Playing to the Gods

by Melanie Rawn

  He felt sick again, but there was nothing left in his stomach.

  The young man came forward and helped him to stand. “Washroom down the hall, sir. I’ve some spare clothes in me locker—they won’t fit, but…”

  Mieka nodded gratefully. Anything was better than the stained and stinking clothes he wore now.

  The constable joined him in the washroom. Mieka stripped off down to his smallclothes—nothing could soak through suede trousers, but they would need a good cleaning before they were wearable again—and was handed a cloth. He ran some water in the sink and scrubbed himself down.

  “I seen almost every play you ever done,” the young man said suddenly from his post by the door. “Since I were seventeen, anyroad, and earning. Touchstone’s me favorite and no mistake. No one else even comes close.”

  “Beholden,” Mieka managed. He examined his ear in the looking glass. Not so bad as he’d feared. It would heal with only a tiny scar. All at once he understood Cayden’s attitude towards the scars on his hand. He didn’t want this one to vanish, either. He wanted the reminder of what he’d done. “Did you mention clothes?”

  “I’ll send someone for them.” He opened the door and called out, “Here, boy! My shelf in the alcove, the gear there—look sharp!”

  Only then did Mieka realize that the constable was under orders not to leave him alone for an instant. Him. The murderer.

  “Do I need a brief?” Mieka asked abruptly.

  For the first time the man looked uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t be knowing nothing about that, sir.”

  In other words—yes.

  He needed a lawyer. He had killed Yazz. He didn’t remember a thing about it. He was familiar enough with memory loss; there had been times, Gods help him, when he’d courted it quite deliberately. But tonight he’d pricked no thorn, he’d had only a small whiskey and a glass and a half of wine—this wasn’t possible. He ought to remember. Unless he’d been knocked on the head. Yet aside from the pain in his ear and a generalized headache that was now receding a bit, there were no wounds on his skull. He ran his fingers through his hair to make sure. No lumps, bumps, bruises, or blood.

  He’d killed Yazz and he remembered nothing.

  The constable’s clothes arrived. Mieka’s were taken away. The shirt and trousers were much too long, but he could roll up cuffs and sleeves and use his own unblemished neck-cloth as a belt. Ridiculous it would look, wispy violet silk fringed in black at either end, especially against rough wool and unbleached linen. For once in his life he didn’t much care about his appearance. He was too busy being grateful for thick woolen socks. The floor was cold and his boots were disgusting. He was in the shirt and about to haul on the pants when the constable cleared his throat.

  “A moment, sir, if it pleases you. What’s that mark on your leg?”

  “Mark?”

  “A sort of welt, like. I’m to take notes on any injuries. It were a rough crowd at Great Welkin, I heard one of the drivers say. And if you was hurt anyplace besides your ear in the fighting…”

  Mieka understood. A bash on the head could be responsible for more things than a blank memory. Temporarily insane, not responsible for what he was doing.

  No. There were no excuses.

  “We don’t get many legal gentlemen here on the edges of Gallybanks,” the young man went on, “being as most of our work as constables is drunks and accidents from bad lighting on wagons and such. But I seen enough to know that everything should oughta be took note of, and not just for the records, if you see what I mean. That mark, now. I’d like to have a nearer look.”

  Mieka sat on the bench so that the constable could have a squint at the mark on his right thigh. It did look like a welt from the sting of a bee or wasp. Mieka wanted to vomit again when he recognized what it really was.

  A thorn-mark. Not the sort visible over veins in his arms, there was a slight swelling centered around the tiny pinprick. It was something powerful that worked very quickly—but had it knocked him out completely or merely stolen his memory?

  “No! Take your hands off me! I want to see my husband!”

  Mieka looked up at the constable, whose sympathies he was now counting on. Rising to his feet, he hitched up the trousers and reached for his neck-cloth to tie them into place. “Let me see her. Please. Just for a moment or two. Just to calm her down.”

  After a grimace of hesitation, he said, “Only with me in here, and the door wide open.”

