Thornlost (Book 3) (27 page)

“Serious, then,” Rafe murmured beside him.

“Looks to be.”

“We’ve a spare chamber over the bakery,” he said enigmatically. “Or there’s always room somewhere at Wistly.”

Cade frowned at him. “Jeska has his own place now, so she can—oh,” he finished lamely, as it finally struck him that this was not one of the masquer’s many dalliances. If Kazie came to visit in Gallantrybanks this winter, it would all be proper and respectable. Because it
was
serious. Memory of how Jeska had looked last night confirmed it.

Mieka climbed up the wagon steps, moving as if he were older than his great-great-grandmother. Hefting a huge basket into a corner, he said, “Lunching,” hooked up his hammock, crawled into it, and curled up to sleep.

As urgently as Cayden wanted to discuss what had happened, he didn’t begrudge Mieka the rest. Yazz had scarcely got the wagon moving when Jeska and then Rafe follow the Elf’s example. Cade made himself comfortable in one of the cushioned chairs, but did not sleep. Because of their late start today, they’d have to travel relentlessly in order to reach Castle Biding in time for the Summer Fair. The horses were fresh, but Yazz would never overstrain them; they’d arrive at Castle Biding when they arrived at Castle Biding, and there was an end to it. For himself, Cade was still so weary and empty that he didn’t much care if he ever stood on a stage again, though he knew that this feeling would pass. What would not go away was the need to figure out who was doing this to them, and why.

It was midafternoon when Mieka rolled over in his hammock, squinted at Cade, and said, “Stop all that bloody
thinking
and get some sleep.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I know. Try anyways.”

He smiled, and shrugged, and said, “Maybe in a while.”

With a grunt of disgust, Mieka extricated himself from the hammock and went to the washstand to pour out some fresh water into the glass bowl and splash his face. “It’s too hot in here. Let’s walk for a bit.”

The wagon wasn’t moving quickly enough to make it difficult to jump down from the back door. Cade jogged forward to alert Yazz that they’d be on foot for a while so he could keep on giving the horses a breather; the Giant nodded acknowledgment and returned his attention to driving.

“Somebody’s out to get us,” Mieka said without preamble.

“Mayhap not just us.” Cade told him what Croodle had said, and added, “But when you put it alongside the peacock feather, I tend to doubt it’s anybody but us they’re after.”

“Still think it traces back to the Archduke?”

“He doesn’t much like us, for several reasons. We turned him down about the theater, we used words in ‘Treasure’ that were the same as condemned his father—”

“We spoiled his plan to take Blye’s glassworks,” Mieka reminded him.

“I’d almost forgotten about that.”

“Jed wrote,” he said, scuffing dust up from the road with the toe of one boot. “The Glasscrafters Guild came round again, checking the stock to be sure Blye’s not making anything hollow. ’Twas a bit of a rush-about, hiding the withies and such—did you hear she’s making them for Hawk’s Claw now, too? I don’t know any of them much, but Chat vouches for their glisker.”

“Good enough for Blye, good enough for me,” Cade said, reminding himself to learn as much as he could about Hawk’s Claw anyway. Just in case.

“The Guild didn’t find anything. Problem is, come Wintering tax time, she’ll have to explain how she makes the money she
makes without making things she’s not s’posed to be making.”

Cade nodded slowly. That first Wintering after her father’s death, Touchstone had been Blye’s partner in the glassworks and shared payment of the taxes. Their wedding present to her and Jedris had been the majority of their shares in the business. Kearney Fairwalk’s clerks had managed to trick up the books, first to hide that Touchstone took its share of profits in illegally made withies, and then regarding the transfer of ownership and the value of the business.

“We still have an interest in the glassworks, all of us,” he mused. “Kearney’s people can play around with the numbers, like they’ve been doing.”

“If the Archduke is behind it,” Mieka warned, “then backspanging the accounts, no matter how clever they do it, won’t put them off. And Chat mentioned that there’s been a bit of talk about where they’re getting their withies, now that they don’t use Master Splithook anymore.”

“Well, as long as nobody finds out she makes them—”

“You’re not listening. Jed’s pretty well certain they’ll demand a look at her books. At the very least, there’d be a fine.”

“We’ll pay it.”

“At the very worst, she could lose the place.”

They walked for a time in silence. Then Cade asked, “Why are you telling me this now? How long have you known?”

“Forgot to read the letter,” Mieka admitted. “I only remembered it when I was looking for clean stockings yesterday.” There was a brief reminiscent flash of a smile.

Cade snorted a laugh. “They’ll never be the same.”

