Completed [Solo] Dice at the Docks

[Montaine]

Dice at the Docks Spring 36 512 AV The workshop was quiet. Fogle was the only other worker there and the boy had nothing over a year’s experience in handling the glass. Half the crew had been roped in to help the effort elsewhere in the city, as glasswork was a ‘non essential element’ to the rebuilding project at this time. The only reason Montaine hadn’t been coerced into going with them was because he threatened to pitch a fit. The gang leader had muttered something derogative about his ability to aid in the manual labour and slumped off with his fresh faced new workers. Unfortunately, that was not the sole hit to the glasswork’s numbers in recent days, two of the lads had been arrested in a riot down market way and old Gadder had upped sticks and travelled northwest. Montaine slid his pipe into the batch oven with practiced ease and watched for the reflection of the metal on the molten glass. It was often tempting when you were inexperienced with the work, and sometimes even after years of practicing the art, to simply force the tool in and gather up as much of the thick, fiery liquid as possible. It was a foolish thought and risked damaging the equipment and wasting time. The fire burned so hot within the heart of the oven that it was nigh on impossible to tell where the surface of the glass was within and so it was a necessity to use the pipe’s image, mirrored on the molten surface, to judge its position. Early in his career, before Calbert had permitted him to begin working proper, he had spent many hours in front of the oven as others worked, spotting the reflection. Often he would come home, sweating with hair plastered to his face. The craftsman gathered up a weighty batch and pulled his pipe free. A new requisition had arrived, with some rather unusual stipulations. Much of their business in recent days had been requests for new glass panes to replace those windows broken by the storm, and true to type this order had been for windows too. But this one was different, this one was special. A captain from a ship called the Heart of the Alvina had sent his cabin boy in search of a glassworker to make repairs to his cabin’s windows, but with very specific requirements. The captain’s cabin spread along the stern of the ship and possessed one grand bay window stretching the whole width. The man had inherited the Heart from his father and was incredibly proud of its design, particularly the bay window. Whilst the inner panels were fairly standard, the outer panels had been formed in such a way that the centre of the glass was warped. It was an old method of production that had gone the way of the Valterrian as it produced glass that was rather difficult to see through, somewhat unpopular for windows to say the least. But the customer had insisted, he also wanted the regular centre panels refitted as well, but it was the stylised outer glass that he was concerned with. Montaine blew into the mouthpiece and watched the sienna glass expand.

[Montaine]

The glassworker had spent the last few days working tirelessly on windows and any change felt good. It might not have been the most exciting work, nor ultimately all that varied, but it was different. He rested his pipe on the bench and called Fogle over. He hoped, wished, beyond reason that of the more experienced fellows would appear to take the responsibility. It wasn’t that he disliked the youth, he didn’t like him but that was beside the point, it was that the lad was clumsy. In a few years he would no doubt be almost able to be considered competent but right now the boy was very rough around the edges. ‘Grab the rod and insert it, carefully, into the glass,’ The boy hefted the rod and looked a little too eager for Monty’s liking. As expected the young apprentice was far too forceful when inserting the glass and punctured the balloon. The craftsman sighed, waved him off, and reshaped the glass with another breath into the blowpipe. Second time round, the novice managed to ease the rod into the glass, allowing Monty to grab the jacks and separate it from his own equipment. Once accomplished, he set aside the pipe and took the rod, now bearing the glass, from the lad. He shooed him away, back to his duties. Montaine wiped the sweat from his brow. He took the cooling glass and slowly inserted it into the drum oven to reheat. Satisfied, he grasped the rod in both hands and began to spin. Fogle stared at him as he worked. Maybe the lad would learn something. The momentum of the movement drew the malleable glass outwards in an every growing, ever thinning circle. Due to the motion of the rod the glass that formed was warped. It remained transparent, but to look through it you’d think the world had blurred. Monty’s hands continued to roll the tool with practiced ease. The centre of the pane was dented, where the rod had been inserted, and yet it was this that the captain had requested. It was a particularly stylised piece, of such a lack of practicality or utility beyond letting in the light that it was product only purchased by those with money to waste. Happy that the pane was now large enough to accommodate the first of the captain’s windows, Montaine set it to rest in the oven. After cooling it could be cut to the requested size, then packed and sent down to the docks to be fitted. The glassworker cared little for that part. After the glass was shaped his role was done. He looked at the window lying there, and sighed. One down, eleven more to go. He turned and caught his colleague staring and scowled. ‘Back to work you useless venhrehk, ain’t going to learn nothing just starin’ at me, are you?’ Fogle hurried back to his labour, as Monty picked up his pipe once more, and eased it into the oven.

