by Melanie Rawn
“Great show t’other night, Mieka!”
“Laughed fit to split me guts at the ‘Sweetheart’!”
“I’m takin’ the country cousins to the Downstreet next week, special treat. Do the ‘Dragon’, whyn’t ya?”
He spent time with them all, trading quips, delighted to be famous. The walk to Redpebble thus took even longer than usual, and it was almost time for tea when he walked down Criddow Close to the glassworks.
Quarterdays, he kept repeating to himself when not otherwise distracted. There was one in Spring and one in Autumn, with Midsummer precisely in between. Together with Wintering, they marked off the four quarters of the year. Why Briuly would want to visit the place on either Quarterday was a mystery. And none of it could have anything to do with Midsummer, because the setting sun would be in the wrong place to hit the fallen stones hiding the Rights. He couldn’t understand it. He was hoping that Quill had worked it all out by now.
He was also hoping that Blye could oblige him with a glasscrafting that was perfectly legal for her to do. Weary of being half-strangled by a neck cloth, frustrated by having to tie the elaborate knots dictated by fashion, and strictly forbidden by his wife to loosen an already tied one just enough to be able to slip it on and off as required, he intended to ask Blye if she could make him a glass ring.
The notion captured her interest at once. “Not plain, of course—knowing you,” she chuckled. “A simple glass ring in any color you like—but what if I make it like a real ring for the fingers, with a decoration to set off whatever color you’re wearing? I could even make a flat face for it and glue in a gemstone, or something made of glass or porcelain. Would that suit?”
“Down to the ground,” he said happily. “You’re a darling to indulge me.”
“I’m a practical businesswoman,” she retorted. “When you’re at Trials, every noble in Albeyn will see you wearing something new and bright and stylish. I’ll make a small fortune.”
“Do I get a cut of the profits?”
“No.” She grinned.
“But it was my idea! And me doing the publicity!”
“Half a percent.”
“Blye! Who was it gave you the notion for the pottinger? And talking of that, any words of appreciation from the Princess?”
“Not yet. She has better things to do than paw through baby gifts. Two percent, and that’s my final offer.”
“That’s no offer, that’s an insult,” he groused.
“Two and a half.”
“Forty-five.”
“Forty-five?” she asked blankly.
Where had that number come from? He covered with a mysterious smile while chasing things in his mind. Forty-five… not the number of plays in Touchstone’s portfolio, not the address of anyone he knew… his mother had just turned forty-six—
An Elsewhen, a good one, about Cade’s Namingday surprise party. Not that Cade had ever told him much by way of specifics. Touchstone had just played a show, Cade had forgot that it was his Namingday, Mieka had a diamond earring and gray hair, and they’d had bubbledy wine in a pair of new crystal goblets. Blye’s work, Mieka’s gift.
So that must be how it all connected, he told himself. Blye, glass, mention of the gift for little Prince Roshlin. With a mental shrug—it was as good an explanation as he ever expected his brain to provide about its own peculiar workings—he smiled wider at Blye.
“Forty-five. Twenty for the idea, twenty for the promoting of it, and five percent because you argued with me!”
“All right,” she said at once. “But you realize that whatever I end up charging everyone else for them, I’ll have to charge you triple.”
“Splendid! I’ll collect my forty-five percent of triple the price!”
Blye gave up and laughed. Almost the next instant, though, she made a worried face and said, “But, Mieka—is it legal for me to make them? They’d be hollow, after all.”
“When has that ever stopped you?” He pointed to the dinner service she was making for Vered Goldbraider, that lacked only one more platter and a couple of serving bowls.
“If I’m to make this fortune, and give you forty-five percent of it, then I have to be sure it’s all right for me to craft them. If not, I’d have to give the idea to someone else, someone with a hallmark.”
Mieka chewed his lip. “Not hollow,” he stated. “Empty. There’s a difference.” Then he saw that her dark eyes were laughing at him. “Blye! That’s a nasty trick to play on the man who just gave you the fashion idea of the year!”
