Playing to the Gods

by Melanie Rawn

  “Dreadfully sorry—just got off a ship, don’t you know, the legs aren’t yet what they should be on dry land!”

  Cayden saw King Meredan frown. But it was the Queen—the plump, motherly, completely uninspiring little Queen—who, glancing round and finding her confused husband on one side and her ineffectual son on the other, fixed a glare on Cade himself. “Remove this man at once!”

  He started forward from his lectern before he could even think about it, astonished that this unassuming woman could command and he would instinctively obey—or did she have some droplet of magic in her veins that compelled him? Lord Piercehand was staggering about between the front row and the stage, waving cheerily at all his friends (who were busy making believe they’d never seen him before and didn’t see him now), laughing riotously as he tripped over his own feet. Righting himself by grabbing the lip of the stage, he looked up and blinked at the players and the fading scenery.

  “Oy, look at all those books! Oh—no, they’ve gone—by all the Gods, the whole room’s gone! How’d they do that, eh?”

  He clambered up onto the stage before Cade and two members of His Majesty’s Household Guard could converge on him. He stood swaying, as if still on the deck of a ship, peering about him. “Never knew what a view one gets from up here! ’Strord’nary, ain’t it?”

  Cade gripped his arm, abruptly furious. How dared this drunken quat destroy a Touchstone performance?

  Piercehand pulled away and wagged a teasing finger. “Now, now, lad, don’t crease the silk!” He bestowed a smile on everyone that was a parody of the endearing charm that had captivated the Queen and her ladies thirty years ago. In the next instant, his eyes went out of focus and he stumbled back, eluding the two guards. “Wha’s you doin’?” He waved his arms wide, spittle flying from his lips. “D’you know who the fuck I am?”

  “Yes, Your Lordship,” said Jeska, “everyone is very much aware of who you are.”

  Piercehand swung about to face him in a staggering, drunken whirl that added to the impact of the masquer’s experienced fist. His Lordship’s head snapped back and to the side, and he went down like a felled tree.

  “Nice one, Jeska!” Mieka called out as several people in the audience began to applaud.

  The guards picked up an arm each and lowered Piercehand over the edge of the stage with a notable lack of tenderness. He collapsed in a red silk heap. They jumped down and hauled him more or less upright again. It was the King’s bad luck that His Lordship roused just as the guards dragged him past His Majesty. A groan, a curse, a convulsive cough—and he yarked, colorfully and thoroughly, right into the King’s lap.

  The guards lugged him hastily away. More guards attended the King out of the theater, and then the Queen and the senior members of Court.

  “That coulda been me,” murmured a soft, light voice at Cade’s side.

  He glanced down at the unsmiling face. “You? Never.”

  “Me, absolutely. And we both know it.”

  The sudden ringing of a handful of coins onto the stage startled them both. Cyed Henick walked past, glancing up with a shrewd smile as he tucked his purse back into his pocket.

  Into the sudden deathly silence left behind, Lady Megueris Mindrising said mildly, “Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could use a drink.”

  * * *

  At the awkward reception that followed, Jeska was the hero of the evening. Cade quickly lost track of him in a crowd of appreciative admirers. Where Rafe and Mieka had got to, he’d no idea. He politely accepted his share of congratulations qualified by pity and even some indignation—though he couldn’t tell whether the resentment was on his behalf or their own, for not being able to see the entire play. Never mind; they’d have a much better story to tell their envious friends.

  “Not what you had in mind, I gather.” Lady Megs signaled a passing servant and snagged another glass of bubbly white wine, handing it to Cayden. “Here. If anybody deserves to get good and drunk tonight, it’s you.”

  “I don’t want to get drunk.” Contradicting his own words, he tossed back the entire contents of the glass in one swallow.

  “If not drunk, then…?” She arched a pale eyebrow.

  He had put his guts into Window Wall, worked on it for years, argued about it and rewritten it and agonized over it, and that stupid fucking drunkard of a nobleman had wrecked its first performance. “I want to beat him so bloody that even people who look like him will bleed.”

