Submitted for the January 2025 prompt: Galactic Brackets

Streamers of stale smoke rose from scattered ashtrays, blending into a uniform haze. A dozen or so hovering light sculptures, the Court's latest innovation, flickered dimly. The resulting fog lent the grace of concealment to the somnolent forms sprawled across the furniture, victims of yet another late night at the tables.

 

One game still staggered on, the Emperor Himself confronting the eldest son of the Archduke of Celestion. All the sycophants and hangers-on had long since fallen aside, victims either of their losses or drink.

 

All but me.

 

"King of Wands, Your Grace," announced the Archduke's son. Wine and food stains turned his shirt front into a muted kaleidoscope, testament to eighteen hours in the card rooms. Stubble speckled his incipient jowls and sweat had crusted on his double chin. He licked his lips nervously with a dry tongue.

 

"I counter with the ace!" The Emperor's eyes flashed delightedly as he prepared to rake in the pot. The opulent embroidery on his cream-colored jacket had begun to unravel, and shiny bits adhered to the upholstery as he shifted in his seat. Gilt by association, I carefully didn't say.

 

Instead: "Ace slain by the deuce," I announced mildly.

 

Dead silence for a moment. Then the Emperor applauded me. "Oh, well played, sir! Well played indeed!" I scooped in the pot and he clapped me on the shoulder. "I knew I did right to stake you," he said gleefully.

 

"Ah! That reminds me!" With seeming indifference, I picked out half the hand-engraved tiles from my winnings and passed them to him. "It would never do to risk losing them before I repay your most generous loan, Sire."

 

His eyes flickered, but he accepted them graciously. "Very conscientious, I'm sure," he remarked. "Now, whose deal?"

 

That was my biggest gamble, pretending it had been a simple loan. The Emperor was in the habit of demanding the lion's share from any man he'd staked once the evening ended — a fact I wasn't supposed to know. My promptness was unexpected, and it had caught him off guard.

 

In the end, it paid off. Three hours later, when I finally excused myself from the table, I had amassed a pile of twenty-eight of the little gold and ivory plaques.

Each represented ownership of a planet.

 

One had been mine by rights.

 

* * *

 

My grandfather had been the last reigning Prince of Cymrw. When an Imperial Envoy arrived demanding payment of a crippling annual tribute, Grandfather refused outright. The resulting conquest had cost the Empire millions of lives and trillions of credits, but their victory was inevitable.

 

After, I was raised in a succession of the finest schools while my father squandered his fortune and sanity fighting the conquest in Imperial courts. His final victory, bought with our last credits, was Imperial recognition of our hereditary title — as an empty honor without lands or duties. He took his own life soon after.

 

* * *

 

How the practice of wagering planets began is anyone's guess. It was a fad, and doubtless would burn out soon enough. In the mean while, I was making the most of it.

 

To get into that game, I'd carefully cultivated dozens of minor noblemen, trading favors for leverage. I'd won a small fortune at the tables, then spent much of it learning the precise date my homeworld's title card would be coined. The rest went to bribes, ensuring Cymrw would be on the table the night I was finally introduced.

 

After that, it had only been a matter of winning — not difficult against such indifferent players. It's no secret that generations of inbreeding often produces a mentally weak product. Then too, who but a hopeless wastrel would gamble away entire star systems?

 

To be fair, the bureaucrats that actually run the Imperial Court take great care that none of the Wrong Sort (meaning me) would ever be at the highest tables. Persistence, however, can always beat red tape, given time.

 

And bribes.

 

"Lord Chamberlain? Prince Ifan of Cymrw," I said, smiling, on my way out. "I believe custom entitles you to these."

 

Two gas giants and a small moon. Only nobles can hold planetary title, which makes one wonder what he does with them. He doesn't look debauched or particularly wicked, just old.

 

The old devil bowed, thanking me graciously for my present. As though I'd had any choice in the matter — he'd had men more highborn than myself waylaid in the palace corridors over smaller sums. If Death had an avatar among the living, it'd be him.

 

Which left me one final, inescapable, transaction.

 

* * *

 

"I'm here to report my winnings at cards," I announced, introducing myself to a bored functionary seated behind duraglass. He took in my velvets and plumed cap with no change in expression.

 

"Third floor, Nobility section. Next."

 

A proper receptionist ushered me into a wood-paneled office with a desk the size of a battleship. It was helmed by a small, neat, plump little man who didn't stand or shake hands.

 

"Well?" he asked testily.

 

I placed twenty-four planet tiles in one pile, then the twenty-fifth by itself to one side.

 

"My card winnings, for assay," I said. He reached out; I stopped him. "These," I said, pointing to the stack, "are negotiable, and a just tax may be levied. This one is not."

 

One precisely plucked eyebrow lifted. "Irregular," he declared, not quite contradicting me. "All planets held in fief are subject to levied taxation and proper tribute. The code is immutable, rates set by centuries of law and precedent."

 

I laid down a document on parchment, hard-won and badly worn. He lifted it, perused it, then looked up at me. He needed half-moon spectacles to peer over, but even without them, he did all right.

 

"The Princedom of Cymrw owes no duty to the Imperial throne," I said. "By order of the Court of Chancery."