“Chucked ’em, in fact. Total loss. But that’s when I found Jed’s letter.” He sprang ahead a few steps, turning to walk backwards as he talked, but the usual energy was missing. “It’d been such a
good
day, all in all, y’see. Everybody laughing…” He sighed. “I didn’t want to spoil it.”

“No, other people are perfectly capable of doing that. But why mention the letter now?”

“Because we can’t do sweet fuck-all about whoever’s trying to ruin us. Blye’s problem is something we can solve. And not just for this year, but all the years to follow.”

“I’m not understanding you,” Cade complained. “What could we possibly—besides Kearney’s clerks, I mean, there’s nothing—”

Mieka had tilted his head to one side, a little grin playing about his lips. Those eyes were suddenly dancing with mischief.

“What?” Cade demanded.

“The Princess is having a baby.”

“And?”

“The baby needs a present.”

* * *

M
ieka spent the whole evening composing a letter to his brother by lamplight in the wagon, pausing to think every so often while chewing on the end of Cade’s pen. Cade didn’t admonish him. If what he was scheming up helped Blye, he could chew the pen to splinters for all Cade cared. Besides, it was only something his parents had given him, and easily replaced.

Meantime, Rafe and Jeska discussed with Cade what they had done last night and how they could do it better if it ever happened again, which none of them doubted it would do. When Mieka finally finished his letter and joined in, he had a further suggestion.

“This winter, on the nights we’re not playing, I’ll make the rounds of the taverns.”

“How is this different from your usual nights off?” Rafe asked.

“Snarge! I was thinking that after the amateurs finish, I can buy them a drink, like, and move the talk round to fettlers needing work.”

“Ah,” Cade said. “So you were listening to what Tegs said.”

“Megs,” Rafe corrected. “And how are they to know that
Touchstone isn’t looking for a new fettler?”

“Hmm.” Mieka considered. “Hadn’t thought about that. But you’ll admit that once word goes round regarding what’s been happening, they’ll all be thinking that a new fettler isn’t such a bad idea—” He cringed back, laughing, as Rafe lifted a threatening fist. “Joking! Joking! You can come along with, and make sure nobody thinks any such thing!”

Rafe made a face at him. “Actually, it might be a good idea to hint that you
are
looking for a new fettler. If the purpose behind this is to put us all wrong-footed, then a rumor here and there would get back to—”

“The Archduke,” Cade said.

“We don’t know that for sure. But whoever it is would be pleased to think it’s all working.” He paused for a sip of his drink. “What about that lad with the peacock feather at Seekhaven?”

Mieka shook his head. “Masquer. And before you ask, the fettler went back to his ancestral pigsty north of Scatterseed a year or so ago when his father died.”

“Ask around anyway,” Cade said. He swirled liquor in his glass, staring at the last swallow and wishing there were enough left in the decanter to pour another. It had become their custom to save Auntie Brishen’s whiskey for late evening before they went to bed, and Yazz carefully siphoned out sufficient for two glasses each so the barrel would last. “Why does the Archduke want us ruined?” he asked suddenly. “Spite?”

“He wanted to own our glasscrafter,” Rafe mused, “and then he wanted to own
us
. I know what Chat says about great lords on the Continent buying their own pet players—”

“If you can call them players,” Jeska scoffed, “with no magic to their work.”

“—but there’s plenty of others to choose from. And it seems a thin reason, doesn’t it? Hacked off just because he can’t get the group he wants?”

“The Shadowshapers turned him down as well,” Cade said. “But I’ll take oath on it, Black Lightning will have accepted.”

“So why haven’t there been any rumors about the Shadowshapers? I can answer it,” Rafe went on. “They’re the best in the Kingdom—yeh, Mieka, even better than us, and everybody knows it. If they suddenly started snagging up their magic, nobody’d believe it. Nobody’d
dare
mess with them.”

“Then it comes back to
Why us?
” Cade said. But he knew. He knew.

“We could always ask him,” Rafe drawled.

“You do that, old son,” Cade told him. “You spend the next few nights working out just how to gain admittance to the hallowed Halls of Threne. It’s off the road to Stiddolfe, I’m sure we can make time for it, and he’s probably at home enjoying the glories of summer and his new wife. You can also decide how you’ll be persuading your way past the guards to the presence of Himself. And then when you settle on just what words to use, you can figure out how you plan to escape with a whole skin.” He tossed back the remains of his drink and stood, swaying slightly with the movement of the wagon. “And after you’ve made up your mind about all of
that
, you can tell us what we’re to say to your lady wife when we bring you home in more pieces than are generally recommended for survival. Yeh, you enjoy yourself working all that out. Me, I’m for some sleep.”

