Perfect Knave

by Kress, Alyssa

Patrice leaned close to whisper, "I hope you did not pay very much for him." There was a smirk in her voice.

  Lucy could not respond. She was completely wooden. Meanwhile, the guests began to murmur ominously as Emile set ready to try again. Lucy could hear the indecision among the crowd, whether to laugh or to hiss. She tensed, knowing what it was like to have all eyes upon one, to have everyone censoriously laughing.

  But Emile stopped himself on the point of throwing his pins a third time. He held up one hand, as if to say, 'wait.'

  The ominous murmurs calmed.

  He walked to the nearest table where he set down his three pins with care. Hands free then, he put them over his crotch.

  With an expression of great concentration, he gave a little jerk.

  Titters followed, bawdy and mocking. But Emile did not seem to notice. His face expressed only immense relief. Then he picked up his pins and tossed them at once into the air.

  One, two, three, the pins went flying in a circle, swift, fluid, seamless. The 'adjustment' had done the trick.

  Now laughter rocked the hall, but a laughter the juggler had deliberately called forth. Meanwhile, the pins flew very fast indeed, without hesitation or misstep.

  Lucy went absolutely still.

  He was good. He was actually very, very good. Skimming beside a table and without losing a beat in the flow of the circle, he turned the pins in his hands into oranges. A plate of oranges on the table meanwhile grew three juggler pins.

  Applause rang through the hall. It was impossible to see how he did it. Oranges soon became spoons, twisting end over end through the air. Not just three spoons but six, maybe, or perhaps ten. It was a circle of flashing silver around the man's smiling face.

  Emile had tricked her, Lucy thought, absurdly. For he had never said anything but that he was a true player. She had been the one to disbelieve, to assume he was lying.

  Now she watched him juggle, the muscles tensing and relaxing in his forearms and biceps, a swift and even rhythm, visible through the tight fit of his costume.

  Staring, Lucy wondered why she had never before noticed how a juggler's whole body was involved in the process. The task was not as easy as he was making it appear, grinning the way he did.

  And then he turned his grin Lucy's way.

  She felt a flush rise up from her chest. Not knowing how to respond, she kept her face blank.

  His grin faltered. He made another exchange, more difficult than the others.

  Lucy gasped. Instead of spoons, he now juggled delicate Venetian goblets, the goblets Lucy had proudly set before each place. Why, that glass was worth a fortune.

  He winked at her, as if he knew the exact value of the crystal he kept up in the air. He began to toss them in increasingly complex patterns. He pretended to almost drop one, caught two behind his back, a fourth under his leg.

  Lucy's heart dropped with each goblet, but Emile only smiled the harder.

  The knave, Lucy thought. The knave. He was forcing her to desire his success by juggling her precious goblets.

  Finally, one-two-three-four, the crystal goblets landed back on the tabletop. They hardly even wobbled as they settled into their proper places. Lucy pressed a relieved hand to her chest while Emile, with an elaborate flourish, bent to take a bow.

  A wave of applause acknowledged his prowess.

  The juggler smiled grandly, as though used to accepting such praise. Then he swiveled his head toward Lucy.

  His sudden attention was like a blow. Hapless, Lucy felt heat rise into her face.

  He arched a single brow. Well? that brow said. Didn't I do it? Pass your little test?

  With her face very hot, Lucy leaned back on her stool. Yes, he'd done it. Of course he had. But she felt the imperative to deny it. She could not allow him to win.

  Lucy raised one hand to her mouth. Slowly, she yawned, patting her fingers gently against her lips.

  The man lowered his raised brow. "No?" he asked out loud.

  Lucy was acutely aware of the eyes now turned her way, directed by the player's question. But she kept her lashes heavy, bored, and flicked her fingers in the air. If you must have an answer, then, no, the gesture said.

  To her consternation, a slow smile curved his lips. He actually seemed pleased by her dissatisfaction. "Very well, mistress." He inclined his head. "Then you shall have more."

  The people in the room were now staring at Lucy. They seemed to be figuring out it was she whom the juggler wished to please. Obviously, the notion surprised them.

