The Broken Ones

by Danielle L. Jensen

  “I need you to retrieve something from Trianon,” Marc said. “You’d be compensated for the transport, and I’m able to provide the capital required up front.”

  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.”

  “It’s not for sale.” I snatched it out of his hand, then bent my knees in the most cursory of curtsies. “Good day to you, Your Highness.”

  “Pénélope, wait.” Marc’s voice followed me out into the hallway, but I was too enraged to stop, my heels making loud thumps against the floor as I headed toward the stairs.

  “Wait!” Marc’s hand closed on my arm, tugging me off into a side chamber. “I’m sorry for that. He’s at his worst around them.”

  “Why?” I demanded. “Even if he does think they are lesser, that’s no reason to be cruel. And why do you put up with it?”

  Marc shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I don’t have much choice.”

  My magic writhed around me, burning hot with anger that he was in this position. That he was forced to turn a blind eye to behavior so at odds from his own. But it didn’t need to be that way. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Pénélope, please.” There was a hint of desperation in his voice. “If it matters to you, I can get the sketch to Chris. He’s here with his father often, and it’s… it’s not hard for me to get contraband in and out of Trollus.”

  I heard his teeth click as though he realized that he’d said too much, and my heart skittered.

  “Small things,” he added. “Sweets. Music. Novels. Things that violate the guild monopolies, but that are beneath the King’s notice. Like sketches.”

  Or secret messages. And bribes.

  “No,” I said, ignoring the guilt that flashed through me. “I’ll not have you risking your position by breaking the rules for me. But I do need to go.” Before he could say another word, I rushed out into the hall, skirts held up with one hand as I trotted with unladylike speed down the stairs and out into the city. I kept the same pace once I was in the market, searching the crowds of dark-haired trolls for a hint of yellow.

  There.

  I spotted him standing next to a mule, frowning as he stroked its neck. His father was deep in discussions with two merchantmen, which was just as well. The human jumped as I appeared next to him, causing the animal to snort in alarm until he calmed it with a practiced hand.

  “I’m sorry for that,” I said. “He’s an ass sometimes. Most of the time, in fact.”

  The boy – Christophe, I reminded myself – snorted out a burst of shocked laughter before clamping his mouth shut and looking around to see if he’d attracted any attention. “At least I get to leave,” he said. “You’re stuck here with him.”

  “A valid point. Perhaps you might take pity and do me a kindness.” Holding up the sketch, I continued, “Would you like this?”

  His ton
gue ran nervously over his lips. “I can’t afford to pay a fair price.”

  “There is more than one way to pay,” I said. “What I’m looking for is information.”

  As if sensing the tension of the situation, the mule snorted and tossed its head, and I glanced in his father’s direction to ensure we hadn’t caught his attention.

  “What sort of information?”

  “What are you retrieving from Trianon for Lord Marc?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t know. They come in boxes, but my father would have my hide if I ever opened them.”

  Boxes? What could possibly be in them? “But you go with him to retrieve these boxes?”

  “Aye, my lady.” His answer came quick, his desire to provide sufficient information to retrieve his prize obvious.

  “Can you tell me from whom you retrieve them?”

  “A man with a cart meets us outside of Trianon.”

  Such secrecy.

  I hadn’t the slightest notion what they were retrieving, but it had to be something illicit to merit the secrecy. Which meant it would be something my father would find interesting.

  “Thank you,” I said, telling myself I wasn’t doing anything wrong as I tucked the sketch into his coat. That this was all in Marc’s best interest, even if it didn’t feel that way. “Consider this bought and paid for.” Then I gave him my most winning smile, and turned and walked away.

  Chapter Nine

  Marc

  “Why do you insist on making my life more difficult than it already is?” I demanded, slamming the door to my office shut. “She’s furious at us both now.”

  Tristan had his boots up on my desk, lists of market prices held in one hand. “I do make your life more difficult,” he agreed, cloaking the room with magic. “But in this case, I’m making it easier.”

  “How is that?” My voice was acidic, and I flung myself down on a chair, the wood creaking. “I’m supposed to be spending time with her, but she ran out like she wants nothing to do with me.”

  Tristan rolled his eyes. “That’s not why she ran off.”

  “Really?”

  “Stones and sky, but you are as blind as a bat when it comes to her.” Tossing the lists on my desk, he leaned forward. “Whether she realized it or not, her arrival was timed to coincide with you meeting with the traders. And whether you realize it or not, she’s more than capable of listening to a conversation while seeming to be embroiled in her work. She does it frequently.”

  I glared at him. “You were spying on me?”

  “I spy on you all the time. You and Jérôme might’ve been vague, but Pénélope isn’t stupid. She knows you were up to something – a fact you all but confirmed in your attempts to apologize for my poor behavior.”

  “How is that helpful?”

  Tristan made an exasperated noise. “It’s helpful in that it gives her something useful to report back to her father, but nothing so damning that we need worry about being discovered. She’s bolder when she’s angry, and I can all but guarantee that she’s off to find Christophe to exchange that sketch for information about what they’re bringing in for you. He dislikes me enough and wants the portrait badly enough that he’ll tell her that it’s all very cloak and dagger, which will arouse her suspicions even more. And if he hesitates, well… Pénélope is probably the most beautiful girl he’s ever spoken to. She’ll get the information out of him.”

