Playing to the Gods

by Melanie Rawn

  Nine. At least nine, for they might have gone on after Mieka’s strange collapse onto the seat of the carriage. Perhaps ten, even eleven—but he couldn’t take that chance. He climbed into the hack, waving farewell to Vered and Bexan, who stood within the warmth of their front doorway, and for just a moment he wondered why she had been screaming so desperately, so disbelievingly. Some other time, he told himself firmly, and to the driver said, “Great Welkin, as quick as you can!”

  The man knew whose house this was, and the identity of his passenger. He urged his horse to a fast trot. The hack was almost beyond the main part of Gallantrybanks when the hour struck all up and down the river, an urgent clamor that nearly split Cayden’s skull as he tried to single out just one bell for counting. Five … six … times twenty, thirty, all mingling together … seven … so many different notes, from high sweet chimes that slid across the water like a moonglade to the stern knell of a gigantic bronze bell bawling out eight … He thought it was eight. It had to be eight. Why hadn’t he found a clock at Vered’s and made certain of the time? Panic and the need to hide it had made him careless. He had to think. He had to reconstruct that Elsewhen again and see what he could change so that Yazz didn’t go down under the churning mob and the hooves of that huge white horse—so that Mieka wasn’t slammed to the floor of the carriage—

  {She yanked the cloak more closely around her and reached for the tag ends of the reins that twined about her shoulders like snakes. She sat up, bracing her feet on her husband’s back, and pulled on the thick leather with all her might. The carriage rocked violently, then jerked backwards. The horse reared between the shafts, oversetting the girl’s precarious balance, and Mieka rolled bonelessly on the floor like a log pitching in the tide.}

  Cade tried to grab on to the image. It dissolved into a new Elsewhen, as if the first hadn’t been warning enough and this subsequent vision had come to urge him to action—though he had no idea what action he’d have to take once he arrived at Great Welkin—couldn’t this damned hack go any faster?

  {Cade looked at the wyvern-hide thorn-roll on the bedside table, emptied of all but a scant few twists of paper; at the bottles littering the floor and the counterpane, emptied of brandy, whiskey, wine. The quantity and properties of what Mieka had consumed would stagger anyone but him. In point of fact, he really ought to be dead right now. Cayden was sure Mieka thought so himself—that he ought to be dead, not Yazz.

  Cade sat on the bed, regarding the face on the pillows. Asleep or merely unconscious, puffy with drink, flushed with thorn, eyelids bruised with weeping, it was a travesty of the beautiful Elfen face Cade had first seen years ago in Gowerion, with those bright changeable eyes and that sweetly wicked grin. He’d known somehow that night, without any Elsewhens to tell him, that his life had just changed forever with Mieka’s arrival in it. And in spite of everything, Cade wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  Somehow he had to bring Mieka back. Considering the amount of liquor and thorn that must still be in him, Cade had little hope that anything he said would be understood, and forget about actually being believed. Hadden and Mishia’s desperation had led them to appeal to their son’s best friend for help. But he hadn’t the first damned clue.

  Threaten Mieka, and he’d walk away. Plead with him, and be bitterly mocked. Reason calmly, and he’d listen with every evidence of attention, then burst out with a scathing observation about Cade’s own lack of judgment on any number of occasions. Accuse, and be accused right back. The only way Cade had ever been able to reach him was to arrange things so that he saw the truth for himself.

  And just what the truth was here, he didn’t know. He hadn’t made it to Great Welkin in time.

  Mieka shifted in bed, moaning low in his throat. His fists clenched, then opened as if reaching for something, then went lax, upturned on the counterpane. Cade stared at those fine-boned hands. They were clever hands, wielding the withies so confidently, twirling the glass twigs between flashing fingers. The wrists were encircled by heavy silver bracelets signifying his marriage, the palms pale and uncalloused.

  “Cayden?” Mishia called softly from the doorway.

  “He’s asleep.” Cade stood, taking the thorn-roll from the table, gathering up empty bottles so he didn’t have to look at Mieka’s mother and tell her he didn’t know what to do for her son. “Might as well bin some of this.”

