The mess hall had been empty when the drama began, chairs and tables sucked into beige walls and ceilings to allow for other activities between meals. This single largest room on the ship had four entrances. Now each doorway was packed with silver-and-blue uniformed crew, their hands in motion as chits were exchanged and wagers made.

The ship hummed slightly, a middle C, as it always did in hyperspace, for reasons scientists could not quite explain. They were two days into a three-day jaunt through the metasphere that would take them from one star to another.

All locked together—crew, freight, honor guard, and these two high-value, supposedly adult passengers.

On one side of the tableau stood the mad king, his face splotched and wrinkled like a volcanic desert planet seen from space. Velvet robes draped to the floor, vivid purple, speckled and trimmed with gold chips. In his thinning, curly white hair glittered a tiara. Or a crown, Jemmison supposed. Not her area of expertise.

King Heimskur held his hands high, as if to cast a spell. His usual expression of disgust was heavily salted with something like hunger.

Half a step forward and to either side of him stood his guards, clad in a paler shade of violet. Yellow fringe over-embellished their shoulders, collars, and, oddly, knees. On their heads was what could not quite be described as helmets, not with those silvery tips. More like party hats strapped below their chins.

Each held a large knife. Or a short sword, Jemmison supposed. Not her wheelhouse, either.

On the other side of the drama stood a petite woman, the Athenaeum Licensed Artisan Genius, Gazina Rilith.

Artist Rilith was clothed in white: an oversized button-down shirt under a tighter white, paint-splotched jacket, with trousers in a shade of milk. Her face was round, her skin the color of burnt storm clouds, and her hair a fuzzy halo of sage tipped with vermilion, like an exotic flower.

Rilith grimaced, showing teeth. In her hand she held a long, thin paint brush that came to a wet, blue tip, directed toward the king. A drop of cerulean blue fell to the beige mess hall floor.

For a moment, no one moved. Then Rilith twitched forward, the blue-tip in the lead. Violet-clad guards twitched backward, the points of their silver blades wavering.

"I paid you!" King Heimskur shouted at Artist Rilith. Dots of spittle sailed forward in the light artificial gravity. "You will portrait me!"