by Melanie Rawn
Cade thought about it, then nodded. “But what were they doing at Dolven Wold?”
“It’s where the Archduke was born,” Rafe mused. “He doesn’t own it anymore. But it’s where he was born. And his ancestor came from that part of the world, didn’t he?”
They were quiet, all four of them, until Yazz whistled to the horses, and the wagon lurched gently forwards. Wordlessly they passed the bottle, needing the alcohol to offset the bluethorn. Safely in their hammocks, the only light coming from a half moon shining through the right-side windows, they stayed silent until Rafe said, his voice light and casual, “What you saw, Cade—it’s not quite the sort of ‘communal experience’ one expects at a theater.”
Cade grimaced in the darkness. “More like what it must feel like at a public execution.”
“Which this was?”
Mieka made an inarticulate noise of revulsion. “Shut it, both of you, and right now! Or I’m for some redthorn so I can sleep without nightmares.”
Cade didn’t remind him of his promise to take it easier on the thorn. How could he, when he and Rafe and even Jeska partook of bluethorn before a performance? And they hadn’t even crossed the Pennynines yet. They’d all end up, he told himself glumly, either wild-eyed in thornthrall or very, very dead.
He worried about these things on days when he was sober. Increasingly, he was not. Certainly if he’d been in his right mind, he would never have joined Mieka on a little expedition across the summery green hills. Then again, he had been stone-cold sober when he’d offered to bring the flint-rasp.
Mieka had planned it as carefully as he planned the arrangement and use of his withies. Perhaps fearing that Cade would renege on his promise, he’d kept it secret until the morning of the great day. They had spent the night in the wagon, and a little while after dawn reached the inn where everyone on the circuits but themselves and the Shadowshapers stayed on the way to Sidlowe. Here, after an excellent breakfast, Mieka vanished. Everyone thought he’d gone upstairs for a nap while the horses were fed and rested.
But it seemed he had only changed clothes. He reappeared in coarse woolen trousers tucked into high brown boots and a vivid blue shirt. In his hand was the knitted cap Jeska had bought for him on the Continent.
Rafe glanced up from writing a letter to Crisiant, and whistled. Mieka made a face at him and said to Cayden, “I’ve hired a horse, but I don’t know how to drive it. And you said you’d help.”
Grinning, Cade snatched the cap from Mieka’s hand and stuffed it into his own jacket pocket. Knocking back the last swallows of his breakfast ale, he said, “See you lads at the next stop!”
Mieka added, “Probably somewhere on the Sidlowe road—”
“If we don’t get lost,” Cade interrupted.
“In either case,” Mieka finished, “don’t wait up.”
“What are you doing?” Jeska demanded. “Where are you going?” He turned to Rafe. “Where are they going?”
“A little journey back in time, to a rotten, filthy night ringed with Wizardfire torches.”
The masquer’s puzzled frown became a radiant smile. “Oh, excellent! Have fun!”
“I intend to,” said Mieka.
It was a ways to their goal. Mieka provided directions, clinging to the back of the saddle, sitting as straight and tall as he possibly could so he could rest his chin on Cade’s shoulder to see where they were going. The route taken by the circuits had changed, and because of that, the inn served naught but locals. Farmers, herders, tradesmen, the occasional traveler, all these drank in the taproom and slept abovestairs, but without the circuits coming regularly to the inn, profit was chancy at best. That was what you got when you snubbed an Elf, if the Elf you snubbed was one of the King’s players. One could only hope that the pristine racial purity of the establishment was compensation.
* * *
As they crested a rise and saw the outlines of the inn atop the next hill, Cade asked, “What were you thinking of destroying? The garderobe?” He shifted uncomfortably. “And quit digging your chin into my shoulder, will you?”
“Sorry. I was thinking mayhap the taproom hearth. ’Twould make a lovely noise and take a long time to repair, yeh?”
“Just make sure everyone’s out of the place.”
“There’ll be no murder done, I promise.”
“I was thinking more about witnesses. I don’t want my glisker brought up on charges in the middle of the Royal Circuit.”
“Such foresight, Master Silversun!”
