Jester, p.1
Jester, page 1
JESTER
BRIELLE D. PORTER
To Johnny,
I know we don’t believe in soul mates,
but baby, you’re mine.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Acknowledgments
About the Author
More from CamCat Books
Imagining Elsewhere
More Young Adult Fantasy from CamCat Books
CamCat Books
CamCat Publishing, LLC
Fort Collins, Colorado 80524
camcatpublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
© 2022 by Brielle Porter
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524.
Hardcover ISBN 9780744305586
Paperback ISBN 9780744305906
Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744308853
eBook ISBN 9780744306651
Audiobook ISBN 9780744306491
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022930924
Cover and book design by Maryann Appel
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CHAPTER ONE
A group of tourists has gathered to watch me throw knives at a shopboy. They’ve come here for magic; I’ve kept them here with misdirection and lies. Maybe it’s not magic exactly, but it is undeniably entertaining watching my unwilling assistant flinch every time the knife point gets too close to his groin. I hold the knife steady, aiming, watching his limp hair flop as the wooden wheel he’s strapped to slowly rotates.
Stefan lets out a whimper, and I toss him a smile. He was a lot braver in the shop where I’d found him, flirting as he bagged my books. It hadn’t been hard to trick him into volunteering.
The crowd jeers.
“Aim lower!”
“Aim higher! Maim his ugly face!”
“Throw three at once!”
“Mirage, don’t you dare!” Stefan shouts.
The nighttime crowd is always hungrier for violence. I hold up my hands placatingly.
“Obviously, I can’t throw three knives at once. That would be dangerous and highly irresponsible . . .”
There are a couple of groans, but my reputation must precede me, because there are a few whoops and chuckles thrown in as well. With a sweep, I pull my deadliest knife from my belt, the one with the wicked serrated edge, brandishing it for the crowd.
“But I think we can spice things up a bit!”
I stab the knife into a vat of oil, the shimmering liquid sliding down the tang of the blade. Then, with a flourish, I sweep it through a nearby torch. Flame devours the knife. The crowd roars its approval. Stefan pales.
The hilt burns in my hand, throwing off sparks, as I wonder if perhaps I’ve gone too far. I’ve only tried this a few times. And the jackrabbit I had caught to practice with wasn’t even good to eat after, blackened to an inedible crisp.
Either way, I’ll give them a show.
Even though the knife feels like it’s blistering my palm, I take a moment to pan the audience. This is always my favorite part. The tension is a palpable thing, visible in held gasps, wide eyes, and awe.
Magic.
And that’s when I see him. Expression carefully neutral, almost bored, one eyebrow raised, arms folded across a suit that costs more than my father made in a year. A seeker.
My heart pounds, as I realize more than Stefan’s crotch is at stake here now. If I nail this, that pretentious clown in a suit has the power to get my act in front of the queen. I could be the next Jester. It’s the reason I’ve come here tonight, the same reason I’ve performed for thousands of crowds like this one.
Sucking in a breath, I hold the knife level. Stefan thrashes, but the bindings pinning him to the wheel like a dead butterfly hold. Right as I pull back to throw, there’s a shout.
“Kingkiller!”
The knife slips in my grip, but it’s too late. I watch, horrified, as the blade wobbles in the air, the trajectory off. It clatters to the ground a few feet away from Stefan, flames smothered in the dirt. There’s a moment of shocked silence, as though the crowd is waiting for me to do something.
Make a joke. Throw another knife. Something. I can still save this. Even Stefan gawps at me as I stare unseeing at the crowd. But I don’t do anything. I just stand there, the word pounding in my head, over and over.
Kingkiller.
Even real magic couldn’t save me now. It couldn’t save my father—traitor to the throne and murderer of the king. Not that I have magic anyway, as my father’s magic died with him when they executed him for treason. Leaving my family disgraced, leaving me to peddle illusion in a cheap imitation of the real thing.
The seeker is gone. I watch him leave, head shaking as if disappointed, the crowd swallowing him up again. My one big shot, gone as quickly as the smoke from my act.
I gather up my knives, suddenly too exhausted to even finish the show. There are a few shouted threats, but I hardly notice through the fog of disappointment. I can’t believe it’s over. Seventeen months I’ve waited for the opportunity to impress a seeker, and with just one word, it’s over. And I didn’t even make enough gold dust to buy myself dinner.
I loosen Stefan’s bindings, my fingers slipping as a loud gasp from the nearby crowd steals my attention. Stefan drops with a thud and a curse, but I hardly hear his complaints. Most of my audience has wandered off, inflating the already bloated numbers of the show next to mine. The entire stretch of street, known fondly to those in the business as the Noose, is filled with performers clamoring to be seen. Nowhere else in the kingdom of Terraca is there a place so glutted with magic: everything from the mundane enchantments like the ones used to keep the hotels refreshingly cool inside—even here in the desert—to the spectacular.
