Thornlost (Book 3) (9 page)

Mieka woke the next morning unsure of when or how he’d got to bed the night before, or indeed if the bed he was in was his. It turned out that it was; Cade was lounging in the other one, making notes in his folio.

“Good party,” Mieka ventured.

“Mm. But that table will never be the same.”

“What table?”

“Nor the tabledrape. Good thing it was only bleached linen, and not Mistress Luta’s best Frannitch lace.”

“Quill!”

An arched brow, a quick sparkle of gray eyes. “You were showing us the latest in dances from the Continent.”

“I was?”

“You was. Although personally I never noticed anybody in Gref Jyziero use a tabledrape as a veil while dancing. Atop the table. Starkers.” He paused for effect. “With a rose between your teeth.”

“I did not!” He hesitated. “Did I?”

Cade looked despicably innocent. “You don’t remember?”

He cast frantically through his mind for memory of anything that had happened after the fourth or fifth round of ale. There’d been dinner, although he couldn’t have said what, and singing, and more ale, and a lot of talk, and then they’d held a hunt to catch fireflies in the garden bushes—

“Mistress Luta doesn’t grow roses!” he blurted.

Cade fell over laughing. Mieka grabbed the nearest pillow and pummeled him with it.

Just like old times.

Better. Wherever they went now in Seekhaven, they were recognized. Lord Fairwalk had ordered new placards made, and their own faces greeted them from shop windows and lampposts.
TOUCHSTONE
, the text read, and that was all. A master of understatement, Kearney Fairwalk had turned out to be.

“Romuald Needler, now,” His Lordship had said, vastly pleased with himself, “had
he
been in charge, he would have put a dragon up top and a crown and necklet below, just to make certain, don’t you see. Shocking lack of subtlety.”

Needler was to the Shadowshapers what Fairwalk was to Touchstone: manager of their bookings, their travels, their publicity, and their money. That last was getting to be rather a sore point with Mieka. After the trip to the Continent last year and their triumph with “Treasure,” he ought to be wallowing in coin. He’d really no idea where it all went. True, his house had been pricey, and the wagon had cost a small fortune, and hire of the horses to haul it would be a drain until Needler could be persuaded to sell a few of his special breed. And that wasn’t to forget those windows he and Rafe had shattered while performing for the Princess’s father’s court. Fairwalk was still trying to resolve that little problem, and bully their full fee from the Crown for the journey abroad. One of the best things about being sure of
the Royal Circuit this year was that they’d not be hanging about Gallantrybanks this summer working six nights out of eight to keep themselves from going skint until the Winterly began.

Adding to the lack of surprises was the approach made by one of the Stewards just before their performance of “Treasure” on the Fliting Hall stage. While Touchstone stood about in a back hallway, waiting to go on, a grim old man whose straggly gray beard kept catching on his gold chain of office tapped a finger on one of Cade’s glass baskets to get his attention. What he got was a growl and a glare.

“Word to the wise,” the Steward muttered. “One or two changes. Just a few lines. Nothing major. Better for all concerned.”

Before Cade could explode, Rafe made wide eyes at the man. “Really? What lines might those be?”

Jeska piped up with, “Oh, I think he means the speech at the end—you know, the one that’s the same as was said to the Archduke—I mean, the Archduke’s
father
—before they executed him? That one?”

“That one,” the man echoed stiffly.

“Oh no!” Jeska protested. “Memorized me lines, I have, and if he changes even one word—”

“Stickler for precision, that’s our masquer,” Mieka contributed.

“It’s the poetry of the thing,” Rafe agreed. “Rhythm and meter, all the syllables in the right places—”

Mieka nodded emphasis. “But as a Steward, you’d know all about that. Part of the judging, innit?”

“And Master Silversun works so very hard to get it all absolutely completely right,” finished Rafe. Then, helpful enough to make his mother proud, he delicately plucked straying strands of gray beard from the gold chain and smoothed them down onto the man’s chest. “How long did it take you to knit this?”

“Rafcadion!” Jeska exclaimed, shocked. “His
wife
knitted it!”

Mieka giggled as the defeated Steward jerked away and huffed himself off. “She knitted
him
!”

Rafe lost his smile. “They’ll try again, be sure of it, once we’re on the road. All those people hearing the real version for the first time—” He shook his head.

“They’ll have no luck getting us to change it!” Mieka vowed. “It’s brilliant and everybody knows it!”

