Alfie’s leg ached from the activities of last night. His knee throbbed while sitting down, pulsing with his heartbeat. However, when he stood up, it was like someone was driving an icepick into his bone. He shouldn’t have gone. He’d grown used to the pain since his accident. Most of the time, it didn’t even register. But today, damn, it pierced with discomfort.

  It was the last day of the week. Alfie sat in his dining room, having breakfast: eggs, bacon, sausage, and waffles. Delicious. His chef, Bertrand, was the best he could find in the city. Two years of school, three years apprenticing, and what do you get? Damn good breakfast, that’s what. He took a bite of his eggs, savoring the flavor as he turned to the newspaper's front page, reading the headline:

  Gregory Metalworks Explodes!

  He skimmed the article. The Daily Sun newspaper theorized the explosion was a manufacturing accident—a decent theory. It made the most sense. No one’s first thought was corporate sabotage. There was a massive rip in the building, the article read, exposing the inner workings of machinery like a gutted beast. Alfie smiled at the mental image, adjusting the ice pack on his knee.

  Flipping through the rest of the articles, Alfie finished his breakfast. Nothing else of interest appeared—just gossip about the House Peres ball. Apparently, it was going to be quite the affair. An orchestra was hired from Ulstercourt. It had over fifty musicians—all highly trained. They were the best, or so the paper read. He couldn’t tell the best from the worst as long as they sounded pleasing. The paper also mentioned a romance novel among the Houses that was the talk of polite society. How lovely.

  Miss Grimshaw walked out of the kitchen with an empty tray. She was a portly woman with laugh lines around her eyes. Her hair was done in a tight bun, and her dress was washed and steamed. She carried herself with a grandmotherly grace, gliding across the room.

  “Thank you,” Alfie said as she picked up his plate, setting it on the tray.

  “Of course, milord,” she said.

  “What do you want for your birthday, Miss Grimshaw?” Alfie asked.

  “You shouldn’t worry about me, milord. I am blessed enough as it is,” she said, smiling at him.

  Alfie let out an uncommitted hum, leaning on his cane as he stood up. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll be home late this evening. Please have supper prepared.”

  “Naturally,” she said. “The usual?”

  “Please.”

  “I’ll let Bertrand know.”

  Alfie thanked her, thoughts drifting to other matters. If all went well, the explosion would free up the sulfur mine found in Baron Yarewlup’s fief. Gregory’s Metalworks was in the process of buying it at a premium. They were desperate for the sulfur. After all, boomsticks without bullets are hard to sell, and bullets without black powder were just slugs of metal. Old Gregory was looking to corner the market, which would have been… annoying. How could the Merchants move into boomstick manufacturing if there was already a monopoly?

  With any luck, Gregory’s money would be too tied up to get his factory back in working condition to compete in a bidding war. Insurance was somewhat notorious for slow payments. Alfie doubted Gregory would have a quick enough turnaround to outbid the Merchants.

  But that’s just the appetizer. The entree is this: Gregory’s factory went boom because there’s an iubliotum vein suspected to be underneath the mine. Festus, the Merchants Head of Mining, theorized that a large deposit was buried below the sulfur, gathering energy from the ley lines for thousands of years, just waiting to be unearthed. If they could harness the iubliotum, well, laws be damned, they were going to mine it. An opportunity like that couldn’t be passed up.

  Alfie limped to the front door. Bala was there, leaning on a post. The giant of a man was reading a romantic novel. It looked like the one from the paper.

  “A little light reading?” Alfie asked, straggling up to the door. He really shouldn’t have traipsed through the night like a damned alley cat. His leg spiked with pain. He did his best to keep his face neutral.

  “Yes, it’s a great book,” Bala rumbled.

  Alfie snorted, trudging outside to the hoveline, a small, slick vehicle parked in his courtyard. The hovercraft had two seats and an open cabin. Rectangular in shape, the hoveline possessed a small furnace in the back, which spewed out white smoke from underneath. The smoke formed from burning jubralt, an expensive metal found in the Shield and Long Mountain ranges. The High Forges in the Heartlands mined the material, preparing it for shipment all over the Imperium. Its smoke, lighter and more buoyant than air, made the hoveline glide.

