Thornlost (Book 3) (32 page)

Miriuzca then turned her attention to Lady Jaspiela, as was proper, and complimented her on her two fine sons, her distinguished husband, her lovely gown, and her beautiful hat. Blye began to breathe again. Jed looked as if the effort not to laugh would soon give him an attack of some kind. Mieka, curiously enough, was still looking stunned that his quiet, modest, shy little wife had dared to open her mouth. Cade decided it was a good look on him. Anything that kept him silent was a good thing.

Velvet-cushioned stools were arranged at the Princess’s gesture. Cool drinks were handed round. Blye found herself seated at Miriuzca’s knee, telling her—haltingly at first, then with bright fluency—all about glasscrafting. Cade stood slightly apart, surveying the little scene with satisfaction. The pottinger wouldn’t be necessary, though it would certainly be given at the appropriate time. With the Princess’s personal esteem between her and the tax collectors, Blye would be safe.

While everyone was waiting for the fourth race—bemoaning their losses on the third and hastening to place bets—the clouds that had been milling about in the distance began to blow closer. A brass gong sounded to call the weathering witches to push them away. Everyone in Gallantrybanks was more or less familiar with this, but, judging by the startled widening of her eyes, Cade was certain that Miriuzca had never seen it before. She might have heard about it, but hearing and seeing were two different things. He had been amusing her with tales of the Royal Circuit when the gong rang out, and as the weathering witches swarmed to the center of
the track to work their magic, he saw her begin to tremble.

Very quietly, he said, “It will take them a few minutes to finish their work. They use their personal affinity to water and air—they’re mostly of Elven blood—to coax clouds away. When they get rid of snow, it’s the weathering witches with an understanding of fire who melt snowbanks so the water runs down the drains.”

She nodded, a stiff and unconvincing smile on her face.

Derien returned from fetching more fruit juice, and overheard the last bit. A swift glance at the Princess told him what must be wrong, and he proved himself a promising candidate for a diplomatic career by leaning comfortably against Cade’s shoulder and taking her hand to comfort her. “There’s nothing spectacular about it, you know. Nothing like what my brother can do onstage!”

With visible effort she asked in a whisper, “Can every magical person do this kind of thing?”

Cade shook his head. “No, not everyone. All the gifts and specialties are different amongst the magical races, and for each individual. There’s never much telling what will show up. With this one, for instance—” He rumpled Derien’s hair. “We live in deepest dread of what mischief he might be able to do with his magic, once he comes into it in a few years.” Dery made a face at him, and the Princess began to relax. Cade continued, “I know the concept behind what the weathering witches do, and I can melt a bit of snow from the front walk at home, but I can’t do what they’re doing with those clouds, for instance.”

She looked in the direction he pointed, and caught her breath as the clouds slowly backed away. All at once she chuckled that deep, throaty chuckle of hers. “Weathering witches must be coveted guests at outdoor parties!”

Though he joined in her laughter, he was writhing inside, too embarrassed to tell her that weathering witchery was very low
on the ladder of magical accomplishments.

“But I have been rude,” Princess Miriuzca said, “taking up all your time like this. I’m sure there are other friends you wish to be talking to.” It was polite dismissal, and Cade knew it—had been expecting it, in fact, for the last half hour. What he didn’t expect was her murmur of, “And I see my husband about to arrive with far too many people, who are believing that their titles give the right to bad manners and claiming all the chairs and footstools for themselves.”

“I know the type,” he assured her. “You have my sympathies!”

She gave a guilty little giggle, then composed her features to regal calm. She was very good at it by now, he noted with a pang of regret.

Gratitude was expressed and leave was taken, and they were almost out of the Royal Ring before Prince Ashgar and his retinue arrived. Trailing behind was the Archduke. As they passed him, he gave Cayden a genial nod, but his words were for Mieka’s wife.

“Your mother’s artistry is sorely missed by the Archduchess these days. May I attribute the beauty of these ladies’ gowns to her skills?”

Cade had less reason than ever to come to the girl’s defense, but everything about Cyed Henick annoyed him. And it would be a heart of solid rock that could remain unmoved by her sudden cringe as snideness couched in compliments put her and everyone with her in their proper places: very near the ladder’s bottom, a rung or two above peasants, charwomen, and the men who drove the dung carts.

