Touchstone (30 page)

“So … so Jeska’s father got nervous when his son turned up with Elfen features—”

“Because he’d learned how to fear from
his
father. Whatever that man had in his own ancestry, two generations of this kingdom’s girls and—” He circled a forefinger with a flourish at his own pointed ear. “And I bet you don’t even know why he thought like that, do you?”

Again Mieka shook his head.

“Didn’t you ever go to school? Or don’t they teach what happened two and three hundred years gone?”

“If they did, I wasn’t listening,” Mieka conceded.

He was given a brief and shocking history lesson. Chattim talked of magical folk of all kinds, pushed into enclaves and then pushed out of countries entirely. He spoke of waves of intolerance that coincided with hard times or plague, difficult times that required someone to blame and someone to punish. He told about how if the magical folk fought back, they were only confirming the worst suspicions and fears of ordinary Humans. So they left, when and as they could, for more congenial places.

“Your King at the time of the First Escaping, he was Wizardly himself through his mother, and he gave welcome. So after that, no matter who was throned, settlements were established here where more could come when they needed to. I’ve heard that voyagers to the new lands across the Ocean Sea actually meet up with magical folk who originally came from all over the Continent. I’ve half a thought to go see for myself, if any of my long-lost kin—” He broke off as Mieka snorted with laughter. “Funny, you think?”

“You on board ship?
Very
funny, Chat, you know it is! You can’t even look at a seashell without turning greensick!”

The other glisker sniggered. “Make a hobby of sailing, do you?”

“We’ll all have to, won’t we, if this scheme for—what’re they calling it? ‘Artistic trade,’ that’s it. If that’s set up, then it’s over the Flood in leaky little boats for us players, and then—” He broke off as Chattim looked bewildered. “You didn’t know? There’s talk all over Seekhaven of sending groups over to the Continent—”

Chattim slammed a fist on the table. The dishes and glassware rattled, and the little brass lantern jumped a foot. Mieka darted out a hand to steady it.

“I knew it! I
knew
it! Selling us like wool! Sending us places where they’ve never seen a real performance, not the sort we can do! No wonder the Archduke wanted to buy us!”

It came clear to Mieka then. Anyone with a stake in a celebrated theater group would have a cut of whatever was earned on the Continent if this scheme went through. Chat had been wrong about its being mainly for prestige, this ownership of players’ contracts. Highborns and guilds of other countries would vie madly to present players who actually knew what they were doing; the potential earnings were enormous. But if what Chat had said about throwing out magical folk over the centuries was true, then the likes of Wizards and Elves who not only didn’t hide what they were but used all the magic at their command in their work hadn’t been seen on the Continent for years.

“We’ll be freaks,” Mieka blurted. “They’ll come to gawk and gape at us like—like when the King sent samplings from his bestiary garden on tour through the provinces!”

“And we all remember what happened when he did.”

Mieka repressed a shudder. At Bexmarket, one of the gigantic dappled cats had reached a paw out from its cage and sliced open the cheek of a boy who’d ventured incautiously close. The subsequent riot had resulted in the deaths of four townsfolk and the escape of the cat—who was rumored to be roaming still in the rugged mountains.

“They’ll be warned off us,” Chat went on bitterly, “just as people were warned not to come near the wild animals.”

“And they’ll come anyway, and dare each other to bait us, poke sticks into the cage—Gods, and to think I was lookin’ forward to it!”

“When I was a bantling,” Chat mused, “we lived in a twenty-stride village—well, maybe thirty, if you had short legs. Been there for generations. There were the Wizards with their earthenware manufactory and the Goblins who ran the kilns for them, Trolls at the post stables and store, some mostly Humans who farmed, and Elfenbloods like us who did the leeching and the brewing and the grinding at the mill. Then the old baron died, and the new one married, and his wife bore stillborn son after stillborn son. She took it into her head that not only was the leech incompetent with his potions, but the midwife was strangling every child before he could draw his first breath, the Wizards had poisoned the plates she ate off, and the Goblins were burning corn-plaits of her babies in their fires. Oh, and the Trolls were mislaying her letters a-purpose at the post, so there’d be no town-bred Human physicker to come attend her. She even thought the poor farmers were in league with my grandsir, giving the baron’s kitchens only mold-rot flour. So all of us left before the baron could gather up his kin and come kill us.”