[Montaine]

Montaine stretched his arms above his head until his joints made a satisfying crack. The midday sun was high in the sky and its scorching rays beat down on the Zeltivan stones. The heat was mitigated by a cool easterly breeze coming in from the ocean, culminating in a pleasantly balmy day all round, the weather paying little heed to the strifes and woes of the mortals down below. The wind felt particularly welcome after a long morning in front of the ovens and the glassworker found his feet taking him towards its source. He would take the opportunity to alert the captain of the status of his order and perhaps celebrate the boost in business down by the docks. The young man’s habits had been ingrained over years. If it were a joyous occasion, worthy of festivity, he would take the short walk down the winding side streets to his favourite drinking establishment, the location he had learnt many a year ago, and drink himself into a stupor. If, however, he needed consolation and commiseration, he would take the short walk down the winding streets to his favourite drinking establishment and drink himself into a coma. And yet today his mood was so uplifted he felt the need for more entertainment. Besides, today was the day that Gertrude broke out the accordion and he couldn’t listen to that again. Instead the craftsman inhaled the fresh air and laughed. He was feeling good, stronger. He hadn’t had an episode for a few days and despite the troubles that beset Zeltiva things were looking pretty okay. But once the docks came in to view his thoughts trailed back again, as they had often since the storm, to his friends abroad. Communication was so difficult at the best of times, let alone when the world was in chaos. His smile had dropped. The docks were still in a state of terrible disrepair. It was something of a conundrum as money was needed to repair the old jetties and rebuild the pier, but the harbour city made its money through sea trade, which had suffered serious detriment due to the state of the docks. Birds squawked overhead. He loved this city. It had outlasted the Valterrian. It was strong, and hardy. They would recover in time and the storm would just be another blip in Zeltiva’s long history. They would recover. Montaine sighed. The Heart of the Alvina was anchored a little way out to sea, protected from the worst of the wind and waves by the city’s natural harbour but unable to get any closer to due to the current limitations on mooring. The captain had left his boy with a rowing boat at the shore to await news, but the lad had gone walkabout. He was undoubtedly taking advantage of his shore leave, off getting a drink. Well, no harm in checking around a few bars and perhaps taking in a little ale himself, he supposed. Monty looked out to sea. Had his friend survived?

[Montaine]

Montaine had been to many of the bars that Zeltiva had to offer over the years. He rarely made return visits, however, finding none offered him the comforting familiarity of his usual haunt, the Councillor’s Head. The Head wasn’t widely known. There was no sign outside the door. Gadger said it was to increase prestige but in reality the sign had been knackered years back by rowdy drunkards and he’d never got together the coin to replace. He had the coin, sure, just was resolutely unwilling to part with it. As such the Head had a specific clientele of regulars which included, thanks to Monty, the glassworks crew. Unfortunately, it was unlikely that the disobedient cabin boy would have happened upon his regular hangout by chance when there were plenty of places far closer to the docks themselves. It was thus that the craftsman found himself entering an establishment both unfamiliar and untried. It was larger than the Head, though the ceiling was lower, and smelt distinctly of sweat, so strongly he could almost taste it in the air. It was unpleasant. A quick glance round the room showed the errant boy to be absent, yet nevertheless Monty approached the bar. No sense in wasting the time it took to get there, after all, all of five chimes. He ordered a drink and sat himself on a bar stool. The patrons of this business were rather different from those of the Head. Both places attracted ardent drunks but the Head’s had a certain more destitute quality about them. The fellows in here were just obnoxious. Down the bar stood two heavily built men, marked just as heavily with the extensive tattoos of the Cyphrusian horse people. They caught him looking and sneered, saying something in their native language. ‘Piece of shyke weakling, look at him Drey, bet he’d snap like a twig,’ The other laughed and replied again in Pavi, ‘City boy, his family ought to be ashamed of him,’ Monty bit his tongue, tempted so strongly to reveal to them how he understood their words. His father had ensured the boy knew something of his native tongue, and of the history of his grassland home, and he had gleaned enough to know when he was being insulted. The woman behind the bar slid him his drink and he put four coppers down on the counter. Those vagiks deserved to be taken down though. On the bar room floor were a number of tables set up specifically for gambling. Business was light so early in the day, but one or two games were still in play. Monty slipped off of his seat and approached the two Drykas men. ‘Fancy a game?’ he inquired, taking a swig from his drink. He spluttered. Was there sweat everywhere in this shyking bar?

