by Melanie Rawn
“Master Silversun! How glad am I to see you!”
“Lady Vrennerie,” he responded, and bowed over her hand, seeing the silver bracelet circling her wrist. She was wearing peach silk today, the slim-cut gown she’d worn to the masked ball. Since returning from the Winterly, he’d not noticed any ladies wearing gowns similar to hers. How like her, he thought, to wear what suited her and shrug at fashion.
She suggested a walk through the gardens. He nodded and followed. Once they were away from the building and out in the open where no one could hear, she said, “It was me sent the note. I asked my lady to sign it because I didn’t think you’d come if you knew it was me asking.”
“Of course I would have! We’re friends.”
Her look of relief was quickly replaced by a wide smile. “Then why did you call me Lady Vrennerie?”
“Because you called me Master Silversun,” he retorted, and they smiled at each other.
“I wanted to tell you that I appreciate that you didn’t put a name to me in that article.”
“What can you be thinking, to read that exceedingly low and vulgar broadsheet?”
“I read everything,” she said flatly. Then another grin decorated her face. “You’d be surprised how my vocabulary has expanded!”
“I’d be shocked, is what you mean.” They walked together through a knot garden fragrant with new spring growth. “I didn’t name you, because my mother always told me that a true lady is mentioned only once in her life in print, to announce her marriage.” He looked her in the eyes, letting her know that he knew. “I wish you very happy, Vrennerie. I’ve heard excellent things about Lord Eastkeeping.”
“He is a good man,” she agreed. “Do you really think I’m wise?”
Aware that she wasn’t referring to his characterization of her in Tobalt’s article, he smiled. “Yes, I do.”
“Beholden, Cade.”
“How does your lady? Is she happy?”
“She finds nothing in Gallantrybanks that is not pleasing her.”
An answer that was not quite an answer. He waited a moment before asking, “And outside Gallantrybanks?”
She gave him a sidelong smile. “You’re quite clever enough to change the world, you know. Yes, the only matter for displeasure is at the moment outside Gallantrybanks, but will be here tomorrow for the start of the celebrations.”
“The new Archduchess.”
“You were gone all this autumn and winter, so you didn’t hear, I suppose. First there was the matter of the dowry. The Tregrefin sent the proper number of fleeces, but Lady Panshilara put it about that they were of the third quality, not the first. This wasn’t so serious—it turned out she was wrong, and they were exactly as they should be—but before it was settled, she began saying—she—”
“Just tell me,” he encouraged gently.
In grim tones, she said, “I traced it to her maidservants. They were whispering that there needn’t have been that foolishness on the night of the wedding at home, because anybody could have—could have had her, she’d not been virgin since her fifteenth year! I was so afeared the King would send my poor lady back.”
Cayden whistled soundlessly through his teeth. Surely the girl couldn’t just be returned, as if the shop had sent the wrong wine.
“I wish you’d been here, Cayden,” said Vrennerie.
What she thought he could have done about it, he’d no notion—and then it hit him. His father. She was thinking about his father’s position in Ashgar’s household.
“But the marriage happened,” he said roughly. “And not a complaint from Ashgar, I’d take my oath on it.” Looking anywhere but at her, he finished, “Knows a virgin when he has one, does the Prince.”
She said nothing for several paces. Then: “I told you this because the Archduchess found an ally.”
“Let me guess. Princess Iamina.”
She stopped walking and clutched at his arm. “How did you—?”
“Because as little as they like each other personally—and it takes no wit to guess that—they’re both threatened by the Princess—or, rather what the Princess will eventually produce. An heir. Gods save me from Court trickeries! If you’re truly wise, Vrennerie, you’ll have Lord Eastkeeping take you off to his country estates and never set foot here again if you can possibly help it.”
She shook her head. “But then I would be of no use to my lady.”
How could he ever have thought she might have been the woman in the Elsewhens, who’d been bored by his work and cared for nothing but the money and prestige it brought her?
