Touchstone (19 page)

Afterwards, Cayden understood that he’d been wanting to do this for years. Just to see if he could. Or perhaps to prove that he could without his grandmother’s taint suffusing his work. He had indeed watched first Blye’s father and then Blye herself fashion withies ever since he could remember. And she was a very good teacher. A few false starts, and three finished pieces that didn’t meet Mieka’s standards, and it seemed that no time at all had passed before he was looking at the workbench, where six new withies—one of them faintly green, two tinted red-orange, three a very pale blue—were laid out for polishing.

Except to inspect each, and reject three, Mieka had sat in a corner, silent and motionless, completely unlike him. Even as Cade thought this, while taking a much-deserved swallow of brandy, he realized he was wrong. At the glisker’s bench, Mieka was a constant blur of motion. But away from it, in private, he chose a chair and a position—legs crossed or folded to one side, knees drawn up or splayed, hands on the arms of a chair or resting loosely in his lap—and stayed there.

He didn’t move now as he said softly, “That’s done, then.”

“Done,” Blye agreed. “I’ll polish them up tonight and leave them with Mistress Mirdley for you in the morning.”

“I’ll take them,” Cade said. “I can polish them when we get to Seekhaven.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “As you wish. You know where the buff papers and glossing cloths are. Be sure to take enough.” Rising, she reached for the brandy glasses with her bandaged hands and cussed under her breath.

“Let me,” Mieka offered, rising from his chair. “Time everyone got some sleep, I think,” he went on as he took the snifters to the back room and rinsed them in the sink. “Takes more magic out of you than you thought, eh, Quill?” he called through the open door, and Cade glanced up from where he slumped at the workbench. Before he could organize his wits for an answer, the boy was back. “We’ll say sweet night, now, Blye—I’m much beholden, and please forgive me for swearing at you.”

Cade wasn’t sure how Mieka managed it, and he was too tired to puzzle it out, but it wasn’t long before all those wrought iron steps were below him, and he and the Elf and the six withies wrapped in a scrap of black velvet were up on the fifth floor. A little while after that he found himself tucked up in bed, clad in a soft nightshirt, with no idea at all how he’d got there.

“You really needn’t worry, y’know,” said Mieka. “About your ancestors, I mean. Your father does what he does, it’s nothing to do with you. Lady Jaspiela, she’s a bit of a wart, but she’s learning to respect you whether she knows it or not. And Lady Kiritin…”

Cade flinched and turned his head away.

“Lady Kiritin,” he repeated softly, “doesn’t matter at all. It’s not in you to be wicked, Cade, nor cruel. I’ll see you tomorrow daybreak. Dream sweet.”

If he dreamed, when he woke the next dawn he didn’t remember. The first thing he saw was the black velvet wrapping the six new withies … that
he
had fashioned, flouting laws made necessary by his own grandmother. He felt reckless and triumphant and uneasy, and reminded himself to tell Mieka that all six withies would have to be “accidentally” broken right after Trials.

He lingered in bed for a time, knowing he ought to get moving, get dressed, get over to the palace grounds, where the special coaches taking players to Trials would soon be loading up. Something kept him motionless, staring at the velvet on his bedside table. He could always sense the withies when he held them in his hands, after he’d filled them with magic. These, however, though not yet primed, seemed almost to call to him, fragments of feeling and sensation urging him to settle them, complete them, ready them for Mieka’s use. Surely it was illusion, that they trembled within their wrapping.

Everyone bound for Trials departed Gallantrybanks for Seekhaven Castle on the same day and at roughly the same time—including the Shadowshapers in their own luxurious wagon. They would use post horses along the way, just as the other coaches would, and competition for the best animals would be uncompromising. The Master of His Majesty’s Revelries provided the conveyances, but royal generosity did not extend to paying extra to the ostlers to save the best horses for those commanded to His Majesty’s presence. It was obvious, therefore, that one of the most modern and well-sprung vehicles in the kingdom would soon outstrip the other coaches. The Shadowshapers had only themselves and their equipment to transport; the king’s three enormous coaches were loaded down with three groups of four young men each, with all the effluvia of their profession, their personal belongings, and, in one case, a very large hamper of food and a half-barrel of Elf-brewed whiskey.