[Montaine]

The three of them sat down. Drey appeared to be the smarter of the two, though that wasn’t really saying much. He was a tall man, even sitting down he appeared to loom over the diminutive craftsman. His windmarks traced patterns across the left side of his face and down his neck to beneath his shirt. Monty’s mind drifted slightly as he wondered just how far down they went. His associate was similarly inked, but slightly smaller in stature, and possessing of a slightly simpler look upon his face. He grinned in such an exaggerated fashion Monty almost thought he might have been putting it on. Hillar was his name. As it turned out the two were brothers. Montaine doubted that they were sailors, he had seen sailors and knew sailors and these gentlemen did not appear the sort. They were Drykas for a start and though it wasn’t unheard of for a Drykas to take to the sea it would have been highly unusual, particularly for a pair who had earned their windmarks. Perhaps there was a curious story behind their arrival, perhaps there was an intriguing tale of high adventure behind their journey to Zeltiva. Monty didn’t care. He wanted to play dice. The glassworker took one of the dice from the small pile of gaming odds and ends located on his right and placed it delicately in the centre of the table. His opponent raised a querying eyebrow. ‘Pigs?’ Monty nodded and pushed it towards him, ‘You roll, ones are bad, silver per roll,’ he returned the inquisitive look. So the man knew the game, didn’t necessarily mean he was any good at it. It might have fared better had his over eager sibling accepted the challenge instead. Pigs was a game of combining daring and restraint, and Hillar looked anything but restrained. His brother on the other hand, he looked more held back and yet still seemed willing to push his luck. Maybe this was a bad idea. He kept the pang of worry from his face. Drey rolled. Five. Petch. Though perhaps not, a glimmer of fire flared in the Drykas’ eyes. He had faith in his luck. A mistake, Monty reckoned, unless he was touched by Ovek himself, and the god felt the inclination to intervene it was down to them and their own risk, their own self-discipline. The young glassworker put little stock in the gods. What did they care of a little game of Pigs between friends? Or strangers? Another roll, another silver miza clinked on the table, a four. Lucky bastard. Roll three, a third coin, a three. Hillar gasped and nudged his brother. Drey nodded and pushed the die across to Montaine. Twelve, not bad. Monty picked up the die and shook it in his enclosed palms, blowing on them. Just because he had no faith the luck accumulating powers of breath didn’t mean that his opposition needed to know. It might throw him off guard. He rolled and tossed in a coin. Two. Shyke. His competition snorted derisively and commented in Pavi. The glassworker struggled to keep the scowl from taking his face, any knowledge he possessed that they did not was an advantage. If they thought they could speak a language he couldn’t, well, that might come in handy. He threw in another coin and looked at them, ‘So, what brings you to Zeltiva?’