Before Cade could speak, Lady Jaspiela favored the Archduke with her notice and said, “Pray give my greetings to Her Grace. I so enjoyed our talk at the milliner’s last week, where we were both choosing hats. I had hoped to see her here today. I have the card of my own dressmaker to give her, as she requested.”

Cade had the sense not to gape. The Archduke had the sense
to say only, “Regrettably, Her Grace is indisposed. I shall convey your good wishes.” With a nod, he rejoined the Prince.

“Insufferable man,” mused Lady Jaspiela. “Derien, please find me someplace shady to sit down.”

{“Your Grace, the child is born.”

The Archduke looked up from his desk, brows arched in a silent question.

The servant—the chamberlain, to judge by his fine silk shirt and silver chain of office—cleared his throat, then admitted, “A girl, Your Grace. Her Grace is well, and sends her apologies.”

“Ah well—a son next time, I’m sure. Be so good as to open as many bottles as you like downstairs and toast my daughter.”

“Your Grace is all kindness. Congratulations, Your Grace. I give Your Grace good night.”

When the man had departed, His Grace took up pen and paper. After scrawling the date at the top, he began immediately, with no salutation:

Just after midnight last night my daughter was born. My wife has apologized. She has not the wit to understand that a girl can tidy things up genealogically. Let us hope she turns out pretty enough to interest Prince Roshlin when they grow up—though ultimately that has nothing to do with the matter. They will do as they are told. As for the events at the Downstreet, I think you will agree that Silversun’s cleverness in outwitting the constables a few weeks ago went a long way towards preventing an actual riot. I believe—}

But whatever the Archduke believed was not visible to Cayden as the Elsewhen faded out.

“Cade?”

He glanced down at Blye’s worried dark eyes. Of the two others present who would recognize an Elsewhen, Derien was chattering to Jed, and Mieka was whispering soothing words to his wife. “Never mind,” Cade murmured. “As Mother says—insufferable man. Let’s find somewhere to sit down.”

During the time it took to accomplish this, his mind worked feverishly at trying to comprehend what he’d seen and why. First, whether she was aware of it yet or not, Archduchess Panshilara was pregnant, not indisposed. The date on the Archduke’s letter was three weeks shy of nine months from today—the day after Cade’s own Namingday, in fact. Second, she would have a girl—which would make things “tidy.” The Princess’s child would be a son—Prince Roshlin, who could be married to the Archduke’s daughter. The man’s schemes certainly were far-reaching, Cade thought sourly. What influence he himself might have on that midnight scene completely escaped him. How could what he did or didn’t do possibly affect when the Archduchess delivered her child?

But as Jed and Mieka hauled him off to place bets on the next race, he suddenly realized how he could turn this knowledge to his financial advantage. And Mieka’s, because the girl really was owed some sort of compensation for the humiliation she’d suffered.

He had never done such a thing before in his life. He had never used his foreknowledge to make money. To get himself out of unwanted personal futures—such as servitude to Master Honeycoil—yes, he’d done that often enough. Still… how many times had he experienced an Elsewhen that offered this sort of opportunity?

And on that thought another Elsewhen flitted across his mind. Just a glimpse, just a swift impression of himself and Mieka in the drab little office that belonged to Slips Clinkscales, the odds-man who lived at the bottom of Criddow Close.

During the rest of the afternoon, Jed broke even, Cade lost a bit, and Mieka came out ahead by a tidy little sum that,
uncharacteristically, did not put him in a cheery mood. Cade didn’t understand this until they were leaving. It was quite simple, really: The sidelong glances and frankly admiring stares directed at his wife annoyed him. He held her by the waist, close to his side, and glared at any man who looked more than a second or two. Cade shrugged it off, thinking that if a man didn’t want other men to look at his wife, he ought to keep her immured at home or marry somebody plain.

Everyone was tired by the end of the day. Having had experience of the impossible traffic around the Palace gates, Cade had arranged with Kearney’s coachman to bring the carriage round to the Hestings, a few blocks away. Lady Jaspiela and Derien lagged behind a bit, and Jed and Blye outpaced them some, so Cade, a step or two behind Mieka and his wife, was the only one who overheard what she said to him.

