expressed an interest in getting killed .”
“Hardly, sir. All I told your assistant was that I had been cheating steadily, along with my partner, at the games we’ve been playing in your Sinspire. For nearly the last two years.”
“Every game,” said Selendri. “You said every single game.”
“Ah, well,” said Locke with a shrug, “it just sounded more dramatic that way. It was more like nearly every game.”
“This man is a clown,” whispered Selendri.
“Oh, no,” said Locke. “Well, maybe occasionally. But not now.”
Locke heard footsteps moving toward his back across the room’s hardwood floor. “You’re here on a bet,” said Requin, much closer.
“Not in the way that you mean, no.”
Requin stepped around Locke and stood before him, hands behind his back, peering at Locke very intently. The man was a virtual twin of his statue on the floor below; perhaps a few pounds heavier, with the bristling curls of steel-gray hair atop his head receding more sharply. His narrow frock coat was crushed black velvet, and his hands were covered with brown leather gloves. He wore optics, and Locke was surprised to see that the glimmer he had taken for reflected light the night before was actually imbued within the glass. They glowed a translucent orange, giving a demonic cast to the wide eyes behind them. Some fresh, expensive alchemy Locke had never heard of, no doubt.
“Did you drink anything unusual tonight, Master Kosta? An unfamiliar wine, perhaps?”
“Unless the water of Tal Verrar itself intoxicates, I’m as dry as baked sand.”
Requin moved behind his desk, picked up a small silver fork, speared a white morsel of fish, and pointed at Locke with it.
“So, if I’m to believe you, you’ve been successfully cheating here for two years, and aside from the sheer impossibility of that claim, now you just want to give yourself up to me. Case of conscience?”
“Not even remotely.”
“An earnest wish for an elaborate suicide?”
“I aim to leave this office alive.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t necessarily be dead until you hit the cobblestones nine stories below.”
“Perhaps I can convince you I’m worth more to you intact.”
Requin chewed his fish before speaking again.
“Just how have you been cheating, Master Kosta?”
“Fast-fingers work, mostly.”
“Really? I can tell a cardsharp’s fingers at a glance. Let’s see that right hand of yours.” Requin held out his gloved left hand, and Locke hesitantly put his own forward, as though they might shake.
Requin snatched Locke’s right hand above the wrist and slammed it down atop his desk—but rather than the sharp rap Locke expected, his hand tipped aside some sort of disguised panel and slid into an aperture just beneath the surface of the desk. There was a loud clack of clockwork, and a cold pressure pinched his wrist. Locke jerked back, but the desk had swallowed his hand like the unyielding maw of a beast. Selendri’s twin steel claws turned casually toward him, and he froze.
“There now. Hands, hands, hands. They get their owners into such trouble, Master Kosta. Selendri and I are two who would know.” Requin turned to the wall behind his desk and slid back a lacquered wood panel, revealing a long, shallow shelf set into the wall.
Within were dozens of sealed glass jars, each holding something dark and withered. Dead spiders? No, Locke corrected himself—human hands. Severed, dried, and stored as trophies, with rings still gleaming on many of their curled and desiccated fingers.
“Before we proceed to the inevitable, that’s what we usually do,” Requin said in a lightly conversational tone. “Right hand, ta-ta. I’ve got it down to a pretty process. Used to have carpets in here, but the damn blood made for such a mess.”
“Very prudent of you.” Locke felt a single bead of sweat start its slow slide down his forehead. “I am as awed and chastised as you no doubt hoped. Might I have my hand back?”
“In
“Hardly, sir. All I told your assistant was that I had been cheating steadily, along with my partner, at the games we’ve been playing in your Sinspire. For nearly the last two years.”
“Every game,” said Selendri. “You said every single game.”
“Ah, well,” said Locke with a shrug, “it just sounded more dramatic that way. It was more like nearly every game.”
“This man is a clown,” whispered Selendri.
“Oh, no,” said Locke. “Well, maybe occasionally. But not now.”
Locke heard footsteps moving toward his back across the room’s hardwood floor. “You’re here on a bet,” said Requin, much closer.
“Not in the way that you mean, no.”
Requin stepped around Locke and stood before him, hands behind his back, peering at Locke very intently. The man was a virtual twin of his statue on the floor below; perhaps a few pounds heavier, with the bristling curls of steel-gray hair atop his head receding more sharply. His narrow frock coat was crushed black velvet, and his hands were covered with brown leather gloves. He wore optics, and Locke was surprised to see that the glimmer he had taken for reflected light the night before was actually imbued within the glass. They glowed a translucent orange, giving a demonic cast to the wide eyes behind them. Some fresh, expensive alchemy Locke had never heard of, no doubt.
“Did you drink anything unusual tonight, Master Kosta? An unfamiliar wine, perhaps?”
“Unless the water of Tal Verrar itself intoxicates, I’m as dry as baked sand.”
Requin moved behind his desk, picked up a small silver fork, speared a white morsel of fish, and pointed at Locke with it.
“So, if I’m to believe you, you’ve been successfully cheating here for two years, and aside from the sheer impossibility of that claim, now you just want to give yourself up to me. Case of conscience?”
“Not even remotely.”
“An earnest wish for an elaborate suicide?”
“I aim to leave this office alive.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t necessarily be dead until you hit the cobblestones nine stories below.”
“Perhaps I can convince you I’m worth more to you intact.”
Requin chewed his fish before speaking again.
“Just how have you been cheating, Master Kosta?”
“Fast-fingers work, mostly.”
“Really? I can tell a cardsharp’s fingers at a glance. Let’s see that right hand of yours.” Requin held out his gloved left hand, and Locke hesitantly put his own forward, as though they might shake.
Requin snatched Locke’s right hand above the wrist and slammed it down atop his desk—but rather than the sharp rap Locke expected, his hand tipped aside some sort of disguised panel and slid into an aperture just beneath the surface of the desk. There was a loud clack of clockwork, and a cold pressure pinched his wrist. Locke jerked back, but the desk had swallowed his hand like the unyielding maw of a beast. Selendri’s twin steel claws turned casually toward him, and he froze.
“There now. Hands, hands, hands. They get their owners into such trouble, Master Kosta. Selendri and I are two who would know.” Requin turned to the wall behind his desk and slid back a lacquered wood panel, revealing a long, shallow shelf set into the wall.
Within were dozens of sealed glass jars, each holding something dark and withered. Dead spiders? No, Locke corrected himself—human hands. Severed, dried, and stored as trophies, with rings still gleaming on many of their curled and desiccated fingers.
“Before we proceed to the inevitable, that’s what we usually do,” Requin said in a lightly conversational tone. “Right hand, ta-ta. I’ve got it down to a pretty process. Used to have carpets in here, but the damn blood made for such a mess.”
“Very prudent of you.” Locke felt a single bead of sweat start its slow slide down his forehead. “I am as awed and chastised as you no doubt hoped. Might I have my hand back?”
“In
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