Window Wall (44 page)

“A lovely note,” he said to the man who looked at them over a glass-topped case of gold and silver and glistening jewels. “My father is a lute-maker, and that happens to be one of his favorites for testing purity of tone. But I see by this marvelous display that your discriminating taste extends to all things.” He laughed, radiating pleasure. “Even to the color of the walls and carpets and chairs! Do you know, I was once in a jeweler’s shop—well, he called himself a jeweler, though by the time I left, empty-handed I might add, I very much doubted it—but I tell you with my hand on my heart that all his walls and furnishings were shades of brown. Brown! Every gem he brought out, from sapphires to emeralds to pearls—even the diamonds!—they simply
lay
there, poor things, trying their hardest to shine but doomed from the instant he placed them onto brown velvet. This elegance of blues, however, is perfect.”

From a corner of his eye, he saw Cade grimace slightly. Really, he ought to be accustomed by now to Mieka’s interminable chattering. The proprietor, who introduced himself as Master Spindletwist, was nodding his approval of Mieka’s discernment. Most jewelers—most people who worked with metals—were at least partly Goblin. This man looked Human from his rounded ears to his straight white teeth to his long limbs.

“My wife’s choosing,” he said. “What may I show you today?”

“Wives!” Mieka sighed dramatically. “One has so much to do to keep them happy, isn’t that so? I’m just returned from months away, you see, and damned if I could find anything anywhere that would please her, and worthy of her beauty. Don’t you think so, Cayden?”

“Oh, of course.”

For a moment, Mieka thought Cade really had fallen out of the stupid tree this morning and hit every branch on his way down. He had underestimated his tregetour’s powerful understanding. Cade smiled at Spindletwist and went on talking.

“Shollop, Dolven Wold, Sidlowe—well, you couldn’t really expect to find anything in Scatterseed, could you, Mieka? But New Halt and even Lilyleaf were vastly disappointing, too. And as for Frimham—” He flicked a hand in the air as if to brush away all memory of the town.

Mieka had mentioned a long absence from Gallantrybanks. Cade had named in order most of the stops on the circuits. Master Spindletwist might or might not be devoted to the theater, but Mieka was hoping he wasn’t a moron.

“And now, of course,” Mieka went on, “with all these festivities coming up, my darling girl will need something new and wondrous to wear.” He laughed, looking up at Cade. “While you and I and Rafe and Jeska rehearse day and night for the celebrations, which means I probably won’t be seeing much of her at all!”

“It’s a pity,” Cade said, “that Blye isn’t as clever with gold and silver as she is with glass.”

All their first names, mention of King Meredan’s anniversary and rehearsals for same, with Blye the famous glasscrafter—who was the first to receive the Gift of the Gloves—they were running out of hints. Surely they’d provided enough by now?

They had.

“Of course, Master Windthistle. Delighted to be of use to yourself and Master Silversun.”

His part in the proceedings accomplished, Cade had the sense to wander round the shop while Mieka dithered over trays of everything from hair ornaments to toe-rings. At last a brooch was settled on: a spray of gold leaves dripping diamond dew. Mieka expressed his raptures and assured Master Spindletwist that Mistress Windthistle would, too.

Next came the slightly tricky part. Mieka was presented with the bill while the brooch was wrapped. The jewel had been carefully chosen, not for beauty and craftsmanship, but for price. It had to be expensive enough that no man could be expected to carry that much cash on him, but not so expensive that it would not leave the shop without at least a quarter of its value in the proprietor’s hands. Mieka signed the bill, hoping he’d guessed correctly.

Master Spindletwist smiled and handed over a little wooden box painted bright blue and tied with a white ribbon.

Mieka smiled back and left the shop vowing in the warmest terms to tell everyone he knew, including Princess Miriuzca, about the exquisite glory of wares to be found here. Once they were outside, he turned to Cade. “Where’s the nearest pledge-broker’s?”

“Why d’you want a—?” Cade’s mouth stayed open, though no more sound came out. Mieka almost laughed as understanding made his jaw drop just a little more before he shut it firmly.

The shop was a dim and dismal place on a side street, selected only because Cade knew of no such places and Mieka knew of several and chose the one closest to an ostler’s. The broker knew Mieka, too, and the amount of time they spent haggling back and forth obviously grated on Cade’s nerves. Mieka kept one eye on him as he tried to raise the price to cover the cost of a nice little rig to take them to and from Great Welkin with some left over for trimmings for the ostler, which was the mark of a true gentleman. The little things did matter quite a lot, and it was to their advantage to be known as blithely generous with their money when they didn’t have any money. They had to keep up the pretense as long as possible, while they worked every night they could so that by the time the fakery was found out, they had enough to pay off at least a few of their bills.

