The Man of Cards

The air, even before entering, was warm and sticky. The room was lit with candles, torches, and a large fire in the hearth on one wall. Yet even so it was difficult to see -- smoke and haze also filled the air. It was difficult to distinguish features on anyone they saw.   It was easy, however, to distinguish the mood. The entrance of a Struct, a furleen, and a cerebrek, even if they were accompanied by a human, was clearly neither common nor particularly welcome. Everyone near the door turned to look and glared. Not a single one was friendly, but neither did anyone move to threaten or stop them   No one in their group could fit in with the crowd that gave patronage to this public house. Vrash was human, true, but he bore himself erect, his shoulders perpetually broad, like a soldier. Dink noted the irony of a slave being so proud, but he also marked the similarities between thralls and uniformed militia. With great effort he filed the combination of ideas for future consideration. He sensed that he might be needed to fight.   The people in the alehouse, were unilaterally shabby, slumped, and closed postured. Possibly dirty, certainly not meticulous. There was an air of weariness. Dink was uncomfortable – almost everything about the team was contrary to the regulars.   LInella weaved her way through the common area to a particularly shady corner at the back. Aat a small table sat a grizzled man with a stubble-covered, craggy, weather-beaten face. His hair was largely gone, and the sparse, dark hair that remained was unkept, but flat against his head. One eye was half-open, his body shapeless, somewhat drooped. He was more a mound of humanity poured onto a chair than he was an actual person. His spindly but dexterous fingers shuffled a deck of playing cards over and over.   The man didn't look up at them or seem to respond as the team arrived at his table. "This is the Man of Cards," Linella said quietly. Dink sensed notes of fear and awe in her voice.   There was a short pause. It was another moment in his life when Dink wondered if he would have blinked if he had eyelids. This man did not seem like the sage he had expected. He was neither a dignified prophet nor the crone-like gypsy. He was just a broken man. He looked to the others for a reaction. Vrash, as expected, betrayed no expectations or surprise. Linella, on the other hand, was apparently of the same mindset.   "That is not the Tarot," Mort said.   The Man of Cards coughed loudly. Dink wasn't sure if it was an expression of contempt or a symptom of illness. When the cough finally calmed he spoke. "The Tarot," he said with palpable scorn. "Slight of hand. Used by con men and fools. Lies about divine interest. A clever fiction clothed in mysticism to make it seem like it has meaning. The Tarot tells nothing."   "Our world is ordered. It is not knowable, but parts of it are, and all of it follows rules. There's no fate, but there is what will be. By letting the universe's laws work on what we think is random, the order becomes manifest." He coughed again. "Playing cards. The holy mathematics of chance. Only through random means can the pattern of a seemingly random universe come forth. We will play a game to learn the answers to the game played. We will play Kingdom."   His hands suddenly tapped the cards into a solid stack and he started dealing five hands.   "I wasn't…" Dink hadn't planned on playing. He knew the rules, but he didn't play.   "We will all play. We are all involved." The Man of Cards used a tone that broached no argument. The others sat, and Dink, resigned to his fate, lowered himself to the floor by the table.