by Melanie Rawn
Rafe was shaking his head. “And have everybody think we’re not good enough to do multiple characters?”
“Who else is good enough to do a real Dragon?” Mieka countered, and tossed the token back to Cade. “This is brilliant!”
Jeska was nodding, his blue eyes alight with plans, his lips already framing the customary lines. But Rafe was still balking, skeptical.
“Look,” Cade said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “We’re there to give ’em a show. They don’t really care what sort, as long as it’s something they’ve never seen before. If we weren’t capable of multiple characters, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”
“And first place on the Winterly is where we’ll be,” Mieka stated. “Is that High Chapel wedding a little more real to you now?”
Rafe’s broad shoulders relaxed, and he gave a slow nod. “If this works, I’ll let you hold the loving cups.” He paused. “Mind, I’ll skin you alive if you drop them.”
Over the next hour, they paced the stage, planning, arguing, sparking ideas off one another like—like true silver and true gold sparked off a touchstone, Cade told himself. This was how it was supposed to be: the exchanging and enhancing of techniques, the almost instantaneous comprehension of a new ploy, the eagerness, the joy of it.
And though he didn’t mention it, he was thinking all the while that there would be no opportunity for their usual attention-grabber. There would be no shattering of glass. If they tried it, the stewards would be on them like a wolf on unguarded sheep. Everybody knew what Touchstone did at the end of a show. The fettlers who stood watch to protect the audience from everything from deliberate violations to nervous mistakes would be aware of every move Touchstone had ever made.
They would have to do this on sheer talent alone. And something within Cade was glad that this was so. There would be no flash, no gimmicks, no tricks. Just the work.
He wondered why he felt not the slightest misgiving. After all, Touchstone had first drawn attention with the glass-shattering stunts. Part of the reason the four of them were thrashing out the performance of the Ninth instead of getting ready for another show at the Downstreet was that the maids at the Downstreet swept up more broken glass in one night than most taverns did in a year.
But he knew he wouldn’t mention his certainty that they would be great even without their hallmark move. He wanted his partners a bit edgy; they did their best work when they were just a touch anxious. Himself, he functioned most effectively after he had worn himself out with worrying. In fact, he mused, he had so little in common with these three it was ludicrous. Offstage, Jeska rarely if ever stopped thinking about girls and how best to bed whichever beauty had taken his eye. If Mieka had seen an open book since he left littleschool, it was only because one had fallen off a shelf in front of him. As for Rafe—despite his love for the theater and his determination to travel the Circuit, he was essentially a homebody, a confirmed nestcock eagerly anticipating marriage to Crisiant and a settled home with a dozen rambunctious children.
But the four of them understood each other on more basic and more important levels: they knew the work. Jeska was poised to become one of the legendary masquers. Rafe was only growing in power and confidence. Mieka was the most talented, if the most maddening, glisker Cade had ever seen.
And they’re mine, he told himself. Together we make this singular thing: Touchstone. The standard to measure against, the proof of worth. Let the rest of them strike their work against ours. They won’t prove gold or even silver. Compared to us, they’re wood shavings.
“I think he approves,” Rafe said suddenly, and Cade looked over at the three of them. They were watching him with varying degrees of speculation on their faces.
“How can you tell?” Mieka asked, frowning.
“He’s got that look in his eye.”
Cade let his smile widen. “Which one?”
Rafe snorted. “Which look, or which eye?”
He tossed the dragon token high in the air, caught it, and laughed, and wouldn’t tell them what he was laughing about.
Chapter 11
Easing his arms into the close-fitting sleeves of his new jacket, Cayden resisted the urge to shrug and squirm until the garment was comfortable. It wasn’t comfortable and it never would be; that was the whole point of fashion, or so Mieka had assured him.
“For everyone else but you,” Cade had retorted. “I’d like to see you work the glisker’s bench in something this tight!”
The boy had grinned and told the tailor to lengthen the jacket’s cuffs. “Oh, and make sure the pleating at the waist doesn’t make it look like half a lady’s skirt,” he added. “Fit it nice and snug down the hips, right?” Then, turning to his sister for advice: “Well? Will he do?”