Cade grunted a laugh, and they rode on. A few minutes later he drew rein in a stable yard he hadn’t seen in nearly five years. The torches he’d lit with magical fire were still in their brackets, but the walls were a trifle crumbly and the yard was inches deep in foul straw and horseshit. The stables needed painting; so did the sign above the front door. He smiled, deeply satisfied. He waited until Mieka had jumped to the cobbles before dismounting and handing the reins to a wide-eyed boy who could barely gather up courage to approach close enough to take them. Though Mieka’s ears were hidden by the cap, certain things about Cayden screamed Wizard. Evidently magical folk were rare and suspect at Prickspur’s.
They mingled with the other customers in the taproom, getting slowly through a pint of quite good ale, keeping mostly to themselves as they listened to the desultory conversations around them. Farmers, herders, tradesmen, crafters—anyone who could leave his work for an hour or so for a drink did so at noon. Mostly they brought their own food. The smells coming out of Prickspur’s kitchen were not encouraging. Cade managed not to gag when a pot of something purporting to be stew was brought around with a couple of bowls. Mieka smiled and ordered another drink. They were the only ones who weren’t locals; nobody was staying upstairs. An idle question or two informed them that just Prickspur and the stable lad lived here full-time, which suited Cade and Mieka down to the ground—which was where Cade surmised a lot of this place would be once Mieka got through with it.
There had been a few suspicious looks directed at Cade when he and Mieka entered. Prickspur himself was rude enough when he delivered the drinks to their table, but gave no sign of recognizing them. A little while later, a large, balding, ferociously muscular man came in still wearing the leather apron of his calling, and upon spotting strangers looked as if he wished he’d brought his anvil or at the very least his hammer.
“Prickspur!” he bellowed. “Be it three year or four that no Wizardy git’s crossed yer threshold?”
“Three, innit?” someone replied.
“Nah, goin’ on four,” countered someone else. “And liking it that way, each and every one and all of us!”
“Left Sidlowe, I did,” said the blacksmith, smacking one meaty fist into his palm, “ten years since, to get clear of the Gobliny smiths and the filthy Gnomish Elferbludded Trolling Wizardly bastards who went to them instead of me.”
Cade felt his spine stiffen. Mieka clunked his beer down on the table and, wide-eyed with shock, exclaimed, “You don’t mean to say you think he’s—”
“Has the look of it, don’t he,” said Prickspur. “With that height, I might’ve said Giant, but the spindliness of him says Wizard.”
“Well, I never!” Mieka stood, kicking back his chair, and glared down at Cade. “When my carriage lost a wheel and I accepted your offer of a ride, my good man, I’d no idea!” Turning to the rest of the taproom’s patrons, he spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I simply thought he was tall, don’t you see.”
Cade struggled to keep a straight face, as always when Mieka used his Lord Fairwalk with a bigger stick than usual up his ass accent. But he knew his part in the farce now, and stood up, saying, “Can I help it if me mother’s sire was six feet and a half and a bit and another bit, and me fa’s old grandsire was said to be muchlike the same? Yeh, I’m bein’ tall, but it ain’t my fault!”
The blacksmith scowled, looking Cade over. “Well,” he said at last, “if tall is all you’re being, then I s’po
se this is as good a place to drink as any.”
“Beholden,” Cade said, and sat down again.
Mieka pretended to hesitate, then shrugged, righted his chair, and sat down to finish his drink. The faint and distant chiming of the local Minster announced the hour past noon. The farmers returned to their crops, the workmen to their trades, the herders to their animals. Cade felt rather sorry for them. When they returned for a dinnertime drink, there’d be nothing to return to.
When the place was nearly empty, Mieka rose, stretched, and ambled over to inspect the fieldstone fireplace, professing admiration for the workmanship. All at once he turned to Cayden and snapped, “Well? What are you sitting about for? I must be in Dolven Wold by sunset! Go do whatever it is you need to do with the horse to make the poxy thing ready to ride, and do it quickly!”
Cade stumbled to his feet, dipped his head, touched his forehead, and tried not to snigger at the wicked gleeful gleam in those eyes. He was halfway to the door when he heard Mieka say, “Frightfully clever. I mean to say, how does one get all those round stones to fit together just as snugly as if they were square bricks? Must be this whitish stuff in between them, don’t you think?”
