by Melanie Rawn
“Why’d they bother to pack all this lot?” Cade muttered as he reached a layer of smallclothes and embroidered nightshirts thrown in at the bottom, unfolded and rather forlorn.
“Well, if it’s the Court, whoever packed it must’ve gone through and pinched whatever was actually worth anything,” Mieka said reasonably. “Did he have any personal servants?”
“No idea. If so, I imagine they’ll be round here sooner or later, angling for a job or a means of support while they look for other work.” His lip curled when he found, at the very bottom of the crate of useless things, a little wooden box, delicately carved and inlaid with iridescent shell fragments, that held three glass thorns and a tiny pewter bowl for mixing. Thorn—his own father!
“Next?” he asked, and Mieka obliged him by opening the second crate. More clothing—everything from stockings of all colors to a heavy woolen cloak, black and trimmed with matching fur at the hem and hood. This last he shook free of the crate. “No holes that I can see, and the fur’s probably worth a goodly bit. I’m surprised it’s here, considering—” He broke off as something fell from the undone folds of the cloak. “What in all Hells—?”
Two things: two framed drawings done in pencil.
“Good Gods,” he murmured. “Mieka, look at these.”
They were not imagings done with magic, but simply pencil sketches done by some unprofessional but mildly talented artist. The drawings were labeled at the bottom. CAYDEN. DERIEN.
Mieka laughed with delight. “Quill! You were adorable!”
Embarrassed, he protested, “I couldn’t have been more than a year old. All babies are adorable at a year old.”
But he couldn’t take his gaze from the infant whose features were his. There was no mistaking that nose, even in a face barely a year old. He could understand his father’s having kept the portrait of Derien—a beautiful baby, he was growing into a beautiful young man—but him? Cade had often doubted that his father remembered his existence more than once or twice a year.
“I wish—” he began incautiously, then stopped.
“What? Tell me, Quill.”
After a moment’s struggle, he gave in to those thoughtful, compassionate eyes. “I just wish I could go back and tell this boy that it’ll be all right. That he’ll be all right. That there will be friends and work he’ll love. And even with all the problems and even the Elsewhens, his life really will be all right.”
Mieka was quiet for so long that Cade felt his face begin to burn with renewed embarrassment. At last the Elf spoke.
“There’s a drawing of Jed and Jez and Jinsie and me—Fa couldn’t afford to hire an imager or anything, and he wanted to give Mum something special for Wintering one year—this was before Cilka and Petrinka were born, and way before Tavier and Jorie. Anyway, he had this musician friend who had a friend who was an artist, and the four of us made such a picture—two redheads, and Jinsie and me being opposites in coloring—that the man did the work for free. I don’t remember sitting for it—”
“I can’t even imagine you sitting still that long!”
“I probably didn’t! But the thing of it is, Mum keeps it in their bedchamber, with drawings of the others, and I was in there about a month ago for something or other, and…”
“And?” Cade prompted.
“I looked at it, and I thought … Quill, don’t laugh at me.”
“I won’t. Just tell me.”
“I wanted to ask that little boy if he minded much, growing up to be me.”
“Why would I laugh at that?”
“Well, it’s kind of funny, when you think about it. You thinking what you did just now, and me thinking the exact opposite, in a way.”
“We had opposite sorts of childhoods.”
“Me with this huge family, you all alone until Dery was born.”
“You the really adorable little boy who made everyone laugh,” Cade said, more slowly now, “and me something of a freak.”
“Stop that! That isn’t what I meant. You were unhappy. I wasn’t.”
“I don’t think I was unhappy, exactly,” he mused. “I always knew what my mother thought of me. My father wasn’t around much. But my grandfather was wonderful. I just figured that this was the way things were supposed to be, that it all was normal. Children are very accepting. They don’t know any different.”
“But what did you think when you saw this just now? You wanted to reassure him that things will turn out all right. I wanted to ask the little boy I was if he thinks I totally fucked up.”
“Why would he think that?” Cade asked.
