“Luck,” the faceless bettor intoned, his voice like warm water funneled into the ear. The bartenders stilled their swizzles. The whisperers swallowed their tongues. “It is luck that hobbles the general’s horse and aims the errant shot. Luck is love’s pander, its broker, its pimp. Luck rules on a golden throne under a mantle of rags. Spendthrift and skinflint is luck.” Again, he drained his stack of plaques into his palm. “Luck is the universe’s thumb placed upon the unequal scales of history. Luck is the primordial sea from which all magic—coherent and entire—once sprang. It is not upon
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