"Guess I'm just a natural," says Gaeta, serene as a monk, as he sweeps Leon's acorns into his own pile.

If this were a Triad game, this is the point where Racetrack would holler obscenities at him and throw a cubit at his face; an unexpected pang of homesickness twinges beneath his ribs. Wherever she is, whatever happened, he hopes she made it through all right.

"Pretty sure the gods wouldn't be paying attention to a poker game even if they were out there."