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 strut peti? 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 rubbish.

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 thed'r 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 lubricated by the Sinspire's liquor, wandered off on its own calculations. A year's worth 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 centre 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 dramming 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, face-up, 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. "Mmmrnmmilllaaaaaaaaa. 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.

"Hmmmph," said Madam Durenna, stubbing out her cigar in the gold pot and rising to her feet. She made a show of straightening her jacket — black brocaded velvet decorated with platinum buttons and cloth-of-silver, worth a good fraction of everything she'd bet that night. "Master Kosta, Master de Ferra… it appears we must admit to being outmatched."

"But certainly not outplayed," said Locke, summoning up a snake-charming smile along with the pulverized remnants of his wits. "You very nearly had us… um, sewn up." "And the whole world is wobbling around me," said Jean, whose hands were as steady as a jeweller's, and had been throughout die entire game.

"Gentlemen, I have appreciated your stimulating company," said Madam Durenna in a tone of voice that indicated she hadn't. "Another game later this week, perhaps? Surely you must allow us a chance at revenge, for honour's sake."

"Nothing would please us more," said Jean, to which Locke nodded enthusiastically, making the contents of his skull ache. At that, Madam Durenna coldly held out her hand and consented for the two of them to kiss the air above it. When they had done so, as though making obeisance to a particularly irritable snake, four of Requin's attendants appeared to help move the snoring Madam Corvaleur somewhere more decorous.

"Gods, it must be tedious, watching us try to drink one another under the table night after night," said Jean. He nipped the dealer a five-solari chit; it was customary to leave a small gratuity for the attendant. "I don't believe so, sir. How would you like your change?" "What change?" Jean smiled. "Keep the whole thing."