[Montaine]

Drey made a non-committal grunt, keeping his eye on the die. He had grown up aware that his father had a certain romantic vision of the past, but these men seemed so unlike the stalwart warrior nomads of the stories that filled his youth. Sure they had muscles, sure they were big. Although in all fairness Gertrude was more muscled and bigger than Montaine. Perhaps a bad example, as she had taken out an Akalak trader last week for giving her the wrong sort of look. Hillar, on the other hand, was more than willing to explain their presence in Sylira, in fractured Common, ‘We are here for pilgrimage, to pay respects to Zulrav’s shrine in hills. We come from Diamond clan, strong warriors who talk to Zulrav,’ Drey put a hand on his brother’s arm and spoke in their native Pavi, ‘He wouldn’t understand, brother. The people of this city, they don’t have the same relationship with the wind god as we do,’ Monty rolled a five. That made seven total, just over half of the pilgrim’s score. He could risk another go. The glassworker threw in another miza and tossed it again. Another five. Even. He settled, and pushed the die back to Drey. Zulrav, the God of Storms, now there was a contentious name these days. The shrine up in the foothills got a fair bit of business, Zeltivans held a special place in their hearts for the old deity, as did the horsemen of the Cyphrusian plains. A respect for the storm was bred into the young man from both sides of the family and yet in these times, in the aftermath of the catastrophe of the first of Spring, things had changed. The storm was not the fault of Zulrav. It was no natural storm and though that might have implied a divine influence at work, the old deity tended to keep himself to the old classics, the winds and the rains of the natural world. Nevertheless, some people still blamed him, and cursed his name, others worshipped him with renewed fervour, fearing a repeat of his wrath. These men might have been either, though they had said Diamond clan. Montaine’s father’s lessons rose to the forefront of his mind, the diamond clan, the diamond clan. Ah yes, Stormwardens. Well, this new turn of events deserved an appropriate response. Jakri. Petching jakri of a shrivelled old vagik of a Zith. He took a deep breath. They were young, maybe they weren’t proper warriors, infants could get windmarks, they meant nothing. Drey rolled a two, then a three. Monty had only spent three silver mizas on this game. He could forfeit now and not lose much. Not much but his pride. That and the pride of Zeltiva. Petch these shykes, he was going to take them for all they were worth. Drey rolled a five and a four, and stuck. Twenty-six to twelve, in the Drykas’ favour. Hillar snorted and grinned. ‘So, what does little runt like you do?’

[Montaine]

Runt. Petching insolence. It wasn’t the first time the word had been used against him; he doubted that it would be the last time he heard it in his lifetime. Only runt would suggest a litter of siblings, strong in comparison. His mother had been so sickly, so weak, that she could only produce him. Montaine didn’t meet the man’s eyes and threw in another coin, and rolled the die once more. One. He rolled a one. His first roll of the turn and he rolled a one. He passed it over, Drey chuckling all the while. ‘I’m a glassworker,’ he said, ‘At the workshop up westways. We make most of the glass for the city, just got an order in actually, for the big ship out in the harbour, the Alvina? The pieces are resting right now,’ Monty didn’t know why he felt the need to defend his choice of career. He wanted them to understand that his job was just as worthy as theirs, more perhaps. So they fought, so they battled and attacked and defended. That was all well and good for a people who still lived in tents. In Zeltiva, with the proud Zastoskas protecting their flank and the harbour mouth sheltering their front, combat skills were not as important. To be viewed with respect in a city like Zeltiva one needed talents beyond simple aggression, be they shipboard or of the more intellectual variety up at the university. Hillar grunted, unimpressed. The meat headed idiot probably wouldn’t have comprehended his work anyway, the delicacy of the finished product and the burning fire of its creation. Drey rolled two threes and a two, not wanting to push his luck and satisfied with his lead he settled. The pot was mounting, fourteen little silver mizas sitting in a pile to one side. Thirty-four to twelve, it was still early, he could make a comeback. He rolled. Six. He tossed in another coin and rolled again. Six. His heart sped up. What were the chances? Another six and he’d be a hair's breadth from his competitor. Another six and he’d be that much closer. His hands shook over the die. He took a breath and slid it over to Drey, who looked confused. The two rolls only took him to twenty-four, but he had doubled his score and that was good enough for him. Patience, it was early. Though if Drey got any further ahead it might be worth playing a little more dangerously, the game might warrant the risk. The Drykas shrugged and threw in another coin. His brother ordered another two drinks. Monty took a brief look round to scan the bar for the cabin boy he was supposedly searching for. No sign. Oh well, he tried. He would try again in a couple of chimes. He raised a hand to the bartender and likewise ordered a new drink. The brothers conversed once more in Pavi, as the craftsman listened in. ‘He has no heart for the game, brother, show him you have no fear,’

