Story for the Day: A Gentleman's Game

Machanabi is one of the oldest games in Lucentia. It was invented by the Ruvani, and once the kingdom was taken over by the Elves, the game became confined to the Old Lucentian dens and gaming parlours, where high-rollers could be screwed out of wagers and into poverty. Not many play the game outside of its home, but on the deck of the Myrellenos, a few rounds are known to be played:

Danaco fan art by Cassandra

Peppone was delighted to find the evening was far from over: the night was wearing on, and he thought the captain might impose restrictions with regard to lamplighting, as some ships were wont to do when abroad, or that some of the men might want to go ashore and see what evening gaieties could be got round the docks for a goldweight. Cards, however, seemed to be everyone’s expectation, small coins were releaved from pockets and unbroken packs of cards were tossed across the table, and the usual seats were claimed, Peppone stowing himself between Feiza and the captain. Panza, Shanyi, Moppet, and Mr Malley occupied one side of the table, Heigan, Magochiro, Rannig, and Ujaro comprised the other, and Brogan was off to the side, offering the cider round while holding Bartleby off at leg-length.

                “The cloth was freshly cleaned,” Danaco announced, sitting at the head of the table. “Shanyi has done an famous good job of getting out the crumbs and tea stains.”

                “Thank you, sir,” said Shanyi, with a gallant nod.

                “He deserves our compliments and commendations.”

                A grumble of welldones and felicitations drumbled out, heads were bowed and kindly waved off.

                “And if anything is dropped on it other than card or a coin, or Moppet’s eye—“ Moppet held his hand over it, “—that something will be cleaned by tongue. Rannig will apply himself to you and use your tongue as a cleaning rag.”

                “Aye, boss,” Rannig chimed, smiling furiously.

                “Yessir!” was the resounding salute.

                “Now, what shall we have? Shall we do a shedding game or accumulation? It has been an age since we played anything like Jainsago.”

                “Thayts ‘cause Mago’s always winin’ ‘em Lucentian games,” said Mr Malley plaintively.

                “He cannot help his abilities, Mr Malley. They come from years of trickery and fascination. You would be just as exemplary at games if you had a Bizarmin chieftan to teach you. Very well, nothing wholly Lucentian or Livanese, to keep the Marridonians happy, but I think Ruvani games might be allowed.”

                “Then yew’ll win, Cap’n,” Moppet attested.

                “As well I might. If you cannot win yourself, you must contrive to ruin my hand, and you can do a villainous thing with your cards when you try.”

                “Well,” said Moppet thoughtfully, his eye boggling, “if yew allow me to commit the villainy, Cap’n.”

                “Commit away, my bobberous widgeon.”

                Peppone was inspecting one of the card packs. “Do you always play with new cards as a rule?” he asked, holding the pack to his nose and inhaling the chartaceous scent.

                “Aw hope yew ain’t gowna eat ‘em,” said Moppet, spying him with his good eye.

                “Unmired pasteboard is irresistible surely,” said Danaco, smiling as Peppone put the pack down, “but nobody would love them so much as to eat them, Moppet, despite our guest having spawned from other plant-based materials.”

                Rannig quietly wondered whether fungal material would do for cards and reminded himself to ask Bartleby about it later, an answer to which Bartleby would no doubt be wild to offer.

                “We have other cards,” Danaco continued, “but we play with a deck until worn. Any game we make wagers on, whether with real coin or no, must be done with new packs. All the old ones have been marked by Feiza already.”

                “Can’t help if us remember which cards were bent and how, cap’n,” said Feiza, with an injured look.

                “Shanyi is very good to straighten all the cards after the first round, but gamegaffers with flag unfurled will find them out, and once a card is marked, Feiza will charm it out of the deck and into his hand.”

                Panza pried the pack from Feiza’s hands and held it away as he opened it.

                “Ain’t like no one else marks cards,” Feiza pouted, every feeling offended. “Shanyi marks the dice how he likes.”

                “To note which ones have been weighted,” Shanyi contended.

                “If we had Machanabi tiles, we wouldn’t have to worry about cards bending or being marked,” said Peppone, raising the new cards to his nose.

                “Or being smelled,” said Panza sharply.

                “Machanabi,” Danaco exclaimed, his eyes brightening. “Here is an idea, nindano. Of course you would know the game and understand about the operation of the tiles—everyone who grows up near Lucentia’s less than savoury streets must know--”  There was an acknowledgement from Ujaro and Magochiro at this, “—but so few know the game outside the guilds and smoking dens of Lucentia capital. It is rather a pity Machanabi is not more wildly played, and yet it is so painfully Lucentian: it must be played on a table, it cannot be played on the streets like dice, and title sets are far too costly to be carted about by common gamemongers and cardwives. And there is so much in the way of winnings attached to the game that only those with some talent and a great deal of money may go in for the rounds. My father would play over matters of business, but never in a parlour or in a serious way. He would let his opponents win, if a deal on silks could be got by a loss. It is a gentleman’s game, or has been made one over the years, if one can overlook the slit throats and broken necks of the losers in the alleys behind the game dens. Wretched is the man who tries to win a guild game with interigity alone.”