  Megs gave him her own glass of wine. “If there’s anything left once the guards are through with him, you’d have to compete with Her Majesty for the privilege. And it’s my opinion that you’d lose. So drink up.”

  He did as ordered, Kearney Fairwalk’s admonition echoing in his head: “You are appreciating a fine wine, not filling a bucket!” There was somebody else he’d like to take apart piece by lying, cheating, thieving, worthless piece. He looked into the empty glass, then at her. “Lady Megueris, are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “So I can have my way with you?” She laughed up at him, green eyes dancing. “I must say, Master Silversun, you’re much better when you have the use of both your hands. But no, sorry to disappoint—if you are disappointed, that is, and I’m trusting that you’re too much of a gentleman to admit if you’re not. I’m in attendance on the Princess tonight. And she’ll be wondering where I’ve gone. I promised a full report on the party.”

  “She’s not missing much.” He looked around the grand reception room—garlanded with flowers, candles twinkling everywhere, food on silver plates and drink in crystal decanters displayed on tables lining one wall. Eight young boys in green and brown outfits sang complicated harmonies at the far end of the room. The guests milled about, attempting to impress each other, but not so avidly as they would have had the personages they truly wanted to impress been present.

  “Actually,” Cade confessed, “now that I think on it, I feel sorrier for the King than for myself. Poor old duffer. We can always do Window Wall again. He’ll never get the stink out of that jacket.”

  “He can afford a new one.” She looked him down and up. “Talking of which, all of you look quite splendid tonight. Harmonizing but not identical. Which is always just too precious for words.”

  He received the compliment graciously. Jinsie had insisted on new clothing for tonight’s performance, in shades of dark blue with black accents. Jeska got the trousers, Rafe wore the jacket, Mieka had the shirt, and Cade the longvest.

  “These days we get frustled up for a gigging only when Royalty will be in the audience.” He chuckled, beginning to feel the wine. “Mieka finds this rather vexing. Silly little peacock.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “According to the rules, at this point you’re supposed to say something nice about my gown. Or my jewels. Or my hair. A compliment to a lady never goes amiss.”

  His turn to survey her. She wore a plum-colored silk bodice and overskirt swagged up to her knees, showing the white lace underskirt beneath, and a necklace of alternating pearls and amethysts in silver. Her dark blonde hair was swept smoothly up and back, secured with pearl-headed pins. “No turquoise. I approve.”

  “Surely a tregetour can do better than that.”

  “Surely you can find a dozen or more men who’ll tell you all the pretty things you can stand to hear.”

  “Yes, and every word they speak is actually in praise of my money.” She smiled and sipped wine, then said, “I’m glad the rumors weren’t true.”

  “What rumors?” The sudden shift in subject confused him. Was this his third glass, or his fourth?

  “That you’d be doing Vered Goldbraider’s final play, you and the remaining Shadowshapers. Are you about to ask how I knew?” She gave him the sort of patient, indulgent look that one would give an otherwise reasonably bright child who didn’t quite understand that two and two really did add up to four. “Once a week we go out for drinks. Miriuzca joins us when she can get away
.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Jinsie, Blye, Vrennerie, when she and her husband are in Gallybanks. Kazie and Deshananda and Breckyn when they’re not exhausted by their children. Mishia’s joined us a few times. So has Crisiant, though she’s not much of a drinker and usually has apple juice. What we don’t know about what all you boys are up to isn’t worth the knowing.”

  “Drinks?” he echoed foolishly. And then, as it finally hit him: “Did you say Princess Miriuzca?”

  “I did.” She was laughing at him again. “You really don’t understand much about women, do you? Anyway, as I was saying, it’s a good thing you didn’t do Vered’s plays.”

  “Umm … yeh.” He wanted very much to ask which taverns they met at, and whether the Princess went disguised, and why he’d never heard even a breath of rumor about these little excursions. What sort of ungrateful friend was Blye, anyways, to keep that sort of gossip from him?

  “It was an interesting piece,” Megs was saying. “I hope I get the chance to see the rest of it.”