“My father used to say that the Glasscrafters Guild gave him the authority to make a nothingness for other people to fill. ‘I create emptiness,’ he called it.”
“Withies aren’t emptiness or nothingness. They’re possibilities.”
“How poetic of you, Master Windthistle! And talking of withies, let me show you the new ones. I’ve put a little notch at the crimp end so just a touch will tell you who made them.”
“And hide them if the Stewards inspect us. Not that they ever have,” he mused. “I wonder why that is?”
“You still have the old ones my father made, and bought a dozen or so from Master Splithook.”
“And never use them.”
“I s’pose they keep track with the glasscrafters regarding who buys how many. But one of these days somebody’s going to figure out that there’s a discrepancy in numbers between what you’ve actually bought and how many you use. If you keep on shattering the poor things—”
“Getting rid of the evidence, just in case. And it shatters me heart as well every time I do it. Blye, I can always tell your withies the instant I touch them. I don’t have to check. They feel like you.”
She regarded him pensively. “Y’know, sometimes I quite like having you for a brother-in-law.”
The bell above the shop door rang out. Mieka whisked the illegal glass twigs into a wrapping cloth and stashed them in a drawer while she went through to the shop. Before he could hide more than a few wineglasses and bowls of Vered’s new dinnerware, Blye called out in a half-strangled voice, “Mieka!”
He ran into the shop, careful to shut the connecting door firmly behind him. Standing there amidst the bright displays of plates and candleflats was the fettler girl, Megs. At least he thought it was Megs. The messy dark-blond braid had become a pile of intricate plaits atop her head. The well-worn clothing had given way to a black skirt and a smart bottle-green jacket with thin black twists of embroidery on hem and cuffs. The color matched her eyes, and it was by her eyes that he finally knew her for sure.
She was accompanied by an elderly gentleman in Princess Miriuzca’s livery of blue coat and brown trousers and lots of little silver buttons. He held a sea-green pillow with brown fringe. On the pillow rested a pair of blue gauntlet gloves, finest cheveril and stitched with silver thread in a pattern of forget-me-nevers.
“Mistress Windthistle,” Megs said, and now Mieka was absolutely certain sure it was her, for the voice was the same even if the accents were now those of the Court. “It is my great honor to present you with the first in what Princess Miriuzca hopes will become a tradition in Albeyn as it has been for many long years in her father’s country.”
“I’m—I’m flattered,” Blye managed. “But I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Rather than answer, Megs turned to the old man. “The proclamation?”
He looked chagrined. “In the carriage, Your Ladyship.” He departed, leaving the pillow on a counter.
Mieka made astonished eyes at Megs. “ ‘Your Ladyship’?”
She ignored him. “Mistress Windthistle, if your husband is at home, then perhaps he might want to join us.”
“He’s—uh, he’s upstairs in his office, I think—”
“Go,” Mieka advised. She went. He faced Megs again.
“I’ll explain, I promise,” she said quickly. “It really is me—one ‘me,’ anyhow.”
“How many are there?”
“Several. Just go alo
ng with this one, won’t you, please?”
He smiled and asked brightly, “I’ll go find Cayden, shall I?”
“No! I mean, I’d hoped we could keep this betwixt the two of us.” The green eyes narrowed. “You keep my secret—for now, at least—and I’ll keep yours.”
He had no idea what she was talking of, but decided to go along. For now.
Blye had paused upstairs to tidy her hair and put on a clean shirt. By the time she returned with Jedris—as visibly baffled as she was—the Princess’s gentleman had returned with a parchment sporting a big blue wax seal all beribboned with blue and brown and silver. Outside in Criddow Close, a small crowd had gathered, attracted by a Royal carriage, murmuring speculations.
“I think we’ll keep this private,” Megs said, “but leave the shades up on the windows.”
“Witnesses,” Mieka said shrewdly.
“Your pardon, m’lady,” Jed ventured, “but what’s going on?”
She smiled and became almost pretty. “Your wife is about to become the first crafter in Albeyn to be honored with the Gift of the Gloves.”
“Shall I read, Your Ladyship?” the gentleman asked.
