deaths are necessary to forestall ten thousand more. This is why Nine Kings is more valuable for you, but I am better at it, and better at politics as well.”
“What you miss,” Kip said, “is that my friends will fight for me in ways they would never fight for you. When led by one they know loves them, they perform better than a number on a card could possibly capture. Everything that is most important about this game can’t be captured by a game.”
“Then you take the Chromeria deck,” Andross said. “Perhaps the cards will fight extra hard for you.”
Kip shouldn’t have let him get away with that, shouldn’t have let him get under his skin. The Chromeria was clearly the inferior deck, but his victory would be all the sweeter when he shoved Andross’s nose in it like pressing a dog’s nose to his shit.
It was a mistake, and Kip knew it, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Fine, I’ll take it.”
Andross separated the decks and shuffled them under Kip’s watchful eyes.
Kip reshuffled and let Andross cut both decks.
The old man smirked. “It takes years to become a proficient cardist.”
“With your memory?” Kip asked.
“It’s the dexterity that’s challenging as one ages, and finding the time for the continual practice.”
It was as close to an admission as Kip was likely to hear. “How many times have you cheated me that way?” Kip asked.
“You think I had to cheat, before?”
“Had to?” Kip said. “No. But you’re the kind of man who likes to guarantee victory, aren’t you?”
“I’m also a man who likes a challenge.”
“No doubt the only reason I’m still alive,” Kip said as they dealt out their cards.
“There are others.”
“Oh, pray tell,” Kip said lightly.
Andross waved it away, studying his cards instead.
“Huh, would you look at that,” Kip said. “Never realized it before, but the Ironfist card actually has a perfect empty place for ‘King’ to be written in. The other cards don’t have that spacing. It can’t be an accident.” Actually, Kip’s hand had a nice collection of earlier attack soldiers and defenders, but it needed a noontime striker like Ironfist.
Andross gave him a disbelieving look. “You’re trying to get into my head?”
“Me?” Kip said. “Just making conversation. I think you’ve radically underestimated the power of this deck.”
Andross played a Pagan Priest, and Kip had to respond with a Lightguard—boy did that stick in his craw, using those bastards. “Odd that those cards don’t come with a betrayal mechanic,” Kip said. “Limitations of the game, I guess.”
“I’ve found them quite loyal where they should be.”
“Really? Is Aram still sucking at Zymun’s teat?” Kip asked.
“Oh, yes,” Andross said. “He much preferred to report to me secretly on what Zymun is doing than be executed for his little indiscretion.”
‘His little indiscretion’? Setting the Lightguard on Kip and murdering Goss, rather than letting them escape, was an indiscretion?
“If I punch you in the face, do I lose automatically?” Kip asked.
Andross merely considered him with his dead, shark’s eyes.
“Aram’s men murdered a friend of mine,” Kip said. “One of the Lightguards demanded to see me, and Goss said he was me. They shot him. No other words spoken. So I know all this is a game to you, but you can go fuck yourself.”
“You want justice for that? Fine. These are small matters for men such as us. Tell you what: as a gesture of goodwill, I’ll execute the man who pulled the trigger, and Aram too. Done and done. The triggerman immediately. Aram’s an officer too difficult to replace on the eve of a battle, but if he lives through the battle, he’ll be hanged next week.”
Orholam’s balls, but Andross Guile was cold.
“I don’t know what my problem is,” Kip said. “I’ve spent a lot of time with you now. You’ve hit me, you’ve stolen things from me, you’ve cheated me, you’ve threatened to enslave my friend, your people have tried to murder me several times—”
“Only once on my orders,” Andross said, “but do go on.”
“And yet I still keep trying to engage you as if you had a soul. Why is that? I’m not usually a stupid man. When I spent a little time with Zymun, I knew instantly that he was all serpent. He’s one of those people incapable of the higher human emotions. He’s defective. Born crippled, if you will. Soulless. It’s not really his fault, is it? He could never be much better than he is. He sees what he wants, and he can’t help but try to take