  Lucy knew her face was very red, but she kept a demeanor of bored condescension. It was all she had.

  Meanwhile, Emile strolled toward the head table, straight for her position. A smug smile shadowed his lips. "Observe!" he called out in a voice to fill the hall. He picked up a silver platter heaped with stewed rabbit.

  Lucy rolled her eyes and sighed as Emile displayed the platter to one side and the other. But she wondered what he planned to do with the thing—juggle it?

  "Now." He shot Lucy a wicked look before passing the plate behind his back with a strange little dance step.

  When he brought the plate forward again, it looked completely different. Instead of red rabbit stew, a live rabbit sat on the clean plate, a fluffy white animal with one gray spot on its shoulder and a pink nose that snuffled nervously.

  Lucy drew in an astonished breath.

  Beside her, with no reason to pretend indifference, Patrice exclaimed, "Oooh!"

  Emile held the serving plate before Lucy. His eyes fairly danced at her, daring her to deny him now.

  Lucy let her breath out again slowly. Her eyes slitted. "I recognize this hare. It comes from my own colony." Not that she could explain how it had got from there to this clean silver plate in the hall.

  "Oh, Lucy," Patrice huffed. "Stop being such a spoilsport." Lucy's sister reached out to grab the nervous rabbit. With unerring instinct, Patrice cuddled the thing in a manner that made her look completely feminine.

  "Still she is not satisfied."

  Lucy's gaze shot from her sister to the juggler.

  He regarded her, one finger tapping his lips in apparent cogitation. Abruptly, he moved. A bouquet of flowers appeared in the hand he had been using to tap his mouth. He held them toward Lucy.

  She started to tremble. How had he produced those flowers? Water still dewed on them, they were so fresh. But even worse than the trick was the expression in his eyes as he proffered them. It was an expression of— No. It couldn't be. She would not believe it.

  "You are correct; I am not satisfied." Lucy's voice vibrated as she glared at him. "Have tears fallen from my eyes? Not a one, I assure you."

  His expression froze. The hand holding out the flowers shook. "You want more?" he whispered.

  She did not want more. More was the last thing in the world that Lucy wanted. She wanted him to stop. She wanted him to go away with his sparkling eyes and his strange attention toward her person. Why did he not look for Patrice's regard and approval? Every other man in Christendom did.

  "I am not satisfied," Lucy replied in a hoarse voice. Let him give up, she prayed. Let him realize she was a lost cause.

  But he only backed away, flicking his hand so that the flowers disappeared. He pointed one finger at her. "Your respect and admiration. I will have them."

  Lucy was unnerved by the expression on his face. She saw she had good cause for her alarm when his hand went down to his belt. With a sharp hiss, he slipped forth a dagger as long as his face.

  The hall hushed. There was not the smallest whisper as Emile reached back with his free hand.

  He plucked from his head a single hair. Haughtily, he showed it this way and that. Finally, holding up the single hair so that the sun from the smoke hole in the roof shone down on its gold, he whipped the dagger above his hand. Only half as much gold hair remained.

  Murmurs greeted this demonstration. A well-honed blade. Satisfied, Emile strolled to the table where he'd left the oranges piled
on their plate. He took two oranges in one hand and seemed to weigh them. Then he weighed the dagger in his other hand.

  Suspense hummed through the room. Lucy felt her bones turn to wood again. Surely he was not going to—

  Tilting his head, Emile casually threw one orange into the air. Then he tossed up the other one.

  No! Lucy's fingers grabbed the edge of the stool beneath her.

  With the same casual air he'd affected with the oranges, he tossed his open-bladed dagger into the air.

  Terrified, Lucy watched the sharp-edged blade turn end over end in the air. She envisioned hard steel slicing into soft flesh and bone.

  Emile watched the blade, too. His smile was less easy than before, concentrated. He caught the hilt of the blade and sent it flying again, along with the two oranges. Once, twice, a third time.

  Lucy wanted to close her eyes. She didn't want to see the inevitable disaster. But she couldn't close her eyes. She had to watch, to make sure it was the hilt of the dagger and not the blade that hit his open palm. Every time she heard the slap of leather against flesh, she flinched.