[Montaine]

The game recommenced in earnest. It crossed Montaine’s mind, as the pot stacked higher, that if he truly was representing Zeltivan honour in this game then the opponents stood for Cyphrus. His mixed heritage surely, therefore, assured that his pride would be safeguarded regardless of the outcome of the dice. But it wasn’t true. For all his father’s influence and all the history he had been taught, for all the Pavi he knew, he was a harbour boy at heart. He’d spent his life there, from the day his father and stepped off that boat with him cradled in his arms, to the day he met the sailor, to his first job and apartment. This city’s history was his history. No uppity horseman was going to discredit his home and leave with a pocket full of silver. A lucky streak on the glassmaker’s side closed the gap and brought them to sixty and sixty-three in the craftsman’s favour. The bartender eyed their match with interest. The cabin boy was undoubtedly long gone, had he ever even entered this bar in the first place. Perhaps he had returned to his post and sat, bored, awaiting news of his captain’s shipment. Drey looked angry. He threw his bet down hard enough that the coins jumped. There was a tidy sum of thirty-four silver mizas lying there, only fifteen of which had been donated by the Zeltivan. The pilgrim all but hurled the die at the grained, wooden surface. One. He moved to pick up the die again. ‘Oy! One’s are bad, give it here,’ Monty held out his hand. Drey snarled, ‘We play bad sixes in home,’ he said, not dropping the die. Montaine’s brows furrowed as he scowled at his competitor, ‘We’ve been playing bad ones all afternoon, friend,’ he spoke through gritted teeth and kept his hand aloft. Drey didn’t move for a good few seconds. Monty met his gaze and refused to blink. The die dropped into his outstretched palm. They kept up the stare for another beat, then Monty threw in another coin, and rolled. Three. Another coin, another roll. Another three. One more, a two. Monty sighed with relief. Hillar watched his brother, eyes wide and breathing quiet. It was worrying, off-putting. Did the brother know something more about his sibling’s temperament? It was becoming more and more apparent that the glassworker’s initial assumptions about the two may have been misplaced. Perhaps it was the quieter, seemingly calmer Drey that was more prone to irrational outburst than his jittery brother. What had he gotten himself into? He passed the die over, and prayed the horseman would get a six. Anything to placate the rage that possibly lurked just below the surface.

[Montaine]

Darkness. Darkness all around, no feeling at all. Oh, there’s a feeling, what is it now? Ah yes, pain. Blinding pain that screamed from his eye socket. It hurt. It hurt a lot. He should have seen that enormous fist coming. His memories of the moments before contact were fuzzy, but slowly reforming in his mind. He had won, he remembered that much. It was a landslide too, one hundred and one to seventy-nine in his favour. Drey had become increasingly reckless as Montaine had pulled ahead. He had thrown away a brilliant streak that would have equalised the scores at ninety-eight each, but that close to the finish it would have been senseless to give up then. There was a five in six chance that the young glassworker was going to win, and they both knew it. And he had. Simple as that. But, as he scooped up his winnings, fifty-four silver mizas in all, thirty profit, and stowed them away, that brutish thug stood up, walked round the table and thumped him right in the eye. His left, if the incessant ache told him anything. He inched them both open to take in his surroundings. Inside, that was good news. He could feel the weight of his winnings as they pressed against his leg, so he hadn’t been robbed, also good news. So it seemed that Drey had some sense of honour not to try and retrieve his rightly lost spoils. His vision was blurry, but someone else seemed to be there. A woman. ‘Oh! You’re awake! By Priskil, I didn’t know whether to get a doctor or a mortician you looked so deathly. Didn’t know someone could go down so easy and so bad from a tap on the eye,’ It was the barmaid. Well, it was the somewhat indistinct shape of the barmaid. She nattered and wittered and hurried about the room. A bedroom perhaps, it wasn’t unfathomable that the owner might have allowed him to rest up in one of the tavern’s rooms, just mighty unlikely when taken in consideration with the scrimping, money-grabbing personalities of the few he knew, particularly in these times of austerity. Monty let his injured eye fall shut and his vision found itself vastly improved. ‘Really, now I said to Mister Galway, I said to ‘im, now Mister Galway, I said, this young fella’s been hit awful hard by them brutish sailor thugs and we can’t rightly put him out on the street, Mister Galway, I said, because ‘e’s in a bad way, see? And ‘e’ll get robbed the second we put ‘im out on the street, Mister Galway, I said, so you listen to me, you put him up in the fancy room, I said, ‘cause there ain’t no one in there nor no one what can afford it now, and you just let him lie there Mister Galway, I said,’ Monty’s head pounded. Did this woman not need to breathe? He looked down. The top three buttons of his shirt were open. The maid caught him looking and turned a deep crimson. ‘Oh! I’m so sorry, you just looked awful hot there, you was sweating, I mean, thought you might want to cool a little, oh my, I’m all flustered meself,’ she started giggling with nerves. Monty scowled. ‘Do you ever stop talking? My head is killing me,’ The maid yelped and her eyes widened at his snapping tone, she made a series of rushed apologies and ran from the room. Monty sighed and moved to button his shirt back up. As he did so, he noticed that there was someone else at the door. Fogle.