  “What did you think of what you saw?”

  She considered. “I liked it very much, based on what we didn’t get to see.”

  “How do you think it ends?”

  “I’m assuming that the point you wanted to make isn’t that one shouldn’t read books.” Seeing his bewilderment, she elaborated. “Well, look at where reading got him. Everything he said about love and pleasure and hate and so forth—he didn’t know what any of those really felt like, did he? He knew only what the books had told him. Until he saw the girl.”

  He nearly groaned aloud. Was that what people would take away from this truncated version of Window Wall?

  “But I think you were also saying something you and I can agree on.”

  “And that might be?”

  “You can’t see someone’s soul in her face. Physical beauty is so often a lie, isn’t it? Please tell me he doesn’t break the glass and escape that horrible room just for the wanting of the girl.”

  “Good guess.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to do something so … expected.”

  “Much beholden.” As he looked around for someone to take his drained glass (and not supply him with a fresh one; it was pathetic, the amount he couldn’t drink anymore; he must be getting old), his gaze lit on the Archduke and Prince Ashgar. The latter, he could understand—he was the kind of man who never missed a party if he could help it, even if someone had just vomited on his father. But the Archduke? What was Henick doing here?

  Oh. Of course. He’d come to gloat. And smirk. Cade saw it as their gazes met. It wasn’t just that Henick thought they hadn’t dared do Blood Plight. It was seeing Touchstone’s humiliation at an interrupted, unfinished performance. Add to these the insult of coins tossed onto the stage as if they were piddling amateurs in some drab little provincial tavern, and his enjoyment of the evening was complete.

  Rage stirred once more. Then Cade recalled that it wasn’t so many months until Trials. Touchstone would do Window Wall—the whole of both plays, damn it—and Touchstone plus the remaining Shadowshapers would do Vered’s plays. The Archduke could simper all he pleased. He wouldn’t be simpering for long.

  Chapter 34

  It was a nice tavern in a nice neighborhood, the Goldhawk. Its padded chairs and cushioned benches welcomed the prosperous posteriors of professional people—merchants, physickers, lawyers—who lived in the area and popped in for a pint or two before or after dinner. They were often joined by their womenfolk, who sipped ladylike brews of tea or fruit juices (which, on request, were spiked with alcohol). Of dockworkers, common laborers, clerks, and whores there was no sign.

  No stage, either. Entertainment was provided by a pair of young lutenists trading stringed flourishes over in a corner, aided in their musical conversation by an even younger man beating his palms raw on a pair of drums and a singer who tossed his dark golden curls to emphasize words nobody was listening to. The Goldhawk had an excellent reputation and no one thought twice about the presence, unescorted, of the four young women who entered one pleasant spring night and hung their cloaks and coats on the brass stand beside a round table.

  Sparkling glasses, beer in a pitcher, and red wine in a decanter were soon brought without their having to order. This told Mieka, quietly watching from the doorway, that these ladies were known here. The question was, were they actually known here?

  There were no furtive glances, no looks of surprise or muffled exclamations of recognition. Granted, only one of them was in any way famous. But surely someone must suspect that the beautiful girl with laughing blue eyes was accustomed to costlier clothing than a plain black woolen skirt, white blouse, and short red jacket, and that her wheaten hair was not usually in a single braid down her back but dressed in curls and studded with gems.

  Observing their laughter and easy conversation, Mieka realized that if they were regulars here, not only would the usual patrons be accustomed to them by now but willing to show them the courtesy of not openly recognizing them. Indeed, lack of reaction would signify a certain refinement, as if everybody here bumped elbows with Princesses in taverns all the time.

  Eh, what did it matter? He grinned to himself and waved to a party of gentlemen who raised their glasses in salute. They might or might not know Miriuzca for who she really was, but they certainly knew Touchstone.

  Sauntering over to their table, he doffed his cap and greeted the startled ladies with a bow. “May a lowly player, a clumsy wielder of withies, naught more than a freckle on the cheek of Albeyn, make so bold as to offer the comeliest women in Gallantrybanks a drink?”

