Thornlost (Book 3) Page 3

  “Get on with it!” Chat admonished.

  Vered bowed, then leaped from the steps and tossed him a withie. Chat had barely sent it back to him when Vered threw another one. The new wagon had been placed almost in the middle of the little courtyard, and as the pair juggled the glass back and forth, they gradually positioned themselves on either side of it until they could no longer see each other. With each throw, the withies flew high over the wagon, caught and sent back with a skill that had the crowd gasping, until all three were in the air at the same time. Chat pulled a fourth withie from his jacket, and then a fifth. He and Vered flung them so fast now that they looked a single glittering arch over the wagon, shattering all at once into a million shards that brought a few screams from the audience, especially when all the splinters caught fire.

  That would have been quite enough of a show, Mieka thought, impressed in spite of himself. But Chat and Vered weren’t finished. The arc of flames turned silver and began to writhe, scrawling two words between the courtyard and the stars: HAPPY NAMINGDAY.

  Tregetour and glisker met at the wagon steps again to accept the applause, looking thoroughly pleased with themselves. Mieka understood the feeling. This was how magic was supposed to be done: with joy and skill, with easy grace, with suppleness and creativity. Some people (Cade, for one) treated theater so seriously, so earnestly, that the joy of the magic could go missing. Not tonight. There was indeed a reason they called it a play.

  Mieka poured out a pair of whiskeys and approached his friends, clinking the pewter tankards as a substitute for clapping his hands.

  “Beholden, mate,” Chat said, and drank deeply. He wiped his mouth and his forehead, giving a gusting sigh. “Bit tricky, that last thing. Vered can’t spell, y’see.”

  His tregetour made a face at him and grabbed the other tankard. “It innit that so much as the right amount of magic for the fire and the letters. Been trying it out with shorter stuff—”

  “Just think,” Chat interrupted, “only three days ago, ‘Sod off’ was his limit!”

  “—but I’ve got it now so I can do ‘Shadowshapers’ in any color I please.” He took a pull at his drink. “Now all I need do is figure out how not to set the stage curtains afire.”

  “It was brilliant,” Cade said from nearby. “If you ever lose your place on the Royal, you can hire yourselves out as advert specialists.” He grinned and toasted them with his drink. “ ‘Haymaker’s Helpful Housewares’ and the like.”

  Mieka shook his head. “Too many letters.”

  Vered patted his pockets. “Must be another withie around someplace—with enough left in it for a ‘Fuck you’!”

  After this culminating spectacle—better than fireworks at a Royal Namingday, Mieka heard somebody say—the party began to break up, and not an instant too soon, as far as he was concerned. He’d exhausted his capacity for charming the villagers about three hours ago. His wife and her mother had resisted the notion of inviting the neighbors, but experience had taught Mieka that no one sent to the constables about any ruckus if they were partaking in the ruckus themselves. (Not that this had been a wild party by anyone’s standards, especially Mieka’s.) It would be nice to relax with only his friends and family about the place. Last chance of it, he reminded himself, before Trials, after which everyone knew that Touchstone would be off on the Royal Circuit for the summer. He loved having a home of his own, but too often it was so quiet out here in the country that he could hear the clicking and whirring of his own thoughts. Or that poxy windmill up the road—now, that was clicking and whirring to drive a man mad. He was fully aware of the irony: lack of the constant background noise of the city ought to soothe his sensitive Elfen ears. But a lifetime as a Gallybanker had trained him to hear what was important and ignore everything else. In Hilldrop, there was little to compete with the baby’s crying except the occasional whimpers of the pet foxling his wife had rescued from the woods, and his mother-in-law’s complaints. He hadn’t yet invited her to feel free to resume her city employment as a seamstress if she didn’t like it here, but… a good thing he’d be gone soon.

  He played the gracious host, standing with his wife at the gate to bid farewell to their local guests, making sure that each departing group had a candle to light the way home. Tallow candles—he wasn’t about to pay for wax—and lighted with real fire, not the kind made by Wizards or Elves or Goblins. He’d seen furtive glances directed at the more obviously Elfen Windthistles, at Alaen and Briuly, and especially at Mistress Mirdley, and when Yazz and Robel arrived, there had been a collective jolt of shock. Mieka rightly judged this to be the sort of place that tolerated magical folk but didn’t particularly embrace them with glad arms. He did note, though, that many of the women were friendly enough so that he needn’t worry about his wife’s being too lonely while he was away. She’d have her mother for company, of course, but a young woman needed companions of her own age just as a young man did.

