Red Seas Under Red Skies by Scott Lynch Page A

its original condition? I doubt it. But answer some questions, and we’ll see. Now, fast-fingers work, you say. But forgive me—my attendants are extremely adept at spotting cardsharps.”
    “I’m sure your attendants mean well.” Locke knelt down before the desk, the most comfortable position possible, and smiled. “But I can finger-dance a live cat into a standard deck of fifty-six, and slip it back out at leisure. Other players might complain about the noise, but they’d never spot the source.”
    “Set a live cat on my desk, then.”
    “It was, ah, a colorful figure of speech. Live cats, unfortunately, aren’t in fashion as evening accessories for gentlemen of Tal Verrar this season.”
    “Pity. But hardly a surprise. I’ve had quite a few dead men kneeling where you are now, offering colorful figures of speech and little else.”
    Locke sighed. “Your boys removed my coat and my shoes, and if they’d patted me down any more thoroughly they would have been fingering my liver. But what’s this?”
    He shook out his left sleeve, and held up his left hand to show that a deck of cards had somehow fallen into it.
    Selendri shoved her blades toward Locke’s throat, but Requin waved her back with a smile on his face. “He can hardly kill me with a pack of cards, darling. Not bad, Master Kosta.”
    “Now,” said Locke, “let’s see.” He held his arm straight out to the side, with the deck held firmly upright between his thumb and all four fingers. A twist of the wrist, a flick of his thumb, and the deck was cut. He began to flex and splay his fingers, steadily increasing his tempo until they moved like a spider taking fencing lessons. Cut and shuffle, cut and shuffle—he sliced the deck apart and slid it back together no fewer than a dozen times. Then, with one smooth flourish, he slapped it down on the desk and spread it in a long arc, displacing several of Requin’s knickknacks.
    “Pick one,” said Locke. “Any one you like. Look at it, but don’t show it to me.”
    Requin did as instructed. While he peeked at the card he’d drawn, Locke gathered the rest of the deck with a reverse slide across Requin’s desktop; he shuffled and cut once more, then split the deck and left half on top of the desk. “Go ahead and place your chosen card atop that half of the deck. Remember it, now.”
    When Requin returned the card, Locke slapped the other half of the deck down on top of it. Taking the full deck in his left hand, he did his one-handed cut-and-shuffle another five times. Then, he slid the top card from the deck—the four of Chalices—onto Requin’s desk and smiled. “This, master of the Sinspire, is your card.”
    “No,” said Requin with a smirk.
    “Shit.” Locke flicked out the next card from the top, the Sigil of the Sun. “Aha—I knew it was around there, somewhere.”
    “No,” said Requin.
    “Damn me,” said Locke, and he rapidly went through the next half dozen from the top of the deck. “Eight of Spires? Three of Spires? Three of Chalices? Sigil of the Twelve Gods? Five of Sabers? Shit. Mistress of Flowers?” Requin shook his head for each one.
    “Huh. Excuse me.” Locke set the deck of cards down on Requin’s desk, then fumbled at the clasp of his right sleeve with his left hand. After a few seconds, he slid the sleeve back above his elbow and reset the clasp. Suddenly, there was another deck of cards in his left hand.
    “Let’s see…. Seven of Sabers? Three of Spires? No, we already did that one…. Two of Chalices? Six of Chalices? Master of Sabers? Three of Flowers? Damn, damn. That deck wasn’t so good after all.”
    Locke set the second deck down beside the first on Requin’s desk, appeared to scratch an itch near the slender black sash above his breeches, and then held up a third deck of cards. He grinned at Requin and raised his eyebrows.
    “This trick might work even better if I could have the use of my right hand.”
    “Why, when you seem to be doing so well