(Thanks for stopping by! This is the first part of the first chapter to my new novel, Honor's Gauntlet. This'll all be rewritten one day, so I'm not too interested in specific comments on commas and the like, just the "generally general" stuff, to quote Snoink. The characters, the dialogue, if you're interested or not and why, etc. Many thanks for reading!)
1
Through the wall, the High Prince of Varneok, currently besieged with two problems, could hear the party ending. The musicians were playing in a lackluster fashion, for one thing, and the click of dancing feet was diminishing to nothing, for a second. Third, the chatter from those resting had all but disappeared. Most importantly, he could no longer hear the bubbling laugh of the lady of the estate.
That last observation consoled him to an ungracious degree. Lady Devaya was his first problem and the first problem had begat the second. As she was hosting the party in honor of his return, and he was in fact the highest member of the nobility she had been bold enough to invite to this welcome-home party in his name, declining the opportunity to ask her to dance would have been terribly humiliating for her.
Humiliating her in itself did not bother Prince Zygrei much. In his opinion, she could do with some humbling. But humiliating her would have been unbecoming of him, an emperor’s son, and would have further drawn attention to his acceptance of her overreaching invitation in the first place, something some might consider a grievous breach of etiquette. Drawing attention to his acceptance of the invitation would then lead to speculation that he had only come because of Lady Mikka, who was, for reasons unfathomable to him, a friend of Lady Devaya’s—or that he had only come as an escort for his sister. Both of which would be even worse slights, as they implied he had no interest in the party being for him.
And since both reasons and their implications were true, Zygrei had taken refuge in one of the parlor rooms adjacent to the ballroom, where other young men in precarious situations had taken to playing cards. He had joined the game.
The large pile of gold coin in the middle of the table was his second problem.
“Your turn,” Zygrei told the player at his right.
The man, a reigning prince of one of the northern principalities, did not look up from his three remaining cards. The vast majority of the coins in the pile were his. At one point, he had sent a servant to fetch a coffer so he could continue to play.
By now, the effects of the first glasses of stitch were wearing off, and the low prince simply drew a card, a safe move, and discarded a different card to the man to his right, whom Zygrei knew even less well. He too had quite a sum at stake, and he too simply picked up the one card and discarded another.
The low prince and the lordling were significant mainly for their imminent loss of a smallish fortune. The fourth player, though, who sat at Zygrei’s left—he was significant for being competition.
Instead of picking up the card the lord had left him, Rejkiv Oslaviz, Marquis of Eastmarch among other titles, Zygrei’s closest friend and fellow self-proclaimed court troublemaker, took another sip of stitch and then laid a card down on the table. He pushed it forward into the light of the chandelier above with one finger.
Nicely done, Zygrei thought grudgingly as he looked at the card. It was low—very low—and so long as Zygrei kept it low, the other two men at the table would have little choice but to throw in a card as well, which would further reduce their hands.
He topped Rejkiv’s challenge with a card barely worth anything more, and indeed, the low prince did play. The lordling played right after him, surprisingly raising the stake to a medium degree of worth. That was a daring move, but then again, it was perhaps all the lordling had to choose from considering the seven cards left in his hand.
Rejkiv had roughly a half deck. Instead of capping the stack and claiming all the cards for his own collection, he raised with another slightly higher card. And he met Zygrei’s gaze over the rim of his glass of stitch. A quick flick of his eyes, to where Zygrei’s little sister was now dozing on the couch, told him the marquis wanted this game to end.
Zygrei couldn’t have agreed more. He was tired, and with Lady Devaya most likely gone from the room next door, and his sister long since finished with the event, he was ready to return home. Only, he wanted to return home with his reputation intact and two coffers full of coin.
After taking a drink from his own glass, Zygrei raised the stake slightly, confident that the low prince and the lord were bereft of any cards of high enough worth to claim the pile. The low prince raised and the lord barely managed to keep himself in.
Rejkiv trumped and claimed the cards and added them to his hand. Zygrei played a triplet as the challenge.
With only one card left, the low prince from the north took a final sip and stood. “Your Royal Majesty, Your Excellency, Your Grace, I take my leave. I thank you for the company,” he said with a bow. After slipping his card, unturned, at the stack’s bottom, he strode out of the room with his attendants hurrying behind him.