She gestured gracious permission and they settled in for what turned out to be a long, long siege.
“Be it hereby and heretofore known to the whole of the Kingdom of Albeyn by these presents and munificences, that the most gentle and skilled Mistress Blye Windthistle, born Cindercliff, who erewhile contrived for Her Royal Highness the Princess Miriuzca, Duchess of Downymede, a fine and loving mathom for which Her Royal Highness the Princess Miriuzca has determined to express her approof in a manner most meet and fitting—”
Mieka blinked. Good Gods—this was worse than listening to Uncle Breedbate. He held up a hand and the flow of words came to a temporary halt. “Sorry. What’s a mathom?”
“A gift,” Megs said. “Say on.”
The gentleman cleared his throat, shot Mieka a narrow glance of warning, and said on for a good ten minutes at least. The proclamation roamed about the Kingdom of Albeyn and all its divisions with special emphasis on the larger towns and cities; got lost in Gallantrybanks for a sentence or two; branched off to include all those visitors, merchants, traders, travelers, tourists, immigrants, sojourners, students, guests, and whomsoever else for whatsoever purpose, intention, reason, or function might set foot on the soil of Albeyn ruled over by our most gracious Lord King Meredan; emerged triumphant at the Palace of our most gracious Lord the King; returned to warn each and all and every of these whomsoevers that the protection of the Crown was involved and any treasons, felonies, and or misdemeanors by whomsoever and in whatsoever manner done committed or perpetrated and by whom or to whom or for whom, when, how, and after what manner and circumstances and every one of them and any one of them in any manner whatsoever would be punished to the fullest extent of the law; and finally, magnificently, concluded that the Gifting of the Gloves to the honorable trusty and well-beloved Mistress Blye Windthistle, born Cindercliff, signified that her crafting of any and all items, decorations, objects, articles, and various and sundry other things made of glass was to be viewed as if the hands of Royalty had Themselves performed the necessary work.
Blye was frowning a lingering bewilderment. Jed looked as if he’d acquired a sudden case of the staggers. Mieka wished Cayden were here to translate.
Megs did it for them. “What all that means is that it’s even better than a Royal Warrant. When you get one of those, it’s because you supply the Palace with cloth or foodstuffs or whatever. But this—”
“It’s saying,” Mieka interrupted, abruptly enlightened, “that any work Blye does—anything at all!—has to be seen as being done by the Princess’s own lovely hands!”
“Exactly,” Megs agreed. “It’s a very old custom in—” She broke off with a sigh. “I never can pronounce the name of her father’s country.”
“That’s all right,” Mieka consoled her. “Nobody else can, either. I’ve been there and I can’t pronounce it!”
“It’s the symbolism, you see,” Megs went on. “From her hands to yours, you wearing her Gloves is as if she were doing the crafting herself. I’m told that the recipients usually have a glass display case made.” She smiled again. “Not the slightest bother for you!”
“Say something, Blye,” Mieka urged.
“I–I’m—”
“Almost twenty-two years you’ve known Cayden Silversun,” Mieka mourned, “and you can’t think of a single word? Don’t wait for him to compose something appropriate for putting in a letter. I’m sure that M—that Her Ladyship will be asked for a report when she gets back to the Palace.” He’d almost said her name (if “Megs” really was her name), and he didn’t want to give away her secret. Not until he knew what secret of his she thought she possessed.
Jed put an arm around his wife. “We’re incredibly honored.”
Blye nodded, wide-eyed, then found her voice. “Your Ladyship, please tell Her Royal Highness that this is out of all imagining. The gift of the pottinger for the new little Prince was just—”
“Oh, it wasn’t just,” Megs said. “I’ve seen it, and it’s charming. Besides, I’m told there’s a little glass box of some kind?”
Mieka nearly whooped with delight. The pottinger was ordinary glasscrafting, but the box Cade had presented her with two summers ago had been imbued with Blye’s magic—the same sort that went into the withies, which she could now make without fear and without a hallmark and without having to hide them and make them in secret late at night and—
—and now she could make anything she chose. Bowls, basins, jars, teapots, vases, cups, goblets, spoons, all the hollow things that had been forbidden to her before the Giving of the Gloves. The Glasscrafters Guild, he realized with glee, would be apoplectic. If they offered her a hallmark now, she could even refuse it as unnecessary.