“I don’t understand why the Princess talked so much to Blye and not me. She’s not nobility or anything. We’re both crafters and married women—and
her
crafting isn’t even done by women. And I’ve had a baby and the Princess is about to have one and it isn’t as if Blye is ever going to, poor thing, so what could they find to discuss? And besides,” she finished artlessly, “I’m much prettier.”

Mieka laughed briefly, and Cade swore it wasn’t just imagination that lent the note of disapproval to his voice. “Oh,
much
. Did you think that might be the reason? The Princess is a lovely girl, no doubt of it—but you’re something the Gods made personally and with infinite care to every perfect detail, and mayhap the Princess didn’t like being outshone.”

There was more on this theme, but Cade stopped listening. A minute or so later, Jed waved from a corner and soon they were all piling into the carriage. Cade elected to ride up top with the coachman to give the others more room, and stared at the passing streets of Gallantrybanks unseeing, occupied with some very unpleasant thoughts.

“…it isn’t as if Blye is ever going to, poor thing.”
He would have to ask Jed if presents came regularly from Mieka’s wife—a pillow slip, a scarf, a blouse, sheets. After realizing that the arrival of the green shirt had curtailed Mieka’s nocturnal entertainments for about a month, Cade wasn’t disposed to doubt Mistress Mirdley any longer. And with the thought of the Trollwife, he felt the tension seep from his shoulders a bit. She loved Blye; she would be on the lookout for any “gifts” from Mistress Windthistle—the gorgeous little bitch. He found all at once that despite feeling outraged on her behalf at the Archduke’s rudeness, her snobbish envy of Blye settled the matter for him for good. It was a relief finally to give in to his dislike.

Not that she’d ever attempted to win him over. He counted for nothing as far as she was concerned; a temporary distraction in her husband’s life, an annoyance but nothing more serious. He remembered the look on her face in the back alley of the Keymarker, when he pretended he’d not seen Mieka kissing her. He saw again, as if in an Elsewhen, her smug certainty that she was winning and that eventually she’d win. But it hadn’t been an Elsewhen. It had been real. And there was very little he could do to thwart that anticipated victory.

She
thought it would be a victory. He knew otherwise. There’d been that other Elsewhen, the one where Mieka had come home drunk, thorned, belligerent, and the pages of Touchstone’s folio had been burned in the fire by his pregnant wife, and they’d battled each other bloody—

Only that had been in the other house, the one Mieka hadn’t bought. It hadn’t been Hilldrop Crescent.

Hilldrop Crescent, he had blown up with black powder and with Cade’s help.

Of all the Elsewhens he’d ever had about the girl, a few were comprehensible in light of subsequent events. Her sewing, for instance—and he reminded himself once more to ask about
anything sent to Blye. But there was one that he hadn’t thought of as being about her at all, just a fleeting flash on the way back from Seekhaven after their very first Trials.

It had been night, and he’d been seated on a bench very like this one, having taken over the driving from Kearney’s coachman. Mieka was beside him, and they were talking, and all at once the carriage lamps had illuminated the startled shape of a fox in the middle of the road.

{A flicker of white at the tip of a fox’s tail, and screams rippling through an immense room crowded with revelers and ablaze with candlelight. A girl with gold-and-bronze hair sobbing into Mieka’s shoulder.}

Cade had lost his grip on the reins. The Elf had grabbed them, slowed and finally halted the horses, lied fluently to the coachman, and said nothing about the weirdness of it all as Cade rummaged through his satchel for Mistress Mirdley’s little kit of necessaries for a soothing salve. Cade could still see Mieka’s hands as he smoothed the ointment onto his palms, the red welts left by the leather reins, the single blood blister. Mieka had never said a word about any of it, and Cade had never told him about that Elsewhen. It had happened before Mieka knew about Cade’s foreseeings. It had happened even before Mieka met the girl at the Castle Biding Fair. And it mystified Cade still, the fox and the ballroom and the girl weeping against Mieka’s shoulder. He’d never seen its like since, which he knew from experience meant nothing. It might happen; it might not. Some decision of his had made it possible, and it might come true.