by Melanie Rawn
Chapter 11
The scene at Great Welkin was almost the scene of the Elsewhen, only now Cayden was constrained within the crowd, aware of a vital and menacing change: the chant of an old children’s rhyme.
Silver needles, golden stitches,
These be weapons used by Witches.
In littleschool, it was a taunt to any girl just that bit too different. Himself, he’d heard all the ones about Trolls. He’d managed to forget those on purpose, but this came clear into his mind even after twenty years. The shrill of childish voices that really didn’t know what they were saying was now a deep, snarling threat from people who knew exactly what they meant. Why? How?
He knew. Someone had accused Mieka’s wife of what Cade himself knew to be true: She was a Caitiff, a Witch.
Silver needles, golden sewings,
Witches bind with Witchly knowings.
He bellowed Mieka’s name once more, and saw by the quick turn of the Elf’s head that he had heard. Their gazes met. Mieka wasn’t yet frightened. The girl was; Cade was certain of it. As for himself—he couldn’t afford to be scared. He had to get to the rig, he had to protect them all somehow. If he didn’t, Yazz was going to die.
There weren’t quite so many people as in the Elsewhen. That would change swiftly, he knew. People were still arriving. The rowdies from beyond the gates were reaching the courtyard. Yazz hadn’t yet climbed onto the coachman’s bench, wasn’t snapping the whip over their heads. Shouldering through the crowd, Cade’s height allowed him to see the distinctive yellow vest—that damned color again—and heavy silver earring of the man who would soon accost Mieka in the carriage. Cade struggled towards him, thinking that mayhap if he grabbed him and wrestled him down somehow, none of what he had seen would happen.
Ridiculous, of course. The man was as tall as he and half again Cade’s heft. And Cade would never get to him in time. There was nothing he could do—
Warp and weft, shuttle and loom,
Witches’ fingers weaving doom.
All at once he was eleven years old and listening as a group of younger girls at littleschool chanted verses they didn’t even understand at another girl—he didn’t know who, only that it must be someone who looked or spoke or dressed differently from the rest of them. He cowered behind a corner as the bullies surrounded the girl they tormented. He’d known similar chants himself, ones having to do with Trolls, over and over until one day he’d had enough and wished so hard that his tormentors would be silent that one of them had begun to choke. Immature and clumsy as his magic was at that age, it had worked.
Not a minute after that, he learned that foolish, impulsive children who tried to use their magic against others were punished. Painfully. Publicly. Once taught, it was a lesson never forgot.
Witches weave evil!
Witches weave evil!
That was new. The difference dissolved the remembered scene of childhood, but the shame lingered. He’d done nothing for that girl. When he’d tried to do something for himself, he’d been disciplined. But tonight the threat was real. He could justify magic against these people. Yazz’s life was worth more than the singeing of a few ruffians. The chant grew louder, no longer a rhyme but a single word: Witch—witch—witch—
In the same instant he bethought himself of magic, he knew it would be a mistake. Magic would turn an already ugly crowd into a lethal mass of fear and fury. More people than Yazz would die.
Mieka and his wife had reached the rig. He had taken off the fur-trimmed cloak and wrapped it protectively around her. Yazz, still holding the white filly’s head, called out to Cayden and waved at him to stay back. Not bleedin’ likely, he told himself, keeping one eye on Mieka and the other on the yellow vest.
The horse reared. The bridle must have slipped from Yazz’s fingers. The carriage rocked, unbalancing Mieka. Cade surged forwards—almost there, almost there—
Another upward lunge, hooves clawing the air this time, like a vodabeist or its landbound cousins ridden by the Fae—as if the white filly remembered some remote era when she, too, had brandished claws to shred flesh from bones. Yellow Vest was beside the rig now, reaching for Mieka, who had tumbled to the floor. But Cayden was there, too, on the other side, trying to climb into the carriage as the girl screamed and the Minster chimes pealed the hour.