But there was something else about this, something deeper and more significant. The magic. Blye’s magic. Any magic. The Princess was signaling her acceptance of it—Hells, she was actively seeking it out in this glasscrafter.
Cade would be inconsolable when he found out he’d missed this.
Jedris had the sense to open a bottle of wine. He poured it into glasses that were the last of those made by Blye’s father, a varied collection of samples that would never be sold, because the crafter who made them would never make more. When Megs’s eyes noted the miscellany of styles and colors, Jed explained who had made them and why they were still in the shop.
“I think they’re perfect for this occasion,” he finished. “He’d be even prouder of her than I am right now.”
“The pottinger was yours, too,” Blye protested, blushing. “The wooden part.”
“But it’s not my primary trade, woodworking. Mieka, hand these round and let’s have a toast to Princess Miriuzca and Prince Roshlin.”
Soon thereafter Megs and the old gentleman took their leave. Mieka walked them out. The small, light carriage, drawn by a single horse, had by now attracted quite the crowd. The driver, also in Miriuzca’s livery, made friendly shooing motions to his audience and climbed back up to the bench. Megs murmured something to the old man, who glanced at Mieka, then at her, and sighed quietly.
“I’ve friends on the other side of Redpebble Square,” he said to no one in particular.
“You have coin for a hire-hack?”
“I do, Your Ladyship. I give you good afternoon.”
“Master Windthistle, may I have the honor of your escort?”
When they were settled in the closed carriage, she opened all the windows. “My father would have a spasm if he heard I’d ridden alone with a young man all the way to Waterknot Circle.”
“But riding all the way from the Palace to Criddow Close with an old man is fine? Or is it just that I’m a disreputable theater player? How much does he know about your ambition to be a Steward? And how do you know where I live?”
She folded her hands in her lap. “ ’Twa
sn’t very subtle of me, getting rid of the poor man like that. But we must talk.”
“Oh, no.” He lolled back in the leather seat, folded his arms, and grinned. “You talk. I’ll listen.”
22
Shifting position slightly so she could look at him, Megs began with her real name. “The original ‘me’ really is Lady Megueris Mindrising. My father’s side is mostly Wizard and Human, and my mother’s people are mostly Human and Piksey.”
“Piksey?” Mieka asked.
She knew what he meant, and replied tersely, “Yes, I had a twin. He died. So did my mother. May I continue? Beholden to you. As you can guess by the name, we’re quite repulsively rich. My father is the last of the Mindrisings, my mother was the last of the Thatchwhites, and I’m the last of both.”
“Yet you want to be a fettler. A Steward.”
“Tell me, Master Windthistle, do you interrupt everyone so constantly? And if so, how have you escaped bodily harm?”
“It’s me winning personality and adorable smile. You’re at Court now, with the Princess, yeh?”
“She has an ask of Touchstone, but I’ll come to that later.”
“Why not now? Because I think I can tell you the rest of it. Your father wants you to make a splendiferous marriage, so he hauled you off to the Palace to become a lady-in-waiting. Everybody knows how rich you are, so you’re fending off all sorts of charming young men with their charming proposals, and escape that hothouse whenever you can, so you leaped at the chance to represent the Princess on this errand to Blye. How’m I doin’ so far?”
“Fair to middling. The young men and their proposals are the farthest thing from charming, but other than that, you’ve got it pretty accurately.”
He could guess a lot more than was polite to say. For example, as an adored only child, she had been cosseted and indulged until the belief that she could indeed become a Steward was only natural to her. Denied nothing in childhood, grown to be a very wealthy young woman, why should she not do exactly as she pleased? Her father ought to have anticipated her refusal to follow the traditional path of a rich highborn lady. Mieka did admire her, though, for knowing everything wouldn’t simply be handed to her on a golden plate. She understood that she would have to work for it, and she was willing to do so.