by Scott Lynch
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.
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 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.
“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 jeweler’s, and had been throughout the 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 honor’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 flipped 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.”
The attendant betrayed human emotions for the second time that night; relatively well-off as he was, one little wooden chit was half his annual salary. He stifled a gasp when Locke threw him another dozen.
“Fortune is a lady who likes to be passed around,” said Locke. “Buy a house, maybe. I’m having a little trouble counting at the moment.”
“Sweet gods—many thanks, gentlemen!” The attendant took a quick glance around, and then spoke under his breath. “Those two ladies don’t lose very often, you know. In fact, this is the first time I can remember.”
“Victory has its price,” said Locke. “I suspect my head will be paying it when I wake up tomorrow.”
Madam Corvaleur was hauled carefully down the stairs, with Madam Durenna following to keep a close eye on the men carrying her card partner. The crowd dispersed; those observers who remained at their tables called for attendants, food, new decks of cards for games of their own.
Locke and Jean gathered their markers (fresh ones, sans slobber, were swiftly provided by the attendants to replace Madam Corvaleur’s) in the customary velvet-lined wooden boxes and made their way to the stairs.
“Congratulations, gentlemen,” said the attendant guarding the way up to the sixth floor. The tinkle of glass on glass and the murmur of conversation could be heard filtering down from above.
“Thank you,” said Locke. “I’m afraid that something in Madam Corvaleur gave way just a hand or two before I might have done the same.”
He and Jean slowly made their way down the stairs that curved all the way around the inside of the Sinspire’s exterior wall. They were dressed as men of credit and consequence in the current height of Verrari summer fashion. Locke (whose hair had been alchemically shifted to a sunny shade of blond) wore a caramel-brown coat with a cinched waist and flaring knee-length tails; his huge triple-layered cuffs were paneled in orange and black and decorated with gold buttons. He wore no waistcoat; just a sweat-soaked tunic of the finest silk, under a loose black neck-cloth. Jean was dressed similarly, though his coat was the grayish
blue of a sea under clouds, and his belly was cinched up with a wide black sash, the same color as the short, curly hairs of his beard.
Down past floors of notables they went…past queens of Verrari commerce with their decorative young companions of both sexes on their arms like pets. Past men and women with purchased Lashani titles, staring across cards and wine decanters at lesser dons and doñas from Camorr; past Vadran shipmasters in tight black coats, with sea tans like masks over their sharp, pale features. Locke recognized at least two members of the Priori, the merchant council that theoretically ruled Tal Verrar. Deep pockets seemed to be the primary qualification for membership.
Dice fell and glasses clinked; celebrants laughed and coughed and cursed and sighed. Currents of smoke moved languidly in the warm air, carrying scents of perfume and wine, sweat and roast meats, and here and there the resiny hint of alchemical drugs.
Locke had seen genuine palaces and mansions before; the Sinspire, opulent as it was, was not so very much more handsome than the homes many of these people would be returning to when they finally ran out of night to play in. The real magic of the Sinspire was woven from its capricious exclusivity; deny something to enough people and sooner or later it will grow a mystique as thick as fog.
Nearly hidden at the rear of the first floor was a heavy wooden booth manned by several unusually large attendants. Luckily, there was no line. Locke set his box down on the countertop beneath the booth’s only window, a bit too forcefully.
