by Melanie Rawn
“How did you get hold of all this in the first place?”
Strong shoulders shrugged. “I went to our bank.”
“Did they say—? I mean, do they know—”
“They had a stack of papers authorizing withdrawals, signed by each of us with Fairwalk as witness, and Fairwalk’s signature with one of the bank officers as witness.”
And who would question the word of a nobleman, and a distant relation of King Meredan’s into the bargain? How could they have been so stupid?
“He did best with that scrawl of Mieka’s,” Jeska went on. “Mine wasn’t very good. Rafe’s was all right. Yours was perfect.”
And he could hear Mieka’s scathing explanation for that: “Writing your name over again and over again like a lovesick thirteen-year-old girl! Didn’t I always tell you he was looking for more from you than a smile and a handclasp?”
Cade had never really seen it. Just as he’d never seen that Fairwalk wasn’t truly rich. He only behaved as if he were. Reputation alone would keep most creditors from hounding him, for the bragging rights of having Lord Fairwalk’s custom were worth more than what he bought and never paid for.
No wonder Kearney was always telling him not to bother his head about so vulgar a thing as money. “It’s your job to be brilliant and create masterworks, Cayden. Let me take care of everything else.”
Oh, he’d taken care of it, all right.
“If I’m hearing this correctly,” he said with an attempt at practical reasoning, “Kearney took out cash for whatever he was supposed to be buying for us, and used it for himself. The bills—our bills—went unpaid.”
Jeska nodded, and raked the limp blond curls from his face. It was hot in the kitchen, Cade realized with a start. Yet he felt so cold, shivering-cold. “There’s something else,” the masquer said reluctantly.
Of course there was something else. Of course. Cade cocked an eyebrow at him and he cleared his throat.
“When Blye paid off her debt to Touchstone and bought back the last few shares we owned, Kearney had her write the bank draft out to him. He told her he’d break it up into equal shares and deposit it in our separate accounts.”
“Instead, he used it all himself.”
“Yes. And Blye can’t ever find out, Cade. She’d want to pay us a second time. I told you only because it shows how long all this has been going on.”
Had it all been just to steal from them? All the encouragement, the praise, the introductions to important highborns and merchants and officials, the private performances he’d arranged—the commission from Lord Oakapple to write the real story of “The Treasure”? They’d all four received fat purses from the grateful nobleman afterwards, but where had the advance got to? Their accounts, or so Cade had assumed.
“Do you remember when he told us that there’d be nothing more for the journey to the Continent? Because of the windows we broke and had to pay for?”
Cade knew what was coming. “We didn’t have to pay for the windows, we did get the rest of the money, and he pocketed it. Jeska, is there anything left?”
“We can pay down most of these.” He waved a hand at the bills. “Some here, some there, just so they don’t haul us before a justiciar. But from now until Trials next year, we have to play as many shows as we can.”
It would take years of shows to replace his grandfather’s legacy—which was supposed to pay for Dery’s schooling until he reached the age of eighteen, by which time Cade had intended to be so rich that his brother could attend a university. “I was thinking about Derien’s school fees.”
Jeska didn’t look at him as he said, “You seem to have more in your personal account than the rest of us. But the other account, the one that needs your signature and Fairwalk’s … that’s almost all gone. And you’ll have to settle with the King’s College quick. Derien hasn’t been allowed to attend since the term began about a week ago. Your mother put it about that he’s unwell.”
Lady Jaspiela must be livid. But why hadn’t she paid the fees herself? She cared fervently about her younger son’s education and prospects. Couldn’t she have forgone the regular autumn refurbishments to her wardrobe, or sold a few jewels? Neither, Cade realized, would even have occurred to her. After all, such things would be noticed by the society she so avidly cultivated.
The school term was only a week old; an “illness” could be stretched another fortnight or so, and if Derien had trouble catching up with the work, that was his problem. No, she would much rather have this disaster to berate Cayden about once he returned home. It was Cayden’s responsibility to pay the fees, and pay them he would. Lady Jaspiela would have no interest in how.
