by Melanie Rawn
Along with the residences came shops, tea-rooms, and several taverns, and the newest of these was the Keymarker. Its ambitious owner had ordered reconstruction that almost made it into a real theater. There were two tiers of seating, each with its own bar. Necessity dictated that the renovations include replacing ancient worm-eaten rafters with steel girders—an expense indicating how serious the owner was about competing with the Kiral Kellari. That Touchstone was engaged to play on opening night, at what Kearney Fairwalk made sure was a considerable fee, was another sign of the owner’s determination to succeed.
It was rumored that Black Lightning’s new manager had promoted the group as ideal for the purpose. Had they not just bested Touchstone at Trials? But the Keymarker’s owner had heard about Black Lightning’s propensity for magic so wild as to be almost uncontrolled. Because nobody had ever played there before, nobody knew what effect steel in the ceiling might have—and Touchstone had a reputation for discipline strict enough to select precisely which glasses would shatter along the bar.
And besides all that, Jedris and Jezael Windthistle had done some of the renovation work, and Blye Cindercliff had made every pane of the front windows. Colored dark blue, with an iron key embedded in each ten-inch square—it was no wonder she and Jed could afford to get married, Cade told himself with a grin as he walked past the place an hour before the scheduled rehearsal. She had worked all that winter and spring to pay off her debt to Touchstone with a bank draft presented to Kearney shortly after Rafe and Crisiant got married. Although Touchstone retained a substantial interest in the glassworks, Cade reasoned that soon enough she and Jed would want to buy them out. Making withies for Touchstone and the Shadowshapers, and windows for Windthistle Brothers, had compelled her to hire an assistant to keep up with the work. Not an apprentice; just someone to do the tedious jobs of polishing, cleaning up around the glassworks, minding the shop, and so forth. The person Blye hired could never become an apprentice. Not that Rikka Ashbottle particularly wanted that distinction. She was quite frank about it. All she really desired was to earn enough money to pay a chirurgeon to straighten her almost cripplingly crooked Goblin teeth.
It was Rikka who had sent him on today’s errand before rehearsal. Her great-uncle was the crafter from whom the Keymarker’s owner had purchased all those spare iron keys that had gone into the windows, and his workshop was about eight blocks from the tavern. Cade needed something for Derien’s Namingday present. He already knew what Touchstone would be giving Blye and Jed as a wedding gift. As for that other wedding gift—he’d think about it when it happened.
No one entered a Goblin’s workshop without multiple references. Cade hoped two would suffice: the Keymarker and Rikka. But it was a good five minutes after telling the old man—through a very low peek-door in a side wall—his name and his connections before a section of brick wall vanished just like the artists’ entry to the Kiral Kellari. This opening was too short for Cade to enter in any fashion other than a low crouch. It might have been Goblin spitefulness or simple mischief, but Cade certainly felt the unflattering absurdity and straightened to his full Wizardly height as soon as he could.
He found Master Ashbottle staring up at him with magnificently large eyes almost the cloud-gray color of Cade’s own. Above those eyes spread a single silvery eyebrow that went straight across his forehead. Rikka’s great-uncle certainly couldn’t have had more than a few drops of anything but Goblin in his veins. From the rather lumpy nose to the mismatched yellow teeth to the bandy-legged belligerence of the stunted frame, this man was as classically Goblin as Mieka was classically Elfen. The pale skin of Master Ashbottle’s face and hands was blotched here and there, the way Blye’s sometimes became when she’d been working too long at her kiln, but on him the smudging looked permanent. His Human traits included a receding hairline and the shoulders of a longshoreman.
“Master Ashbottle,” Cade said with a polite nod.
“Master Silversun,” the Goblin acknowledged in a voice soft and musical.
Cayden waited, and said nothing more. If anything proved Blye’s shortfall of Goblin blood, it was her verbal agility. For those of primarily Goblin ancestry, one or two choice, terse words sufficed to communicate. After another minute or so, Master Ashbottle evidently decided that Cade was no idle chatterer come to waste his time, and pointed to the shelves lining the brick walls.
