Window Wall

by Melanie Rawn

“I’ve heard that your performances on the Royal Circuit this year were outstanding, even for Touchstone.”

  That wasn’t what he’d meant by special, and Mieka knew it. He didn’t want to be special, not to this man. He took one step back, then another, barely able to restrain himself from turning to run for the main doors.

  His body betrayed him with a twitch to one side, and the child-size withie fell out of his sleeve and clattered to the floor. The old man began to laugh.

  Mieka snatched up the withie. As he rose, he happened to look at the mural again.

  It was alive.

  The Gorgon had won the hand of cards and, with a reedy chortle, stroked a talon down the Human child’s arm, leaving a line of blood that burst into flame. The wyvern crunched the maiden’s leg bones, threw back its head, and shrieked its delight. The Piksey was giggling madly, the Goblin was singing some ghastly off-key song as he wove misted nightmares. Mieka stumbled a step back, to the side, back again—and gagged when the hideous yellow vodabeists seemed to be clawing their way out of the mural, coming for him.

  Thorn, imagination, or the magic of the old man up there in the minstrels gallery? Mieka gripped the withie in his hand like a sword and shouted, “Who the fuck are you? Stop it! Let me out of here!”

  “You’re free to go at any time, Elf.” The old man was laughing at him. “Free to do exactly as you please—isn’t that your primary goal in life? To waste it doing exactly as you please, with no thought to anyone else?”

  Had there been the slightest magic left in the withie, Mieka would have blasted him to the northernmost peaks of the Pennynine Mountains.

  “Oh, don’t think I disapprove. In point of fact, I rather admire your ambition. It’s not everyone who can be so single-mindedly selfish without feeling the slightest hint of guilt.”

  Pride and defiance had kept Mieka where he was until now. When the vodabeists lunged for him again, he decided that pride and defiance could go fuck themselves. He turned and ran for the doors.

  But his legs moved so slowly. His feet felt so heavy. He gritted his teeth and struggled on, gaze fixed on the doors. If only they could be like the ones in “Doorways,” doors he had created with Cade’s magic, doors that were not locked. He clutched the withie, but it was a dead thing, hints of Cade and Blye within it, but no useful and usable magic.

  Suddenly he needed the sound of his own voice, his Elfen voice. Only Elves and Wizards were blessed by the Lord and the Lady. What about all those other things he was? Some of them were shown in the mural. How could people dance and laugh and flirt and drink gallons of bubbling wine in a room with all that muck on the wall? And quite probably that horrible old man watching from behind the latticework like servants peeking into bedrooms at a whorehouse—

  If only this door ahead of him was one of his own doors, his and Quill’s. He could open it and walk through it and be safe. “This life, and none other,” he heard himself whisper, breath coming short and fast.

  And like a talisman constructed only of words, of sounds, the sentence once spoken made the door open. He knew it was only coincidence. He knew that.

  But he couldn’t help but feel that it was magic, to have said those words and have Quill open that door.

  23

  Doing this crazy thing—going to Great Welkin, demanding to see the Archduke, saying what he must say to convince, persuade, bully, bribe, plead, whatever it took—it had all seemed impossible when he woke before dawn, shaking and sweating, fighting his way free of a nightmare in which the Archduke was laughing at him, throwing gigantic daisies with the malevolent yellow eyes of the Fae and petals that were fat, writhing white maggots.

  He lay there until all the shadows in his bedchamber had been banished by fresh sunlight. Tense and determined, he rose and washed and dressed. By accident (certainly not willingly) he happened to meet his own eyes in the looking glass as he shaved, and it occurred to him that he was nobody and nothing, and that to confront Archduke Cyed Henick was an insanity seldom equaled in his life.

  When he saw Mieka in the kitchen, he wanted to run away and hide.

  Yet Mieka had, with his blithe acceptance that this was what Cade would do, and he would in fact be able to do it, settled his thoughts and emotions. Mieka didn’t believe in much, but he did believe in Cade. And somehow that was enough.

