Window Wall (22 page)

“Sorry. It hit me rather sudden-like.”

Rafe took a seat at the table. “I think they’ll take you like that until you get used to them again.”

“Finish your wine,” Mieka advised, crouching at his side.

Cade did as told. He was glad it was white wine; red would have been too much like blood. Setting down his glass, he chose words carefully as he described the Elsewhen, finishing with, “And I swear that’s what it felt like. Feeding time. Only it was a public spectacle, too, with the audience partaking.”

“Of the blood?” Jeska’s blue eyes were wide with shock.

“No. Oh, no. The sensations. Just as if they were in Rose Court for a play, and a glisker and fettler had spread the magic.”

“Wasn’t anyone … well,
disgusted
?” Mieka asked.

Cade shook his head. “Not a bit of it. It was like a special treat they were given, a favor eagerly sought, that they were allowed to join in.”

“But what was being fed, down below the grate?” All at once Mieka turned very pale and sat back hard on his rump. “Oh Gods,” he muttered. “
Balaurin
!”

“What?” Jeska exclaimed.

“Like in Vered’s play! The enemy warriors who drank blood from their victims’ skulls, like Vampires except not exactly, but enough to set Chat to tale-telling that time, remember?”

Cade thought about it, then nodded. “But what were they doing at Dolven Wold?”

“It’s where the Archduke was born,” Rafe mused. “He doesn’t own it anymore. But it’s where he was born. And his ancestor came from that part of the world, didn’t he?”

They were quiet, all four of them, until Yazz whistled to the horses, and the wagon lurched gently forwards. Wordlessly they passed the bottle, needing the alcohol to offset the bluethorn. Safely in their hammocks, the only light coming from a half moon shining through the right-side windows, they stayed silent until Rafe said, his voice light and casual, “What you saw, Cade—it’s not quite the sort of ‘communal experience’ one expects at a theater.”

Cade grimaced in the darkness. “More like what it must feel like at a public execution.”

“Which this was?”

Mieka made an inarticulate noise of revulsion. “Shut it, both of you, and right now! Or I’m for some redthorn so I can sleep without nightmares.”

Cade didn’t remind him of his promise to take it easier on the thorn. How could he, when he and Rafe and even Jeska partook of bluethorn before a performance? And they hadn’t even crossed the Pennynines yet. They’d all end up, he told himself glumly, either wild-eyed in thornthrall or very, very dead.

He worried about these things on days when he was sober. Increasingly, he was not. Certainly if he’d been in his right mind, he would never have joined Mieka on a little expedition across the summery green hills. Then again, he
had
been stone-cold sober when he’d offered to bring the flint-rasp.

Mieka had planned it as carefully as he planned the arrangement and use of his withies. Perhaps fearing that Cade would renege on his promise, he’d kept it secret until the morning of the great day. They had spent the night in the wagon, and a little while after dawn reached the inn where everyone on the circuits but themselves and the Shadowshapers stayed on the way to Sidlowe. Here, after an excellent breakfast, Mieka vanished. Everyone thought he’d gone upstairs for a nap while the horses were fed and rested.

But it seemed he had only changed clothes. He reappeared in coarse woolen trousers tucked into high brown boots and a vivid blue shirt. In his hand was the knitted cap Jeska had bought for him on the Continent.

Rafe glanced up from writing a letter to Crisiant, and whistled. Mieka made a face at him and said to Cayden, “I’ve hired a horse, but I don’t know how to drive it. And you said you’d help.”

Grinning, Cade snatched the cap from Mieka’s hand and stuffed it into his own jacket pocket. Knocking back the last swallows of his breakfast ale, he said, “See you lads at the next stop!”

Mieka added, “Probably somewhere on the Sidlowe road—”

“If we don’t get lost,” Cade interrupted.

“In either case,” Mieka finished, “don’t wait up.”

“What are you doing?” Jeska demanded. “Where are you going?” He turned to Rafe. “Where are they going?”

“A little journey back in time, to a rotten, filthy night ringed with Wizardfire torches.”

The masquer’s puzzled frown became a radiant smile. “Oh, excellent! Have fun!”

“I intend to,” said Mieka.