“Fancy aught?”
The selection of wares was far vaster than keys and locks. These there were, and in every size and elaboration imaginable. There was also an extensive selection of hinges, dead-bolts, door knockers and doorknobs, drawer pulls, and other small hardware. Cade considered his next remark carefully, editing out three-quarters of the words he would ordinarily have spoken. “Namingday gift.”
This received due contemplation. Finally: “Whose?”
“Brother.” He waited a few moments, then added, “Eight.”
Master Ashbottle pondered this for a time, then went round the counter and hefted up a large wooden box. A gesture invited Cade to have a look as, one after another, a selection of painted toys appeared for his inspection.
Pretending a sudden worriment, Cade dug into a pocket for his purse and dumped some of the contents into his hand. “Enough?” he muttered as if to himself, sneaking a glance at the Goblin. “Don’t try to pay in regular royals,” Rikka had advised. “They’re a mix of metals and Uncle can smell that a mile off. He’s of a generation that scorns aught but pure silver or gold.” The coins Cade poked through were solid silver crowns. Master Ashbottle squinted slightly, and his bumpy nose seemed to twitch at the tip before he relaxed and nodded his approval of Cade’s manners.
Leaving coins and purse on the counter, Cade happily inspected the offerings. There were boats ranging from sculls to three-masted ships with bright-colored sails, all sorts of animals and birds with movable limbs and heads and wings, castles, puppets, and a wonderfully gaudy green snake that coiled and uncoiled just like a real one. But what caught Cade’s attention, and made him forget his manners, was a four-inch-tall knight on horseback.
“This is perfect! Could you paint the knight’s shield with a silver sunburst?”
This unprovoked verbosity caused the Goblin to contort his single silvery eyebrow into what Cade assumed, mortified, was a scowl. Then he vanished through a door, apparently to his workshop, and returned a moment later with a jar of paint and a brush. The sunburst was limned in absolute silence while Cade occupied himself with sorting coins on the counter.
A sudden flash of green-white fire made him leap back with a cry of alarm. Master Ashbottle was looking exceedingly pleased with himself, and there was a sardonic glint to his pale eyes as he pointed to the knight’s shield. “Dry.”
Cade nodded feebly. He gestured to the coins. The Goblin selected the appropriate number—rather fewer than Cade had anticipated, but perhaps he’d received part of his fee in amusement by startling Cade half out of his wits. The knight was transferred to a blue box padded with curled wood-shavings tincted purple, and tied shut with white cording. Cade accepted the box, bowed, and turned to leave.
And stared stupidly at the solid brick wall.
A noise like creaking iron chains came from the Goblin—laughter, presumably—as he meandered over, placed his spread fingers to a bit of wall that looked like every other bit, and the short door once again opened. Cade gulped, bowed once more, and said, “Beholden.”
“Touchstone,” said Master Ashbottle, pensively. “Clever, agreeable work.”
Cade was so astonished by this outpouring that he bumped his forehead on the lintel.
He hurried through a ginnel towards Sumpters Wend, knowing he was late for rehearsal at the Keymarker. Whatever complaints the others might have would vanish once he told them the why of his errand. He’d be forgiven. Everyone adored Dery. Of course, Mieka was perpetually late, rarely said why, and was always forgiven. Everyone adored Mieka, too.
It was dark in the tunnel between buil
dings, and scarcely any brighter when he emerged into an alley. A sultry rain had been threatening all day, though without enough cloud cover to ignite the softly golden Elf-light in the streetlamps. Turning a corner into another alley that ran behind the tavern, he dropped the package from suddenly strengthless fingers when he saw them. Even in the dimness he knew instantly it was them: her bronze-and-golden hair was as unmistakable as the cant of his ears. He was wrapped around her, and her arms were twined around his neck, and they were kissing each other wildly, obsessively.
Cade shrank against a brick wall, trembling, his stomach clenching against sudden sickness, his brain whining with shock. He shouldn’t be watching them. This was wrong. He was disgusting.
He couldn’t look away.
