Free Enigmatic Pilot by Kris Saknussemm Page A

Fundy, lurched up, almost capsizing the table, and shouted, “I don’t know how you’re doing it, but I know a cheat when I see one!”
    St. Ives remained impassive, save for a lightning wink at little Lloyd.
    “Good sir. Here you’ve been allowed to play at the gentlemen’s table, which, given your level of skill, is a gift. Now sit down and wager or make a dignified retreat.”
    A roped vein in the accuser’s forehead began to throb and his skin reddened. “Retreat?”
    The blustering quack then drew from his coat a tendon scalpel, which he carried for protection. The lethal nakedness of it gleamed for all to see.
    St. Ives’s face did not blanch, but his silver hand came alive. With a click like the lock in a drawer, from out of the index finger snapped a dagger that doubled the length of the digit—and then, with a flick of the wrist, as if he were flipping a card into a hat, St. Ives doubled the length of the blade yet again, so that he was able to slice the ribbon that held the man’s pocket watch in place without stirring from his chair.
    Flabbergasted, Fundy clutched his paunch as if to make sure his entrails had not spilled out across the table. St. Ives laid his cards facedown and nudged the severed timepiece forward.
    “Now, my friends, if any of you feel similarly discomfited I am prepared to meet you man to man on the afterdeck to settle this affair with honor. Alternatively,” he rasped—and the silver hand clicked and expanded again to reveal a set of razor-sharp claws, one from each finger—“you can learn what justice comes from molesting a helpless cripple. It’s your call, gentlemen. I am at your pleasure.”
    This last remark was uttered through an unwholesome smile that the pudgy accuser would never forget. Faced with such an unexpected display of weaponry, the poker players decided in unison to yield the table, and when their chairs were empty the claw blades retracted and the gambler eyed the young boy.
    “You think I cheated? You think me a scoundrel?”
    Lloyd shook his head. “You count the cards. You calculate in your head. You have a method. It merely gives you an advantage.”
    “Hah! Do you know how to play the gentlemen’s game, then?”
    “I think I do now,” the boy replied.
    “How do you mean?” St. Ives puzzled.
    “I watched. I listened.”
    “That you did, lad. I could feel your glance penetrating me like one of my own fingers. But have you ever played? Do you know the rules?”
    “You just taught me. All of you … by how you played,” Lloyd answered.
    “Posh!” declared the gambler.
    “Would you care to bet your winnings to find out?”
    St. Ives smiled. There was something about this child, preternatural and unnerving—and yet engaging, too. “I like your manner, lad. Always up the ante.”
    At this point a burly steward with great muttonchop sideburns barged into the drawing room and jabbed a muscular digit into the gambler’s chest.
    “See here, charlatan. And don’t think of taking a swipe at me with that fancy stump. I don’t like your kind. Gambling is only allowed when it’s honest and aboveboard.”
    With that the steward reached out and seized a wad of the notes that still remained on the table.
    “Is that your commission for overseeing the play?” St. Ives jibed.
    “That’s the price a cheater pays.”
    “He didn’t cheat,” Lloyd piped up behind the man. “I was watching.”
    The steward withdrew his finger from St. Ives’s chest and whirled around.
    “What are you?” he demanded, noticing the boy for the first time. “His hired monkey? A poker table is no place for young’uns. Get along with you! Or I’ll throw you to the bilge rats, you little shit.”
    “I don’t know if the captain would be pleased to know you’re taking that money,” Lloyd returned without moving. “He might want some of it himself.”
    A spark of anger and resentment flared across the steward’s face, mingled with a flush of surprise that someone