  The looks the local men gave her weren’t as pleasing to him. Well, they were, but they really weren’t. He tightened his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned trustingly into his body. There was fierce pride in knowing that the most beautiful girl in the Kingdom of Albeyn belonged to him. Every man who gave her a look envied him. But they had no business giving her a look or anything else. She belonged to him.

  At last they were all gone and he was free to supply himself with a fresh glass of Auntie Brishen’s finest. He dragged a chair near the bonfire and sprawled, listening as the house and courtyard quieted down. The Blackpath cousins had taken a hire-hack back to town. Mieka’s parents and siblings would be staying the night and taking the public coach in the morning. He was hoping Cade would linger as well, but suspected Lady Jaspiela would require him to escort her and Derien home to Redpebble Square. He missed talking with Quill. Plenty of time to catch each other up at Trials and then on the Royal, he reminded himself. Unless they spent the whole time rehearsing some new playlet, which was entirely likely. Never one to bask in accolades more than a fortnight old, Cade would have some new idea to share with Touchstone, something to work on and argue over until they were ready to go for each other’s throats before Mieka laughed them out of it. He grinned happily to himself. Gods, how he loved being a player!

  “Did I hear that Alaen keeps stopping by?”

  He glanced up at Chat and nodded. “Just the once. Se’ennight ago, thereabouts. Drunk, thorned to the eyeballs—”

  “Let me guess—crying over Chirene,” Vered interrupted, seating himself on a milking stool. Jed and Jez had found some odd things lying about in dozens of pieces when they worked on the barn, including the carved and painted wooden cradle Jindra slept in.

  “Moaning like a cat about to yark,” Mieka confirmed. “Thought she and Sakary were still living here, didn’t he.”

  “Silly git.” Chat hauled another chair over and straddled it, arms folded atop the ladderback. “He’s taken to lurking round our rehearsals, befriending Sakary. Every once in a while they go home together for tea.”

  “You mean he doesn’t know?”

  Vered shrugged. “I think he thinks on it as her due. Beautiful women attract admirers—like a fine horse, or a hunting dog. Increases their value.”

  “She’d never throw him over for a skint musician,” Chat stated. “And everybody knows it.”

  “Everybody except Alaen, of course.” Cade joined them and stole Mieka’s whiskey. After taking a healthy swig, he passed it back and went on, “He might not always be broke, y’know.”

  “Now that the Oakapples have been polished up again?” Vered snorted. “Welcomed all his kin with cuddles and kisses, has His Lordship? Everyone with half a claim rushing to his door, ready at last to admit to the family name for a share in the family wealth!”

  Mieka alone knew what Cade had really alluded to: the true location of the Treasure. Touchstone knew where it was. The Rights of the Fae were there for the taking, a necklace and a crown—and what wouldn’t King Meredan pa
y to get his hands on what one of his ancestors had been denied? Cade’s opinion was that the Rights were mostly meaningless nowadays, mere historical curiosities, for the Fae had disdained the Kingdom these many centuries now for their own lands, only occasionally venturing into the world everyone else lived in. It wasn’t as if they’d accept just anyone who wore the crown as their king. Rafe, however, wasn’t so certain about the simple heirloom value. What if, he proposed, the Rights could bring the Fae to heel? Meredan could crown himself King of the Fae, and they’d have to come out of the Brightlands and bring with them all the magic they’d taken with them. Would that magic then be at Meredan’s service? If so, what would he do with it? Cade had looked startled by these notions, then shrugged. From what he’d seen of his great-great-whatever-grandmother, who’d told him the real story of how the Rights had come to be hidden, the Fae served no one but the Fae themselves.