Her fingers were deep in his hair; his hands were all over her. She was moaning, high-pitched and needy. He was growling, low in his throat. They were both gasping in between kisses, each brief separation of their lips a wet, sucking sound that lasted only as long as it took to drag enough air into their lungs before their mouths fused again. Even from thirty feet away Cade could smell perfume, liquor, and lust.
“Mieka? Where the hells are you?” Rafe’s voice, brisk with impatience, from the tavern’s back door.
They broke apart, but just barely. “Gods, Rafe! You got the worst timing in theater!” There was breathless laughter in his voice.
“Sorry,” Rafe said, not sounding it. “Cade get here yet?”
“How should I know? Got better things to do than keep track of him, don’t I?”
“Obviously. But we need to get started, with him or without him.”
“Right.” He tightened his arms around her and kissed her again, long and deep. “That do you for a while, girl?”
“Mm … one more?”
He laughed and obliged. “You all right to find Jinsie and Jez out front and get home?”
“I don’t see why I have to—”
“Don’t pout, there’s a good girl. If you could hide this figger in boy’s clothes, it’d be one thing. But that can’t be done, and beholden to all the Gods for it!” he added, a hand seeking her breast.
“But I want to see you onstage, and not just at rehearsal—”
“I know, I know. One day soon, I promise. You and Crisiant and all the ladies who care to see a show, nobody’ll have to hide—”
“And who’s Cade hiding these days?”
“Oh, there’s dozens of ’em,” Mieka replied airily. “Quite the lad, he is. I s’pose there’s something about a tregetour.” He laughed. “And nobody oozes ‘moody’ like Cade.”
“Is that what it is? I would’ve called it his ‘tormented artist’ act.”
“The ‘artist’ part ain’t an act. As for ‘tormented’—” His voice roughened. “He does that to himself, y’know.”
“Mieka, why are we talking about Cade when you’re supposed to be kissing me?”
Rafe shouted from the half-open door again. “Mieka!”
“Coming!” he yelled. “Go on now, girl, and I’ll be back soon as I can tonight.”
“All right. I love you.”
“You’d be a fool not to!” Another kiss, laughing again, and he let her go. He turned and leaped lightly up the steps to the door.
It was only as she rummaged in her reticule that Cade realized he was still standing there, frozen, his back to the brick wall. Before she was finished fixing her face, he had slipped round the corner and hauled in a deep breath. Then he walked into the alley as if just arriving.
“Oh! Cade!” She nearly dropped a little silvery tub of lip rouge. “You startled me!”
“Sorry.” He paused as he came even with her. “Are you staying to watch?”
“No, heading back with Jinsie and Jezael. Mum thinks it scandal enough, coming anywhere near a tavern, even a lovely new one like this. I promised we’d only have a look, and then go home to Wistly.”
Home now, was it? He made himself smile.
“Make sure Mieka doesn’t stay too late after the show tonight, won’t you?” She simpered, and he wanted to slap her.
“I’ve met nobody yet who can tell him what to do that he doesn’t do the exact opposite, but I’ll give it a try. I’d best get along,” he said.
He was on the top step when she called his name. Turning, he saw her walking towards him, all silk skirts and full breasts and glossy waves of hair, her exquisite face still smug with Mieka’s kisses. She had a mouth like a soft, ripe peach, the lower lip plump and pouty, the upper lip not quite covering front teeth that were slightly too large—a flaw in any other girl, but that gave her a look of breath-just-caught, of eager and childlike surprise. Her eyes added to this impression: huge, long-lashed, a startling shade of blue-violet, with delicate arching brows. Objectively, she was possibly the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and he hated her more than he’d ever hated anyone in his life.
She was holding the wooden box. “Is this yours?”
“Oh. I–I musta dropped it. My little brother’s Namingday present—took me half the afternoon to find it—” Aware that he was babbling, he leaned over the railing, not meeting her gaze as she handed him the package. “Beholden.”
“No trouble.” She kept her grip on the box, though, until he looked her in the eyes. She was smiling. She knew he’d seen them. She wanted him to know it. She wanted him to acknowledge that she was winning, and that eventually she’d win. She stood back, let him look if he’d a mind to it, let him see what Mieka would be going home to: the lush figure, the perfect face. Then she tossed her long bronze-gold hair over her shoulder and walked out of the alley.
