Wizard's Masquerade, page 39
“I didn’t scare anyone off,” she said lightly, determined not to be riled up by the jester tonight. A sense of contentedness was humming around her, and she wouldn’t let him ruin it. “Why would you think I did?”
He folded his hands. “Well, maybe you did, and maybe you didn’t, but I hear you’ve been creating a rather scary reputation for yourself. A game?” he added, shaking the cloth bag of tiles.
“A game,” she agreed and watched him upturn the bag so that the small ceramic tiles spilt onto the table with a shower of clicks and clacks. The sleeping drunkard nearby snorted loudly in his sleep before resuming his even snoring. “What do you mean? I don’t have a scary reputation, do I?”
Instead of answering her question, he asked: “Why don’t you come sit by me? You’re too far away!”
It was a power play, but she did as he said, with the hope that she would catch more flies with honey. She stood and walked the length of the table and sat across the corner from him. The jester seemed both surprised and pleased by this.
“So?” she prompted. “You were saying something about my reputation?”
He leant back on the chair’s legs, swaying precariously as he answered, “Why, Huskarl Leyna, I’m referring to your role in the arrests, of course! I hear you’ve been a busy little bee, rounding up all those nasty traitors. And it seems you are the celebrated hero of the castle now—the saviour of the people, the light in the darkness, the heart of the lion, the woman of the hour.”
Leyna rolled her eyes. “Where are you going with this?”
Jester let his chair fall forward with a bang and leant forward with his elbows on the table.
“I should warn you, Huskarl Leyna, that your reputation is becoming somewhat infamous.”
“You’re warning me, are you?” She gave a small smile to hide her annoyance. The subtle intimacy they had shared the other day by the fountain was gone. “I don’t see why I should be infamous—that implies I’ve done a bad deed.”
“Perhaps not a bad deed, per se,” he mused. “But you should know the arrests are somewhat controversial.”
She grimaced. “How did you come to that conclusion? Everyone supports our work. We’re holding the traitors accountable. In fact, some people feel we aren’t doing enough.”
“Indeed.” He stacked the tiles into neat little rows. “But I wouldn’t be so sure that everyone approves of the Arrest Unit’s methods.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, while you were throwing every Tom, Dick, and Joe into the dungeons, did you ever stop to consider that you’re making enemies along the way? Surely, you realise that these people have friends and families? Some of whom live in the castle?”
It was becoming steadily harder to mask her impatience. “As I said, the greater majority are supportive of the arrests.”
“Yes…and that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?”
He finished dealing out the game tiles, propping his up so she wouldn’t see the numbers painted on them. She followed suit, arranging her tiles so the coloured numbers etched into the surfaces faced her. One tile held a circular face that winked at her: a joker tile. She resisted the urge to smile—it could come in handy later.
“My point is this…” continued Jester, “have you even stopped to consider whether these people are actually guilty?”
He placed his first tile on the table between them, where the ceramic clacked against the wooden surface satisfyingly.
“Of course I have,” she said “What kind of question is that?
“I am merely asking as a concerned citizen…”
He was in full swing acting as the jester tonight, and there was hardly a hint that he had ever been anyone else. And yet, his questions were hinting at something more serious than a simple jest.
“We have evidence of their crimes,” said Leyna.
“Which is?”
This caught her off guard for a moment—she didn’t have an answer prepared.
What was the evidence? Her mind had gone blank. Mostly, she had simply been following her orders—that was what a good soldier did. The chain of command would fall apart if soldiers questioned their orders. Rules and structure were necessary to maintain peace. The responsibility that Jester seemed to refer to lay with Captain Marton, who, as her superior, she was duty-bound to follow.
“Well, there’s a list,” she offered.
“Ah yes, the steward’s infamous list of traitors! Well, that certainly does lay my fears to rest.”
“You sound sceptical.”
“Why, not at all. I was simply making sure that you’re doing your due diligence—dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s, so to speak.”
Leyna changed the subject.
“Let’s talk about Seth.”
The small tilt of his head revealed her directness surprised him. She was learning to read him.
“Seth who?” he tried. “Surely, not the baker’s boy on Hart’s Lane?”
“You saved him,” she whispered, ignoring his attempt at humour. “Using magic. Some sort of levitation spell.”
And with that, the jester was gone, the shift almost as obvious as if he’d removed his multicoloured mask.
“It wasn’t a levitation spell,” he said.
“What was it, then?”
“A pressure spell.”
She frowned. It had occurred to her that the invisible, pulsing force that had kept the prince suspended in the air was like a pressure spell, but she’d dismissed the theory because she’d seen nothing like it before. Pressure spells were her forte. She had even received recognition from the Guild for her skills in casting them—but she’d only ever pushed them outward from her person, creating a shock wave to repel away foes and deflect projectiles. It had never occurred to her that a pressure spell could be cast so it appeared somewhere else. “How did you make the spell appear next to the balcony?”
Jester leant forward with a secretive smile and whispered, “Magic.”
She snorted. “Funny. So, does that mean you’re a wizard?”
He inclined his head. “Yes. And now you know.”