  “No,” said Hadden Windthistle. “Leave them. He has to know when he wakes what he’s been doing to himself.”

  Cade didn’t think Hadden was right—when had Mieka ever concerned himself with how much or what he used?—but had no better suggestion. Together they collected all the bottles and lined them up on the table like Royal Guards on parade. They had to remove everything else—vials of scent, candlestick, flint-rasp, small canisters of lotion, pots of salve—to make room for all the bottles.

  When they were done, Cade looked once again at Mieka. Strands of lank, greasy black hair stuck to his cheeks as he twisted in the bed, legs kicking feebly as he dreamed, hands clenching and unclenching in spasms and then once more slackening on the bright coverlet, open-palmed. Cade felt his own hand tense around the container of salve he still held. It was the same ointment used on his hand after a withie exploded on the night of King Meredan’s celebration. He remembered how blessedly numbing it had been to the cuts and welts—}

  Cayden came back to himself slumped across the seat of the hire-hack, seething with anger. What a thoroughly useless Elsewhen—how dare something that told him nothing take up so much of his time! He knew that everything depended on how quickly he arrived at Great Welkin. What was he supposed to do, leap up onto the bench and seize the reins and whip the horse to speed himself?

  “Faster, damn it!” he shouted to the hack driver. “Get me there in time!”

  The man didn’t ask In time for what? The answer, Cade knew, was In time to save Yazz’s life and keep Mieka from destroying himself.

  Chapter 10

  Sullen and out of temper, Mieka fixed his gaze on the torchlit gardens. Mayhap if he was very lucky and very obvious in ignoring him, Thierin would betake his scrawny self off to the ballroom or, for preference, an untended garderobe with a broken seat that with any luck he would fall through and end up in the shit where he belonged.

  “Allow me to introduce myself, Mistress Windthistle. Thierin Knottinger, of Black Lightning.”

  What Mieka would not have given right now for a pocketful of black powder. Plenty of candles around for a quick light.…

  “Delighted, I’m sure,” she replied. “And your charming friend?”

  Mieka shifted his spine against the sheathed knife and regretted more than ever his promise to be good tonight.

  “Oh, I’m sure she’s delighted, too. Go get a drink, my dear, there’s a good girl.”

  Mieka gave it up and turned to face Black Lightning’s tregetour. The nameless and apparently voiceless girl departed. Thierin, handsome and pretentious in black and blood-red velvet, was making no attempt to disguise his assessment of Mieka’s wife. His dark eyes roamed at will from her face to her bosom, down to her waist, back up again, and settled on the pink pearl just above her cleavage.

  “I’ve heard that Mieka’s lady was beautiful beyond his deserving. May I say that I can’t think of any man, living or dead, who could possibly deserve you?”

  She blushed. “You tregetours! All alike, with your easy eloquence!”

  “A dagger to the heart, lady!” He clutched at his chest, grinning. “Only grant me the favor of a dance, and I swear I will think up something original—”

  “That’d be a bit of a strain,” Mieka observed. It was beginning to look as if he’d have to go into that horrid ballroom after all, to protect his property.

  “—inspired by clasping you in my arms,” Thierin finished smoothly.

  Three things happened almost in the same instant. Knottinger reached with both hands for her waist. Mieka growled and reached for the knife sheathed at his
back. And someone in the hallway below cried out, and screams moved rapidly up the steps as if the sound were being passed like a leg of mutton from throat to frightened throat, echoed bizarrely by a series of shrill ascending yelps.

  Gowns ripped and shoes clattered as people flung themselves out of the way of something unseen. Thierin took a step back, laughing at Mieka’s knife. A moment later his grin was gone and he kicked at the sinuous russet shape that, with a flourish of a furry white-tipped tail, scurried to a safe haven beneath pink skirts and white petticoats.

  That Gods-be-damned fox! Mieka fumbled to replace the knife, seeing shock and then horror on his wife’s face. The miserable animal must have slunk into the carriage, hiding beneath the seat. Escaping, following its mistress’s scent, it now whimpered from its hiding place beneath her dress.