Looking uncomfortable, Mieka opened his mouth to reply. At that precise moment Derien came clattering in from the kitchen, fourteen years old, as tall as Mieka now, all legs and arms and big brown eyes and a rowdy tangle of curly hair. The noise came from the satchel slung over one shoulder, full of books and pencils and what sounded like a dozen of the small, hard wooden balls used in various games. He let the bag drop and went immediately to Cade, and flung his arms around him.
“They let me out of school early. Is it true about Father? What happened to him? I heard the Palace footman say something to the teacher about thorn.”
Cade exchanged glances with Mieka, who shrugged. Was Dery old enough to understand the sordid circumstances of Zekien’s death? It would be common knowledge all over Gallybanks before tables were set for dinner tonight.
“It’s better that you hear it from me,” Cayden said, pulling away, taking the boy’s shoulders in his own thin hands, and looking straight into those wide, trusting brown eyes. “You know what position he held at Court?”
“Of course. Ashgar’s pimp.”
Cade winced. Mieka let out a little snort of surprise.
Derien made a disgusted face. “Do I look as if I’m still five years old? What happened, Cade? How did he die? In bed with some girl, trying her out for the Prince?”
“Not exactly. More to do with—with getting too old to do that anymore, I think.” He was just as glad that he wouldn’t have to find the exact words to explain. “Lullfinch has some new kind of thorn.”
“Oh, it’s not new,” Derien said. “We learned all about thorn in class. Consecreations and Consequences, taught by a Good Brother who’s about a thousand years old. Thorn isn’t approved by High or Low Chapel, y’know.”
“When did that happen?”
“First I’ve heard of it,” Mieka said at the same time.
“It’s Princess Iamina and the Archduchess.” He drew away from Cade and fell into a chair, sprawling long legs and still somehow looking graceful, as Cade had never been. “They’re taking an interest in the King’s College. It’s said they’ll focus on Shollop and Stiddolfe this summer. A whole new university discipline, the study of sacred writings to turn out highly educated Good Brothers—but not Good Sisters, the usual Chapel schooling is education enough for women.” He made an impatient gesture. “But who cares about that, anyway? How’s Mother? Does she know? Will she be home soon? And what’s all this stuff?”
“The Palace sent it over from Father’s rooms. I’m not sure when Mother will be home.” Cade saw Derien’s face change, a frown and a bitten upper lip alerting him. “What?” he demanded.
Dery slid from his chair to the floor, scooted across the rug to the coffer that was still unopened. “What’s in here?”
“Haven’t gone through it yet.”
He knelt beside his brother to examine the coffer—heavy oak with the outline of a dragon carved into the lid, bound in brass that had long since lost its shine, with worn leather straps easily unbuckled and a lock for which they had no key. Mieka, more practical, took up the fire iron and wedged it between the lock and the coffer, and yanked. Derien was looking more fretful with each passing moment.
Cade hefted the heavy lid open and began removing items—good clothing this time, made of fine silks and whisper-soft woolens, with a plentitude of intricate embroidery and silver buttons. For a moment Derien’s face
cleared as he fingered a longvest decorated with gold thread, but then he bit both lips between his teeth and started flinging garments out of the coffer as fast as he could.
“Have a care, mate!” Mieka protested, snatching up a particularly elegant jacket, dark blue brocade, the collar and cuffs stiff with silver embroidery. “I guess his best clothes didn’t get pinched after all, Cade.” He held the jacket up to himself and extended his arm, measuring the sleeve. “Take some cutting down to fit—what is it with you Silversuns and your arms and legs that go on forever? Can I have this one?”
“Take whatever you like,” Cayden said, irritated at the interruption. Dery was hunting for something and not finding it. He didn’t distract the boy—not when that look was on his face. Did he himself look like this when on the trail of a plotline? Or an Elsewhen?
And then it struck him: Derien’s magic. Gold. Something in that coffer was gold.
