Chapter Eleven: The House of Dice

Dawn arrived later than usual in Hemtica.

Perhaps for most, such subtle shifts in the cycles of day and night had little consequence, but for Amy, whose veins carried the blood of the Ancients’ glory, the weight and disquiet in his heart as he gazed at the pale horizon found no one to confide in. Since the tide of chaos had engulfed the Evernight Wall, and the nameless mist spread, all things founded upon the laws of order had been extinguished; in that thick, almost tangible fog, there remained only the deepest darkness.

Even the so-called eternal sun had not been spared.

The world had lost its light.

With it vanished warmth, happiness, and hope.

Trapped in the dark, humanity offered up the blood of glory to the flame, and with the great power bequeathed by their forebears, they reconstructed sun, moon, and mountains within the confines of their narrow world.

So it had been, for nearly a millennium.

People had long since grown accustomed to their quiet, sheltered existence. Though the threat of chaos loomed close at hand, most continued their lives as before, toiling over their small corners of the world, blind to the coming doom like frogs in slowly boiling water.

The power of the flame was waning.

Perhaps the blood of glory had grown thin over generations, or perhaps, somewhere in the vast darkness, some unknown calamity had occurred. Whatever the reason, the decline of order was undeniable; the fall of the mist-laden districts and the rampant fog-bound nights revealed this cruel truth.

Amy was not the only one to perceive it; others had walked this path before, disregarding life, death, honor, or shame. Yet all that their sacrifices yielded were heaps of corpses; outside the flame’s reach, the night remained as silent and terrifying as ever.

Their sacrifice had been in vain.

Perhaps all it brought was a faint, illusory hope.

Exhaling the stale air from his chest, Amy pushed aside these distant concerns. He donned his mask, tugged the brim of his cap low, dusted off his worn gray coat, and slipped like a ghost into the shadowed streets of the lower districts.

He was going to the Dice House.

The Dice House was not a single place. More accurately, it was not any one place at all; it was the name of a faction, an intelligence syndicate—there, one could buy any information desired, even, so it was said, the color of Emperor Michelangelo’s underwear—if one could pay the price.

Of course, that was only the claim; whether it was truly possible to buy such trivia, no one knew, and no one wished to. Gossip was well enough for casual conversation, but only if one lived long enough to enjoy it—offend Michelangelo in the lower districts, and most could expect only death.

But for all the bravado, the Dice House’s intelligence network was vast, making it the largest neutral information hub in the lower districts. Unfortunately, their secrecy matched their prowess in gathering intelligence, though in a most twisted way: the Dice House’s agents had no sense of confidentiality. No sooner had a client left than their information might be sold to the next customer—for here, every scrap of knowledge was for sale.

All told, it was a villainous force that could never be trusted.

The title suited them well; their operations were housed in gambling dens—or, to put it more aptly, they were the secret masters behind every casino in the lower districts. Where there was a casino, there were their shadows, though finding them required knowing they existed at all.

“Fate always loves to roll the dice, doesn’t it?”

At the casino’s entrance, Amy’s gaze flicked over the badge on the attendant’s chest, and he spoke the seemingly innocuous phrase in an offhand manner—a coded greeting. On the very first day he had settled in the lower districts, an agent from the Dice House had approached him, leaving their means of contact. If not for what he later learned of their reputation from Willy, he might well have walked in cluelessly, selling himself away.

But there were no ifs. Now that he knew what a monstrous thing the Dice House was, he would not let down his guard.

With these thoughts, he followed a server through a long, maze-like corridor.

At her signal, he pushed open the door to a private room.

To his surprise, thick smoke billowed out. After a fit of coughing, Amy managed to open his eyes, searching for the room’s owner.

“Oh my, a stranger,” came the languid voice of a mature woman before he could find her. He glanced toward the source and saw a tall, shapely figure. “You’re hiding yourself so well. Is it that shameful to be seen?”

“Not at all,” the boy replied, having regained his composure after the initial confusion, his voice low and hoarse. “It’s just that your establishment’s practices hardly inspire trust.”

