by Melanie Rawn
He nodded emphatically. “Goblin nightmares, and fruit dropping from trees,” he muttered. “My son’s wife is a bit Goblin, and a sweeter, kinder, prettier girl never lived. Rafcadion, my friend, could you do something about the magic that’s already been applied? Kill it off somehow?”
Rafe shook his head regretfully. “Not my specialty. Cade or Mieka could put something in its place, but why waste good magic on bad pictures?”
“I’m thinking you’ve the right of it there. Ah, well, the new painter comes tomorrow, and he can get rid of that muck.”
It was at this same rehearsal that Cade began to hint at his most recent project. Not going well, was this new play, not at all, but he stuck at it and had a question for Mieka.
“Can you do thirsty?”
Mieka glanced up from the glass baskets, holding aloft his glass of beer. “Since I was fourteen, mate.”
Cade pulled an annoyed grimace. “No, I meant can you make the audience thirsty?”
He felt like throwing the glass, but it would be a waste of good beer—and look what happened the last time he threw things. He flung words instead. “You think I’m some sort of backspanger hired by the management to waft a bit of dry-mouth round the tavern?”
Cade stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
Jeska enlightened him. “Never heard of that? Those of us Elves as has a bit of glisker magic, but too young or not good enough, tavern owners hire them—but not too often, mind, or it’d give the game away. Easier if you’re kagged, of course,” he mused. “Thuswise, nobody suspects Elf when all of a sudden they’re perishin’ for another drink.” He shrugged. “Share of the takings for you, lad, back next week sometime for another go—and could you nudge them in the direction of the costlier ales?”
Mieka was wide-eyed. “You never—!”
“No, not me. Cousin on Mum’s side. He wanted me to join him.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I’ve better things to do with what little magic I’ve got.”
Mieka ruminated on this for a time. “You’ve more than you know.”
“Mayhap.” A sunshine smile, not of the sort he used onstage but a real one. “I prefer having you lot doing most of the heavy lifting. Leaves me energy for more rewarding pursuits.”
“And have you heard from the delectable Kazie this week?”
Jeska’s smile widened. “She’ll be here for Wintering.”
“Excellent! Mum’s putting together a party—you’re all invited, Dery and Mistress Mirdley, too, if they’ve a mind to it,” Mieka said in Cade’s general direction, but didn’t look at him. He did a lot of that these days; both of them did, this not looking at each other. Well, at least they were speaking.
“First Wintering in two years we’ll spend at home,” Rafe mused. “We ought to send something to our hosts at Cloffin Crossriver. Just to let them know we miss them.”
“Already done,” Jeska reported. “Hawk’s Claw will be at Crossriver for Wintering, and their tregetour is by way of becoming a friend of mine.”
“The Longbranch boy?” Cade asked.
“Trenal Longbranch,” Jeska affirmed. “I sent some Frannitch wine and a pair of Blye’s finest glasses with him. Not that she actually made them, of course,” he finished with a wink.
“Are Cilka and Petrinka busy growing hothouse flowers?” Cade asked Mieka.
“Roses and hundred-petal daisies,” he confirmed, surprised that Cade remembered that Elfen tradition from their midnight conversation. It seemed so long ago, that night spent lying in the darkness, talking, hearing the Minster bells. And that reminded him. “Jez is seeing a girl whose father’s a bellwright. Not the great big ones, just handbells. Should make lots of lovely noise at midnight!”
“Talking of noise,” Cade asked innocently, “will you be blowing anything up?”
“Oh, Gods,” Jeska moaned. “Don’t give him ideas!”
It was so good to be laughing again. But it didn’t happen often enough, that winter.
At least he wasn’t bored. Or plagued with his annual head cold, which was unusual enough that his mother decided he’d outgrown them, like losing baby teeth. And he wasn’t poor, either. Kearney Fairwalk had been busy while Touchstone was off on the Royal Circuit, and during this, the first winter of their rank as Second Flight on that circuit, they were in constant demand. Whenever Mieka found himself almost dreading yet another show at yet another private party, he did two things: remind himself how much money was piling up in his bank account, and prick a nice armful of bluethorn to get him through the performance. Though every now and then he had to choose a vein on an ankle, because sometimes the skin of his arms was too reddened and raw to support another puncture.
