by Melanie Rawn
But nobody had the heart or the energy to do anything about that. Cade agreed, their fettler was definitely due a little something in retaliation for the bathhouse stunt. He had relied on Mieka to dream up a scathingly brilliant revenge, but Mieka’s dreams were concentrated on past delights and future pleasures, and he couldn’t wait to get back to Hilldrop Crescent—where, Cade was certain, he would exile his mother-in-law and the baby to Wistly for a week while he renewed intimate acquaintance with his wife.
Cade proved to be correct, except in judging the time span. After the Royal finally came to an end, it was almost a fortnight before Mieka showed up again in Gallantrybanks, sleek and complacent. He returned only because Touchstone was booked at the Keymarker for five nights, and his brothers Jed and Jez had gone out to Hilldrop to remind him of this and drag him back by the ears if necessary.
As usual after a circuit, Cade slept for a few days, couldn’t find anything to do with himself for a few more, and finally got back into his city routine of writing. He knew he ought to be out during the day, trying to find a new place to live, but he just couldn’t. Derien, who had started at his grand new school, needed him too much.
Things weren’t as bad at the King’s College as the boy had feared. He had even made some tentative friends. Two of these turned out to be infinitely more interested in Derien’s brother, the famous Master Tregetour, than in Derien. It was their misfortune to show up at Redpebble Square on one of Cade’s go-away-and-leave-me-the-fuck-alone days. Dery and Mistress Mirdley were at the glassworks and Lady Jaspiela was paying afternoon calls, so the footman climbed upstairs to ask Cade what he was to do with Their Young Lordships. Cade clattered down the wrought-iron stairs from the fifth floor, curious in spite of his foul mood about what sort of friends his brother was making. He summed up the pair instantly as being just old enough—about fourteen—to get into a theater. A tavern, no. (He conveniently forgot his own forays into both sorts of establishment at that age.) Derien was the most wonderful nine-year-old in the world, but he was only nine years old. Boys of fourteen didn’t cultivate friendships with nine-year-olds.
Giving them a toothy smile that hid his anger, he told them to stand very, very still. They did so, awestruck at being in his actual presence. After a very long minute, he expressed his gratitude for their cooperation in providing him with the perfect portraits of arrogant little quats deeply infatuated with their own struggles to rise above abject privilege. He’d be using them as characters in his next play.
“And by the bye,” he finished as he showed them to the door, “I have, as the ancient Wizardly saying goes, ‘the knowing of you’ now.” He gave them another smile: fewer teeth, more menace. “So it might be that you’ll want to behave yourselves. I trust you understand. Good afternoon.”
A bluff, of course, but they couldn’t know that. All he was interested in was keeping them from sucking up to Derien.
He had underestimated his brother’s shrewdness. When he mentioned at tea that a couple of the boys from school had shown up a bit earlier, Dery’s face screwed up into a comical grimace.
“I know exactly which ones. Crackbough and Hammerfall. Hinting for an invitation to tea, right?” Then he grinned. “Or didn’t you let them get that far? Or—wait, I know! They were so overcome to be in the presence of the great Master Tregetour that they couldn’t even talk!”
Cade laughed for what felt like the first time in weeks. Blye, who had joined them for tea by the kitchen fire, immediately slipped from her stool into a curtsy, hands clasped before her, silver-blond head bowed in reverence.
“Forgive me, O Exalted One, for not properly expressing my own wonderment at being allowed to breathe the same air as Your Brilliantness!”
“Oh, leave off,” Cade told her. “The curtsy’s all right, but the trousers and boots spoil the effect.”
“Jed’s been making me practice,” she said, resuming her seat and deliberately sprawling her legs. “Mysterious allusions to a special event, and all that.” Eyes suddenly narrowing, she looked at Cade and then at Derien. “You know something, don’t you? Where is he taking me that I need something so useless as a curtsy?”
“We know nothing,” Cade proclaimed.
“And if we did, we wouldn’t admit it,” Dery added.
Blye growled.
