‘It’s this table,’ Murillio said. ‘It skews everything, and somehow Kruppe’s found the pattern – don’t deny it, you block of cheesy lard.’

‘Kruppe denies all things patently deniable, dearest companions. No pattern has yet formed, by way of sincerest assurance, for the principal in question has fled from his appointed role. Said flight naught but an illusion, of course, though the enforced delay in self-recognition may well have direst consequences. Fortunate for one and all, Kruppe is here with cogent regard—’

‘Whatever,’ Quick Ben cut in. ‘Dark heart where it matters most and skull in the corner.’

‘Bold wager, mysterious mage. Kruppe challenges treble with a true hand and not a nudge askew!’

The wizard snorted. ‘Never seen one of those, ever. Not ever. Not once.’ He sent the bones skidding across the table.

The polished finger bones came to a stop, arrayed in a spread hand, all the symbols and patterns revealing perfect alignment.

‘And now, wondering wizard, you have! Kruppe’s coffers overflow!’

Quick Ben stared at the skeletal hand on the table’s battered surface.

‘What’s the point of this?’ Coll sighed. ‘Kruppe wins every cast. Not subtle, little man – a good cheat makes sure there’s losses thrown in every now and then.’

‘Thus Kruppe’s true innocence is displayed! A cheat of successive victories would be madness indeed – no, this sympathy is true and well beyond Kruppe’s control.’

‘How did you do that?’ Quick Ben whispered.

Kruppe removed a mottled silk handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his brow. ‘Warrens suddenly abound, licking the air with invisible flames, aaii! Kruppe withers beneath such scrutiny – mercy, Kruppe begs you, malicious mage!’

Quick Ben leaned back, glanced over to where Whiskeyjack sat apart from the others, his back to the tent wall, his eyes half closed. ‘There’s something there – I swear it – but I can’t pin him down. He’s slippery – gods, he’s slippery!’

Whiskeyjack grunted. ‘Give it up,’ he advised, grinning. ‘You won’t catch him, I suspect.’

The mage swung on Kruppe. ‘You are not what you seem—’

‘Oh but he is,’ Coll interjected. ‘Look at him. Greasy, slimy, slick like one giant hairy ball of buttered eel. Kruppe is precisely as he seems, trust me. Look at the sudden sweat on his brow, the boiled lobster face, the bugged-out eyes – look at him squirm! That’s Kruppe, every inch of him!’

‘Abashed, is Kruppe! Cruel scrutiny! Kruppe crumbles beneath such unwarranted attention!’

They watched as the man wrung out the handkerchief, their eyes widening at the torrent of oily water that poured from it to pool on the tabletop.

Whiskeyjack barked a laugh. ‘He has you all in his belt-pouch, even now! Squirm, is it? Sweat? All an illusion.’