58 \ 146

He’s not exactly supposed to be gambling while on errand, but he’s reserved a maverick moment for one such a non-occasion. The best time to break a rule is when nothing seems to be working. So, General Draig Claymore got into a poker game with strangers, after going to see nothing where nothing was supposed to be. He wasn’t protected, nor was he wearing anything officially identifying. He worked unrelated thoughts and feelings into his gameplay, just to see what that did, win or lose.

Draig’s stack of coins was slightly bigger than when he first began. He received gazes of mild confusion from his fellow players, as happens when playing Riverboat like an oracle. Not acting or thinking like he’s in it to win makes it a mystery when he does. In this fashion, the cards in his hand are known characters or elements within control, and the cards on the table are the circumstances. The cards in his hand react to the cards on the table. Draig wins this way approximately as often as when he plays to his prowess.

On the ship that had spotted the Princess, records were intact and frustratingly uninformative. Biometric positive for Soleil, Magus. Unidentified vehicle type. Totally unexplainable behavior. Subject vanished.

Hand after hand, Claymore middled around. This was a nice old place; a heritage hole, as he referred to them. There was no sign outside, but it was all documented and above board. It reminded him of a pub in the Capital called the Show Horse, with the thousand-year-old bar that predates spacefaring. The establishment he was in now had a little less memorabilia on the walls, though still a seemingly popular accommodation. The General’s contacts used this place often when in Dalmeera; the communications must be good here. From inside the kitchen he heard the sound of dishes being stacked one by one, rapid-fire. It was somehow more orderly than the usual clatter, and he liked the sound.

Joe the bartender brought Claymore another Hot Silver, calling him Gerald. Draig was drinking, too: double maverick. If he had too much for the evening, there was inn lodging underground, from when there was once a clandestine dormitory adjacent to the Scurry, Dalmeera’s historical tunnel network.

His thoughts were in outer space, somewhere around the Viridian Phasing point intersection. She – possibly the Princess – had been there, and then she wasn’t. There and gone, there… and gone. And, gone. What was that about? He’d been under the casual assumption that she was working to meet him halfway. Did she run? From him? Or from Derringer? Or from home? Did she mean to give them the slip, was she under a different danger, or was it terrible luck? Draig’s stack was still growing. He thought he would have lost by now.

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