The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (83 page)

“I could almost admire a man who can stay so charmingly dishonest while being bled
of all his silver,” said Durenna’s partner, who was seated on Durenna’s right, between
her and the dealer.

Izmila Corvaleur was nearly of a size with Jean, wide and florid, prodigiously rounded
in every place a woman
could
be round. She was undeniably attractive, but the intelligence that shone out of her
eyes was sharp and contemptuous. In her Locke recognized a contained pugnacity akin
to that of a street brawler—a honed appetite for hard contests. Corvaleur nibbled
constantly from a silver-gilded box of cherries coated in powdered chocolate, sucking
her fingers loudly after each one. Her own
strat péti
, of course.

She was purpose-built for Carousel Hazard, thought Locke. A mind for the cards and
a frame capable of withstanding the game’s unique punishment for losing a hand.

“Default,” said the attendant. Within his podium, he tripped the mechanism that set
the carousel spinning. This device, in the center of the table, was a set of circular
brass frames that held row upon row of tiny glass vials,
each one capped in silver. It whirled under the soft lantern light of the gaming parlor,
until it became continuous streaks of silver within brass, and then—a clinking sound
of mechanisms beneath the table, the rattle of many tiny vessels of thick glass colliding
with one another, and the carousel spat out two of its vials. They rolled toward Locke
and Jean and clattered against the slightly upraised outer rim of the table.

Carousel Hazard was a game for two teams of two; an
expensive
game, for the clockwork carousel mechanism came very dear. At the end of each hand,
the losing team was randomly dispensed two vials from the carousel’s great store of
little bottles; these held liquor, mixed with sweet oils and fruit juice to disguise
the potency of any given drink. The cards were only one aspect of the game. Players
also had to maintain concentration under the increasing effects of the devilish little
vials. The only way a game could end was for a player to become too drunk to keep
playing.

Theoretically, the game could not be cheated. The Sinspire maintained the mechanism
and prepared the vials; the little silver caps were fastened tight over wax seals.
Players were not permitted to touch the carousel, or another player’s vials, on pain
of immediate default. Even the chocolates and cigars being consumed by the players
had to be provided by the house. Locke and Jean could even have refused to allow Madam
Corvaleur the luxury of her sweets, but that would have been a bad idea for several
reasons.

“Well,” said Jean as he cracked the seal on his tiny libation, “here’s to charming
losers, I suppose.”

“If only we knew where to find some,” said Locke, and in unison they tossed back their
drinks. Locke’s left a warm, plum-flavored trail down his throat—it was one of the
potent ones. He sighed and set the empty vial down before him. Four vials to one,
and the way his concentration seemed to be unraveling at the edges meant that he was
beginning to feel it.

As the attendant sorted and shuffled the cards for the next hand, Madam Durenna took
another long, satisfied draw on her cigar and flicked the ashes into a solid-gold
pot set on a pedestal behind her right hand. She exhaled two lazy streams of smoke
through her nose and stared at the carousel from behind a gray veil. Durenna was a
natural ambush predator, Locke thought, always most comfortable behind some camouflage.
His information said that she was only recently arrived in the life of a city-bound
merchant speculator. Her previous profession had been the command of bounty-privateers,
hunting and sinking the slaver ships of Jerem on the high seas. She hadn’t acquired
those scars drinking tea in anyone’s parlor.

It would be very, very unfortunate if a woman like her were to realize
that Locke and Jean were counting on what Locke liked to call “discreetly unorthodox
methods” to win the game—hell, it would be preferable to simply lose the old-fashioned
way, or to be caught cheating by the Sinspire attendants. They, at least, would probably
be quick and efficient executioners. They had a very busy establishment to run.

“Hold the cards,” said Madam Corvaleur to the attendant, interrupting Locke’s musings.
“Mara, the gentlemen have indeed had several hands of unfortunate luck. Might we not
allow them a recess?”

Locke concealed his instant excitement; the pair of Carousel Hazard partners that
held the lead could offer their opponents a short break from the game, but the courtesy
was rarely extended, for the obvious reason that it allowed the losers precious time
to shake the effects of their liquor. Was Corvaleur trying to cover for some distress
of her own?

“The gentlemen
have
seen a great deal of strenuous effort on our behalf, counting all those markers and
pushing them over to us again and again.” Durenna drew smoke, expelled it. “You would
honor us, gentlemen, if you would consent to a short pause to refresh and recover
yourselves.”

