Window Wall

by Melanie Rawn

“Why d’you want a—?” Cade’s mouth stayed open, though no more sound came out. Mieka almost laughed as understanding made his jaw drop just a little more before he shut it firmly.

  The shop was a dim and dismal place on a side street, selected only because Cade knew of no such places and Mieka knew of several and chose the one closest to an ostler’s. The broker knew Mieka, too, and the amount of time they spent haggling back and forth obviously grated on Cade’s nerves. Mieka kept one eye on him as he tried to raise the price to cover the cost of a nice little rig to take them to and from Great Welkin with some left over for trimmings for the ostler, which was the mark of a true gentleman. The little things did matter quite a lot, and it was to their advantage to be known as blithely generous with their money when they didn’t have any money. They had to keep up the pretense as long as possible, while they worked every night they could so that by the time the fakery was found out, they had enough to pay off at least a few of their bills.

  Presented with this concept, Cade would of course object that applying to a pledge-broker for a loan with this jewel as collateral was fatal advertisement of their financial straits. From long experience, Mieka knew what Cade did not: establishments of this type were as silent as death about whose belongings were on display for sale at a goodly fraction of what they were really worth. Any pledge-broker who gossiped about Lord Thus-and-So’s silver plate or Mistress Guildmaster’s-Wife’s amber necklace was soon out of business. Nobody would pawn their possessions to someone who would spread their names and thus their financial troubles all over Gallybanks.

  Cade was looking depressed. Granted, the sight of other people’s valuables, everything from jewelry to clothing to furniture to the tools of various trades, was saddening. But at least there were no lutes. Mieka had heard from Jinsie only last night that Alaen, thrown out of his latest digs, had pawned one of his lutes. Not that he’d used the money to find a place to live. No, it had gone to dragon tears. Jinsie knew this because she was friends with Deshananda, Chattim’s wife, and Deshananda had had it from Chirene, Sakary’s wife, with whom he was hopelessly in love, that Alaen had taken to sleeping in a shed in their garden. She’d come across him one morning while playing with her children, and he’d given them the fright of their lives before running away—leaving a thorn-roll behind. Chirene had left it where it was, knowing he’d come back for it. Mieka had no idea how much dragon tears could be had for the pledge-price of a lute, but he didn’t want Cade to see any reminder of Alaen and Briuly Blackpath.

  Mieka’s work was finally done. He scraped the coins off the counter into a leather drawstring purse and left the shop without a word of farewell. Outside in the street, he set off at a brisk pace for the ostler’s.

  “No reason to linger and be robbed. Most dangerous place in Gallybanks isn’t the intersection of Beekbacks and Whittawer, it’s outside a pledge-broker’s!”

  Cade said nothing until they had paused at a corner to wait for an overladen vegetable wagon to pass by. “You seem rather expert at this sort of thing.”

  “Only when times were very hard at Wistly. It’s easier to come up with the pledge-broker’s money than the original price, at which point, one simply returns the item to the place where it was bought, with some blithering about its not being suitable, or the person it was meant for didn’t like it.” He took Cade’s elbow as they crossed the street. “Come on, let’s find you something nice and neat to ride in. I’ll play coachman, shall I? Oh, stop looking so horrified! Yazz lets me drive the wagon, and that’s four huge horses! How much trouble could one be?”

  “Oh, Gods,” was Cade’s only comment.

  The ostler had a pair of two-wheeled rigs for hire. Both seated two on slightly threadbare upholstery; one was larger, and had a raised perch in the back for a driver. It looked hideously uncomfortable. Mieka chose it anyway, for its size and its newer coat of black paint. He let Cade make friends with the bay mare while he haggled down the price, and shortly before noon they were rattling out of Gallybanks on the road to the Archduke’s residence, Great Welkin. Cade insisted on driving. Mieka didn’t object. It gave Cade something to occupy his mind besides the coming interview with His Grace. Pleased with his gambit, Mieka leaned back, put his feet up, and enjoyed the ride.