  Cade believed, and Mieka agreed with him, that the symbolism was all that remained. But to gain that symbolism, the King might pay a truly obscene amount of money. It could be Alaen’s if he was of a mind to go find the Rights, which hinged on how much attention he’d paid to Touchstone’s performance, whether he’d connect the old family stories he and his cousin Briuly had heard with what he’d seen, and the chances of his being distracted from hopeless yearning after Chirene. Mieka wondered if the prospect of all that coin piled up in a bank would tempt the lady from her husband and children. He didn’t know her well enough to judge, but the possibility might goad Alaen into action.

  Cade was determined that the staggeringly rich Lord Oakapple should not benefit by the finding of the Rights. He had his good name back, and that ought to be enough for him. Mieka didn’t much care one way or the other who ended up with the stuff, except that he’d like to see the things for real. Just to make sure he’d got them right onstage. Cade had described them intricately from his glimpse in the Elsewhen, but—

  “Very clever of you,” Vered was saying, “to work it all out, no doubting. But it wasn’t Alaen or Briuly or any of the other Blackpaths or whichever relations did it, ’twas Cade. If anyone’s to be rewarded—” As Cade gave him an innocent smile, Vered whistled between his teeth. “How much?”

  “Why, what a very ill-bred question, Master Goldbraider!”

  “It was a commission, remember,” Mieka put in helpfully. “We did the job of it, he had to pay us.”

  And quite handsomely, too. Cade had got extra, of course, but the rest of Touchstone had profited as well. Mieka’s gaze strayed to the remodeled barn that was the direct result of the heavy purses Lord Oakapple—weeping with gratitude—had presented to them. Jeska had used his to rent very nice lodgings in a very nice part of Gallantrybanks. Rafe’s had gone into his savings. He and Crisiant were perfectly comfortable for now with their rooms above the Threadchaser bakery, but eventually they’d have children and Rafe would buy a house. Mieka still didn’t know what Cade planned to do with his earnings. He knew that the height of Cade’s ambition was to move out of Redpebble Square and into his own flat, but had heard nothing to indicate he’d even begun looking for a place yet.

  Now that he was twenty-one, of course, Cade would be coming into the money his grandsir had left him. That explained it, Mieka told himself. Cade had been waiting for the whole pile, at which point he’d buy himself a grand mansion and one would need a signed-sealed-and-beribboned invitation to get past the footman. Footmen, he amended, to fetch and carry, and lots of pretty maidservants to clean up the clutter, a librarian to put all the books back in order after a research binge, a coachman to drive a shiny new carriage, and a groom for the horses—and please all the Gods that Quill wouldn’t pester him again about learning how to ride—

  “Mieka? Mieka!”

  He started, nearly dropped his drink. “Yeh? What?”

  “Look at that!” Chat sniggered. “Answers to his name! Good puppy!”

  “Is he lead-trained yet, for walkies?” Vered asked.

  “Not even fully house-trained,” Cade told them. When Mieka opened his mouth to complain, Cade pointed a finger at him. “Shut it, or I’ll show them that rug you brought back from the Continent last year and tell them why it needed cleaning. Mieka, our colleagues have made the observation that the old version of ‘Treasure’ will need some rewriting before anyone else can do it at Trials from now on. Shall we distribute our script and performance notes?”

  Mieka sucked in an outraged breath as Chat said very earnestly, “Think of the rest of us poor sods, floundering about the Fliting Hall stage, trying to remember the fine distinctions Touchstone gave to the piece—”

  “Lacking the specifics,” agreed Vered, “we’d all make fools of ourselves. And it’s only right and proper for you to share. You’re the ones ruined the damned thing for the rest of us. We can never do the old version again.”

  Mieka struggled not to snarl. No player ever shared his folio. No glisker ever revealed his color coding for the glass baskets and withies, no masquer ever disclosed his performance notes, no fettler ever gave away his written annotations on the scripts. And most especially no tregetour ever distributed free copies of a play for all the world to see.

  “Of all the bloody cheek!” Then he saw that Cade was barely keeping laughter in check, and knew he was being teased. He swallowed hard, then managed, “Well, can’t see the harm in it. It ain’t as if anybody could do it the way we do it, right? But you’re welcome to try!”

  “What I’m thinking,” said Rafe from just beyond the firelight, “is that they ought to retire the thing.”

  Jeska had wandered up, and was nodding. “Or have no one but us do it at Trials from now on. No more sweats over mayhap drawing something horrible. Guaranteed Royal Circuit for us, every time.”