Mistress Mirdley, ever unruffled, applied the teapot all round. “Have you decided yet what you’ll make for that commission?”
With an arch smile for Cade and Dery, Blye answered, “If I had, I wouldn’t admit it.”
“Come on,” Cade coaxed. “I know Mieka wrote to you about it—surely he had a suggestion.”
“Did he? You know, I just can’t remember.”
There followed enough pleading from Derien to make her relent. Eventually. From her pocket she pulled a folded sheet of paper. On it was a drawing.
“A pottinger? Of glass?” Cade stared. A practical and traditional gift for a baby’s Namingday, along with a matching spoon, pottingers were made of anything from tin to pewter to solid silver or gold. Historically, and in the cases of the poor, they were carved from wood. But practical and traditional were not words one associated with Mieka Windthistle.
“And why not a pottinger?” Blye demanded. Then, more thoughtfully, she said, “I thought you’d exclaim over its being hollow.”
“The man who buys your withies?” Mistress Mirdley snorted. “A fool and a dimwit he may be, but not yet a hypocrite.” She paused, eyeing Cade. “Not yet,” she repeated.
“I’m young,” Cade observed dryly. “Give me a little more time.”
Blye went on, “Mieka’s had an idea for the spoon—curve the handle round and back so the child can get a good grip, rather than having it slide out of his poor little fingers all the time. I’ll etch the Princess’s forget-me-never on the bowl of the spoon, and another at the bottom of the pottinger—Mieka says it’ll be encouragement for licking the spoon clean and finishing the soup!”
Jindra must be a picky eater, Cade thought vaguely. Was she old enough yet to use a spoon? He knew so very little about babies. Happily, he wouldn’t have to worry much about this one until she was older. But how old would she be before her parents began shouting and then screaming and then hitting each other and—no, he’d definitely worry about that some other time. Schooling his mind to the subject at hand, he said, “I have a suggestion. Have Jed make a second pottinger—out of wood. The glass one can nest inside it.”
Blye and Dery looked confused. Mistress Mirdley looked her congratulations and said, “A connection with the common folk.”
What he didn’t mention was that once the gift was given—and he’d make certain it was given personally, not lumped in with the thousands of presents the good people of Albeyn sent when an heir to the throne was in the offing—and the Princess learned that the glasscrafter who had made the little magical box had also made the pottinger-and-spoon set—but did she yet know enough to know that women glasscrafters could not possess a hallmark, and without a hallmark, making hollow things was forbidden? He realized Mieka was gambling (and the odds were long, but when had that ever stopped Mieka?) that she didn’t know, and would be so delighted with the gift that she would accept it, and once she had accepted it and thus implicitly given her approval, Blye would be safe. With Royal patronage, even of a casual kind, Blye would be safe.
He could imagine the scene: Blye and Jed and the Princess and himself and Mieka—Blye would have good use for that curtsy she’d been practicing, appearing before Royalty—
And then he wondered if Mistress Caitiffer and young Mistress Windthistle would also be making something to give the Princess’s baby.
They wouldn’t dare.
They dared with me.
According to Mistress Mirdley.
Whom I’ve known all my life and who’s taken care of me and protected me and raised me and Derien when our parents couldn’t be bothered and wants only the best for me and—and—why am I constantly trying to defe
nd that girl?
Because Mieka loved her. He had chosen her and married her and she was the mother of Jindra. And they were all stuck with her… for a while, anyway. Cade realized, quite coldly, that he could afford to be patient. One of these days, one way or another, young Mistress Windthistle would be out of their lives forever. And the laws were such that she wouldn’t be taking Jindra with her.
For the present, though, there she was at Hilldrop Crescent, with her mother and her baby and Mieka’s mindless devotion, which was unabated and even enhanced, to judge by the look of dreamy pleasure on his face when he sauntered into rehearsal that next afternoon at the Keymarker.
Cade had anticipated the absentminded languor. They had five shows in seven nights ahead of them and no room for further self-indulgence. So he and Rafe and Jeska had arranged a little something to wake their glisker up. Remind him why he’d been born, so to speak, before his daydreaming made them angry enough to make sure he wished he were dead.