“And now I know,” she repeated back, even though this was surely only one of many of his secrets. But perhaps this had been the key to unlocking the rest—one of the last pieces of information that she needed to be absolutely sure of her suspicions.
An interesting silence stretched between them as she openly looked him up and down, trying to see beyond the distracting costume. She took in his lean, athletic frame; the narrow face; the dark brown hair; and the shape of his jaw and neckline beneath the painted diamonds. The blue eyes were all too familiar, and she tried to keep her face emotionless even as her heart raced.
It couldn’t be…could it?
“Like what you see?” the jester asked, but she didn’t smile, and she didn’t lower her gaze as she sat, thinking.
They were interrupted by Floofy, who scurried down her sleeve and fell dramatically into the gravy boat with a splash.
“Get out of it!” Leyna rebuked, but she laughed as she fished him out. Floofy’s fur was soaked and dripping with fat drops of thick brown sauce as she set him on the table.
“Yah!” he cried in protest as she towelled him off with a napkin.
“Cute,” murmured Jester.
“Yah?” queried Floofy, turning to face the man. The creature sniffed the air, then waddled across the table uncertainly.
“Why, hello there,” said Jester, dipping a slender finger into the gravy sauce and offering it to Floofy.
Floofy continued to sniff the air, and Leyna waited to see how he would react to the jester. Generally, Floofy was disinterested in meeting new people; he was accommodating of pats and attention, but unless food was on offer, he would quickly lose interest and return to Leyna.
Although this was not the first time Floofy had been with her when she’d been around the jester, the two had never been in close proximity before.
Floofy approached Jester’s outstretched hand. Out of character, the creature ignored the offered gravy sauce and emitted a high-pitched, joyful cry before scurrying up the jester’s arm. Reaching his shoulder, Floofy licked his ear enthusiastically before nuzzling against the side of his neck.
It made Leyna more than a little jealous to see Floofy greet the jester so readily. Her surprise must have shown on her face because the jester chuckled and said:
“Let me guess…he doesn’t normally take to strangers?”
Leyna frowned and looked back down at her Ruffles tiles. “Oh, no, he loves meeting new people,” she lied, determined not to give Jester the satisfaction of thinking he was special. “Nothing he likes better.”
The interchange begged the question of why Floofy was so excited by the jester—as if he recognised him. Had Grace been right about the jester being her secret admirer? Another piece of the puzzle slotted into place.
Leyna cleared her throat and gestured at the game tiles. “Shall we get on with it?”
They continued to play, taking turns to set down tiles with a clack. She tried to focus on the game but peeked at Jester through her lashes. The third time she did this, he caught her eye, and a jolt ran through her. She hurriedly dropped her gaze and placed another tile.
Click.
Then it was his turn.
Click.
Finally, she broke the silence. “Show me.”
The jester wetted his lips in a way that disarmed her. “Oh, gladly. But you’ll need to be more specific. There are many things I could show you.”
She felt a blush warm her cheeks. “The spell,” she clarified. “Show me the pressure spell you used to save the prince.”
“Oh, that? Well, I suppose I could give you a little demonstration.” His lips drew to one side in a smirk. “I don’t suppose there’s anything else you’d like me to show you while we’re at it?”
“There isn’t,” said Leyna coolly.
“Very well.”
They both rose and moved to the rear of the kitchen, leaving Floofy unattended near the gravy boat.
“Ready?” he asked, picking an imaginary speck of dust from his doublet.
“Yes.”
The jester licked a finger, then used it to smooth a strand of hair back behind his ear. This was a pointless motion as his dark brown hair was already slicked back with oil, but it still didn’t seem to sit right.
Leyna crossed her arms as she waited. He was wasting time, amusing himself by letting the anticipation grow.
“I’m waiting,” she said.
But the jester was still savouring the moment and proceeded to breathe into his hands and rub them together. “Are you sure?”
“Get on with it.”
He chuckled. “Alright, but before I do—how about we make things a little more interesting?”
“How’s that?”
“Well, why don’t you cast a spell at me? Perhaps one of your charming little fireballs—”
Leyna didn’t need to be told twice. Her casting hand flew up, and she’d muttered an incantation before he’d even finished speaking. A small, scorching ball of flame shot out from her hand at the jester.
He yelped and leapt out of the way, but the fireball caught his cape and set it alight, the fiery flame burning a hole through it.
He seized a nearby jug and doused the flame with beer, and the smouldering cape fizzled out with a small wisp of smoke. He sighed and turned to Leyna. Even through his mask, she could tell that he was unimpressed.
“Really? Did you have to do that?” He held out one side of his cloak to inspect it; a charred hole interrupted the baroque pattern of his bright purple cape. He clucked his tongue. “Shame, I rather liked this one.”
She gave an innocent smile. “Oops.”
Jester released the flowing fabric, and it fell to his side.
“Now,” he said, “let’s try this again—”
Leyna raised her hand to cast another fireball, but the jester leapt forward and seized her wrist.
“But this time, how about you use a pressure spell instead, hmm?”
