by Melanie Rawn
“The Princess!” he blurted. “Lady Vren—someone told me that her mother came from a distant land to the east, and when she arrived for the wedding, they stripped her starkers and inspected her! Was that what they were looking for?”
“It’s been so long a while that I doubt they knew the why of it, but by the sound of it… yes.”
“How does it show? I mean, is there a specific—?”
“That’s Troll-lore, boy.”
“Umm… all right,” he mumbled, chastened. “Was the Caitiff allowed to drown?”
“Fished out, dried off, and sent to the Durkah Isle with the rest of her kin. We’re not barbarians. And before you ask, iron and steel have no effect on them.”
“How many of them were here?”
“A few hundreds.” Her muscular shoulders twitched. “Best to be rid of them. They look like anyone else, but they bring a taint to a bloodline.”
Instantly indignant, thinking of innocent little Jindra in her painted cradle, he said, “There are people who say that about Gnomes and Goblins, too. And Trolls.”
She nodded, unoffended. “About everyone, at some time or another.” Once more she pointed to the counterpane. “Stitching is their specialty. A harmless, womanly occupation, anyone would say—”
Feeling contrary, and wondering why once again he was defending a woman he loathed, he said, “I trust that you know what you’re about, but I’ve seen no proof.”
“If it’s your thinking that I ought to’ve waited and let you come out all over in hives, or lose the use of your fingers, or—”
“Would I?” he challenged. “Is that what was becast into that cloth? I touched it last night, when I unwrapped it. I didn’t sense anything.”
“Wizard,” she repeated.
“You knew it was from them and yet you let Dery sleep all wrapped up in it.”
“Gracious Gods, boy, what a thorough-thinking brain you’ve got between your ears! The thing was made for you. To sleep beneath. Huddled around you for hours at a time. Seeping into your dreams, mayhap. Who could know what was intended?”
“So you don’t really know, either.”
“Would you rather I’d waited to make sure?” she snarled. “Three more things I’ll tell you, and then we’ll talk of it no more. Clothwork is their specialty on the Durkah Isle. Trolls inspect everything, and the slightest breath of magic means the whole shipment is destroyed.”
“Why is it that Trolls have so much to do with keeping watch over Caitiffs?”
Her only answer was a shrug. “The second thing is this. There’s one sort of magical folk on the Durkah Isle, and one only. When enough of them had been exiled to the island, they set themselves to ridding the place of all other races except Human. Wizards, Goblins, Elves, Gnomes—though not Pikseys or Sprites. They stick to their forests in Albeyn and have never been seen on the Durkah Isle.”
“What of the Fae?”
“I can’t see even a White Winterchill Fae liking a life in almost year-round snow, can you?”
He had no way of knowing. His own heritage was, apparently, Green Summer Fae; his many-times-great-grandmother had said so.
“Everyone else disappeared.” She growled softly. “Illness or accident, that’s what they said for years, a climate and a land no one but the toughest Humans and the exiled Caitiffs could tolerate, until no one went there anymore except for the cloth trade. There’s but the one port, free of ice only one month a year. And on that island are Caitiff and Human, and during that month the few Trolls who inspect the cloth. And thus it’s been for hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of years.”
“But wouldn’t their bloodlines have thinned out by now? Look at Albeyn. With every generation, the mix of races loses a bit of magic—”
“Who told you that? That ‘Sagemaster’ of yours? I never did like him.”
“You didn’t? Why?”
Once more she ignored the questions. “There’s no Troll would touch a Caitiff woman. The enmity goes too deep.”
Knowing she wouldn’t tell him the why of that, either, he said, “Even so, after all that time, with only Human and Caitiff bloodlines—”
She capped the pot of salve and began extracting the bottles and vials from her pockets, replacing them on the shelves. “If this is a bit of Elf, and that’s Piksey, and the others are Wizard and Gnome and Goblin and Troll, and mayhap a bit of Fae—you mix them all together in proportions nobody can foresee, and you never know what will happen.”
Like with him. What particular combination within him had worked with his Fae heritage to cause his Elsewhens?
