CHAPTER 44: BLUFFING SIRENS

  When Elias had previously asked Bertrand how he had gotten so good at a game primarily reliant on luck—or so the former man believed—The Two Worlds Trading Company’s chief business officer distilled his strategy into three essential parts.

  The first part required the most learning in the traditional sense: memorization and analysis. The game was not pure providence, despite what Elias once assumed, and any good Sirens player was constantly analyzing and reanalyzing his odds. Math wasn’t Bertrand’s strong suit, but his encyclopedic memory more than made up for this fact.

  The second part was all about reading people. This sounded simple but was, in practice, every bit as difficult and vital as the other steps. The fact that Bertrand made it appear easy was a testament to how good he was at it.

  And the third part was the opposite of the second: bluffing, or preventing people from accurately reading you. Even with Lady Luck on one’s side, a blessed hand was only as apocalyptic as its application. If your opponent sees through you and plays defensively, the lesson went, that winning hand will win naught but a meager prize.

  Though Bertrand wouldn’t have known it, Elias had employed his sight once or twice—which is to say he cheated—with limited success. He had even briefly considered entering the competition himself, but while his unique gift could stack the odds in his favor, Elias still could not bluff to save his life. He also decided against drawing any more attention to himself, especially after Abigail had already remarked upon his suspicious winning streak.

  But let us now return to Bertrand, who was to carry the proverbial torch for this step of his business partner’s master plan.

  Mr. Fairweather was seated at a round table with another man and two women, one of whom he recognized. There were other such tables circling this cramped yet ornate dining hall, which had been transformed into a Sirens venue for one fateful night. Above the card players, candle-lit chandeliers hung from a coffered ceiling, while around them, an audience in their evening best crowded about the surviving contenders. One could easily forget they were inside an airship orbiting Sailor’s Rise, with only a distant smattering of stars shining through the paned windows on one side while the city glowed like spreading wildfire out the other.

  Everyone remembered where they were, however, whenever a jolt of turbulence rattled their chips and whiskey glasses. Onlookers chuckled as they caught their balance, if only because the rising tension required a release.

  This was to be the last game before the last game, which is to say that whoever won in the next few minutes would take home at least five thousand relics—if they did not collect the larger prize of ten thousand. In other words, this was the deciding moment for Bertrand and his business partners, who, having not entered the competition themselves, weren’t here to witness it. Their absence honestly took some of the pressure off, though Bertrand was still stressing over every possible outcome. Five thousand was all they needed to enter The Emerald Cup. He had agreed to that crazy arrangement.

  His odds were as favorable as they were ephemeral. A lot could change suddenly in a game of Sirens, though it was fair to say that the other gentleman at the table was, for all intents and purposes, smoking rubble at this juncture. The woman he recognized was Abigail Graystone. The two had shared superficial pleasantries in the past—if only he had known she was such a skilled card player—but he knew Elias was fond of her. Fond of the sister of his enemy. The other woman was older, unassuming, and a deadly Sirens player. Her chips were piled higher than Bertrand’s, but the game was still close.

  Bertrand looked back toward his hand, though looking at it would not change it. The older woman knew Sirens inside and out. While her playstyle was conservative, she also never made mistakes. Abigail, on the other hand, was prone to big, risky bets. She was more willing to lose, and yet it was that same gumption that had gotten her this far.

  The cards were not landing in Bertrand’s favor, despite a hopeful start to the round, but it was too late to back out now. He had set the stakes high, and the older woman had matched him at every turn of a new card. The man with few chips had folded quickly, but Abigail had held on too long, backing down later than she should have. If his primary competitor won this round, she would gain a commanding lead and likely begin bullying the table.

  In life as in business, Bertrand was sometimes seen as a risk-averse man, especially in contrast to his more ambitious business partners. But at a Sirens table, he could leap from steep cliffs and fly to soaring heights. He was, in short, willing to bet it all. And more importantly, he was Bertrand Fairweather, the master bluffer of The Thirsty Eagle.

  “I’m all in.” He pushed his chips forward to a choir of excited gasps and murmurs.

  The woman glared at him over the rim of her gold-framed glasses, her hand hovering above her own pile of chips. She had enough to match him, but a loss of that magnitude would still be devastating for her, if not yet fatal. She folded.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  People clapped as Bertrand collected his prize and took the lead.

  But the game was not over. Even Abigail wasn’t entirely out of contention, though it was largely a standoff between the table’s two juggernauts. Luck had not been on Bertrand’s side for the last few rounds, but he had defied fate with a perfect bluff, or so it felt to him.

  Fortunately, bad luck—like good luck—never lasts forever. Bertrand peeked at his freshly laid hand, bending the cards upward only an inch to prevent less capable bluffers from seeing what he had: a mermaid queen and a pirate captain, arguably the two best cards in the game.

  Perhaps everyone else also had strong hands, though it seemed statistically unlikely, for they too refused to back down as more cards entered the fray. Bertrand suspected that Abigail and the deflated-looking gentleman slumped across from him simply needed a win at this point, whether or not they had the cards for one.