“Kill you?” Mieka stared at him. “You don’t really mean they would’ve—”

“Killed us. And in the nasty ways, nothing so simple as a hanging or beheading. My grandsir, he had cousins in one of the big cities, so we lost ourselves there in the crowds. But when I turned up able to do what I do, there was a choosing to be made. Sell me for what the ambitious lordling up the street was offering, or lose me to him anyway for no money at all.” Chat picked up the full glass of ale and drained half of it down his throat. “So you’ll be seeing that I’ve been sold before. I don’t much like it.”

Mieka fell back in his chair, appalled. For the first time in his life, he regretted his atrocious career as a scholar. He should have known these things, he told himself, he should have listened.

“I bought myself back years ago.” The dark blue eyes slanted a look at Mieka. “How old d’you think I am? You’d be—what, eighteen, nineteen?”

“Um … eighteen this summer, but don’t tell anybody.”

A brief smile angled across his face. “I’m thirty in a month. Most people guess early twenties, and being Elves, we all of us look the same and young for years and years without even trying. But it took me from sixteen to twenty-four, saving enough to buy myself back.” He contemplated his glass again, brows twitching. “I expect those years will show up with a vengeance once I start to age like the rest of our folk.” He glanced over at Mieka and shrugged. “You’d best be getting back if you’re to be leaving today—and I soundly recommend leaving before the Archduke’s fingers start scrabbling for
you
.”

“I—yeh, I should go—” He stumbled to his feet. “See you back in Gallytown, then.”

“Safe going.”

He left his friend solemnly drinking in the dappled sunlight of the garden, and walked back along the river only dimly aware of where he was. When he caught sight of the twin spires of the High Chapel where everyone was supposed to attend worship again tomorrow, he hesitated a moment, then shook his head. He would find nothing there, no information and no counsel. There were the self-consciously splendid windows and self-congratulatory sculptures, and nothing that spoke to him at all.

Because what he was thinking was not that if this foreign tour scheme occurred he and everyone like him would be seen as freaks, nor that it would be dangerous to perform in places where Wizards and Elves and Goblins and other magical folk were reviled, nor even how horrifying it was that people had been chased out of their homes and countries under threat of death. What Mieka was wondering was why, if the king during what Chat had called the First Escaping had been part Wizard, he had done nothing to stop it.

Quill would be able to tell him what to make of all this. Quill enjoyed anguishing himself about such things. And with an abrupt insight into a mind that had intrigued him from the start, Mieka knew that once Quill thought about it, he’d not be writing sympathetic lines about living up to one’s forefathers but instead would make each prince of dubious legend speak about striving to be better than his ancestors had been.

Turning from the cold and lofty symbol of Wizardly devotions, he hurried back to the inn. The chaos of departure had happened without him: everyone else had done all the packing, and a sprightly two-horse rig was almost loaded. The landlord was happily thumbing through voucher chits that would gain him money without his having to provide further room and board. Mistress Luta stood by with their hamper, and by her grunt as she hefted it into the carriage she had accounted for most of the vouchers anyway. Jeska was saying their farewells to the landlord’s wife, and Rafe was already inside and fussing with the window latches. Cayden stepped down from the carriage, scowling, then caught sight of Mieka and waved.

“Late as always! We were about to leave without you.”

“Never,” he replied, giving the horses a wide berth as he jogged up to the rig. “What would you do for entertainment along the way?”

“You—you must be Master Windthistle,” said a voice nearby, and he turned to find a Gnomish little man with too much sandy, curling hair regarding him with dark eyes that blinked too often. “I’m Kearney Fairwalk. I hope—I do so much hope we’ll have a chance to talk, back in town, don’t you see.”

He supposed he really ought to accustom himself to being called
Master Windthistle,
and not feel he ought to be looking round for his father or one of his uncles or brothers. He was a player on the Winterly now. He had performed before the King and Court. He was a part of something worth being part of. “Uh—pleasure,” he managed, wondering where his manners had gone, his glibness. There was something odd about this man; he knew it without knowing how he knew it. But perhaps he was being foolish, spooked by Chattim’s tales of noblemen who bought groups of players or forced magical folk into exile. From somewhere he dredged up a smile and a bow. “Yes, of course, looking forward to a good long conversation—”

“Mieka!” Rafe bellowed. “Get in here!”