  Alfie waited as Bala opened the door for him. He eased himself inside, taking extra care of his knee. The white smoke rose all around him, darting for the atmosphere, quick and fast. It smelled like firewood, leaving a pleasant scent.

  Bala hopped into the driver’s seat and revved the engine, warming it. Steam left the hoveline’s ports as the engine roared to life, billowing into the blue sky. It trickled well behind the jubralts' smoke.

  To own a hoveline was a sign of wealth. Most people in the city, especially those in the outer districts, walked to their destinations. Only the rich can afford old-fashioned horses and carriages. And only the wealthy can afford hovelines. It was a mark of high society.

  Alfie snorted in derision at the thought. It was all bullshit—a waste of money. But he supposed that made him a hypocrite. He owned a damned hoveline, after all.

  The hoveline glided forward, driving past the gardens on the right and the pond on the left. It was a bright, sunny day in the city, the pond sparkling in the sunshine. Alfie watched the gate that marked the end of his property move closer and closer. It was made of iron, dark and polished. Bala moved the hovercraft along, pulling through the metal mouthworks.

  As soon as they passed the gate, the hoveline rose, melding into the sky. Alfie felt the weight of gravity press gently on him. Their ascent stopped at the third story of most buildings, putting them well above the morning crowd. Streetsweepers and torchlighters finished their duties, leaving only those rushing to start their day. Babjah’s street hummed with fresh energy.

  Bala dropped a gear, pushing the shift downwards. Steam and smoke poured out of the hoveline. The wind rushed, and steam poured. The hoveline darted through the city in Bala’s expert hands, weaving past buildings and corners. Alfie heard an old lady shout above the engines roar, cursing at them.

  In six minutes flat, they arrived at the Merry Merchant’s headquarters.

  Alfie felt the hoveline slow as Bala lowered it to the roof. It stopped with a gentle sigh, steam and smoke mixing in a final exhale.

  He eased out of the craft, knee throbbing with pain as he did so. Amazing how, in the moment, the damned knee didn’t hurt at all last night.

  Adrenaline. It’s a hell of a drug.

  *

  Alfie went about his day with much of the usual routine: walking the bloody steps to his office at 7:58 CE, studying the Tranche Market at 8:00 CE, sending in bids by 9:00 CE, reading any new laws that recently passed the Open Chamber at 10:00 CE (there was a new one at least once a week), manage any clients downstairs at 11:00 CE, lunch, approve new acquisitions from his bondermen (the Heads of the Merry Merchant's various departments) at 1:00 YE, mines or real estate prospecting at 2:00 YE, supplies at 2:30 YE, meetings at 3:15 YE, submitting files to the Sub-Judicators by 4:00 YE, and going to the range by 5:00 YE.

  After 5:45 YE, Alfie usually goes home, reads, has dinner, and then goes to bed at 11:00 YE. But tonight, much like last night, is different.

  Jicdo Peres, the young scion of House Peres and youngest son of Ithra Peres, was at his casino yet again tonight. And the more curious thing: he was alone.

  Alfie and Bala walked into Harold’s Palace. The casino sat in a section of the city called “The Loop” by the locals, which was a misnomer. It wasn’t a loop at all. Instead, it was a decently wide street in Babjah where all the city’s nightly revelry took place—the kinda fun you wouldn’t tell your mother about.

  On one end of The Loop stood The Thirsty Dragon’s Club. It was a bar—a high-end bar at that—with velvet cushions, trumpet players, and a haze of cigar smoke. Lawyers, officers, well-to-do merchants, property owners, etc., all frequented, escaping the mediocrity of their daily lives and wives.

  On the other end of The Loop was Lady Lai’s Social, an all-woman bar with scented candles, silky booths, and a dramatic interior, fit for social suicide and social rise alike. Usually, the clientele was middle-aged women looking to escape their idiot, “world-conquering” husbands. Alfie didn’t blame them. He’d been inside The Thirsty Dragon’s Club.