He couldn’t see Yazz. The rig jolted back and forth. Yellow Vest was bleeding from his ear now; Mieka had torn the silver hoop from his flesh. But instead of grasping Mieka’s arm, this time he slapped his open hand against the Elf’s thigh just as the girl seized the flapping reins and Mieka went for the sheathed knife at his back. Cade hauled himself over the side of the rig. It pitched backwards as the girl hauled on the reins. Yellow Vest fell to the cobbles. Mieka swayed, wilted to the floor. Losing his handhold, Cade tumbled onto hard stone cobbles. As the huge wheel turned beside his outstretched fingers, inches from crushing his hand, he scrabbled out of the way—and heard Yazz howl with astonished pain. The rig jolted back and then forwards. This time the wheels kept turning, and there was a space where the carriage had been, quickly filled by chanting people—and three, and then five, and then a dozen guards in orange-and-gray livery.
Somebody trod heavily on Cade’s shoulder, and he cried out.
Then a guard was tugging him to his feet. “You all right, Master Silversun? Not hurt?”
For the first time in his life, Cade was grateful for an unmistakable nose. “Yeh.” He rubbed his shoulder. “Yeh,” he repeated. “What about Yazz?”
“Yazz?”
“The Giant—the coachman—where—?”
And then the crowd was cleared off by guards wielding cudgels, and he saw the massive body lying inert on the cobbles. Just beyond was Mieka’s new carriage, under the control now of two guards who together held the horse’s head. Cade supposed he ought to see to Mieka and his wife. He didn’t. He stumbled over to where Yazz lay.
Alive. The great chest rose and fell, the right hand clenched and unclenched, the eyes fluttered open. Cade knelt beside him. He heard one of the guards snarl for people to get back, and another yell for a physicker.
“Yazz. It’s me. Don’t move. Everyone’s all right.”
“Miek?”
“Fine.” Out cold for reasons Cade didn’t understand, but fine. “She’s not hurt, either. Just you. What happened?”
“Wheel, I think. Hooves.” He tried to shift his left shoulder. Only then did Cayden see, by uncertain torchlight, the gash in his upper arm and the sickening white of bone. Yazz snorted and tried to sit up.
“No. There’ll be a physicker here in a moment, and then—” And then take him inside Great Welkin? Not bleedin’ likely. “We’ll get one of the Archduke’s carriages and go home. Mistress Mirdley will see you to rights in no time.” Or so he hoped. The arm and shoulder didn’t seem to fit together the way they ought. Yazz was looking down at his left hand as if he’d tried to move the fingers and couldn’t. “Is Robel at Hilldrop? I’ll find someone to send her a message—”
“No. Tomorrow.”
Cade nodded. Stupid of him; what would Yazz’s wife think, being rousted out of bed in the middle of the night with no real word on his condition? Best to wait, and send for her early tomorrow morning.
The young guard who had recognized him approached and extended an open flask. “The physicker thought you might be needing a bit of this, sir.”
“Kindhearted man. Beholden.” He took a swig, and then another. Good whiskey, it was, a slow sweet fire sliding down to his stomach. “Find me a carriage, won’t you? There’s … a … good lad.…”
He ought to have known better, he really ought. In these circumstances, at the Archduke’s own house—excellent whiskey, and effective thorn. Crumpling against the guard’s chest, he wondered vaguely if this was the limit or if he was capable of being even more stupid than this.
* * *
The thorn was effective, so far as it went: rendering him unconscious and physically pliable. But as us
ual, his odd inheritances meant it didn’t work on him quite the way it would work on anyone else, and by the time the guard had draped him across the leather seat of a closed, darkened carriage, he was fully awake.
And immediately in the middle of an Elsewhen.
{“… dreadfully homesick, after all this time here,” said the Archduke, a sympathetic sigh leaving his lips. A footman came by with a tray of drinks, and he chose one for himself and one for Princess Iamina. “Poor darling. Of course, I can deny her nothing, but if Your Royal Highness has need of her here…”
“Do you know,” said Iamina, “she asked about a fortnight ago if I’d care to join her.” She sipped wine from frail, long-stemmed crystal that spat rainbows in candlelight.
“Did she, now?” He smiled deeply. “I’m sure your company would be more than welcome. You are such close friends. And my wife’s country is very beautiful. A summer there would be most enjoyable for you both, I’m sure.”
