Touchstone

by Melanie Rawn

  Even if he could have found words, he couldn’t have spoken them. All he could manage was a tiny nod. He’d feel the imprint of Cade’s fingertips for days. He’d feel the frozen shock of Cade’s terror for the rest of his life.

  It turned out that being scared out of his wits was an effective treatment for too much alcohol and too much thorn; the fear had gone through him like a dose of salts. They got through the show with no one in the audience the wiser. But Cade didn’t speak to him and would scarcely even look at him for two whole days.

  What should have been a long journey to New Halt was made shorter and easier by a lack of fresh snow. A trade convoy had been through a day ahead of them, and the line of wagons had cleared the road nicely. Jeska’s weather-witching was needed only to melt snow that had tumbled down hillsides since the wagons had passed. When he was feeling charitable, Mieka decided that Cade let Jeska do the work because it was one of the few bits of magic he could actually perform off the stage, and allowed him to feel himself their equal; when he was annoyed with the tregetour, he was positive it was only because Cade was lazy—and a Wizard, and therefore a snob. They reached New Halt a full day ahead of schedule—just as well, for Mieka’s head was splitting and it was all he could do not to cough every other minute.

  An extra day of rest, plus some assistance from Auntie Brishen, worked wonders. But a vicious wind knifed off the Ocean Sea, right through the rough streets of the harbor, through every crack in the walls of the inn, even through the seams of Mieka’s clothes. Cade was acknowledging his presence again, though he might have preferred to be ignored a while longer—the fussing frayed Mieka’s already raw nerves. Take it easy, don’t try for anything spectacular tonight, don’t wear yourself out, just put the withies in easy reach, you needn’t dance about like you usually—

  “Will you shut it? Do I tell you how to prime the bleedin’ things? All right, then. You don’t tell me how to use ’em. If standin’ on me head and wavin’ ’em from between me toes is what makes the audience see what you want ’em to see, then that’s what I’ll be doing. And if glass twigs blown with farts collected from the Archduke’s own bumhole is what gives me what I need to do it with, then I’m ready an’ willin’ to sneak meself and a couple of pig bladders into his garderobe an’ hold me nose, an’ squeeze the things meself while Blye works the glass—awkward it’d be, but I’m sure we could work something out—”

  By this time Cade was grinning, exactly as Mieka had intended. Pity he couldn’t beguile a head cold the same way.

  He gutted his way through their first five engagements at New Halt, every show at the Mariners Guildhall packed with sailors—and trollops dressed as sailors, prompting a lot of grumbling from Cade about why nice girls weren’t allowed to attend the theater. It certainly would have filled out the audiences at some of the shows at Sidlowe and Scatterseed. Weather, roads, and distance sometimes made it difficult for those in outlying districts to travel, even for the only entertainments they’d see all winter. The schedule tried to accommodate important market days or local festivals, when people would be in town anyway, but that wasn’t always possible. Once, in Scatterseed, the crowd had been so thin that it had hardly been worth doing the show. They gave it their best effort anyway. Not only had some of their audience saved all year for this break from grim winter, but Touchstone was in agreement that every performance was a step closer to perfecting their craft. (Though more and more often Cayden was beginning to call it art, which amused Rafe no end.)

  What ought to have been their mandatory day of rest after five shows at New Halt was instead taken up by a private performance. The shows of the kind they’d done so far had been for students at Shollop, guilds in Sidlowe and Scatterseed that had been outbid for sponsorship of the Winterly, and a group of a hundred ladies who had been their most difficult and discerning audience yet. Mieka had expected them to spend an hour settling down from giddy giggles at their daring in actually watching a play; afterwards, he learned that they hired the warehouse every year at a nominal fee (one of the husbands owned it and valued marital harmony) when the First Flight was in town.

  This private performance outside New Halt was different. It took place in the vaulted stone undercroft of an ominous old mansion, and it was for an audience of one. Trading confused, speculative glances when they entered to find only a single plain chair in the middle of the damp cellar, by the time they’d set up lecterns and glass baskets, the chair was occupied by a bulky personage so enwrapped in blankets, woolen scarves, gloves, and a bedrobe made of six colors of fur that there was no telling its age or even gender. They reined back the intensity of the performance, not wishing to overwhelm, but it seemed to Mieka that whatever they gave was somehow sucked out of the chilly air and they had to work harder to fill the space. It was perhaps more exhausting than creation and control of their performance under the copper roof at Seekhaven. He began to worry that he might run out of magic to use before Jeska ran out of lines to speak.