  Packed between the two was a scattering of brothels and casinos. The red and green painted buildings were claustrophobic. Tightly entrenched, they abutted each other in an endless wall of bright, vibrant blooms that shimmered in the moonlight. The artists who painted The Loop used a wax coating over the paint, equally protecting it from the elements and highlighting the tempting promises inside. It was alluring, pledging both excitement and risk.

  In the middle of The Loop was Harold’s Palace. It was a four-story building, polished and well-maintained. It was one of the few buildings in Babjah with windows, each tinted red and yellow. Lights swirled on the inside, passing through the tinted glass, creating a tapestry of colors on the cobblestone road. Balconies overlooked The Loop on each floor. Patrons could pay fees—very high fees—to rent rooms with access to a balcony. Alfie glanced up, watching a couple making out, leaning against the railing. He snorted.

  Alfie walked inside, Bala right behind him. A cavernous room beckoned, packed with felt tables, gamblers, drunks, and card games. There was no desk or cashier when one walked in. Instead, it transported a potential gambler straight to the action, spitting them out in a field of clinking chips, dazzling waitresses, and sly dealers. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the room, sparkling and bright. Where the light didn’t reach, torchlight glowed, the smoke escaping in hidden vents around the gambling den.

  The two walked through the Pit, which was the primary section of the casino, two steps down from the main level. It was circular with a maze of tables. Chairs crowded, meant to keep the gamblers in the Pit, maximizing their chance of losing their crowns. Guards stood at the perimeter, heavily armed with swords and armor. Anyone causing trouble in Harold’s Palace was taken out back and beaten, per Alfie’s orders. Everyone moved out of Alfie and Bala’s way like a river rushing around a boulder.

  As Alfie passed through the outer perimeter, guards nodded to Bala. Their posture straightened, hands gripping their gear more tightly. Alfie glanced back as Bala gave them a cursory glance. A guard, a young man around twenty, paled under Bala’s gaze.

  They made their way to the back wall of the casino, opposite the entrance. There, stairs greeted them, armed guards manning both railings. Alfie limped by them without any trouble.

  His knee groaned as he made his way up: tap, lift, step, tap, lift, step. One moment, his leg faltered—the right leg with the injury. Bala caught him without a word, pushing him back to balance.

  The first story of the casino was for the general public. The second was much of the same. It was the third story that was strictly off-limits to the casual gambler. There, the high-class and respected members of Babjah’s community played—those who preferred a little privacy and could afford it.

  Dario greeted them at the entrance to the coterie.

  “Gentlemen,” he greeted.

  “Good man,” Alfie said, coming to a stop. “How goes our runaway scion?”

  “Blissfully unaware,” Dario replied. “He’s right in here, sitting at the far table.” He turned around, walking into another large, cavernous room. The tables were spaced much farther apart, with private waitresses for each table, lingering patiently to take any potential orders from the illustrious clientele.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Alfie followed, hiding the pain of his knee with a neutral face. Most of the men and women here didn’t know him, focusing entirely on their games, absorbed in the swings of the hands, bringing both profit and loss. It was much less crowded, allowing patrons to sit far enough apart not to brush elbows. A band played in the corner. Dario hired them for the whole year. They played every night. The boys were talented, taken straight from the slums of Babjah, cleaned up, and provided good pay. It was the right incentive. The band hadn’t missed a single evening.

  The music notes floated in the air, mixing with the scent of perfume and whiskey (expensive whiskey at that). The lights were much dimmer, and the guards more hidden—there is no need to imply Harold’s Palace didn’t trust their most desired customers.

  Boots limping on the lush carpet, Alfie made his way to the farthest table from the entrance. There sat Jicdo Peres.

  He was a young man in his late teens. There was a little stubble on his face. His hair was brushed and trimmed neatly, and he wore the finest fashion in the dukedom—the kinda outfit Dario would wear. Alfie thought he looked like a donkey—a miserable mule who munches carrots. His face was too long and large for his body.

  Alfie sat in the chair next to him, throwing some yellow chips on the table. The dealer's eyes flashed with recognition despite his disguise, but Alfie shook his head. The dealer—a pretty lady—nodded.