  The next thing Mieka knew, she was in his arms. She was at that stage of weeping when there are no tears left, only dry convulsive sobs. He held her close, rocking her, murmuring, trying to soothe. The compassionate young constable let the time lengthen, and finally she stopped shaking.

  “Mieka—oh, Mieka—they’re saying you did it!”

  “I wouldn’t say nothing more, me lady,” the constable warned. “There’s folk listening as will remember anything you talk of.”

  Mieka nodded his gratitude. She took no heed.

  “I was so sc-scared—and afterwards, when you w-wouldn’t wake up—and that man barely able to control the horse driving here—”

  He’d wondered about that, someplace in the back of his mind. Yazz was the only one strong enough to handle that big breed of Rommy Needler’s, and Yazz was dead.

  “It’s all right now. Hush.”

  “And now they say it was you!” She choked. “And they’ll keep you here, and send me away, and I can’t bear to be parted from you, Mieka, not now, not when everything is so horrible!”

  The constable nodded confirmation of all of it.

  “Don’t worry,” Mieka told her—foolishly, he knew. “It’ll all come right. Just—just go home, they’ll find somebody to take you home, and when you’re there, get word to Robel—”

  “Don’t leave me, don’t let them take me away—”

  “Mieka! Is he in there? Please let me talk to him—”

  “Cade!” he called out. She shivered in his arms and he held her tighter, turning his head to see Cade in the doorway. “He can take you home. Will you, Cade? This is no place for her.”

  “Yes, of course. Are you all right? Never mind, stupid question.” It was in Cayden’s cloud-gray eyes that he knew how moronic he sounded, but with the constable standing by, there would be no chance to speak openly.

  He knew he should say something about finding a lawyer, and had the dismal and shaming thought that the retainer would gobble up his share of Touchstone’s performance fees for months to come—and that was assuming the authorities would let him out to go onstage, an assumption that was sublimely shit-witted. Touchstone was dead, too.

  “Mieka—oh, Mieka, please—don’t let them take me—”

  “Go on out to the carriage—is there something for you to drive home in?” he asked Cade.

  “They’ve sent for a hire-hack. It should be here in a little while. We’re a ways from—I mean, there’s not much out here, this far from—” He stopped himself with an annoyed gesture.

  “Yeh, I know. Take her home.”

  “Here, me lady,” said the constable, “you just come along with this boy here, he’ll get you all settled.” The lad who had brought clothes for Mieka snapped to attention, looking abashed when his superior frowned. “What’s this, then? Didn’t nobody see to her getting a cuppa, or even to wash her hands and face? Are we common brutes, to treat a lady like this? You find her some hot tea—hot, mind!—and a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth to wash with, and be quick about it!”

  Mieka gently extracted himself from her frantic grasp. “They’ll see to your comfort, darlin’, and then Cayden will see you home. It’ll be all right.”

  She trembled and looked up at him, her face framed in the elegant pink lily-collar and thick black fur. Smudges on her cheeks, consisting of makeup and dirt and tears, her lower lip swollen where she’d bitten at it in her terror—his heart contracted painfully in his chest. She needed him, and he would not be there. They’d keep him here for days
, perhaps weeks, unless the lawyer could get bail, and after that would come a trial, and he’d be sent to prison for murder—surely they wouldn’t hang him, not when everything had happened in such chaos, not when he couldn’t remember—

  “Go with the boy now,” he murmured, and kissed her lips very lightly. “Try not to worry.”

  She sniffled, and nodded, and slipped out of the cloak. “You’re shivering. They’ll let you have this back, won’t they? I needed it on the way here, but a hire-hack won’t be so c-cold—”

  “Hush now. Of course. I can’t think why they wouldn’t let me have it back. Have some tea and wash your face. Go on, now.”

  She touched her cheek, then his, then looked at her hands and flinched. “Yes, Mieka. I’ll do that now.”

  She left him standing there, holding the cloak. Cade stepped out of her way, then moved a pace or two into the room. The constable remained precisely where he’d been all this time.

