Jester, p.6
Jester, page 6
Now all I need is a show.
I need an act good enough to get the queen to the Saguaro. It’s not hard to see why the Jester is almost always chosen from the Crown acts. For you to be considered for Jester, the queen must attend one of your performances. Only those lucky few will be allowed to perform in the final show, when the queen selects the next Jester.
The queen rarely deigns to leave the Crown during her visits to Oasis. Rumor has it, she hardly even leaves her rooms, much less the hotel itself, so competitors get creative trying to attract her attention. I need to get in front of her somehow, find a way to stand out from a sea of other performers.
After bribing a Crown housekeeper, I find out the queen’s exact arrival time to Oasis.
I pass not one, but two monstrous billboards featuring Luc as the Panther’s Jester act, not including the massive one hulking next to the Crown. I plant myself as far away from his leer as possible, trying hard to ignore the way his eyes track me, even on an advertisement.
A small crowd has gathered when the queen’s motorcar pulls up, despite all attempts to be discreet. The car is nondescript, the sort of bland luxury car every courtier drives in Oasis. If it weren’t for my tip, I’d never have guessed this was the queen.
A large man in a dark suit stands mute, holding open the door as the queen exits. I’ve never seen the queen in person, so it’s strange at first to see the woman whose image graces the giant painting in the lobby of the Crown Hotel. She is pale, almost translucent. Gold hair catches the sunlight, which she squints against. Before she can even raise a hand to block the sun, an umbrella is deployed, shielding her fragile complexion. Here is a woman who has never had to open a single door for herself. Her heavy velvet dress hangs on her, wilting in the heat. She looks like a relic, a traveler from a different time, and she is as out of place here in Oasis as feathers on a tarantula.
Turning, she plucks a tiny girl from the car. The girl is just as preposterously dressed as the queen, in a dress dripping with so many bows she looks like a cake topper. This must be the crown princess. Instead of the pallor of her mother, red blooms on her cheeks, and her little rosebud lips purse in disapproval at the sweltering heat. The queen anxiously fusses, brushing away the child’s sweaty curls, then passes her to a nearby attendant.
Swaying on her feet, the queen pays no heed to the assortment of curious onlookers. She takes the proffered arm of a bodyguard, her thin arms as frail as an eighty-year-old woman, and ducks into the hotel without a word. It’s a disappointment after waiting so long, and rather than sating my curiosity about the mysterious woman I’ll be competing for, it does nothing but stoke it.
“Just can’t stay away from me, can you?”
I jump when I realize the real-life version of Luc is standing just beneath his billboard counterpart, an identical sneer on his lips.
“I was hoping I might get the chance to shoot you again,” I retort, praying he didn’t see how badly he startled me. My heart gallops like a runaway horse. Luc smiles, revealing gleaming teeth. Even though I know his ability better than anyone else, it’s still jarring to see how quickly he managed to heal himself. His mouth should be ruined after what I did to him. And yet, there’s not a trace of the blast that ripped through him, not so much as a smudge of gunpowder on his full lower lip . . .
“It’s a pity this is as close to the queen as you’ll ever get,” Luc muses, stepping closer. Without meaning to, I instinctively step back. His smile turns predatory. “Her Majesty can’t be subjected to the sort of drivel the Saguaro turns out, of course,” he continues, running a hand through his long hair. How he found out about the Saguaro so fast is a mystery.
“Maybe I’ll just come to her then.” I’m mesmerized against my will, a trembling sparrow in the presence of a rattlesnake. Luc lets out a loud laugh.
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t, little Lis.”
I freeze at the nickname, trying hard not to remember the other boy who called me that name once, long ago. It’s enough to break the hold Luc has over me, at least. I cross the remainder of the distance between us, so close I can feel his breath on my lips. He smells like oranges and lies.
“There are worse things than being shot, you know,” I remind him, softly.
His answering smile is grim. “I have known more of hell than you could ever dream.”