  Why was he doing this? Could he not have been satisfied with the marvelous exchange of spoons and goblets? But she knew the answer. She had goaded him into it by refusing to acknowledge his ability. There was no one to blame but herself. She held her breath and whitened her knuckles on the stool beneath her.

  In an uneven circle, the two oranges and flashing knife went round and round. Suddenly, Emile made a sharp, despairing noise. The syncopated rhythm failed, the dagger went flying wildly.

  The crowd gasped, but still, Lucy could not close her eyes.

  One-two-three-four. That was the number of half-oranges that fell before her father's place, bisected in midair. The dagger landed a moment later. The sharp blade ran itself ruthlessly through a bladderful of wine.

  It took Lucy a moment, staring at the quivering blade, to realize this had been no desperate mistake. The oranges and dagger had landed precisely where Emile had wanted them to go. He had been in control to the end.

  It took a moment longer for the rest of the crowd to come to the same conclusion. That's when the clapping began.

  Lucy's eyes went from the punctured bladder to the center of the hall. Emile stood there, hand on one hip, head thrown high. Applause rang through the hall, the stamping of feet and whistles. With a flourish more elaborate than the last, Emile took his bow.

  Lucy could not tell if she was more relieved or furious. How dare he! How dare he take such chances after all she had gone through to assure his wretched health!

  "Well done! Oh, excellent!" By Lucy's side, Patrice clapped madly. Her face lit with enthusiasm for the man she had earlier scorned.

  But Emile had eyes only for Lucy. As he strolled toward the head table, his gaze never left her, not even as he laid his fingers around the hilt of his blade. With an efficient jerk, he pulled it free.

  Wine gushed forth. Unmindful of the spray, Emile picked up the bladder. With his other hand he swept Lucy's goblet from her place. He filled it to the top. Then, circling his arm, he handed her the wine-brimmed goblet.

  With a great thump of her heart, Lucy leaned back. What, pray, was she supposed to do with this offering? Worse, what was she supposed to do about the strange insistence in the man's eyes? Frantic, she searched for a snappy retort.

  "Yes. Well done."

  Lucy's eyes popped wide at the voice. She turned.

  Her father! He'd actually been distracted from his discussion of the northern wool trade? But there her sire sat, smiling through his white beard and nodding his acknowledgment of the player.

  "An excellent entertainment," Latham pronounced in his deep and mellow voice. "Never have I seen the like of it before. Most intriguing."

  Emile gave a charming smile and, setting down Lucy's goblet, made another bow just for Latham. "You are too kind, gentle master."

  Latham's smile curled. "Oh, do you have any doubts as to your performance here?"

  Emile flushed, and his gaze shifted with strange uncertainty to Lucy.

  Latham, also, turned to Lucy. "I applaud you, daughter, for your discernment. You were the one to discover this talent, were you not?"

  "I—"

  Fortunately Latham did not require her to explain. "I beg you, gentle daughter, pay the man his rewards. He has earned them."

  Lucy stilled. Pay the man? Slack-jawed, she glanced toward Emile. Never had the subject of money come up between them. The exhibition had not been about that.

  "Make the reward," her father nevertheless recommended, "commensurate with the deed."

  Emile's flush deepened. Honey-gold eyes rested on Lucy.

  She felt her heart speed up. What was she supposed to pay him?

  A falling sensation assailed Lucy as she remembered. Her admiration and respect. That was the payment he had demanded of her. But in front of all these people!

  They would think her an infatuated fool.

  On the other hand, she had promised. In the wagon. She remembered all too clearly. Being a merchant, Lucy was a woman of her word. Fighting back her embarrassment, she opened her mouth.

  "Nay, master, nay. I want no pay." Smooth but hasty, Emile forestalled Lucy's coming admission. He waved a hand toward Lucy with a tooth-flashing smile. "Playing before so beautiful and charming a female as your daughter is pay enough for me."

  Lucy's face heated. Charming and beautiful! What sort of insult was this?

  But her father seemed to take the words as honest. Nodding, evidently pleased, he actually thanked the vagabond minstrel. "And we are sure," Latham added, "that our daughter thanks you, too."

