TWO SWINDLERS AND A HORSE

Horse racing and gambling test Sizma’s ingenuity and Atymos’s patience

The gloves were exquisite. Fine black calfskin with contrasting crimson stitching and long enough to cover the edges of Sizma’s coat sleeves. Perfect for the lingering cold weather where the sharpest draughts would race up her coat sleeves freezing her elbows. There was just one problem: the price. The small shop had other affordable gloves, but Sizma wanted this particular pair. She checked her purse again, but no matter how many times she counted the coins she was one short.

Around her, the market square bustled with activity, commerce, hawking, deliveries, men carrying barrels, women carrying chickens. None of them had coins to drop and Sizma was no pickpocket. However, at the far side of the square, between the watch maker’s workshop and the cobbler’s stall, were two men with a small table and a curious crowd. They were gathered to watch one opportunist after another bet their savings away. If she was careful, Sizma’s extra coin could be waiting for her on that table.

It was a familiar trick. Find the queen. The two men behind the stall were ragged and undernourished, but they had quick eyes and quicker hands. A tubby man stepped forward to take them on, he placed his coin on the table and prepared to find the queen.

“There she is, sir,” trickster number one held up the playing card, “and because I like your face I’m going to make it easy for you.” He pinched the corner of the card making a tiny fold, placed it on the table where the second trickster added a second and third card either side of the queen. Sizma squinted, confused by the apparent ease of the task.

“All right, here we go, watch the card, sir, watch the card, where’s she gone, round and round,” the cards danced around the table, sliding here and there, the folded corner still visible. “And upsadaisy, sir, find the queen.” The tubby man picked up the card with the folded edge.

“Four o’diamonds. Bad luck sir. Here she is.” Picking up another card with the familiar queen’s image on it, the trickster winked. “Bit slippery, isn’t she, sir? Never mind. Maybe you’ll find her this time.”

“I think not.” The tubby man pushed his way through the crowd and joined the coming and going with no apparent sense of loss. But his coin could soon make its way into Sizma purse.

“I’ll play,” she said. Trickster number one studied her clothing. “What’s your name?”

“Beedle, miss. And this here is Ducket. May I say what a magnificent pair of horns you have. And is that a tail I see round the back there?”

Sizma flicked her tail in response and placed a coin on the table.

“Very nice indeed,” said Beedle. “Do you want a fresh deck of cards, miss?”

“Yes. Why not.”

He obliged. Ducket handed Beedle a new pack of cards. “Pick a queen and two others.” He fanned out the cards and offered them to Sizma. She took out the queen of spades, the seven of hearts and the five of clubs, handed them to Beedle who performed his familiar routine. “You might think I say this to everyone and you’d be right. I like your face, miss, I like your horns and I especially like your tail, so I’ll make it easy for you. There you go.” He folded the corner and placed the three cards on the table.

Sizma watched Beedle’s hands this way and that, right, left, forwards, backwards. She watched for the flick, the shift of a card into his own coat sleeve or the replacement of the folded card with another, but there was nothing. For a brief moment she doubted the safety of her bet. When the cards stopped, the one in the middle had the folded corner. It couldn’t possibly be the queen, that was too obvious. Was Beedle a magician or a psychologist? She puffed out her cheeks and considered whether the odds were three to one or, if she ignored the folded card, two to one.

Beedle grinned. Ducket was not so confident. Sizma lifted the card to her right. The five of clubs.

“Oh, miss,” Beedle turned the folded card with the queen of spades, “I made it easy for you. Never mind. If you want to go again, win your stake money back. . .”

Against her better judgement she went again. Beedle’s folded card was the queen. The third time Sizma chose the folded card and it was the jack of diamonds. How was Beedle doing it? How was he able to predict what Sizma would choose. After losing four coins she gave up and passed the glove shop on her way back to the palace.

Her exuberant employer almost knocked her of her hooves when he burst out of the throne room into the corridor. “Chamberlain, I was wondering where you were. Now that you’re here, a moment of your time. Something wrong?”

“No, Gracious Majesty.”

“You look a bit miserable. If I didn’t know you better I’d say you look like you’ve lost all your money betting on horses. Which is a bit ironic because that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Take a seat.”

Atymos settled into a chair next to a low table covered in pamphlets and documents. Sizma sat alongside. “Here,” Atymos passed her a document. “This afternoon a horse called The Fledgeling is running in a race at four o’clock. Look at those odds.”

