Next to the Bard, the trickster lounged against the rough bone wall. He wore a black armband too, although it was almost obscured by his night-black suit.
He leaned negligently against the rough bone wall, a skull and a femur pressing into his spine. His shoulders were relaxed, and his hands were shoved carelessly into his pockets. He was posing, a great actor on a dusty, wrecked stage. The wind laughed. It had missed the trickster.
His mouth curved up on the right side, his dark eyes sparked mischievously, and he looked over the broken-bone-rubbled room as if he’d just played the greatest joke of all time and none of them knew it yet.
The cruel one’s sister stood behind her brother and stared hatefully at the trickster. He didn’t notice—or if he did, he didn’t care.
“Perhaps,” the trickster said to the Clark, drawing out the word, “you would care to inform us why we were invited to this delightful gathering.” Then he looked toward the man, the smile still in place, and added, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The man nodded, and the wind moaned. The trickster was being polite, but for once, the wind didn’t like it. Was it polite to remind a being that they’d lost someone?
“Likewise,” the man said, “I’m sorry to hear about the untimely death of your siblings. But . . . every person’s curse is someone else’s blessing. Yes?”
At first, neither the Bard nor the trickster acknowledged the man’s response. The Bard only sniffed and tugged on the sleeves of his suit jacket.
But finally, after staring at the man for a long moment, the trickster’s half-smile became a full smile. “Indeed. What is an untimely death but a timely blessing?”
“Luvic,” the cruel one’s sister said, her voice a high whine, similar to the noise the wind made when it screeched through empty attics. “I seem to remember you fighting next to the null at the closing ceremony. You even seemed friendly. Perhaps you might explain your actions?”
The Bard cut his hand through the air, a threatening gesture. “Careful, child. You are unnecessary.”
“I wondered too,” the Clark mused, his voice a breathy, hissing sound. “Your son is now heir, but there are many branches on the Bard tree. Is he loyal, Dagrid? Or is he a serpent in your garden, working with the Smiths?”
The Bard narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth like a cornered jackaltooth. Then he snapped his fingers. “Show them.”
The trickster kept his smile in place. He unbuttoned the cuff of his left suit jacket. He pushed it up, then he unbuttoned the cuff of his white shirt. As he slowly rolled up his shirtsleeve, the conjurers leaned forward.
The whisper of the fabric was the loudest noise in the catacomb room. The wind hesitantly moved closer and brushed over the trickster’s lean forearm.
Before, the trickster’s skin had been smooth and perfect, like a drop of dew, golden and luminescent under the rising sun. Now, the skin on his forearm was mottled, gray, tortured, and broken. The wind rushed over the scarred tissue, riding the ridges and tasting the pain.
The Bards loved objects of power. They had entire rooms full of them. Of all the conjurer families, they held the most. Not even the wind knew the full inventory. But the wind had seen this object before. It was a bristle of fur from the first jackaltooth. When sewn into a being’s skin, it tortured for a full rising and setting of the sun. The torture was the secondary effect. The first was making the being unquestionably loyal.
What were jackaltooth made of? No one knew for sure. Hyenas. Wolves. Jackals. Wild dogs. Creatures. Humans. The wind didn’t know. But it did know jackaltooth were loyal to the Bards, and only the Bards.
The wind skimmed over the bristle stitched into the trickster’s skin. The bristle pulsed, and the wind shied away from the red-hot pain of it.
“My heir showed he will do anything for power. While I appreciate and approve of this, it also saddens me.”
The wind blew a gusty laugh, stirring the dust. It was the father who had told the trickster to slay his siblings, but the wind knew betrayers always feared betrayal.
“Thus . . .”—the Bard waved his hand at the trickster’s arm—“you all know of this object. The jackaltooth touch. While I live, my heir is loyal to me. Do you question my integrity? Would any of you believe I am for the Smiths? My heir is loyal to the true crown.”
The wind rode on the long silence as the conjurers stared at the trickster’s mottled, scarred arm. The man looked on with disgust. The wind knew how his mouth curled when he found something distasteful. But the cruel one and his sister, they stared greedily at the trickster’s arm as if they wanted to cut it off him and play with the object buried there.
“Good,” the Clark hissed. “That is enough. I invited you here for a quorum. The games did not close properly. The duel was not finished. The winner was not declared before the Smith paladin died. The rules were not followed. According to section thirty-eight, article six, clause fifteen, if two or more players’ scores are tied at the completion of the games, a conjurers duel will be fought to determine the winner. My son won the duel. The null died before the duel was complete?—”
“That’s debatable,” the man said.
“Wolfgang leaped into the ring before my son could stand. Primus was ready to fight?—”
“Is that so?” the trickster drawled. “Then why was he flat on the floor for a full ten minutes while the hall collapsed around us?”
“Take note,” the cruel one snarled. “Heir or not, loyal or not, I will not be insulted by a Bard thirdborn.”
“Answer the question,” the man said. The wind swirled behind him, pushing a small pile of dirt and crumpled bone into a tiny hill. “If you were going to win, then why didn’t you rise during the fighting?”
“He did rise,” the sister said. “He fought. You must not have seen him, considering you were surrounded by bloodthirsty Smiths.”