“She mentioned also,” said the Princess, looking him in the eyes, “that you have forgiven her for what happened at Great Welkin the night before Wintering.”
“There was nothing to forgive!” he protested. “How could she have known that Windthistle and his wife would cause such an uproar?”
“That’s what I told her. And how were any of us to know that the girl is a Witch?”
“Oh, I don’t know that it’s true. I think I heard that someone was trying to vex Windthistle by saying such, and who knows better than Your Royal Highness about the malicious rivalries between young men for the attentions and favors of a pretty woman?”
“True. True. Still, someone ought to warn Lord Ripplewater’s son about that girl.” She smoothed her plain black skirts—wool nearly as thin and soft as silk. “I hope your children will be all right without their mother for a summer.”
“They will miss her, of course. But Princess Miriuzca has kindly offered to let them spend the summer at the North Keep, with Prince Roshlin and Princess Levenie.”
“Your plans are further along than I’d thought.”
“I’m afraid I have no idea what Your Highness means.”
“Of course you don’t.” Rising, she looked down on him with a sour, cynical smile. “I must consult my brother the King about a Royal ship for the journey.”
“My own fleet—” he began.
“I wouldn’t hear of it. If I am to go, it will be a Royal visit, and ought to be in one of my brother’s own ships. Good day to you.”
He watched her go, pale eyes narrowing, then laughed silently to himself and drained the glass of wine.}
Cayden, all alone in someone’s carriage—he didn’t recognize the sigil, a six-petaled rose, painted in gold on the interior of the door—righted himself on the seat and rubbed at his sore shoulder. Quite the revealing little vision. He’d seen it, which meant he could do something to change it if he chose.
He did not choose. Why should he? Whatever the Archduke had in mind for his wife—and, evidently, Princess Iamina—it was none of Cade’s business. So Cyed Henick was planning to send those two awful women into exile for a summer. How lovely it would be for him if Panshilara decided to stay at home for a year, or two, or three, in a religious and magical climate that suited her much more than Albeyn. It would suit Iamina as well. They’d make a long, long visit to the Archduchess’s ludicrously unpronounceable country while the two children wheedled their way into the lives and affections of the little Prince and Princess. Cade considered that he really ought to be ashamed of himself, attributing despicable adult motives to small children—but could anyone doubt what the Archduke had in mind? Iamina certainly didn’t—and it had been a mistake, he’d seen that in Henick’s face, to reveal what she thought.
Let him plot and plan all he likes, Cade told himself. Definitely not my problem.
Curling up on cushioned leather, he closed his eyes and prepared to sleep the rest of the way to Wistly Hall. Or Redpebble Square. Or wherever. He decided to do his best to forget all about that Elsewhen. All the same, he thought as he worked his sore shoulder around to a comfortable position, it would be interesting to know why Iamina had mentioned the son of Lord Dappleweather … Riddlefeather … no, that wasn’t right … Quibble-something … Nibblewater …
Eh, fuck it. None of it really mattered compared to what he’d just done. Yazz was injured but alive, and Mieka wouldn’t spin down in a spiral of thorn and alcohol—and that triggered the memory of Hadden telling him what had killed Zekien—Spiralspin, wasn’t that what it was called, thorn to cure the droops—which all the Gods knew would never be Mieka’s problem—he nearly said that out loud, which worried him a little, and then he heard himself giggle as inanely as Bexan, and knew it was the remnants of the thorn in the whiskey.
Forcing himself upright again, he struggled with the catch of the window and shivered in the rush of clean, cold winter air. A clear head, he must have a clear head before reaching Wistly Hall so he could explain to Hadden and Mishia what had happened—and to Mistress Mirdley, and why hadn’t he thought to send a messenger to Redpebble so she’d be waiting for Yazz?
Cayden huddled into his coat, breathing deeply of the icy night. How stupid of Mieka to drive in that open rig. No wonder the girl had been wearing that fur-trimmed cloak.
The carriage stopped. Cade stuck his head out the window.
