Touchstone

by Melanie Rawn

  The rest of Touchstone had gathered in the empty taproom, waiting for Fairwalk to tell them it was time to pack up and get ready to leave. Rafe was, predictably, writing to Crisiant. They’d been gone only fifteen days and this had to be at least his fifth letter to her. Mieka had every respect in the world for the girl, and liked her as much as she’d let him, but it just wasn’t decent for even a bespoken to have this kind of stranglehold on a man. Jeska was playing a rousing game of slapcards with the innkeeper’s daughters—aged six and nine, giggly around this young man they already recognized as stupendously good-looking. Hells, any female out of nappies saw it. Mieka kept eyeing the bar. His breakfast ale had worn off and he was just about to head back upstairs for the bottle in his satchel when Cayden stumbled into the room.

  Bleary-eyed, colossally hung over, snarling on his way to the kitchen—Mieka tried to make himself as small and unobtrusive as possible in his chair. Except for last night, Cade in general had been surly; today he was likely to be insufferable.

  “What th’fuck d’ya mean, there’s no breakfast?”

  Rafe glanced up from pen and parchment. Jeska missed slapping the table and hit his own thigh instead.

  “Closed until dinner?”

  The kitchen door swung open in time to hear the innkeeper’s condescending reply: “We get up in the morning around here, son.”

  Cade erupted from the doorway. His pale eyes fixed on Mieka. “Let’s go!”

  “Cade—” Rafe began.

  “Find Kearney and tell him to order me a bath!”

  Mieka traded winces with the fettler and scrambled after Cade out into the bright sunshine and muddy slush of the street. A block later they were outside a dry goods shop. Cade yanked open the door and snapped, “You got money? Go find me some milk.”

  “Er … Cade, what d’you want with—?” But the rest of the question stuck in his throat when Cade glared at him.

  So he went up the street, peering into each shop window, and finally located a place that sold cheese. His request was met with blank looks, and a lot of time was wasted as he explained he really did want the raw material, not the finished product, but eventually he emerged with milk (he had to pay for the covered jug, too). Cade was pacing outside the dry goods store, a heavy burlap sack in his arms.

  Mieka caught him up, careful not to spill the milk. “Cade, what’re you—?”

  “Shuddup.”

  Back at the inn, they blew past Fairwalk on the stairs. His Lordship mumbled about a hot bath waiting, but there was scarcely time because they really ought to leave, don’t you see. Mieka scrambled up the stairs after Cade to the second floor garderobe’s lovely big bathtub, filled as requested with steaming hot water.

  Cade ripped opened the bag, dumped the contents into the tub, and pulled a spoon out of his pocket. The bag slapped to the tiled floor. Mieka saw the label for the first time: ten pounds of Bellytimber’s Best Porridge Oats.

  “’Twas the milk what made it Art,” Mieka told Rafe and Jeska and the baffled Lord Fairwalk once they were in the coach. “Anybody else woulda been content with eating a few spoonfuls of plain porridge—even me!—but not Quill! Gods, it was beautiful!”

  Rafe and Jeska collapsed, howling with laughter. Cade sat with arms folded, cool as a cloud.

  His Lordship frowned. “But you don’t mean to say—that is, he didn’t actually—I mean—”

  “Oh yes he did!” Mieka crowed.

  “You! Stop! Stop at once! Don’t you dare move those horses one step!”

  It was the innkeeper, arms waving wildly, covered to the elbows in congealed porridge.

  “I thought it would harden faster,” Cade remarked.

  Mieka shouted out the open window to the coachman, “Drive!” Then, with a polite, “Do pardon me an instant,” he turned, and as the coach jolted forward unhitched his trousers and presented his naked backside out the window to the infuriated innkeeper.

  This time Cade brought out pen and ink without being asked, and personally crossed off the words Incorrectness of attire.

  “That’s two,” he said, and grinned.