“Thirty-three to one, Majesty. A bit long, aren’t they?”

“Exactly. I like them long. The longer the better. Do you know why?”

“Because you win more money if they come first.”

“Exactly. I’m on a winning streak, Chamberlain.” He patted his stomach. “Can’t stop winning. I’ve never considered myself a lucky demigod, have to make my own luck, you know, rather than relying on fate and all that, but these last few days the money’s been rolling in from all the successes I’ve had.”

“I’m very pleased for you, Majesty.”

“You sure you’re all right, Chamberlain? You’re not ill, are you? Don’t cough on me if you’re coming down with something.”

No, I’m not ill, Majesty.”

“Good. Well, here’s the dodge.” He took a heavy purse of coins out of a large pocket on the inside of his robe. “There’s fifty coins, put the lot on the Fledgeling this afternoon. Go down to the Royal Bookmaker and let him know I sent you. In fact, if it’ll cheer you up, you might want to put a few coins on it yourself. It’s a dead cert, Chamberlain. I can feel it in these old bones of mine. Now, off you go. Don’t want to miss the start of the race, do we?”

“No, Majesty. The Fledgeling. Four o’clock.”

“Exactly. Now, what was I doing when you came in?”

“You were looking for me, Majesty.” Sizma stood to go.

“So, I was. And that was why. No, go on, be off, go, go, go.”

The Royal Bookmaker occupied a large room in the royal stables. On one side there was the feed store smelling of haylage and on the other side a stable with an enormous and permanently bored war horse, bored because it never went to war. It could be heard whinnying and snorting when Sizma entered the chaotic bookie’s office. With a race at four o’clock they were preparing to go down there, meet the punters, study the form. “Lose our shirts.”

The Royal Bookmaker, Harros, wore his long coat half on half off as if he didn’t have time to dress properly. He scuttled about gathering bags and cases and a large ledger to note down the bets, the odds, the offerings, takings and pay out. Finally, he noticed Sizma.

“Royal Chamberlain, if it isn’t young Sizma gracing us with her fragrant presence. Here, I’ve got something you might like, have a sniff of this.” He found a bottle inside a heavy oak cupboard and two wood goblets. “Mulled whisky.”

“Mulled whisky?”

“Yeah, comes from a shipment sent here by Dolometis. They drink gallons of the stuff over there. It’s got paprika in it.” He poured a large measure into Sizma’s goblet. “There you go, stick your pecker in that.”

She took a sniff, a short sip and felt the superheated liquid travel down her throat and into her stomach.

“That’s what you need on a frosty day like this. Warms your giblets, doesn’t it?”

“It’s very good.”

“Makes ’em sweat. Don’t need to wash if your sweating buckets all the time. But you didn’t come down here for a tot of Dolometis’s firewater, did you?” Harros sat down, his brow furrowed. “Please don’t tell me our gracious majesty wants to place a bet.”

“He does.”

“Oh, no.”

“The Fledgeling. Four o’clock.”

“The Fledgeling?” Harros had a leaflet with all the races and all the runners in each race. “Four o’clock, four o’clock. Reggies Head, Mandarin Salad, Old Autumn Macguffin, what a name for a horse, The Fledgeling. Thirty-three to one!”

Amongst the clutter and boxes of the office, Harros’s runner Filbert had been concealed, but he emerged when he heard the odds. Harros shook his head. “How much does he want on it?” Sizma waved the purse. “How much is that?”

“Fifty coins.”

“Fifty.” He took another swig of the mulled whisky and poured himself another goblet full. “At thirty-three to one. That’s one thousand six hundred and fifty coins. How much have we got, Filbert?”

One of the boxes was a chest. Filbert heaved it onto a large set of scales and added some heavy weights until it all balanced level. “About twelve hundred, give or take. Hello, Sizma.” Filbert blushed.

“Filbert. So if he wins he’ll clean you out.”

“Yes. Filbert, sorry lad, but you’ll have to bring the whole chest. We’ll get some side bets going, see if we can make up the difference.”

“Wait a minute,” Sizma took another sip of the very good whisky, “Why don’t you bet on The Fledgeling too?”

“What, and lose our houses? You don’t think that knackered old nag’s going to win, do you?”

“Well if it’s not going to win why are you worried about paying out?”

“We always pay out. It doesn’t matter if his majesty’s horse wins or not. Who’s going to tell him he’s lost? The last bookmaker who told him he lost was executed. They chopped his head off, tied it back on and chopped it off again. He wins his bet regardless of whether the horse wins or not.”