“That’s as may be,” Cade said with a shrug. “But there’s something else. Tobalt Fluter wrote it all up in
The Nayword
, didn’t he? A nice long review, with all the details. So our version is what they’ll be expecting, out on the road. If we don’t give it to them, somebody’ll have to explain why.”

Rafe was shaking his head again. “The ‘why’ I’m interested in is a Steward asking us to change it now, for Trials. Somebody in the audience we might offend?”

“The Archduke will be here,” Mieka suggested.

“The Archduke has already seen it,” Jeska reminded him.

Cade snorted. “Who’ll take the bet that he didn’t care for it much?”

As expected, Touchstone’s performance of “Treasure”—rewritten by Cade with help from his Fae ancestress, though nobody but Touchstone knew that—won them Second Flight on the Royal. Mieka was so elated that he didn’t even scowl when, on the walk back to their lodgings to celebrate, Cayden muttered, “It isn’t as if we could’ve
lost
, is it?”

“Last year we did,” Mieka reminded him.

“The swizz was on then, too.” He kicked at a curbstone. “The first Trials, we got that on merit. Last year was rigged for Black Lightning. This year, for us.”

Mieka rolled his eyes at Rafe, who shrugged by way of reply. Neither of them mentioned that Cayden had spent the entire journey from Gallantrybanks fretting over whether they’d make the Royal Circuit at all. Instead, Mieka told him, “Well, then, we’ll just have to wait for next year, won’t we, and blast them and the Shadowshapers and everybody else right off the stage and into the river!”

Cade thought about this and then laughed, and in the way Mieka intended him to. Not with sarcasm, or with bitterness, or with skepticism, but with real anticipation.
That’s me Quill
, he reflected, much satisfied: show him someone or something to slam his head against, and he was happy as a Sprite on a springtime spree.

Trials had thus far been lacking in surprises, but one was waiting for them when they got back to their inn. Mistress Luta had planted her considerable bowlegged self in the vestibule, the handles of the inn’s largest silver platter gripped in her fists. On the platter was a letter: finest parchment, sealed with brown wax and sporting pale blue ribbons. Mieka thought the letter looked a little lonely, right in the middle of all that shining silver. The Trollwife’s eyes were glowing with excitement as she proffered the platter with a deep nod of her head.

“We got Second Flight on the Royal!” Jeska told her, and, lacking a convenient wrist to kiss, leaned over to peck at her cheek.

“Naught it be to
this
,” she growled, blushing.

Cade opened the letter, scanned it, and grinned. “Naught, indeed! We are hereby bidden to lunching at the castle on the morrow.”

“Who with?” Mieka demanded.

“ ‘With whom?’ is the correct form,” Cade chastened, “you illiterate blatteroon.” He waved the letter in front of Mieka, ribbons fluttering. “Whose eyes does this color remind you of?”

Snatching the parchment from Cade’s hand, Mieka ignored all the words except for the signature at the bottom. He was disappointed not to see Lady Vrennerie’s name there.
“Whom,”
he asked deliberately, “is this ‘Lady Dylas Clickpine’ when she’s at home, then?”

“Lady-in-waiting to the Princess. Says right there at the bottom. And it’s ‘who,’ not ‘whom.’ ”

Rafe made big eyes at him and drawled, “Amazing, innit? What a drop or three of noble blood will do for one’s understanding of proper grammar.”

Cade shrugged. “You went to the same littleschool I did. Not my fault if you never paid attention. If we’re all four of us to go to lunching, three’s the limit tonight. Can’t go see the Princess all surly with a hangover.”

Mieka whined because he was expected to, but privately he considered this wise advice. His mother would throttle him if he disgraced himself in front of Royalty.

Once again the Shadowshapers turned up at their inn—no astonishment, as the drinks were the best in Seekhaven. Jeska, it seemed, now had competition for Mistress Luta’s affections: the Trollwife actually blushed when Chat bowed to her. Mieka watched the spread of brick-red color up her cheeks and down her neck, wondering what it was about Chat’s uncomely, comically uneven features that could provoke such a reaction. Rauel was the boyish beauty of the group, though Vered with his nut-brown skin and white-blond hair was the most striking; Sakary’s looks were remarkable only for the deep red of his curling hair and the intensity of his gaze. Touchstone, Mieka decided with a smirk, was much the handsomer collection of players—despite Quill’s frets about the heft of his nose. Silly attitude, Mieka had always thought. He’d grown right fond of that nose, so much more impressive than the mushroomy buttons or halfhearted wedges that decorated most people’s faces.