  Chapter 19

  Mieka knew his luck in finding himself, at so young an age, part of something worth being part of. He knew himself to be not much more than a young man of substantially Elfen blood who was damned good at glisking, drinking, making mischief, and making love, and asked little else from life other than to do at least two of those things—preferably three, and ideally all four—every night. But he was also beginning to realize, mildly intrigued, that Touchstone, and especially Cayden Silversun, had the potential to make him so much more.

  After those first acts of rebellion against the King’s little list, he behaved himself. More or less. Not only did he have many more months to accomplish his goal, but he decided he’d best space things out for the times when he got too bored or Cade succumbed again to the sullens.

  He had given up trying to persuade Quill into an evening of sampling thorn. For a time he considered slipping something interesting into Cade’s drink, the way he had with Rafe, but refrained. Bearing in mind how perplexed Auntie Brishen had been about the reaction to blockweed, Mieka decided that experiments ought to be cautious, and at Cade’s own request.

  Life improved with Cade’s disposition, though there was plenty about the Winterly Circuit to strain everyone’s temper. Still, memory of the porridge-and-milk morning could make Mieka smile even when the coach wheels were mired in mud and they all had to get out and push while Jeska attempted to dry out the road; even when the “beds” they’d been promised turned out to be one blanket and a smelly pillow each on the floor of an inn’s upstairs storage room (swiftly remedied by His Lordship, bless him); even when he wanted to have a girl so desperately that he couldn’t get to sleep without redthorn. By the fourth week of the Winterly, the sexual drought was getting beyond desperation, and even his promise to Blye, and to himself, could no longer keep him from emulating Jeska—who somehow managed to find himself a girl almost every night. Rafe had announced that in his opinion, any girl foolish enough to marry the masquer would have to bring a straw mattress and a stable blanket to the wedded bedchamber if she ever wanted to enjoy her full marital rights: “Can’t get it up anymore without the smell of hay and horse, can you, lad?”

  Being conscientious about sleeping in the same room with Cade seemed sillier every day—especially on those nights when a pretty barmaid winked at him. Rafe seemed not to notice girls at all, possibly because he knew any dalliances would be reported back to Crisiant but probably because he simply wasn’t interested. Mieka thought this bizarre. First of all, as long as a man didn’t bring home a pox, what business was it of his woman’s who he slept with while away from her? But second of all, and much more telling, Crisiant was Crisiant, which pretty much explained everything even if Mieka couldn’t put it all into exact words.

  As for Cayden … he was just too intense about the Circuit, and performances, and arriving on time, and the equipment, and … just everything. They had Fairwalk to deal with all the arrangements now, so what did he have to anguish himself about? Mieka supposed he’d been at it so long he couldn’t just stop. But although after that riotous night in Shollop he usually joined in the celebrations after a performance, and was merry enough when he did, not one glance of speculation or outright suggestion from a girl ever registered with him. And glances there were, despite his conviction that no woman would look even once at him when Jeska and Mieka were there to be appreciated. Mieka thought this ridiculous, too.

  Late on their last afternoon in Dolven Wold, third stop on the Winterly, they went to have a look at the outdoor venue where—with luck, good chavish, and another triumph at Trials—they’d play next summer on the Ducal Circuit, possibly even the Royal. Dolven Wold’s indoor hall was a tricky one, long and rather narrow, with a bounce off the sweeping curves of the staircases at the far end. Chat had warned Mieka about that, and the unholy chill of the place that made firepockets nece
ssary at regular intervals amid the audience. The magic needed for warmth, minimal though it was, could always be felt, and they’d had to make allowances for it. But the outdoor site—ah, there was a place where a glisker and a fettler and a masquer could stretch full out. The “seats” were terraced rows cut into the side of a hill; the “stage” was an intricate pattern of flagstones that matched the red walls and towers of the ancient, abandoned castle. Rose Court, the theater was called, and as Jeska and Cade meandered its snowy breadth, Rafe and Mieka climbed all the way to the top tier.

  “This will be spectacular!” Mieka yelled down into the curving bowl of the theater.

  “Everybody else does ‘spectacular’ at Rose Court!” Cade called from the stage, startling Mieka with the just-beside-him quality of the sound. “We’ll be fantastic!”