“Mayhap you get nothing more powerful than a weathering witch,” she went on. “Mayhap a Master Tregetour. Or mayhap nothing at all. But with just the two bloodlines, and mixed together who knows how, with only the women inheriting the magic—the plain fact of it is that even after all this time, every stitch coming from the Durkah Isle is inspected by a Troll.”
“Fortyer!” he blurted. “Is that where it comes from?”
“Oh, it’s a right bright lad after all, isn’t it?” She turned from sorting bottles and regarded him with her fierce little eyes. “ ’Tis not the fear of plague that sets apart each Durkah ship for forty days in every Albeyni port. ’Tis the danger of their weavings and sewings. It’s one turn of the moon they last, but the inspectors wait another ten days just to be safe.”
“But the spells can be renewed? Of course,” he said, answering his own question this time. “Still—why would the Caitiffs bother? If they know about the fortyer, then why—?”
“What might happen after a month sleeping under that?” She pointed to the counterpane. She bit her lips together, then went on in a low, furious tone, “The third thing is this. My sister’s only son commanded the inspections for thirty years before they killed him with a thread mixed in with the salad greens. Sickened the instant he swallowed, vomited it all up—but the working was done and the yellow thread was there as evidence after he died.” She reached over to test the counterpane for moisture, her thick strong fingers squeezing a corner. A few drops of water plunked to the floor. “A single thread! So you’ll forgive me, Your Lordship,” she finished bitterly, “if I take precautions when it comes to gifts from Caitiffs!”
4
Everyone knew there would be no surprises at Trials this year. Touchstone would move up from the Winterly to the Royal, bypassing the Ducal Circuit entirely. But, as Mieka discovered on the journey to Seekhaven, everyone did not seem to include Cayden. Snug in their new wagon with Dery’s map on one side and touchstone on both, the tregetour anguished himself at irregular intervals over what they’d draw at Trials and what they’d play at performances for the ladies and the Court—or if they’d receive invitations for those performances at all.
After a while, the rest of Touchstone began to find Cade’s frets annoying. Mieka was all for tying him up and stuffing a gag down his throat. Jeska wanted to banish him topside to the coachman’s bench so he could fuss to his heart’s content without bothering anybody except Yazz. Mieka agreed to this plan, but only if he was tied up and with a gag stuffed down his throat, because why should poor Yazz suffer? All Rafe did was look up from the book he was reading, fix Cade with a humorless glare, and say, “Shut it or get out and walk.”
After this Cade sulked. He did it in silence, praise be to all the Old Gods. Still, Mieka had learned on their very first Winterly Circuit that Cade had a way of sulking that cast a murk over everyone within pissing distance. Of course, on that very first Winterly, they’d been cramped into one of the King’s coaches, not their own luxurious new wagon, but Mieka was discovering that the increase in space and comfort didn’t necessarily mean a decrease in the gloom.
It was a lovely wagon, withal. Because it had been delivered to his house, Mieka had been able to explore its every nook and cranny. Yazz, who had driven Auntie Brishen’s whiskey wagons for years, was ecstatic about the springs, the ease of harnessing and unharnessing the horses, and all
sorts of other things that Mieka neither understood nor cared about. Well, except that however the springs worked, it made for an exquisitely comfortable ride. Personally, he didn’t like being within tooth range of any horse, leave alone these huge white monsters leased from the Shadowshapers.