Dead silence greeted this imbecility. Biting his lips together did Cade no good; a snorting giggle escaped him, and he lunged for the door and stumbled outside into searing-bright sunshine, where he clapped both hands over his mouth and leaned against the wall, shaking with laughter.
Eventually he reckoned that haste might be advisable, so he fetched the horse, checked the girth, mounted up, and guided the animal nearer the inn’s front door. And waited.
And waited.
The last noontime customers exited. Cade began to worry that Mieka had forgotten the flint-rasp, or couldn’t get rid of Prickspur long enough to dump the black powder where he wanted it to go, or—
The horse reared up and shrieked an instant after detonation. The upstairs windows blew open, scattering glass like the ending of a Touchstone performance. Cade hunched his shoulders against the slicing shower and struggled to stay in the saddle. When all four hooves were grounded again, he fought the animal’s dancing nervousness and wheeled around towards the front door again. This had burst open, disgorging smoke and a stunned and stumbling Mieka.
Cade heeled the horse nearer and yelled. Mieka didn’t hear him; Cade scarcely heard himself. His ears were ringing like a Minster on Wintering Night. Mieka waved his arms about, trying to clear the smoke so he could see. Cade urged the horse nearer just as Prickspur staggered from the door, coughing.
Cade panicked. Kicking the horse, he leaned precariously over and grabbed Mieka by one elbow, hauling him up even as Prickspur scuttled towards them. Mieka flopped across the horse’s hindquarters like a sack of grain, arms dangling on one side and legs on the other. Cade reached behind and tugged frantically as Mieka scrambled himself around and finally got the horse between his knees, hanging on to Cade for dear life.
They passed Prickspur at a dancing trot, nervous hooves clattering on the cobbles. Mieka hollered something indistinct but undoubtedly obscene and flung his knitted cap in the man’s face. Cade reined the horse through the gates and within moments they were fleeing at the gallop.
After a mile or two, the grip around his waist crushing the breath out of him, Cade slowed and stopped. Mieka tumbled to the road, whooping for air. He tried to stand, knees wobbly, and sat down hard on his rump.
Cade couldn’t help it. He started laughing.
Mieka glared. “Don’t—ever—do—that—again!”
Though he’d heard perfectly well, he cupped a hand beside one ear. “What?”
The Elf pushed himself upright, looking over his shoulder. “Oh, shut up and help me back on before he comes after us!”
“Eh?”
Swearing fluently, Mieka clambered back up behind Cade and resumed his hold on the saddle.
They caught up with the wagon around dusk, and over a simple dinner of bread, cheese, fruit, and wine treated Jeska, Rafe, and Yazz to a spirited description of their triumph. But later, as the others sat up late playing cards, Cade stretched out in his hammock, hoping he wouldn’t be too stiff in the morning (he wasn’t used to riding for that many hours), and thought over the things he’d heard at Prickspur’s. He started to worry. He lay there listening to the banter and the bidding, and the soft clip-clop of the hired horse, tied to the back of the wagon, due to be dropped off tomorrow at the next circuit inn. So normal, so usual: two mostly Wizards, two mostly Elves, and a Giant sitting up on the coachman’s bench—but not usual for those ordinary rural men who’d eyed him askance today. Was it common throughout Albeyn, that away from the cities and larger towns, prejudice against magical folk flourished almost as malevolently as on the Continent?
He told himself he’d keep his eyes and ears open for signs of it from now on. Though it was true that even in Gallybanks there were people who turned their faces away when a weathering witch passed by, and shopkeepers who were obviously relieved when a Gnome paid for his purchases and departed, intolerance was considered by most people to be dishonorable.
Suddenly he tried to sit up, forgetting that he was in a hammock. Swaying dangerously close to one of the witching spheres that had been a gift from Rafe’s parents (handed down in the family for generations, or they would of course have gone to Blye to craft them), he managed to turn onto his side. The others glanced over.
