Window Wall

by Melanie Rawn

  Mieka was able to take a whole month on holiday because of four things.

  First, Rafe had declared that he was staying home in Gallantrybanks with Crisiant and their new little son. The occasional engagement at the Kiral Kellari or the Downstreet or the Keymarker would be fine, but no travel to the country houses of the nobility. None. Crisiant and Bram were his priorities, and nobody could blame him.

  Second, Jeska agreed wholeheartedly with Rafe about staying strictly in Gallantrybanks, for he and Kazie had been married only a few months and he wanted as much time with her as possible before Touchstone left for Trials and the Royal.

  Third, Cade had gone into yet another of his sulks and nobody wanted to be around him anyways.

  Lastly, Fairwalk, far from despairing at the decrease in Touchstone’s income, had decided that to deprive the city and the nobility of performances for a while would only increase the demand later this year.

  “And besides that—do forgive me for mentioning it—but there’s just the slightest hint of your getting stale. Not that you’re not as good as ever, but—”

  Before Cade or Mieka or Jeska could protest, Rafe nodded agreement with Fairwalk. “I’m sick of feeling that it’s naught but a job of work,” he said. “Like a being bricklayer or a hack driver. Good at the craft, no mistakes and no accidents—but nothing to point to with pride anymore.”

  Cade scowled and muttered, “You’re just browned off because I haven’t done up your children’s play yet.”

  “You’ll get to it when you get to it,” Rafe replied. “Bram’s not old enough yet to enjoy it, anyways. But Kearney’s right, and we all of us know it. We’ve gone flat. It’s habit, like we were back in littleschool reciting the multiplication tables. The only challenge we’ve had in the last year was that play of yours, Cayden, and—”

  “Don’t you fucking dare say it’s my fault!”

  “Of course it wasn’t,” Lord Fairwalk soothed. “People just weren’t prepared for it, don’t you see. One day they will be, and it will be a triumph.”

  “So we’ll be taking a break, then?” Jeska asked. “From each other, as well as the work?”

  “Suits me down to the ground,” Cade snapped. “Leaves me in peace and quiet to write.”

  Thus Mieka had left his daughter in his own mother’s care at Wistly, given his mother-in-law enough money to go and do whatever she liked for a month, and taken his wife to Lilyleaf. He’d originally thought she might like to spend the time at Frimham. Jinsie had disabused him of this notion the instant he mentioned it.

  “Amongst all the people who knew her when she was scrabbling for a living? Once again, brother darling, you provide living proof that there ought to be laws against staggering stupidity.”

  “I thought she might want to see her old friends.”

  “And swan about with you on her arm, saying, ‘Look at my adorable famous rich husband!’ without actually having to say it out loud? Mayhap. But she’d also know they’d be sneering and gossiping behind her back. You’re a theater player, remember!”

  He was just as glad she took the sting out of it with a grin. “Oh, all right, then. Lilyleaf, I suppose.”

  Jinsie nodded her approval. “Nobody knows her there, and she can play the Great Lady to her heart’s content.”

  No denying the spite tingeing his sister’s voice—and no grin this time—but he had to admit she was right. So to Lilyleaf they went, and Mieka’s reward for a month of tedium was a wonderful peace in his household. Well, tedium punctuated almost every night and quite a few mornings and afternoons with spectacular bed-sport. He had the distinct impression that Croodle knew all about that, too.

  The renewal of their commitment to each other had been his wife’s idea. One night she arranged with Croodle to give them an intimate supper upstairs in their sitting room, with flowers and candles and a new silk-and-lace bedrobe that matched her iris-blue eyes, and she’d given him the heavy silver bracelet.

  “When we were married,” she’d said shyly, “I couldn’t afford to give you anything but that thin little chain. This is more manly, don’t you think?”

  The next day she’d seen the pearl, and he’d bought it for her.

  “We must have someone bespell the clasps, just as the Good Brother did at our wedding,” she’d said when he fastened the silver chain round her slender neck. “Mayhap Cayden would do it for us this time.”