“The alliance did not last,” Vrennerie went on, with a bleak satisfaction.
Cade snorted. “How did you manage it?”
“Who said it was me?”
“Who else?” He grinned.
She chuckled acknowledgment. “All I did was make a mentioning of how talented Princess Iamina’s dressmaker must be, to make her look so much thinner and younger than she really is. They’re both of them vain as vain ever could be, and not even a common cause of disgracing my lady could survive Panshilara hiring the woman.”
Women. Naught but conceit and folly, treachery and spite. It was worse than one of those mawkish playlets Mieka so adored playing for laughs.
And with thought of the Elf, it came crashing into his head. The fingers plying a pen across a page. The words a secret knowledge about Master Silversun glimpsed before the page was folded by hands he recognized, only this time the sealing wax was orange and the flames used to melt it had a reddish glow, little licking flames unlike the green of a Goblin’s making or the yellow-gold of an Elf, the blue of a Wizard, even the purplish gold of the old man who had controlled the vodabeists. He knew the hands, and who had made the fire, and who was about to betray him.
But with what knowledge?
Oh, so simple. So obvious. His secret.
How had she learned it?
What choice of Cade’s own had led—would lead—to the writing of that letter?
“I–I have to leave now,” he said, feeling helpless and not liking it.
Bewildered, Vrennerie began a protest. “Cayden—”
“I have to leave,” he repeated, and without another word started for the white brick path he knew led to the outer gates, the ones into Gallantrybanks and not to the river, and once outside he flagged down a hire-hack—
And sat in it for long minutes, unable to give an address. Because he knew now that there was only one person who connected him and his secret to Mistress Caitiffer. If he went to Wistly, if he confronted Mieka, demanding to know why—
He couldn’t. It would be the end of them, of Touchstone.
He could go to the Archduke’s mansion instead. He could find the old woman and—and—
And do what? Bribe her? Threaten her? Beg her not to tell?
What must he do or not do to prevent this?
And then he almost laughed. Who would believe it? Cayden Silversun can see the futures. Nonsense. There was no proof. No evidence. She could write what she pleased to whomever she pleased. Cayden Silversun has dreams, and they come true. Complete fantasy. No one would ever believe it. The only people who knew for sure were friends or dead, like Sagemaster Emmot. He was safe.
The hack lurched forward slightly. The driver settled his horse with a cooing sound, then turned his head to look at Cade.
“Number Eight, Redpebble Square,” Cade said at last, and leaned back into worn leather. As he did so, he felt the little box in his pocket, the one containing the candleflat. He’d forgot to give it to Vrennerie for the Princess. He was reminded suddenly of the gifts Blye had made for Mieka’s eighteenth Namingday, long before the girl and her mother had invaded their lives.
He wished he’d known at the time that things would never be that good again.
He wished he’d had the courage to warn Mieka.
It was all his fault, in the end. Nothing—not him, not Touchstone, not anything in the world—would ever mean as much or be
as important to Mieka as she was. She’d leave him one day, or he’d leave her, it didn’t really matter. The damage would already have been done. And Cade would stand in the doorway of his house with a note in his hand from Kearney Fairwalk, and he’d say, “But I’m still here,” and Mieka would be dead.
“You just threw him away with both hands.”
That wasn’t true. Mieka’s was the betrayal. Mieka’s was the responsibility.
“You don’t trust me!”
Neither did he trust his own pride and anger and hatred and fear.
“I think I hated you.”
But it was just Mieka being Mieka: careless, thoughtless, impulsive—clever and mad—
“Well, then, I’ll just have to remember never to buy a yellow shirt.”
Of course it was just the yellow shirt. That would make everything all right. None of it would happen if Mieka chose never to buy a yellow shirt.
“You wouldn’t be anything if it wasn’t for me!”
He could still remember the first time he’d looked down into those eyes. The ratty bar in Gowerion, the front and effrontery, the rage when Mieka played “Sailor’s Sweetheart” for laughs, the knowledge so grudgingly admitted that this mad and clever little Elf was their completion, their missing piece.
