Are we not all fools of our own making?

We speak of virtue as we would vices,

And berate ourselves for enjoying simple pleasures,

Yet the lion feels no guilt when he hunts,

The dragon, no shame when she hoards.

Why must we alone cripple ourselves?

To try and uphold false ideals of equality,

When the Scriptor’s role is to lead,

The Ruddite’s to serve.

~~High Prince Navin, Head of Queenskin Family

To a noble the dormitories might have been dreary, with their cold stone floors and worn, threadbare furniture.

Callam found them perfect. He followed Moose and Lenora through three twisting halls, up two flights of stairs, and down a narrow corridor ending in a massive loft. Purple-and-red tapestries adorned the opposing walls. Between them, a common area housed a roaring fireplace, dozens of tables, and twice as many chairs full of talking Seekers. Snacks were piled up within large goblets and bowls.

“Ho, Moose!” shouted a thin, green-eyed boy clutching a handful of cards. His voice barely carried over the din of the room. “Bring new blood?” He waved them over to his table.

“Deal us in,” Moose shouted back, his voice traveling easily. Looking over his shoulder at Callam, he added, “I’ve already relayed the rules to Nora. Will catch you up as we play.”

Callam nodded. Works for me. Truthfully, he was too full to feel truly sharp, yet was eager to try his hand at something new. If he could earn some coin in the process, well… his purse was uncomfortably light.

“A copper per round?” the thin boy asked once they had all sat down. He seemed to remember his manners a second later and gestured to the pretty, dark-skinned girl to his right. “This is Isole; I’m Tavis. We’re second-years.”

“ ‘ello.” she said kindly, adjusting the scarf around her neck. “Is it not best if we wait for Silas? He’s bound to bring a’ noble fish or two.” Her northern accent was honey to Callam’s ears.

“Bound to take forever, flirt that he is,” Moose grumbled. “Penny each to play. Deal a practice round, will you?”

A few ruffles of the deck later, ten cards were dealt per head. Four remained, placed face-down on a far-away corner of the table.

“Seeker’s Talent is a king’s game.” Moose shuffled his hand within his fingers like some hardened tavern gambler. “So kings play high.”

“ ‘cept for the two wild cards, you mean,” Tavis cut in. “The Poet and the Prophet beat all, with the Poet bowing to the Prophet when played on the same trick.”

Callam nodded, understanding. Card games were to orphans what quills were to scribes, after all.

“We each play in turn, following suit,” Isole said, placing a three of hearts on the table. “The commoner cards—all cards ace through tens—go in a pile like this.”

Moose played next, adding an eight of hearts to the pile. Callam’s eyes went wide when the numbers in the stack began to wiggle and shift, peeling off the paper. First the three rose in the air, then the eight, circling each other in a whirlwind of red. A second later there was a small pop, and the numbers joined forces to become an eleven, then dropped back down on the card.

Hoping to learn through experience, Callam played the king of hearts next.

The result was anticlimactic. No magic radiated from the paper constructs; his king remained inert.

He was about to ask why when Lenora scrunched her nose. “...doesn’t royalty go in another pile?”

“By the Poet, she can listen!” Deftly, Moose palmed Callam’s king and moved it to its own home, left of the rest of the played cards. “Seeker’s Talent mirrors reality: jacks, queens, and kings all go in a pile here, separate from the rabble.”

“So…” Lenora’s eyes twinkled as she placed a two of hearts on top of the eleven. “That means I win this round. Right?”

Before anyone could respond, magic burst forth from her card—the two and eleven left their frames and bonded together to become a crimson sword. Then, the weapon shot forth toward Callam’s card with the urgency and violence of a fireball. His royal was caught completely unaware—the monarch’s body popped out of the mana construct half-asleep.

It wasn’t a fair fight. With the squealing of a fattened pig, the king was dispatched.

“That’s a challenge,” Tavis said. “When the combined value of the commoner stack matches that of a royal, they conspire together and mount a coup.” Thirteen hearts settled into the now barren throne as he spoke.

Callam frowned, looking at his lesser cards in a new light. He understood Lenora’s strategy: by going second to last, she’d increased the likelihood that her card wouldn’t be overpowered.

She’ll win unless Tavis holds the Prophet or the Poet. *

Tavis didn’t, so Lenora collected the cards. “Penny a trick, then?” She asked, grinning, then led the three of diamonds.

Several hands later, Callam found himself dangerously low on coin.

“You’ve drawn the Prophet again?” He rubbed his forehead in feigned exasperation. He’d already lost a few tricks in a similar manner, so his exaggerated reaction didn’t seem unusual.