“Compared to what?” asked Jinsie Windthistle.
Her twin made a face at her. “A kelpie in a red silk gown, what d’you think?”
“Oh, he’ll do just fine, in that case.” She smiled at Cade and gave him a wink. Her eyes, he noted again with a slight shock, were exceptionally blue. Her coloring was, in fact, the opposite of her brother’s: pale eyes, white-gold hair, and a dusky cast to her skin that made those eyes even more startling. Jinsie was shorter that Mieka, with even slighter bones and even more delicate ears, but in character they were as alike as berries on a bush. Cade had liked her on sight; better still, she and Blye got on like a spring-spate river. By the time Mieka had dragged him to the trendy but not yet wildly popular tailor over on Narbacy Street, where one could get elegant clothing at still-reasonable prices, Jinsie and Blye had been to several of the Downstreet shows dressed as boys. And right fashionable boys, at that. This tailor was where Jinsie had got the appropriate attire for their impostures at secondhand.
Cade thought with gratitude of Jinsie as he dressed for Trials—despite the tedium of doing up the two dozen silver buttons she’d decreed must fasten his jacket, waist to throat. Even though they’d be performing in less than two hours, he wasn’t at all nervous. This was partly due to how great they were going to look. Jinsie had chosen Touchstone’s attire. She’d decided everything from the cut of his jacket to the material, a light blue-gray that lent some color to his face and gave his eyes a slightly blue cast. The silk was woven through with a tiny pattern of strawberry leaves—for luck, Jinsie had told him, after she’d bargained the half-bolt down to a price she deemed acceptable. Tonight, for Trials, each member of Touchstone would be wearing something made of this silk. Cade’s jacket, Rafe’s neckband (knotted to Jinsie’s specifications and fixed with a silver-and-onyx pin in the shape of his clan’s Spider, lent by his father), Jeska’s collar and cuffs, and the front plackets of Mieka’s shirt. Jinsie had decreed that they must have some sort of visual correlation.
“But we’ll make it subtle,” she’d said, pacing slowly around Cade where he stood on a little raised platform while the tailor worked. “Not like the Shorelines, with their silly matching tunics that don’t fit.”
“Or the Goldenharts,” Mieka contributed, “with those yellow deer antlers on their chests. Always looks as if they’re about to get stabbed.”
“Or,” said the tailor, most unexpectedly, “what I just made for the Shadowshapers.”
“You did?” Cade craned his neck to look at the man where he knelt, fussing with the jacket’s hem.
“Oh, yes. Very smart, though I say it meself—collarless black shirts, gray velvet jackets, black piping on everything. Though, as the young mistress says, not subtle. Master Kevelock, he’s got himself a passion for embroidery.” He stood, made his stately, critical way round Cade once more, and nodded. “Not like this at all. The Windthistles,” he observed to Cade, “have always had taste.”
Jinsie sniffed delicately. “Always excepting our brother Jedris, of course. Miek, you remember the time he showed up at Wintering in one of Mum’s old skirts?”
As Cade choked on laughter, Mieka explained, “He’d had it cut up and sewn into a cloak—but ve
rmilion just isn’t his color, not with that red hair.”
It appeared that any color was Mieka’s color. It was those eyes, of course: they picked up the shade of whatever he wore, or its opposite, or a complementary color—it was impossible to guess which would result. Cade had given up trying.
As they stood facing each other in the upstairs bedchamber overlooking Spoonshiner River, Cade suspected that Mieka’s assessment of him was likely to be more thorough and less satisfactory than his inspection of Mieka, so he had to smile when, reaching up to adjust the Falcon pin at Cade’s throat, the Elf gave a deep nod of approval.
“Excellent. Really excellent, Quill. No, I mean it!” he exclaimed when Cade laughed aloud. “Jinsie was absolutely right about that silk. She usually is.”
“You don’t look half ugly, either,” he teased. In truth, the touch of gray-blue suited Mieka admirably, especially paired with the black of the rest of his outfit. In public Mieka frustled as fine as any titled lord; onstage he was sartorially subdued.