  Great Welkin was not on the river. It was located down below the Plume on the only solid land in the middle of a marsh. Being so near to Gallantrybanks, Great Welkin needed no fields or pastures to support it. Two raised roads led to it, one from the south and one from the west. Seasonal rain turned it into an island, covering the roads ankle deep if the inhabitants were lucky, and hip deep if they weren’t. A mere ten miles from the city, the gray stone pile was close enough to keep an eye on, and to keep a potentially dangerous child—Cyed Henick—isolated for years as he grew to manhood. As the rig bounced up the western road and the marshland spread before him, Mieka shivered inwardly at the thought of what it must have been like to live so remote a life, and in such a silence. It wasn’t exactly a prison, but it came damned close.

  On attaining his majority, the Archduke had spent large sums to improve the road and his ancestral dwelling. Heavy stones had been cut for the former; for the latter, trees and shrubbery and flowers had been planted, and new curtains, upholstery, carpets, and so on had been ordered. But neither sunny summery day nor flowering vines could soften the stark blocky lines of the house. Four stories high, surmounted by what looked like a crow’s nest transferred from a ship, only made of stone, to Mieka it resembled a huge, ugly gray box with a sloping lid of black tiles and a little gray handle on top.

  Mieka sat up, scrunched around, and said to Cade, “Time for me to take over. Oh, c’mon, it’s only a half mile! And you can’t go in there driving yourself!”

  Shuddering dramatically, Cade relented. Mieka waited until he was seated in the rig, reins still in his hands, before climbing up to the little perch, which turned out to be just as uncomfortable as it looked. Cade handed him the reins, saying, “If I end up in the ditch—”

  “Yeh, I know, you’ll kill me. Slowly. Painfully. Whatever. Good Gods, would you look at that horrible house! I wonder why he didn’t sell this and buy something more convenient in the city when he came into his money.” He clicked his tongue at the horse, flapped the reins once or twice, and the rig started moving again. Mieka kept one eye on the road and one eye on the back of Cade’s head.

  “P’rhaps he got used to it here, when he was a child.”

  “Or it’s just as useful to him to live here as it was to King Cobin to have him raised here. Nice and private, innit? For keeping him away from the Court, and the Court away from him.”

  “You may be right. Bet you can see for miles and miles from that thing on top.”

  “It’s called a cupola, Quill.” When Cade turned round to show him an incredulous face, Mieka told him, “My brothers build things. And I can read, y’know. Even architectural plans.”

  “And stark amazement grew apace.”

  Mieka instantly finished the couplet with, “Don’t be snide—it warps your face.”

  “Oh, and it’s a poet now, is it?”

  “I have been hopelessly corrupted by six years in your company. Or is it getting on for seven now?”

  “Were we reckoning by the amount of sheer annoyance, it’s been half a lifetime.”

  “Only half? One of us must be mellowing.”

  Just as well they could share a laugh. They had reached a massive gateway guarded on each side by a huge stone dragon with wings outspread and claws poised to grab anything that got too close. Mieka and Cayden were on the Archduke’s land now, invading his home, and with demands that he wouldn’t much like at all.

  The rig bounced over the rounded cobbles of a wide courtyard. Mieka reined in. “I’ll go in with you, shall I? Just inside out of the sun, not all the way to Himself.”

  Nodding tightly, Cade descended from the rig and tugged his jacket into place. Mieka waited for a groom to take the mare’s bridle,
then jumped down to join Cade. Two guards in orange-and-gray livery advanced, one of them demanding to know who they were and what business they had with His Grace.

  “Our business with His Grace is private.” Cade looked down his long nose as only he could do, and Mieka inwardly applauded his assumption of the My Bloodlines Are Infinitely More Impressive Than Yours face. “And he won’t be grateful if you leave us out here to bake in the sun.”

  Mieka knew there were two ways this could go: Obedience might be so drilled into them that anybody who gave orders in such a tone with such an expression on his face had better be obeyed and right quick—or they could be immune to any orders but those of the Archduke. If they had glanced at each other, he would have guessed the former. They didn’t take their eyes off Cade and Mieka. One of them said, “State your business.”