I pause, disarmed. Those golden eyes track my lips hungrily, as gravity, and something else, pulls me ever closer. Like a dreamer falling out of sleep, I wrench myself away.
“Hell has nothing on me,” I respond, and leave him there, beneath his billboard.
How does Luc always manage to get under my skin? I stomp away from the Crown, teeth grinding. I’m so distracted, I almost walk straight into a shimmering wall of heat. Acrid smoke blooms from flames, which are rapidly eating the façade of a blazing theater. I stare, brain blank, trying to figure out if I should look for water or call for help, when the front door opens. Although there’s hardly a front door left to open, most of it charred beyond recognition, the person takes their time, shutting the blackened door carefully. My eyes water as I squint at the person, blurred around the edges from the heat of the blaze but seemingly uninjured.
“Hello?” I call, because I have no idea what else to say. “Are you okay?”
“Bugger.” A tall, gangly young man, in his mid-twenties or so, marches resigned from the inferno to meet me. He looks as if he were born from the fire itself, soot streaked on both high cheekbones. Ash floats from the sky, settling on his hair and shoulders, flakes of gray snow against his messy black hair. “The one time I commit arson and someone catches me in the act. Just my luck.”
He pulls off a pair of filthy spectacles, absently wiping them on his sooty shirt, streaking even more grime on them in the process. I goggle at him, at the inferno raging behind him.
“How did you do that?”
Grabbing my arm, the boy steers me away from the burning building, his footsteps purposeful.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” he says as he pulls me along, lips thin. Behind us, there’s a splintering crash as the building marquee topples to the ground. It occurs to me then that I may have just been taken hostage. Snapping my arm out of his grasp, I yank the vial of Euphoria from my pocket and hold it in front of me like a shield.
“Don’t you dare try anything,” I warn. “Or I’ll throw this hex right in your face.”
The boy’s face is pleasantly confused.
“What on the beard of a goat skull would I try? I’m just getting away from the scene of the crime. You asked a question, and I thought it would only be polite to bring you along so I could answer.”
I gape at him, the vial in my hand wavering. Fire magicians are rare, and I’ve never seen one that could walk through fire, completely impervious.
“How did you do that?” I demand, shaking the vial at him for good measure.
The boy’s eyes grow shifty. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about—”
Speechless, I gesture wildly in the direction of the building, billowing black clouds visible even from where we stand, a good mile away.
He sighs. “Oh, that. It’s quite a long story, I’m sure you don’t have the time—”
“Show me how.”
The boy stares at me, mouth slightly agape.
“Excuse me?”
“I want you to show me how you did that. Teach me,” I repeat. If I could learn magic like that, there’s nothing that would stop me from becoming Jester.
“I can’t just teach you—”
“Sure you can.” I’m breathing hard, my throat burns from the fire. “Because you’re going to make me your heir.”
The boy’s eyes widen. “I don’t think so.”
“I do.” I can hardly believe the words escaping my lips, words formed from desperation and smoke. “Because I have evidence that could land you a quick execution. Intentional arson, statute 67b.”
The boy stares at me. I memorized the heavy Book of Laws the year I turned eight. That was before I’d understood my father would never want me for an apprentice.
“I could kill you right here, right now, you know.” Flames spark in his hands.
“I have no doubt you could,” I respond, pretending the sight of both his hands bursting into flame doesn’t unsettle me. “But something tells me you won’t.”
I’m betting an awful lot on my gut feelings about a stranger. His hands clench and unclench as he considers me.
“Oh, very well. But not here.” Looking around, as though expecting a squadron of guards at any second, he darts down an alleyway, and I have no choice but to follow him. He ducks and twists down nooks and crannies in such a bizarre, illogical pattern that I wonder if he’s trying to lose me. A quick, disappointed look over his shoulder when he spots me keeping pace confirms my suspicions. I hurry my steps so I match his stride, even though his legs are far longer than my own. My lungs burn hotter than the flames eating the theater behind us, but there’s no way I’m letting him get away now.
