The Sermon of Snakes

“The game is simple: Find the Bastard.”

The conman flipped his two-faced coin and set it down between the two normal counts, all face-up.

“I’ll shuffle until I feel confident that even I can’t tell which one it is, and then you’ll guess. Well, ideally you’ll know, but an educated guess can’t hurt. Easy, hm? Buy-in is fifty, but, because I caught you in a hurry earlier, how about we cut the first game down to thirty? Sound fair?”

“Yeah!” Mayfly said, and produced her count. “How much is this?”

He looked at it. Mumbles bubbled up behind her.

“A quarter,” he said.

“Of thirty?”

“Of one.”

Then it was even worse than she thought. A quarter of one count? There must have been a mistake, a miscommunication somewhere between her and her drunken friend. Maybe he’d thought she meant a different flower. Surely a moonbloom had more value than that.

“Uhm…this is…all the money I have,” she said.

The conman started to laugh, but must have seen that she meant it. Suddenly his glee was tainted with something closer to pity than sympathy. “Gods, you’re serious. Where’re your parents?”

“My mama’s back in the Valley, uh…” she pointed towards the other end of town, where she’d come from. “That way. I’m on my own.”

“Ah, a foreigner,” he said, squinting into the distance. “That’s interesting. Not many people come to Gen, especially not alone. Shame you got stuck in Flytrap. Folks, what do you think? Do we show our young guest here a little magnanimity?”

The crowd closed around her, eyes crawled all along her and she felt an urge to pull her hood up again.

“Nah,” someone grumbled. It hit Mayfly square in the heart.

“Fuck off, kid,” said another. “Let someone play who can afford it.”

Shoulders pressed against her, hands took her by the arms and started to shove her out of the way. She stood firm, silently pleading to the conman, holding her coin out.

“Oh, alright. Alright!” he said, and the crowd eased reluctantly. He snatched the coin from Mayfly’s hand and set it aside. “One round. I won’t be going easy on you, shiny-girl. A copper count might be all you have to your name, but I’ll still be playing to take it.”

Mayfly shook herself free of the last hands around her, and stepped back up to the table. “As long as we’re playing fair.”

He stretched out his arms and dipped his head humbly. “A conman by reputation, but merely an artisan by nature. Are you ready, then?”

She wasn’t sure. She nodded.

The conman’s hands went to work. In the Valley, Mayfly had seen all manner of games and tricks performed with sleight of hand, from disappearing rings to the mystical manipulation of cards. She’d spent more than a few ferry rides sitting across from Ealdwin, enthralled by his ability to make faux-magic and real magic indistinguishable. This was another matter altogether.

Beneath the conman’s spiderlike fingers, the coins were a blur. One would move up and around the other two, while another slid under the third. Once, he flipped one over his hand entirely, giving her a brief flash of a star pattern before it landed, and was immediately shuffled into the other two. Thumb and pinky worked in tandem, ring and pointer crossed. His hands moved with the unified dexterity of a single, ten-fingered creature.

“Oh…” she breathed.

It took all of two seconds for her to lose track of the trick-coin, and another handful to even realize it. She tried to split her mind; follow his movements, and at the same time, think back to where exactly she’d fumbled, and work forwards. That was hopeless. She didn’t have nearly enough focus and even if she did, he was so fast.

Suddenly he stopped, flipped the leftmost coin over, revealing a second head. She looked up at him, puzzled. He smirked.

“Just warming up.”

“You’re incredible,” she said. “How do you move so quick?”

“Practice, shiny-girl. Practice, and blessing. I did tell you this wouldn’t be easy. Watch closer.”

He started again. Mayfly leaned in, and made a point not to even blink. She watched him slide the coin under the middle, then down to his thumb. He flicked it over, back to the left, then bounced the rightmost coin aside, and swapped them. Another pass over his hand—this one was star-patterned again, and she ignored it—then a double swap with the right and the left.

No. He’d pushed the middle to the left, and swapped the middle with the right.

Focus.

The left went down, the middle went up and to the right, while the right went middle, and then swapped with the left, which was already on its way right. The right went up this time, then came down…in the same place? Or had the middle bounced it? She didn’t know. She didn’t know, and the metallic clack of their edges colliding, the low warble of their spins, made it so hard to concentrate.