  “How do you do, sir?” she asked.

  “Fine,” he said, accenting his voice. Bala shadowed him from behind, blending into the shadows, out of sight.

  “Hopefully, you’re bringing some good luck,” Jicdo said.

  Alfie chuckled. “I hope so, too. I’m guessing yours hasn’t been good?”

  “To say the least,” Jicdo said, receiving his card from the dealer, eyes narrowing in frustration.

  Alfie took his card. He had a crap hand, equalling two. The dealer turned over a face card.

  “Shit,” Alfie said.

  “Same here,” Jicdo said, intense. “No bloody good luck at all!”

  Alfie made eye contact with the dealer, tapping a rhythm on the table in time with the music. She nodded again. The rest of the hand played out, the whole table losing.

  The game was called Halt. The objective was to get closer to thirteen than the dealer. Each player got two turns, which they had to play. They could throw away their card, draw another when their turn came, or elect to “halt,” which meant they kept their card without drawing or discarding. If they drew a card, they had to keep it the rest of the hand. It was the old-fashioned way to play, popular among those in Ulstercourt and, therefore, the rest of the Imperium.

  The dealer collected the cards from the table, tossing each bettor another hand. Alfie got a decent card this time around for a total value of twelve.

  “Oh, well, would you look at that!” He said, a drink suddenly appearing next to him. “A decent little hand.”

  “Same over here,” Jicdo said, smiling. “Maybe you were good luck!”

  “Might be too soon to tell,” Alfie said, doubling his bet, chips clattering on the table.

  “Aye, that’s true,” the young aristocrat replied, also doubling. “But this is better than the last couple of times already.”

  “That bad, huh?” Alfie asked.

  “Yes, last hand, I had fourteen, and this little lady pulled out two, three, and eight.”

  “Ouch,” Alfie said. “That’s brutal.”

  “Here’s hoping she trades the brutality for generosity.”

  The dealer smiled pleasantly. “I will do my best, Lord Jicdo.”

  She turned over a three.

  “Well, yes indeed!” Jicdo yelled. The music rose tempo, the band sawing on their strings and pounding their drums. Some clientele started clapping their hands, moving to the center of the room where a dancefloor stood. Jicdo clapped with them. “Here’s hoping she doesn’t pull any more bullshit.”

  “Aye,” Alfie said. “No bullshit, miss ma’am.”

  “Of course,” she replied, a slight smile on her face.

  Alfie took a sip of his drink. It was juice but looked much like whiskey. He gave a satisfied sigh.

  “Here we go, baby,” Alfie said, setting his drink back down. The action passed to him. He waved his hand, halting on his turn. The focus passed to Jicdo. He thought for a second, then also halted. Alfie started to clap in time to the music, echoing Jicdo’s drunken state. Jicdo glanced at him, grinning.

  “I love this music,” Alfie said.

  “It doesn’t get better,” Jicdo exclaimed. He had a charming voice.

  The focus then passed to the other two gentlemen at the table, who each chose to draw a card. The dealer dished out two cards and then turned over another three for her hand.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” Jicdo yelled, leaping up from his chair.

  “One more turn,” Alfie mimed, standing up in anticipation. His knee ached with the motion.

  Everyone at the table halted, waiting for the dealer to turn over her card. The other two high rollers stood up, holding their breath and holding hands on their heads.

  "You too, huh?" Alfie asked.

  "Aye, can't lose another hand. My old lady would kill me," one of the men said.

  "I'm in much of the same boat," the other replied. "If I lose this one, I'm done for the night."

  "That's why I don't want to get married," Jicdo said offhandedly. "Seems like a hassle."

  The dealer drew a card. It was a two.

  A ferocious roar of victory ripped from Jicdo’s throat, hands pumping up and down. Alfie high-fived the two guys standing beside him and then turned towards Jicdo. The young man raised his hand, and Alfie slapped it.

  “Guess I am good luck after all!” he said, grinning at Jicdo.

  “That you are!” Jicdo said, grabbing his glass and draining it.

  “Another hand?” Alfie asked.

  “Yes, of course, another hand. I didn't come here to win one and leave,” Jicdo replied.