  “I won’t ask what happened,” Cade said roughly. “I don’t need to.” He paused, which gave Mieka time to grasp that he meant an Elsewhen. “It’s obvious enough, after all. I just want you to think about two things, and have answers ready for the lawyer.”

  Bless Cade; he knew without Mieka’s having to ask. “What things?”

  “Why do you think you were invited to Great Welkin tonight? No, don’t talk about it now, just think it over. And the other—if there’s anything that was said or done that seems strange to you, looking back on it—”

  “But that’s just it! I don’t remember!”

  “Don’t tell me about it right now,” Cade warned.

  “There was Knottinger and his girlfriend, and then the fox—”

  “The fox?” Cade echoed, startled.

  “She brought it with her from Hilldrop. Tonight it must’ve sneaked into the carriage, under the seat or something. It followed her up the stairs, and—” His temper ignited all over again. “That cullion, that slimy fucking cocksplat Knottinger—”

  “Never mind him. Not right now. Just think, Mieka. Go over it all in your mind and sort it, as if it were a new playscript to go through.”

  Would he ever do that again? Gather with Touchstone over tea, the way they had not even a fortnight ago, discussing and arguing and proposing ideas, working through each aspect of a new play—had that been the last time he would ever do that?

  Suddenly feeling the cold once more, he hunched into the cloak and sat back down on the bench. “Yeh. All right.”

  “Good.”

  His life hadn’t been meant to turn out like this. He’d been meant to be onstage, magicking his way through play after brilliant play of Cayden Silversun’s until he was too old to keep a grip on the withies. It wasn’t supposed to be like this—

  And had Yazz been meant to die under massive sharp hooves? That wasn’t supposed to—

  “Quill!” he exclaimed. “She said that! It wasn’t supposed to happen!”

  “She? Who said what?”

  “The Archduchess! No, I have to tell you, it doesn’t matter who hears it. This is important. When everything went all crazy, she said, ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen,’ but the way she said it was, ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen,’ as if—”

  “As if something different had been supposed to happen?” Cade’s long fingers clenched, tightening the skin across the backs of his palms, throwing the white scars into sharper relief. “Which brings us back to the question of why you were invited in the first place. She’s no advocate of magic, and she hates theater. So why?”

  “Something’s been gnawing at me, sir,” the constable interrupted. “How did all those people get inside the gates? From what’s being said, they weren’t the sort to have invites, even less than what you just said about him and his good lady—begging your pardon, sir,” he finished with an apologetic glance at Mieka, “for you’re famous and she’s prettier than anyone as ever lived, and an ornament anyplace she goes.”

  Cade shrugged. “Whenever there’s a big party at some nobleman’s house, there are always people around, begging or stealing or just there to see the spectacle of jewels and gowns. That’s why you constables are always told well in advance of a dinner or ball at a rich man’s home.”

  “But Great Welkin’s not easy walking from Gallybanks. Why’d they come? How’d they get there?”

  “What you’re saying,” Mieka ventured, “is that not only did somebody let them in at the gates, but somebody wanted them there to be let in at the gates to do just what they did—which was why my wife and I were invited.”

  “Somebody recruited them?” Cade asked incredulously. “Got them there and let them in just so they could do damage to you?”

  The constable said in a quiet voice, “‘This wasn’t supposed to happen.’ If that’s what she said, then something else was. And it’s my thought that the chanting was no accident—again, sir, I’m sorry, but it has to be said.”

  “Yes,” Cade replied. “It has to be said.”

  “But why would I be that important?” Mieka protested. “Who would go to all that trouble—and expense, hiring all those people—who’d do that for me?” He beat his fists helplessly on his knees. “Gods, Quill—who’d want to kill Yazz?”

  Cade stared at him. “Yazz? Mieka, he’s not dead. He’s hurt, but he’s alive. Didn’t anybody tell you?” This with an angry glance at the constable.

  “I thought he knew, sir. Honest to the Lord and Lady and Angels, I thought he knew.”