The lordling put in one triplet set, but with only two cards left, he would soon follow the northerner.
Rejkiv raised, Zygrei raised, and the lord left the room.
“You and I again, my friend,” said the marquis when the door clicked shut. He put aside his stitch glass, which was as much a prop to him as a fan was for a woman, and then from his hand he brought out a trump triplet and claimed the stack, slipping the cards into his collection in one smooth motion.
Zygrei leaned back in his chair and studied the man for a moment. The marquis was sitting much the same way, relaxed back in his chair, but the prince knew the game was just beginning. His troubles with saving his reputation were just beginning too.
He laid out a high skipping seven-card run, which Rejkiv topped and which he then trumped and claimed.
“Nicely done, friend,” Rejkiv said as he laid out his next challenge, a simple pair.
Zygrei played the lowest topping pair he had and kept his face impassive. He held the highest pair of all in his hand. The question was if Rejkiv would suspect that small fact. He had had the one card the entirety of the game and never played it; for all the Marquis knew, it was in with the untouched discards still hovering in the table’s corners.
“I suppose you got your dance with the Lady Mikka?” Rejkiv asked, playing another low pair.
“Three, actually.” Zygrei topped with the next lowest and then returned his friend’s studying gaze. “And then she had to leave.”
Rejkiv smirked. “And then you had to hide.”
Zygrei kept back a scowl and decided to save the reigning pair for later. Instead, he tossed in a gold coin to signal that he couldn’t—or, wouldn’t—continue the stack.
Rejkiv claimed the set, and Zygrei claimed the right to place the next challenge, an emperor’s plate with a card of each suit. Rejkiv countered and Zygrei countered and Rejkiv conceded with his own coin.
After a brief moment of deciding, Zygrei played another high emperor’s plate.
Rejkiv looked at the challenge for a moment and then took a long drink of stitch. He looked at the challenge again and then looked at him. “If you weren’t my future liege, I’d call you a filthy bastard for that.”
He tossed in another coin.
Zygrei put his cards back in his hand. “And if you weren’t the only half-decent card player in the realm,” he replied as he laid another six-card emperor’s plate down, “I’d return an earlier question and ask if my sister was bored enough to humor you with a dance.”
Rejkiv flipped in another coin. “It’s not as if you need the money.”
“You don’t need it either.”
“We’ll play well into the morning.”
“You admit defeat?”
“Nothing of the sort.”
Zygrei put down a low triplet. He glanced over at his sister, and noted that the noise from the ballroom next door had all but ceased to exist. When he looked back at the table, a new triplet was on top of his challenge, card ink bright in the glow from the chandelier overhead.
“We could split the coins,” Zygrei said, placing his own cards.
“Ah, we could.” Rejkiv raised the stack. “But the High Prince of the Empire never draws.”
“Naturally not. The Prince would win.” He fished around in his hand and found a suitable play.
“Hardly seems fair to the Prince’s most loyal friend and confidant.”
“The loyal friend and confidant who convinced him to attend a party below his station so that his sister might attend as well and is thus responsible for the current situation?”
“The loyal friend who reminded the Prince that a certain lady would be in attendance.”
“And is thus still responsible for the current situation.”
Rejkiv played his turn and then set his cards aside. “What do you propose?”
“One of us could lose intentionally.” Zygrei put down his next triplet.
“On purpose?”
“That is what ‘intentionally’ means.”
“I won’t have it.” Rejkiv picked up his cards and began to sift through them. “I’ll wait until you fall asleep, take the pile, and skip out.”
“If you’re going to do it that way, you should have drugged my stitch.”
“What’s to say I haven’t?”
“For all you know, I’ve been planning the same.”
“Over a game?” The marquis shook his head and picked up his glass again. “I’d be dead by now if you were that sly,” he said as he simultaneously laid down an impressive triplet and took a swig.
“Perhaps I’m being patient.”
Rejkiv spluttered over his stitch. “Patient, you call it?” He wiped his face and beard dry with his napkin. “Lady Mikka, I imagine, would call it—”
Zygrei trumped the triplet set and claimed the stack.
Rejkiv eyed the spot where the pile had once been and then looked up at him. “My dearest brother in spirit, you surprise me once more.”
The marquis toasted the air with his nearly empty glass before placing a challenge more worthy of both their reputations.
Continued here...