“Mieka,” he said, “that night in Gowerion, when we did ‘Silver Mine’—how did you know they’d react the way they did? We were on the Archduke’s old lands, and everybody’d either been in the war or knew someone who had, but how—damn it!” An incautious movement of emphasis set him to swinging again. Rafe unfolded himself from his chair and helped put him right.
“Go on,” the fettler said. “But I think I can guess what you’re getting at. Why was it, with all the damage that magic had done in the war and with all the people who died, especially there on the Archduke’s former lands, whyfor didn’t those people treat magical folk as badly as Prickspur and his ilk do? After all, this whole area is near to Dolven Wold, and was once owned by the Henick family, right? So why is there such a difference in attitude?”
Mieka looked from one to the other of them, sighed his exasperation, and returned his attention to his cards. “How the bloody Hells should I know?” he said, and played a double pair atop Jeska’s single.
Rafe sat down again. “I’d be willing to bet that the chirurgeons around here do a brisk business in kagging ears too obviously Elfen, and even though we’ve full houses at all our shows, there’s a significant portion of the population that steers clear of theater because of the magic.”
“Is it only because Gowerion is so much closer to Gallybanks?” Jeska asked. “I mean, here, they can get away with being intolerant.”
“Could be,” Cade mused. “Could be. Or mayhap there really are fewer of us in the north than in the south.”
“Or it might be,” Mieka said, “that they like the Archduke less here, or there’s more of the sort like Jeska’s grandsire—brought over from the Continent to fight, like Prickspur’s father or whatever it was. Rafcadion, old thing, are you going to play that set of roses in your hand, or wait for them to take root?”
That was the end of the conversation and the speculation as far as they were concerned, but Cade worried it over in his mind until at length he went to sleep.
The next day they left the extra horse behind, and by the next morning they were at Sidlowe. Cade didn’t remember a thing about those few days. But on the last, just as they were packing up to leave the inn and get a good start for Scatterseed, Mieka received a letter.
He said nothing about it until they were in the wagon. Clouds were threatening, and Yazz’s consultation with a local weathering witch informed him that the weather wouldn’t hold beyond tomorrow afternoon. Cade was just sorting through the books he’d brought along, wishing he’d made a few selections that were guaranteed to send him t
o sleep rather than perk up his ever-overactive brain, when Mieka settled himself at the table with a decided air and said, “Somebody has to write to Fairwalk.”
The letter was from Jinsie. In it, she wrote that Jez was healing very nicely and was determined that the cane would become more of an elegant accessory, as Mieka’s wife had suggested, than a needed prop for his bad leg. All the children were thriving. Jindra and her mother had returned to Hilldrop Crescent, but not before Jindra had sewn another little pillow for her uncle’s leg, all on her own, without sticking herself with the needle even once. Tavier had taken up the lute, Jorie had made off with a ream of the best paper to fold into houses and castles for a school project, and Cilka and Petrinka were being pursued by the same boy. (Neither of them liked him.) King Meredan and Queen Roshien had started off on their progress to the acclaim of most of Gallantrybanks, who had turned up to see them off. Prince Ashgar was now said to be in charge, but rumor had it that Princess Miriuzca was present at more meetings of ministers and the like than her husband was. The Archduke and Archduchess were at Threne, presumably cuddling their new little son. The weather was brutally hot, the Gally River was sluggish and stinky, and the bank had turned down Jinsie’s request for money.
Here Mieka paused in his reading aloud to say, “I don’t understand it. We do this all the time. I leave a note, she takes it to the bank, and the money goes to Ginnel House. But the bank won’t honor the note. And what’s more, they won’t say why.”
“And you think Fairwalk has something to do with it?” Jeska asked.
“He handles the money, doesn’t he? Whatever we get paid goes to him, and he divvies it up. It’s the same bank he uses—same one we’ve all used for years now.”
“You must’ve worded the note wrong or something.”
“I wrote for a third time what I’ve been writing for two years,” Mieka said flatly.
Cade was surprised, and suspected he oughtn’t to have been. That little rainy-day outing to Ginnel House had evidently made an even deeper impression on Mieka than Cade had dared to hope. He could still see the Elf, curled into a corner of the hire-hack, weeping helplessly for those battered women and bruised children and, it must be admitted, for himself. For shame.