  Rafe was hopping back down from snow-step to snow-step, laughing, arms flailing madly, and all at once Mieka had a sort of foreseeing of his own: a string of children, bundled up in winter clothes, jumping along behind their father. Imagination, he knew. But lovely to contemplate. He’d be Mad Uncle Mieka, and they’d all come over for tea and swimming at Wistly Hall—

  And then imagination flared like a sunglint off the snow as a trill of laughter sounded behind him. He turned. The girl was small and dainty, her long blond hair braided with blue ribbons. The green of her cloak matched the green of her eyes. She stood just beside a knobbly old pine tree, like a forest Sprite about to welcome him to her home.

  “Where’d you come from, darlin’?”

  “Mieka!” Cade shouted. “C’mon, let’s get back!”

  “You go!” he replied, sauntering towards the girl.

  “Mieka!”

  “Later!”

  The girl smiled at him. It took no special talent for dreaming the futures to know that his weeks-long drought was over.

  It turned out that she lived with her sister in rooms above a shop selling household goods. The pair spent their days tending the counter and making or repairing brooms and brushes of all shapes and sizes. He liked the rough feel of their hands.

  His way back to the inn lit by a full moon, he had no trouble locating the squat little structure close by the old castle walls. Fairwalk, who seemed determined to educate them about each stop on the Winterly, had related how Dolven Wold had started life as a fortress, expanded into a fair-sized town with the fortunes of its owners, become a royal residence when Princess Veddie married the foreign Archduke Guriel and took a fancy to the place, and had somehow survived the ravages of the war that had seen the castle itself largely destroyed. The present Archduke never visited here, the place where he’d been born. The citizenry usually shrugged at the mention of his name. But even now players on all Circuits were ordered to include at least one of the Thirteen at every show they gave—just as a reminder.

  Mieka crept up the back stairs and slipped into the hallway. No creaky floorboards here; the whole inn was built from solid rock taken from the demolished red sandstone castle walls. Letting himself into the room he shared with Cayden, he leaned back against the door and grinned to himself as he began peeling off his gloves. The girls truly had been delightful. Just what he needed.

  The shutters shafted thin strips of moonlight across the floor, not touching either bed. What guided him to Cade was the sound of shifting blankets and a whimper of his own name.

  Several times on the journey he’d come half-awake in the middle of the night, vaguely aware that Cade was looking at him. Once the man had been standing next to his bed. Mieka had always gone back to sleep and the next day Cade had been fine. But this time the whole damned bed was shuddering. As Mieka approached, the covers twisted around the long body as Cade fought whatever was going on inside his head.

  Mieka froze. Ought he to let this play out, so Cade would wake and see him and know that whatever he’d dreamed, Mieka was all right? Or ought he to wake him up? Blye had never said anything to the purpose. She had never seen Cade during one of the sleeping visions.

  As he stood there, unsure and beginning to be as frightened as Cade, a violent movement knocked Cade’s arm into the cabinet between the beds. The pain woke him, and he cried out.

  “Quill? It’s all right, everything’s fine, you were just—”

  “Mieka?”

  That thin, splintered plea shook him. “It’s all right,” he repeated, knowing very well that it wasn’t. “You were sleeping,” he said stupidly, then flinched as bluish fire glared from the candle on the little cabinet. “Gods, you look awful,” he blurted.

  The gray eyes caught at him. In the next instant, with an effort that tightened every muscle in his face, Cade looked away and said, “Sorry. Get some sleep. Early start tomorrow for—for—”

  “Sidlowe,” he murmured.

  “Yes. Of course.” Another struggle produced something resembling a smile. “Nice evening?”

  Yes, very—but not worth this, was what he wanted to say. “Bit of an exertion. She had a sister.”

  “No mother lurking about?”

  So casually spoke that Mieka was certain the answer was important to Cade. “No, they’re on their own.” He tried to ignore the wince back from him as he gathered up blankets and sheets. “Here, it’s cold. You’ll turn into six feet three inches of ice.”