  My fingers ran cold. “Tristan, they’re retrieving pamphlets. If they’re caught bringing them into Trollus…”

  “That’s why you’ll have Esmeralda delay the pamphlets and order something more innocuous to come via the Girards. Indecent drawings or something like that, so it makes sense they’d be ordered in Trianon rather than produced by the guild. I’ll have the twins take the delivery, and they can use them for some form of prank or another. But it gives Pénélope some evidence that we’re willing to break my father’s laws.”

  It was a good plan. A really good plan. Of course it was, given that Tristan had come up with it. I picked at a scratch on my desk, knowing that I should be relieved. But I wasn’t.

  “This is what we need to do to keep her safe,” Tristan said, removing his boots from my desk, his tone serious. “We toe the line and trust that she’s smart enough to make use of what we give her.”

  “How long will it work?”

  “As long as we need it to.” He leaned forward. “And once I’m on the throne, you have my most sincere word that I’ll pluck her out of that home and ensure her safety, no matter what Angoulême thinks about it. Then you two can… Well, we can cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  I bit down on the insides of my cheeks to hold back a caustic retort. Because of course he saw no future between me and Pénélope.

  “I know you hate this,” he said. “But it’s not enough for you two to walk up and down the promenade drinking sweet wine and eating pastries. She has an agenda, and so do you. That must always be forefront in your mind.”

  “I take it you were spying on us then, too.”

  “Anaïs was.”

  Of course. Someone always would, whether it be for Tristan or for the Duke. No doubt Pénélope would realize that too, if she hadn’t already. We’d be spied upon as we played this game, our interactions souring and growing less genuine until all the affection between us had been burned away.

  “Why can’t we tell her the truth?” I asked. “You know she’d help us.”

  Tristan went very still. Then he said, “No. Absolutely not.”

  “But–”

  “This is the kind of secret that needs to be kept in a steel box, Marc. Not a wicker basket. You will not tell her.”

  The analogy made me bite the insides of my cheeks with anger once again – as did his ordering me about – but I knew there was no dissuading him.

  And I didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  “What of you and Anaïs?” I asked, changing the subject. “Have you put more thought to her proposal?”

  It was Tristan’s turn to look uncomfortable. “It’s the only way I can think to meet with the sympathizers without risk of discovery,” he said, scraping a hand through his hair. “But already I ask so much of her. Too much. I don’t know how she sleeps at night.”

  “It’s a good plan.” I searched his expression, trying to find clues to his intentions, but as always, there were none. “If you wish to take the reins with Tips and the rest, there may be no other way.”

  “I know. But farce or not, it will be damaging to her.”

  “Or not?” I lifted one eyebrow, then asked a question I knew he wouldn’t like. “Just what are your intentions toward her?”

  He looked away. “In what regard?”

  “Don’t be cagey. Do you intend to make her Queen one day or not?”

  Silence.

  “Do you love her?”

  His jaw tightened. “In a way, I suppose. She’s my friend. She’s loyal. I trust her.”

  “But not enough to risk the affliction in her family’s line?”

  “It’s not that. It’s…” He gave a sharp shake of his head. “It’s a problem for a distant day.”

  Which wasn’t at all what he’d been about to say.

  “Unless you plan to make her Queen then keep it a farce,” I said. “Because if you let it go further than that only to replace her with another, it will break her heart.”

  Anger filled his gaze. “I would never hurt her on purpose.”

  “Then don’t let it come to that. Don’t let it go too far.”

  He was on his feet in a flash, heading toward the door, but once there, he hesitated. “It’s good advice, Marc. And given your own situation with Pénélope, you might want to take it to heart.”

  Chapter Ten

  Pénélope

  “The fruits of your intelligence.” My father tossed a small packet in the center of my plate, the cream sauce from dinner soaking into the paper.

  It had been a handful of days since I’d
told him that Marc was bringing in something illicit via the human traders, and my guilt over having betrayed his trust had grown steadily throughout. I’d tried to tell myself that I’d been doing the right thing. That Tristan was my father’s target, not Marc. That my success would benefit my sister. But no amount of rationalization had alleviated my feeling that what I was doing was wrong.

  Trying to keep my heartbeat in check, I used my fork to flip through the contents, which were pictorial in nature, with only a limited amount of text. The print quality was poor, each page marked with identical streaks and flaws. The difference between using machinery and magic, and one reason why the Guild held their monopoly so easily. Only that which they’d refuse to print would ever be sourced outside of Trollus, which explained these. Inappropriate as they were, though, they were hardly treasonous. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed. “What the artist lacks in talent, he makes up for in creativity.”

  “How do you know it’s a man?”

  “It’s obvious.” Leaning back in my chair, I gestured at a servant to take away both plate and pamphlet. “I can only tell you what I learn, Father. I can’t make it useful. Not that this isn’t, in a way. It proves contraband can be brought in and out of Trollus.”

  “I already knew that.” He circled the table to sit across from me. “Proof would be catching one of the traders with propaganda, not indecent representations of the Regent of Trianon commissioned by those idiots you call friends.”

  Propaganda? I frowned, uncertain why he believed the traders would be caught with that, then shook my head. “This was for the twins?”