  “What I’m thinking,” Vered mused, “is that it’s nonsense to base Trials on the old plays at all. How often do we do any of them on the circuits? Never! Or almost,” he amended. “We play what sells, and what we make on our own, and none of the Thirteen has much to do with anything anymore—except at Trials.”

  “The Stewards would have a collective seizure,” Cade remarked, but there was that in his eyes which meant he was already envisioning it, and liking what he saw.

  Evidently Rafe wasn’t so sure. “If we all did what we liked at Trials, how would they judge? At least the Thirteen give a benchmark of sorts—”

  “They’d have to judge us on our best,” Chat said. “Not on whether we can make something good out of what everybody knows isn’t much more than warmed-over crap.”

  Touchstone’s initial reputation had come from making something spectacular out of “The Dragon,” and they had just done the same with “Treasure.” But the idea of tossing out all those others was intoxicating. Never having to rehearse the deathly boring Second Peril again—

  “This notion of judging, and ranks on the circuits,” said Vered, shaking his head. “I’m not much liking it anymore, anyways.” Then he tossed back the rest of his drink and bounded to his feet, swaying a little. “Miek, old son, would you happen to have a blanket or three and a spare pile of hay? I’ve a sudden longing to relive the simple rustic joys of our early years as destitute traveling players.”

  A little gasp made Mieka turn. His wife stood there with a tray of fresh drinks, scarlet-faced and scandalized. “Oh, no! We’ve beds to spare! We never would have invited—I mean, we’d never ask people like you to our house without—”

  “Soothe yourself, girl.” Mieka grinned. “If they’re pining for the memories, who are we to deny them?”

  “Talking of beds,” Cade said, “I heard the Minster chime not long ago, and it’s time I escorted my mother and brother and Mistress Mirdley to their own beds in Gallybanks.” He rose and bowed—perfectly steady, even with the quantities of alcohol and thorn he’d imbibed today. Mieka was impressed. “I’m forever beholden to you, Mistress Windthistle, for my wonderful Namingday party.”

  “But I thought you’d stay here!” Mieka whine
d. “I’d planned for us four to sleep in the new wagon!”

  “Plenty of time for that,” Vered reminded him. “In fact, Chat and I will be glad to try out the beds for you—no, Mistress, don’t worry your lovely head for an instant. It’s our duty to our fellow players, to make sure their wagon is at least half as comfortable as our own.”

  His wife’s flawless forehead wrinkled in a frown. Not really seeing the problem, Mieka was further confused when Cade joined her in looking dissatisfied.

  “We’ll be entirely happy in the wagon,” seconded Chat. “Please don’t trouble yourself.”

  “All settled, then?” Vered tossed back his shaggy fair hair, beamed a smile at them, snagged his glisker’s elbow, and made for the house. “Getting a smidgeon chill out here—time for the hearth within the home for a last few rounds. G’night, Cade!”

  “He’ll be useless tomorrow,” Cade predicted, watching them go.

  “He always is,” agreed Mieka, “after more than two cups of anything stronger than wine. Are you sure you won’t stay?”

  “Beholden, but no. Again, Mistress, I’m in your debt. It was an excellent day.” When Mieka pouted, Cade sighed with exaggerated patience. “Kearney was kind enough to bring my mother in his carriage, but he lives across town from Redpebble and even if we leave right now, it’ll be past midnight before his horses get home and stabled.”

  Mieka followed him into the house to collect Derien, Lady Jaspiela, and Mistress Mirdley. Vered was right: The spring evening had cooled considerably, and there was a fire going in the drawing room hearth, with much of his family grouped round it. He cheered up at the sight. This was what a home ought to be: warmed by liquor and firelight, noisy with the laughter of guests he enjoyed. If only he could’ve persuaded Cayden to linger, it would all have been perfect.

  The change in temperature from outside to inside reminded him—finally—of his Namingday gift for Cade. Weaving his way through the crowd, he scurried down the hall to his bedchamber and rummaged about in the tall oaken cupboard that had been a wedding present from Jed and Blye. Moments later he had wrestled the big muslin-wrapped package from its hiding place.