  “Six feet two,” Cade corrected, huddling gratefully into the covers.

  “Not according to those tatty old brown trousers of yours.” When Cade blinked up at him, he smiled. “The ones you bought before we left are still long enough, but those brown ones—honest to all the Gods, Quill, it’s an embarrassment to be seen with you every time they come untucked from your boots.” When he still looked bewildered, Mieka chuckled. “You’ve grown about an inch taller since they were made. All leg.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s me Quill,” he teased, “eloquent at any hour of the day or night! Close the light and go back to sleep. Everything’s fine.”

  Mieka stripped in the darkness and got into bed. He stayed awake quite a while, listening as the rhythm of Cade’s breathing become slow and even with sleep, wondering why he hadn’t asked to be told about the dream. Just a gentle query about why Cade had said his name might have done it. Just a friendly commiseration over the spiciness of the stew they’d had for lunching being cause enough for a nightmare … anything, anything to give Cade an opening to tell him about how and why he dreamed.

  How long was Mieka supposed to pretend he didn’t know?

  He couldn’t ask. He couldn’t force Cade’s confidence. Cade had to choose the time and the place and the reason for telling him. Mieka would just have to wait. That this would require patience—not a conspicuous feature of his character—afforded him a wry amusement as he finally drifted off to sleep. Clever and mad, those he could manage without inconveniencing himself at all. Patience … that was another thing entirely.

  The next day was one long test of his forbearance. Short on sleep, rousted out of bed at some loathsome hour of the morning, curled once again into a corner of the coach so Rafe could stretch out his long legs to the opposite seat, Mieka tried to distract himself with ideas about breaking the rest of the Rules. Drunkenness he could manage without even thinking about it; no fun there. The trick was to avoid angering the coachman. The man seemed to like him, but who knew what punishments he might think fit if Mieka broke any of the Rules in a way that pushed him too far?

  He figured he had a way to cross off incivility without too much risk. Likewise property damage. He’d have to see what sort of opportunities presented themselves, though, for the ones about disobedience and endangerment.

  If Do not snore loudly had been on the list proper, he would have turned over Rafe to the coachman’s tender mercies anytime since they’d left Gallantrybanks. Unfortunately, the coachman wasn’t in a position to mind. The fettler snored like a trumpet announcing the imminent arrival of the most august of personages. No one below royal rank would merit such a thundering great noise. Jeska didn’t so
much snore as snort, in sharp little gasps like a cat trying not to sneeze. Lord Kearney Fairwalk could only be said to snore delicately. A soft buzzing sound would escape his open mouth, and then, as if even in sleep he was afraid of giving the slightest offense, he would clear his throat and subside into silence.

  Cade didn’t snore at all. With that nose, it was unnatural that he didn’t. But he didn’t. There were times when Mieka found this even more annoying than Rafe’s trumpet blasts, Jeska’s sniffly little snorts, and Fairwalk’s dainty whirrs combined.

  Mieka, of course, had never snored in his life. So it was a good thing it wasn’t on the list. He’d never be able to accomplish it.

  A nice tankard of strong brown ale at lunching was just about to put him to sleep when he heard a noise somewhere between a honk and a rasp, and Rafe growled something that sounded like For the love of all the Angels, will somebody shut him up? Knowing he must be referring to someone else, and rather indignant that Rafe of all people should complain about snoring, Mieka snuggled more deeply into the carriage rug and kept his eyes closed.

  All at once he couldn’t breathe.

  He woke with a splutter, jerking away from the fingers that had pinched his nostrils shut, and bumped his head against the window.

  “Much beholden,” Rafe said feelingly.

  “Don’t mention it,” replied Jeska.

  “What—why—how come you did that for?” Mieka demanded.

  “You were snoring.”

  “I was not!”

  “Were so.”

  “I don’t snore!” Mieka insisted.

  The rest of Touchstone traded eye-rolls. Fairwalk looked embarrassed, and looked out the nearest window.

  “The windows rattled and the horses nearly took fright,” Cade said solemnly. But his eyes were dancing with laughter.