  “That would be nice,” he’d replied in as neutral a voice as he could manage, privately vowing that Cayden was absolutely the last person he would ask to perform the service, and not just because Cayden was the very last person who would want to.

  As he waited in the kitchen of Wistly Hall for water to boil in the kettle, he thought over Cade’s revelation of a few days ago. No Elsewhens. No dreams. No turns where he glimpsed a tantalizing hint of a possible future. Mieka had become so used to this odd Fae-bequeathed magic of Cade’s that knowing it was gone set him off balance. And that was ludicrous, because he hadn’t even noticed. How could he—how could any of them—have been so utterly unaware of what Cade had done? They were taking each other for granted. All the talent and skill and inspiration and sheer delight in playing that was Touchstone had become routine. Rafe had had the right of it, and no mistake. Not just their performances but their friendship had gone stale, too.

  He ought to have known that something peculiar had happened to the Elsewhens. It said shameful things about him that he had not noticed. He could argue to himself all he liked that after that horrible night when Cade had seen Briuly and Alaen find The Rights of the Fae, talking about any Elsewhen was the very last thing he ought to do. He supposed it had become habit, this not talking; for the rest of that Royal Circuit, and on into the winter, and then through the spring, and then—good Gods, it really had been almost two years. Was it the compassion and consideration of a friend that had kept him silent, or the total self-absorption of an essentially selfish man?

  The difference in the magic Cade used for the withies ought to have been a clue. But how could Mieka have explained it? “It just doesn’t feel like you anymore”? Cade would have mocked his vagueness, denying that anything was different at all.

  And then there was the clever and mad that Blye had prescribed years ago. Cade didn’t laugh the way he’d used to at Mieka’s jokes. Those first years had been such marvelous fun—oh, they all snarked and sniped at each other, to be sure, and pranked each other unmercifully—and here he winced, recalling what had happened when he finally got back at Rafe for the vanishing-clothes trick at the Lilyleaf baths.

  Almost a year after the incident, everyone else seemed to have given up trying to scheme any retaliation. Mieka was simply biding his time, working out the best method of revenge. At last, one morning while Rafe was sleeping off a colossal drunk, which Mieka had occasioned through the simple expedient of paying for two rounds out of every three, the luxuriant black beard of which the fettler was so proud had undergone a radical transformation. Armed with a pair of nail scissors, which he reasoned was the only instrument delicate enough for such precise work, Mieka trimmed Rafe’s beard as if it were a decorative hedge.

  Rafe woke to find that both cheeks now sported stripes, his chin had been snipped almost clean, and his mustache had all but vanished except for two little tufts at the corners of his mouth.

  There were no roars of outrage. There was no physical retaliation, nor even a threat of it; not a word about taking Mieka apart and putting him back together sideways. All Rafe did was examine himself very closely in a looking glass, arch his brows at Mieka—who stood there with Cade and Jeska, all of them holding their breath—and ask to borrow a razor so he could scrape his beard off altogether.

  “It’ll grow back,” was all he said.

  His lack of response, and the shock on Cade’s and Jeska’s faces, had been worse for Mieka than having his lungs ripped out through his nostrils. And he at last understood that he’d simply gone too far.

  By way of a
pology, he’d behaved himself meticulously through the rest of that Royal Circuit. Eventually Rafe’s beard regained its accustomed splendor. But having to think twice and even thrice about any larks he might dream up cramped Mieka’s style. Truth be told, he hadn’t pranked anyone in a very long time. Life, he found, was exceedingly dull when he had to rein in his sense of humor. And now here was another summer to be spent in the wagon with all his wilder impulses in check—and celibate besides. Something would have to be done.