It's left, she thought, without even an ounce of certainty. She watched the leftmost coin pass beneath the other two, or maybe only one, and then slide back. Or the middle had slid left. Had the right coin moved at all? Yes, just then, but she saw him swap the middle and left beforehand. Which…which one had she decided to follow? Perhaps if he just—

“Alright!” he said, and clapped his hands together. “What do you think?”

Mayfly wouldn’t have guessed a metal mouth could feel dry.

“Oi,” someone nudged her. “It’s left, girlie.”

Another snickered. “Nah, it’s the right.”

Without thinking, she tapped the leftmost coin. By the satisfied smile on the conman’s face, she knew she’d lost before he even flipped it. Star-pattern. This time the crowd found it plenty amusing.

“Unlucky,” he said. He flipped the middle coin over. Doubled-headed.

“C-can I…”

“No, you can’t. I’m afraid charity goes against my religion, shiny-girl, and I’ve already committed the cardinal sin of generosity, for which I will be atoning until my pockets are heavy with tithe. I play for stakes, I’ll even play for scraps.” He took up her copper count. “But I never play for nothing.”

He made to shake hands, and though she knew she ought to be a good sport, it took some time to swallow down her grief. Even as they shook, she felt her hope withering.

Then he jerked her arm forward and yanked up her sleeve. She braced herself against the table, trying to pull away, but she found his grip strong and his stance unshakable. His eyes were glued to the gold-marbled porcelain of her forearm. A jumble of fascinated muttering emanated from behind her.

“However…” the honey in his voice thickened and grew cold. He tongued one of his canine teeth hungrily. “You don’t have ‘nothing,’ do you? No, you have these. These arms, this prosthetic work. Extraordinary. Art, even.”

“Thank…you?” she wriggled her arm. “C-could you let go, please?”

His hand loosened just enough to take her by the wrist. “Tell you what, you can play again. Same game, same rules, same prize. You win, you get the card. I win, I get the hand.”

This time when she pulled, he let go. “You want my hand?”

“Well, I’d like the whole arm, but that doesn’t seem like a fair deal.”

“Won’t that really hurt?”

“Oh no, we’ll just take a trip to the chop shop, and they’ll pop it right off. I suppose if you wanted to, you could try and sell the bits yourself, but I imagine they’ll gut you on the prices. Don’t get me wrong, you’re walking around with some museum-quality work on you, but there’s no museum in Flytrap. The only thing people want to see here is money.”

Her hand. She looked down to it, traced her fingers along the dull-golden joints, and tried to imagine what she might do with only one. Would things be that much more difficult? She could still pick a flower with one hand, and that’s all she really needed to do at the end of the day. Part of her worried that she might not have both of them when she returned to the Valley, but she prayed that was just her being silly.

Maybe he was right. Maybe he was lying. The truth was, she didn’t see much of a choice either way.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s play again.”

“You know what, I’ve just decided that I like you. You’ve got moxie. Maybe it’ll compensate for your missing hand.”

She might have risen to his taunt, but he was right to be confident. He was faster, he was probably smarter, and he was certainly more clever. It was his game, and as he started setting up his coins again, she knew she couldn’t beat him at it.

So perhaps her best chance was to not play. At least, not his way.

The table was prepped, he set the trick-coin down in the middle. “Ready to find the Bastard?”

“Ready,” she said.

The conman’s hands began to move.

Mayfly shut her eyes.

She heard him pause, huff, and then continue. “Think that’s wise?” he asked.

“You said you play fair. I trust you,” she said. If she listened, she could hear the coins scrape and click against each other—information she didn’t want. “So, you don’t believe in charity because of your religion? That seems a little…tough.”

“That’s the way of the snake, shiny-girl, walked by all manner of sharks, gamblers, and hopefuls with a tendency towards cunning over altruism. But we are not liars. You may hear talk of thieves and other dishonest folk laying claim to the faith, but the truly pious of us shun that sort of behavior. See, the most important thing a snake has is his word, and I’m what you might call an honest conman—when I promise you a fair game, you’re going to get a fair game.”

“Even if you always win?”

He chuckled. “’Difficult’ and ‘fair’ are not excusive.”