Presented with this concept, Cade would of course object that applying to a pledge-broker for a loan with this jewel as collateral was fatal advertisement of their financial straits. From long experience, Mieka knew what Cade did not: establishments of this type were as silent as death about whose belongings were on display for sale at a goodly fraction of what they were really worth. Any pledge-broker who gossiped about Lord Thus-and-So’s silver plate or Mistress Guildmaster’s-Wife’s amber necklace was soon out of business. Nobody would pawn their possessions to someone who would spread their names and thus their financial troubles all over Gallybanks.

Cade was looking depressed. Granted, the sight of other people’s valuables, everything from jewelry to clothing to furniture to the tools of various trades, was saddening. But at least there were no lutes. Mieka had heard from Jinsie only last night that Alaen, thrown out of his latest digs, had pawned one of his lutes. Not that he’d used the money to find a place to live. No, it had gone to dragon tears. Jinsie knew this because she was friends with Deshananda, Chattim’s wife, and Deshananda had had it from Chirene, Sakary’s wife, with whom he was hopelessly in love, that Alaen had taken to sleeping in a shed in their garden. She’d come across him one morning while playing with her children, and he’d given them the fright of their lives before running away—leaving a thorn-roll behind. Chirene had left it where it was, knowing he’d come back for it. Mieka had no idea how much dragon tears could be had for the pledge-price of a lute, but he didn’t want Cade to see any reminder of Alaen and Briuly Blackpath.

Mieka’s work was finally done. He scraped the coins off the counter into a leather drawstring purse and left the shop without a word of farewell. Outside in the street, he set off at a brisk pace for the ostler’s.

“No reason to linger and be robbed. Most dangerous place in Gallybanks isn’t the intersection of Beekbacks and Whittawer, it’s outside a pledge-broker’s!”

Cade said nothing until they had paused at a corner to wait for an overladen vegetable wagon to pass by. “You seem rather expert at this sort of thing.”

“Only when times were
very
hard at Wistly. It’s easier to come up with the pledge-broker’s money than the original price, at which point, one simply returns the item to the place where it was bought, with some blithering about its not being suitable, or the person it was meant for didn’t like it.” He took Cade’s elbow as they crossed the street. “Come on, let’s find you something nice and neat to ride in. I’ll play coachman, shall I? Oh, stop looking so horrified! Yazz lets me drive the wagon, and that’s four huge horses! How much trouble could one be?”

“Oh, Gods,” was Cade’s only comment.

The ostler had a pair of two-wheeled rigs for hire. Both seated two on slightly threadbare upholstery; one was larger, and had a raised perch in the back for a driver. It looked hideously uncomfortable. Mieka chose it anyway, for its size and its newer coat of black paint. He let Cade make friends with the bay mare while he haggled down the price, and shortly before noon they were rattling out of Gallybanks on the road to the Archduke’s residence, Great Welkin. Cade insisted on driving. Mieka didn’t object. It gave Cade something to occupy his mind besides the coming interview with His Grace. Pleased with his gambit, Mieka leaned back, put his feet up, and enjoyed the ride.

Great Welkin was not on the river. It was located down below the Plume on the only solid land in the middle of a marsh. Being so near to Gallantrybanks, Great Welkin needed no fields or pastures to support it. Two raised roads led to it, one from the south and one from the west. Seasonal rain turned it into an island, covering the roads ankle deep if the inhabitants were lucky, and hip deep if they weren’t. A mere ten miles from the city, the gray stone pile was close enough to keep an eye on, and to keep a potentially dangerous child—Cyed Henick—isolated for years as he grew to manhood. As the rig bounced up the western road and the marshland spread before him, Mieka shivered inwardly at the thought of what it must have been like to live so remote a life, and in such a silence. It wasn’t exactly a prison, but it came damned close.

On attaining his majority, the Archduke had spent large sums to improve the road and his ancestral dwelling. Heavy stones had been cut for the former; for the latter, trees and shrubbery and flowers had been planted, and new curtains, upholstery, carpets, and so on had been ordered. But neither sunny summery day nor flowering vines could soften the stark blocky lines of the house. Four stories high, surmounted by what looked like a crow’s nest transferred from a ship, only made of stone, to Mieka it resembled a huge, ugly gray box with a sloping lid of black tiles and a little gray handle on top.

