The Generous Hand

Nine to One. Durbo's Back. Tuesday local, Friday House.

This casino is on an animal.

I'm trying to think how to tell you. You come in along a ramp, up something that looks like a long hill with lanterns on it, and the hill's breathing about once every eleven seconds. It's a Drum beast the size of a town, with a promenade along the spine and a vault in a cool spot under the ribs. And these gray domed things as big as a city bus sit around on the shoulders, drinking. What are they? Ticks. Livestock, actually. A Drum family owns them, and they brand them and go have breakfast. I'm told lamp oil on this side of the galaxy is mostly them.

Rules: the beast sleeps as long as nobody wins too big. Nine thousand chips and he rolls over, so everything in the building's arranged around not waking it. The Marl pit bosses keep a kid on the roof with a whistle, watching the sky, because when a giant's about to roll over, every scale lark for a mile goes up at once, four breaths before.

A heart the size of a tram goes under your feet, so slow you forget it. Then it goes again.