  “Weird,” was how Rafe summed it up later, as they devoured a lavish meal upstairs. There was a huge table, whining under the weight of platter after laden platter; there were a dozen different bottles, some of them on ice, all of them expensive, according to Cade, who’d once worked for a wine merchant; there were no servants. During their whole time in the mansion, they had seen only one person: their audience.

  “Give us a look at that note,” Mieka said, extending a hand to Cade. “Nothing but instructions?”

  “And the request for ‘Silver Mine,’” he replied, tossing over the card before returning his attention to dismantling his second quail of the evening.

  Mieka sipped white wine as he read again the simple message. A carriage for their comfort, the favor of a particular piece, dinner afterwards, much beholden. “Definitely weird,” he said. “Any ideas who it was?”

  “One of Kearney’s friends, p’rhaps. He didn’t really say when he showed me the invitation back in Dolven Wold.”

  “I hope he has more friends with as much money to spend,” Jeska said, admiring a solid gold three-pronged fork and the slice of roast pheasant at the end of it.

  “Forgot to mention,” Cade went on, “we’ve been invited to Fairwalk Manor for a bit of a holiday before Trials.” He began sorting feathers with one hand while he ate with the other—the pheasants, the grouse, and the quail had been redecked in their own plumage before serving, just as if this had been the King’s own banqueting hall. “It’s s’posed to be quite the parkland. Miles of pasture, more miles of forest, three lakes, a river—and the house has twenty-six bedchambers, three dining rooms, a conservatory, and a kitchen hearth big enough to roast two sides of venison at a time. I’m not sure if Kearney eats off gold plate on a daily basis, but it should be reasonably comfortable.”

  Jeska gave a snort. “Silk sheets, velvet blankets, feather beds—and padded garderobe seats for that bony bum of yours.”

  Cade grinned. “And padded saddles, I hope. He’s got one of the finest stables in the kingdom.” Selecting the best of the pheasant tail-feathers, he stuck it in his cap. “Oy, Mieka, I’ll teach you how to ride!”

  Definitively: “No, you won’t.”

  “How about ‘how to not fall off’?”

  “Nor that, neither. Pass the brandy sauce.”

  They never learned the identity of their audience of one, but none of them cared once they saw the four drawstring pouches waiting in the main hall on their way out. Each little black leather purse contained an amount of money approaching the truly astounding. Blye’s loan; Crisiant’s High Chapel wedding; a whole month seaside for Mistress Bowbender this summer; Wistly Hall’s new tiled roof—well, the most important bits of it, anyway … Mieka wished he could send the money on to his family that very instant. A much better Wintering present than the embroidered shawls he’d sent his mother and Jinsie and Auntie Brishen, hand-carved toys and dollies for his younger siblings (a dragon for Tavier, of course), and bottles of upcountry whiskey for h
is father and Jedris and Jezael. Touchstone had gone in together on Blye’s present: a brand new pair of dragon-gut gloves. With the coin weighing down these purses, they could’ve bought her the whole damned dragon.

  Mieka had swiped the bottle of apple brandy off the dinner table, and upon their return to their lodgings detoured to the stables to give it to their coachman. His generosity would, he hoped, be remembered when he decided which of the Rules to break next. Coming out of the side door, he stood for a moment looking up at the night sky, irresolute. With a bellyful of fine food and excellent liquor, he felt quite equal to the task of charming that sweet little kitchen maid who’d been eyeing him sidelong for three days now. But he also felt the throb of a headache and a rasp in his throat. Deciding that he was too tired to do the girl justice tonight, and still puzzled by the way one person had seemed to consume everything he could bring from his glass twigs, he was halfway to the inn’s back door when he nearly got run down by an arriving coach.

  “Oy!” he yelled, scrambling for the shelter of the porch.