  Mieka regretted their attitude, because it would whittle away at Cade’s confidence. Once again, he had underestimated the man. With Lady Jaspiela in his tones, Cade said, “Not to anyone but His Grace. You will be so good as to step aside so that we may enter, and while we are being served something cold to drink, you will inform the steward or the chamberlain or whomever you report to that Master Silversun and Master Windthistle have arrived.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Mieka took his turn, saying, “Yes, and if we don’t take care of this little matter with the Archduke soon, we’ll be late for it. Open the door, there’s a good fellow.” As he spoke, he let the withie slip into his palm from his sleeve, and concentrated a bit, and two shakes of a dragon’s tail later, the guards were escorting them up the four broad stone steps to the front doors of Great Welkin.

  A fist pounded—most inelegant, Mieka thought disapprovingly—and the left door opened. Mieka’s immediate reaction was that if this hall was a result of the Archduke’s expensive redecorating, he had more money than taste. Why was it, he mused as they walked towards the wide, orange-carpeted stairs, that really rich people so seldom had the sense to consult people who actually knew what they were doing with tapestries and paintings? Possession of a fortune was no guarantor of style. It had pleased the Archduke, evidently, to buy as much as could possibly be crammed into every conceivable space—and, as the hall must measure fifty feet by thirty feet, there were a lot of spaces to cram.

  Ah well. At least I don’t have to live here, Mieka told himself.

  Cade paused at the foot of the stairs, waiting for a gray-suited functionary to descend. Orange braid at the neck and cuffs of his jacket, and the quality of the gray material, identified him as an upper servant, but a servant just the same. Persons more important would not be wearing a variation on the Archducal livery. Their servitude would be shown in more subtle ways.

  Mieka once more slid the withie into his hand, but it was unnecessary. The servant escorted them up the stairs (Mieka amused himself by leaving fingerprints and palmprints all over the industriously polished brass handrail, and regretted having washed his hands of this morning’s bacon grease), turned left, and ushered them through a double doorway into a huge chamber. Then he bowed and vanished.

  This was, at a guess, a ballroom. Light spilled in from floor-to-ceiling windows all along one wall. Outside was a spacious balcony bedecked with potted plants. Directly opposite the windows was a mural, but at this angle, Mieka couldn’t discern the subject. At the far end of the room, overhanging a collection of dust-sheeted chairs, was a minstrels’ gallery made of carved oak. The floor was gray marble, polished to a shiny slickness that made him want to haul off his boots and slide the length of the place in his stockings.

  “No mirrors,” Cade remarked as they advanced a little ways into the room.

  “Huh? What?”

  “Mirrors. There aren’t any. If there’s a wall of windows on one side, there ought to be mirrors facing it. Gives the illusion of symmetry and reflects the sunlight during the day. And by night, ladies like to admire themselves and their gowns and jewels while they’re dancing.”

  “Master Silversun,” came a voice from the doors just behind them, “His Grace will see you now.”

  Mieka met Cayden’s nervous gaze. “Miriuzca and the children,” he whispered. “Think of them, not anything else. And say what you need to, Quill. Promise whatever will make him put a stop to it.”

  “The only promises,” Cade replied grimly, “will be his.”

  Mieka felt like applauding. He watched Cade stride briskly out and could almost feel sorry for the Archduke. Almost.

  The door shut again, and Mieka was left to his own devices in the ballroom. He meandered over to the windows, peering at the balcony, the gardens beyond, and the gray-green marshlands past the gray stone walls. Except for a few scrawny saplings in the enclosed gardens, there wasn’t an honest tree in sight.

  Turning, wondering again if he could get away with a long slide in his stocking feet, he approached the mural wall. It seemed familiar somehow.

  In the middle of the room he stopped cold. Familiar. Yes. It was.

  He’d last seen these scenes in the Kiral Kellari, the mural rejected by Master Warringheath for being repulsive and insulting. The only differences between that painting and this was that the theme of a cellar no longer applied, there was no magic to make the figures move, and the figures themselves were much larger.