“His Majesty thinks he’s on a winning streak.” Sizma laughed.

“I’m pleased you think it’s funny. Four o’clock today The Fledgling limps away from the start line, ten past four it comes in last, half past four his majesty collects his winnings. It’s a loaded system, Sizma. Anyway, we’ll have to get down there, set ourselves up, hope we can take enough to make up the difference.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Let me give you a word of advice. Stick to chamberlaining. Betting’s a mug’s game.”

“I know. I lost four coins this morning. Find the queen.”

“Oh, you didn’t? Not the artful dodgers down in the market. Can you here this, Filbert. Beedle and Ducket conned her out of four coins.”

“I can get them back for you, Sizma.”

“No you can’t,” said Harros. “Stop showing off. They’ve been doing it for years, Sizma. Sleight of hand, no one knows how they do it. Still, it won’t last forever.”

“What do you mean?” Sizma picked up the whisky bottle and read the label.

“Ducket’s not happy with Beedle. He drinks all the profits. Says it keeps him sharp, but there’s a reason they both look like they haven’t eaten in a week.”

“Why’s that, Master Harros?” said Filbert.

“Because they haven’t.” Harros put his hat on, fastened his coat and gathered all his ledgers and books and leaflets and made a show of leaving the office. Filbert lifted the chest onto his shoulder and smiled at Sizma. “Will you be coming with us, Sizma?”

“Yes. I think I will. Do you have any more of this whisky, Royal Bookie?”

He did, she took it with her to the racecourse and it warmed her up in the chilly afternoon waiting for the inevitable let down when The Fledgeling set off at the start of the race looking like it didn’t know which direction to run. It was overweight unlike the rider who couldn’t have been more than five years old, he was so small, but according to the gossip had fifteen years experience.

“Raced in the upper realm,” said Filbert watching the race from the top of a box. “Broke his neck in a fall. That’s how he ended up here. The other horses are ten lengths ahead already.”

On the other side of the track, Beedle and Ducket mingled with the crowd. They didn’t have their table with them, but as the race drew to a close, they ran across the track to another bookmaker farther down from Harros’s position. Sizma met up with them.

“Hello, remember me?”

“Hello, darling,” said Beedle, “how could I forget the prettiest satyr with the tail. Don’t tell me, you’re trying to win your money back.”

“No, I’m here with the Royal Bookmaker.”

“Oh, goodness me, mixing with the elites, eh? Has a soft spot for satyrs with tails, does he?”

“No, he’s a colleague.”

Beedle had no answer to that, but his mouth did open. Ducket turned away. “A colleague.”

“I’m the Royal Chamberlain.”

“Well, well . . . well. Look, this morning, it’s just business. We’re just trying to survive. Make a living, isn’t that right?”

Ducket nodded. “Make a living, yes.”

The crowd cheered alerting Sizma to the end of the race. “Looks like we have a winner.”

The bookmaker confirmed it was Mandarin Salad. Beedle grinned. “It’s my lucky day, Royal Chamberlain. You got the slip, Ducket?” He had the slip. The bookmaker studied it for a moment, front and back, held it up to the weak afternoon sun and with an expression loaded with doubt counted out twelve coins and handed them to Beedle. He handed one to Sizma.

“Your original stake money, Royal Chamberlain. Because I like your face. Come, Master Ducket, let’s go down to the tavern for some food.”

Sizma checked the coin, put it in her purse and tried to figure out how to win back the others she had been swindled out of.

Of course, back at the palace Atymos was besides himself. He was twitching about, stepping back and forth in his dining room, table full of half eaten meat, untouched vegetables and an empty wine jug.

“Chamberlain, before I go to bed I want a second opinion. Oh, the horse won didn’t it? What do you think? You had your doubts, didn’t you? Fifteen hundred and something or other I won on that, but that’s all academic now. Have a look at that sketch there.”

Next to a bowl of oranges a finely crafted pencil sketch of a horse was laid out for examination.

“What do you think of that, Chamberlain? Fine old beast, isn’t he?”

“You talk about it as if it’s yours, Majesty. Have you bought it?”

“I have. Bought it today. It’ll be running tomorrow. I made a decision, Chamberlain.” He had to walk around to express the gravity of this announcement. “It’s one thing having the odd flutter now and again, but you know I aspire to greater things. It is fitting that a satyr demigod such as me should own a racehorse. Should own a whole stable of the things, but let’s not run before we can walk. This is the first step.”

