Page 14 of Trick

My palm turned over for the taper. Poet dug through the pouch, then pantomimed checking a bunch of pockets he didn’t have, then glanced under his feet. He came up empty-handed. In a show of mockery, he shrugged at poor little me and twisted from my pathetic, outstretched palm. It hovered, open but rejected.

A public judgment. A direct cut.

The room burst into guffaws. Eliot, the traitor, pressed a fist to his mouth to conceal his chuckles. My mother offered me an entertained but conciliatory smile.

I contemplated the ribbon in my drawer. It could be used for many things besides expressing admiration for someone. To choke them, for example. To bind their wrists and cut off their circulation.

A pair of barefooted acrobats balancing atop large hoops rolled into the hall. The male and female wore only tight pants that clung to their limbs, the woman’s breasts and pink nipples just as exposed as her partner’s chest.

At Poet’s signal, they slid to the ground and proceeded to spin the hoops over their heads. As the background act and music continued, the guests strayed, abandoning their meals in the pursuit of frivolity.

The candles dimmed, their mellow light gilding the vast space and creating shadowed corners. As darkened niches multiplied, the feast shapeshifted into a bacchanal. Several revelers played a dice game in which the loser pouted her lips and unlaced her bodice. A languid pair tangled like snakes, their hips locked and gyrating slowly as they danced. Two knights seemed to have misplaced their weapons as they crushed themselves together, fused their mouths into one, and rutted against a pillar while a small crowd watched.

Without a backward glance, Poet quit the hall. The moment he was gone, gravity settled, and it became easier to suck in air. And as time dragged on, my breathing relaxed. Doubtless, that was the last I’d see of him.

That I continued to crane my neck and check the main doors made no sense, nor did my anticipation, which deflated with every second he remained absent. Although my exhalations grew steadier, my shoulders lowered a notch. For some reason, the environment lost what little appeal it had, as if he had stolen it, pirated it before I’d known it was there.

Never mind. I should be so grateful.

However, the devil returned less than an hour later.

My shoulders tensed the second he entered. He was freshly dressed, having changed into raven leather pants, a fitted jacket embellished with red studs, and black boots.

Poet’s magnetic presence drew the revelers like an intoxicant, as potent and unhealthy as a guilty pleasure. But rather than unforgivable admiration, I felt a motivated thrill, a competitive spark fizzing through me. The more opportunities to observe him, the more chances to stake out his weak spots.

That trickster would pay for humiliating me. Perhaps not tonight, but soon.

The heads of every guest turned, following the man’s progress as he ambled through the crowd. Some mooned over him and sought to gain his favor through sultry looks or witty conversations. Others shrank back, as if they feared catching his undivided attention.

In The Dark Seasons, the term “born fool” was universal across the courts. Although I detested giving anyone such labels, these individuals were divided into two classes: the “mad” and the “simpleton,” and both belonged to the Crown.

The people whom this world called mad were deemed dangers to society. They were locked away in dungeons and oubliettes, the cells located either within each castle or across the lands.

The people whom this world called simpletons were forced into service in various ways, depending on the kingdom. Spring used those born souls for amusement. Basil and Fatima distributed them across the nation to traveling troupes or nobles who favored that sort of entertainment at their secluded estates. For that reason, there were no such individuals living in Spring’s palace.

But in this Season, a third type of so-called “fool” existed. A professional one.

The jester.

A licensed figure and the product of training. Unlike born souls, jesters weren’t owned by their sovereigns. They were high-ranking players specializing in the arts of candor, performance, and the turning of a phrase. As a trade, they journeyed with the sunset carnivals and midnight festivals that reigned across Spring.

All except the Court Jester. Being the most prized of his craft, he resided at court, where he was appointed to entertain the Crown, with the added liberty to counsel and influence the monarchy.

That was what Eliot had meant while referring to the jester as the Crown’s special weapon. Being the most popular person in the room gave Poet power. It made him a prominent fixture when it came to political and social chess.

I snatched a fork, my grip tightening around the stem. A man should be either a Royal’s trusted advisor or an artisan, not one and the same.

Eliot had once mentioned to me in a letter that the previous jester died of a fever, shortly after the last Peace Talks. Apparently, Poet had replaced him.

My friend’s playing faltered as his attention strayed to Poet, who propped himself casually on the edge of the Seven’s table. Posy appeared to be pleading with him, simpering while he shook his head, stole a strawberry off Vale’s plate, and popped it into his mouth. Still chewing, he left the ravenous females staring after him, their gazes dripping with lust.

Not just a political and social influencer, but a widely desired one.

My knife skewered a slab of glazed ham. By some miracle, I’d witnessed the scene and still managed to keep my food down.

“Are you well?” Mother asked, studying me.

“Yes,” I gritted out.

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