  The coach clattered to a stop, the horses shuddering, the coachman howling with laughter. “Said I’d get here in two days from Cranking Vale, dinnit I?” he called into the little window behind his bench. “That’s another hundred you owe me, lads!”

  Wonderful, Mieka thought; a gang of roisterous highborns with nothing to do. He’d encountered their sort in Gallantrybanks, with their fancy carriages and blooded horses and jeering laughter as common folk scurried out of their way. He knew from experience there’d be no apology, not for the likes of him, so with a curse spat in their direction he tugged open the heavy iron-bound door.

  A glance into the dining room showed him the kitchen maid wiping down tables. In the interests of tomorrow night—she was very pretty, with brown hair and big hazel eyes—Mieka helped her stack chairs. She hadn’t much conversation, but he preferred girls who kept to themselves whatever thoughts they might have. It saved a lot of time better spent not talking.

  There was a small sitting area on the second landing where guests at the inn could legally have a last couple of drinks after curfew rang. Cade was there, and Rafe; Jeska had undoubtedly found himself a girl, as usual.

  “Thought you were tired,” Mieka said as he draped himself on the sofa beneath the window.

  “You’ll never guess who just drove in and swanned on up the stairs.” Cade was chewing his lip, always a bad sign.

  “You mean the cullions who about ran me down in the stable yard?” He sat up a little straighter. “Wait—you don’t mean to say they’re staying here? Noblemen like that, they’d be in the best inn New Halt can offer.”

  “Not bleedin’ noblemen,” Rafe grunted. “Players.”

  “Seems your friend Pirro has found himself a group,” Cade said. “They’re calling themselves Black Lightning, and they’re taking over for the Wishcallers on Third Flight without ever having performed at Trials.”

  Severely confused, Mieka looked from one to the other of them before deciding to address the information in sequence. “Pirro’s here?”

  “Just said so, didn’t I?”

  Ah, of course; his mistake. Cade wouldn’t care about anything except that this Black Lightning had never been judged at Trials and yet somehow had secured a place on the Winterly. “What happened to the Wishcallers?”

  “Couldn’t really say,” said a light voice from above them, and sloping down the stairs came a tall, lean, strikingly beautiful young man Mieka recognized at once as Thierin, the tregetour that half the Shadowshapers liked and half did not. He’d never caught the man’s last name—and there was an arrogance in those very dark eyes that assured everyone who looked into them that the name once heard would be remembered.

  “All I know,” Thierin went on as he lounged elegantly against the finial post, “is here we are, on our way to Scatterseed the back way round. We’d a contract in Lilyleaf for a few weeks, you see—but what could the Master of Revelries do other than buy us out of it?”

  Nobody seemed inclined to say anything. Mieka didn’t like the sound of the quiet. “Where’s Pirro?”

  “Already asleep, I’d wager.”

  That reminded him. “Talking of wagers, how many hundred do you owe that coachman for getting you here so fast?”

  Thierin made large, puzzled eyes, looking him down and up. Then, with exaggerated surprise suitable only for the broadest of farces—onstage or offstage; good thing he wasn’t their masquer, he’d be jeered out of the theater—he exclaimed, “Oh! It was you, outside in the yard?”

  Cayden rose, and Rafe, and together they loomed over the younger tregetour: Cade topping him by three inches and Rafe outweighing him by at least twenty pounds.

  “That was my glisker you nearly trammeled,” Cade said, soft-voiced.

  “Awf’ly sorry.”

  “Black Lightning,” Rafe mused silkily. “Bit of an odd image, that. Black in a black sky—makes you rather invisible, doesn’t it?”

  The dangerous gleam in Thierin’s eyes acknowledged the sarcasm. “Exactly right. You’ll never see us coming. G’night.”

  He slipped past them down the stairs. Mieka glanced up at Cade. “Don’t much like him, do you?”

  “Not much to like, is there? Did you note the way he stands? As if his cock’s so big he can’t get his legs any more together than that.”

  “Maybe he’s just bowlegged,” Rafe drawled.

  “Or he stuffed one too many pairs of rolled-up stockings in his crotch?” Mieka suggested.

  “Wool stockings,” Cade contributed. “It’s winter.”