“What I don’t understand,” Mieka said as they started downstairs, “is why you’re not chewing your fingernails up to your elbows.”
“We’ve got it done and dusted, Mieka. We’re for First Flight on the Winterly Circuit.” Feeling the boy’s puzzled gaze, he turned and smiled. “Unless you’d rather I fretted.”
“No, havin’ me Quill anguishin’ himself would distract me. I’m only hoping the bruises aren’t still distracting Jeska.”
“He seemed fine this morning.”
“He’s a very good masquer,” Mieka retorted. “Nothing to worry about, though. I came prepared.”
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he brought out a green leather implement roll like that used by Mistress Mirdley to store her best kitchen knives. Braided silk cords tied it together, gold to match the stamped design along the edges. Wyvern hide, Cade realized, and the seed-raindrop-flame pattern. Just like the wallet of blockweed.
“He won’t take anything.”
“He will if it lets him forget how much his jaw still hurts.”
Cade shook his head. “He won’t.”
“If you and Rafe tell him to, he will.”
After a moment’s interior struggle, he asked, “Will it leave his head clear?”
“Perfectly. It just dulls pain for a few hours, nothing else.”
To his surprise, he felt an abrupt longing as he looked at the familiar green-and-gold. It had been wonderful to sleep without dreaming, without even being afraid that he might dream. It had been even better to use just enough blockweed to give him half-waking dreams he could control and direct. Was there something in that very well-appointed roll that would work even more interesting effects?
“I won’t get them muddled, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Mieka went on. “Auntie Brishen gave me strict instructions how to use her emergency kit.” Then, peering up at Cade’s face, he arched his brows. “Oh! Is that what’s in your mind? Let’s get through tonight, and talk about it tomorrow, right?” With a laugh, as he leaped the last few stairs: “If we can think round our hangovers, that is!”
Cade nodded helplessly. He would never understand how Mieka read him so accurately. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. “Didn’t Auntie Brishen send anything useful for that?”
“A hangover’s like the common cold, y’know—impossible to cure, no matter how hard anybody tries. Humans,” he observed with a sad shake of his head, “have much to answer for.”
“Then again,” Cade countered, “if you weren’t partly Human, you wouldn’t be able to drink without hangovers that last a week.”
“Doesn’t spare me gettin’ sniffles and a sore throat, though, does it? Rafe!” he bellowed suddenly. “Where are you?”
They both jumped as Rafe stepped into the stairwell from the back hallway. “Here, Your Lordship.” He swept them a Court bow. “Move your ass, Your Lordship, or I’ll kick it all the way to the castle. Or the river. Whichever’s closer.”
The sharpness of his voice aroused Cade’s suspicions. No doubt of it: Rafe was nervous. So was Jeska. The masquer’s bruises hadn’t faded, and at final rehearsal yesterday he’d held back in his gestures and his vocal modulations. His face would be carefully transformed by Mieka so that during the Fair Lady’s speeches no one would see his lips move, but Cade needed all the eloquence of movement and intonation Jeska could give him. He caught Mieka’s gaze, glanced at the green leather roll still in his hand, and nodded.
That Jeska put up no fight should have given Cade a bad case of nerves. But he’d dreamed last night.
{The tavern had become a landmark, with blue enamel plaques on the wall to prove it. TOUCHSTONE, CRYSTAL SPARKS, BLACK LIGHTNING, HAWK’S CLAW. All of them had started here. The Downstreet: origin of legends.
A long-boned man with graying reddish-brown curls and almost golden skin sat on the stage playing an eight-stringed lute. His music had an almost casual beauty, as if hinting that if he really exerted himself, his listeners would scarce be able to bear the magic of it. The sound threaded like drifting smoke through the empty tavern, gliding around the pretty barmaids polishing the tables, swirling about the uneven roof timbers. Over in the back corner two men sat opposite each other, glass goblets gleaming on the wooden table. One of the men was dressed richly, elegantly; the other had inkstains on his thick fingers and shirt cuffs.
“I must’ve written a dozen or more pieces about them through the years. They always were the best.” Tobalt paused for a sip of wine, licked his lips delicately, and regarded the goblet for a moment. “These are exact copies, you know. No matter how many years it’s been, they keep the same design.”