The artists’ tiring room had a sink and garderobe stall, and a shelf of towels that smelled of citrusy soap. There was a mirror over the sink, rattling with the volume of frantic shouted orders on the other side of the thin wall as tables and chairs were arranged and everything made ready for opening night. Cade had just raised his head from splashing water on his face and was looking into his own bleak gray eyes when he heard it: short gasps that quickly became a long groan of release. He froze, staring in the mirror at the closed stall. He made himself straighten his spine, and kept his back to the opening door.
“Cade!” A hip bumped his, nudging him aside so he could wash his hands.
“You should’ve saved it,” he heard himself say.
“Huh?” Those big, startled eyes met his in the mirror. “Saved what?”
“That.” He pointed to Mieka’s crotch. “Gets every barmaid in the place wet when you stroll about with a cock-lift. And that’s free drinks the rest of the night, every time.”
“Oh. You heard.” He smirked. “I had to, Quill! These trousers are too tight. I’d be whimperin’ behind me bench all through rehearsal!” He raked his wet hands back through his hair and turned to face Cade, grinning. “Maybe I oughta work up another one? Free drinks, after all!”
He looked down into that arrogantly beautiful face, wishing that just once he could forget his self-imposed restraint and use his fists until that face was a bloody, broken ruin. Would the girl still want him then?
Mieka’s impudent grin faltered, and Cade knew what must be in his eyes. With a colossal effort he shrugged, and bent to splash more water onto his face.
“What’s this, then?” Mieka plucked the box from the shelf above the sink. It had found a puddle somewhere in the alley, and the white cord was soiled.
“For Dery. His Namingday’s coming up.”
“A party? Can I help? Why don’t I go back with you to Redpebble tonight and we can scheme up something for—”
His lip curled and he hid it behind one of the towels. “Shoulda asked earlier,” he said, his tone easy, casual. “Got plans for afterwards, don’t I?”
“The tall blonde?”
There was fierce pleasure in seeing Mieka frown. So he’d noticed the barmaid, seen her looking—
“It’s the blonde, isn’t it, Cade?” he insisted. “The one with no tits.”
�
�All a man needs is enough to fill his hands, Mieka. And as for what a woman needs filled…”
“Oh, and it’s a right rare stud you are,” Mieka taunted. “The wonder of Gallybanks. Virgins whimper at the very sight of you. Ever had one, by the way?”
Cade tossed the towel into the sink. What he was about to say was as wrong and disgusting as watching them had been. It would be worse. It would be unforgivable. He said it anyway, with mocking innocence to rival Mieka’s own. “Why? Haven’t you? Wasn’t she?”
Knuckles slammed into his jaw and his cheek slammed into the mirror. He staggered against the sink, gasping, seeing in the cracked glass the blood smearing his nose and lips.
“She’s not to be talked of by you,” Mieka hissed. “Never! She’s mine, and I won’t have you talking of her!”
The trickle of blood from his nostrils and his cut cheekbone fascinated him. It wasn’t even painful. He thought it ought to be painful.
“Cade? Cayden!”
The towel was still in his hands. The glass was whole. He looked at his own face in the mirror: pallid, with startled gray eyes.
“It just happened again, didn’t it?” Mieka asked softly.
Fingers touched his arm. He jerked back, stumbling into the wall.
“You don’t have to be scared. Not of me.”
“No,” he said, feeling hollow. “It—it wasn’t—I mean, it was here and gone so fast, I don’t even really know what I saw.” But he kept his gaze averted. “I’ve told you and told you, Quill, your eyes will always give you away.” With a massive effort, he let go of the towel and turned to look down into the worried Elfen face. “I’m all right. Truly. What were we just talking about?”
Disappointment flickered and was gone. “Nothing.” Shouldering open the door into the hall, he said, “Have to go set up the baskets. A bit of ‘Purloin,’ just to see how the magic bounces?”
