“Even without liars, there can still be lies,” I say carefully. “Whatever rumors you heard, I can explain what really happened.”
“Because I ought to believe you? I think not.” She smiles. “We can call in our marker anytime we like, mortal girl. Lord Roiben may send me to you, for instance, to be your personal guard.” I wince. By guard she obviously means spy. “Or perhaps we will borrow your smith, Grimsen. He could make Lord Roiben a blade that cuts clean through vows.”
“I haven’t forgotten my debt. Indeed, I hoped you would let me repay it now,” I say, drawing myself up to my full authority. “But Lord Roiben shouldn’t forget—”
She cuts me off with a snarl. “See that you don’t forget.” With that, she stalks off, leaving me to think of all the smarter things I should have said. I still owe a debt to the Court of Termites, and I still have no way to extend my power over Cardan. I still have no idea who might have betrayed me or what to do about Nicasia.
At least this revel does not seem particularly worse than any other, for all of Locke’s braggadocio. I wonder if it might be possible for me to do what Taryn wants and get him ousted as Master of Revels after all, just for being boring.
As though Locke can read my thoughts, he claps his hands together, silencing the crowd. Music stutters to a stop, and with it the dancing and juggling, even the laughter.
“I have another amusement for you,” he says. “It is time to crown a monarch tonight. The Queen of Mirth.”
One of the lutists plays a merry improvisation. There is scattered laughter from the audience.
A chill goes through me. I have heard of the game, although I have never seen it played. It is simple enough: Steal away a mortal girl, make her drunk on faerie wine and faerie flattery and faerie kisses, then convince her she is being honored with a crown—all the time heaping insults on her oblivious head.
If Locke has brought some mortal girl here to have fun at her expense, he will have me to reckon with. I will lash him to the black rocks of Insweal for the mermaids to devour.
While I am still thinking that, Locke says, “But surely only a king can crown a queen.”
Cardan stands up from the throne, stepping down the stones to be beside Locke. His long, feathered cape slithers after him.
“So where is she?” the High King asks, brows raised. He doesn’t seem amused, and I am hopeful he will end this before it begins. What possible satisfaction could he find in the game?
“Haven’t you guessed? There is only one mortal among our company,” Locke says. “Why, our Queen of Mirth is none other than Jude Duarte.”
For a moment, my mind goes entirely blank. I cannot think. Then I see Locke’s grin and the grinning faces of the Folk of the Court, and all my feelings curdle into dread.
“Let’s have a cheer for her,” says Locke.
They cry out in their inhuman voices, and I have to choke down panic. I look over at Cardan and find something dangerous glittering in his eyes—I will get no sympathy there.
Nicasia is smiling exultantly, and beside her, the smith, Grimsen, is clearly diverted. Dulcamara, at the edge of the woods, watches to see what I will do.
I guess Locke has done something right at last. He promised the High King delights, and I am entirely sure that Cardan is thoroughly delighted.