Jeska was smiling slightly. “You can imagine how much Dery’s liking it, having to stay inside every hour of every day.”
So that was the meaning of that glance they’d exchanged. Dery hadn’t any schoolwork to do, because he hadn’t been in school.
“The first thing we have to do,” Jeska was saying, “is confront Kearney and empty whatever’s in his accounts into our own.”
Cade thought of Fairwalk Manor, and the town house here in Gallybanks, crammed with books and decorations and rugs and tapestries and the family silver. “He can sell off whatever he’s got and hand over the proceeds. Highborn or raised in a gutter, he won’t much like seeing his reputation crushed.”
“Well, there’s that, of course. But they tend to stick together, all those toffs.” He began gathering up papers into five tidy stacks. “These are yours, this one’s mine, there’s Rafe, and Mieka, and this one’s Touchstone. Do you want me to leave them with you, or should I take charge of all of it?”
“You take it. You understand it.”
“Most of it.”
“You can add and subtract, which is more than the rest of us ever managed to learn.” He helped Jeska load everything into a flat leather case and watched as he folded the flap over and snicked the little brass lock shut. “Go home to your wife. We can all meet here tomorrow—around noon?”
“Noon,” Jeska agreed. He went to the kitchen door, then turned. “Cade … I know how hard this is for you. But nobody blames you. We all trusted him. Hells, we were thrilled when he took an interest. We’re none of us businessmen, to know or even suspect—” He ended with a final shrug of his shoulders.
Cade made no reply. Jeska wrapped his arms round the leather satchel and left. The door shut with a familiar clack behind him. Cade poured himself more wine and slumped at the kitchen worktable. Despite what Jeska had said, he ought to have seen it. He ought to have known. He was supposed to be the smart one, wasn’t he? The cautious, perceptive, rational one? A tregetour owed it to his group to look out for them, not just onstage but in matters of payment and bookings as well. He’d left all that to Kearney for five years now.
Touchstone would have to make a huge splash—or shatter—at the celebrations of King Meredan’s accession in order to attract enough giggings to begin paying their debts. They wouldn’t be paid for that performance; loyal congratulations and all that, happy to demonstrate their gratitude and esteem. If they worked it right, half a dozen noble lords and wealthy merchants would bid for their appearance at Wintering parties. The Downstreet, the Kiral Kellari, the Keymarker … where else, where else? his mind nattered at him. Lady Megueris’s father had paid very handsomely. How many properties did he own that Touchstone could perform at? And Vrennerie’s husband, Lord Kelinn Eastkeeping—he’d hire them if she asked. Did he have more than one castle? Cade knew he ought to cringe at using his friends that way, but he was past humiliation.
Yet if Touchstone went on a circuit of their own this autumn and winter, they wouldn’t be available to play in Gallantrybanks. Would the money from Lord Mindrising and Lord Eastkeeping offset the expenses of so much travel? Would it be worth it to go out on the road instead of staying close to home, where the Downstreet and the Kiral Kellari and the Keymarker and other venues would be glad to have them as often as they wanted to show up?
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Gods and Angels, how had all this happened? Why hadn’t he seen it? He ought to have known years ago, when performing the traditional version of “Treasure” at Trials had landed them on the Winterly when they knew they were good enough for the Ducal and even the Royal. He’d never really understood that before, but now as he reviewed the incident in light of new knowledge, it actually made sense.
It had been at Fairwalk’s urging that they did the standard rendering of the play. A competent performance—and how furious Mieka had been!—had not been enough to win them a promotion to the Ducal or Royal Circuits. They were therefore free all summer and part of the autumn until the Winterly began. And then Fairwalk had shown up with giggings and Lord Oakapple’s commission and, amazingly, the invitation to accompany the Archduke to Miriuzca’s homeland and escort her back to Albeyn.