But he also remembered the Elsewhens, all those times he’d battered Mieka’s face to a bloodied ruin. If he went to Wistly Hall to confront Mieka, he’d end with blood on his hands and he’d see it there forever, even after he’d washed it away—like in the long, hideous vision where he’d sat in the garden of Clinquant House waiting for Mieka’s corpse to burn and stared at his hands and wondered why the blood didn’t show.
“When the Cornerstones lost their Elf, they lost their soul.”
Cayden had changed that. They weren’t the Cornerstones, they were Touchstone, that singular thing they made together and could never have been without Mieka. He’d changed it, but it hadn’t been enough.
“When Touchstone lost their Elf, they lost their soul.”
Whatever he did, it would never be enough.
And yet … and yet, when he had slogged up to his fifth-floor room, mercifully unseen by Derien or Mistress Mirdley, and collapsed exhausted onto his bed, he dreamed the dream where Mieka’s hair had gone silvery, and there was a bottle of sparkling wine on the bar and a bowl of mocah-dust berries, and a teasing voice challenged, “You didn’t remember, did you?”
When he woke, he did remember. His Namingday. His forty-fifth Namingday. That life, and none other.
But if he wanted it, he would have to fight for it.
Chapter 27
The gilt-columned corridor outside the Palace’s great hall was packed with people—all of them male, which was a pity because Mieka could have used the sight of a pretty girl or six to distract him from nerves. Everybody was doing a brand-new piece, specially created for the occasion; everybody was anxious. Even Black fucking Lightning, Mieka was pleased to note. Pirro Spangler was clenching and unclenching his twitching fists. The fettler, Herris Crowkeeper, had taken up pacing as a hobby—not that he got far, not in this crowd. Kaj Seamark started at every noise. Thierin Knottinger actually looked ill.
Mieka concentrated on lounging against a convenient wall, talking with Chattim Czillag. The Shadowshapers would be doing a mad little piece about a frustrated poet trying desperately to get his work printed, and some of the poetry was so bad that Chat confessed he had a horrid time not falling over laughing.
“Proves Vered has a sense of humor, then?” Mieka asked.
“Rommy Needler told us we had to do something funny, we were getting known as the Grims. By the bye, he also says he’s never seen his horses looking so sleek. You took good care of them on the Winterly, and of the wagon.”
“Muchly beholden to you for the favor,” Mieka said sincerely, though they’d paid quite a bit to hire the wagon and horses. “Yazz treated those beasties like they were his own children. Brushing them down for hours a night—for a Giant, or mostly so, he’s the best with horses anyone’s ever seen. And no, you can’t hire him away from us! We’ll have our own wagon by this summer, and he’s to drive it.”
“Play nice, little one.” Chat grinned. “It’s still our horses you’ll have to hire!”
“And what will the Grims be doing tonight, then, at Master Needler’s piteous plea?”
“Well, we all got drunk one night at my place, and this popped up.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice, although there were so many people milling about that he could have shouted and not attracted any attention. “Rauel and Vered competed, as always, but this time to see who could come up with the most repulsive rhymes. Me, I think they dug into their own childhood efforts and just won’t confess it. But some of it truly is foul. Real chankings.”
“Stuff of the ‘she doesn’t love me, I’ll have to kill myself’ and ‘what’s the meaning of life’ sort?”
Chat nodded, the lock of prematurely gray hair falling over his eyes. “‘My knees are meant for crawling on / Crawling to your door’ and such like. All that lovely pompous torment one goes through at fifteen or so. Rauel masques the poet, and Vered all the different publishers he visits. But the real fun is Alaen.”
Mieka blinked a question at him.
“He’s offstage, of course—couldn’t get him to come on and be masqued. He starts playing a tune, and Rauel hears him in the street, and the next thing you know Rauel’s warbling the poetry set to music!”
