Playing to the Gods

by Melanie Rawn

  Mieka wondered as he heaved the front door shut behind him where Zekien Silversun’s ashes would end up. And whether or not, in time, Cayden’s would be buried there, too, just as Mieka’s would join all the rest of the Windthistles at the family urn garth, below a carved marker set into the grass.

  He shivered and ran up the stairs. He could have said that his feet were chilly inside his boots, but the truth was that imagining himself as naught but soft gray ash inside a glazed pot made him feel just about as sick as had the sight of all that money—laid out in similar rows, he thought suddenly, and just as dead. Unless Cade and Derien overcame their ridiculous scruples and spent it … that was what money was for, wasn’t it? Wistly Hall was proof enough of that, he told himself firmly as he entered the bedchamber kept for him on the third floor. The money he and Jed and Jez had made meant there was not a chink in the walls where the wind could get through or a creak in the floorboards beneath faded carpets. And there was a firepocket in each corner of his room to keep the place nice and warm.

  “Mieka! Where have you been, darling?”

  His wife stepped out from behind the open door of the standing wardrobe, where she’d been hanging up gowns and skirts. The three large chests nearby told him she intended a lengthy stay. The gown she held was one he didn’t recognize, made of palest pink silk and decorated with gold lace flounces accented with thin brown velvet ribbons, and this told him she intended to go to some lavish social event. He hadn’t the slightest hope that he wouldn’t be going with her.

  She didn’t wait for him to tell her where he’d been. “Mieka darling, I’ve such wonderful news! The night before Wintering, we’re going to Great Welkin! For a ball! I can’t believe the Archduchess sent us an invitation—but I suppose you’re so famous that having you at one of her parties is quite the triumph!”

  He smiled. How innocent she was. Whatever reason Lady Panshilara, the Archduke’s wife, had for issuing the invitation, it had nothing to do with his fame. “Why not Wintering Night itself?” he asked, crossing the room to take her in his arms.

  “I think the Queen is giving some tedious dinner. Pity the Archduke won’t be there—he’s at New Halt, I think, something to do with trade or the merchant fleet—but we’re going to Great Welkin and I’m going to dance and dance and dance!”

  Laughing, he obliged her by twirling her around the room. They ended by falling breathlessly onto the bed.

  “But only with me,” he warned her, fingers busily seeking out buttons and laces and hooks.

  “Don’t be so silly! You’ll have to dance with the other ladies—Mieka, you can’t pass up this chance! Jinsie and Kazie aren’t invited to this sort of thing, so they can’t make the contacts that you can, with all those people there—”

  “Do I have to?” He turned his attention to the pins and clips holding up her hair.

  “Yes. And while you dance with the ladies, I have to dance with their husbands, for the same reason.” With a laugh that drove him wild, she lay back in the bronze and gold glory of her hair and smiled up at him. “And that means you can’t spend half your time in the refreshments room, no matter how expensive the wines are!”

  It was gently said, teasingly said, but there was a warning behind it that he knew he deserved. He made an unhappy face because he was expected to, then said, “All the way from Hilldrop and you’re not even a little bit ill?” Usually the long drive left her queasy and exhausted.

  “I’m too excited to feel the journey.” She twined her arms around his neck. “And I’ve been missing you so much.…”

  When he could think again—much later, naked, and grateful when she pulled the blankets up around him, for the bespellment of the firepockets had waned—his first thought was a hope that the night before Wintering would be clear and cloudless, so that she could arrive at Great Welkin not in a hire-hack but in her very own little carriage. He’d meant it as a Wintering present, knowing how the drive unsettled her, reasoning that a light, fast rig would cut at least an hour off the journey (though not if she insisted on bringing all these clothes with her every time).