  When Mieka magicked the guards into letting them inside Great Welkin, Cade was at last reminded of what he was that the Archduke was not. Cade and Touchstone were famous, admired, celebrated, creative, successful, trusted by the only Royal who really mattered. Henick was famous, too—for being the son of the man who had lost a war. He lived his life as if none of that had ever happened and he was merely one more nobleman—with better bloodlines than most, and more money, once he’d turned twenty-one and invested a small inheritance into a major fortune—content to spend his days in amusing himself, creating nothing, eyed askance by the whole of Albeyn.

  Cayden would be giving him his chance to shine.

  The servant left him in the open doorway of a library stuffed with books. Three walls of shelves nearly to the ceiling, with rolling ladders for access; a range of waist-high shelves down the middle of the long room; glass display cases here and there for rare and precious volumes; Cayden could quite happily have spent years in this room that was undoubtedly Drevan Wordturner’s particular version of Hell. A smile twitched one corner of his mouth as he walked slowly along the wall, glancing at titles, wondering how many of these books had been pinched by Drevan for Vered Goldbraider on the sly and then returned with the Archduke none the wiser. A nice little gambit, that had been, and Cade congratulated himself.

  “I am told,” said a deep, cold voice, “that you have private business to discuss. Welcome to Great Welkin, Master Silversun. Do sit down.”

  Cade paced the length of the room and finally saw the Archduke, seated at a broad, cluttered desk. He rose, gestured to a quartet of deep leather chairs, and sat in one of them. Cade chose one angled towards the Archduke, and settled into its softness. Before them was a low table with books stacked at either end, as if space had been cleared for a tea tray.

  “It’s good of you to see me,” he began. Why had he ever thought this man so formidable? He was paunchy and going bald; each inhalation was shallow and there was an unhealthy color in his cheeks. Memory supplied Cade with a scene from his childhood, when Mistress Mirdley had taken him along to one of the other houses on Redpebble Square, up to the servants quarters, where the chief steward lay in bed. Despite the Trollwife’s medicines, he was dead of heart trouble before two Winterings had passed. He had looked the way the Archduke looked now.

  “Not at all,” Cyed Henick replied to Cade’s opening pleasantry. “It’s not every day one receives a visit from a renowned tregetour. May I be of use to you somehow?”

  Cade had the distracting thought that it would be interesting to know how much use Black Lightning was to the Archduke. Schooling his mind to his purpose, he said, “I hope so. I think you’re the only one who can help.”

  Eyebrows twitched upwards, settled back down. “Indeed?”

  “At Seekhaven this year, my partners and I were honored by Her Royal Highness Princess Miriuzca with an invitation to lunching at the castle. Her brother the Tregrefin was also in attendance. Your Grace has met him, of course.”

  A faint grimace that instantly smoothed to blandness. Cade would not have seen his expression change if he hadn’t been watching for years the subtle play of emotion over Jeska’s face onstage.

  “The Tregrefin has been a frequent guest here and at Threne. My wife enjoys talking to someone from her own land.”

  “Just so.” He drew breath for his next sentence—planned out on the way here, when Mieka had kept most uncharacteristically quiet—but the Archduke had something else to say.

  “He was not especially pleased with the play you and the Shadowshapers and Crystal Sparks performed at Trials.”

  Cade couldn’t help a grin. Surpri
singly enough, the Archduke grinned back. And for that scant moment, they were thinking the same thing.

  The point of contact might be useful. Cade went on, “I had heard as much. But what I wanted to tell Your Grace is that at this lunching, the Tregrefin was curious about the Keeps. I found this … interesting, as he was staying at the North Keep with his sister, rather than at the Palace.”

  “He prefers, I’m told, not to mingle with the ministers and officials who are every day at the Palace. The boy is an appalling snob.”

  “Yes. But I believe that he has been asking more questions of other people about the North Keep.”

  “To what purpose?”

  Bluntly, Cade said, “To use black powder and blow the place sky-high.”

  He had the satisfaction of seeing the Archduke’s color fade to sickly whiteness.

  “I’m sure Your Grace remembers the incident at Lord Piercehand’s new Gallery. In the rubble was found the crimped end of a withie—precisely where the explosion was centered. This evidence has been lost, unfortunately, but I can assure you that it did exist.”

