"Luck?"

"You think he's cheating?"

Dumarest was certain of it, but it was not his concern. He turned from the cluster of players and moved towards his bunk, thumbing open the small box at the head. The towel was still damp, but if he left it exposed it would be stolen. He threw it into the container and slammed it shut. It would stay that way until the lock recognized the imprint of his thumb.

"It's getting late, Leon. Let's eat."

The canteen was a crude hut filled with tables and benches, staffed with old men and cripples, a scatter of Hyead. Dumarest stepped aside as one came towards him busy with a broom. A thin, stooped figure, dressed in filthy robes tied with knotted string. A ravaged face, peaked, the eyes slotted like those of a goat. Blunt horns rose above a tangle of hair, gray shot with russet. The hands which held the broom were four-fingered claws.

Despised, degenerate, the product of wild mutations, found running like animals in the mountains by the early settlers and now used as servitors.

Cheap labor, working for discarded clothing and scraps of food, kicked, cursed, or ignored by men who were themselves little better than beasts.

Dumarest led the way to the counter, picking carefully at the food, selecting items high in protein and low in bulk. An expensive choice, but one which gave better nutritional value than the steaming chaff bought by the majority.

As they ate Leon said, "Earl, how did you know Sonef was cheating?"

"Did I say he was?"

"No, but was he?"

"You saw the way he dealt, cards face up and using no regular rotation. He was manipulating the bets, letting the low stakes win, taking the high. Once you know how to bottom-deal it's easy."

"Could you do it?"

Dumarest ignored the question. "Tell me about Nerth."

"It's a dump."

"And?"

"It's just a world, Earl. A backwater. Mostly farms, no industries, hardly any cities. Ships are rare. They only call to pick up furs and gems, and deliver tools and instruments. No one with any sense would want to go there."