He had hooked up his hammock and was arranging the thin mattress atop it before Mieka broke the silence. “Eloquent, that’s our Quill. Sweet dreamings, all—though I dare you, after that little recital.”

“What’re
you
snarking about?” Rafe muttered. “
I’m
the one he just dismembered into component parts.”

* * *

T
he performances at the Castle Biding Summer Fair were maddening. Not that anyone interfered, not once during the five shows. It was the grinding dread of interference that sharpened their tempers and wore them out. Cade had learned on Touchstone’s two Winterly Circuits that towards the end, a kind of undercurrent of exhaustion dragged at them constantly, but surely he was much too young at twenty-one to feel this bloody tired all the time.

Bluethorn, as ever, helped.

Once again their schedule overlapped that of the Shadowshapers by a day, and Cade made no excuses for dragging Vered off for a private talk once the Shadowshapers’ performance had, as always, been applauded to the open skies. As at Coldkettle, the venue was outdoors. The stage had been set up in a corner of the fair’s sprawl. Ordinarily Cade would have looked forward to the opportunity to expand beyond the confines of a theater or guild hall. All he could manage was an inner wince for how weary he would be after priming the withies with magic enough for the extravagances the audiences would expect. “Dragon” would do very well here.

“What’s been, Cade?” Vered asked pleasantly enough as he was pulled along a torchlit path through booths shut up for the night. “Where are we off to? Have you discovered where they’re keeping the naked dancing girls this year?”

That such entertainment existed at all, outside some exceedingly rough taverns and a few exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in Gallantrybanks, was a surprise to him. But then, he’d only ever been at Castle Biding during the winter, when it was a bit chilly for that sort of thing. “If that’s what you’re after, talk to Mieka. He’s got an instinct for finding the prettiest girls within ten miles.”

“I thought that was Jeska.”

“The girls find
him
. No, I want to talk of the Knights you want to write about.”

He told it succinctly, not mentioning his source. Or, rather, his sources, plural; no need to let Vered in on the secret of his Elsewhens. When he’d finished, Vered sighed gustily.

“So the Knights were real, and it happened.” His long white-blond hair was almost luminous in the darkness. “Beholden, Cade. You’ve given me a lot to work from.”

“You have to keep it close,” Cade warned. “I’ll lend you all the books you like, but don’t go near the Archives. And especially don’t ask to search the library at the Halls of Threne or the Archduke’s city residence. He can’t know what you’re up to until you present it onstage.”

“Like you with ‘The Treasure,’ eh?” Vered chuckled. “But if I’m to compete with such distinguished historical precision—” He broke off when Cade didn’t laugh. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious. And don’t ever come to any of our rehearsals. All my books are at Redpebble Square, you can get them and return them from there—I know, I know!” he cried, frustrated. “It sounds completely mad. But it’s just as mad that somebody’s been messing us up while we’re onstage—”

“Messing you up? How?”

Cade explained that, too, and why he suspected that the Archduke was behind it—well,
some
of why he suspected it, anyway.

Vered said nothing for a time. They had walked deep into the deserted fair, where torches were few and far between. Up ahead, Cade could just make out placards nailed to a booth: Touchstone, half-covering the Shadowshapers, with a wedge of the Crystal Sparks peeking out beneath.

“When I was starting out,” Vered said at last, “before Chat came along, even before I met Rauel and Sakary, we were playing one night in a village outside Clackerly, a tavern I wouldn’t send my precious old father to have a pint in—and he’s the one what stranded Mum without a clipped copper pennypiece before I was
even born, so you can guess just how precious I hold him. I was doubling up, tregetour and masquer, just like now, only it was because our masquer had got himself into a right brawl and while his bones were mending… well, it was me priming the withies
and
acting the plays for a fortnight. So at first I thought I was just awearied. But what I’d put into the withies—costume and scene and such—I could feel it wasn’t coming out quite rightly. Some rude old so-called comedy, it was, and me capering about stage front, speaking lines to the audience while things went on behind me. They laughed, to be sure, but as I say, it didn’t feel right. I turned for a look—and instead of the pretty girl in a blue silk gown s’posed to be preening behind me, there was this horrible drazel-woman with a face on her that’d terrify small children and large dogs, and a green velvet hat sprouting three tattered feathers that the swan who’d grown them would be ashamed to admit. The fettler lost his hold on the magic, the glisker simply gave up, and everything just sputtered to a stop while I stood there all flummoxed. Then this farmer-type gets up from his chair, right at the front, and bows, slaps down his tankard, and betakes himself off out the door with everybody cheering. The innkeeper told me later that the fetching little charmer conjured up onstage was the image of the man’s wife, who’d died the week before, communally reviled, and this was his manner of bidding final farewell.”