“You said you met them after their rather sensational appearance at Trials.”
“I didn’t see the performance, but I knew somebody who did, and he tipped me that they were something special.”
The younger man scribbled notes on a long sheet of paper. “There’ve been rumors about that ever since.”
“Most of them started by Mieka Windthistle!” Tobalt grinned. “He admitted last year that he’s never bothered to keep track of any of the stories he makes up to keep people guessing. And they say Cayden’s the one with the imagination—!”
“They did what no one had ever done, that year at Trials.”
“The first of many innovations. The Shadowshapers, they always pushed the limits of what could and couldn’t be done. And nobody’s better at giving solid versions of the old standards than the Sparks. Hawk’s Claw is doing some interesting stuff these days, too. But the way Touchstone works—they glint off each other, you can see it when they’re onstage, when they’ve just walked on and they all glance at each other. And again, when they’ve finished, and Jeska will collect all of them with a look. There’s a silent laugh amongst them when they know they’ve been spectacular.”
“They’ve had their problems through the years, though,” the second man suggested.
“On and off the stage,” Tobalt agreed easily. “Coming from within and without. But Touchstone is still together after twenty-five years.”}
Tobalt, talking to a reporter in the Downstreet (and Cade kicked himself mentally for not having recognized it before). But different, so different. Nothing about losing the Elf who was their soul. Whatever had happened, whoever had made the crucial choices, that cold and heartless future was gone.
He smiled at his friends, his partners, as they waited to take the stage. And in their eyes he saw the glint Tobalt had spoken of—would speak of. That everyone would speak of. He tried to imagine all of them twenty-five years into the future … lines on their faces, gray hair, less hair, more waistline … he couldn’t do it. To him, they would always be as they were right now: young and eager, their faces bright with excitement and confidence, their eyes looking to him as the source of that confidence. And all at once he laughed, and took Mieka aside, and whispered a few words that made the Elf chortle quietly and nod agreement.
And then they were onstage.
Fliting Hall seated six hundred—three times the biggest audience Touchstone had ever known. The name had come from its original purpose as a sort of interior tilting yard. Three hundred years ago, more or less, the king at the time had grown weary of losing his best warrior knights to peacetime duels, and thus had decreed a change in the manner of their brawls. A formal challenge was issued, the parties agreed on a time, and the least lethal of swords—thin, flexible foils—were handed out from the monarch’s own armory to make sure no one cheated by strengthening, stiffening, or poisoning a blade. Padded gambesons protected the combatants’ bodies from throat to groin. Those of the court with an interest in the proceedings, or merely an interest in minor bloodshed, lined the four walls. Chairs were set for official arbiters. Hostilities were thereby civilized.
At some point, however, the battles became verbal as well as physical, and eventually swordskill yielded to wordplay. The exchanges of invective and mockery were formalized, sometimes into poetry, and the arbiters became judges. Their verdict about which challenger had delivered the final sizzling retort decided the contest. From fighting to fliting, from duels of swords to duels of words—but the age of spontaneous wit had given way to predetermined scripts. And now Trials were held in Fliting Hall every summer, with judges deciding the outcome not of combat but of competition—though a nod to the place’s original purpose was preserved in the levels of each Circuit: First, Second, and Third Flights.
The hall had been turned into a genuine theater, with a wide stage concealed by two swagged sets of velvet curtains, sea-green and silver. Rather than crowd spectators around the edges, there were permanent seats, more rows of them than Cayden had ever seen, rising gradually towards the back so that everyone had a good view of the stage. The rough-faced stone of the original had been paneled in more acoustically appropriate wood, carved at regular intervals with scenes representing The Thirteen. Fist-sized glass globes using blue Wizardfire, not the more subtle golden Elf-light, glowed over each of six doors and all the way around the carved juncture where walls met ceiling. Cade had given a wordless glare of warning as they entered, pointing to the globes, then to Rafe and Mieka. The fettler nodded wry agreement; the glisker looked rebellious for a moment, then shrugged and smiled.