  Tea and toast, butter and apricot jam—Mieka surveyed the breakfast tray and wished he had a flower to decorate it with. If there’d been a primed withie handy, he could have worked a pretty little nosegay. A real shame it was, that it took someone else’s magic added to his own to produce even the smallest effect. Like that joke he’d pulled at Lilyleaf, visiting the offices of the local broadsheet in a skirt and blouse created by one of Cade’s withies that retained some magic from the night before. Oh, that had been a triumph, that had—he grinned to himself for a moment on his walk upstairs, then sighed and scowled, for Cade had absolutely forbidden him to do the like ever again with magic. That hadn’t prevented him from one of the best stunts of all: showing up at one of their giggings dressed as a woman, and the comical patter between him and Cade that had set the audience to howling with laughter. It had been so much fun—and he resolved on the instant to work that trick again, for the benefit of an audience and to take that horrid half-dead weariness from Cade’s gray eyes.

  He woke his wife gently. She blinked a few times, stretched smooth white arms, and smiled up at him from the pillow. Gods and Angels and everything holy, she was beautiful. The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Any man lucky enough to be married to this much perfection who voluntarily left it for months at a time was nothing more than a damned fool. And there it was, the central dilemma of his life: He missed her desperately when he was away from her, but when he was with her, he missed his other life just as much. He was tempted to do what Vered Goldbraider had done on the last Royal: send his new wife, Bexan, to various of their stops on the circuit so she’d be there waiting for him and they could have a few nights together while the Shadowshapers performed. But Vered and Bexan had no children as yet, and whereas Jindra would be perfectly happy to spend the whole summer at Wistly—and Mishia would be thrilled to take care of her—he was sure his wife would pine for their little girl. Besides, traveling at an easy pace to Lilyleaf and back in one of Lord Kearney Fairwalk’s carriages was one thing; day after day on the public coach was quite another. It wasn’t as if she could come along in the wagon and snuggle beside him in his hammock each night.

  “All better today?” he asked, setting the breakfast tray on the bed.

  “Oh, yes. I don’t know why riding in the wagon always makes me feel so dreadful.”

  And there was another reason he couldn’t bring her along. The real reason, of course, was that none of his partners would stand for it. Lord and Lady forfend that they’d have to watch their language, leave alone abandon sleeping naked on hot summer nights.

  “’Twas a thoughtful thing you did, giving Jez that pillow.”

  “All Jindra’s idea. She helped with the stitching, and only pricked her finger twice, imagine! Is he better?”

  “Mum says so. Mistress Mirdley’s of the opinion he’ll walk with a limp the rest of his life, but then she doesn’t know how stubborn he is.”

  She munched a bite of toast, sipped tea, and sighed. “I think he’d look terribly stylish with one of those carved canes coming into fashion at Court. What are they calling them? Swagger sticks?”

  “With a gold dragon’s head for a handle,” he agreed. “I’ll mention it to Fa. He ought to have enough wood around his workshop to put something together.”

  “Does anybody know how it all happened?”

  Mieka deliberately didn’t think about the crimped end of a hallmarked withie he was keeping in a wad of wool inside his trouser pocket. “There’ll be some sort of investigation. But they won’t find that Jed or Jez did anything wrong, or were careless, or anything of the sort.”

  “Of course not,” she stated indignantly. “I’m sure they’ll find that it was naught but a dreadful accident.”

  “Mm.” The lacy little sleeve of her nightdress had slipped down one shoulder and it took him a few moments to register what she said next.

  “I thought—I mean, I was hoping that mayhap I didn’t feel well … for a different reason.”

  Mieka saw the blush on her cheeks, and the sweep of heavy lashes as she lowered her gaze. His hands were shaking slightly as he moved the tray to the floor. “Mayhap,” he said, hearing how thick his own voice sounded, “mayhap I could make you feel much better right now.”

  The blush deepened, and as she looked up at him with her wonderful iris-blue eyes, his last coherent thought was what a fool he was ever to leave her bed at all.

  * * *

  Touchstone departed for Seekhaven a few days later. Rather than drive the wagon through the maze of Gallantrybanks streets to collect everyone, they all spent the night before at Wistly. Jeska and Kazie arrived shortly before tea. Rafe and Crisiant were there by nightfall with their little boy, Bram. (It had become fashionable to give a child the mother’s maiden name; the boy was lucky that Crisiant had been born Bramblecotte and not Rosecresting or Sweetwood). Cade showed up later that evening with Derien, Mistress Mirdley, Jed, and Blye. It was quite the extended family gathered the next morning to bid them farewell, Mieka reflected, remembering that first time when it was just the four of them yawning their way onto the King’s coach.