“Sure did,” Isole laughed, collecting the cards. Across from her, Lenora sat quietly, lips moving as she did some math—she’d taken the lead a few minutes earlier with Moose huffing about his poor luck.

Hopefully Silas arrives soon, Callam thought. If not, I’ll be cleaned out within the hour.

Tossing his cards face-down on the table, he glanced around. He couldn’t afford to keep throwing away winning hands, yet he didn’t want to fleece his new friends when there were actual nobles to rob.

Tavis must have been looking around too, for he sat up in his chair and waved. “Over here, Silas!”

"Hey!" the boy called back, a bit out of breath. Tall, with a strong jawline and curly dark hair, it was immediately clear why he’d been accused of being a flirt. His features were only enhanced by the sapphire stud in his right ear—a piercing customary among nobles of military birth.

He drew in every eye.

Any other day, Callam might have felt envious. Today, though, his gaze shifted past Silas to the noble boy trailing behind him. Dark thoughts flooded his mind—memories of an ice-cold sword, a hungry spellbook, and a coffin-like wardrobe surfacing unbidden.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Sebastian Writ met his eyes with a smirk.

“The fresh blood was all busy gossiping,” Silas sighed as he pulled out a vacant chair and sunk into it. “So were the upper-classmen. Thankfully, I ran into Sebastian on my way here. Couldn’t find us an eighth and ninth, though.”

“Maybe we’ll ‘ave more luck tomorrow,” Isole replied, her dexterous hands mixing all the cards up in a dealer’s shuffle.

“The Poet can only hope.” Sebastian's voice was sour as vinegar. He held his chin high, and when he sat it was with that sense of arrogance common among those who own everything around them. “To think I’m playing with paupers.” Sneering at Callam, he added, “Bound, did you? Chains and cuffs truly are wonders of rehabilitation…”

Callam kept his face straight. Beneath the table, though, his fingernails bit at his knees. Heat flared at the back of his neck. Yet he refused to rise to the jibe. Tonight, he’d have his revenge.

The cards couldn’t be dealt fast enough.

“You two know each other?” Lenora spoke warmly, though her grip on her cards was unusually stiff.

“Hardly. Though you might say my family is a staunch supporter of his. Ensured he lived long enough to make it here.”

“You must be really proud, then,” she said a little too sweetly, “now that Callam’s got a four-star grimoire.”

That was enough to raise some brows along the table.

“Crow’s foot.” Moose yawned before things could get more awkward. “Enough talk. I'd sooner sleep than listen to banter.”

Isole clearly agreed. “Winner plays first,” she said, throwing down a spade.

Callam lost that trick, and the next, before staging a small comeback. The sermons were right when they claimed, “The Prophet and the Poet are each other’s keepers.” In this case, literally so. By good fortune, he was dealt each more than once—much to Sebastian's chagrin.

“Where I’m from, the last hand takes all,” Callam said an hour later. “What say you? Shall we up the bet before calling it a night?” Leaning back, he worked to keep a smirk off his face. Then he let it slip in a subtle sign of overconfidence.

His audience ate it up. Moose’s eyes shone brighter than those of a gambler hitting sevens.

At that moment, Callam could only imagine how he looked. Scruffy in his linen—soiled from the fights with the prairie beast—and proud from regaining most of his lost copper. He let them talk among themselves as he peeked at his face-down cards. By now, they must have guessed he had something. Six pairs of eyes stared at him questioningly, trying to deduce his cards.

If they were clever, they would realize he wasn’t holding both the Prophet and the Poet. The same held true for the four kings—if he had too many powerful cards, his opponents’ hands would be too weak collectively to accept his wager.

No, Callam’s gambit relied on him having average cards. A bunch of commoners, a king, and a few queens.

It would do.

“One copper each.” Moose spoke for the group. “Money goes to the one with the most tricks.”

Sebastian was far more brash. “Double,” he spat, throwing down two coins.

“I’ll accept,” Callam said, fishing the rest of his coins from his purse. He tried not to show his nerves; if he lost now, he’d have nothing to his name.

Lenora alone made a face. “Count me out,” she sighed, tossing in her hand. Catching Callam’s eye, she smiled.

Has she figured me out?

Sebastian held no such reservations. After adding two copper to the pile, he led with a low diamond. Moose took the trick, trumping Isole’s queen with his king.

Callam kept count. Not only of the high cards—everyone did that—but of the least-powerful ones. They were the key. A warm, tingling feeling fell over him as more tricks were laid. He began to suspect that it was his Streetwise skill at work.

Do spells and skills impact how we play? It made sense that they would. Yet there had to be some limitations, otherwise no one would gamble without asking about hidden talents first.