  He’d seen the rig yesterday at the wainwright’s, almost exactly as he’d envisioned it. Light and fast on its two huge wheels, wondrously sprung for comfort, it sat two comfortably or three at a pinch—just roomy enough for him and her and their daughter, which her mother wouldn’t much like. The driver’s bench was behind and above, in the design of some of the newer hire-hacks. The wooden body was painted Windthistle purple, with black leather upholstery and brass lamps at front and rear and on either side of the driver’s high bench. The one thing it lacked was the retractable cowl, which was still being worked on at the tanner’s, after which the wainwright would fit it to the steel frame and make sure it would fold easily and efficiently, without tearing or coming loose.

  A good thing, he told himself as he watched his wife get dressed for dinner, that he’d claimed that gold coin as a reward for opening the hidden compartment of that coffer. He’d scrimped on everything for months, cutting back on drinking and even thorn (except when he really, really needed it for a performance), saving up to pay off the wainwright. Now it wouldn’t be a problem.

  All at once he felt guilty for being so wrapped up in his own life when Cade and Derien had just lost their father. Should he have stayed at Redpebble? No; he’d only lose his temper as they continued arguing over which of them ought to abandon his high-mindedness in refusing to spend Zekien Silversun’s brothel bribes. Such scruples were ludicrous, as far as Mieka was concerned. If they thought the money was tainted, then why not remove the taint by using it for something worthwhile?

  Ginnel House, for instance. He felt guilty again, knowing that his own contributions over the last two years hadn’t been so generous as before. He ought to have sent some of what he’d spent on the new rig. Making a mental note to have Jinsie give Ginnel House half his share for Touchstone’s next gigging, he opened his mouth to tell his wife about what had happened that afternoon—and shut it again, knowing he could never explain about the hidden gold royals without revealing Derien’s odd magical quirk. He’d revealed one Silversun’s magical secret to her (though he’d been drunk at the time). He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

  As his wife, half-dressed again for dinner, searched one of the chests for something-or-other, she said, “I don’t know if the others were invited to Great Welkin—do you have any idea, darling?”

  “Couldn’t say. But Cade’s father just died, so he won’t be going much of anywhere until after the burn-and-urn.”

  “His father!” She swung round, petticoats making a swift, rustling sound that he instinctively filed away for use onstage. It was a glisker’s annoying habit to notice such things—sounds, sunsets, the taste and texture of cherries as opposed to apples or peaches or plums—he couldn’t help it, and sometimes he missed a word or two while his brain was scurrying to add some reference or other to his arsenal. It happened thus now. She was in the middle of a sentence. “—in mourning for someone so close to Prince Ashgar, but surely that won’t extend to the Archduchess, will it?”

  He shrugged by way of answer, and pulled the blankets up to his chin.

  “Well, if Cade’s not there, Lady Megueris won’t be, either. And it’s not as if she owns a suitable gown, wouldn’t you say?”

  He ignored the unkindness and concentrated on the implications of her first remark. “Why wouldn’t she be there?” Did everyone know about Cade and Megs? Did they suspect any of the things that Mieka actually knew?

  She shrugged in her turn, and shook out a pair of trousers he didn’t recognize—new, made of orange velvet. He suspected they were meant for the Archduchess’s party. Damned if he’d wear the Henick colors of gray and orange—

  “I don’t know if she was even invited. But she does have a soft spot for Cayden—or used to. After she left Court this year, everyone was wondering whether or not he’d asked and she’d refused, or more likely that she’d asked an
d he’d refused. She’s just the type to push herself forward and not wait for him to notice her, the way a girl with proper manners would.”

  She eyed him sidelong, obviously waiting for what he knew he should say: The way you hung back in the booth that day at the Castle Biding Fair—as if any man within a hundred paces couldn’t see you shining from that dark corner you tried to hide in, silly girl!

  He didn’t say it.

  She waited a few moments longer, then went back to shaking out and folding clothes. “But I s’pose she’s so rich that she can behave exactly as she pleases. It’s much more convenient for her now, being able to go to the theater openly—how I wish I’d been there that night, Mieka!”

  He chuckled as she threw a smile at him over her shoulder. “That was a night. But you never would have got through it, and we both know it. Too modest to wear men’s clothes like Lady Megs and the Princess, and too nervous about getting caught to arrive in a gown! Did I ever tell you what Fa asked on the way there? He wanted to know if Megs was rich enough to buy off the constables—and I told him she’s rich enough to buy the whole jail.”