  Emile's gaze flicked in Lucy's direction. His expression was... Yes, Lucy was sure his expression was mocking. Of course it was. Who in the room would believe he'd chosen to play solely for the charm and beauty of a woman who had neither?

  Shame washed over her like acid. Pride straightened her back. She almost reached for her purse then and there. Cold coin would let the man know what she thought of his false compliment.

  But her father and his pleasure stopped her hand. It would insult her father to slight the man he had just thanked so publicly. He might even reprove her did she attempt such a thing. Lucy let her hand smooth down her skirt past the purse.

  Meanwhile, Emile slowly smiled and backed away with another bow.

  The people in the room renewed their applause, as if the mere memory of his deeds were enough to make them admire him all over again.

  Lucy clenched her teeth. She would have acknowledged him. She'd been about to when he had ruined everything with his mockery. And now—and now—

  And now he was leaving the great hall, soon to leave the household, never to be seen again. Lucy tapped her thigh angrily. His insult and his triumph would go unchallenged.

  "Is something amiss, Lucy?"

  Lucy's attention snapped back to her father. "What? Why, no, father. What makes you think that?" Quickly, she made her face perfectly innocent.

  But Latham's white brows came down in concern. "You seem angry with the fellow. Has he done aught to insult you?"

  It took everything in Lucy's power to retain her demeanor. "No, father. How could a common juggler insult me?"

  Something strange happened to her father's face, as if he were repressing a smile. "Why, I do not know, daughter." With the same strange humor, he let his gaze drift across the room toward the departing player. "A passing fine entertainment, though. Most intriguing."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In the glow of the lantern, Emile's reflection looked blurred. Perched on a bale of hay, he turned his head to one side and rubbed his jaw. He was all alone in the barn tonight. Even after the excitement of his performance, nobody had thought to elevate him from such low quarters. So with the elbow of his sleeve, Emile polished Latham's silver plate and tried to get a better picture.

  There. Emile smiled into the heavy plate. That was better. He could see his handsome face and even the raft
ers of the barn above him. His beard did not need a trim.

  A rustle in the hay dropped Emile's fat smile. He whipped the plate behind his back quicker than the eye could see. With his heart jumping, he waited, listening for approaching footsteps. He slumped as a small gray mouse crept around the edge of his empty stall, its tiny nose quivering.

  Letting out a deep breath, Emile brought the plate out from the special pocket in the back of his costume. Not for the first time that evening, he weighed it in his hands. Solid silver. He chuckled.

  Lucy had thought him incompetent. Ha! Emile had stolen her father's plate right out from under her haughty nose. Sniffing, Emile ran a finger around the heavy silver edge.

  It was true that lifting the plate during dinner was not what he'd planned. He'd planned to snatch a trinket or two, nothing valuable, mere tokens. Just enough to let Lucy know who was the fool. He'd planned to be gone well before dinner.

  Then Gawain, her pikestaff of a steward, had caught him. Gawain had thrown Emile into a coffin of a room, with no light and little air. He had given Emile every reason to slip the bolt and be gone, carrying out his original intention.

  But a weakness had overtaken Emile. Sitting in that dark and airless room, he'd decided he must stay. He'd decided he would see Lucy's face when he proved himself to her.

  In the barn now, Emile pursed his lips and snatched the drawstring of a canvas sack. He sidled the sack from beneath a pile of loose hay, opened the neck, and slid in his silver plate. He could hear the clink of metal against metal. Quite a take. Yet as Emile sat there regarding the loot, his good humor faded. He had wanted Lucy's respect and admiration. He had gotten neither.

  His mouth twisted as he recalled the moment before the crowd. Latham had told Lucy to pay him, and Lucy had hesitated.

  With his heart sinking, Emile had understood the delay. She had not been impressed. Of course not. Lucy was a woman who recognized value, and there was no value in the ability to juggle glass goblets in the air. She had been on the point of declaring just that before everybody. Emile had been obliged to jump in quickly to forestall complete disaster.

  But isn't disaster what you deserve? a voice asked in his head.