  “Whose withie? If it was the crimp end, there would be a hallmark.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless it was made by Mistress Windthistle. But I cannot believe that she would be so careless as to lose something of her making—or that those theater groups who use her withies would be so careless, either. Nor would she supply it to someone whose actions would put her husband in danger. I’m told his brother was badly injured.”

  “He’s healed very well, beholden to Your Grace. The hallmark on the withie was that of Master Splithook.”

  Again his eyebrows tightened, this time drawing together over his nose. “Which groups does he supply?”

  Cade shook his head. “It didn’t happen that way. I don’t know who primed the withie to do what it did, but I do know that it was stolen from Black Lightning. And that the Tregrefin was angry that it had not worked. Using magic—”

  “Using magic to cause such damage would, in his view, emphasize how dangerous magic is. So now, rather than magical means, you say he intends to use more mundane methods. I’m not versed in military lore, but it seems to me that it would take a substantial quantity of black powder to topple the North Keep.”

  “Whether he will be responsible with his own hands for placing it and lighting the strings that lead to it—I don’t think so. I think he will be far from the site when it happens. But he will be behind it, Your Grace. Many people will die, and it will be because of him.”

  “Why have you come to me with this information?”

  Rather than answer directly, Cade said, “You haven’t asked me how I know.”

  The moment came and went in silence. Cade knew that the Archduke knew about the Elsewhens. Now the Archduke had no excuse not to know that Cade knew it. But he would not admit it. His eyes glinted for just an instant before he looked down at his hands and picked idly at a rough spot on a thumbnail.

  “I assume that you or your friends and associates have heard things which you assembled into this tale—which, I may say, makes a remarkable amount of sense.”

  No, he wasn’t going to admit it.

  The Archduke continued, “The boy is destined for their version of Chapel, you know. He finds much to disgust him in Albeyn. I’m told that even his own sister is counting off the days until he is on a ship back home.”

  “Princess Iamina is said to be quite taken with him.”

  “And so is my wife—isn’t that what you were thinking? No, Her Grace is simply homesick for the sound of her own language.” All at once, his expression darkened and he said, almost as if against his will, “At least, this is what she tells me. I have no idea what they discuss together, gabbling away in words that would strangle any normal person.”

  Cade wasn’t fooled. Why this man had married Panshilara in the first place was beyond his understanding, but he didn’t make the mistake of thinking that the Archduke had ever trusted her. She existed to make children. Thus far, she had made two: a daughter and a son. Cade damned himself once again for slicing the Elsewhens out of his mind, for he had a squirmy feeling that there had been something worth recalling about the birth of the girl, aside from the tidy sum that he and Mieka had collected from a wager with Slips Clinkscales. Still, why would he need an Elsewhen to tell him the obvious? A daughter could be married to Prince Roshlin. A son could inherit the Archduchy. He wondered briefly why Panshilara was still around, now that her husband had had satisfactory use of her….

  { “I’m terribly sorry, Your Grace.”

  He met the physicker’s gaze. “Did she suffer?”

  “Not beyond the first instants. She was knocked unconscious, you see. Not like Princess Iamina, may the Lord and the Lady keep her soul.”

  “And the boy? What of the Tregrefin?”

  The man shook his head and stroked the folds of his green robes down his chest. “When he was pulled from the river, Your Grace, he was not breathing. Someone did the usual, pounding on his chest and so forth, and though it was a most inexpert job, he did cough up water and begin to breathe on his own again. But there is a limit on how many minutes may pass without a breath, and the Tregrefin had passed that limit. He breathes, but he is gone.”

  “What will be done?”

  “I had hoped that Your Grace would be able to suggest …” He paused delicately.

  “Hm. We can’t send him back to his family in such a state. They would attribute the condition to magic. Neither can we let it be generally known what happened to him.” He paused. “You are to say this to anyone who asks. The Tregrefin, on recovering from his near-drowning, went at once to—what’s the nearest Minster? I’ve forgotten.”

