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Authors: K. W. Jeter
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render the most navigational assistance to the ships at sea. In this, their captains’ decisions were much like those made by players at a game of chess, though one on a colossal scale and whose squares shifted about at the whim of the surrounding oceans, moving their depths and shallows and sweeping currents from place to place at but a moment’s notice. Word had reached my ear, though, of this grand sport, and of the gains that could be made from the bookmakers’ purses, by one who could correctly guess the winners amongst this ongoing struggle. Rumour had it that some such lighthouse gamblers had managed to enrich themselves to fortunes greater than those of captains of industry such as Lord Fusible and the other owners of Phototrope Limited and its competitors.
Perhaps it had been mere folly on my part, that I had thought I could emulate the success of those sporting types. Certainly I had never been given to placing a bet on the turn of a card or on which horse could nose out another at the race-course.
“But you thought”—Stonebrake’s voice forced its way amongst my bitter memories—“that since you were your father’s son, and that one of his creations had been found to possess utility in the operations of the walking lights—therefore you had some particular insight that would assist you in your wagering.”
I turned from my brooding regard of the ocean, and coldly regarded him; I found his ability to discern the course of my thoughts to be irksome in the extreme. “Yes,” I said. “So I had thought. I soon learned that I was wrong about that.”
Even more embittering was the knowledge that I had been warned, before ever I had placed a wager. The last words of my aged servant, Creff, as I nursed him upon his death-bed, was such: Please, Mr. Dower . . . don’t bet on them unnatural things. ’Twill be the ruination of you. . . . He had been aware of the interest that had been sparked in me by various overheard accounts, and had been perceptive enough to see past all my disavowals. To my shame, I heeded him not; scarcely had I thrown a handful of earth upon the lid of his coffin, than I had turned from his newly dug grave and headed to the nearest town large enough for a betting shop that met my requirements. I had returned that evening; loath to enter the now cheerless cottage that we had shared, I had come again to the churchyard and sat down beside the mounded dirt, packed tight with the flat of the gravedigger’s shovel. Another had been there, though its spirit had likewise gone before me. Greyed head upon its paws, the small dog whose master, my servant, had named Abel—the companion through so many of my own trials—slept the unwaking sleep of one whose devotion had earned such rest. I had gathered the cold form into my arms and had wept into its fur, realizing how friendless and abandoned I had at last become.
“Wretch—” I spoke aloud, unsure whether I was castigating Stonebrake or myself. “Have you no human sympathy? Would that kindness have been beyond you, to let me be? If ruin I achieved, then perhaps it was ruin I pursued. And deserved.”
“You are too hard upon yourself.” Stonebrake stood unperturbed by my wrath. The dark waves continued rolling toward us. “If you wish to grovel before the immensity of your self-assumed sins, you might as well do so in comfort. Which you would have achieved, if you had not insisted upon betting ‘wrong,’ as the bookmakers term the practice.”
I stared at him. “You are aware of the nature of my wagers?”
“As I have said, to the last shilling.”
“I made those wagers in confidence!”
“And in so doing, you trusted a bookmaker to keep your secrets. Imagine,” marveled Stonebrake, “an oddsman who would divulge his client’s account, for no more than a pound note in exchange. Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“Sarcasm scarcely serves one who seeks another as his ally. As to my wagers, I merely laid down what I
Perhaps it had been mere folly on my part, that I had thought I could emulate the success of those sporting types. Certainly I had never been given to placing a bet on the turn of a card or on which horse could nose out another at the race-course.
“But you thought”—Stonebrake’s voice forced its way amongst my bitter memories—“that since you were your father’s son, and that one of his creations had been found to possess utility in the operations of the walking lights—therefore you had some particular insight that would assist you in your wagering.”
I turned from my brooding regard of the ocean, and coldly regarded him; I found his ability to discern the course of my thoughts to be irksome in the extreme. “Yes,” I said. “So I had thought. I soon learned that I was wrong about that.”
Even more embittering was the knowledge that I had been warned, before ever I had placed a wager. The last words of my aged servant, Creff, as I nursed him upon his death-bed, was such: Please, Mr. Dower . . . don’t bet on them unnatural things. ’Twill be the ruination of you. . . . He had been aware of the interest that had been sparked in me by various overheard accounts, and had been perceptive enough to see past all my disavowals. To my shame, I heeded him not; scarcely had I thrown a handful of earth upon the lid of his coffin, than I had turned from his newly dug grave and headed to the nearest town large enough for a betting shop that met my requirements. I had returned that evening; loath to enter the now cheerless cottage that we had shared, I had come again to the churchyard and sat down beside the mounded dirt, packed tight with the flat of the gravedigger’s shovel. Another had been there, though its spirit had likewise gone before me. Greyed head upon its paws, the small dog whose master, my servant, had named Abel—the companion through so many of my own trials—slept the unwaking sleep of one whose devotion had earned such rest. I had gathered the cold form into my arms and had wept into its fur, realizing how friendless and abandoned I had at last become.
“Wretch—” I spoke aloud, unsure whether I was castigating Stonebrake or myself. “Have you no human sympathy? Would that kindness have been beyond you, to let me be? If ruin I achieved, then perhaps it was ruin I pursued. And deserved.”
“You are too hard upon yourself.” Stonebrake stood unperturbed by my wrath. The dark waves continued rolling toward us. “If you wish to grovel before the immensity of your self-assumed sins, you might as well do so in comfort. Which you would have achieved, if you had not insisted upon betting ‘wrong,’ as the bookmakers term the practice.”
I stared at him. “You are aware of the nature of my wagers?”
“As I have said, to the last shilling.”
“I made those wagers in confidence!”
“And in so doing, you trusted a bookmaker to keep your secrets. Imagine,” marveled Stonebrake, “an oddsman who would divulge his client’s account, for no more than a pound note in exchange. Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“Sarcasm scarcely serves one who seeks another as his ally. As to my wagers, I merely laid down what I
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