The last two items won Touchstone a ride in comfort. At the first stop, their coach arrived before the others and the driver laid claim to the strongest horses while the restless young players who’d just spent six hours in a physically confined and professionally hostile environment piled out to stretch their legs as far as the taproom.

When the Shadowshapers came along less than ten minutes later, a pleasant rustic scene was unfolding beneath a crooked oak tree near the stables. Touchstone had decided to lunch outdoors. Cade, who’d spent the ride thus far with his feet firmly on the hamper, even when he was pretending to be asleep, was portioning out cold meats and cheese onto glass plates padded for transport with Mieka’s exceedingly useful spell. Rafe was distributing glass forks and spoons. Jeska was slicing bread with a steel knife. And Mieka, who’d spent the ride perched on his aunt’s whiskey barrel where it rested on the coach floor, was pouring generously into four glass beakers. The set of serving ware for traveling had been Blye’s gift, created during the spring before her father had taken so ill.

They had not invited their competition to share.

They did invite the Shadowshapers, who returned the favor—and ensured their own continuing access to excellent whiskey—by inviting them to share their big, comfy wagon for the rest of the trip.

Accordingly, after the meal was finished, Touchstone’s baggage and crates were transferred to the wagon’s roof rack. The hamper and the half-barrel were loaded inside. Soon the eight young men had settled into the sort of extravagance that only the most successful players on a Circuit could afford. Mieka took a long, pondering look at the bunk beds, firepocket, screened windows, folding table, two cushioned chairs, and tidy little washstand with mirror, and announced, “I want one!”

Eight of them in a coach designed for four wasn’t too much of a strain, especially after Mieka started pouring the whiskey again. As had become usual when Touchstone traveled, a singing competition followed the third beaker. Or perhaps it was the fourth. It turned out that Sakary Grainer, with a skinful of alcohol in him, was disposed to divulge the most singularly obscene drinking songs any of them—even Jeska—had ever heard, and in the most angelic voice imaginable. Awestruck, Jeska ceded the victory to the fettler with a little bow from the waist—and fell off the lower bunk onto the carpeted floor, where he spent the rest of the night delicately snoring.

Despite the doubled load, the Shadowshapers’ vehicle made better time than the king’s coaches, and thus obtained better horses. By noon of the next day, when Touchstone had expected to be enduring another six or seven hours of travel, they were instead waving a grateful farewell to the Shadowshapers before dragging their baggage up three flights of stairs to their assigned quarters.

The taverns in Seekhaven Town competed zealously to host players during Trials. Ten days of providing for the needs of hungry, thirsty, rambunctious men—especially the young ones at their first Trials—could on occasion damage the premises, but the Master of Revelries could be counted on to pay for repairs. Though it was avowed that allocation of rooms was strictly random, everyone knew that those players reported to be particularly promising received finer quarters.

Touchstone, it appeared, rated middlingly. Their room assignment was the top floor of a pleasant three-story inn with a view of Spoonshiner River through the elm trees. There were two bedchambers with a garderobe in between. Though the plumbing didn’t extend above the first floor, and they would have to carry up their own bathwater, at least they wouldn’t have to haul a tub up the stairs. A little room next to the garderobe featured a high-backed cast-iron monster with dragon-claw feet, its porcelain innards painted bright blue.

“Can you imagine having to drag this thing up here?” Mieka’s attention was divided between admiring the tub and going through his pockets for enough spare change to pay someone to bring up water to fill it. “The sign says nine and a half—anybody got another fourpence?”

“If I say yes, do I get first wash?” Rafe asked.

“No.”

“Fine.” He disappeared back into the room he and Jeska would share.

“Rafe!” Mieka whined. “It’s just fourpence!”

“First wash for me or no wash for you at all!”

Cade turned from splashing water onto his face from the bowl at the washstand, and sniffed the air elaborately, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll contribute to the cause.” He dug into a pocket and pulled out a se’en-penny piece. Mieka grabbed for it; Cade held it high over the boy’s head, grinning. “That’ll be thruppence back, or I get first bath.”

“Cullion!” He made a face of dire menace, an expression he was at least twenty years too young even to attempt, and paid up.