  “What a sweet shelter it’s found for itself,” drawled Thierin. “Tell me, Windthistle, did you train it thus to keep her netherlips warm when you’re not at home?” He leaned forward slightly, eyes shining like a cat’s by night, and murmured, “I’ll wager they’re surely as plump and ripe as the lips everyone can see.”

  She gasped and turned white. Mieka discovered that relative sobriety (just a nip of whiskey before the drive here) did not make for quick decisions. Indeed, it brought about an effective paralysis. The knife was still in his hand and he wanted keenly to use it, but another part of his brain told him that it wouldn’t be quite the thing to gut one of the Archduchess’s guests.

  Fully aware of Mieka’s dilemma, Knottinger leaned in close. “Send for me anytime, lady—I’ll do much more than keep you warm!”

  Mieka grabbed Thierin’s collar and pressed the knife against his throat. The amethyst in the hilt winked and glittered. “D’you like breathing? D’you want to keep on doing it?”

  As Knottinger froze, Mieka smiled sweetly at him. This was more like it. A thin little slice with the blade, and a line of blood would be even better. Nobody would see it against that ridiculous red collar—

  “Gentlemen! Please!” A senior flunky, chain of office dangling round his shoulders, hurried up, flapping his hands. “We cannot have this, we really cannot!”

  “No?” Of all the things Thierin might have done—collapsed to the floor, lunged backwards, lashed out at Mieka with both fists, kicked, spat, screamed—he chose perhaps the most ill-advised course. He punched Mieka in the gut, then bent down, grabbed a handful of skirt and petticoats, and snatched up the fox by the scruff of its neck. It growled and snapped at him, wriggling as he held it aloft.

  “Good Gods!” he cried with a masquer’s pitch and volume that riveted anyone who wasn’t yet staring. Dangling the terrified animal high, he exclaimed, “What in the name of the Lord and the Lady is this? Is it—? Could it possibly be—?” He turned so that everyone could see what he held. “Is this the creature of a Witch?”

  The fox freed itself with a terrified convulsion and scratched Mieka’s jaw on its way to the floor. It streaked away, screams and guttural snarls following in its wake as people fled in all directions, chaos rippling from the balcony down the stairs to the front hall.

  The three of them were alone by the window, as isolated as if they had suddenly been discovered to be escapees from a fortyered ship known to be carrying plague. Mieka, having caught his breath with a couple of whoops, seized Thierin by the shirtfront. The tregetour’s dark eyes were weirdly fixed on Mieka’s jaw, but flared with fear as Mieka inserted the blade tip into his left nostril.

  “You enjoy opening things, don’t you?” he whispered, mocking Black Lightning’s most famous play. “Let’s start here, shall we?”

  Thierin jerked away. The knife didn’t slit his nose, only nicked him. Yelling, he clapped a hand to his face and stumbled back. His blonde came skittering to him and as they stumbled away, a path was instantly made for them towards the end of the gallery.

  Mieka wiped his jaw, rubbing away the blood from the scrape of the fox’s claw. He turned to his wife, whose beautiful eyes were full of angry tears. Still, she refused to weep in front of all these people, and Mieka admired her for it. All her extravagant Society dreams had just crashed into rubble, but pride kept her upright and set-faced. He took her arm, gently coaxing her across the expanse of tiled floor towards the stairs. Down below, a sudden shriek near the front doors indicated the departure of the fox into the night.

  A few moments later, someone in the crowd began a low, sibilant chant: “Silver needles, golden stitches / These be weapons used by Witches—” It spread across the great hall and up the stairs to the ballroom doors, never more than a few voices at a time but all of them tense with menace.

  Grimly, Mieka urged his wife towards the stairs. Princess Iamina was directly in their line of sight now, aristocratic brows signaling outrage. Archduchess Panshilara stood beside her, fingers twisting nervously, gaze darting about as if seeking someone to explain what was going on.

  “Astonishing,” Iamina said coldly, carryingly, “the sort who feel themselves welcome at Great Welkin.”

  Mieka felt his wife’s body readying for a submissive curtsy. He gripped her elbow tighter as a warning not to try it. The low, hissing chant went on all around them, like the background of stream-rush and dragonfly-whirr conjured for one of the scenes in “Doorways.” If only he had a withie to hand right now—he’d magick up a monster to rival those hideous paintings in the ballroom, and the crowd would scatter like sea-spray against a rocky island.