  “Seemly Swale, Your Grace.”

  “Too big. Anything smaller?”

  “There is a small Minster northeast of there … Good Brothers only, and few, who care for the fishing villages scattered along the coast.”

  “That will do. Find out the name of the place and say that the Tregrefin went there to pray for Iamina and the Archduchess, and to meditate on his own good fortune in surviving, giving praise to the Lord and the Lady for his life, and so on. After a week or so, it will be said that he fell into a reverie—all that fasting and praying, not enough rest or food, a terrible strain for one in his already frail condition—and then give him whatever thorn will stop his breathing so that it will not start again.”

  The physicker nodded. “A merciful and dignified solution, Your Grace. I will make the arrangements.”

  “And if his sister demands to see him, tell her he’s still in shock. Then get him to that Minster. I’m assuming it’s one with a Contemplative Brother or two?”

  “Four, in fact. And five Brothers who tend to them as well as the fishing villages.”

  “Very good. Miriuzca won’t be allowed to set foot inside that Minster.”

  “It will be done as you have said, Your Grace. And again, please let me say how very grieved all of us are about the Archduchess. A terrible loss.”

  “You are very kind. I don’t know how I’m going to tell the children.”}

  The Archduke was watching him with pale blue eyes like shards of a sickly winter sky. Cade had just allowed the unthinkable to happen: an Elsewhen in front of an enemy. It hadn’t even occurred to him to shove it aside.

  “So that’s what it looks like. I’ve spent some time wondering, but it didn’t seem polite to ask.”

  His voice had changed completely. All the urbane smoothness was gone, leaving a slight rasp, a quickness of consonant that lingered just slightly on s like a snake.

  The Archduke rose and went to a closed cabinet amid the bookshelves. From its bottom shelf he took a pitcher and two silver cups. Setting them on the desk, he poured and said, “Wordturner’s. He thinks I don’t know about his little weakness. It’s likely to become a great weakness, but if we’re all fortunate, that won’t happen until he’s through cataloging all my books and all Piercehand’s books, and checked them again
st what’s in the Royal Archives. In any case, he keeps this hidden for himself. But as it’s my wine and my silver, I think we can partake without his being any the wiser. In truth, he’s nearly at the point where he doesn’t exactly recall how much he drinks. Is your Elf there yet? I hear he’s quite the enthusiast when it comes to alcohol. And women. And thorn.”

  Cade sat rigidly in the leather-covered chair. Whatever had happened to Princess Iamina, the Archduchess, and the Tregrefin, it had been no accident. He knew that as surely as he knew that all pretense was over between him and this man. This was his real voice, and these were his real eyes.

  “Drink up. You must need it. What happens to you must be rather exhausting. Or is it stimulating? I really am curious, you know. It’s a talent unique in my knowledge of magic. Having no magic of my own, I’ve made it a point to do my research.”

  Cade took the silver cup but did not drink.

  “Oh, come now. Whatever you’re thinking about poison or whatever else your imagination can come up with, you did see me pour into both cups from the same pitcher. Here, I’ll have a bit from both, just to prove—”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m not thirsty.”

  “As you wish. But please believe me when I tell you that I am not a stupid man. Besides, your Elf is loitering around here someplace, and I really do have to return you to him in proper working order.” Seating himself again, he leaned back and regarded Cayden over the rim of the cup. “Now, tell me. Did you see that ridiculous boy plotting with the Good Brothers? Did you see the North Keep fall? Do you have any warning when these things come upon you? Forgive me, but I find your gift utterly fascinating. You wouldn’t be willing to share a glimpse or two of the possible futures with me, would you? I thought not.” He drank deeply and set the cup aside on the table. “I’m the only one you could come to with this. You might as well tell me everything.”

  “As long as Your Grace believes that what I say is true, the details aren’t important.”

  “True enough. But allow me to observe that while you are as unsubtle as your grandmother, you’re nowhere near the fool your father is. Now, my own father, he was a man lacking both subtlety and brains. You and I are alike in that we struggle under the burden of outstandingly stupid forebears. And we are alike in other ways, as well.”