[Montaine]

The young novice stood in the doorway with a look on his face that Monty did not enjoy seeing. Petch, he didn’t enjoy seeing him there at all, he was supposed to be minding the annealer, keeping an eye on the captain’s windows as they cooled. His presence either meant that the rest of the crew had returned, and taken over his responsibilities while he went out and looked for Montaine, or that the glass no longer needed watching. His expression suggested the latter. Not good news. Monty did up the final button and fixed his collar, beckoning to the junior glassworker. ‘Tell me the others came back, Fogle, tell me that or nothing at all,’ he winced as is eye sent another shiver of pain through his skull. Fogle shuffled sheepishly in and didn’t look at Montaine, remaining silent. The craftsman sat up in the bed and dabbed at a particularly painful spot just above the eyelid. It was moist, he’d probably cut himself on that barbarian’s wretched knuckles. He looked out of the window, sea view, it really must have been the place’s best room, but what caught his eye was not the sight of the ocean, but the sky. It was darker, much darker than it had been. The sun hung low over the horizon when it had been placed so high last he’d seen it. He turned back to his colleague. ‘Come on, spit it out!’ Fogle coughed uncomfortably, ‘The, er, the pieces were…um…’ he mumbled something so quietly that Monty barely picked up the word, but he managed it and what it was turned his face ashen. Smashed. The boy continued to talk, to explain. He had been sweeping, as usual, whilst always keeping an eye on the ovens, oh yes, because that was his job, and he was always one to do his best, oh yes. But then there was this sound, like angry shouting people, and he went to go get help, oh yes, not hide in Mister Calbert’s office, oh no, never. He saw them though, because when he wasn’t hiding in the office, he also wasn’t looking out the window at them as they came into the workshop. There was two of them, big fellas, all tattooed and whatnot, oh yes, Mister Redsun, sir. And they smashed them! Smashed them all up! The littler one tried to stop the bigger one, to calm him down, but the big one wouldn’t listen, oh no, and tried to grab the window pane straight from the annealer, and burnt himself, oh yes, and that just made him madder! Then he got one of the rods used for spinning the windows and broke them all up in the oven. Oh yes, that’s what happened, oh yes. Monty’s heart was going a mile a minute. His fault, this was his fault, he’d let the shyking dogs loose and they’d bitten his shyking hands off. He sat there in silence for a while before eventually getting up. ‘Let’s get back then, see what we can do,’ Fogle nodded, ‘I recycled the glass, Mister Redsun, thought it was what you’d tell me to do, and there’s lots ready for blowing, when you’re ready,’ Monty nodded, ‘Good, that was smart. First though…I want to stop by the infirmary first though,’ ‘To look at your eye?’ The glassworker shook his head. He could feel the pouch of winnings through the material of his bag, still pressing against his leg. It was his desire to defend Zeltiva that got him into this mess, maybe he could do something for the city to alleviate his guilt, instead.