Ah. Locke smiled and folded his hands on the table before him. So that was the game—play
to the crowd and show off how little regard the ladies truly had for their opponents,
how inevitable they considered their own victory. This was etiquette fencing, and
Durenna had performed the equivalent of a lunge for the throat. Outright refusal would
be terrible form; Locke and Jean’s parry would have to be delicate.

“How could anything be more refreshing,” said Jean, “than to continue our game against
such an excellent partnership?”

“You’re too kind, Master de Ferra,” said Madam Durenna. “But would you have it said
that we were heartless? You’ve refused us neither of our comforts.” She used her cigar
to gesture at Madam Corvaleur’s sweets. “Would you refuse us our desire to give a
comfort in exchange?”

“We would refuse you nothing, madam, and yet we would beg leave to answer your
greater
desire, for which you’ve troubled yourselves to come here tonight—the desire to play.”

“There are many hands yet before us,” added Locke, “and it would wound Jerome and
myself to inconvenience the ladies in any way.” He made eye contact with the dealer
as he spoke.

“You have thus far presented no inconvenience,” said Madam Corvaleur sweetly.

Locke was uncomfortably aware that the attention of the crowd was indeed hanging on
this exchange. He and Jean had challenged the two women widely regarded as the best
Carousel Hazard players in Tal Verrar,
and a substantial audience had packed all the other tables on the fifth floor of the
Sinspire. Those tables should have been hosting games of their own, but by some unspoken
understanding between the house and its patrons, other action in the parlor had ceased
for the duration of the slaughter.

“Very well,” said Durenna. “We’ve no objection to continuing, for our sakes. Perhaps
your luck may even turn.”

Locke’s relief that she had abandoned her conversational ploy was faint; she did,
after all, have every expectation of continuing to thrash money out of him and Jean,
like a cook might beat weevils from a bag of flour.

“Sixth hand,” said the attendant. “Initial wager will be ten solari.” As each player
pushed forward two wooden coins, the attendant tossed three cards down in front of
them.

Madam Corvaleur finished another chocolate-dusted cherry and sucked the sweet residue
from her fingers. Before touching his cards, Jean slid the fingers of his left hand
briefly under the lapel of his coat and moved them, as though scratching an itch.
After a few seconds, Locke did the same. Locke caught Madam Durenna watching them,
and saw her roll her eyes. Signals between players were perfectly acceptable, but
a bit more subtlety was preferred.

Durenna, Locke, and Jean peeked at their cards almost simultaneously; Corvaleur was
a moment behind them, with her fingers still wet. She laughed quietly. Genuine good
fortune or
strat péti
? Durenna looked eminently satisfied, but Locke had no doubt she maintained that precise
expression even in her sleep. Jean’s face revealed nothing, and Locke for his part
tried on a thin smirk, although his three opening cards were pure trash.

Across the room, a curving set of brass-railed stairs, with a large attendant guarding
their foot, led up toward the sixth floor, briefly expanding into a sort of gallery
on the way. A flicker of movement from this gallery caught Locke’s attention; half
concealed in shadow was a slight, well-dressed figure. The warm golden light of the
room’s lanterns was reflected in a pair of optics, and Locke felt a shivery thrill
of excitement along his spine.

Could it be? Locke tried to keep one eye on the shadowy figure while pretending to
fixate on his cards. The glare on those optics didn’t waver or shift—the man was staring
at their table, all right.

At last, he and Jean had attracted (or stumbled into, and by the gods they’d take
that bit of luck) the attention of the man who kept his offices on the ninth floor—master
of the Sinspire, clandestine ruler of all Tal Verrar’s thieves, a man with an iron
grip on the worlds of larceny and luxury both.

In Camorr they would have called him
capa
, but here he affected no title save his own name.

Requin.

Locke cleared his throat, turned his eyes back to the table, and prepared to lose
another hand with grace. Out on the dark water, the soft echo of ships’ bells could
be heard, ringing the tenth hour of the evening.