Though he loved the prideful strut of touchstone scrawled on the outside, it was the interior that charmed him most. Instead of bunk beds along each side, there were hammocks that tucked away when not in use. This allowed for more open space and decreased the wagon’s weight. Woven of stout blue cording, cozied with thin feather-filled mattresses that rolled up into a cupboard, the hammocks swayed gently with the motion of travel. There were cleverly collapsible chairs, and a fold-down table and a little bench where they could play cards or chess on a board painted onto the wood, or eat a meal like civilized persons instead of balancing plates—the same ones Blye had made for them before their very first Trials—on their knees. Mieka’s wife had stitched a green velvet cushion for his chair, and had promised to have more ready by the time they returned from Trials. She worried about the plainness of the interior—no carvings, unadorned blankets, simple glass handles on the cabinets and drawers, no paint on the wood. It wanted some color, she’d decided. She was good at that sort of thing, his darling was; his house featured new splashes of curtains and coverlets and suchlike almost weekly, and her mother was working on a tapestry for the drawing room. Their scheme of blue and violet and gray, built around the blue tassels he’d given her, ruled out use of the rug he’d brought home from the Continent. Its wheat-and-green wool, cleaned to perfection by Mistress Mirdley after Cade told her what Mieka had done to it and why, graced the floor of the wagon instead.
At the front were built-in shelves and drawers on either side of a mirror and green glass basin that nestled into the wood, perfect for shaving and washing. Jed and Jez had made the cabinetry for their clothes and gear; Blye had made the mirror and the basin. There were glass-shaded lamps, a niche for a firepocket, specially made compartments for their glass baskets and withies, and two windows on each side. Best of all for Cade and Rafe, the ceiling in the middle was high enough for them to stand up straight without bumping their heads. Yazz had worried that six and a half feet was an unwieldy height and could play merry Hells with the wagon’s balance in a stiff wind, but Kearney Fairwalk had assured him that this had been taken into consideration when the wagon was designed and should present no problems. Yazz had grunted the Giant equivalent of We’ll see about that, won’t we? before being distracted by the glories of his coachman’s bench: thickly padded leather seat and armrests, two lanterns on each side, brakes at his fingertips, and a tiny firepocket to keep his feet warm. That last wouldn’t be necessary, Mieka reflected with satisfaction, because from now on, they’d be traveling in summer, on the Royal Circuit. No more freezing beneath inadequate blankets during the day. No more slogging through the snowy slush of an innyard at night. No more shivering in beds with stale sheets rife with small crawly things. They’d travel in summer and autumn from now on, and spend winters in their own warm beds at home.
Aware that any thought of who would be in his own warm bed at home was dangerous when it would be a fortnight before he saw her again, he scooted his chair closer to the fold-down table and rummaged in a drawer for a deck of cards. Cocking a hopeful eyebrow at Jeska, he riffled the cards—just as a wheel bumped over a particularly emphatic rut in the road. The cards went flying all over the wagon.
“Oh, well done!” Cade snapped.
“It wasn’t my fault!”
“It never is.”
“What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“You figure it out!”
“I’m the stupid one, remember? You’re the smart one, with all the books and writing and deep profound thoughts and Elsewhens and—”
Rafe growled. Mieka reached over to the little glass knob hanging from a wire and pulled it, alerting Yazz with the tinkling of a bell that they wanted to stop.
A roar came through the wooden walls. “Five miles!”
Mieka rang the bell again, more insistently this time.
“Use yer pisspot!” Yazz bellowed.
“Love to,” Cade snarled at Mieka. “Right over your head!”
“Fuck you!” Mieka slid from behind the table, flung open the back door, and scrambled up the side ladder to the roof, ignoring alarmed shouts and the frantic ringing of the little bell. It was a slow crawl to the coachman’s bench, windy but not especially dangerous if he was careful with the railings to which baggage could be secured for long journeys. He settled beside the unstartled Yazz, folded his arms across his chest, and glowered at the splendid spring afternoon.
A mile or so passed in silence. At last Yazz cleared his throat with a sound like a landslide. “Temperish, eh?”
“He’s always like that.”
“Not hisself, Miek. You.”
“Me!”
Yazz nodded his massive head. Mieka leaned back and tilted his face up to get a look at the Giant. Craning his neck was the only way he ever saw his friend’s expression; standing, his eyes were about on a level with Yazz’s elbow. The amused tolerance quirking that wide mouth briefly irritated him. But then he sighed and relented.
“He and me, we always know just the wrong thing to say to each other.”
“Happens thatwise.”
