Disclaimer: I don't own Discworld or anything related to it.

Advanced Cheating

"Three cards." Swift, skilled fingers picked three playing cards from a hand of five, then stopped in mid-air. "No, two." Rapid, frenetic seeming shuffling of the hand. "Three. Definitely three."

Moist exchanged the three cards from his hands for three on the table, his hands moving almost on their own accord, faster than the mind, let alone the eye, could follow.

The Patrician watched all this with an expressionless and unsettlingly motionless face.

"Two," he said calmly, when it was his turn, neatly picked two cards from his hand, laid them down one after the other with a faint sound – click, click, tick paper on wood – and picked up the two cards on the right in one fluid movement of the hand: Moist would have sworn that his fingers never grazed the wood. All of it without ceasing to look at his opponent.

"Okay," Moist said, fingers nervously playing a rhythm against his cards. "I'll..." He bit his lips, paused. "No, wait..."

"Mr Lipwig, I certainly don't want to put you under any kind of pressure," Vetinari interrupted in a voice that sent a cold shiver down Moist's back, "but I promise, if you attempt to let me win one more time, there will be trouble."

"Right." Moist laid down his hand, picked it up again, looked at it as if its content was completely unexpected. "Right. Though, the last time I didn't – never mind. " His hand hovered over the pile of stones for a moment. "Double. You?"

Vetinari gave a nod, and pushed more stones into the middle of the table.

"I call. I want to see."

"Oh."

Vetinari slowly laid down four aces one after the other.

Moist bit his lips, and inverted the order of two cards in his hand. "Er. Good hand." The Patrician was staring at his fingers very fixedly. "Uhm. Pretty much impossible to beat, really."

Vetinari raised an eyebrow at him. He wasn't going to get out of it, was he?

In one, he tipped his hand: spades, ten to ace.

There was a silence.

"Well, well, well. Very good hand. However, it looks like one of us is cheating."

"Maybe the deck is faulty?"

"I distinctly remember there only being four aces last time. And we counted the cards beforehand."

"Well, we counted them, but we didn't check if one of..." He trailed off. "Don't look at me like that," he protested. "It's your deck! I couldn't have created a fake card since last time!"

"Couldn't you?"

"What – I'm not the one with a master forger at hand!"

"I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about, Mr Lipwig. But I do believe you win this one."

"I do?" Moist watched in bemusement as the stones were pushed into his direction, and thought this over. "You mean, I win because I'm better at cheating?"

Vetinari raised an eyebrow at him.

"So you were cheating, then?

"No, of course not!" he said quickly, and then thought this over. "Well, actually, yes, of course I was cheating, I thought that was the whole point! We could just have played chess if it wasn't!"

Vetinari was still looking at him.

"But I didn't falsify that ace. You know I didn't."

"Are you implying I did, Mr Lipwig?"

"...no." No pressure, right. Moist glared. He'd not let that cheating bastard toy with him, dammit. Well, under certain circumstances he would, of course, but he was reasonably sure that there wasn't much risk, and no risk at all would be boring. He smiled, and added, conversationally, as if there was no connection: "You have employees."

If Vetinari was surprised, he didn't show it; he recollected the cards into a neat packet.

"So do you, Mr Lipwig."

"Yes, but they're..." They were what exactly? Vetinari had people who would probably do anything he told them; and extremely talented criminals who had been hanged, and dark clerks, and golems with additional instructions, and, if you believed certain rumours, Leonard of Quirm locked up in a dungeon, and even the gods didn't know what else (1). But he was almost sure that none of them had ever printed their own wages, so he wasn't sure who won out there. "They're Mr Fusspots' employees."

"Ah. A good point. That puts them above suspicion, obviously."

Vetinari's lips twitched. If he didn't know better, Moist would say he was trying not to smile.

"Another game?" asked Vetinari, while recollecting the cards; the additional ace remained laying on the table face up. Moist stared at it for a moment.

"Not today, your lordship," he said eerily. "I'd rather quit while I'm winning."

"Ah. I see. Very reasonable, indeed."

The Patrician's lips twitched again. Moist glared. Don't, he advised himself. It's an obvious trap.

"That's what I thought," he said cheerfully.

Vetinari gave a curt nod, pushed his chair back and stood up; Moist quickly followed suit.

"I'm afraid I won't be seeing you for a while, Mr Lipwig."

"You won't?"

"Since the charming Miss Dearheart returns tomorrow, I am certain that you will want to spend time with her."

"Miss..." Spike was coming back? Immediately, he felt a little better, giddy even; it almost made up for the annoying fact that Vetinari knew about this before he did. "Yes, definitely."

"And that you won't be tempted to do anything foolishly risky in the meantime," the Patrician added, looking down at the handle of his cane.

Moist opened his mouth, and then swallowed his hasty protest, because on reflection, that statement was extremely worrying, considering what Vetinari had done last time he thought he was getting bored. He cleared his throat.

"Er... I'd just like you to know that the work at the bank is very exiting," he said.

"Is it?"

"Dangerous even," Moist went on with more confidence. "Why, only yesterday, I got a threatening letter." (2)

"Dear me," said Vetinari, unabashed.

"And I haven't climbed any walls lately," he added, somewhat desperate.

"I'm glad to hear that," Vetinari said in the polite, bemused tone one uses when dealing with an insane person, and Moist decided that he was not helping his cause there.

"I'll be going," he said, drawing himself together.

The ace of spades was gone from the table when he left.

(1) "Even the gods" only being a figure of speech. No-one on the Discworld, save for some deluded Omnians, expects the gods to know much, least of all themselves.

(2) At least he supposed he did; he wasn't sure what he was supposed to think about the blind letter office thinking that "that clown who runs the bank" must mean him, considering.

For the records, they play five-card draw, and they have cards laid on the table and then pick them up, instead of having them distributed from the deck after they announce how many they want to exchange; the latter is what I read about on rules I found online, but the former is how I remember playing (though I could be wrong, because it's ages ago...), and which felt more aesthetic, so...

All comments are appreciated.