He thought it might be the opaque green glass box—something Blye’s father had made long ago, by the hallmark on the bottom, but not magically sealed as a keepsake box, like the one Blye had made for Cayden to give to Princess Miriuzca. This one contained jewelry. Cuff links and shirt studs, brooches and stickpins, all made of gold and silver and precious stones, and worth a tidy sum.
Dery was still jumpy, still frowning.
At the very bottom was an old tea canister, square and slightly rusted. Cade took it from his brother’s hand, impatient to see what was in it. Dery didn’t give it a second glance, even though the coffer was now entirely empty. Cade wrenched off the lid and saw what was inside: business cards. Dozens of them. He picked one at random and although it was not from the Finchery, he knew it must be another whorehouse by the feminine names written on the back and the two, three, or four stars drawn beside them. So this was how Zekien had kept track of Prince Ashgar’s bedmates.
Cade put the canister aside. Mieka was still sampling clothes. Dery sat back on his heels, scowling at the empty coffer. All at once he gave a wordless exclamation.
“What?” Cade asked again.
“It’s bigger on the outside than it is on the inside—see the difference in depth? There’s another three inches or so at the bottom. Help me get it open.”
“Wait a moment. It might be magical.” He touched the sides of the coffer, the open lid, the inside and bottom, where another dragon with outspread wings had been burned into the wood. “Did anybody ever say what sort of magic Father had? Mother never mentioned it.”
“He must’ve had something, mustn’t he? I mean, if we do, and Grandfather Cadriel did, then—”
“Magic or not,” Mieka said, “me mum says she never met any magic that iron couldn’t conquer. Remember that slip I threw at the Fae, Quill?” He slammed the business end of the fire iron straight down into the coffer, as if stabbing to the heart of a real dragon.
Dery cried out in protest, Cade in alarm. They really didn’t have any idea whether or not their father had possessed any magic, or how it might manifest itself, or if the coffer had been bespelled by him or someone else.
Evidently not. No flashes, no smoke; no surge of noxious smells; no sudden feeling of panic or anything else. No magic here.
Except Derien’s magic, which had sensed what was hidden in the false bottom of the coffer. Cayden felt his jaw sag open a little. Gold. Packed tightly in row after row after row, with a shred of gold velvet in between each coin to prevent the telltale ring of metal. A small fortune in gold royals.
“Where did he get it?” Mieka’s voice was hushed in the presence of so much wealth.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Derien asked. “Proceeds from all the brothels. Bribes to get their girls into Father’s bed, and then Ashgar’s.” He sat back again, disgusted. “There’s years of it here.”
“Can’t be,” Mieka argued. “All these clothes must’ve cost—and that box of jewelry, none of it was cheap—”
“Look at the velvet,” Cade said. “Gold. Like the bags Lullfinch gives out with Dragon Tears in them. He cut up a few of them so the coins wouldn’t chink against each other.” He slid a neat little circle of velvet from between two of the coins. “See that? The bit of black ink stamped into the material? If that’s not part of a bird’s wing—” He let the coins fall back into the compartment. “Dery’s right. It has to be bribes. But what was he saving it all for?”
“Why didn’t he offer some of it to Touchstone last year or the year before?” Derien asked. “Or at least to pay for my schooling? Or—” Viciously now, sounding twice his age. “Mother’s liquor bills?”
Cade began tallying the rows. “Lord and Lady, look at all this.”
“Six hundred,” Mieka said. “Thirty rows of twenty each.”
“That’s enough for—for—” What it would buy rendered him incoherent for a moment.
Again he met Mieka’s gaze, and saw rueful understanding there. The Elf picked up one of the splintered slats of the false bottom and turned it to show Cade and Derien the dragon’s tail curled across it, sooty black against pale oakwood.
“My little brother Tavier will be pleased,” he drawled. “It would appear that dragons really do guard treasure.”
Chapter 6
Sick to his toenails—that was how Mieka felt when he saw those rows of lovely, glittering gold coins. All Touchstone’s hard work; all their fear; all their bone-weariness and frantic travel from one gigging to the next and scrimping and everything else they’d gone through in the last two years—and here was the solution to their troubles lying silent and shining in a shabby old box. If Zekien Silversun hadn’t already been dead, Mieka would have hunted him down and killed him.