“Second Flight!” was Rauel’s greeting. “Right behind us!”

“Just like always!” Vered tossed in as they all made for the bar.

Mieka laughed at them. The edge to their voices was as rewarding as the invitation from Princess Miriuzca. Touchstone’s acclaim had to rankle. The Shadowshapers were accustomed to
being the absolute best in the Kingdom. Now they had a rival—or, rather, now they
knew
they had a rival, and so did everybody else. Two years ago, Black Lightning had made the Winterly without having gone through Trials (talk of a thing being rigged!), but no group had ever jumped from Winterly to Royal before without playing Ducal in between.

Jeska, with his most Angelic smile, said to the Shadowshapers, “Good of you to be our opening act for the whole summer!”

“Prime them all up,” Rafe contributed, “so they’re ready for some
real
theater.”

This led to growls and laughter and some playful threatened punches. Mieka, dancing lightly out of range of Chat’s fist, took it the next logical step, saying, “And prime up the girls, too, so they’re ready for some
real
—”

“I’ve a wife!” Chat exclaimed. “And so do you, lad.”

“When did that stop any man worthy of the name, style, and title?” Mieka scoffed.

Not that he’d ever flaunt other girls in front of his wife. That was tasteless. Yet it had turned out convenient, that house outside Gallybanks. He could come into town and sleep at Wistly while Touchstone worked, then go back to Hilldrop for a few days. He did as pleased him with whoever caught his fancy. As long as a man didn’t bring home a pox, what business was it of his wife’s what he did while he was away from her? It wasn’t as if such dalliances actually meant anything.

The first round of drinks was on the house. And the second. When the third came with dinner, Rafe reminded his partners that there was a limit tonight, which led to an explanation of why, which led to more teasing—and more jealousy.

“Ooh, quite the sensation, aren’t we?” Vered mocked. “Lunching frivols with Her Royal Selfness, special attention from the Stewards—”

Cade glanced up from layered slices of ham and chicken
under a savory fruit sauce. “Attention?” he asked sharply.

“ ’Twas all over Fliting Hall,” Rauel told him. “You didn’t hear?”

“Him? Before a performance?” Mieka snorted. “Only hears the natter of the anguishings inside his own head!”

“What were they saying?” Cade demanded.

Chat spoke to the chunk of grilled carrot on his fork. “Somebody was fussing over offense to the Archduke. Trying to earn some points of his own, like, though not on the stage.”

“I thought it might be something like that.” Rafe passed his plate to Sakary, who loaded more meat onto it. “Beholden, mate. His Grace’s fingers seem to be dipping everywhere these days, right up to his rings. He couldn’t buy the Shadowshapers two years ago, he couldn’t buy us last year, even with the offer of a theater built to our exact designs—”

“What?” Vered exclaimed.

“You didn’t hear?” Rafe’s smile was an intriguing combination of smugness and disgust. He told the tale briefly, finishing with, “So now he is, shall we say, not our most enthusiastic supporter, and anyone wishing his favor will be looking to interfere with us.”

“A whole theater,” Rauel murmured, a note of yearning in his voice.

“I shouldn’t like that,” said Sakary, quiet but adamant. “No, I shouldn’t like that at all.” When every man at the table stared at him, he went on, “It’s the difference in halls that keeps us sharp. Playing the same place all the time, or nearly all…”

“Boring,” Mieka interpreted. But he was wrong.

“Might get sloppy,” Sakary said. “Complacent, like. Not pay enough attention.”

“Not lose control, but forget to be as careful,” Rafe agreed.

“Fettlers!” Mieka shared a grin with Cade. But in the next moment he remembered that Sakary was complacent enough about Chirene to make friends with Alaen and let him hang round the house. Admiration of a lovely wife was a fine and
flattering thing, but if anyone took to visiting Hilldrop, he’d—

“Control is just the issue, though, innit?” Jeska asked. “The Archduke’s control, I mean. Who will he try to buy next?”

Cade laughed quietly. “Isn’t it obvious? Black Lightning, of course.”

Sakary traded glances with Vered, then said, “That makes sense of today’s announcement, then, doesn’t it?”