                “Did you play, sir?” Peppone asked.

                “I must, nindano, being a what I am. The Ruvani play Machanabi a great deal—it is their game, of course—and my grandmother having been a Ruvani and an authority on the game herself, she should be should hold my tongue to the fire if I could be reared by her clan and not understand the game. The scoring can be a horror at times, and having a full hand with no points to tally can be monstrously infuriating especially in a long round, but the game is an absolute treat when played properly, and may go on forever if the points allow. The Ruvani play the game by the day together during their spring holidays. You will not find a set here, however, the black market besides. The Ruvani are the only ones who know how to thoroughly craft the tiles. When made by the right hands, the game may be displayed as a showpiece and may sit comfortably in any gallery, but they are hardly portable without a proper padding and a carrying case. No old men here will while away their time on the terraces sitting idly by the tiles. A wonder it is Sesterna never got hold of the game. They scramble into anything else they can get and run away with it to the merchant’s quarter, where any mercantile shiv will buy and sell it in a trice without understanding its value. The tea houses might be fraught with sets, if Sesterna had half their faculties at full thinking-piece, but they will play their cards.”

                “People don’t like playing with tiles because you can’t cheat with them,” said Ujaro. “It’s not easy to hide two-inch slabs of granite up your sleeve.”

                “Quite so,” said Danaco, smiling. “Feiza I daresay knows the game, though he cannot cheat at it.”

                “Aye, us knows, us knows,” Feiza moaned, looking deplorably. “Us’n played once er twice.”

                “And lost with out a rulebook to furnish you.”

                “It don’t bear mindin’. Got plenty o’ made hands and couldn’t pick up to win ‘cause o’ how the points are tallied. Can’t call no hand without a point, though us’n had all the proper pairs.”

                “You misunderstand the game, my meadowlark. Machanabi is not about having a winning hand, it is about arrangement, it is about scheming in secret and keeping your machinations to yourself until the very last moment, and once everything is collocated and perfectly aligned, the tile you have been waiting for comes to the table, and—“ there was a rumbling boom somewhere below the ship, punctuating the captain’s speech, “—your move is made, and the game is won. Multiple winning hands there may be in one round, but only the one who has made enough points by keeping his opponents tiles for himself may be ruled the high king of the table. It is a game of treachery as much as it is a game of chance. Much like diplomacy, those who indulge in the game ought to be warned that playing brings no friends and winning collects countless enemies.”

                “Do you have a set, sir?” Peppone asked, refraining from smelling the cards again.

                “To be sure I do, nindano,” Danaco cried, in a trumph. “What-- is it a question that I have one?”

                Rannig was about to say that is was a question, having heard Peppone ask it himself, but by the captain’s manner and his going on, Rannig reconsidered his answer quietly and barreled his thumbs.  

                “What sort of captain would I be if I could not command a set? My grandmother would spear me through the spleen, if I did not keep one with me at all times. I have the set she gave me. They are a relic and must be well cared for, of course, but we may play a game with them, nothing serious, merely something by way of a few rounds. A half-game, no bets or martingaling, merely a demonstration of the tiles and how they operate for those who want to see them. They are in my gallery, amongst my other successive treasures. Ujaro, will you fetch them for us? You are the largest besides Rannig, and you know how they ought to be conveyed.”

                Ujaro stood from the table with hesitation. “Are you certain you want me to bring them, Captain? That set is priceless.”

                “Which is why I should like you to bring it. Rannig would do it just as well, but you have Old Lucentian heritage and therefore understand the gravity of the game and all that the tiles imply.”

                Ujaro made no difficulties: he went to the captain’s quarters and searched the gallery, and he returned with large flat parcel, wrapped in leather and tied with a binding cloth. Seats scudded and room was made for the bundle, and he put it carefully down at the head of the table, wiping the sweat from his brow and exhaling in welcome reprieve. The crew gathered, and Danaco, with flare and a flourish, undid the fabric and pulled back the leather pieces, revealing a set of perfectly stacked two-inch tiles, laid out in matching rows in a small wooden box, the polished granite etched with precision, the pattern on each tile marked out with silver and goldleaf. Danaco took a tile from the top of the stack and held it up, incurring a fascination of Ooooooos.