“Does he have a name, Majesty?”

“He does, he does. Gracious Majesty. Named him after myself. Think about it. He has power, pride, he’s magnificent, he’s a winner. He has all the qualities I have. A couple more legs than me, but that’s an anatomical detail. He is the equine embodiment of his owner. What do you think?”

“I’m always amazed at you ability to see things the rest of us cannot, Majesty.”

“Very true, Chamberlain. Very true. Sit a moment.”

The mood became intimate. Atymos drew his chair next to Sizma’s and peered into her eyes. “You were bothered by something this morning, Chamberlain, and I don’t like it when my staff are bothered. What was it?”

“If you must know, Majesty, I saw a pair of gloves in a shop in the town, I was one coin short. I tried to bet on find the queen, but lost four coins in the process.”

“Is that all? I thought it might be something serious. Anyway, some advice for free, Chamberlain. Only bet on certainties. Now, get some sleep, we have a horse race to attend tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Gracious Majesty.”

At times like this, Sizma’s tail felt like a heavy weight.

The following day a bright sun shone on a wintery landscape. The race course had been cleared of snow and the various runners and riders paraded in the paddock. Anyone with a horse could compete, wealthy lords, farmers, the hopeful and the clueless. Gracious Majesty, the horse not the ruler, entered the paddock along with his entourage: the Royal Jockey, the Royal Stablegirl, the Royal Shoemaker and the Royal Saddler, their assistants and attendants, followed by a man most onlookers thought was the Royal Trainer. But he was responsible for cleaning fireplaces and simply swept along when the entourage left the palace.

“What’s he doing here?” said Atymos. “Send him back, Chamberlain. He’s an embarrassment. Covered in soot and filth. Get rid of him. Where’s the Royal Trainer? Oh, there he is.”

In the time it took to rescue the fireplace cleaner the race had started and he and Sizma held back to watch Gracious Majesty gallop into a five length lead which he held on to until the finish line came in sight. The crowd roared on their own favourites, but Gracious Majesty won at a canter.

“I need to go back to his Majesty,” said Sizma. “Return to the palace and don’t get swept away again.” Atymos was overjoyed when Sizma rejoined the entourage.

“Pretty impressive eh, Chamberlain. See how he came up on the rails, devoured the land in front of him. Never in any doubt who was going to win that one.” The Royal Jockey brought the horse around to the winners enclosure where the Royal Stablegirl covered its back with a rug. Its mouth foamed and great clouds of steam filled the air. Atymos wanted to give it a pat, but held back when the horse sneezed and covered bystanders with royal mucous and spit.

It won the next race, and the final race of the day. The royal entourage left in high spirits, the crowd trudged away, and the bookmakers lingered on wondering what catastrophe had just fallen on them. Sizma met the Royal Bookie the following day and heard a tale of tragedy and financial ruin.

“It’s a dead cert, Sizma.” He stared into his empty chest. “If we give the horse its true odds, say three hundred to one against, his majesty will kill us. If we set reasonable odds the punters will clean us out. It’s the end of the road, Sizma. The end.”

When Gracious Majesty trotted up to the start line of the afternoon race Atymos was suffering some internal conflict, a psychological colic. The crowd was a rag tag of disinterested punters and grounds staff and there was one bookie.

“Where is everyone, Chamberlain? You’d think people would be flocking to see the royal horse compete. Doesn’t happen every day.”

“It’s happened every day for the past two days, Majesty.” Sizma was wrapped up against the winter chill, but her hands were changing colour.

“There’s no one here, Chamberlain.”

“There’s no point, Majesty. They can’t place a bet. The bookies,” she looked up at the solitary bookmaker shivering on his box, “bookie, can’t afford to pay out.”

“Without bookies there’s no gambling and without gambling there’s no racing. I didn’t buy a racehorse to eat it, Chamberlain. I want’ to race.”

He was about to lament the quality of the opposition, but then they were both distracted by a new face (horse’s face) being led into the paddock. A young, eager thoroughbred, leggy and lean, its jockey guiding it around the paddock without a care.

“Who’s that, Chamberlain?”

Sizma checked the running order. “I’m not sure, Majesty.” She called to the jockey, “Which horse is this?”

“Khallas.”

“Khallas? How old is he?”