  “I daresay all her money means she really can do most anything,” she replied. “Except get through a dance without stepping on someone’s feet!”

  He realized then—half-wit as he was around her both before and after bedsport—that it was a ball at Great Welkin that they’d be attending, and at a ball there would be dancing, and the dancing would take place—

  —in the ballroom.

  That horrid ballroom with the hideous paintings on the walls. Goblins and Giants, Pikseys and Sprites, Gnomes and Harpies and he didn’t want to remember what-all else, depicted in scenes from the most vilifying and unfounded legends ever concocted to shame and belittle and cause fear and revulsion and—

  He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t go into that room again. Especially because Cade wouldn’t be there to calm him down. But how could he tell her that? How could he deprive her of something she wanted so much?

  He’d escort her to the doorway and make up some excuse, like needing the garderobe, and wander around the house and gardens for an hour or two, and then collect her and come home. She’d be so excited at being there that she wouldn’t even notice.

  He didn’t want to think about what else he might find at Great Welkin. Paintings? Sculpture? Tapestries dedicated to the most awful slurs against any magic that wasn’t Wizardly or Elfen?

  But why those two, particularly? Black Lightning’s horrid play clearly indicated that all other magical folk were inferior. Filthy. Evil, the way folk on the Continent thought all magic was evil. Was it simple self-protection on Black fucking Lightning’s part, because Wizard and Elf dominated in anyone working in theater?

  He’d have to pose the question to Cayden. It would give him something else to think about besides his father’s upcoming burning and all that gold.

  Oh, what Mieka could have done with even a tenth of it … Cade and Dery were stiff-necked fools. He loved them both for it, of course; they wouldn’t be who they were otherwise. But … all that gold …

  “Show me what I’m wearing on Wintering Eve,” he said to his wife. “And would you have time to do some stitching on a cloak, and mayhap a jacket? Cayden just gave them to me, and they need a bit of taking in and taking up. And,” he finished, glad that he’d be able to please her in the matter of the new rig if nothing else, “tomorrow morning put on your warmest gown. I’ve something I want to show you.”

  Chapter 7

  At lunching on the day before Wintering—the same night that Mieka and his wife would be attending the Archduchess’s party at Great Welkin (“Gods help me,” he’d groaned)—Cade received and accepted a last-moment invitation to dine with Vered and Bexan Goldbraider. The alternative was to sit across the table from his mother and listen to her yet again on the subject of her husband’s burning. The ceremony had taken place two days ago. Prince Ashgar himself had been in attendance with all his household, and spoken kindly to Cade and Dery. (Widows were never addressed at such times, for they were assumed to be much too distraught even for words of comfort.) Everything proper had been done. But that morning, Lady Jaspiela had learned who her friends were. The Queen’s Ladies, while willing to admit her into their private circle, could not publicly be seen accepting a woman whose husband had done for the Prince what everyone knew but nobody acknowledged out loud that Zekien Silversun had done. Naturally, Lady Jaspiela said nothing about this. Her comments centered around the absence of her sisters and their families. Useless for Cade and Dery to point out that it was a very long way to Gallantrybanks from the craggy moor where their aunts lived. She felt that they ought to have attended, citing numerous examples of her bounty to them over the years that ought to have ensured a little effort on their part. She had spoken of it that night at dinner, and the next night at dinner, and when Cade learned that Dery had chosen to have tonight’s meal on a tray in his room, he felt no guilt at all in accepting Vered’s invitation.

  When Vered divorced his first wife, she took with her their house, more than half their money, and their sons. This was unusual (and scandalous; sales of broadsheets featuring the story had surged during the half a year it took to settle the matter), but the lady’s interests had been seen to by the justiciar who became her second husband. Thus were the atypical terms of the settlement—so advantageous to the divorced wife—explained. The simpler truth was that Vered wanted to be free to marry Bexan Quickstride sooner rather than later. As it happened, the first Mistress Goldbraider missed out on the wealth earned by the Shadowshapers after they abandoned the Royal Circuit and went out on their own. The justiciar kept her in silks and silver; nowadays Vered could have kept her in diamonds.