Quite a few bookings took them out of Gallantrybanks for a night or three, so Yazz and the wagon were kept busy as well. Sometimes Robel came along to keep her husband company, but more often she stayed at Hilldrop getting ready for their coming child. When word had got round the village last spring that a Giant (or mostly) and his wife were living at the Windthistle place, once the alarmed whispers gave way to curiosity and then to familiarity, the neighbors decided it was a convenience, having someone like Yazz in residence. Not only could he be counted on for favors involving the moving of weighty objects, but he was also, to put it mildly, a deterrent to anyone who thought it might be amusing to cause trouble of any kind. Theft and commotion were rare occurrences in Hilldrop these days.
So everybody was gainfully employed and making money and happy as hogs in slop, and Mieka ought to have been well pleased.
At least he wasn’t bored. Or not very often, anyways.
Some nights, when he was curled in his solitary bed at Wistly or staring at the ceiling of the wagon as they rolled home from a country mansion, he told himself he really ought to talk things over with his wife. He ought to ask her—calmly, gently, without threats or anger, just as a matter of information—why she had done what she’d done with those cards. Why she had lied to him.
He kept telling himself this, and that the next time he was at Hilldrop he’d make time to do it, and couldn’t even fool himself. Every time he considered a conversation of the sort, he got queasy. Besides, she seemed perfectly willing to forget the whole thing. He had peace in his household when he was there, and even if it made him edgy sometimes to be in her presence, he just couldn’t face talking it out with her. She would cry, he knew she would, and put a hand to her cheek, and once more he’d feel like a complete shit, and nothing would be resolved anyway, so why put himself through all that?
In his more cynical, Cade-influenced moments, he knew that if she discovered that he knew when she was lying to him, he would never be able to trust her again. If she knew, she’d be wary and guarded around him. This way, unaware that he could tell, she was still the guileless girl he’d married. She would never test the limits of his perceptions by lying just to see how much she could get away with.
It was the precise opposite of how he felt with Cade, who knew very well that Mieka always knew when he was lying and no longer bothered to try. Mieka remembered that first Winterly, when Cade had kept secret even the fact that he had Elsewhens, and how Mieka had waited with uncharacteristic patience for Cade to admit the truth. He couldn’t stand a return to that. He needed to know that Cade would never even try to lie to him again.
Touchstone didn’t spend all of Wintering at Wistly Hall. The early part of the evening was taken up with a performance at Kearney Fairwalk’s town house. A select company of gentlemen had been invited, a tent had been erected in the back garden, firepockets kept everybody warm, fine foods and finer liquors were served, and Mieka saw Fairwalk thornlost for the very first time.
He wondered if Fairwalk, so obviously of Gnomish blood, knew all the strictures regarding various lineages—blockweed was a very bad idea for Pikseys; Goblins and bluethorn were a disastrous mix—but decided there must be enough Human in him to allow for just about anything. It happened that way
for some people, the way it did for Mieka: he could indulge in pretty much what he pleased, for he was so many different races mixed together that any nasty effects on, say, Sprite were canceled out by his Elfen blood. Or so Auntie Brishen said, and he had no reason to doubt her. On this thought, he began to wonder who was providing Fairwalk’s thorn. Master Bellgloss, perhaps, with whom the Shadowshapers and Crystal Sparks did business. Whoever had done the concocting, Fairwalk was well and truly thorned: pinpoint pupils, flushed cheeks, laughter rising to wild giggles, and a tendency to talk loudly and rapidly without making an uncomfortable amount of sense. Even his hair, usually limp and weary, seemed energetic.
They did a rather lengthy version of “Doorways” at Fairwalk’s request. Cade had written some new lines for Jeska and given Mieka more than enough in the withies to indulge himself with: ten doorways, rather than the usual five or six, and more time spent with each. By the time “This life, and none other” was spoken, despite the bluethorn Mieka was exhausted.