“Five years. He’s getting his first outing today.”

“Looks a bit skinny to me, Chamberlain,” said Atymos in a lowered voice.

Thirty minutes later he watched the same skinny horse enter the winner’s paddock barely out of breath. Two days later after extensive additional training, bigger crowds and more bookmakers Khallas raced away to victory a second time, and a third, finishing the day’s meeting with a fourth win and every time it crossed the finish line the distance to second place – Gracious Majesty – was devastating.

Atymos sat in his carriage, the coachmen waiting for his signal to leave, but every time his arm twitched he stopped. Sizma waited for the explosion, but he was too dumbfounded to be angry.

“I don’t know much about horses, Chamberlain, but I recognise a cheat when I see one. It’s obviously on drugs.”

“Drugs, Majesty?”

“Yes, some performance enhancing drug or even a cocktail of the things. Well you saw it today. It races as if it has six legs.” He chewed his knuckles. “It doesn’t have six legs, does it, Chamberlain? Have them counted tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“There’s another race tomorrow. Two-thirty. And let me make this absolutely clear, Royal Chamberlain, that horse must not win.” He rattled the roof of the carriage and the coachmen drove away.

After an early start and another flurry of snow, Sizma headed off into town to find out where Khallas was being stabled and more importantly who owned it. A few questions at the Jolly Roger tavern led her to a baker’s shop that had a large grain store. Before the doors were opened she could hear the equine sounds of Khallas and there he was, munching on hay, the jockey brushing him down. Khallas peered at Sizma when she entered the makeshift stable and carried on eating when she stroked his neck.

“A fine horse,” she said.

“Yes.” The jockey recognised Sizma’s status and stopped what he was doing.

“Who owns him?”

“I have instructions not to tell anyone, but his trainer is here. Leopold Frawn. We’ll both be in mortal trouble if we say who the owner is.”

“It must be a lord or even a demigod if the secret is so high. You wouldn’t be allowed to travel from Dolometis’s realm, Helkyrios would never own anything so energetic. I can’t see horses surviving on Eneleziel’s mountain tops.” She studied the jockey’s eyes, but he would make a good poker player. “I understand you not revealing the name, but it does give me a problem if the owner is who I think he is.”

“How so?”

“The race today. Khallas must not win.”

Another man entered the stable and heard Sizma’s instruction. He was well dressed with an ornate cravat around his neck, tall with a straight back he approached Sizma with grace and respect. “Good morning. I saw you yesterday with Atymos, you are part of his Gracious Majesty’s court?”

“Royal Chamberlain. And you are?”

“Leopold Frawn.”

“Which realm are you from?”

He hesitated, knowing the answer might reveal the horse’s true owner. “Kalithreia’s realm, Royal Chamberlain.”

“A word in private, Leopold.” They left the jockey to continue brushing Khallas’s muscular back and hindquarters, his dark colour illuminated by a shaft of bright morning sunshine.

“His Majesty wants you to lose this afternoon. You know Atymos, he doesn’t take too well to defeat. It embarrasses him, it undermines his authority which undermines his self-belief and without that he is nothing.”

“I quite understand, Royal Chamberlain.”

“Call me Sizma. Khallas must not win this afternoon.”

Leopold put his arms behind his back and paced around the yard. “It would be more than my life’s worth to do that, Sizma. I think we both know why? And the lad in there, he would be executed too if we didn’t follow our instructions.”

“I don’t care about the lad in there, Leopold. I only care about the affairs of this realm, but I am sensitive to your predicament. If Khallas was somehow compromised without you knowing-“

“Please, Sizma. If anyone found out I was even having this conversation with you my life would be in danger.”

A second man joined them. He looked wary, took off his hat and held it to his chest, avoiding eye contact with Sizma. “Master Frawn, I was told you were here.”

“Can I speak with you later-“

“No,” said Sizma, “feel free to speak in front of me.”

Leopold and the second man breathed heavily. “You can leave my belongings with the baker.”

“Belongings, Master Frawn?”

“Yes, you know. You know . . .”

The jockey joined them, eager to greet the second man. “Morning Master Jacobsen. Great day yesterday, sorry for cleaning you out.”

“Hush.” Leopold sent the jockey back into the stable.

“You’re betting on your own horse?” said Sizma.

“What if I am? Isn’t that what Atymos is doing?”

“Yes, and he’s driving the bookies out of business.”

“I can attest to that,” said Jacobsen.

