Red Seas Under Red Skies by Scott Lynch Page B

sand.”
    Requin moved behind his desk, picked up a small silver fork, speared a white morsel of fish, and pointed at Locke with it.
    â€œSo, 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?”
    â€œNot even remotely.”
    â€œAn earnest wish for an elaborate suicide?”
    â€œI aim to leave this office alive.”
    â€œOh, you wouldn’t necessarily be dead until you hit the cobblestones nine stories below.”
    â€œPerhaps I can convince you I’m worth more to you intact.”
    Requin chewed his fish before speaking again.
    â€œJust how have you been cheating, Master Kosta?”
    â€œFast-fingers work, mostly.”
    â€œReally? 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.
    â€œThere 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.
    â€œBefore 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.”
    â€œVery 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?”
    â€œIn 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.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œSet a live cat on my desk, then.”
    â€œIt was, ah, a colorful figure of speech. Live cats, unfortunately, aren’t in fashion as evening accessories for gentlemen of Tal Verrar this season.”
    â€œPity. 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.”
    â€œNow,” said Locke, “let’s