Fairwalk had insisted on paying them for this performance, even though their audience of rich merchants and nobles were there not just for the party but with an eye to showcasing Touchstone in hopes of securing future bookings at private gatherings. Mieka was directed to be on his best behavior, and he submitted without too much protest—for his wife would be at the Wintering celebrations at Wistly, which was also the first anniversary of Jindra’s birth, and he had no intention of letting a drunken tongue say words that wouldn’t help anybody, least of all himself. The counterbalance for bluethorn was alcohol, but he’d used up everything the thorn could provide him, so he merely shook his head and smiled when one of the servants offered him a whiskey. He saw Cade’s brows arch—for surely this was a first in Mieka’s life, turning down good liquor—and didn’t much feel like explaining himself.
If anybody suspected that there was a reason why there were no women present—not even serving girls—at Fairwalk’s party other than the men-only conventions of theater, nobody mentioned it. Still, Mieka was interested to see the Archduke’s librarian, Drevan Wordturner, in the crowd, though he was less pleased when Cade sought him out for a few minutes’ conversation after the show.
“What’d you talk to him for?” Mieka asked in the carriage back to Wistly Hall.
“Just exchanging greetings.”
It was dark, so Mieka couldn’t see his eyes. Yet he knew Cade wasn’t telling the whole truth. “It’s about books, isn’t it?”
“Imagine that!” Jeska said brightly. “Talking with a librarian about books!”
“Shut it,” Mieka growled. Jeska had been deplorably chipper these last few days. Kazie was in town, staying with Croodle’s friends down below the Plume. She would be at Wistly tonight for Wintering. An announcement was shortly expected, and then all of Touchstone would be married except for Cade. “I meant those books Vered wants, about the whatsis Knights.”
“How do you know about that?” Cade demanded.
“Chat told me he’s been impossible since we all got home from the Royal. They’ve turned down a dozen or more bookings, even a real money-spinner tonight at Piercehand’s, just so Vered can hide himself away and think great thoughts.”
“Let’s go by his place next week,” Cade suggested. “Take him out for a drink. His wife and the boys are probably sick of him by now—” He broke off as Mieka shook his head. “You don’t want to take him out for a drink?”
“Love to. But part of the reason he’s playing Hovelden the Hermit is that his wife took the boys off to her mother for the winter and maybe forever—some awful place that he was born in and couldn’t wait to get out of. She hates Gallybanks, y’see, exactly as much as he loves it.”
“Oh, dear,” Cade sighed. “Well, then, he must really need a drink.”
“You’ll have to get past the new lady friend first.”
The gray eyes opened wide. “Is there anything by way of gossip that you don’t know?”
Mieka grinned. “I only know because they had a fight, and the dinnerware is not, shall we say, what it used to be. He came round to commission a service for twelve from Blye. Jed told me all about it. The new girl’s a bit… umm… unpredictable.”
“So he’s all alone—with the new friend—at home on Wintering,” Jeska said, “without his family. That’s a sad thing. We ought to bring him to Wistly. And the new lady friend, too,” he added generously.
But Mieka shook his head. “I already invited him—and her—and Mum’s upset that he turned us down.”
“Your mother,” Cade remarked, “is an extraordinary woman. Eight children of her own, not to speak of all those people wandering about Wistly Hall, and still she takes in strays.”
“If it’s a peaceful and orderly home life Mum was looking for, she oughtn’t to’ve married Fa. Besides, once you’re dealing with fifty or sixty in the house, another dozen makes no nevermind.”
But it was an odd thing, descending from Fairwalk’s carriage in Waterknot Circle, to feel like a stray himself. A guest. The way he’d felt all winter. And that was foolishness, because he’d grown up here and this was his home. Moreover, he had another home that was all his. Most of the time he felt like a guest there, too. There was only one place where he felt he truly belonged: onstage with his partners. “This life, and none other” was a confusing concept when one had three lives at once and only one of them felt like home.
19
Tobalt Fluter had made his name at roughly the same time the Shadowshapers and Touchstone were making theirs. It was a mutually beneficial relationship: he was a writer, and they gave him something to write about.