  “It’s—it’s all right.” His voice sounded strange to him, high and thin. “He’s not dead. It’s all that matters.” He looked up at Cade. “I’m really tired, Quill. Can you take her home? I guess I’ll see you tomorrow or something. I’m just—Is there anyplace I can lie down, besides this damned hard bench?”

  Chapter 13

  A blanket borrowed from the constabulary was no fit drapery for a fine lady. For one thing, it smelled faintly of stale beer. Cade settled it over the girl’s knees anyway, reasoning that keeping her warm was more important than genteel delicacy. Gentlemanly, he had given her his jacket—but kept his overcoat. He had no intention of freezing for her sake.

  For the first few miles, there was a dull silence within the hire-hack. This late at night there was no noise on the road but for the clatter of the horse’s hooves. That would change as they neared Gallantrybanks, where sheep and goats and cattle would be driven to market and wagons of winter produce would be rolling in. Parties would be breaking up, taverns would be closing, theaters would be letting out. There would be more light, with Elf-lit lamps on every corner and usually in the middle of the block. Cade wondered when the fear of darkness captured inside those lamps by Wizards after the Archduke’s War would ever fade. Or if.

  At length, Cayden roused himself. “I’m sorry you had to go through all this,” he said, meaning it. He still remembered that little girl at school … and the child he had once been.

  “They won’t keep Mieka more than one night, will they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But he didn’t do anything! All those people attacked us!”

  He shouldn’t have opened his mouth and allowed words to come out. It meant she’d be talking now, too. “Strange thing, that,” he said.

  “I expect an apology from the Archduchess tomorrow afternoon.” She shivered, tugged the blanket up to her chin, and scooted a little closer to him.

  He didn’t take the hint.

  “I hope they give poor Mieka something decent to eat for breakfast tomorrow. And somewhere better to sleep than that cold hard bench! And what will happen to our carriage, and Chattim’s horse?”

  “At the constabulary. They were taking care of the horse when I arrived. They’ll probably stable the carriage and drive Mieka home in it tomorrow.” He had no idea whether they would or not. He was trying to find something definitive to say so she’d shut up.

  “But they won’t let Mieka drive, will they? He’s just simply hopeless. Like tonight
, when he grabbed the reins.”

  Cade fixed his gaze out the tiny window, where the lamps were spaced closer together now. He didn’t dare look at her. He knew as well as she did that Mieka hadn’t touched the reins.

  “I hope poor Yazz isn’t too badly hurt,” she went on. “Robel will be so worried, and with two children to take care of as well as her husband, she won’t have much time or energy to help us around Hilldrop.”

  “No doubt. You should probably close your eyes and try to rest a little.”

  “I’m quite wide awake. But you’re kind to be concerned.” She paused. “Especially since you’ve never liked me very much, have you? Not since the first time you ever saw me, at Rafe and Crisiant’s wedding.”

  He could think of nothing to say. Nothing. Where was his tregetour’s glibness now that he needed it?

  “Mieka spoke constantly about you, and I knew of course which one you were the instant I walked into the Chapel. The look on your face … why? Why don’t you like me? Why have you never accepted me?”

  “I don’t dislike you.” That was true enough.

  “That’s no answer. That’s not even polite. My mother says that if nothing else, we can always count on you to have beautiful highborn manners. I do wish Mieka would learn from your example. And correct his speech more often. And—”

  “And that is why I don’t fall at your feet with adoration,” he suddenly snapped. “You wanted to change him from the moment you met him. You don’t want him to be what he is or who he is. You want him to be what you want him to be. How is that love?”

  He thought perhaps that had done it; he thought she’d be so outraged that she’d preserve an affronted silence the rest of the way to Wistly Hall. No such luck.

  Still, what she did say wasn’t predictable. It wasn’t How dare you! or What do you know about love or marriage?—either of which would have been perfectly justified.

  What she said was, “I want him to be what I need him to be.”

  Cade decided he really didn’t want to know what that was. So he asked a more interesting question. “Why?”