The bookings had been settled by Fairwalk before the ink on the final Trials results sheets was dry. He’d known they wouldn’t make the Ducal or Royal. Further, instead of having them do their own, more accurate version of “Treasure” for free at Trials, he’d got them the commission—and kept the down payment. Somehow, he’d known that Miriuzca had requested Touchstone’s presence at her proxy wedding—ah, but that wasn’t all that odd, for Kearney was a connection of the Royal Family, wasn’t he? Quite a few generations ago, to be sure, but a connection all the same. So he’d made sure Touchstone was free to travel to the Continent, and went along with them.
His absence from Albeyn for all those long weeks had put him beyond reach of his creditors. And as one of the delegation, his enhanced social standing would have made those creditors think more than thrice about demanding payment in the very public precincts of a court of law.
On his twenty-first Namingday, Cayden had come into an inheritance from his father’s father, who’d been a fettler back in the day. Lady Jaspiela, more concerned for the future of her younger son than the rights of her elder, had proposed that the money be dedicated to Derien’s education. Cade gladly agreed—and then he had done something that must have made Kearney caper like a dog with two cocks across every acre of Fairwalk Manor. Cade had stipulated that his grandfather’s legacy go into an account separate from his own, and that only two people could withdraw money from it: himself and Lord Fairwalk. Cade’s mother had been mortally insulted, a thing he’d enjoyed down to the ground, but he had been adamant. He’d thought the money was safe. No matter what her ambitions for Derien, it was Cade’s opinion that she was incapable of resisting all that money if she could possibly get her hands on it. He’d made sure she couldn’t. He’d thought the money was safe.
But not even that had been enough for His Rapacious Lordship. These last years, while Touchstone was away from Gallybanks on the Royal Circuit, he had used his position as their manager, his position as a highborn related to the Royals, and Touchstone’s forged signatures to drain their bank accounts. Surely it was ironic that the only one of them completely spendthrift was the only one who owned his own home—but Mieka was in full legal possession of the house at Hilldrop only because his father had been resolute about paying the debt.
Cade knew what Kearney would say about it all, how he’d excuse it. Wainwright and wheelwright—the wagon, of course. All those repairs and additions to Mieka’s house required wallers and masons and glaziers and joiners and carpenters—had Windthistle Brothers been paid? Of course they had. If not, it would have started people wondering. Touchstone required advertising placards and handbills—thus the printers, engravers, imagers, and so on. And of course Touchstone must appear in the most fashionable clothing, and eat the best food, and drink the finest liquor. All those places and more, Kearney would say, was where the money had been spent, and all the spending had been necessary. They were Touchstone.
That the bills had been sent to the bank for settlement—and for Jeska to be handed when he inquired—would be more difficult to explain away. As for where the money had actually gone … Cade had not been invited to Fairwalk Manor for several years now. He had the distinct feeling that if he were to pay a visit, he’d find a new roof to replace the elderly and leaking one, new windows, new floors, new carpets, new furniture, and a new carriage or two in the coach house, with new horses to draw them.
He had a brief, ludicrous vision—no Elsewhen, this, but a deliberate conjuring attributable to fear and hatred—of himself, striding through the Manor, pointing to this table and that sculpture and saying, “That’s mine, and that, and this over here. You bought it with my money, and that makes it mine.”
No, take it one step further, the way Mieka would. Imagine himself and his partners and their wives and children (but not Mieka’s mother-in-law) taking possession of Fairwalk Manor, choosing bedchambers and private parlors, admiring the elegance of every room and the lovely views from every window, all of which they owned. And Kearney Fairwalk as the lowliest of stable boys, mucking out stalls and tugging his scant, sandy forelock whenever any member of Touchstone happened by.