“I’ve had an idea,” Rafe began when they were all supplied with beers. They were seated on uncomfortable chairs onstage, ignored for the most part by the barmaids and stock boys who were readying the place for the night’s trade. “Something out of the usual, but it might work.”
“Pray silence for Master Threadchaser,” Cade intoned.
“It’s a play for children,” Rafe explained. He was trying for his customary casualness and achieving only diffidence. “That window at High Chapel in Seekhaven, the one with all the Clan emblems—Elk and Salmon and so forth—I was thinking we might do up a little rhyme for each, use the window as a backdrop, make it sort of a teaching play, if you see what I mean.”
“But children aren’t allowed in theaters,” Jeska said.
Rafe shrugged. “What does anybody perform that children would want to see? But if we do this, and it gets known that an afternoon performance, say, would be a nice thing for the little ones—”
“Pull them in early,” Cade interpreted, “so that when they get older, they’re already of a mind to attend as many plays as they can.”
The fettler looked annoyed. “I thought that with your grandfather’s inheritance in your pocket now, you’d stop thinking about everything in terms of money. What I’m thinking is that it would be something fathers and sons could do together.”
Mieka looked up from his beer, frowning. Then, wrapped in smiles, he cried, “Crisiant’s pregnant!”
“How do you do that?” Cade blurted. For the sudden blush on Rafe’s cheeks told him Mieka was right.
“Wasn’t me!” The Elf chortled. “I didn’t go anywhere near the girl!”
“Oh, funny,” Rafe remarked. “Just side-splitting.”
“Excellent work, mate! Oy!” Mieka bellowed in the direction of the bar. “Another round, darlin’!”
“And fast work,” Jeska said, clapping Rafe on the shoulder. “We’ve only been home a fortnight.”
“I’m efficient,” he replied calmly. “Yesterday when I woke up, there she was hunched over a basin, poor sweetheart.” A little smile flashed in his beard. “I said there must’ve been something off in the fish we had the night before, but she said that by now she ought to know the difference. She’s consulting with her mother and my mother today. So we’ll wait and see.”
“Congratulations. I’m sure it’ll all go well this time.” Cade distributed fresh beer all round and raised the toast.
“Beholden, beholden,” Rafe said. “But as for the play—it won’t be anything scary, just the images, the sounds and things. A tickly spider in their hands, the feel of a swan’s feathers, whinnying horses, mostly visuals with gentle effects.”
“Can I do a lion?” Mieka asked. “I’d love to do a lion.”
“One of the best plays I ever saw,” Cade mused, “was ‘Shamblesong’—the Mazetown Players—Gods, that was years ago now! It was for children and exactly the wrong sort of thing to do in a tavern, but I loved it.”
“And a woodpecker!” Mieka chortled, and tapped a withie on the arm of his chair.
“Mazetown Players? You couldn’t have been much more than a child yourself,” Jeska said. “They were lost at sea ages ago.”
Mieka was still beating out an irregular rhythm with the withie. “Bit of a poser, though, doing things like butterflies and fish. I mean, what sort of noise does a fish make? What would we do for a fish?”
“Even if we can’t put children in the audience right away,” Rafe went on, “we can do it as a play for adults, and once they talk about it enough—”
“Print the rhymes!” Jeska exclaimed. “That’s how to do it—print it up as a book of rhymes that they can take home with them and show the little ones!”
“With pictures,” Rafe agreed, looking startled that somebody else had guessed where he was going with this. “I’ve done a few sketches, talked with some art students while we were in Shollop and Stiddolfe—”
“You’ve been working on this quite a while, haven’t you?” Cade asked, amused and impressed.
“Well, Crisiant was expecting before we left.”
He hadn’t said a thing: not before they left on the Royal, not when the letter had surely come to tell him their dreams were again disappointed. Twice now that he hadn’t been with her when she lost a baby.
“We’ll be home all winter this year,” Cade said impulsively. “This time everything will be fine.”
