George Martin: Deuces Down

The medium caught it in one hand, then gazed at it for a long moment. Then she popped the catch and looked at the watchface, remarking, “This is going to need to be cleaned if you expect me to be wearing it.” She looked up then, smiling. “Melissa. How are you, my dear?”

“Grandpa?” Topper asked.

“The same,” she said, “or different. Don’t be so amazed. Swapping places with an assistant is old hat.” She chuckled. “Besides which, if Houdini managed an escape from the grave, why should you be surprised when I play the same trick?”

“This afternoon… you didn’t tell me it was you.”

“You didn’t ask. Besides which, it wasn’t my trick to reveal.” Cameo raised her eyebrows. “Anything you’d like to tell me now, my dear?”

Topper bit her lip, then let it out all in one breath: “I’m an ace, grandpa.”

The medium nodded. “There, that wasn’t so hard. I’m glad to hear it. But as I can see from the faces here, that secret has been spread rather thin. Indeed, I heard you tell it this afternoon to one who you believed was a complete stranger. Not quite worth the price of the Blackwood legacy.” She looked about the group. “Are there any other takers?” She looked to Roger. “You, sir, the gentleman with the handsome raven-I’m informed you quest after magic. Is this so?”

“Of course,” said Roger. “You’re one of my idols.”

“A flattering thing to hear in a weary world,” Cameo responded, “but flattery is cheap, and you know my price: A secret for a secret. But a bit of professional advice: A good magician has more than one trusted assistant. If you can take those present here into your confidence, I suggest you do so.”

Roger looked around, lingering a long moment on Peregrine and her son, but she nodded as did he. “Alright,” Roger said, “I’m not an ace. Not even a deuce. All my tricks are parlor magic.”

“Anything else?”

Roger paused, then took a deep breath. “I’m not a joker either.” He reached up and lifted his eyepatch, then opened his eye and pinched out a large black lens. “Theatrical contacts.”

“But you have horns!” Jim protested. “I’ve seen them!”

“Those are real,” Roger said, “just not mine. I got them from Hodge-Podge.”

“Hodge-Podge?” Peregrine asked.

“Back alley psychic surgeon,” Roger explained. “She takes bits off animals and put them on people.” Roger replaced his contact and eyepatch, then lifted his hat. “Somewhere there’s a small African antelope missing its horns.”

Everyone looked at Sam’s tail until he tucked it between his legs. “Uh… guys, this is original equipment.”

“Same here,” said Alec.

“Not here.” Roger dropped his hat. “I’m a latent. That’s all.”

“No,” said Cameo, “you are also a skilled illusionist. I can see from the faces here.” She gazed about the circle. “I also find this very droll-an ace pretending to be a latent aiding a latent pretending to an ace.” She glanced over to Topper. “And teaching my granddaughter a valuable lesson in the bargain: A good magician never relies too heavily on one trick. Enjoy your hat, Melissa. And adieu, for the moment.”

Cameo clicked the watch shut and shook her head. “He’s gone.”

“May I have his watch back?”

Cameo paused, then pressed the stud again, raising a cloud of dust, and fixed Topper with haughty look. “Really, Melissa. It’s my watch, and last I checked, the dearly departed were allowed to take their grave goods into the afterlife however they please. This is how I please. Once Ellen assists with costume changes, we intend to watch the performance-and my new apprentice.”

“I thought I was your apprentice.”

“You were, my dear,” Cameo said softly, “but there’s a difference between something you do to please your grandfather, and something you do out of love for the art. And despite my current state, I still have standards. This young man meets them. Masquerading one magic as another, well, that has a certain flair, don’t you think? You are all assistants in a grand illusion, one final Blackwood trick.” She paused, listening. “And Ellen tells me that it is time for a certain young man to get into his tights. It appears the theatre has not changed much in the years since my death, and I take some comfort in that, so again, adieu for now.” Cameo clicked the watch shut again and said to Topper, “My hat?”

Topper pulled the cloche out of her topper and tossed it to Cameo, and as she and the Boys set about costume changes, Topper came over next to Sam and sighed. “Trust grandpa to upstage me, even after all these years.”

“Trust my brother to join him,” Sam said.

“They’re two of a kind, aren’t they?”

“Seems like. Anything for the show. Your grandpa ever drag you onstage?”

“When I was five…” Topper bit her lip. “You know, I was planning to go to a costume party at Aces High. Care to blow this popstand and join me?” She paused. “What’s wrong?”

“That phrase.” Sam nodded to where Cameo was helping Jim with a Dr. Frankenstein costume. “Do you know how many sodas have names like ‘Burst’ and ‘Blast’? Jim blew up the 7-11 once.” Sam switched his tail then. “Do I meet the dress code?”

“You’ve just had thousands of girls screaming for you. Hiram’s a snob, not an idiot. And it’s a charity masquerade anyway.” She paused. “The only problem is that I only bought one ticket and it’s sold out. And while Hiram keeps extras in his desk,” With a flourish, she produced a sheaf from her hat, “they require his signature to be valid…”

“What’s the charity?”

“J-town Clinic, same as always,” Topper said, handing him the passes. “I can slip a few thousand in the till when he’s not looking.”

Sam grinned, laying them out on the cover of his sketchbook. “Got an example?” he asked, pulling off his glove.

Topper produced one, and with a flair, Sam forged both Hiram Worchester’s flamboyant up-and-down signature and his peacock blue fountain pen ink. “Cast party is on me,” said Topper, taking the extras and handing them to Peregrine, “but tell the Boys that I’ve absconded with their backup singer.” She replaced her hat, tapped the top, and extended her arm to Sam. “Care to join your fellow aces?”

Sam accepted her arm. “Sure thing.”

Editor GEORGE R. R. MARTIN was born September 20, 1948 in Bayonne, New Jersey. He began writing very young, selling monserstories to other neighborhood children for pennies, dramatic readings included. Later he became a comic book fan and collector in high school, and began to write fiction for comic fanzines (amateur fan magazines). Martin’s first professional sale was made in 1970 at age 21: “The Hero,” sold to Galaxy , published in February, 1971 issue. Other sales followed.

Four-time winner of the Hugo Award, two-time winner of the Nebula Award, and six-time Locus Award winner, Martin is the author and editor of over two dozen novels and anthologies, and the writer of numerous short stories. His New YorkTimes best-selling novel A Storm of Swords -the third volume in his epic fantasy series “A Song of Ice and Fire”-was published in 2000. Martin lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.