The iron poker had come down on three of the coins, slightly bending the soft metal, and he waited until Cade and Dery were looking at each other before palming them. Instantly ashamed of himself, he cleared his throat and held out his hand to Cade.
“Damaged but still legal, I think.”
“They’re all yours. I mean it. Take what you want. I’m not touching any of it—except to pay for Dery’s school for the next two years.”
The boy glowered at his brother. “And how d’you think I feel about using his—his immoral earnings—”
“I don’t care how you feel about it,” Cade replied roughly. “It’s yours because you found it, and Mieka’s because he opened it.” Reaching behind him, he snagged the fur-trimmed cloak. “Here, Mieka, you might as well take this, too. Your wife can size it down to fit you, I’m sure. And if there’s anything here of the clothes you think your father or Tavier might want—none of it would fit Jed or Jez in the shoulders.”
“Cayden!” Dery’s brown eyes were flashing every bit as furiously as Cade’s gray ones. Mieka knew that the Silversun family was about to have it out with itself. So, bundling up the cloak in his arms, he rose to his feet.
“If there’s about to be yelling, I’ll get myself gone. Just please do consider, Cayden, that you can’t prove how these coins came to belong to your father, so why assume the worst? Maybe they were his share of a business venture. Who knows? The point is that what once was his is now both of yours, and though I’m not sure about inheritance laws and I’ve no idea if your father made out an actual will, although I rather think he didn’t because all of this was delivered to you practically the moment he died without the courts being involved—although he might have done, but that doesn’t matter. What I want you to do is think what would happen if your mother had got hold of all that money.” Having run out of breath, he smiled his sweetest and bent down to take a single coin. “My fee for singular brilliance in opening the bloody box. Beholden for the clothes.”
He left them sitting on the rug, gaping at him.
Paying for a hire-hack with a gold royal was a stupid notion; no driver would have that much change to return to him. So he folded up the fur-trimmed cloak and blue brocade jacket as best he could, hunched into his coat, and walked home.
Wistly Hall in the rain was a dismal sight. He had to admi
t it. Even though the leaky roof had long since been repaired and the cracked windows replaced (a glasscrafting sister-in-law was a definite advantage), the crumbling stonework shored up and the dripping gutters patched, the place still looked forlorn. He couldn’t decide whether or not the latest alteration—wooden window frames repainted the purple of blooming thistles—looked bravely jaunty against stolid gray rock or simply silly.
Mieka couldn’t help but imagine how it had been in its prime. The center of Elfen society in Gallantrybanks, with Ministers of the Crown and all the important people in Albeyn and even the occasional Royal Personage attending meetings and receptions every night of the week. Light, magical and otherwise, blazing from every window; music spilling onto the river lawn; pretty women in bright gowns flirting with good-looking men and every race and magical heritage represented without fear or favor. And then had come the Archduke’s War, and Elfenkind had almost unanimously declined to participate on either side … and Great-great-granny Sharadel Tightfist had handed over Wistly to Hadden because the law compelled her to, but kept all the money for herself. Mieka was no writ-rat to understand how she had legally done it. And, in truth, he had no ambitions to restore his home to all its former glories. It was enough for him that the roof kept the rain out and the upper floors were in no danger of falling down (like the turret that had once been his lair, and now lay at the bottom of the Gally River). It was enough for his parents as well, and for all his immediate family, that their home was warm and snug again, and filled with friends—and, of course, the dozens of leechlike relations who inhabited the warren of upstairs rooms. There had been talk of sending all of these to Clinquant House, now that Hadden owned it as well. Mieka hoped his father would sell it and have that be an end to it. He doubted this would happen, for at the Clink was the family urn garth, where the ashes of generation upon generation of Windthistles waited out eternity in tidy rows of buried pottery or glass, with little stone markers to indicate who they had been.