Red Seas Under Red Skies Read Free Page B

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.
    4
    “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