“Bees would be fun, too,” Mieka was saying. “Lots of lovely noise. And peacocks. Let’s do a whole flock of—”
“No!” Jeska snapped. “Absolutely no peacocks.”
“Actually,” Cade said quickly, interrupting whatever protest Mieka might have made, “ever since that show in Lilyleaf, I’ve been thinking about doing a play where we take out one or another of the elements. Get rid of all the emotions, for instance, like you suggest with this play, Rafe—not the way the Shadowshapers do it with ‘Life in a Day,’ with the payoff at the end, but nothing during the whole piece. It would make more work for Jeska, of course—”
“I did just fine that time,” their masquer stated. “I can work with anything you care to give me—and even when I can’t get at it to work with.”
“I know,” Cade soothed, “and that’s what got me to thinking about this. What if we snipped out all the visuals? Have it be sounds, smells, tastes, emotions—”
“And words, of course,” Mieka reminded him. “Can’t have a play without words.”
“Can’t we?” He smiled. “It would make my life a lot easier!”
Rafe sat up a little straighter and opened his folio across his knees. “Interesting stuff to think on, but don’t we have some work to do?”
“That we do, lads, that we do.” Resisting a glance towards the bar, Cade, too, opened his folio.
This was Jeska’s signal. “What’s she doing here?”
Cade pretended to notice Megs, as if Rafe hadn’t just indicated she had arrived. “She works here,” he replied mildly.
Rafe growled. “Not when we’re working here, she doesn’t!”
“Oh, untwist it, would you?” Mieka rose and beckoned the girl over. He pulled up a chair and handed her into it, chattering all the while. “Nice to see you again! Did you have a good time in Lilyleaf? Back here to earn enough for another holiday, eh? Never mind them, you sit right here and watch and listen all you like.”
Thus far, Mieka was reacting precisely as hoped. Their rudeness had produced an instantaneous urge to contradict them, and he was always polite to girls. Things might get dodgy with the next bit, though Cade and Rafe and Jeska had enough experience of the Elf by now to guess pretty accurately what he would do. A request made through the Keymarker’s owner had been several days waiting for the girl’s reply, but it seemed Megs had been unable to resist coming early to watch their little rehearsal.
With a rustle of wrinkled linen skirts, Megs sat down. She had tied up all her hair to keep it from getting dusty as she worked, and the head scarf, patterned in turquoise and yellow
, did nothing for her green eyes or her pallid complexion. In point of fact, she looked rather like a sack of laundry cinched with a blue leather belt. Without expressing her gratitude for the chance to observe Touchstone at work or even for the chair Mieka had pulled over for her, she said, “Did you ever suss out who was mucking up your magic?”
“Let’s not discuss unpleasant things,” Mieka admonished with a comical grimace. “What d’you say, mates—shall we do a quick run-through of ‘Treasure’?”
“ ‘Silver Mine,’ ” Cade told him. “Somebody asked for it special tonight. Why don’t you sit over near Rafe, Megs? That way, you can observe what he’s doing a little more closely.”
Rot, of course; she’d be able to sense his work even on the other side of the room. But it was all part of the plot.
Mieka once again played the gentleman and moved the chair for her. She eyed Cade with suspicion, then shrugged. Not much to say for herself today; good.
Cayden talked it through as Jeska murmured the lines and Mieka provided a few shards of magic, just enough to suggest the cold, damp darkness of the mine, the despair of the trapped and doomed miners.
“You see how he adds impressions,” Cade said softly, “one at a time, making sure each is distinct while blending into the others. I haven’t fully primed these withies yet, so there isn’t much power in the workings. Still, it’s giving you the idea, yeh? You can feel what Rafe is doing as well, making sure everything stays smooth and even, that the back of the room receives the same flow as the front and the middle. He knows what Mieka will do next, and he’s ready for it—but a really great fettler is always ready for anything.”
There was that in her eyes that invited him to shut up so she could concentrate better and understand without his having to tell her. Cade smiled, leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and kept talking.