Tobalt Fluter wanted more.
“It’s something you said, Cade,” he confessed one afternoon at Redpebble Square. Weary of wrestling with a play that simply wouldn’t come right, Cade welcomed Tobalt with gratitude for the distraction. Mistress Mirdley gave them tea in the kitchen and withdrew to her stillroom. Derien was due back from school any moment. Considering the rate at which Tobalt was going through muffins and pastries, the boy would be left with nothing but buttered bread to eat.
“Something I said?” Cade passed the seedy cakes.
“About theater and changing the world. I want to know what all of you think. I want to do an issue of The Nayword that’s nothing but theater, nothing but tregetours. I’m giving a little dinner next week and I’d like you to be there. You and Vered Goldbraider and Rauel Kevelock, of course, Mirko Challender from the Sparks, and the tregetour from Hawk’s Claw, Trenal Longbranch, he’s got some interesting ideas—”
“I agree. I’ve talked with him a few times.”
Tobalt beamed at him. “So you’ll be there!”
“I didn’t say—”
“They’re letting us have the stage at the new Downstreet,” Tobalt went on, and gulped the rest of his tea, and got to his feet. “Hoping you’ll be so impressed that you’ll agree to play at the grand reopening, of course.”
“Tobalt—”
“It’s to be a real theater now, and an inventive design it is, too.” He pulled on his coat. “There’s an outer hall with a bar at either end, and instead of one layer of seats”—a painfully colorful woolen scarf was knotted around his throat—“there’s a sort of wide balcony with yet more seats, so they didn’t lose anything by putting in the hall out front.”
“Have I said yet that I’ll be—”
“They’re saying that capacity will be six hundred! Of course, the wife had to change the room she used to keep her little shrine in—”
“It was destroyed in the fire that burned the place down.”
“Ah, but she’s had another one made for the upstairs. She says none of her boys would know what to do with themselves if there wasn’t that bit of stone and fire and water to allow for upstairs. ‘Her boys’ of course being you players, because she has only the two daughters of her own—”
“Tobalt!”
“—and the elder girl’s had to postpone marriage because of the fi
re and lack of money, so her mother’s more than eager for everybody’s success at the new Downstreet. Anyways, we’ll be dining onstage.” He dug into his pocket for gloves and pulled them on. “You’ll have the chance to get a feel for the place. Perfectly splendid that you’ll be there, Cade! Can’t wait! Beholden to your Mistress Mirdley for the tea!”
“By the Lord and Lady, you talk more and faster than Mieka! I don’t think I’ll be—”
But as Derien came in the back door, Tobalt took the opportunity to go out. Cade was left sitting there with teacup in hand as Tobalt called over his shoulder, “I’ll send round with the day and time!”
“Day and time for what?” Dery wanted to know.
“It seems I’m invited to dinner.”
The boy pounced on the scanty remains of tea and through a mouthful of apricot muffin mumbled something about Jinsie.
“What about her? Swallow first, smatchet.”
He paused long enough to say “Glassworks,” before attacking the tea tray again, with a piteous cry to Mistress Mirdley for more seedy cakes.
Cade entered the shop to find Jinsie gossiping with Jed and Blye, and marveled again that Mishia and Hadden Windthistle had produced four such totally different sets of twin offspring. Jed and Jez were tall, redheaded, entirely Human to look at. Mieka and Jinsie were all Elf, and reverse images of each other: he was black-haired and white-skinned, she had pale golden hair and a dark complexion and blue eyes. Cilka and Petrinka were Piksey-sized and Piksey-dainty; Tavier and Jorie were more Elfen in feature but growing so fast that it would likely be only a couple of years before they were looking Cilka and Petrinka in the eye, and Cade suspected that they would both turn out more Wizard than Elf. The vagaries of heredity, he mused, and smiled a greeting as Jinsie finally noticed him.
“Oh good, you’re here,” she began briskly. “Mieka says you’ve some notion about taking elements out of a performance—getting rid of the emotion, or doing a play without any words at all. I want to talk to you about that.”