It was a ways to their goal. Mieka provided directions, clinging to the back of the saddle, sitting as straight and tall as he possibly could so he could rest his chin on Cade’s shoulder to see where they were going. The route taken by the circuits had changed, and because of that, the inn served naught but locals. Farmers, herders, tradesmen, the occasional traveler, all these drank in the taproom and slept abovestairs, but without the circuits coming regularly to the inn, profit was chancy at best. That was what you got when you snubbed an Elf, if the Elf you snubbed was one of the King’s players. One could only hope that the pristine racial purity of the establishment was compensation.

* * *

A
s they crested a rise and saw the outlines of the inn atop the next hill, Cade asked, “What were you thinking of destroying? The garderobe?” He shifted uncomfortably. “And quit digging your chin into my shoulder, will you?”

“Sorry. I was thinking mayhap the taproom hearth. ’Twould make a lovely noise and take a long time to repair, yeh?”

“Just make sure everyone’s out of the place.”

“There’ll be no murder done, I promise.”

“I was thinking more about witnesses. I don’t want my glisker brought up on charges in the middle of the Royal Circuit.”

“Such
foresight
, Master Silversun!”

Cade grunted a laugh, and they rode on. A few minutes later he drew rein in a stable yard he hadn’t seen in nearly five years. The torches he’d lit with magical fire were still in their brackets, but the walls were a trifle crumbly and the yard was inches deep in foul straw and horseshit. The stables needed painting; so did the sign above the front door. He smiled, deeply satisfied. He waited until Mieka had jumped to the cobbles before dismounting and handing the reins to a wide-eyed boy who could barely gather up courage to approach close enough to take them. Though Mieka’s ears were hidden by the cap, certain things about Cayden screamed
Wizard.
Evidently magical folk were rare and suspect at Prickspur’s.

They mingled with the other customers in the taproom, getting slowly through a pint of quite good ale, keeping mostly to themselves as they listened to the desultory conversations around them. Farmers, herders, tradesmen, crafters—anyone who could leave his work for an hour or so for a drink did so at noon. Mostly they brought their own food. The smells coming out of Prickspur’s kitchen were not encouraging. Cade managed not to gag when a pot of something purporting to be stew was brought around with a couple of bowls. Mieka smiled and ordered another drink. They were the only ones who weren’t locals; nobody was staying upstairs. An idle question or two informed them that just Prickspur and the stable lad lived here full-time, which suited Cade and Mieka down to the ground—which was where Cade surmised a lot of this place would be once Mieka got through with it.

There had been a few suspicious looks directed at Cade when he and Mieka entered. Prickspur himself was rude enough when he delivered the drinks to their table, but gave no sign of recognizing them. A little while later, a large, balding, ferociously muscular man came in still wearing the leather apron of his calling, and upon spotting strangers looked as if he wished he’d brought his anvil or at the very least his hammer.

“Prickspur!” he bellowed. “Be it three year or four that no Wizardy git’s crossed yer threshold?”

“Three, innit?” someone replied.

“Nah, goin’ on four,” countered someone else. “And liking it that way, each and every one and all of us!”

“Left Sidlowe, I did,” said the blacksmith, smacking one meaty fist into his palm, “ten years since, to get clear of the Gobliny smiths and the filthy Gnomish Elferbludded Trolling Wizardly bastards who went to them instead of me.”

Cade felt his spine stiffen. Mieka clunked his beer down on the table and, wide-eyed with shock, exclaimed, “You don’t mean to say you think he’s—”

“Has the look of it, don’t he,” said Prickspur. “With that height, I might’ve said
Giant
, but the spindliness of him says
Wizard.
”

“Well, I
never
!” Mieka stood, kicking back his chair, and glared down at Cade. “When my carriage lost a wheel and I accepted your offer of a ride, my good man, I’d no idea!” Turning to the rest of the taproom’s patrons, he spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I simply thought he was
tall
, don’t you see.”

Cade struggled to keep a straight face, as always when Mieka used his
Lord Fairwalk with a bigger stick than usual up his ass
accent. But he knew his part in the farce now, and stood up, saying, “Can I help it if me mother’s sire was six feet and a half and a bit and another bit, and me fa’s old grandsire was said to be muchlike the same? Yeh, I’m bein’
tall
, but it ain’t my fault!”

The blacksmith scowled, looking Cade over. “Well,” he said at last, “if tall is all you’re being, then I s’pose this is as good a place to drink as any.”

“Beholden,” Cade said, and sat down again.

