"Gods forfend," said Jean. "You wound me! Your inexpressible criminal virtues have triumphed again, as inevitably as the tides come and go. I cast myself at your feet and beg for absolution. Yours is the genius that nourishes the heart of the world." "And now you're—"

"If only there was a leper handy," interrupted Jean, "so you could lay your hands on him and magically heal him—" "Oh, you're just farting out of your mouth because you're jealous."

"It's possible," said Jean. "Actually, we are substantially enriched, not caught, not dead, more famous and welcome on the next floor up. I must admit that I was wrong to call it a silly scheme."

"Really? Huh." Locke reached under his coat lapel as he spoke. "Because I have to admit, it was a silly scheme. Damned irresponsible. One drink more and I would have been finished. I'm actually pretty bloody surprised we pulled it off."

He fumbled beneath his lapel for a second or two, then withdrew a little pad of wool about as wide and long as his thumb. A puff of dust was shaken from the wool when Locke slipped it into one of his outer pockets, and he wiped his hands vigorously on his sleeves as they walked along. " "Nearly lost" is just another way to say "finally won"," said Jean.

"Nonetheless, the liquor almost did me in. Next time I'm that optimistic about my own capacity, correct me with a hatchet to the skull." "I'll be glad to correct you with two."

It was Madam Izmila Corvaleur who'd made the scheme possible. Madam Corvaleur, who'd first crossed paths with "Leocanto Kosta" at a gaming table a few weeks earlier, who had the reliable habit of eating with her fingers to annoy her opponents while she played cards.

Carousel Hazard really couldn V be cheated by any traditional means. None of Requin's attendants would stack a deck, not once in a hundred years, not even in exchange for a dukedom. Nor could any player alter the carousel, select one vial in favour of another or serve a vial to anyone else. With all the usual means of introducing a foreign substance to another player guarded against, the only remaining possibility was for a player to do herself in by slowly, willingly taking in something subtle and unorthodox. Something delivered by a means beyond the ken of even a healthy paranoia.

Like a narcotic powder, dusted on the playing cards in minute quantities by Locke and Jean, then gradually passed around the table to a woman continually licking her fingers as she played.

Beta paranella was a colourless, tasteless alchemical powder also known as "the night friend". It was popular with rich people of a nervous disposition, who took it to ease themselves into deep, restful slumber. When mixed with alcohol, beta paranella was rapidly effective in tiny quantities; the two substances were as complementary as fire and dry parchment. It would have been widely used for criminal purposes if not for the fact that it sold for twenty times its own weight in white iron.

"Gods, that woman had the constitution of a war-galley," said Locke. "She must have started ingesting some of the powder by the third or fourth hand… probably could" ve killed a pair of wild boars in heat with less."

"At least we got what we wanted," said Jean, removing his own powder reservoir from his coat. He considered it for a moment, shrugged and slipped it into a pocket.

"We did indeed… and I saw him!" said Locke. "Requin. He was on the stairs, watching us for most of the hands in the middle game. We must have aroused a personal interest." The exciting ramifications of this helped clear some of the haze from Locke's thoughts. "Why else send Selendri herself to pat our backs?"

"Well, assume you're correct. So what now? Do you want to push on with it, like you mentioned, or do you want to take it slow? Maybe gamble around on the fifth and sixth floors for a few more weeks?"

"A few more weeks? To hell with that. We've been kicking around this gods-damned city for two years now; if we've finally cracked Requin's shell, I say we bloody well go for it." "You're going to suggest tomorrow night, aren't you?"

"His curiosity's piqued. Let's strike while the blade is fresh from the forge." "I suspect that drink has made you impulsive." "Drink makes me see funny; the gods made me impulsive." "You there," came a voice from the street in front of them. "Hold it!" Locke tensed. "I beg your pardon?"

A young, harried-looking Verrari man with long black hair was holding his hands out, palms facing toward Locke and Jean. A small, well-dressed crowd had gathered beside him, at the edge of a trim lawn that Locke recognized as the duelling green.

"Hold it, sirs, I beg of you," said the young man. "I'm afraid it's an affair, and there may be a bolt flying past. Alight I beg of you to wait but a moment?"

"Oh. Oh." Locke and Jean relaxed simultaneously. If someone was duelling with crossbows, it was common courtesy as well as good sense to wait beside the duelling ground until the shots were taken. That way, neither participant would be distracted by movement in the background, or accidentally bury a bolt in a passer-by.

The duelling green was about forty yards long and half as wide, lit by a soft white lantern hanging in a black iron frame at each of its four corners. Two duellists stood in the centre of the green with their seconds, each man casting four pale-grey shadows in a crisscross pattern. Locke had little personal inclination to watch, but he reminded himself that he was supposed to be Leocanto Kosta, a man of worldly indifference to strangers punching holes in one another. He and Jean squeezed into the crowd of spectators as unobtrusively as possible; a similar crowd had formed on the other side of the green.

One of the duellists was a very young man, dressed in fine, loose gentleman's clothing of a fashionable cut; he wore optics, and his hair hung to his shoulders in well-tended ringlets.

His red-jacketed opponent was a great deal older, a bit hunched over and weathered. He looked active and determined enough to pose a threat, however. Each man held a lightweight crossbow-what Camorri thieves would call an alley-piece.

"Gentlemen," said the younger duellist's second. "Please. Can there be no accommodation?"

"If the Lashani gentleman will withdraw his imprecation," added the younger duellist, his voice high and nervous, "I would be eminently satisfied, with the merest recognition—"

"No, there cannot] said the man standing beside the older duellist. "His Lordship is not in the habit of tendering apologies for mere statements of obvious fact."

"…with the merest recognition? continued the young duellist, desperately, "that the incident was an unfortunate misunderstanding, and that it need not—"

"Were he to condescend to speak to you again," said the older duellist's second, "his Lordship would no doubt also note that you wail like a bitch, and would enquire as to whether you're equally capable of biting like one."

The younger duellist stood speechless for a few seconds, then gestured rudely toward the older men with his free hand.

"I am forced," said his second, "I am, ah, forced… to allow that there may be no accommodation. Let the gentlemen stand… back to back." The two opponents walked toward one another — the older man marched with vigour while the younger still stepped hesitantly — and turned their backs to one another.

"You shall have ten paces," said the younger man's second, with bitter resignation. "Wait then, and on my signal you may turn and loose."

Slowly he counted out the steps; slowly the two opponents walked away from one another. The younger man was shaking very badly indeed. Locke felt a ball of unaccustomed tension growing in his own stomach. Since when had he become such a damned soft-hearted fellow? Just because he preferred not to watch didn't mean he should be afraid to do so… yet the feeling in his stomach paid no heed to the thoughts in his head.