“How honest you are,” the elegant woman lounging on the bed blew a smoke ring, her dark eyes betraying little emotion. “We always put our customers first. Whatever they wish to know, we tell—all, and without reserve.”

The words “boy” made Amy’s heart skip, but he maintained his calm, ignoring the woman shrouded in smoke. He went straight to the point: “That’s good. I’m looking for someone. With your intelligence network, it shouldn’t be a challenge.”

“Oh?” the woman murmured through the smoke. “Finding a person can be hard or easy, depending on who it is—and what you’re willing to pay.”

“Ten gold torls,” the boy said gravely.

“A generous offer,” she tapped her pipe, flicking off the ash. “It seems this won’t be an easy job.”

“If it were, I wouldn’t have come here,” Amy replied bluntly.

“So you’ve always held a grudge against us,” the woman said, sipping at her pipe, her tone indifferent. “We at the Dice House take client confidentiality very seriously. For information involving previous clients, the price is three times the standard rate.”

All that extra profit goes into your pockets, Amy thought, the corner of his mouth twisting into a cold smile, but he let the matter drop. “The one I seek is an assassin, skilled with a curved blade, who wears a mask that is neither quite smiling nor quite weeping.”

At these words, the atmosphere shifted. The woman’s playful manner vanished; she straightened, silent, drawing on her pipe.

Until—

When the tobacco burned to its end, she looked up.

“If it is a ‘person’ you seek,” she said, with unusual gravity and solemnity, “then I must say—such a person does not exist.”

“So?” Amy raised an eyebrow. “If not a person, what is he?”

“A specter,” the Dice House agent whispered. “A killer ghost of the fog-bound nights.”

“So your establishment does know something of him,” Amy leaned forward slightly. “If I recall, you said you would tell me all you know, holding nothing back.”

“Oh, you misremember,” the woman glanced at him, her tone light. “We do, on the condition that the price is sufficient.”

“In that case…” Amy held up two fingers. “Twenty.”

“A tempting offer,” she replied, her voice flat but her words anything but. “But I must refuse. Compared to a single, irreplaceable life, even gold torls pale in worth.”

“And if I insist?” Amy had no intention of letting this chance slip away. If the Dice House’s agent truly failed to appreciate her situation, he would show her what life was worth.

“Then we must alter the terms,” the woman set aside her pipe. “We of the Dice House dare not provoke the Dark Guild, much less those murderers. But if it’s only information you want, we can still make a deal.”

“Dark Guild…” Amy rolled the unfamiliar words over in his mind.

“So you realize just how dangerous your target is,” the agent paused. “With the change in terms, the price must change as well. For existing information alone, we require only five gold torls. What say you?”

“Deal.”

Without hesitation, Amy agreed. The crisp, ringing sound of coins echoed as five golden pieces rolled across the table, sealing their bargain.

“Very well, your sincerity is clear,” the woman smiled, a rarity. “Someone will escort you to receive the file. Once that is done, our business is concluded.”

Amy merely nodded. With his sensitive status, at such a sensitive time, entanglement with an organization like the Dice House would be disastrous.

“Then farewell.” The woman inclined her head, her features in the smoke growing slightly more distinct. “Good fortune is elusive, misfortune comes unbidden. Fate does not roll dice; all things are destined. May fate favor you, my guest.”

“Goodbye,” the boy replied with nothing more than formal courtesy, turning and leaving the smoke-filled room. As the door closed softly behind him, he let out a quiet sigh. “The Dark Guild… doesn’t sound friendly.”

Behind the door, the brown-haired, dark-eyed woman no longer smoked. She lay on the bed, staring blankly ahead, and murmured to herself, “Someone bold enough to go after the ghostly killer of the foggy nights, to tug at the Dark Guild’s whiskers… When did such a figure appear in the lower districts? And so young, too… How odd. I’ll have to investigate him properly. But first, a nap—lack of sleep is beauty’s worst enemy.”

She yawned, and soon drifted off.

In the lingering haze of smoke, her delicate features seemed like those of a sleeping beauty from a fairy tale.