  Panshilara had turned pale beneath her makeup; it had obviously not occurred that Iamina would blame her. “I don’t—I can’t—yes, of course, and apologies are—”

  Mieka gave them both his most adorable smile, feeling it stretch his lips across his teeth. Top of the stairs now … one step down, two … keep walking, hold on to her and to his knife, three steps …

  Panshilara turned a look of bewildered appeal on the Princess. “I’m not understanding—I mean, this wasn’t supposed to happen—”

  “And would not have,” came the icy reply, “had you not insisted on having these people here tonight.”

  Mieka turned, twirling the knife between his fingers as deftly as if it were a glass withie, steel and silver and gemstone twinkling. He let his smile fade slowly as he said, “Talking of suitable company—Archduchess, dear old sugar-lump, I’m afraid we won’t be accepting any more invites until you rethink your guest list.” Then he grinned. “Cheery-bye, old dears!”

  They descended the staircase, crossed the entry hall, and went out the front door. The fox had cleared the way for them in its frenzied bid for escape; people shrank into chaotic clusters all over the courtyard, leaving a meandering path of cobbles all the way to the gates. Hoping the damned animal had bolted for good and not found its way back under the rig’s seat, Mieka beckoned a footman over and charmingly requested that his vehicle be brought round. Only then did he return the knife to its sheath.

  And only then did he realize that his wife was trembling. Not with mortification this time, but with fury.

  He chose to interpret it as fear. “It’s all right now,” he soothed, stroking her shoulder. “We’re quit of them.”

  Someone nearby said, “She’s certainly beautiful enough to be a Witch—aren’t they supposed to be the loveliest women of all?”

  “Who knows but what it’s a spell spun over all of us, to make us think she’s beautiful?”

  “Mieka, how could you?” she breathed, barely audible.

  “How could I what?”

  “Say that—to the Archduchess—and the Princess st-standing there—and everyone w-watching—”

  “They’re only a bunch of toffs,” he said with a shrug. “Who cares?”

  She made no reply. But he knew what her answer would be. She cared. Her mother cared. As if the fox and Thierin hadn’t ruined every hope they’d ever had—

  The footman came running. “Sorry, m’lord,” the boy panted, “can’t get your carriage any closer than over there—too many people still arri
ving, m’lord, a hundred apologies.”

  It annoyed him to be addressed as if he were a nobleman. “I’m naught but Master Windthistle, lad, and we can walk fifty paces on our own feet.” Wishing he’d brought a few coins so he could tip the boy, he stood as tall as he could and squinted. Yes, there was the big white filly, and Yazz standing at her head. Torchlight gleamed from the purple rig and the brass and glass of the lamps. He took his wife’s hand firmly in his own and started through the incoming crowd, thinking that they’d all be kicking themselves for not arriving sooner to witness the incident that would be the subject of conversation for the next fortnight.

  Let ’em talk, he thought. His wife and her mother could care all they liked. He gave not the tiniest shit, and proved it by elbowing and prodding his way as rough as he pleased through the crush of silk gowns and velvet jackets and rainbows of jewels glittering by torchlight.

  Silver needles, golden sewings,

  Witches bind with Witchly knowings—

  They’d taken up the chant outside. He pulled his wife closer to his side. “Yazz!” he shouted.

  Silver needles, golden fabrics,

  These be Witches’ wicked magics—

  “—never know what spinnings and threadings a Witch will do to good honest folk—”

  “Yazz!”

  “—evil in so pleasing a shape that everyone’s fooled—”

  As he pushed deeper into the mob, Mieka realized that these people didn’t smell like persons invited to a ball at Great Welkin. The accents they used weren’t highborn. Their clothing was plain and in some cases actually dirty. Where had these people come from? How had they got through the gates?

  “Yazz!” he bellowed.

  The voice that answered—called his name—made him wonder if Elsewhens weren’t contagious. Forget all these roughs and toughs—what in all Hells was Cayden doing here?