Moose led next, and lost to Sebastian,who slammed his Poet down on a stack of royal cards.

That left four tricks. Callam took one, playing his only king.

Staring at his hand, he gauged his next move. Most of the low cards had already been played—everyone else had thrown them early, opting to hold onto their more-powerful cards. An obvious strategy.

And a foolish one.

He laid down a ten of spades. To the casual observer it seemed an amateurish mistake, and sensing weakness, Silas slammed a jack of spades in the royalty stack, only for Moose to throw down a two.

At once, the number on his card merged with Callam’s ten, forming a giant bow and arrow. With a twang the black weapon dispatched the jack, then took its place in the form of a regal queen.

It really is the low cards that matter most, Callam thought, scratching the back of his neck.

All commoners could dethrone royalty, this was true. But only some could add up to eleven, twelve, or thirteen. So, once the smaller numbers were played, the larger commoners would get stranded, unable to overthrow royalty.

That made saving low cards powerful, if played right.

He took the next trick, then dropped a queen, hoping the Prophet wouldn’t be played. It was, by a triumphant Sebastian.

The bastard had been dealt both wild cards.

One trick left.

By necessity, Callam had to win here, otherwise he’d lose to Sebastian or Moose. Too bad he held a four. Normally a weak card, so he had to hope his math was right.

Dryness gripped his throat. He eyed the copper in the center of the table, then stood and stretched his arms. “Anyone need a drink or snack?” he asked, making for a cistern by the back of the room.

“And indulge in concessions?” Sebastian jeered. “We’ll leave giving up to you, pauper.”

Moose and Isole snickered. He couldn’t blame them. It was a clever play on words.

Slowly, he drew a glass of water. His body tingled again, bringing Lenora’s earlier statement about Moose’s tells back to mind. Sauntering to the table, he searched for the giant’s fingers. They weren’t moving.

He’s got nothing.

“Double, you said?” He stared Sebastian down. When the noble played a queen of clubs, he grinned. “I’ve got you beat.”

Isole went next, playing a ten. Moose didn’t say a word as he revealed his seven and reset the stack. Tavis was void and laid down a worthless heart.

It all came down to this. If Silas was holding an eight or a nine, Callam could meld with it to take the trick. If he wasn’t, he’d be copperless again.

A nine was revealed.

Callam’s tried not to gloat. Reaching for a basket of berries, he popped one in his mouth. Then he flipped up his three.

Victory had rarely tasted so sweet.

Sebastian’s anger only made it more worthwhile. “Cheat!” he accused, his voice deadly quiet. Brackish water circled his arms. His eyes narrowed slightly as he tightened his grip on the table’s edge, water rippling softly around him.

“By the poet,” Moose laughed. “It’s cards. Beginner’s luck, is all.”

“It’s more than that.” Sebastian stood, nearly knocking back his chair. “He thinks it fun to make others the fool.”

Callam laughed. Flush with triumph, he reached for his coins. Yet his smile stiffened when he scooped them up. There was some truth to Sebastian's words that hit uncomfortably close to home. Sure, the loss might have only cost the noble a few coppers, but pride had no price.

Revenge was rarely worth making an enemy for life.

---Quick notes!

Want to play Seeker's talent with friends? Here are all the rules.

1. Shuffle all 54 cards together (jokers included). The black Joker represents the Prophet, and the red one the Poet.

2. Deal all the cards out. If you can't deal them evenly, deal until everyone has the same amount of cards, then put the rest aside.

3. Kings play high-- I know, this isn't normal, but fits a world where royalty rules.

4. Dealer plays first. Everyone must follow suit (so if the dealer plays a heart, everyone must too, unless they don't have a heart)--with the exception of the poet and prophet. These can be played at any time, to win the trick, with the Prophet beating the Poet when played in the same hand.

5. Winner of each trick choses which suit to lead next.

6, All royalty goes in one pile, all commoners go in another. Whenever the combined total of the commoner (none face) cards matches that of a royal, or exceeds that of a royal, they dethrone.

7. Note on the above: this only happens if there is a royal in the stack. Otherwise nothing happens.

So for instance, if you throw a three on a ten, but there is no royal in the stack, nothing happens. If however, someone played a jack earlier, you move your three and the ten to the royalty stack, and they now play as a king.

8. Whenever the value of the commoner stack is more than 13, the stack resets. So If you play an eight, and someone else a nine on your eight, the total value is not 15, it is 0.

9. Last card played wins. Using the example above. You challenge, overthrowing a jack of clubs with your 3+10 of clubs. Then someone else plays the king of clubs. They win the trick, overthrowing you.

Hope that helps!