  “Let’s double the bet. Make it interesting.” Alfie threw more chips on the table.

  “It would be damned impolite if I let you do that by yourself,” Jicdo said.

  "Gentlemen?" Alfie said, looking at the other two guys at the table.

  They glanced at each other, then at their chips.

  "Screw it," one of them said.

  "Might as well make it a table game."

  Alfie glanced around, ensuring everyone at the table took their winnings and matched their original bet. The action formed a sense of camaraderie.

  The dealer threw out more cards, and they won that hand. And the hand after, always doubling their bets. The table began to get up big after the fourth winning hand in a row, and a crowd started to form, whispers of the odds.

  Needless to say, it was mathematically improbable. People watched on, fascinated to watch the good luck, clapping for each time they won.

  The band kept the music rolling. The atmosphere, Alfie noted, was like a carnival.

  “This is incredible,” Jicdo said, face flushed, his drink swirling as he held it unsteadily. He shimmied to the music. The band continued their fast pace, blistering notes into the air. After the second hand, Alfie made a deal with Jicdo that after every hand they won, they took a shot—Alfie with his juice and Jicdo with his liquor.

  The crowd cheered as they downed another.

  They each sat with a massive pile of chips in front of them, the total value of which could buy a small house in one of Babjah’s districts.

  Alfie laughed, hand slapping down on Jicdo’s back. He leaned against him. “Damn right, it is! I’ve never been up this big in my life. I need to sit next to you from now on.”

  “From now on, I’m not going anywhere without you!”

  “Pardon me, lords,” Dario said, swaggering up to the table with a cheerful grin. “Is everything going well?”

  “Very well, friend!” Jicdo drunkenly exclaimed. “I think I found a good luck charm.”

  Alfie felt Jicdo put an arm around him.

  “No, no, I found a good luck charm,” Alfie said, also putting his arm around Jicdo.

  “Wonderful,” Dario said. “Please let me know if you need anything, milords.” He then disappeared into the crowd.

  “What a nice man,” Jicdo said, downing his drink.

  “I think he’s the manager or something,” Alfie said, sipping the juice. It was refreshing, pumped straight from fruit harvested from the Bote Jungle outside the city’s walls.

  “Well, anyway,” Jicdo began, “deal them cards, dealer! What’s your name, by the way? You’re beautiful. And how you handle them cards, mhm, you’re good.”

  Alfie raised his eyebrows. Interesting choice of words by the young man. He chanced a glance at the dealer, and she had a polite smile on her face.

  “Thank you, sir. My name is Sophia,” she said.

  Alfie made a mental note to give her a raise for maintaining her professionalism. Although, truth be told, her skill in dealing cards was quite impressive.

  Sophia dealt out yet another hand, and Jicdo’s face lit up in delight.

  *

  Alfie and Jicdo sat on one of the balconies overlooking the city. It was a beautiful sight. Much of the view was devoted to House Peres’s palace, which sat atop a hill in the center of Babjah. It was a magnificent sight: a central building with a large, domed roof painted a light pink and spires surrounding it. Bridges connected the spires, forming a spiderweb structure. Trees, thick with foliage, covered the surrounding area, creating the sense that the palace was built into the landscape instead of placed directly on top. It felt hidden yet domineering, towering over the city.

  Alfie played rounds of Halt with Jicdo for most of the night. They only called it quits when another dealer replaced Sophia, and the crowd dispersed. They each had a bag of chips sitting beside them. With just these chips, they can be considered rich—very rich.

  Most people were sleeping, so the streets were quiet. The music from within was the only thing heard.

  Alfie leaned back in his chair, tuning out Jicdo’s rambling.

  Now, Jicdo, at this point, was properly drunk, happy, and comfortable. He had a thrilling night: free drinks, large winnings in chips, and a new friend. A cute dealer kept feeding him the best hands he could make, and the music was uproariously good. Hell, even a crowd formed to cheer him on. His spirit was high, and he didn’t want the night to end.

  “Hey, Jicdo,” Alfie said, pulling out a bag and interrupting him. “Get some of this.”