“But it’s kind of the only time I can be sure what he’s feeling, y’know? Every other while, he’s a step or two back from everything and everybody.” He raked the hair from his face, enjoying the breeze. “It was more fun last year, and the year before, traveling to Trials with the Shadowshapers. At least around that lot, he talks and laughs and all that.”
“Good friends, them.”
“The best, outside the four of us.” Traveling together had been pleasanter for the Shadowshapers, too, because Vered and Rauel rarely sniped at each other when other people were present. Best, though, was that Cade exerted himself to actual conversation. “There’s times when I think we know each other too well, him and me, but—it’s like, I can always tell when he’s lying, but as for the rest—”
Yazz ruminated on this for a time. Then, with another nod, he asked, “Black Lightning’s show at Trials?”
It took a moment to work out what Yazz meant. Then he gave a bark of laughter. “I’ll give it a try, shall I? Tell him we ought to go, find out what the competition’s doing these days. Get an honest reaction from him, at least.”
“Competition,” Yazz echoed in a musing tone that told Mieka he’d understood the Giant’s implication correctly. “Won’t like that much, hisself won’t.”
Not by half, Mieka agreed silently. Not that anybody but the Shadowshapers could be considered competition for Touchstone. But irritation would at least get Cayden to the theater. Not that it would make any difference, he reflected sourly. The more relentlessly Black fucking Lightning bludgeoned with sensation and emotion, the more unyielding Cade’s resistance to it would become. Blye had once advised Mieka to be both clever and mad when it came to dealing with the tregetour’s sulks and snits; laugh him out of it. He began to wish for a list of Rules like the one posted in the King’s coaches, those seven Rules in particular he had taken such gleeful delight in breaking—without consequences—on their first Winterly. And this got him to thinking, and eventually to grinning.
To no one’s surprise (although everyone managed to make the proper exclamations of astonishment), the Trials draw gave Touchstone the same play as last year. The Tenth Peril. The one about the Treasure. On the way out of the castle, Mieka heard somebody mutter, “Always knew the whole thing was rigged.” He suddenly had his suspicions that last year had been a swindle as well. At their first Trials, Touchstone’s Dragon had been a spectacular success; the next, Black Lightning had somehow got the Dragon and Mieka now reckoned it was apurpose, to show they could outdo Touchstone. And it had worked, damn it to all Hells, because last year Touchstone had drawn one of the most deadly dull of
all the Thirteen, and he still hadn’t quite forgiven Cade for making them do the tame old version of “Treasure” that had landed them for a second time on the Winterly while Black fucking Lightning got the Ducal. This year, much as the Stewards were muttering that it was near sacrilege to muck about with one of the Perils—Vered had been right about that—it was obvious that somebody had ordered that Touchstone would be performing it.
Their inn assignment had been fixed, as well, but Mieka had nary a complaint. There were better places to stay, or so he’d heard, with nicer rooms and sweeping views of the river, but nowhere could better food and drink be found. By now they were looked upon as “our boys” by the innkeeper, his wife, and their Trollwife, Mistress Luta. They’d been welcomed with all honors and huge flagons of excellent ale. In principle, each group was randomly allocated lodgings at Seekhaven’s various inns, and nobody knew who would be where until they arrived at the gates and were given their vouchers. Obviously, this was no more the case than the “random” draw for the Thirteen Perils.
After the draw at the castle, ale and snacks were waiting for them in the inn’s back garden. Less than half an hour later, the Shadowshapers showed up. A little while after that, the Crystal Sparks arrived. With them were two young players, maybe Mieka’s age and maybe not, whose names he didn’t catch, and who hung on every word the collected tregetours spoke. As there were four of them present—Cayden, Vered, Rauel, and Mirko Challender of the Sparks—that was a whole lot of words.
Mieka woke the next morning unsure of when or how he’d got to bed the night before, or indeed if the bed he was in was his. It turned out that it was; Cade was lounging in the other one, making notes in his folio.
“Good party,” Mieka ventured.
“Mm. But that table will never be the same.”
“What table?”
“Nor the tabledrape. Good thing it was only bleached linen, and not Mistress Luta’s best Frannitch lace.”