Finally, the boy huffs to a stop in front of a bookshop. I stare up at the faded sign over the door: The Book Emporium. Below the hours is a large “Closed” notice, hanging crookedly. I honestly didn’t even know we had a bookshop in Oasis, let alone one for used books. The boy makes an impatient noise, and it’s then I realize he has been standing there, holding the door open for me. I hurry past him into the cramped store, which is tiny but pristine. Orderly rows of book spines peer out, organized neatly by author and category.
“Tea?”
I jump as the boy nudges me with a dainty ivory teacup. The handle is shaped like a carp, I realize with some amusement.
“Do you work here or something?” I ask, taking the cup from him, more out of surprise than actual need. Peppermint-scented steam wafts from the tea, tickling my nose.
“No. I own it.”
Folding himself neatly into a large armchair that looks as though it’s older than Oasis itself, the boy balances his own teacup on his knee and takes a leisurely sip.
I gape around the shop.
“Please, sit down.” The boy motions me toward another armchair, this one covered in gaudy pink roses. I hesitate, unsure if we should even bother with pleasantries.
“Come now, I’ve even given you the good chair.”
I sit reluctantly.
“I lied.” The boy picks at a bit of emerald fuzz on the arm of his chair. It matches his own startlingly green eyes. “I gave you the chair with the saggy middle.”
It’s clear he’s going to make this as difficult as possible. I can’t say I blame him. Conceding the loss, I settle into the saggy chair. The springs are tired, but it’s surprisingly comfortable, the worn velvet cool against my skin. There’s a soft thud as a scowling gray cat lands on my knee, startling me. Its face is squashy, and it eyes me disdainfully before curling into my lap.
“George likes you,” the boy says, sipping his tea. “He’s usually right about people.”
I smile.
“But obviously not about you,” he adds. My smile falters.
“Who are you?” is all I can manage.
The boy slaps a palm to his head. “Oh, how dreadfully embarrassing! All the blackmailing made me forget basic etiquette, it appears. I’m Cillian Forge. I specialize in rare and occult books.”
“And arson?” I throw him a wry smile, stroking George’s long matted fur.
“You really must stop bringing that up,” Cillian says, shaking his head. “You’re a witness. I’ve never committed a crime before, I have no idea what to do with a witness. Kill you, perhaps?”
I throw up my hands, upsetting George, who casts me an irritable look.
“You wouldn’t dare—”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
George settles back on my lap once he’s certain I’ll stay good and still. I have no idea what to make of Cillian. He’s like an eighty-year-old dowager stuck in a young man’s body.
“Why did you set the theater on fire anyway?” I ask, sneaking a cookie from the plate between us.
“None of your business,” Cillian says, sniffing. He gestures to my tea. “You’d better drink that before it gets cold.”
I lift the cup to my lips, and the smell of mint with an acrid undertone wrinkles my nose. I set the cup down and raise an eyebrow at Cillian.
“Poison? Really?”
Cillian throws a hand to his heart, in mock offense. “I would never!”
“Then that was the worst-smelling cup of tea I’ve ever been offered.”
This seems to offend him more than my accusation. Dumping the contents of both cups down the drain, he refills them both from the same kettle and takes a sip, keeping his eyes on me the entire time.
It could still be a trick, but I’m parched. I decide to risk it. This cup smells delicious, with notes of cool mint and rose. It soothes my dry throat.
“Attempted murder and arson, all in one day. You’re a busy fellow,” I note.
Cillian scowls. “Don’t be dramatic. I wasn’t trying to murder you. Let’s just say you would’ve suffered severe intestinal distress for several hours afterward, nothing more.”
I roll my eyes skyward.
“Let’s get this over with. In order for you to keep your mouth shut about . . . what you saw that had absolutely nothing to do with me, you want me to make you my heir?” Cillian goes on.
I nod once, swirling the cup. Mint leaves and rose petals spiral.
“Fine. But I plan to live forever, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t intend on waiting for you to die,” I say lightly. This is the part that might get me killed, so I need to play my cards right.
“Excuse me?”