Sandwiched between the most impressive hotels in Oasis—including the impressive Crown Hotel—the Noose is one of the best spots to snag wealthy patrons with too much gold in their wallets and too much liquor in their blood.
A bolt of lightning so bright it leaves a streak in my vision cracks the pavement several feet away. Applause and gold nuggets are thrown at the magician, who bows.
Ignoring Stefan’s shouts, I wander over to see what has the tourists so hot. I’ve seen most of the shows in the Noose multiple times; after all, I’ve got to maintain a healthy edge over my competitors. So, I’m not surprised when I recognize the performer instantly. His name rises in my throat like bile. Luc.
Long blond hair swept into a knot on top of his head and with a jawline that could cut glass, Luc is one of the most popular acts on the Noose, besides my own. Even with his face arranged in an arrogant sneer, he’s still irritatingly handsome. A simple flourish of his long red coat sparks deafening applause. The crowds love him and he knows it. His gaze sweeps the crowd greedily, sucking in the cheers as though they physically sustain him. I know the feeling well.
I jolt when his eyes land on me, pick me out in the crowd. I want to shrink, to disappear, the same caught feeling as a mouse in the gaze of a hawk.
“Can I have a volunteer, please?”
The hand of every eligible woman in the crowd shoots up. He grins, cocky, surveying the desperate volunteers. He raises an eyebrow at me, intention clear. I cross my arms, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. With a disappointed shake of his head so slight I could’ve imagined it, he selects a different young woman.
Even from where I stand near the back of the crowd, it’s obvious she is heartbreakingly lovely and fantastically wealthy. Luc’s smile broadens as he helps her onstage. Flowing blonde hair, full lips, flushed cheeks, and a garnet necklace like a collar of blood against her pale throat. I roll my eyes. Luc definitely has a type.
He takes her hand gently and leans in to whisper something in her ear. She titters, cheeks rosy. She’s clearly enraptured, unaware of the fate that awaits her, a butterfly in a web. Even if she did know, I doubt she’d care. Half the women in this audience have seen Luc’s show before, and in spite of its macabre ending, they still keep coming in droves. He ignores her fluttering lashes, his eyes finding me again in the crowd. A chill runs down my spine.
Without breaking eye contact, he stabs the girl onstage. And even though I’ve seen his show hundreds of times, know exactly how it ends, a gasp breaks free from my tight lips as s he crumples to the ground. Blood stains the wood around her, a stage that has seen its fair share of death. Seeing my reaction, he actually has the nerve to smile as she bleeds out on the ground beside him.
He steps away from the blood before it can reach his expensive snakeskin boots, ignoring the paunchy man who clambers onstage with him, pawing frantically at the bloody maiden.
“Olivia! What have you done to her? Olivia, wake up!”
Olivia’s father, I assume, if his age and resemblance to the girl are any indicator. Luc smiles down benevolently at the man, whose face is blotchy and panicked. Tears run down his cheek as he blubbers, and my gut clenches both in shame for him and pity.
“Who will pay the debt for this maiden?” Luc asks. He doesn’t extend a hand to the man, who grasps at his trousers, unaware of the blood that stains his fine clothes.
“I will,” the man cries, wiping the snot from his face. “Please, I’ll do anything! Just bring back my daughter.”
Luc has chosen wisely; it’s obvious this man will pay anything for his jewel of a daughter. Luc eyes him as though weighing a handful of gold dust and then glances at the ropes of garnets choking the woman’s fragile neck. The desperate father seizes upon his meaning, and with shaking fingers unclasps the heavy necklace and passes it to Luc. Holding it up for the crowd first, Luc pockets the jewels with a satisfied smile.
“The debt has been paid. Arise, fair maiden!”
For a moment nothing happens. Everyone’s eyes are on the girl, whose lips have turned a faint blue. But my eyes are on Luc. I can see the strain as he tries to bring her back from Beyond. The sweat that runs, neglected, down his temple. The clenched fists. Watching for any kind of rise in her lungs. But they stay still.
I’ve only seen Luc fail once. That girl’s family was desolate but could do nothing, because that’s what these wealthy fools come here for. To be thrilled. To be entertained, no matter the cost. And Luc never fails to give them a show.
Heart pounding, I watch Luc cross the stage, jaw tight. To anyone else he looks collected, but I can see the way his teeth grind. She’s not coming back, I think, and before I can register the thought, Luc lifts the dead girl up and kisses her passionately. The man, her father, I remember numbly, lets out a startled cluck like a chicken on a chopping block.
