Disclaimer: Don't expect much. It's late and my brain stopped working 15 minutes ago.

a/n: Chapter 9 did originally have a reference to poker which has been edited out. A little research proved that I was severely mistaken in how old that game is. It has several fore-runners, one of which has been selected for this story, primarily because no one is sure how old nas is, which suggests it goes back a long, long way.

Chapter 10

By midnight, Gary was regretting his decision to bring Harailt to the card table. While Gary had envisioned Ral cleaning out the crew, he'd hardly imagined that Ral would beat him. Gary couldn't help but wonder how the mage had learned the game so well, in such a short time. They'd started out with Ral repeatedly checking rules. In the middle of one hand, Ral had suddenly asked what beat the "court full". They'd all folded with simultaneous exclamations that there was no higher hand in Nas. Ral had promptly said, "Well I hope I get one of those then." His cards had actually been a worthless assortment often called the "mess hand". It had all been downhill from there.

Gary had been under the impression that Ral's silence would give his duplicity away. On the contrary, concentration of any type left the Royal Dean silent as a spider. Gary always seemed to guess the wrong way, falling for masterful bluffs and lucky breaks equally. It wasn't long until the stack of coins in front of Harailt was huge, while the others were down to their purse linings. Gary had foolishly kept trying to beat his mage-friend long after most of the hands had dropped from the game.

Even now, Gary surveyed his cards with uncertainty. He'd been dealt a fairly good hand, but whether Ral's was better or not, Gary just couldn't tell. Gary eyed his opponent. Ral was very quiet, but his face was unreadable; his eyes flickered from one card to the next in a calculating manner over and over, but if that meant he had a good hand or bad hand remained to be seen. Gary suspected, not for the first time, that it was possible Ral was just lucky repeatedly.

A cloud settled over his thoughts, bring unwanted malice. How many times had he, Gary, been in similar positions? He'd taken Ral under his wing, feeling a bit sorry that the Royal Dean seemed out of place amongst his companions. He'd suggested they play, only to find that Harailt seemed to pick up the game faster than anyone Gary had ever known. It was a bit like practicing swords with a young squire called Alan, only to get his sword handed to him after it had been deftly twisted from his hand. A few years later he'd discovered that he'd also been beaten by a girl! Over and over in his life, Gary had introduced friends to an activity or a person, only to have them walk off with top honors, while he was left with a wounded ego. He'd never said a word, of course, fearful of being thought a poor sport or friend. How many sweethearts had Jon's charms deprived him of, and how many titles had Raoul's strength stolen from him?

Not that he hadn't succeeded in anything in his life. He did have a good marriage and an enviable title. But the truth was that his marriage had been more his father's choice than his, and he'd nearly been bred for the role of Prime Minister. No one had been surprised when Jon appointed him that position; it seemed, if anything, inevitable. He'd even attended Knight training because it was expected – though he'd enjoyed it in the end. A small voice in his head added I did have to earn my knighthood. I did endure my Ordeal. I was top in class at some things. But another part of him – the brooding part that did not want to admit defeat to Harailt -- challenged But I will never hold the role of hero in the bard tales. That honor will always go to my king, or Alanna, Raoul, Master Salmalin, or some other larger-than-life personality in my cast of friends.

While the silent battle raged in Gary's head, Harailt very suddenly pressed his cards to the table, face down. "I think I stayed too long this hand," he said with a shrug. Gary stared at the pile of coins in the center of the table, suddenly realizing he'd finally won a round. He reached to scoop the coins toward himself, feeling slightly smug, but forcing himself not to grin. No one liked a tactless winner.

Abruptly, his thoughts changed to self-chastising. Gary had a good life, and he knew it. So what if he didn't inspire any folk-songs? He also didn't have to face the negative side of fame – the harsh judgment of those who barely knew him, fear from those who didn't understand him, and the sickeningly-sweet, false adoration of those who smiled to his face while telling lies about him behind his back. He'd seen Jon suffer all of that repeatedly. People were just as likely to gossip about Raoul as to praise him.

Gary wondered if all people faced this sort of inner conflict, where selfishness clashed with altruism, and self-pity collided with humility. Was it human-nature to be of two-minds in every emotion, choosing which to show the world, while stuffing its opposite into the dark recesses of the thoughts? Thank the Gods that mind-reading was a mostly forgotten magic! Gary was ashamed of himself for each time he had coveted the accolades earned by others.

Gary smiled sheepishly at Harailt. "I had no idea what was in your hand, Ral. You're really, really good at this game."

"Ah, nothing but beginners luck," Ral said with a wave of his hand. "Tomorrow you'll stomp all over me."

"If I've anything left to play with tomorrow," Gary teased, gathering the cards. He began to shuffle them, just as the dragonet wandered into the room, earning a hiss from the few crewmen who were still sitting around watching. Kit made them all nervous.

The light blue dragon eyed the cards curiously as they were mixed, and then let out a shrill whistle that caused the whole deck to fly from Gary's hands and spin in the air, before landing in a heap on the table.

"Do you suppose that means she thinks it's time we turned in?" Harailt asked in half-laugh.

Gary began to chuckle. "Kit, I think you have an unusual way with words." He wasn't sure, but he thought her expression looked self-satisfied. "One thing about it, I'll go to bed with at least some of my purse still intact."

Harailt tilted his head as Gary neatened up the cards. "How do you do that?"

Gary looked up at him, startled. "Do what?"

"Perhaps I'm more competitive. I don't lose gracefully, and I think my response to winning might be even more awkward. You turn it into a joke that's actually funny. I've always admired that about you. It's the reason everyone enjoys your company – you're the most respectful man I've ever met, and others respect you for it."

Gary did not know how to respond, especially given his earlier thoughts on the subject. It seemed almost to answer his unvoiced question – the conflict exists in all minds, but each man chooses what face he will show the world. If so, then the choice is what defines each individual. He twitched his mouth slightly. "No one is perfect, Ral, least of all me," he said at last. "And anyway, I do have a competitive streak, and I do plan to take everything back tomorrow; so don't get used to that heavy purse." He winked.

Harailt just laughed. Then both men stood and headed to their cabins, escorted by one small, blue dragon, who was either immensely curious about their doings, or perhaps who had a molly-coddling streak most unexpected in a dragon.