“The same poetry?”
“The same bad poetry. And then he’s onstage, and a whole bank’s worth of money being thrown at him. The point being, of course, that you can get away with a lot of bilge when there’s music backing it up.”
“Not a very nice poke at the songsmiths.”
“Well, no. But the funniest part is that Alaen doesn’t realize it. He agreed to do it only if he could add a couple of the songs to his own folio—once we’ve done them here, of course.”
“He plans to do them as jokes?”
“That’s the funny part. He’s absolutely dead sincere about them.”
“Telling all our secrets, now, are you?” came Vered’s voice from nearby. He was jostled, snarled a bit over his shoulder, and Mieka and Chat made room for him against the wall. “What about Touchstone, then? I’ve heard dire things from the Stewards.”
“Really?” Mieka smiled.
Vered cuffed him lightly on the arm. “Mucking about again with one of the Sacred Thirteen,” he intoned through his long, narrow nose. “Simply shocking, young man, simply not done! Once, with the Dragon, was bad enough—but twice! You wicked, wicked boys!”
Chat took up the scold, wagging a finger in Mieka’s face. “There’ll be no more of the ‘Treasure’ at Trials anymore, not the good old familiar version they can judge against all others they’ve seen for the last thirty years! No, not a thrilled man in the lot, Master Windthistle, not a single one.”
Mieka shrugged. “You’ll just all have to learn Cade’s version—as if anyone else could ever do it the way we do!”
“Humble, isn’t he?” Vered observed to Chat.
“If the Stewards have half a brain amongst them,” Mieka insisted, “they’ll take it out altogether and leave it at the Twelve.”
“Quite the difficulty Touchstone has caused. And pleased to do so, I’m sure.” Vered looked about him, then leaned down and whispered, “Give us a hint, won’t you? What’s the real story?”
“Watch and learn.” He deployed The Eyes on Chat. “Those withies working for you?”
“Brilliantly. Tell us, Miek!”
“Any word on what Black fu—Black Lightning will daze and amaze us with?”
“Mieka!”
“I hear the lovely Chirene has had twins—or was it triplets?”
Vered said, “Just twins, boy and girl. And now I’m intended to ask about your daughter, all nice and polite, so the subject’s changed?”
“Nobody expects you to be polite, Vered,” Cha
t soothed. “Did I tell you, Miek, my own girl’s in pig again, our second son, we hope. Who stole the Treasure?”
Mieka smiled his sweetest. “A dry spring this year, what? Could do with a sprinkle of rain to help the flowers along.”
Chat took him by the scruff of the neck and shook him playfully. Laughing, Mieka made his escape, slithering through the crowd, trying to find space to breathe.
“Mieka! Have you seen Jeska?”
He turned to find Kearney Fairwalk shouldering his way—with multiple apologies—towards him. “Haven’t seen him!”
Usually one would only have to go looking for the prettiest girl in the place, and there Jeska would be. But in this sea of men, finding one rather short masquer would be a problem.
“Rafe and Cade are over there, by that column with the red flowers,” Fairwalk panted, having reached Mieka’s side. “Do go and join them, won’t you? Must keep you all together, don’t you see—outrageous crush—a scandal that the Stewards allow it—”
Mieka began the long push to the indicated column. Cade and Rafe had their backs pressed to it. As Mieka neared, Rafe risked the swarm and took a few steps, grabbed him by the arm, and hauled him out of the throng like a puppy from a kennel cage.
“This is ridiculous,” Cade announced. “I can’t hear myself think. Come on!”
“We ought to stop here,” Mieka argued. “How will Kearney find us?”
Cade shrugged irritably. Rafe tapped Mieka on the shoulder and said, “Don’t mind him—Lord Oakapple turned up earlier. He can’t decide whether to be in raptures or in hiding.”
“So he doesn’t know?”
“Not even a hint!” Rafe grinned maliciously. “Dead chuffed that Cade figured it out, terrified of what the true story might be.”