“EIGHTEENTH HAND,” said the dealer. “Initial wager will be ten solari.” Locke had
to push aside the eleven little vials before him, with a visibly shaking hand, to
slide his buy-in forward. Madam Durenna, steady as a dry-docked ship, was working
on her fourth cigar of the night. Madam Corvaleur seemed to be wavering in her seat;
was she perhaps more red-cheeked than usual? Locke tried not to stare too intently
as she placed her initial wager; perhaps the waver came solely from his own impending
inebriation. It was nearing midnight, and the smoke-laced air of the stuffy room scratched
at Locke’s eyes and throat like wool.

The dealer, emotionless and alert as ever—he seemed to have more clockwork in him
than the carousel did—flicked three cards to the tabletop before Locke. Locke ran
his fingers under his coat lapel, then peeked at his cards and said “Ahhhh-ha,” with
a tone of interested pleasure. They were an astonishing constellation of crap; his
worst hand yet. Locke blinked and squinted, wondering if the alcohol was somehow masking
a set of decent cards, but alas—when he concentrated again, they were still worthless.

The ladies had been forced to drink last, but unless Jean concealed a major miracle
on the tabletop to Locke’s left, it was a good bet that another little vial would
soon be rolling merrily across the table toward Locke’s wobbling hand.

Eighteen hands, thought Locke, to lose nine hundred and eighty solari thus far. His
mind, well wet by the Sinspire’s liquor, wandered off on its own calculations. A year
of fine new clothes for a man of high station. A small ship. A very large house. The
complete lifetime earnings of an honest artisan, like a stonemason. Had he ever pretended
to be a stonemason?

“First options,” said the dealer, snapping him back to the game.

“Card,” said Jean. The attendant slid one to him; Jean peeked at it, nodded, and slid
another wooden chit toward the center of the table. “Bid up.”

“Hold fast,” said Madam Durenna. She moved two wooden chits forward
from her substantial pile. “Partner reveal.” She showed two cards from her hand to
Madam Corvaleur, who was unable to contain a smile.

“Card,” said Locke. The attendant passed him one, and he turned up an edge just far
enough to see what it was. The two of Chalices, worth precisely one wet shit from
a sick dog in this situation. He forced himself to smile. “Bid up,” he said, sliding
two markers forward. “I’m feeling blessed.”

All eyes turned expectantly to Madam Corvaleur, who plucked a chocolate-dusted cherry
from her dwindling supply, popped it into her mouth, and then rapidly sucked her fingers
clean. “Oh-ho,” she said, staring down at her cards and drumming one set of sticky
fingers gently on the table. “Oh … ho … oh … Mara, this is … the oddest …”

And then she slumped forward, settling her head onto her large pile of wooden markers
on the tabletop. Her cards fluttered down, faceup, and she slapped at them, without
coordination, trying to cover them up.

“Izmila,” said Madam Durenna, a note of urgency in her voice. “Izmila!” She reached
over and shook her partner by her heavy shoulders.

“ ’Zmila,” Madam Corvaleur agreed in a sleepy, blubbering voice. Her mouth lolled
open and she drooled remnants of chocolate and cherry onto her five-solari chits.
“Mmmmmmilllaaaaaaaaa. Verrry … odd … oddest …”

“Play sits with Madam Corvaleur.” The dealer couldn’t keep his surprise out of his
voice. “Madam Corvaleur must state a preference.”

“Izmila! Concentrate!” Madam Durenna spoke in an urgent whisper.

“There are … cards …,” mumbled Corvaleur. “Look out, Mara.… Soooo … many … cards.
On table.”

She followed that up with, “Blemble … na … fla … gah.”

And then she was out cold.

“Final default,” said the dealer after a few seconds. With his crop, he swept all
of Madam Durenna’s markers away from her, counting rapidly. Locke and Jean would take
everything on the table. The looming threat of a thousand-solari loss had just become
a gain of equal magnitude, and Locke sighed with relief.

The dealer considered the spectacle of Madam Corvaleur using her wooden markers as
a pillow, and he coughed into his hand.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “the house will, ah, provide new chits of the appropriate value
in place of … those still in use.”

“Of course,” said Jean, gently patting the little mountain of Durenna’s markers suddenly
piled up before him. In the crowd behind them, Locke could hear noises of bewilderment,
consternation, and surprise. A light ripple of applause was eventually coaxed into
existence by some of the
more generous observers, but it died quickly. They were faintly embarrassed, rather
than exhilarated, to see a notable like Madam Corvaleur inebriated by a mere six drinks.