  Vered and Bexan lived in a small mansion outside Gallantrybanks, in a gracious neighborhood just off the road that led to Great Welkin. Cayden left town early enough to avoid any traffic heading for the Archduchess’s revelries. It was a fine, starry night, if chilly, especially here near the river. Vered’s house was named Wavertree, presumably for the weirdly spiral shape of the oak out front, rumored to have been warped by magic during the Archduke’s War. Cade personally doubted this. No battles had ever been fought so close to Gallantrybanks, though he supposed it was possible that someone had attempted to get into the house and defensive magic had rebounded onto the poor oak tree. More likely it had been the effort, two or three generations earlier, to sculpt the tree trunk the way Cilka and Petrinka Windthistle now sculpted hedges.

  Wavertree crouched on the north bank of the Gally River in an acre of pretty parkland. The house comprised six bedrooms, an appropriate number of baths, two drawing rooms, one large study for Vered and a second for Bexan, and a long dining room that could hold thirty. At either end of this was a painting—one a portrait in plain oils of Vered and Bexan, and the other of the magical sort. This was of a sumptuous empty stage. Bexan had shown it to Cade after she and Vered moved into the house; properly bespelled, it filled with a scene from Vered’s play about the Balaur Tsepesh, where all the various magical races contributed gifts to the chosen Knights in spheres of multicolored fire.

  It was in this room that Bexan, Vered, and Cayden sat at one end of the vast polished table, having dined on plain fish, plain bread, plain vegetables from the hothouse, and no wine. Not only was Vered notoriously unable to carry his liquor, but Bexan was at last pregnant, and sticking to the simplest possible diet. Cade assumed that like everyone with a good dollop of Piksey blood, she was carrying twins. She looked big enough to be carrying two sets of twins, and possibly three.

  Conversation during the meal was general and amusing. Bexan turned out to have a rather bawdy sense of humor that sent Vered into gales of laughter. Cayden joined in, even when he felt himself blushing a bit. He’d heard racier stories, and even told some himself, but to hear them from the lips of a pregnant woman was slightly disconcerting. More so was her insistence, when the talk turned (naturally enough for a pair of tregetours
) to the impulses and actions of creating, that writers (and painters, sculptors, musicians, and all others who could be considered practitioners of a creative art), while working to externalize their own internal selves, had a duty to the public to make the product “uneasy,” as she put it.

  “The value is in the effect,” she stated. “Something pretty is worthless if pretty is all it ever is. Ideally, a work must evoke a sense of uneasiness, so that people think about what they’ve seen and experienced, and change that which is wrong in themselves.”

  “Who defines wrong?” Cade asked—unwisely, he was aware, but curious as to what she would say.

  To his surprise, she smiled. It was Vered who replied: “Never before has she fallen into that trap, and she won’t do it now—not even for you!”

  “All that I mean,” Bexan went on after giving her husband a sidelong wink, “is that something sweet and lovely that only makes people feel good is useless in the end, and a betrayal of the gifts given by the Gods.”

  A direct swipe at Rauel, Cade gathered. “And laughter?” he asked, thinking of Mieka. “Is there room for that? It seems to me that there’s a usefulness in making people laugh.” Unless that was all you ever did, and it came to define you, and you thought that it was all you were worth—no, he had to stop brooding about that damned nightmare.

  “Laughter to forget troubles, to distract from pain—yes, that is a worthy goal. Because such a play does something, you see.” She leaned forwards, her face pale and intent. “We pull things from our own personalities, you see, and put them on display. We’re forced to do so by the creative urge—to rid ourselves of thoughts or feelings that weigh so heavily upon us that we have no choice but to externalize them. Such things are rarely pretty—but they can be beautiful.”

  Cade nodded slowly. “Beauty being quite accidental, in this case. And rare, I should think. So much of what’s inside everyone is downright ugly.”