“Well, that’s an awful lot of risk for me, isn’t it?” I give him a bland smile. “After all, we’ve only known each other for an hour or so, and you’ve already tried to poison me.”
It takes a moment for my words to sink in, as though he’s either unable or unwilling to understand. But catch on he does, and his rage sparks instantly.
“You can’t have it now, you horrible little wretch—”
“Well, you did just burn down a building, so I really don’t think that’s your call, now, is it?”
No mock outrage now. Cillian looks as if he’s ready to shove my head down the drain and force me to lick up whatever remains of the poisoned tea. I can see him processing my words, trying, like a caged thing, to find a way out.
“Listen, you seem like a nice guy,” I say, patting his hand. The gesture clearly infuriates him. “But I was the high judge’s apprentice. Don’t even bother trying to find a loophole.”
It’s not exactly true, but I know as much as if I had been, so why bother with technicalities? Cillian’s shoulders slump. It’s a temporary defeat however, and I know it. This boy does not seem like the type to give up easily.
“I take it you have no family ability?” Cillian finally asks, eyes narrowed.
“My father won’t tell me his gift until I’m of age,” I say finally. It’s both true and not true. I never knew what my father’s gift was, but only because it wasn’t meant for me.
“So, you have no magic.” Cillian concludes.
“Not yet.”
“Well then, you know as well as anyone that magic cannot be taught. It must be passed down, bestowed as a gift upon an heir, usually a blood relative—”
“Which is what you’re going to make me,” I interject. Cillian scowls.
“Fine. But we’re doing this on my terms. If you’re going to steal my magic, you’ll have to learn how to use it properly first. I refuse to pass such a dangerous gift down to someone unprepared for it.”
“How long will that take?” I ask.
Cillian considers. “Six weeks, at least.”
“I don’t have six weeks!” I burst out, wanting more than anything to smack him across his smug face. “I need it now.”
“Unfortunately, this is the same process all magicians must go through.” His face is serene, the face of someone who knows they have the winning hand. “I’m afraid it’s nonnegotiable.”
“You’re hardly in a place to make demands,” I return. He’s right though. If I don’t learn the magic first, I could end up killing myself. If I can just get his magic before the final show, which is in two months, I’ll be fine.
I cross my arms over my chest. I’ll let him have this one. “All right, I’ll let you have four weeks in which to teach me.”
“Six.”
“Five.”
“Six.”
He’s infuriating.
“You’ll give it to me whenever I’m ready,” I snarl, to which he only smirks.
“All right,” he amends, like a saint bestowing a blessing. “I’ll give you my magic as soon as you’ve proved you can pass the Apprentice’s Exam. Come back tomorrow and we’ll start your lessons.”
It’s too easy. I don’t trust him.
“I want it in blood.”
Cillian stares. Blood pacts are binding, and no amount of magic or hesitation can undo a deal sealed in blood.
“No.” The word breathes out of him, so quiet I almost don’t hear.
“It’s that or death,” I shrug. “Your choice.”
“Who’s going to believe you?” Cillian growls. “The high judge is dead, and you have no evidence.”
“The word of a witness can be confirmed, especially once the crime has been investigated thoroughly.” I let my words sink in like hooks. “Of course, I’m sure you covered your tracks completely though, and absolutely no damning evidence will come to light during the investigation, thorough arsonist that you seem to be.”
I lean back, pretending to pick at my fingernails, but secretly watch Cillian closely through my eyelashes. His face is gray as he processes my threat, no doubt going through every last step of the crime in his head, exactly as I’d hoped.
“Fine,” he snarls finally. I try not to let my relief show, though it courses through me like a wave.
Unfolding a dainty penknife, he slices the palm of his hand, careful to catch the blood that spills from the wound before it can stain the carpet. Delicately, he wipes the knife on a handkerchief before passing it to me, jaw clenched. I draw the same blade across my own palm, trying not to wince at the sudden flash of pain. Cillian scowls as a rivulet of blood escapes my trembling hand, blooming on the periwinkle tablecloth below.