  Jezael insisted on being helped downstairs to join in seeing them off. Mieka noted with puzzlement the exchange of a furtive, significant glance between Cade and Mistress Mirdley when Derien commented on the pillow cushioning Jez’s leg and Jindra told him who had made it. When Jez assured the little girl that he felt much better because of it, another glance went back and forth. But Mieka forgot about asking its cause when his mother began the unrewarding task of getting everyone into the wagon who should be there, and keeping everyone who shouldn’t (Tavier, in particular) out. Mieka kissed his wife and daughter, promised Jinsie that he’d remember to look up her friends at the University in Shollop and his mother that he’d remember to send more letters this time, was admonished by each of them not to tell any more lies than were strictly necessary, and turned to climb the steps into the wagon.

  He hadn’t even put his foot on the second step when a hire-hack pulled up just in front of the wagon and decanted two frowning gentlemen in severe brown suits with the sea green collars and cuffs signifying a Royal office of some sort. To be fair, the short one probably couldn’t help his expression; he was quite obviously of Gnomish descent, with the heavy scowling brow that sometimes went with that bloodline. The other, just as obviously Human to his toenails, simply looked sour and disapproving.

  “Wistly Hall? Residence of Jezael Windthistle?” he demanded of Mieka’s father.

  “Yes. And you might be …?”

  “Royal Inquisitors.”

  Mieka was abruptly reminded of the glass shard still in his pocket, and cursed himself. He’d meant to give it to Blye earlier on, and forgot.

  Calm as always, Hadden replied, “If you’ve any questions or suchlike for my son, it will have to wait. He’s still recovering from the accident.”

  “Accident,” muttered the Gnome.

  Cade pushed past Mieka out of the wagon and descended to the cobbles. “What’s the difficulty here?” he asked, drawing himself up to his full six-foot-four.

  “Inquisitors Office?” Mishia said suddenly. “Why would the Inquisitors Office be interested in—?”

  “Purely a formality, I’d wager,” Hadden contributed.

  “If you’re not here for any of the members of Touchstone,” said Mishia, “then would you please move your hack so they can get started for Seekhaven? They’re due at Trials, you know.”

  Yazz sat forward on his
bench and rumbled, “Move!”

  All this while there was frantic movement by the front door, partially screened by the crowd of family. Mieka hopped up to the top step of the wagon and peered over everyone’s heads just in time to see Blye and Jed helping Jez inside. The door closed behind them. Mieka located the bronze-gold head of his wife and jumped down to the cobbles. He dug the wadded cloth from his pocket, slithering between Cade and Crisiant and Kazie and Petrinka, and pressed the wrapped glass into her hand.

  “Give this to Blye—she’ll know what it is,” he said urgently.

  “Miek!” Yazz thundered. “Wagon! Now!”

  “Why?” she asked. “What is it?”

  “Just give it to Blye. That’s me darlin’ girl.” He kissed her hard on the lips and wove back through the crowd to the wagon.

  The hack driver had obligingly moved his vehicle. Mieka made a leap for the steps. Cade caught his hand and hauled him up as the wagon jerked forward.

  “What was all that about?” Cade got the steps folded inside and shut the wagon door. “What was that you gave her?”

  Mieka flopped into one of the chairs and looked up at Cade. “Something Jinsie found in the rubble. She gave it to me that night, remember? It’s the crimp end of a withie. One of Splithook’s.”

  Cade understood at once. “You mean one of Black Lightning’s.”

  Rafe turned from the window where he was getting his last look at his wife and son. “If they’ve found any glass—or if someone was obviously injured by flying glass—”

  “Blye’s a glasscrafter,” Jeska interrupted. “And they’ll say it’s hers.”