Mieka pretended to hesitate, then shrugged, righted his chair, and sat down to finish his drink. The faint and distant chiming of the local Minster announced the hour past noon. The farmers returned to their crops, the workmen to their trades, the herders to their animals. Cade felt rather sorry for them. When they returned for a dinnertime drink, there’d be nothing to return to.

When the place was nearly empty, Mieka rose, stretched, and ambled over to inspect the fieldstone fireplace, professing admiration for the workmanship. All at once he turned to Cayden and snapped, “Well? What are you sitting about for? I must be in Dolven Wold by sunset! Go do whatever it is you need to do with the horse to make the poxy thing ready to ride, and do it quickly!”

Cade stumbled to his feet, dipped his head, touched his forehead, and tried not to snigger at the wicked gleeful gleam in those eyes. He was halfway to the door when he heard Mieka say, “Frightfully clever. I mean to say, how does one get all those round stones to fit together just as snugly as if they were square bricks? Must be this whitish stuff in between them, don’t you think?”

Dead silence greeted this imbecility. Biting his lips together did Cade no good; a snorting giggle escaped him, and he lunged for the door and stumbled outside into searing-bright sunshine, where he clapped both hands over his mouth and leaned against the wall, shaking with laughter.

Eventually he reckoned that haste might be advisable, so he fetched the horse, checked the girth, mounted up, and guided the animal nearer the inn’s front door. And waited.

And waited.

The last noontime customers exited. Cade began to worry that Mieka had forgotten the flint-rasp, or couldn’t get rid of Prickspur long enough to dump the black powder where he wanted it to go, or—

The horse reared up and shrieked an instant after detonation. The upstairs windows blew open, scattering glass like the ending of a Touchstone performance. Cade hunched his shoulders against the slicing shower and struggled to stay in the saddle. When all four hooves were grounded again, he fought the animal’s dancing nervousness and wheeled around towards the front door again. This had burst open, disgorging smoke and a stunned and stumbling Mieka.

Cade heeled the horse nearer and yelled. Mieka didn’t hear him; Cade scarcely heard himself. His ears were ringing like a Minster on Wintering Night. Mieka waved his arms about, trying to clear the smoke so he could see. Cade urged the horse nearer just as Prickspur staggered from the door, coughing.

Cade panicked. Kicking the horse, he leaned precariously over and grabbed Mieka by one elbow, hauling him up even as Prickspur scuttled towards them. Mieka flopped across the horse’s hindquarters like a sack of grain, arms dangling on one side and legs on the other. Cade reached behind and tugged frantically as Mieka scrambled himself around and finally got the horse between his knees, hanging on to Cade for dear life.

They passed Prickspur at a dancing trot, nervous hooves clattering on the cobbles. Mieka hollered something indistinct but undoubtedly obscene and flung his knitted cap in the man’s face. Cade reined the horse through the gates and within moments they were fleeing at the gallop.

After a mile or two, the grip around his waist crushing the breath out of him, Cade slowed and stopped. Mieka tumbled to the road, whooping for air. He tried to stand, knees wobbly, and sat down hard on his rump.

Cade couldn’t help it. He started laughing.

Mieka glared. “Don’t—
ever
—do—that—again!”

Though he’d heard perfectly well, he cupped a hand beside one ear. “What?”

The Elf pushed himself upright, looking over his shoulder. “Oh, shut up and help me back on before he comes after us!”

“Eh?”

Swearing fluently, Mieka clambered back up behind Cade and resumed his hold on the saddle.

They caught up with the wagon around dusk, and over a simple dinner of bread, cheese, fruit, and wine treated Jeska, Rafe, and Yazz to a spirited description of their triumph. But later, as the others sat up late playing cards, Cade stretched out in his hammock, hoping he wouldn’t be too stiff in the morning (he wasn’t used to riding for that many hours), and thought over the things he’d heard at Prickspur’s. He started to worry. He lay there listening to the banter and the bidding, and the soft
clip-clop
of the hired horse, tied to the back of the wagon, due to be dropped off tomorrow at the next circuit inn. So normal, so usual: two mostly Wizards, two mostly Elves, and a Giant sitting up on the coachman’s bench—but not usual for those ordinary rural men who’d eyed him askance today. Was it common throughout Albeyn, that away from the cities and larger towns, prejudice against magical folk flourished almost as malevolently as on the Continent?