Red Seas Under Red Skies by Scott Lynch Page A

(shoeless, coatless, and somewhat disheveled) was given a less-than-gentle shove toward the doors Selendri had vanished through.
    Past them was a dark space not much larger than a wardrobe closet. A winding black iron staircase, wide enough for one person, rose up from the floor toward a square of soft yellow light. Locke padded up the stairs and emerged into Requin’s office.
    This place took up the whole of the ninth floor of the Sinspire; an area against the far wall, curtained off with silk drapes, probably served as a bedroom. There was a balcony door on the right-hand wall, covered by a sliding mesh screen. Locke could see a wide, darkened sweep of Tal Verrar through it, so he presumed it looked east.
    Every other wall of the office, as he’d heard, was liberally decorated with oil paintings—nearly twenty of them around the visible periphery of the room, in elaborate frames of gilded wood—masterworks of the late Therin Throne years, when nearly every noble at the emperor’s court had kept a painter or sculptor on the leash of patronage, showing them off like pets. Locke hadn’t the training to tell one from another by sight, but rumor had it that there were two Morestras and a Ventathis on Requin’s walls. Those two artists—along with all their sketches, books of theory, and apprentices—had died centuries before, in the firestorm that had consumed the imperial city of Therim Pel.
    Selendri stood beside a wide wooden desk the color of a fine coffee, cluttered with books and papers and miniature clockwork devices. A chair was pushed out behind it, and Locke could see the remnants of a dinner—some sort of fish on a white iron plate, paired with a half-empty bottle of pale golden wine.
    Selendri touched her flesh hand to her brass simulacrum, and there was a clicking noise. The hand folded apart like the petals of a gleaming flower. The fingers locked into place along the wrist and revealed a pair of blackened-steel blades, six inches long, previously concealed at the heart of the hand. Selendri waved these like a claw and gestured for Locke to stand before the desk, facing it.
    â€œMaster Kosta.” The voice came from somewhere behind him, within the silk-curtained enclosure. “What a pleasure! Selendri tells me you’ve expressed an interest in getting
killed
.”
    â€œHardly, 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.”
    â€œEvery game,” said Selendri. “You said every single game.”
    â€œAh, well,” said Locke with a shrug, “it just sounded more dramatic that way. It was more like
nearly
every game.”
    â€œThis man is a clown,” whispered Selendri.
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œNot 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.
    â€œDid you drink anything unusual tonight, Master Kosta? An unfamiliar wine, perhaps?”
    â€œUnless the water of Tal Verrar itself intoxicates, I’m as dry as baked