In nineteen years of working county fairs, coaching yards, and riverside taverns, Noll Vey had learned that there were two kinds of men caught with a fifth ace up their sleeve.
The first kind—the ordinary cheat—blushed to the roots of his hair, knocked over his ale reaching for his dagger, or swore the wind had blown the pasteboard into his cuff. You could manage the first kind. You gave him an open window to jump through or half the pot to split, and by Tuesday he was in the next parish telling everyone he had won a horse.
The second kind of cheat looked down at the fifth ace on the wool baize, smiled politely at the dealer, and said that in his duchy it had always been customary to play with fifty-three cards.
When Sella Rusk slipped back through the fort’s narrow postern gate forty minutes past midnight, shaking drizzle from her leather hood and unbuckling her wet shield in the porch entry, the look on her face told Noll at once which sort of player Lord Auditor Orin Vane had chosen to be.
“She took the token,” Sella said, stepping up to the long trestle table in the Grand Hall where Noll stood in his limestone coat and Tessa sat paring tallow shavings into a grease-pot. Cale was sorting through stolen transcripts, while Prit perched on the corner of the hearth mantel with his slate. “Captain Dorn stepped aside at the rear stair. Master Serit examined the assay…