  For instance, that rural scene of a dirt road curving between green wheat fields and an apple orchard, where a girl slept beneath a tree, was at least four feet wide. The fruit was falling from the branches as a hideous creature in dark clothes and a tall hat laughed, spinning cobwebs between his fingers, trickling the thread down into the girl’s ear. Goblin. Or, rather, the nasty despised version of a Goblin, with crooked yellow teeth, single across-the-forehead eyebrow, red-splotched skin. His laughter made the apples plummet from the trees. He wove nightmares to slither into the sleeping girl’s mind.

  Next was the Piksey on a giant toadstool. All in green, grinning a grin that crinkled the corners of his upslanting eyes as a bewildered farmer coaxed his exhausted horse to the plow—the horse the Piksey had been racing around the fields all night long. A trail of gold and silver footprints led to the toadstool, footprints of Piksey dust.

  Mieka walked the length of the mural. A Harpy played cards with a Gorgon who sat with her back turned, and on the large table between them crouched a terrified Human child: the living wager. A Selkie lured a young and handsome knight to his death in the sea. Caladrius, Touchstone’s own pure white raven, perched in the window of a sick woman’s room, its face turned away—which meant that the woman would die. Vodabeists rampaged along a river while their land-dwelling cousins thundered through a village. A wyvern devoured a beautiful young maiden. A Troll hauled a whole family screaming into the river beneath a bridge. Merfolk laughed on a ragged rock as their daughters’ singing lured a ship to disaster. One Gnome wearing birch-bark shoes squared off against an arched, spitting cat, while another stood over a firepit, stirring soup that cat would soon flavor. A Fae with a redheaded Human baby in her arms watched through an open window with malicious glee as a Human mother reached into a cradle.

  Mieka needed wine, brandy, anything to get this taste out of his mouth. Was there some kind of thorn that would remove these images from his mind? There was neither alcohol nor thorn to hand. There was nothing but himself. He coughed, and the sound echoed from windows to ceiling to polished marble floor.

  He wouldn’t look at the paintings again. He went to the windows, tried to open them. Locked. Every single one of them. He tried them all. There was a corner door just below the minstrels’ gallery, presumably leading up to it. This, too, was locked. He turned and stared the length of the ballroom to the door he and Cade had come in by. Had that been locked by now, too?

  And if it had … why? Who could think him a danger to anyone? Cade was the one with the brains and the magic. All Mieka had was a glib tongue. And a noteworthy facility for getting into and out of trouble. And now, as of this moment, a new and understand
able aversion to locked rooms.

  There was no sound except his own breathing, but all at once he knew he was being watched. He could feel it all along his skin. He turned, and again, seeing no one, hearing no one. Yet whatever his other senses told him, his magic shrieked that he was being watched, and by someone unimpressed with his Kingdom-wide fame and prodigious talents and winsome good looks.

  There was the faintest rustle of material up in the minstrels gallery. Only Elfen ears would have heard it. He turned, squinting up at the carved and latticed wood. “You up there, I can hear you,” he called. “Why not come down?”

  No answer.

  Nervous apprehension was quickly turning to fear. He knew it was all the thorn he’d been pricking, intensifying his emotions, but he’d never been able to figure out if the sensation was more powerful at the start, in the middle, or while the thorn was fading away. This morning’s whitethorn was definitely fading by now, and it took a real effort to keep his voice steady and his hands from shaking—and he could tell himself all he liked that it was anger, but he knew it was sudden unreasoning fear.

  “Who are you?” he snarled.

  “No one you would know.”

  Deep voice, highborn accent. A panel of fretwork slid aside up in the minstrels’ gallery and Mieka peered up at a very old man. Tall and bald, with eyes so dark they were almost black set in a cadaverous face, he stood in the little window with his clasped hands hidden in the baggy sleeves of his brown robes.

  “So you’re the Elf,” he went on.

  Desperately grabbing hold of his composure, Mieka replied, “Beholden for singling me out as special, but while there’s only one of me, there’s more than one of us, if you see what I mean.” He congratulated himself on sounding almost casual.

  “Have you any idea, I wonder, how very special you are?”

  The congratulations were, it seemed, premature. There was something in the old man’s voice that iced Mieka’s veins and stopped the breath in his lungs.