“And now Khallas is going to do the same if it keeps winning. It’s in everybody’s interest for a bit of competition, gentlemen.” She turned to Leopold. “Or does the owner not see it that way?”

“I’ve already told you my situation, Sizma.”

“Yes, you have. Master Jacobsen, what are the odds on Khallas to win this afternoon?”

He cleared his throat. Leopold waited. “Twenty to one against.”

“What?” Sizma and Leopold spoke together. “Well, there you are, Leopold. Your lucrative adventure is over. Unless of course you bet on Gracious Majesty and let him win.”

Jacobsen’s eyes bulged.

“Sorry, Master Jacobsen, but we can’t all benefit from this. That’s gambling for you. Someone has to lose.

Jacobsen skulked away. Leopold studied the ground. “You have a choice, Master Leopold. Winning the race or winning the bet. Which is worth more to you?”

She left him to his dilemma, but before returning to the palace Sizma had another visit to make in the town. The gloves were still in the window of the glovemakers shop, and the tricksters were back at their card table.

And they were not happy. Sizma held back a moment, several lines of people between her and the card table. The crowd was fascinated by the parade of losers betting their money away, but they were also captivated by the ongoing grumbling and arguing that had ignited and was growing more ferocious.

“And what if I chopped your hands off,” said Ducket, “Have to rely on me then, wouldn’t you?”

“Rely on you?” Beedle managed to swindle the punters at the same time as maintaining his argument with Ducket. “To rely on you means you having a brain. There’s more intelligence in this table than in your head. Chop my hands off and you starve as well as me.”

“Starve? When was the last time you bought any food.”

“You won’t eat anything. Hello, sir,” another punter stepped up to the table. “Here we go again, tell you what, sir-“

“It’s all liquid lunches with you-“

“Ignore him, sir, he’s a bit miffed because of the weather. As I was saying, I like your face . . .”

It went on, the swindle, the cards whizzing this way and that, the confused punter, the creased card corner, the queen dodging all over the place and never landing where the punters predicted. Beedle and Ducket continued their quarrel until the queue of mugs was down to one.

“Hello, gentlemen. Remember me?”

“It’s our pretty little satyr. The Royal Chamberlain. Very nice to be of your acquaintance-“

“Just get on with it,” said Ducket. “We need the money. For more ale.”

“Boys, boys, let’s not argue about trivial things like food and drink and surviving this bitterly cold winter.” Sizma ignored Ducket. “I want a word with you in private.”

“Don’t run off with the table.” Beedle spat his instruction to Ducket and followed Sizma down a narrow ginnel.

“Believe it or not I need your help. A bet.”

“I’m listening, Royal Chamberlain.”

“There’s another race this afternoon. Gracious Majesty will inevitably come second to Khallas. The owner of Khallas is betting on his own horse, but the odds are worthless. When he places his bet this afternoon I want you to deal with it.”

“Me? I don’t have the money to pay out on what he’s betting. Even at twenty to one against.”

“You don’t have to. Switch the ticket.” Sizma waited for the request to sink in.

“Yeah. Switch, what, switch to what?”

“When he comes to collect his winnings he gives you his slip, but it has Gracious Majesty on it. How you do it is up to you, but His Majesty will be very pleased to see this man shown up in public.”

“Yeah, he will, won’t he. Be a reward, will there?”

“If I know his Majesty like I think I know his Majesty he can be very . . . responsive, shall we say.”

“Responsive? Right. Let me have a think about it-“

“No, have a think about how you will do it. Because you will do it. Don’t let his Majesty down, Master Beedle.”

“No.”

“Good show, as his Majesty would say.”

They walked back to the market square. Sizma asked Beedle, “Why are you two arguing? You have a good set up here, making money.”

“He doesn’t know how to enjoy it. Me, I’m a man who likes to live for the moment. He thinks ahead, which is all right, I suppose, but he tries to stop me living the way I want to live. I mean you only got one life, haven’t you? In a manner of speaking.”

“Don’t let a little thing like this come between you. Let me talk to him.”

“He might listen to you. He respects authority.”

Ducket respected authority so much he couldn’t stop trembling when Sizma invited him in to the tavern and sat him down at a table in a quiet corner. She offered him her thoughts, her analysis of Ducket’s situation, the fragility of his friendship with Beedle and the best way to deal with it.

“While we’re here, I don’t mind telling you, Master Ducket, I didn’t like losing money to you two, so I want to place another bet.”