  “Scratchy,” said Rafe, shaking his head.

  Mieka sniggered. “Fleas!”

  Laughter took some of the sour taste from the encounter—never see them coming, indeed—but as they started up to their room, two voices resonated up from the bottom of the stairwell, purposefully loud.

  “Hafta watch the dining room clock tomorrow at breakfast, right? Time it, to see fer sure.”

  “You watch the clock, Kaj, I’ll watch his nose,” Thierin answered, “and we’ll see how long it takes the rest of his ugly face to catch up to it comin’ through the door!”

  Cade had turned crimson. Before Mieka could do more than turn, Rafe’s big hands had closed around his shoulders. “Damn you, Rafe, lemme go feed that miscreated pillock his own teeth—”

  “We’ll hit them where they’ll feel it most,” Rafe said quietly. “I promise. If you go about breakin’ those knuckles on other people’s bones, how’re you gonna flourish a withie and make a dragon that’ll claw right down their throats?”

  “They’ll be at our show tomorrow afternoon, count on it,” Cade murmured. “We’ll get them then.”

  Mieka woke the next morning feeling as if the coach really had run him over. Even the stubble on his chin ached. He lay there wondering how he could be barely eighteen and feel more ancient than Great-great-granny Windthistle. If this was what it was to get old, he’d do his best to avoid it.

  “I knew we shouldn’t’ve done that private show last night,” Cade fretted as he brought in a tray loaded with local remedies. All of them smelled foul, and considering that Mieka’s nose was stopped up like a bad drain, that he could smell them at all wasn’t a good sign. “Here, this might do some good.”

  He bit both lips together, squeezed his eyes shut, and shook his head.

  “Oh, don’t be such a baby. Drink it.”

  “Just lemme have some bluethorn, I’ll get through the show fine.”

  “Miek? You in here?” Pirro walked in through the open door, broad and brawny, despicably healthy. “Gods, you look like shit. What’s wrong?”

  “Head cold,” Cade said.

  “Top of me head to the bottom of me feet cold,” Mieka corrected.

  “And you’ve an afternoon performance today? That’s not good.”

  Mieka squinted up at him. “Out with it,” he demanded. “I’ve been knowing you since the first time you stepped on a withie wit
h those clumping big feet. You didn’t come here just to—” A coughing fit interrupted him, and Cayden saw his chance: the drink he gave Mieka to soothe his throat was full of a mixture vile enough to put fur on a wyvern’s hide. When he finished spluttering and was reasonably certain he wouldn’t yark it all back up again, he turned a bleary gaze on Pirro again. “Just say it and get out and let me die in peace!”

  The glisker looked abashed, apologetic, and defensive all at once—an impossible confusion on his usually placid, pleasant face. “They asked me to come talk to you, Miek. I would’ve come anyway, to see how you’re feeling, but—they wouldn’t put it this way, of course, I’m s’posed to act as if we’d be doing you a favor when actually it’s you who’d be doing a favor for us—”

  “Favor?” Cade asked sharply. “What kind of favor do you need, after getting onto the Winterly without Trials?”

  “That’s just what I mean. We need the experience.” He tugged at the silver ring decorating the tip of one ear. “I don’t know what happened to the Wishcallers. We were settled in Lilyleaf, a whole month of shows, but then Thierin got the note from the Palace—”

  “Favor?” Cade repeated, his eyes like frost on a steel dagger.

  “We could open the show for you,” was the blunt reply. “It’d be one less piece for you to get through, Miek, people would get the show they came to see—”

  “Would they?” Rafe inquired from the door. “Sounds to me as if you’re none too sure of yourselves. And without a rating at Trials—”

  “The Master of Revelries wouldn’t have hired them,” Mieka objected, “if he thought they were awful.” He glanced at Pirro. “Are you awful?”

  “No!”

  Rafe eyed them both. “What about the other groups at Seekhaven? The ones who were in direct competition with us for the Winterly?”

  “They really were awful,” Mieka reminded him. “The Nightrunners?”

  “There were others,” Rafe said stubbornly. Turning his head, he called down the stairs, “Jeska! Put that girl away and get in here!”