Reveal your cards and accept your fate,” the attendant said.

I flipped my card over. A large black three stared at me. My opponent’s lips stretched over big teeth as he revealed his: a curving, horrifying five.

There was no preamble. The attendant gave no warning. The pain began as a dull warmth spreading out from the device strapped to my arm like needles clawing up my veins. Like a swarm of eels chewing my muscles to mud. It wasn’t bad at first, but grew in intensity and spread into my chest, down into my toes, up into my skull. My back contracted and I hunched forward, a slight groan escaping my lips. The agony grew, and I felt like I was having a cramp in every inch of my body, but it wasn’t unbearable. A three was nothing, it was a bottom-level choice, the pick of a coward. But the five—

My opponent was doubled over. His arms hugged himself as his body spasmed. I watched him through my own suffering and felt a sick terror rise like bile into my throat. He trembled and slowly raised his face, and he was grinning like a maniac, grinning through a hell two levels worse than my own, and I knew with the clarity of a man suffering that I was going to lose.

Abruptly, it ended. I steadied myself on the table. The pain was gone like it had never been there and the glowing box on my forearm slowly powered down.

“Next bets, gentlemen,” the attendant said. “First chance to fold.”

My opponent didn’t hesitate. It was his turn to begin. He pushed four silver coins into the middle, but he did it too fast. His hands were shaking too much, and he knocked over the existing stack with a clatter. He had trouble putting them back into a small tower.

Bluffing. He had to be bluffing. That five nearly broke him. All I had to do was get through it while my three finished him off.

Maya once said I couldn’t think more than ten seconds into the future. We’d been out walking together, arm in arm. A beautiful night along the canals, the smell of brackish water in the air, laughter from a nearby pub. She said it was something she liked about me, like I drifted through the world and was present in whatever was happening. Ten seconds into the future and ten paces in front of my face. Nothing else existed. Sometimes I thought she was right.

I matched my opponent’s wager.

The pain hit faster this time. The box hummed and was oddly warm against my skin. My guts clenched so tightly I thought I might throw up. My back arched and my mouth opened to scream, and the agony was too much, I was wrong about what I had left, but the muscles in my throat had contorted so much that I could barely make a sound. Instead, a pathetic, eerie groan escaped my lips. I saw Maya’s belly swollen. Further back. I felt my arm break as I fell off a horse. Further back. I saw my father slumped at a table, an empty bottle at his elbow, clutching a little girl’s blanket to his chest. Further back. I saw my little sister lying in bed sweating and burning with fever. It felt like my body was on fire, like my blood had turned to acid and was trying to eat its way into my core, like whatever made up my immortal soul was going to crack in half and spill itself like yolk on the ground.

Then it stopped. The sudden absence was nearly as bad. I lunged forward, gasping for air, and retched. I couldn’t help myself. Nothing came up; Giraud had warned me against eating before a Slake match. Sweat drenched my face and my shirt was stuck to my chest. Slowly, I looked up, and my opponent was leaning on his hands.

“Gentlemen,” the attendant said. “Your cards, if you please.”

Twin hells. I wanted to stop more than anything in the world, but that was only the first round. Instead, I picked up my three, tucked it back into my eight-card hand, and began to mix them again.

My opponent did the same. This time, he wasn’t happy about it.

“Bets, gentlemen.” The attendant gestured to my opponent.

Slake was a game of fortitude. Slake was a personal hell. Whatever pain you offered, you took onto yourself first. It was supposed to be a mirror of society: the strong accepted their lot and continued on no matter what. There was strategy, but I didn’t really know any of it. There was intimidation, but I was way beyond that. All I could do was shove silver into the pile and place a card down when it was time and hope that when the device began to glow I could stay conscious longer than the man sitting across from me. There was no honor, no strength of spirit, no pushing through suffering with a stoic acceptance.

This was pure survival.

I chose a four. My opponent picked another five.

Maya had understood how doomed we were when she’d told me she was pregnant. It was late and I’d just gotten home from a shift working at a nearby tavern mopping up vomit and wiping down the tables. She’d said to me, Spiros, I love you, but you need to start seeing past your own nose. I’d told her I would. I swore to her I’d do whatever to take care of our baby. But Maya had always been smarter than me, and she must’ve known.

Some people could change. They could step back, look at themselves, and see all the soft spots and the malleable bits, and they could struggle through rearranging their parts. But that wasn’t me. I drifted along, world at a vast remove, stuck ten seconds behind everyone else, and Maya deserved better. Our little kid deserved better. My little sister and my father both had deserved a lot more than our nasty little city could give them, and all I had to offer was my suffering, which wasn’t even good enough.

We both survived the second round.

My opponent was breathing hard. Money clattered in the middle of the table as we made our bets. People laughed nearby. I was barely thinking when I threw down a five, and this time, my opponent hedged with a three.

I realized my mistake. Too high and too late in the match. It was the third round—all I had to do was keep on breathing. When the box glowed white and the agony flowed deep into my bones and my back arched and my mouth opened in a wordless scream so wide I thought my jaw might crack, all I could think about was coming home as a little boy to an empty room and a hole in the world where a girl used to be, of drifting behind Maya ten seconds in the past while she kept forging ahead, never able to catch her, never able to give her what she needed, agony in every desperate inch of my body, agony so bad I wanted to throw myself to the floor to make it stop, the cool and hard floor shattering against my skull, and everything black after that.

***

My mouth was sticky and dry when I opened my eyes. I tried to lick my lips, but that didn’t help. The ceiling was a world away. Nearby, a dull orange light glowed. I was slumped on the seat of a booth in the corner of a quiet tavern, and the room resolved into dark shapes and murmurs. A mug of something sat in front of me.

“Drink.” Giraud leaned closer. He wasn’t smiling.

I took a few gulps of watery beer and put it back down. My stomach recoiled and my head pounded as I sat up. “What happened?”

“You passed out. Fell out of your chair. Your skull bounced like a ball.” Giraud leaned back, the gold around his neck shining. I didn’t know where his guard was. “You lost.”

I closed my eyes and tried to steady myself. My forehead throbbed right on the left side. I reached out and felt a painful knot. I drank more beer.

“That was three,” I said, lifting my chin. “I made it through three.”

Giraud clucked his tongue. “You almost made it through. What you actually did was lose in the final seconds of the third round. Which means you didn’t fulfill our deal.”

My toes went cold. Maya was going to kill me. No, Giraud was going to kill me first, and Maya could kill what was left. “I’ll do it again,” I said because the memory of the pain was already receding into the past, and all I had was right here and now, the little space before my nose.

Giraud sat back. He seemed amused. “Why would I take that deal?”

“I’ll play fives. All fives, and I’ll stay in my chair this time. Three rounds of fives, if you stake me.”

He seemed interested. I finished my beer and could hear Maya in the back of my swollen head. I wanted to carve a space for a life that lasted more than ten seconds and stretched more than ten feet.

“Three rounds, all fives,” Giraud agreed. “Take a few minutes to get yourself together. I’ll find you another table.”

---

As always, thanks a ton for reading. And welcome to the new subscribers! Glad you’re all here. Make sure you hit the ‘like’ button to let me know you made it this far—otherwise it feels like I’m shoving my head into a cold black lake and screaming at a bunch of annoyed-looking crabs. Don’t let the crabs win. And please, share this if you liked it! See you again in a couple of weeks. - Andrew