“He normally deals with the money.”

“He does, doesn’t he, including spending it.” Sizma placed her heavy purse on the tavern table.

“Which horse?” said Ducket.

“Not a horse.” Sizma wrote on a slip of paper her bet. Ducket struggled to read it and when the words finally sank in struggled to understand it. “You want to bet on this happening?”

“Yes.”

“You’re mad.”

“What odds would you give me?”

Ducket grimaced. “Well, it’s your money. Hundred to one.”

“That’s very generous.”

“Well, hang on, hang on, let me think . . . Fifty to one?”

“I think that’s more realistic.” She emptied the purse on the table. Drinkers in the tavern stopped talking and stared at the small hoard in front of Ducket’s astonished face.

“Are you sure about this? I don’t want to rob you.”

“You’re not robbing me. Do you accept the bet? If so, give me a receipt. And not a word to Beedle. Surprise him with it.”

They emerged from the tavern into the cold air and blue sky, Ducket’s pace lighter, his outlook on life more positive. Beedle noticed the change.

“Sorted you out, has she?”

“Yeah.”

“We friends again?” They shook hands and prepared the table for the next punter. Sizma slipped away and acknowledged Ducket’s wink before he went back to work.

Before the afternoon race started Atymos insisted on confronting Leopold Frawn in the paddock. He removed his hat and bowed. “Gracious Majesty, forgive me for not being aware of your full title. As you know by now I am not a citizen of this realm.”

“No, you’re a damned nuisance and you’re destroying horse racing. I want to know what you’re going to do about it?”

“I have my instructions, Majesty. My hands are tied.” He knew Atymos knew there was no punishment. The old agreements stood: a citizen could only be executed by their own satyr demigod unless they committed a crime, and Leopold hadn’t committed a crime. Winning a horse race, betting on his own horse, dressing well and being polite were not crimes.

“What do you think, Chamberlain? Is he to be trusted?”

“I’m reminded of the word hubris, Majesty.”

“What’s that, another horse?” Atymos scanned the paddock at the various nags and cobs pulling and tugging at the reins.

“No, Majesty, it is the inevitable downfall of the over-confident.”

“What’s that got to do with horse racing? Oh, I see. You mean him? What, his horse is going to break its ankle or something?”

“Not quite as literally as that, Majesty, but Khallas must lose eventually. It’s not a superbeing, is it, Master Frawn?”

“No.” Frawn’s forehead wrinkled. “No, it isn’t.”

Atymos turned away. “You speak in riddles sometimes, Chamberlain. Quite beyond me.” He took his seat and with the rest of the crowd prepared for the race. Sizma wandered amongst the punters and bookies and made sure Beedle was in position to take Leopold’s bet. It was a whopper. Beedle nervously jotted down the horse’s name and the odds.

“You sure about this, sir? That’s a lot of money.”

“Long odds. I need to make it worth my while. And I’ll be going home tomorrow.”

“And you want to travel light, sir. Ease the weight of all this money.” He laughed, but not too hard. Behind him, Ducket watched the exchange and spotting Sizma not too far away grinned and wiped his mouth with his coat sleeve.

The race started, Gracious Majesty took the lead, but Khallas was always less than a length behind him. The positions remained as the two horses left the chasing gaggle behind them. They thundered across the snow, cutting through the ice crystals that lingered in the air and as they approached the finishing line, the panting mouths expelled frozen breath like two steam trains roaring across frozen fields. Gracious Majesty held on, but the outcome was inevitable. Khallas was waiting and then he moved. A subtle kick from his jockey and the darker horse slipped alongside Gracious Majesty. Atymos roared, down by the track side Leopold contained himself, but flinched now and again as Khallas turned the final bend into the finishing straight, neck and neck, both horses hidden by the fog of exertion. The thunder of the hooves increased, the jockeys’ shouts reached the waiting crowd, the conclusion seconds away. Khallas inched ahead, Gracious Majesty had no response, he was done, Khallas had reserves and in the final stretch pulled away and crossed the line several lengths ahead of the runner-up.

The reaction in the crowd was mixed, some cheers, some howls of anguish and a solitary cry of anger. Atymos on his feet yelling. “Chamberlain . . .”

Sizma found him. “Majesty, an emergency, you must come at once.”

“What is it? Why did my horse lose?” He struggled to keep up.

“Because another horse crossed the line ahead of it, Majesty. Those are the rules.”