Cade stood aside as Jeska climbed into the carriage, then came forward to shake Mieka by the scruff of the neck. “Now!” was all he said, but the shake was affectionate, and Mieka grimaced an apology at His Lordship before scrambling into the rig.

There was barely room for the four of them. The hamper of food and the empty whiskey barrel were on the floor. Mieka propped his feet on the latter and look around at what would be his home for the next long, wearying while. Surprised by the softness of the dark blue leather upholstery, impressed by the ornate wrought iron firepocket (even though they wouldn’t need its warmth), he was delighted by the rack of glassware and bottles—and amazed by the shelf of books, each one bound in blue leather and stamped in gold with a design of oak leaves.

“His Lordship’s own rig,” Jeska affirmed. “We’ve hired him.”

Mieka leaned out the open door of the carriage to call out his gratitude, but forgot his manners again as Cade bent down to hear whatever it was Fairwalk was saying to him. He could see only Cade’s long, thin back, but the nobleman’s face was turned upwards and there was a look in his dark eyes that Mieka recognized instantly. He’d seen it directed at himself, from men and boys and women and girls alike, since he was fourteen years old.

Not that it shocked him. He didn’t care one way or the other what anybody else did in bed. But another flashing instinct told him that Cayden would never identify it for what it was. For all his learning and his brilliance, Quill was rather touchingly innocent in many ways.

Which reminded him of something else Cade was innocent about, and he looked round the carriage. “Where’s me things?”

“Luggage boot.” Rafe eyed him knowingly. “You’ll have to settle for drinking Lord Fairwalk’s liquor.”

Mieka gave a shrug, annoyed that Rafe had guessed so accurately that he’d been looking for his wrapped roll of thorn. “Fine by me—but I hope the rest of you don’t get thirsty.”

Chapter 15

“Earliest we get there is dawn tomorrow,” said Lord Fairwalk’s coachman, “so you might’s well relax. His Lordship’s orders are to get you to Redpebble Square as quick as may be, and that’s what I’ll be doing. We stop for naught but changing horses. No pissing out the windows—splash the paint, and you’ll be licking this rig clean with your own tongues. Need the garderobe, you’ll have about five minutes—His Lordship keeps his own horses at the post stations, and the ostlers know to be quick about the changings. The seats fold down into a nice big bed if you’ve a mind to stretch out and don’t mind rolling about a bit. Sheets in the compartment next the bookshelf. If we get a wheel stuck, it’s all of you out to help push. And I don’t answer questions. Right. We’re off.” He slammed shut the little door just behind his seat, and true to his word the carriage surged forward after a whistle to the horses.

Mieka looked round at Rafe, Jeska, and Cade. “Sheets?” he echoed faintly.

Snuggling broad shoulders back into the padded seat, Rafe grinned. “Rather like being able to run people over with my bed.”

Sometime after midnight, at their third very quick stop to change horses, Mieka had had enough of scrunching himself into a corner while Rafe sprawled across the folded-down seats and snored. Jeska was similarly asleep, though in a much tidier fashion. Cade practically fought Mieka in a scramble to the door and outside into the fresh cool air.

The coachman was limping slightly as he paced around the carriage to check the wheels. Mieka offered him a swig from a bottle of Lord Fairwalk’s excellent peach brandy, but he shook his head regretfully.

“It’s as much as my place is worth for anyone to smell anything stronger than onions on my breath when I get back to His Lordship’s stables. Beholden for the meat pies, by the bye, lads. Usually I’m choking down whatever lukewarm swill’s left over from supper at these places.” He nodded to the closed and darkened tavern, his lip curling.

“No trouble,” Cade said. “If you’d like a breather, I can drive for a while.”

Mieka squinted in the dim light from the stable lamps. “Drive? You?”

“Oh, I’ve all sorts of peculiar accomplishments.”

“Gods! I can’t even ride!”

“Nothin’ to it. I’ll teach you one day.”