His musings turned even more ludicrous. Who would be the wife he’d share his portion of the Manor with? How many children would they have? It would be a nice place to raise a family: away from the noise and flurry of Gallantrybanks, safe and serene. They could hire tutors, and if any of the children—his, or Mieka’s, or Rafe’s, or Jeska’s—turned out to have talents like their fathers’, four accomplished practitioners of magic would be there to teach them how it was all done. Accomplished and acclaimed, he reminded himself, thinking of their knighthoods. Rich, famous, titled, brilliant—
He became aware that the wine was affecting him, and looked at the decanter. Jeska had accounted for about two glasses; Cade had unknowingly drained it dry.
Well, and why not get drunk? It was a pretty vision, ownership of Fairwalk Manor. Now, if only he could figure out whom he ought to marry. To own so fine a property was one thing. Maintaining it was something else again. That had been His Lordship’s problem. Keeping everything repaired and up to date, adding things here and there to increase its beauty … Touchstone could put in a rehearsal hall, nearly the size of a real theater, and invite friends to exclusive advance viewings of Cade’s latest plays … how much would it cost to do that … but not the noblemen and representatives of the various guilds who bid every year for the right to present groups on the circuits … well, except for Lord Eastkeeping, who was a friend … and Princess Miriuzca … she’d adore it … but to pay for the upkeep of a place like that, they’d need a steady and secure source of income, for no matter how many shows they played, there was no guaranteeing that they’d be paid one year what they’d been paid the year before—
Megs.
The name appeared in his mind and he stared at it. Lady Megueris Mindrising was the richest person he knew. Heiress to a dozen fine holdings—if he married her and brought a quarter of Fairwalk Manor with him, she’d have another property to add to her list, and with both parents possessing the sort of magic used in theater, the children were more than likely to inherit—
Forget Fairwalk Manor, the sober part of him said. Lady Megs—how about it?
If he married her, a goodly portion of her income would be his—it depended on how the writ-rats sorted it in the marriage settlement. But even if he got only half, or even less than half, it would pay off all Touchstone’s debts (which were his fault—he’d accepted that, somewhere in all his half-drunken ponderings) and there’d be plenty left over to live on rather beautifully.
True, she usually looked like an unmade bed, and there were times when he suspected she didn’t much like him, and she obviously disapproved of his use of thorn, and—
What in the name of the Lord and the Lady and Old Gods and all the Angels was he thinking?
Trapped. Cornered. It was a way out.
“Any more of that, and we’ll have to send for Yazz to carry you up to bed.”
He looked up, bleary-eyed, to find Mistress Mirdley watching him. “I won’t,” he told her, unsure if he referred to the wine
or matrimony. “I really won’t, you know.”
“Get up to bed, then, while you can still walk.”
The number of steps on the cast-iron staircase seemed to have multiplied. Each footstep had a metallic echo, as if his boots had steel soles. When he collapsed fully dressed onto his bed, he spared a grateful glance for his big black armchair over there in the corner, and a half smile for Rumble, who looked up at his arrival, yawned, and went back to sleep.
He stared at the ceiling for a while, every crack and ripple of the plaster familiar in the candlelight. He felt that he understood things now, and the understanding brought no comfort. He ought to have known. From that very first time Fairwalk took him and Mieka shopping, and no bills were presented at the time, and they had both learned that it was almost a dead certainty that no bills would ever be presented—the honor and privilege of serving His Lordship, don’t you know—he ought to have known then.
But he hadn’t. And now Dery was close to being permanently expelled from the King’s College for lack of payment of fees, and Jeska and Kazie had to move into Wistly Hall, and Rafe’s plan to buy Crisiant a country cottage like Mieka’s was impossible, and Cade had to live at Redpebble Square again—and for a few minutes, he had actually considered marrying Lady Megueris Mindrising for her money—
Dery. He had to concentrate on Dery. The school fees were the most urgent of his problems. Without the Masters at the King’s College to learn from, and the social connections that came from attending school with lordlings, Derien’s ambition to become a Royal Ambassador would die aborning. He would have to roll up and put away all his beloved maps, and forget about travel and service to Albeyn—and what about his magic? There would be no money for a special school like Sagemaster Emmot’s Academy.
Derien’s magic …