“I hope not. I came to Gen to find a flower, and it’s already been kinda tough. But I’m okay with tough.”

His hands stopped moving. “You’re here for a…flower?”

“Mhm! It’s called a moonbloom. It’s got silver leaves, and a black stem, and it’s head is bright red.”

“Sounds pretty,” he said, moving again. “Can’t say I’ve seen anything like that, at least not around here. Could be further on, lots of strange things beyond the Flytrap barrens. Not that I expect you’ll be exploring them any time soon.”

“If I’m lucky, you’re wrong.”

“I like to mitigate luck’s influence on my personal matters, gods know I make enough allowances for fairness as it is,” he said. Once again his hands stopped moving, and she knew he was finished. “No matter how good you are, a coinflip is always fifty-fifty.”

Mayfly opened her eyes.

All three counts sat faceup, exactly as they had been. She chose to believe that he hadn’t swapped the trick-coin out, despite the fact that he’d expressly referred to himself as a conman. An honest conman, who, she thought, enjoyed winning almost as much as he enjoyed playing.

She looked up at him. He had a kind face, fit for smiling. There was mischief in his gold-flecked eyes that she felt almost kindred to, and even when his grin was sharp and hungry, she couldn’t find it in herself to call him menacing.

Around his neck hung a small pendant. A snake curled inside a crescent moon.

“So flip a coin, shiny-girl.”

There was no real decision to make. She hadn’t seen or heard anything he’d done. She had nothing to go on, nothing to make her guess anything more than that: a guess.

Perfect.

Last time he’d won before she ever made her choice. This time she hadn’t played—he had no opponent to beat. The crowd was oddly silent while she stood there pointlessly deliberating between which count she thought was prettiest. Then, just when it seemed like someone was about to crack and give their own suggestion, genuine or otherwise—

She flipped the middle coin.

Heads.

Aside from some breathy expletives, no one shouted, or cheered, or even congratulated her. Even the conman quietly licked his teeth. Their prize claimed, the crowd slowly dispersed amidst deflated muttering.

“Uh,” she said, when it seemed proper to do so. “Did I win?”

He nodded. Despite losing, he didn’t seem upset. In fact, looking down at the trick-coin, he smiled. Not sharp, not hungry, but pleased. “Yes, shiny-girl, you did.”

With a final flourish, he made the metal card appear, and placed it before her on the table. She took it up; it wasn’t that much heavier than a playing card, but not nearly as flexible. Along with it, he offered her own copper count back, which she took gratefully, only to realize that he’d slipped a second one in with it.

The trick-coin.

It was gone from the table. She hadn’t even seen him pick it up. “Wait, really?” she asked. “I…I can have this?”

“Every game, big or small, is a lesson. This is a loss I’ll remember fondly; one I’ll learn from, if I’m lucky. Perhaps you will, too.”

“But won’t you need it?”

He scoffed. “Novelties come by the ton, I’ll find another. Besides, I’ve made plenty off the poor souls of Flytrap. Now that I’ve lost, that spark of challenge is gone, for conned and conner alike. No, it’s on to greener grass for me—for us both, it seems. Keep the Bastard, may it serve you well.”

She looked down at the trick-coin, flipped it from head to head. “Is it okay if I call it something else instead? Maybe, like, the Rascal?”

“Sparing the coin’s feelings? You’ve got a little cat in you.”

“A little what?”

The conman scooted his table off into the mouth of an alley, apparently content to leave it there. “Well, anyway. Best of luck on your search, shiny-girl. I hope you find your flower fast, but if our paths cross again before then, perhaps we can play another game?”

“Just maybe not for my hands.”

“A foot, then. Or an ear.” He winked, and she found herself smiling as he walked away.

For a while she stood there, gleefully inspecting the spoils of her victory. She flicked the Rascal up with her thumb, as she’d seen the conman do, and as it came back down a loud chime nearly made her drop it. She whirled around, and found the source on another clock. This one was stuck to the side of a building, and rather than arms, it displayed the time in bright numbers.

12:30. Ten minutes to get her ticket, which was more than enough for the Valley's four-time Chicken Chase champion, but considering how she’d just won her way out, she decided it would be best not to test luck’s generosity any further.

Pocketing her card and her coins, Mayfly made for the station.