By late afternoon they were all bathed, shaved, and dressed to attend High Chapel. Their competition might or might not arrive in time to make an appearance, but even if they did, the appearance they made wouldn’t be anywhere near their best. And at Court, appearances were very nearly everything.

Not counting new players vying for the three places on the Winterly Circuit, the town and castle of Seekhaven played host to all the best in the kingdom: Trials, once passed, did not mean Trials never again looming. Each year the players on the Royal, Ducal, and Winterly were invited to perform before the assembled Summer Court. These invitations were understood to be exactly the sort received by Touchstone:
Prove yourselves
. A group could stay on the circuit they’d already earned, move up or down, or lose their place either because they weren’t as good as they’d been or because someone else was better. It was, to say the least of it, a fraught ten days for all concerned.

Unless, of course, you were the Shadowshapers, acknowledged the best in the kingdom, confidently expected to move up from Winterly to First Flight on the Royal, bypassing Ducal Circuit entirely. It had never been done before. Cade was proud that he knew, and after the journey to Seekhaven could claim as his friends, all four of the young men who would do it. If he was envious as well, he kept it to himself.

Along with the vouchers for their lodgings, food, various Court functions, directions to all the major landmarks in and around the castle, and their assigned rehearsal times, waiting at the town gates for Touchstone had been the official list of performances. As they strolled the clean-swept cobblestones towards the High Chapel where royalty sometimes attended services, Mieka ran through the list.

“Spintales—good enough, I s’pose, but on their way down, it’s rumored. I shouldn’t be at all surprised to find it true. Cobbald Close Players, they’re naught but a huddle of tired old men. I don’t know why they’re still on any Circuit at all, let alone the Royal, but look for that to change. Hmm … if we can manage it, I’d like to go see the Shorelines.”

Jeska looked over Mieka’s shoulder at the schedule. “They’re on an hour after we finish rehearsal. If we hurry, we could make their show. But why d’you want to see them? I mean, they were good in their day, but they’re past it now.”

“Just to see them one last time,” Mieka said wistfully. “They were the first I ever saw. The minute they started their show, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.” He paused, flinging a smile at Cade. “I was seven.”

Jeska looked impressed. “Really? I was fourteen, and it was my Namingday treat from me uncle. The Goldenharts.” He gave a soft, reminiscent chuckle. “I thought Mum would have a seizure when he brought me home that night and I said I wanted to be a masquer.”

“She ought to’ve known, though, shouldn’t she?” Rafe asked. “You’d been memorizing poetry and such forever.” He winked at Mieka. “Still knows all the singsongs they taught him at littleschool. It’s where he gets the tunes for those disgusting ballads. Just changes up the words a bit—kind of makes you wonder about the quality of education in this kingdom. Now,
my
first sight of a players’ show—”

Cade sniggered. “Which version are you going to tell this time?”

“The real one, of course,” the fettler replied with injured innocence. “How could anybody lie to this face?” He pinched Mieka’s chin and got his hand knocked away. “You want to hear it or not?”

“Should I believe it?” Mieka asked Cade, who shrugged.

“It was fated,” Rafe intoned. “Me poor ol’ grandda mistook the address of a warehouse for the address of a whorehouse, and in we went, and there they were: a half-drunken fettler, an entirely drunken glisker, and absolutely the ugliest masquer who ever took what passed for a stage, doing the naughty version of ‘Feather Beds’ while their tregetour sat in a corner with a naked girl on his lap.”

Mieka’s jaw dropped. Cade laughed and said, “He made his grandda stay till the end of the show—the one onstage, not the one in the corner! The only reason his mum didn’t wallop him is because he couldn’t talk about anything else but the play—”

“—such as it was,” Rafe finished, adding virtuously, “I never noticed the girls at all. I’d already decided on Crisiant, so no other girls existed for me in the whole world.”

“Or so he wants her to believe,” Cade added.

“She’s much too smart for that,” Mieka scoffed. “How about you, then? What was your first?”

“First girl or first play? I was fifteen.” He grinned. “For both.”

“Good Gods! That old?”

Cade made a lunge for him, and he danced out of reach, laughing. Rafe snagged him by the scruff of the neck and shook him like a puppy. “Settle down,” he advised. “Or all that bathwater and a fresh shave will be for naught because I’ll throw you in the river.”