Page 23 of Trick

To which, I’d drawled, “Some might say that’s like being invited to the end of an orgy, when the fun’s over and everyone has to clean up.”

The analogy hadn’t impressed him.

I hadn’t come up for air since my arrival. I’d blown open the room’s double doors, late to the party, and sang my apologies, then proceeded to agree with certain wisdoms and slay others. I mock-shivered at hyperbolic concerns about certain bloodlines producing criminal rebellion, waving the Royals’ double standards about the natural world in their faces.

Four hours hence, I’d just planted my ass on Queen Fatima’s throne, hooked both legs over one arm, and linked my hands behind my head. I’d done this before, to tease Her Majesty and alleviate one of her occasional bad moods.

Fatima chortled but then cleared her throat. That meant I had one minute to get the fuck out of her chair. I used those sixty seconds to muse, listening to seven quills scratching across parchment and cutlery clattering as servants arranged a roasted pig on the sideboard.

“What is this? A fucking soiree?” the Summer King bitched, thrusting down his quill. “I’ve had enough. I will not share this room with vermin.”

“It’s a swine,” I corrected, gesturing to the pig with a pear stuffed in its mouth. “If you’re still not sure, remove the gag and ask it.”

“You tiresome shit. I wasn’t talking about the pig.”

Ah. How remarkable that he considered my presence a threat. Naturally this monarch preferred the company of charred fauna over me, considering he was also known to keep and pamper an aquarium of sharks in his own throne room, plus a rather bratty chinchilla.

King Rhys reclaimed his quill and beat it against the table like a scepter. “I propose an amended draft stating who may attend these discussions and who may not.”

My head flopped toward him. “You don’t want me here because you can’t handle being made fun of, Your Majesty? Strange, as I’ve heard kings can handle many things. War and famine, for example.”

“We forbid our heirs from these proceedings, yet this glorified knickknack of a jester is here.” The man whipped his hand toward me. “Why is that?”

Oh, I could tell them why. “’Tis because I’m prettier than your offspring.”

I’d sprinkled enough casual exaggeration into the comment to earn a round of chuckles. True enough, the Royals’ successors weren’t permitted to these roundtables. Fair enough, Spring’s daughter was barely in the nursery. But this rule also explained the absences of the remaining Seasonal heirs and heiresses—apart from the Autumn Princess whose scowl lingered in my head and refused to vacate the premises.

Those steely eyes. That smart, tenacious mouth. That willful tongue.

Wake the fuck up.

Far-too-fetching visions dangled in my head like bait. I shifted in the seat, attempting to purge myself of them.

Spring was the Season of renewal—a distinguished substitute for the wordsexual, from eroticism to conception. We were the Peace Talks’ eternal host kingdom, which meant the Crown could invite whichever advisors they wished to this gathering. King Basil and Queen Fatima valued my judgement on issues from law to trade, disputes to grievances.

Since my appointment, I’d become their darling, the only soul at court able to talk my sovereigns off ledges, to reason with Basil and Fatima, and to approach the monarchs whenever petulance got the better of them.

They trusted me, relied on me. I needed that.

And come now. I hadn’t spent this entire morning vomiting humor. I’d supported fine arguments when they arose, and arose they had.

Just not consistently.

Summer could yowl all he wanted about my presence. The Spring Crown would be sure to let him know when they gave a shit.

“This is no place for jests orfools.” King Rhys’s monsoon of a voice rose another octave. “It’s a place of progress, lineage, andstandards. We must pride ourselves onrefinement. A policy revision of this summit’s tenets will seal the matter, ordain us with the inalienable right togovernwithout interference, so we mightfocus, or at the very least be spared a pounding head. Toanyonewho contests—” he pelted me with his gaze, “—the document will be indisputable.”

“Indisputable, in case you forget who’s in charge,” I clarified. “Otherwise, I might become so incensed by the exclusion that I’ll protest, rallying artists and courtesans to my side. We’ll steal mallets from the armory and loot the vaults. But so long as there’s an indisputable piece of parchment, not to worry. My absence in these talks shall protect you from both stress and subsequent meltdowns. I tend to have that effect.”

King Rhys squirmed. If he wanted a verbal cock joust, he’d picked the wrong opponent.

I pointed to his chalice of nectar. “I would put some alcohol in that.”

“Make him stop,” the King of Summer grunted to Spring.

Basil waved me off. “Poet, would you mind lifting your ass from my wife’s chair? And give your thoughts a rest. Have an apple,” he suggested. “They’re a gift from Autumn.”

“You’re too kind, Majesty.” Hopping off the throne, I sidled toward the sideboard flanked by rosy-cheeked pages and supplied with a frenzy of fruits, cheeses, and smoked fish, in addition to the pig.

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