Their eyes locked, and she narrowed hers in a glare. He didn’t look away.
“Let go of my hand,” she growled, trying to wrench it free, but the jester didn’t release it. Instead, he kept a firm grip on her wrist as he stared down at her. She squirmed where she stood, trying to summon the words to reproach him, but she couldn’t concentrate with those blue eyes piercing into hers. Why did they look so familiar?
“As much as I delight in your tendency to set me on fire, Huskarl Leyna, why don’t we avoid spells that could destroy the kitchen, shall we? I don’t fancy going on an empty stomach tomorrow when the cook finds his kitchen razed to the ground.”
“Fine,” she snapped, yanking her hand back at the same time that he released it. She stumbled backwards, rubbing her wrist. He hadn’t hurt her, but the sensation of the jester’s touch lingered on her skin. “A pressure spell, then.”
He gestured towards her with a smile. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Her nostrils flared, and when she cast her pressure spell, she didn’t hold back. Raising her hand, she spoke the incantation, and a nearly invisible sphere of energy blasted out in front of her. It wasn’t anywhere near the intensity of the one she had cast against the beasts in the woods—she was mindful that they were indoors and at close quarters—but the spell still packed a punch, and the impact should have been enough to shove him against the brick wall.
Except he was prepared. His hand shot out, and a pressure spell of equal magnitude appeared between them. The two spells collided uncomfortably, like two shields clashing, and they whirred and sizzled against each other with a loud, steady hum.
She gasped as she held the pressure spell in place and a bead of sweat trickled down the side of her face. It was like an arm wrestle between wizards, except using magic.
Gritting her teeth, Leyna fed more energy into the spell, which pulsed in response, forcing Jester to take a half-step back. She felt a flicker of triumph.
I’m the more powerful wizard, she realised, and with that knowledge, she forced the jester to back up against the brick wall behind him. She walked the spell forward several steps, and though she couldn’t read his expression, she had put him in his place.
But then, something unusual happened. Something she had never experienced before. As the spells crackled against each other, a strange sensation latched onto her, connecting her awareness with Jester’s powers, and it awoke an ability she did not know she had.
Suddenly, she could sense the jester’s powers as if they were her own.
It was as visceral as if she’d reached out to feel his pulse, and she was startled by how much energy he had left—more than her, at any rate.
She gasped and lifted her head to see if he’d felt the connection too, but if he did, he gave no sign. And yet, an invisible cord was pulsing between them by which she could gauge the full extent of his powers.
It was like opening a door and exploring a house. His magical abilities were laid out before her like a table covered in weapons. There was no time to take a full inventory of his powers—his arsenal was impressive. There were the bread-and-butter spells, of course, like fireballs and shield spells, but where her own repertoire was limited to less than fifty spells, the jester boasted what must have been close to a hundred. Some were spells she already knew—charms to enchant objects, wards to protect entire buildings, and spells of illusion. Then there were those that could soften his footsteps—shame he’d never bothered to silence the bells—, morph him into an animal, or inspire fear in his enemies.
The morphing spell came as a surprise. He had used it only recently, and of all the creatures she might have pictured him as, she was a little vexed to realise that he had transformed into a sleek, white cat with a bushy, flamboyant tail.
Continuing her search, she moved to the back corner of the room, she sensed something forbidden, something that felt like…
Shame.
Curiosity got the better of her. Tucked away, she found a small, dark spell, out of sight as if he’d tried to hide it from himself. But she found it and could see it for what it was. It was a terrible spell that could kill—and he had used it before. She left it there, undisturbed.
The entire experience had only taken seconds. Leyna glanced up to search Jester’s face, but he seemed oblivious to the fact that she was rifling through his abilities like a thief.
As she probed further along the link, she could see far more than simply his magical abilities—she could also see his stores of energy.
And they were brimming, as if he had hardly expended any energy at all in their duel. Shock rippled through her as she beheld his powers, and she nearly fumbled her pressure spell, only just managing to hold on to it.
I’m going to lose.
A measure of a wizard’s power had less to do with the number of spells he knew and more to do with the amount of energy he had. There was no point in knowing hundreds of spells if one only had the energy to cast a handful. Part of their training at the Guild, therefore, had been to increase the size of their reserves and to learn to use their energy more efficiently.
The jester seemed to have no shortage of either abilities or energy, and it dawned on her that he wasn’t losing this ‘arm wrestle’ at all. Instead, he was holding back, allowing her the illusion of victory, when really, he was quite comfortable in holding her assault at bay.
“You’re letting me win,” she complained, but Jester only cocked his head at her.
She licked her lips as she focused on maintaining the spell—she still had plenty of energy left, but he had far more.
I can’t win against him. Not in a battle of stamina.
Defeat was inevitable, but she had too much pride to end the duel, and the Rutherford motto—We fight, even without hope—spurred her on.
They had reached an impasse.
An outside observer might have assumed she had the upper hand, especially with the jester backed into a wall. But like most things with the jester, appearances were deceiving.
All of a sudden, something solid pushed against her back. She gasped and turned her head, expecting to see someone behind her.