  “What is it?”

  “This stuff,” Alfie began, slurring his words, “is the stuff.”

  He held the bag to the torchlight, pulling out a dried-out leaf the size of his hand. It was brown and smelled like poppies and bananas.

  “It’s a new drug. It feels amazing,” Alfie said. He crushed the leaf. It made a crunching sound, turning to specks. He lined the little motes of leaf up on the table they sat around, licked his finger, and put it in the crushed-up leave. “It’s called juutcloud. It gives you energy.” Alfie licked his finger.

  “Juutcloud, you say?” Jicdo said, leaning in. “Is it safe?”

  “Very,” Alfie cheerfully replied. “Comes straight from the Borbris, who’ve been using it for generations for some of their rituals or what-have-you. It’s brand new in the city, though. Only a select few can get it.”

  “How’d you get it?”

  “Look where we’re sitting. How can I not get it?” Alfie took another leaf out of the bag and crushed it like the first one. He made a pile in front of Jicdo. “Try it.”

  Jicdo studied the leaf, curiosity flashing across his face. “You sure it’s safe?”

  “I’m so sure that I did some myself.”

  “Alright, screw it. I just eat it?”

  “Eat it. Drink it. Snort it. Doesn’t matter.”

  Jicdo took a hesitant finger, licked it, stuck it in the powder before him, and brought it to his mouth. “Like this?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  He ingested it. There was a moment of pause, and then his eyes lit up. Alfie knew what he was feeling. The rush of power. The feeling of invincibility. The thrill of euphoria. “Fuck me, this shit is amazing!”

  Alfie laughed. “I know. It’s the best I’ve ever tried.”

  “I feel like I could do anything.”

  “Like you’re flying on a cloud?”

  “Exactly!”

  “It’s good shit.”

  “That it is!”

  “Get some more if you want.”

  “You sure?”

  “Why not? That’s what it’s there for. I’m going to do some more.” Alfie took some more from his pile, pretending to feel the jollies of the high. His leaf was nothing more than a regular leaf from the street below. He sent Bala to collect some before they quit gambling.

  Jicdo mimicked him, eyes continuing to glimmer. “I can’t get enough.”

  “It’s fantastic, I know.”

  “Can you get me some more?”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to get, and my guy is very suspicious of new clients.”

  “Oh, c’mon, I can afford it if that’s what you mean.” Jicdo's words started to tumble over one another like his mouth couldn't keep up with his mind.

  “It’s not that. This stuff is strictly illegal and regulated by House Peres. It’s tough to get into the city.”

  Jicdo laughed, holding his stomach. “I am House Peres!” he said, tears pooling in the corner of his eyes. “That’s good!” He took a swig of his drink. “If that’s the issue, you shouldn’t worry about it. I know which spots to use to get it into the city. In fact,” he began, taking another hit of the juutcloud, “I’d be willing to partner with this guy. I have a lot of friends who’d love this stuff.”

  Alfie paused for a moment. “I don’t know. It’s not my decision, but I can talk to my guy.”

  “Do that,” Jicdo said before taking yet another lick. “How long does this stuff last, anyway?”

  “About an hour.”

  “Terrific! Yeah, talk to your guy. If he’s interested, we can set up a meeting here. I’m sure the owner can accommodate us.”

  Alfie smiled. He’d disguised himself before coming, using makeup to cover up his more distinctive features and a wig. Even his outfit had changed, going from businessman to flaneur, with

  flamboyant and loose clothes. His accent was from Az Zubaid, and it was a damn good accent if he said so himself.

  “I’m sure he can as well. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

  “Just so long as I can get more of this… what was it? Jut cloud?”

  “Juutcloud,” Alfie corrected.

  “Aye, that. As long as I get more jut cloud, then I’ll be happy. This is unlike anything I’ve experienced. Everyone will want some.”

  Alfie let out a drunken laugh. “That’s for tomorrow! For tonight, we only worry about finishing this pile.”

  “I like your thinking, my friend,” Jicdo said, licking his finger yet again. “Say, what’s your name again?”

  “Jerry Wines,” Alfie said. “A pleasure.”