Lillyanne Plume's Arc

Chapter 12 of 22

Lillyanne kept her hand on the rail and tried to breathe like Scott breathed. Slow. Even. He stood beside her with his drink untouched, watching the tiers the way a mechanic watches an engine. He wasn't nervous. That was the strangest part. Every other new player she could see was pale, or shaking, or drinking too fast. Scott looked bored. She followed his eyes and saw why he couldn't be. Half the tent was looking at him. A man two balconies over pointed with his chin and said something to the woman next to him. On a higher tier, a small group leaned in and stared without pretending not to. One balcony up and to the left, someone hadn't moved in a full minute. She could feel that one on her skin. A watcher, alone, elbows on the rail, face in shadow under the gold lanterns. Waiting for her to notice. "Scott," she said. "They know you." "They know my face." "Then they know mine now. Who do I need to worry about." He set his glass down. He didn't point. He tipped his head a fraction toward the woman in red across the ring, the one who had laughed earlier. "Whitney Herring. Won last year. She'll do anything and she means anything." His eyes moved. "Tall man, gray coat, two tiers up. He killed his partner the last time he played because she lost him a round." "Killed her here?" "Here counts." His eyes moved again, lower. "Short one. Round face. Looks like somebody's uncle. He took out three teams the year I won. Nobody proved it. Nobody had to." Lillyanne's mouth was dry. She made herself look at each one and hold it long enough to remember. Whitney felt her stare and smiled at her like they were already friends. "And the one above us," Lillyanne said. "Left side. Alone." Scott glanced up. His face didn't change, but the strand of hair at his forehead moved as he exhaled. "Watcher. Can't tell you which kind yet." "Which kinds are there." "Ones who bet on you. Ones who bet against you and sabotage. And one who sponsor to feed clues." He looked at her. "You want that one. A sponsor makes a world of a difference." "How do we get it?” "Impress them. Now. Before the lights go." She turned toward the watcher. Pulling her aged card deck from her back pocket, she shuffle bowed them and lifted her chin. She let them see her face, freckles and all, and then she smiled the way she smiled at a table she was about to clean out. Small. Certain. The watcher lifted a gloved hand off the rail and touched two fingers to their brow. A nod. A mark. Scott saw it. The corner of his mouth moved. "Congratulations, sweetheart. You just got us a sponsor," he said. Above them, the blue ribbons of light in the tent fabric began, one by one, to dim.