For a minute it’s deathly silent. Then the girl gasps for air, hands scrabbling at Luc’s neck. I let out a gust of air, then feel my lungs inflate as hers do. Luc bows to riotous applause as gold nuggets rain on the stage. No one sees the girl, whose lips are still blue, whose lungs struggle to reset, her father crying into her hair. She’ll likely suffer brain damage, being without oxygen for as long as she was. That’s the price of magic, true magic. Luc’s show is cruel but effective. There’s a reason he’s known on the Noose as the devil. Sell him your soul, and he’ll give you a show. And although I’m loath to admit it, he’s my biggest competition for the position of Jester.
Sure enough, not one, but two seekers have joined him onstage. I watch as they fight for his attention, eager to claim the commission that comes with finding a worthy act. As though he can feel my eyes on him, Luc lifts his gaze from the seekers. I can read the words on his lips as clearly as if he spoke:
“Kingkiller.”
CHAPTER TWO
I whirl away, the anger so hot I can feel it pounding in my blood. How did that idiot find out about my father? For not the first time in my life, I curse my father for his murderous impulses. I don’t care if he killed the king. But I do care that he left me alone, disgraced, the daughter of a traitor, and without magic.
There’s no point in performing my last show of the evening now, not after Luc reminded half the Noose of my father’s wretched legacy. I reach the doors to the Shipwreck. I grasp for the mother-of-pearl inlaid handle, ignoring the valet rushing to open it for me. The hotel is nothing short of magnificent, despite the name. Marble floors gleam. Everywhere, jeweled sea life frolics, creeps, and slithers. The opulent chandelier is even a pearl-and-diamond jellyfish, long tentacles swaying. But the true jewel of the Shipwreck is the huge wall-to-wall aquarium, which boasts a large array of sharks, a shy cave octopus, and mermaids.
The mermaids aren’t real, of course. Like everything else here, they’re a carefully crafted illusion, not truly sirens of the deep but showgirls wearing fake tails, spelled to breathe underwater. Even knowing that, I find myself captivated. Their long, powerful tails flash as they swim elegantly through clouds of jellyfish. They are nude on top, only the barest sprinkling of glitter. One of the mermaids catches my eye through the glass, long azure hair floating, framing her heart-shaped face. I notice her eyes are bloodshot, no doubt from hours of exposure to tank water and exhaustion. The sympathy in her gaze shakes me, as if from a dream.
Turning away from the mermaids, I make my way to the front desk, praying Bale, manager of the Shipwreck, is off duty. Unfortunately for me, I haven’t had good luck for longer than I can remember, so I steel myself for the worst.
But the woman at the desk is new, dark hair pulled back into a shining clamshell clip and a worried look on her pretty face. I force a haughty expression, the kind most of the patrons here are wearing, and slam my hand on the heavy gold bell, even though she’s right in front of me.
She jumps and eyes me, taking in my worn and filthy costume and unkempt hair.
“I’d like to check into my suite early,” I say, drumming my fingers on the gleaming countertop, scanning the room as if everything in it displeases me. Still, the receptionist hesitates, not buying either my look or my tone. Time to seal the deal.
“After suffering a wretched bout of motion sickness through the canyon, I certainly hope your establishment proves itself worthy of my husband, John Ellington’s, patronage.”
This gets her attention.
“Of course, madam. We’ve been expecting you both.”
I cover my mouth as if yawning, hiding the relief that gusts out of me. The name was a crapshoot; John Ellington, oil baron and notorious gambling addict, visits Oasis often and always seems to have a reserved room. Thanks to the many holes pockmarking the desert from his drills, he has neither a shortage of gold nor new wives.
She riffles through the guest book and scratches a neat checkmark next to John Ellington’s name. I watch, hardly daring to breathe, as she pulls two tiny brass keys from a drawer. Just as she reaches to hand them to me, a shout turns my blood to ice.
I turn, groaning inwardly, as a short, sweaty man makes his way across the shining floors. Even in a hurry, he keeps his head high, as if to bely the fact that he physically can’t look down on anyone, not even me.
“Hello, Bale,” I say, resigned, when he finally reaches the desk. He daubs at his high forehead with an intricately embroidered handkerchief. Even Bale’s sweat is worth more than I am.
“Elizabeth, darling,” he begins, once he’s caught his breath, “this girl has a lifetime ban from the Shipwreck.”
“Come on, Bale,” I break in, as Elizabeth’s gaze darts in my direction in shock.
“I can’t believe you made it past the valets,” he mutters, wiping his brow again. “What’s the story this time, Mirage? Traveling royalty? A lady-in-waiting sent early to prepare the queen’s rooms?”
“She said she was the wife of Mr. Ellington, sir,” Elizabeth says, twin points of red on her cheeks. I curtsy.
“Ah, of course,” Bale says, shaking his head. “Get out of my hotel.”
“Please, Bale,” I say, hating the pleading tone that’s crept into my voice. I’d really prefer to do this the easy way tonight. “I’ll give you all the dust I make tomorrow.”