Not Wistly. Not Redpebble Square. Not even a town. The outskirts of Gallybanks, the last substantial building on the road to Great Welkin. The place was squat and brown-brick, and on either side of the iron-barred oaken door were Elf-light lamps that lit the sign:
HIS MAJESTY’S CONSTABULARY
Cade tumbled out of the carriage, unsteady on his feet. He took a few more lungfuls of air, a mistake that made him light-headed. Bracing a hand against the carriage, he peered around. Mieka’s carriage was already there, and empty, the white filly unhitched and led away for a cooldown and stabling. He heard another carriage roll past on the road.
“Here, coachman—” Cade saw the man turn and look down from his bench, strong arms pulling and locking the brake. The click seemed absurdly loud, and Cade held himself from a wince. Damned thorn. “Where’s that carriage going to? Any idea?”
“Back to Gallybanks—Wistly Hall, with the Giant in it.”
There was something he ought to be remembering, something about Yazz showing up in the middle of the night at Wistly—Oh. Of course. He dug in his pockets, grateful to find some coins.
“Here,” he said, tossing them up to the coachman. “You know Redpebble Square? Drive to Number Eight and pound on the door for all you’re worth. There’s a Trollwife named Mistress Mirdley. Tell her to go to Wistly Hall quick as she can—in fact, you take her there, right?”
“I’m due back to Great Welkin, taking Lord Ripplewater and his party home.”
Ripplewater. That had been the name. “Nobody will be leaving there until dawn. You’ll have time to go back.” Seeing the frown of reluctance, Cade added, “And a gold royal at Redpebble if you take the Trollwife to Wistly Hall.”
“Easy enough to promise. And what about my horses, eh?”
“Two gold royals. Ask for Master Derien Silversun—I’m his brother, Cayden—he’s got the money, don’t worry about—”
“Silversun of Touchstone?” But he was less interested in theater than in his own profession, for he said immediately, “Then that bloody enormous white horse is one of Master Needler’s? Lord and Lady save us.” He pocketed the coins. “Two gold royals, and if Lord Ripplewater hears of it and complains—”
“You can blame me, and I’ll settle with him. Hurry!”
“They won’t be driving fast, not with the Giant hurt the way he is.”
“Just go, all right?”
He waited to see the man drive off, wanting nothing so much as another drink to steady himself. Clear head, he repeated again as he stepped up to the constabulary door. He had to keep a clear head. Because whoever had ordered Mieka taken to the nearest est
ablishment of the King’s Writ did not have the Elf’s best interests at heart.
Chapter 12
Regretting that he had ever been born, Mieka woke on a hard wooden bench, positive that a contingent of prisoners from Culch Minster quarry were digging their picks into his skull. For some reason they were paying special attention to the tip of his left ear. He opened his eyes, tried to sit up, groaned, and decided that horizontal was much the better option right now.
Hesitantly, he touched his ear. The little pink pearl stud he’d bought to replace the topaz given to Ginnel House was gone, ripped right out of his ear, leaving a painful slice that stung like all Hells. His fingers came away red with clotting blood. If it didn’t heal up well, he would look as if one ear had been very badly kagged. And what sort of selfish, shallow, disgusting rotter was he, to think about his looks when Yazz was dead?
The Giant had to be dead. Otherwise he’d be here to guard Mieka and his wife—whose soft sobbing he could hear from the hallway outside this room.
Bench, table, two chairs, barred window. Brown-brick walls. A tarnished brass three-armed candlebranch hanging from the ceiling, reeking of tallow. Mieka forced himself to sit up. He hadn’t the strength to stand; he could barely remain upright. He hadn’t had that much to drink, so perhaps it was the pain in his head and his ear that was making his stomach roil. All at once he knew he was going to be very, very sick.
And he was, all over himself. The beautiful brocade jacket that his wife had so swiftly and cleverly downsized for him, his trousers, his boots—he couldn’t even find the energy to bend over and direct the vomit onto the floor.
A young constable about Mieka’s own age opened the door and peered in. “Sir? Are you all right?”
Any number of sharp retorts occurred to him. It also occurred to him that for some reason he was in a constabulary. That reason was obvious: He’d killed Yazz. Run over him with the rig, the horse’s hooves had got him, mayhap both—or the mob in the courtyard had managed to overpower a part-Giant and—