Mieka sat up, scrunched around, and said to Cade, “Time for me to take over. Oh, c’mon, it’s only a half mile! And you can’t go in there driving yourself!”

Shuddering dramatically, Cade relented. Mieka waited until he was seated in the rig, reins still in his hands, before climbing up to the little perch, which turned out to be just as uncomfortable as it looked. Cade handed him the reins, saying, “If I end up in the ditch—”

“Yeh, I know, you’ll kill me. Slowly. Painfully. Whatever. Good Gods, would you look at that horrible house! I wonder why he didn’t sell this and buy something more convenient in the city when he came into his money.” He clicked his tongue at the horse, flapped the reins once or twice, and the rig started moving again. Mieka kept one eye on the road and one eye on the back of Cade’s head.

“P’rhaps he got used to it here, when he was a child.”

“Or it’s just as useful to him to live here as it was to King Cobin to have him raised here. Nice and private, innit? For keeping him away from the Court, and the Court away from him.”

“You may be right. Bet you can see for miles and miles from that thing on top.”

“It’s called a
cupola
, Quill.” When Cade turned round to show him an incredulous face, Mieka told him, “My brothers build things. And I
can
read, y’know. Even architectural plans.”

“And stark amazement grew apace.”

Mieka instantly finished the couplet with, “Don’t be snide—it warps your face.”

“Oh, and it’s a poet now, is it?”

“I have been hopelessly corrupted by six years in your company. Or is it getting on for seven now?”

“Were we reckoning by the amount of sheer annoyance, it’s been half a lifetime.”

“Only half? One of us must be mellowing.”

Just as well they could share a laugh. They had reached a massive gateway guarded on each side by a huge stone dragon with wings outspread and claws poised to grab anything that got too close. Mieka and Cayden were on the Archduke’s land now, invading his home, and with demands that he wouldn’t much like at all.

The rig bounced over the rounded cobbles of a wide courtyard. Mieka reined in. “I’ll go in with you, shall I? Just inside out of the sun, not all the way to Himself.”

Nodding tightly, Cade descended from the rig and tugged his jacket into place. Mieka waited for a groom to take the mare’s bridle, then jumped down to join Cade. Two guards in orange-and-gray livery advanced, one of them demanding to know who they were and what business they had with His Grace.

“Our business with His Grace is private.” Cade looked down his long nose as only he could do, and Mieka inwardly applauded his assumption of the
My Bloodlines Are Infinitely More Impressive Than Yours
face. “And he won’t be grateful if you leave us out here to bake in the sun.”

Mieka knew there were two ways this could go: Obedience might be so drilled into them that anybody who gave orders in such a tone with such an expression on his face had better be obeyed and right quick—or they could be immune to any orders but those of the Archduke. If they had glanced at each other, he would have guessed the former. They didn’t take their eyes off Cade and Mieka. One of them said, “State your business.”

Mieka regretted their attitude, because it would whittle away at Cade’s confidence. Once again, he had underestimated the man. With Lady Jaspiela in his tones, Cade said, “Not to anyone but His Grace. You will be so good as to step aside so that we may enter, and while we are being served something cold to drink, you will inform the steward or the chamberlain or whomever you report to that Master Silversun and Master Windthistle have arrived.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Mieka took his turn, saying, “Yes, and if we don’t take care of this little matter with the Archduke soon, we’ll be late for it. Open the door, there’s a good fellow.” As he spoke, he let the withie slip into his palm from his sleeve, and concentrated a bit, and two shakes of a dragon’s tail later, the guards were escorting them up the four broad stone steps to the front doors of Great Welkin.

A fist pounded—most inelegant, Mieka thought disapprovingly—and the left door opened. Mieka’s immediate reaction was that if this hall was a result of the Archduke’s expensive redecorating, he had more money than taste. Why was it, he mused as they walked towards the wide, orange-carpeted stairs, that really rich people so seldom had the sense to consult people who actually knew what they were doing with tapestries and paintings? Possession of a fortune was no guarantor of style. It had pleased the Archduke, evidently, to buy as much as could possibly be crammed into every conceivable space—and, as the hall must measure fifty feet by thirty feet, there were a lot of spaces to cram.