A/n: okay, ok, so this is how it works. My person-who-I-bounce-ideas-off has been bugging me about this story, and because I really hate it when she gets mad at me, on account of her being rather Trislike, I figure I'd better get on with it. Plus I want to bug Shabnom by going on with this, cos it means I have an excuse to not go on with my Troy story. So, wonderful person that I am, I'm officially here with the news that THIS STORY IS ROLLING AGAIN!

Briar grinned happily to himself. He was having the time of his life. He leaned back gently in the wooden chair, making it creak rather ominously. Sheer luxury.

He had returned to the Dancing Dove. The place was great. The system here, Briar realised, was just as complex as the one back home and far, far more complex then the one up at the palace. But he was used to that. Basically, you did what George said and maybe, one day, when you got really, really good, you tried to kill George. Briar couldn't help wondering if anyone was that good. And once you got that sorted out, you could quite happily spend your evenings here without a care in the world. Except that nagging feeling that everyone around you would kill you as soon as look at you, which was standard in the Criminal Underworld and hardly worth mentioning.

The only puzzle was who to introduce to the place. He knew for a fact that Sandry-nosy Duchess, Briar thought with brotherly affection-would find out somehow, so she'd have to come. She probably wouldn't approve, of course, but it did her good to get shaken up every once in a while, and Briar did so love to get one up over on her. Tris would definitely never approve, so he'd wait till he had the others on his side before he ever told her. Daja would just take it in her stride. She always did.

That was the thing about telepathy. You never had any damn privacy. It was probably going to cause a lot of trouble when they started having love interests.

Briar cut off that line of thought hurriedly. The idea of his foster-sisters sleeping with anyone was highly disturbing. They were family, after all. Except in the strictly technical sense.

 George grinned at him from across the table. "Penny for 'em," he said idly, taking a swig of his ale. Briar shook his head.

"Not worth it." He said cheerfully, following suit. "Want another game of cards, or have you lost enough money for one night?"

George swatted at him idly. "Shut yer mouth, ye young cub." He said mildly. "I've been playing since afore you were thought of."

Briar raised an eyebrow, chuckling despite himself. "I know," he shot back, "You would have thought you'd have got the hang of it by now."  George glared at him, but handed him five cards. For a moment they were silent, scrutinising the worn cars in their hands. The George spoke, slowly, as if real thought was going into the words.

"They say," He said softly, "That the gods play with mortals. Amongst themselves, they make bets; they move us, risk us and fold us this way and that... Play with us like we're playing now. What do ye think of that, my young friend?"

Briar snorted. "Surely the gods have better things to do then make bets on mortals."

"I'm not so sure." The older man replied, considering. "They're our gods, after all."  

"And what are we supposed to think?" asked the plant mage, suddenly serious. "That every time a child dies, or a tree is cut down for no good reason or a good man's killed for no greater purpose then for some Bag's greed, it's because the Gods are placing bets on it all?"

George shook his head mournfully. "I must be getting old," he growled. "All this talk of gods gets to a man. What've you got, lad?"

Briar glanced down t his cards again, and smiled slightly. Laying them down on the table, he said smugly, "Three knights."

George smiled triumphantly. "I win, me' lad. I've four mages."