Chapter Text
The invitation had arrived on a folded piece of paper, slid under Truthless's door.
There is cake. Come.
No signature. None was needed.
Truthless stood in the doorway of the Fount's study for a moment before entering, taking stock. Papers had been shoved to one side of the desk. In the cleared space sat a cake.
A very good cake. He could tell from across the room. Layered, pale gold, with icing the color of fresh cream and blueberry preserves glistening between each tier. Someone had put effort into it. Based on the streak of icing on the Fount's left sleeve, that someone was the Fount.
"You baked," Truthless said.
"I applied Knowledge to ingredients." The Fount was already seated, chin propped on his hand, looking pleased with himself. "Sit."
Truthless sat.
From somewhere—a portal, possibly, which raised questions—the Fount produced two plates. He cut two generous slices with a precise motion, ensuring they were identical, then slid one across. The icing was thick enough to hold a fingerprint.
"You went to considerable effort."
"I go to considerable effort in all things."
"You have icing on your sleeve."
The Fount glanced at his sleeve, then back at Truthless. "That is a different matter entirely."
They ate. The cake was, Truthless admitted privately, excellent. The sponge light without being insubstantial. The preserves tart enough to cut the sweetness. The icing applied with what he could only describe as complete commitment. He said none of this aloud.
The Fount watched him. Waiting for a verdict.
"It's acceptable."
The Fount's mouth curved. He had learned, over time, that acceptable from Truthless Recluse meant something considerably warmer than the word suggested. "Naturally."
They finished their slices in companionable quiet. The study was warm. Papers rustled on the displaced half of the desk, stirred by some unfelt draft. The Fount refilled Truthless's plate without asking. Truthless didn't comment. The Fount took that as permission to be quietly delighted.
"We should play something."
Truthless looked at him over his fork. "No."
"I have cards."
"No."
"It's a very simple game. You'll enjoy it."
"I won't."
"You said the same about the cake."
Truthless set his fork down. The Fount was already producing a deck from the same portal—which continued to raise questions about what else was in there—and shuffling with unnecessary flourish.
"The rules are simple." He dealt. "Each card has a number. High card takes the round. The player with the most rounds after—"
"That's just War."
The Fount paused. "It has a different name here."
"What name."
A brief hesitation. "...Conflict."
"That's War."
"It has nuance."
"It has no nuance. It's entirely luck-based. There's no skill involved."
"The skill," the Fount said with great dignity, "is in the presentation." He split the deck and pushed half across the table. "You draw first."
Truthless looked at his stack, then at the Fount. Drew.
Seven.
The Fount drew. Three. His expression remained perfectly neutral, which meant he was pleased.
"One to you." He made a small note on a scrap of paper produced from somewhere that was not the portal. Truthless chose not to ask. "Draw."
They played. The Fount narrated each round with the low-key commentary of someone who took luck-based card games far more seriously than they deserved. When Truthless drew high, he said nothing. When the Fount drew high, he said "ah," in the tone of a man confirming a long-held hypothesis.
After twelve rounds, the score was seven to five in Truthless's favor.
"You're losing."
"I am building tension. Draw."
Truthless drew. Reached for his card. His finger caught the edge of the cake plate, dragging it sideways. Icing transferred neatly onto two of his fingers before he could stop it.
He looked at his hand.
"Unfortunate," the Fount observed.
Truthless reached for a napkin. The Fount's hand arrived first, closing around Truthless's wrist with the same calm he applied to most things, as though this were a perfectly ordinary course of events. He drew Truthless's hand toward him.
"Fount of Knowledge—"
"Hold still."
He pressed his lips to Truthless's fingers. His tongue traced the line of icing from the base of Truthless's index finger to the tip patiently. His eyes never left Truthless's face, wearing an expression of complete and slightly infuriating composure.
He did the second finger the same way.
Then he released Truthless's hand, picked up his card, and drew a king.
"Eight to seven," the Fount said. "My favor. Draw."
Truthless stared at his own hand for a moment. The warmth of the Fount's mouth still lingered, precise as a signature.
"You did that on purpose."
"I don't know what you mean."
"The card. You waited until—"
"Draw." Serene.
Truthless drew. Four. The Fount drew. Nine.
"Nine to seven." Another note. The corner of his mouth hadn't moved. His ears, however, had gone the faintest possible shade of blue.
Truthless watched him write. "You're embarrassed."
"I am focused."
"Your ears."
"The room is warm."
"It isn't."
The Fount looked up. His expression was composed. His ears were the color of a clear midwinter sky and getting worse. "Draw."
Truthless drew. Ace.
The Fount drew. Two.
"Ten to nine. My favor."
"So it is." The Fount set his cards down, stared at the cake, then looked at Truthless. "Best of twenty-five?"
"You want to keep playing."
"I want to draw an ace."
"You want to—" Truthless stopped. Looked at his own hand. At the Fount's carefully neutral expression and deeply incriminating ears. "Ah."
"Draw." The Fount's voice was perfectly steady, his attention fixed on his cards. Avoiding Truthless at all costs.
Truthless reached across the table. Dragged two fingers through the icing on the cake plate. Set his hand on the table between them. Palm down. Fingers extended.
The Fount looked at that hand. Then really stared at Truthless. His ears went from midwinter blue to something approaching early evening.
"That," he said, "is cheating."
"You changed the rules of War and called it Conflict. Draw."
The Fount looked at his cards. At the hand. At the cards again.
He set the deck down. Reached across. Took Truthless's wrist in both hands. Did not look away from Truthless's face once.
He took Truthless's hand and pressed his lips to it, then drew each finger into his mouth in turn.
One.
Two.
When he was done, he sat back. Picked up his cards. Drew a seven.
Truthless drew a seven.
They looked at each other.
"A tie requires a redraw."
"It does."
Neither reached for their cards.
The cake sat between them, slightly diminished, still excellent. The study was warm. Outside, the Spire went about its business. Inside, the Fount of Knowledge and Truthless Recluse sat across a desk covered in displaced papers and the remains of a luck-based card game with no skill involved whatsoever. Neither redrew.
"The cake," Truthless said eventually, "was good."
The Fount's mouth curved. Small. Careful. "I know."
He stuck his tongue out.