Page 168 of Trick

Musicians strummed, picked, pounded, and blew on their instruments. I craned my neck for a sight of Eliot, to no avail. Likely, he had been stationed on a different hill.

The lush ambience could have manifested from a darkly beautiful folktale, were it not for the gruesome parts that existed in another area.

Not far off, hogs chased a lad around a pen. He screamed as though they were monsters, perhaps because that was what he truly saw.

In another circle, two stocky women with features like Nicu’s scratched at each other as the revelers cheered.

Sagging in the stocks, an elderly man looked puzzled by his surroundings while attendants cranked their arms, ready to fire eggs at him.

Those scenes rendered my own humiliation inconsequential. The crowd parted as I came through. Some gazed at me with sympathy because I was still a Royal. Others behaved more callously, pelting me with disapproving looks.

Me, the Fest Fool.

And him. Escorted by a guard, Poet materialized from the opposite end of the crowd. To my surprise, the welts had faded from his face—likely Jinny’s doing. However, the bruise, the lacerations on his throat, and the cut on his forehead remained, the crimson lines dried.

All the same, those blemishes didn’t offend Poet as much as other details. He raised his eyes skyward and pouted. And I saw why. They had dressed him in traditional jester’s garb, including dark knee-length hose, stockings, and a motley-patterned jacket. Flaps hung from his neckline and wrists, and his bell cap chimed as he walked.

Only two details bespoke his true tastes. A single black tear dangled from his left eye, and his fingernails glinted black.

Spring had found a way to scorn us publicly. Basil and Fatima had shifted the rules to their convenience, appointing more than one Fest Fool.

How very Royal of them.

Poet caught my eye and winked. I mustered a smile.

The king and queen made their introductory speech and raised their arms. “Let the revels begin!”

Horns blared, and revelers erupted into shouts. With that, Poet and I belonged to the carnival, to any attendant in the mood to command or harass us. Since we’d dropped in favor, it was mostly the latter.

It went on and on. People halted and ordered us to fetch drinks or do tricks. They blindfolded him and me, then made us hunt for each other while a bunch of shouts misled us—or me, at least. In comparison, Poet found me swifter than the crowd preferred.

They tethered my right leg to his left, forcing us to walk as one for an hour. I wasn’t as graceful about it as the jester was.

He growled at anyone who tried to get near me, his ferocious expression causing several hecklers to retreat. Though, not all of them registered this. One countess requested me to dance on a low-strung rope while dodging the staff she’d handed Poet, expecting him to prod me with it. When he ignored the stick, the noble poked me in the ribs herself.

I teetered, then stumbled off the rope.

Poet caught me and then ripped the staff from the countess’s hand. His destructive grip suggested he might have swept it under her feet and sent the woman landing onto her backside. Instead, he spun the rod from hand to hand, rotated it across his shoulders, and windmilled it around his neck, all in a dizzying flourish that could turn deadly at any moment, should he use the staff as weapon.

With viperous reflexes, Poet thrust the object back at the countess. On gut reaction, the startled woman lurched backward, barely catching it in time.

“Be careful, sweeting,” the jester cautioned, his voice low and lethal. “Keep your walking stick close, or someone might take it from you.”

The female purpled with humiliation, and the scene earned a mixture of impressed and uneasy titters from onlookers. A trio of resident performers snorted with pride. Despite Poet’s transgressions, the troupe hardly relished seeing their respected leader and mentor reduced to this.

I didn’t need to read Poet’s furious mind. His display was a silent warning.

No matter what they made us do, we would not break.

Be careful, because if he were so inclined, he could turn any jest on its head. It would backfire on the culprit and make that person the laughingstock. Deny it all they hoped, but this man could dazzle and mortify them if he wanted to.

His deadly glower said one other thing.Touch the princess, and I shall impale you.

My own deliberate scowl said something rather similar.Touch the jester, and I will shatter you.

Mother stayed away, as I had pleaded for her to do. She’d protested but gave in, agreeing to remain in her pavilion and mingle with visitors. The reason went beyond the pretense of being a repentant and punitive queen. I hadn’t wanted her to see me ridiculed like this, even under the thin guise of celebration.

I’d done plenty to sour Autumn’s relationship with Spring. Although I didn’t regret doing it for Poet and Nicu, those relations had to be restored for my nation’s sake. Moreover, it was essential for future widespread change. This degradation was a stepping stone.

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