  “No,” said Megs.

  Jinsie seconded, “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, and of course it would be unthinkable to be seen drinking with a strange man.”

  He clapped a hand to his heart, staggering back. Miriuzca giggled.

  “Ladies!” Vrennerie chided. “How often do we get the chance to treat such a pretty gentleman to a beer?”

  “I still say he’s strange,” Jinsie said, but made room for him on the bench.

  Mieka made himself comfortable and raised a finger to summon the serving girl. “One more glass, if you please, darlin’, and another pitcher when this one’s empty. Beholden.” To his sister: “I wonder if Nahael Silkspin will be around here tonight. That’s his name, innit?” When she gave him innocent stare for innocent stare, he persisted, “I’d like to meet him.”

  “A very nice young man,” said Megs. “But not, I think, a prospective husband. Not for Jinsie, at any rate.”

  Jinsie took a swallow of beer, then said serenely, “I think it has more to do with whether or not I’m a prospective wife. I can’t seem to find anyone who wants the same kind of marriage I do.”

  “And which kind is that?” Mieka asked, remembering her words about either knowing everything or knowing nothing about the person one spent one’s life with.

  “In my experience,” Vrennerie said, “the best marriages are the ones that are causing each to be better people. More deserving of that person’s love.”

  Miriuzca made a rueful face. Vrennerie, realizing what she’d said, blushed crimson. It wasn’t exactly a description of the Princess’s marriage; she did strive to become a better person, but not for Ashgar. For Albeyn.

  Quickly, Mieka said to Vrennerie, “That’s easy enough for you to say—you and your husband both started out perfect!” All of them laughed, and the moment was saved. He went on more seriously, “I think there are as many kinds of marriage as there are marriages.”

  “You may be right,” said Jinsie, much to his surprise. “But I didn’t much like the sort that Nahael seemed to have in mind for us. Too many compromises—and all of them mine!”

  “But isn’t marriage a series of compromises?” Vrennerie asked. “I don’t mean arguments when one or the other just gives in.”

  “Ah, but it’s usually the woman who does the giving in.” Megs grimaced.

  “S
till want to be a Steward, do you?” Mieka asked, smiling.

  “And why shouldn’t she?” Jinsie demanded.

  Vrennerie said, “She has the right sort of magic and knows how to use it.”

  “Indeed,” said Miriuzca. “From all my talking with the Stewards, I’m not seeing any reason why a woman should not become one of them.”

  He held up both hands. “Ladies! Please! I give in!”

  More laughter, and his twin muttering, “You wouldn’t know a compromise if it bit you on the nose,” and the arrival of another pitcher. Mieka drank sparingly, and Jinsie noticed it. He received from her the kindest and most compassionate look he’d ever seen. She had overheard their father on the night he’d presented two choices.

  “The drink and the thorn, or your profession. Give up one or the other, Mieka, because you can’t have both.”

  Never again devour the energy that was enough for two shows in one day and two girls right after? Never again watch bejeweled mists trail from every mote of plain dust, never again sense his body floating on a river of white fleece that tasted of apples and spices? Never down whiskey after whiskey, laughing, relaxed, instantly ready with the mockery and silliness that everyone expected from him? Never again sleep the long, deep, dreamless sleep that redthorn always provided?

  If he kept on with it, he might as well ready himself for the longest, deepest sleep of all. That was what had been in his father’s eyes.

  “Face it, my son. Make your decision.”

  Never again hear the tumult of welcoming, excited applause as Touchstone took the stage. Never again dance his way through “Dragon,” “Doorways,” “Bewilderland,” plucking withies from the glass baskets and feeling Cayden’s magic within them—feeling Cayden himself, all his brilliance and intensity ready for Mieka to release in service to their art. Never again leap over the glass baskets and join his partners to take their bows, tired and exhilarated and laughing, while shouts and cheers washed over them like waves in the Ocean Sea. Never again exult in the certainty that he was good, that Touchstone was beyond good, that no one, not even the Shadowshapers, could give an audience what they did.