“Don’t be impertinent, Chamberlain.”

They walked in on a furious row between Leopold and Beedle. Remaining aloof, Ducket kept his distance and paid out the small winnings to excited punters.

“What’s happening?” said Sizma.

Leopold’s face was red with fury. “This con man is trying to cheat me. I placed a bet on my horse and look.” He held his betting slip in front of Sizma’s face. “With all due respect Gracious Majesty, I did not bet on Gracious Majesty.”

“It says there you did.”

“This man has switched the betting slips, he’s trying to cheat me out of my winnings.”

“Have you switched them?”

Beedle shook his head. Leopold was dumbstruck. Atymos waited for someone else to offer a solution, but Sizma remained silent.

“Is that your writing?” Atymos said to Beedle.

“Yes, Gracious Majesty.”

“Master Frawn, you lost your money. You won the race. Mistakes happen, there’s nothing I can do about it. I am a fair and honest ruler, I can’t just change the laws to suit you because you’re upset. There’ll be plenty of other races, other chances to win you money back. Now be off with you.”

“But Gracious Majesty-“

“Before I change my mind.”

Leopold stood a moment, but realising his appeals had come to nothing slipped away to his horse and his jockey and his empty wallet.

“Gracious Majesty,” said Beedle. “Your sense of justice and fair play is most admirable. It is an honour to be a citizen of your realm.”

“Shut up.” Ducket crept into view. “What do you want? Who are you?”

“Gracious Majesty, I am Master Ducket. I am the business partner of Master Beedle here. Is there some trouble.”

“No, trouble,” said Beedle. He pointed to a wooden box filled with money that once belonged to Leopold Frawn.

“What’s that?” Ducket picked up a handful of coins.

“Time to go, Chamberlain.” Atymos had spent enough time with his minions.

“Pause a moment, Majesty. Share this good news.”

Beedle examined the coins. “This, Master Ducket is our earnings for today. Not bad eh?” He handed several coins to Sizma. “Because you have a nice face, a replacement for your losses the other day. A token of gratitude for all your help.” Atymos waited for an explanation.

“Where’s it come from?” said Ducket.

“From the owner of Khallas. Bet on his Majesty’s horse, didn’t he.”

“He did what?”

“Bet on his Majesty’s horse and then went and won the race with his own horse. You couldn’t make it up.”

The blood drained from Ducket’s face. He stared at Sizma as if he was trying to read her mind.

“How much do you owe me, Master Ducket?” She handed him her own betting slip. Beedle peered at it.

“You gave her fifty to one on Frawn betting on Gracious Majesty and then winning the race on Khallas. Are you insane?”

Even Atymos was confused. “How did you persuade him to do that, Chamberlain?”

Sizma gave Beedle time to explain. “No, wait a minute, wait a minute, I swapped his slip. He didn’t really bet on your horse, Gracious Majesty.”

“You swapped his betting slip?” said Atymos.

“Yes.”

“That’s a capital offence. Dolometis has an inferno for people like you.”

“What, wait. Royal Chamberlain, you told me . . .”

“Told you what?”

“You . . . he . . .”

“Did you swap the betting slip or not?” said Atymos eager to leave.

“No.”

Ducket didn’t have the money to honour Sizma’s bet, but his so-called business partner did. The coins were handed over, Beedle lived, the partnership dissolved and Sizma followed Atymos back to his waiting carriage.

“Chamberlain, go and visit that owner fellow, Frawn. Give him his money back. Keep your own stake money, of course. And stop gambling. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Yes, Majesty. Is there a reason for your generosity?”

“I’m a generous ruler, Chamberlain. I would have thought that was obvious.” He settled back in his carriage and stared at the sky. “Can’t have Kalithreia thinking I’m a bad loser. I am magnanimous in defeat. Humble even. No, this is the right thing to do, Chamberlain. See to it.”

“Your wisdom is a lesson to us all, Majesty.”

Leopold didn’t believe a word of it, but he took his money back with a show of relief and some gratitude for Sizma’s help sorting out the problem. At the end of a long day and a long walk back to her rooms at the palace she closed the door behind her and noticed a small parcel on the bed.

She opened it and there were the gloves from the shop window. She unfolded a note and read the message in Atymos’s handwriting.

‘Ever the solution to problems I can’t begin to solve. The gloves you desired, Royal Chamberlain.’

She put them on and they were a perfect fit.