The Broken Ones (The Malediction Trilogy 0.6)(21)

My ears perked up, but I hid my reaction, instead using threads of magic to pluck a blank piece of paper from a pile, as well as a pot of ink. It was a trick I’d used often: pretending to be engaged with my art while I listened to conversations going on around me.

“When would you be needing it, my lord?”

“As soon as possible.”

Creating a flat pane of magic, I set the paper atop it and then formed a pen of silvery blue, which I dipped in the ink. The boy’s image formed on the page beneath my hand, hair in disarray from an imagined wind, a faintly bashful smile on his face as though he’d been caught looking at a girl he fancied.

“Is the contact an associate of Trollus?”

“No, this is the first time we’ve dealt with them, so discretion will be paramount, as always.”

The boy’s body took shape beneath my hand, clothing modest but well-made, stained with clean earth rather than poor habits. The shoulders beneath still bore the slenderness of childhood, but were broadening and thickening as no troll’s would with the strength gained from hard labor.

“We could have it back to you within the week, if that suits, my lord.”

“It does.” Marc shifted on his chair. “It’s sensitive, so be certain to take care in the shipment.”

Why is he being so vague, I wondered, shading the boy’s sleeve. What is he trying to hide?

“As you say, my lord.”

“How do you wish to take your payment?”

“Regent’s mark in silver, if you would, my lord.”

My gaze twitched to the chest that floated up to Marc’s right. He counted the silver swiftly, pushing the stacks across the table. Then he added a modest stack of gold without comment. A bribe?

“Anything else you require, my lord?”

Marc shook his head, and I signed the bottom of the page with a large P, dried the ink with magic, then sent it floating across the room. The young man – Christophe – gaped at the floating page with wide eyes.

“Take it,” I said.

He gingerly plucked the page from the air, jaw dropping. “It’s… It’s me!”

Marc turned, and though his face was hidden by the shadows of his hood, I sensed the question in his eyes. Shrugging, I said, “Inspiration strikes when least expected.”

Truthfully, the expression on the young man’s face pleased me greatly, as did the notion of giving my art to someone who would value it. My work sold or was gifted to the wealthy – those who, while they might have an appreciation for art and talent, had countless pieces by artists as good as or better than me. My paintings were nothing more than additions to collections, rarely to be looked upon or thought of once hung on the wall. But for this boy, it would be special. Something to be cherished. That made it less a gift than an exchange, and one in which I came out ahead.

So caught up was I in the boy’s expression, that I didn’t hear the door open or notice the influx of power until Tristan plucked the sketch from the human’s hand. “What’s this?”

Panic crossed the boy’s face; half, I thought, because he was afraid of Tristan. But the other half was the fear of one about to have something precious taken from him, and I wanted to slap Tristan for being such a bully.

“Well?”

“It was drawn by her ladyship, Your Highness,” he responded, even as I snapped, “It was a gift. Give it back to him.”

“A gift…” Tristan’s eyes drifted to me. “You know the laws, Pénélope. Fair value must always be paid in exchanges with humans.”

The way he said humans sounded distinctly like vermin, and I glared at him. “It’s just a sketch. Five minutes’ worth of work.”

“Of your work.” Tristan cast a sly glance at the human boy. “Did you know that Lady Pénélope is reckoned one of the finest artists living? A portrait by her is worth a small fortune. Granted, this is only a quick sketch, but I’d still estimate its value at…” He frowned as though considering the numbers, then named a price that was painfully high. And painfully accurate. “You could purchase it, if you wanted.”

The boy’s cheeks were flushed to a high color, hands balled into fists as though he intended to strike out. But he only shook his head.

“Don’t want it?” Tristan waved the paper in front of the boy’s face, silver eyes wicked bright. “Be mindful that you tell the truth.”

“I want it.” The admission came out from between the boy’s clenched teeth. “But it’s beyond my means, Your Highness.”

“How unfortunate for you.”

“At least I had the opportunity to see it, Your Highness. My memory will have to do.”

Tristan snorted out an amused laugh, then waved a hand at them. “Go.”

I waited until the door shut before saying, “Was it really necessary for you to be so cruel?”

Tristan flopped down on one of the chairs. “I didn’t write the laws, Pénélope. But I do have to live by them, the same as you.”

“There’s a difference between living by them and using them to justify your ill behavior.”

“True.” He held up the page, focusing on my sketch. “This really is rather good. I’ll buy it from you for the novelty alone.”