  The older woman had less incentive to gamble recklessly, but she had also lost considerable ground to Bertrand, ground she would want to regain before it was too late—before it was Bertrand who became the table bully.

  She had reason to think he might be bluffing, and Bertrand was literally betting on this. He had not revealed his cards after the last round, so she couldn’t have known whether he had bluffed then or if he was bluffing now, though she could play the odds and make assumptions. He could feel her eyes on him, scanning for insight.

  The reverse bluff was, in some respects, even trickier than a standard bluff. Bertrand needed to come on strong and yet, at the same time, reveal a subtle crack in his armor. If he was too obvious about it, she would see through him. Accordingly, he had planted the seeds of his deception earlier in the game. Whenever he had been about to lose, Bertrand would tap his index finger on the table slowly, silently, almost imperceptibly. He had even purposefully lost a lower-stakes bluff in the hopes that someone would observe this false tell.

  And so—at the most pivotal moment of the game—slowly, silently, almost imperceptibly, Bertrand tapped his index finger.

  A red-faced Abigail and the desperate man beside her were already all in. Everything revolved around the final two players.

  “You are not even half my age,” the older woman said, staring at Bertrand as everyone listened in with bated breath, “yet you play like a man who has lived a full life and seen the world twice over.” She slid her chips forward. “I am all in as well.”

  * * *

  It was cold out on the deck as they circled the mountain city of Sailor’s Rise like an eagle around its prey. Bertrand often thought in metaphors (much like alliterations), not all of which were worthy of utterance, but the mere act of puzzling them out provided its own kind of game, and he was a man who enjoyed his games.

  Besides being cold on the deck, or perhaps because of the cold, it was also rather peaceful outside. Bertrand was still trying to salvage his internal metaphor—he liked the eagle part, but the Rise was not some hapless rodent—when company interrupted his solitude. She looked cold too, crossing her arms as she greeted him.

  “Congratulations,” Abigail said, wrapping herself in a silk shawl that kept sliding down her shoulder. “You’re quite the card player.”

  “I didn’t win,” Bertrand noted.

  “You won a seat at the final table and five thousand relics,” she replied. “I would say that’s winning.”

  And so it was, or at least as far as his agreement with Elias was concerned. He had indeed won the price of entry into The Emerald Cup. It did not feel like much of a prize to Bertrand, who would rather have kept the money in their bank account.

  “Are you really that bothered by the fact that you didn’t win the final game?” she inquired. “You were the greenest person at that table. I believe everyone was quite impressed with Bertrand Fairweather this evening, and I dare say you look quite dashing in that suit.”

  “I look like a very large penguin,” he said, though her flattery nonetheless had its intended effect. “I don’t believe we have ever really had a proper introduction. I know we share a common friend.”

  “You speak of Mr. Vice.” She smirked. “Yes, I suppose Elias is a friend.”

  “He is also my business partner,” Bertrand said, “and the reason I’m here.” He gestured toward the amber window and the inebriated people on the other side of the glass.

  “Why is Elias the reason you’re here?”

  Bertrand hesitated, but he saw no reason to lie, and he knew Elias held her in high regard. He knew, as well, that Abigail’s advice had helped them secure their contract with Sultan Atakan, and he supposed he owed her for that. “Elias wants us to enter The Emerald Cup,” he said. “If we somehow win, we’ll have enough money to complete a business deal that could change everything for The Two Worlds Trading Company. It is an opportunity like no other. On the one hand, I get it. And on the other, our mutual friend can be… impulsive.”

  “I’ve experienced this, yes,” she said.

  Bertrand stepped back from the bulwark. “Still, somehow things always seem to work out for us in the end, even when they go awry or take longer than we’d hoped. Briley, our other business partner, is the most resilient person I know, and Elias—he’s the most persistent.”

  “I have no doubt you play your part too,” Abigail assured him, “as evidenced tonight.”

  “I’m just trying to keep up,” he said. “I probably shouldn’t speak ill of Elias. I know he’s rather fond of you, and I for one think you should give our illustrious chief proprietor a chance. Elias is the bravest person I know, truly. He’s fueled by an impossible courage, one that I will never muster outside of a card game.”

  Abigail did not provide an answer. Instead, she stared down at the city below and all of its invisible inhabitants. Bertrand stared down too, noticing neglected neighborhoods and tucked-away alleys he had forgotten existed. He’d flown into Sailor’s Rise more times than he could recall, but rarely did they ever linger or approach the city from another angle. Alone on the deck with Abigail Graystone, he found himself rediscovering old, buried memories like lost treasure on a map. It was a good metaphor, Bertrand noted. A small victory.

  “Should we head back inside?” Abigail asked, shivering like a struck bell. “It’s freezing out here.”

  “I suppose we should,” Bertrand said, offering an arm.

  Abigail clutched it tightly as they accompanied each other out of the cold and back into the storm.