“Five days?” Cade looked appalled.
“Somebody at the time sneered at him that he must be more Human than he looked, not to react the way a real Elf would. So he set out to be the most Elfenly Elf who ever lived.”
“Poor old man,” Blye murmured.
“The bulk of the family isn’t quite that mad,” Mieka promised, then added, “the family I’m sure I’m related to anyway. Gods, how I wish that didn’t include Uncle Breedbate.” Who, he didn’t say, had a nose for finding previously unnoticed valuables, which was probably why Mum kept him around.
Blye rose to her feet. “I think I’m for another cup of tea. You?” When they shook their heads, she smiled and went up the sloping lawn to the terrace.
After she was out of earshot, Cade said, “The Archduke talked to Rafe at Seekhaven, right after our show.”
Mieka felt his eyes widen almost out of his head. “What? Rafe never said anything about—I didn’t even
see
him!”
“All sorts of charming compliments, deeply impressed, hopes to see us on the Winterly—shoveled it on, according to Rafe.” Cade pleated a corner of the blanket. “Irked me some, that he went to Rafe ’stead of me. But after I heard what he said, and how much Rafe disliked him…”
“But why would he talk to—?” It hit him like a cudgel to the head. “He was shopping! Ha! Vered and Chat both said we’d be next, after them—I can’t wait to tell them we were
first
!”
“Don’t say anything to anybody, Mieka. I’ve been thinking about what Chattim told you, and trying to fit it into this offer for the glassworks, and until I understand it, I don’t think we ought to let on that we even know he was interested in buying it.”
He chewed his lip, then nodded. “All right. I’ll keep quiet. Oh, stop lookin’ at me in that tone of voice! I can keep a secret!”
“It’ll be interesting, watching you prove it. I—” He broke off, his attention caught by something or someone up at the house. His gray eyes lost all light; his face lost the flush brought by the sunshine. He looked, in fact, much the way he’d looked those times when—
No. This was different. This wasn’t what Mieka had begun to term the
Elsewhere
look. This was … recognition?
Mieka turned, and saw his father standing at the tea table with a tall, lean, awkwardly dressed young man who was cradling a lute in his arms as if it were his firstborn son. Heavy reddish-brown curls framed an almost golden face that wore a pathetically grateful expression. Mieka’s initial reaction was delight that Fa had found someone worthy of his work and had made a sale. But then he glanced at Cayden again, and this time he was sure he saw a remembering in his eyes.
“Know him?” he asked as if he had no interest in the matter at all.
“What? Oh—no, he just seemed familiar for a moment, that’s all.”
Mieka wanted very badly to remind Cade of that little lecture he’d had the cheek to give about lying. But Blye was walking towards them, digging into the pockets of her skirt, and as she knelt beside them on the blanket she held out two small boxes made of clear glass, one for each of them.
“I made these for you. I already gave Rafe and Jeska theirs.”
Mieka cradled the sparkling little box in his palm, examining the thistle etched onto the top half. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered.
“They’re for your medals,” she explained. “Rafe’s got a spider on his, of course, and I put a drawn bow on Jeska’s, and Cade’s is a falcon—but turn them over, and there’s a dragon on the bottom. To remind you.”
Most players kept their Trials and Circuit medals in a little bag or a drawer or a wooden box. Chat’s girlfriend had sewn his into a needlework framed on his wall. For some, the medals were all they would ever have to prove what they used to be. Not Touchstone; he knew that with something stronger than magic.
“Beautiful,” he repeated, and on impulse leaned over and kissed her right on the lips.
“Oy!” exclaimed Cade, laughing again. “A flutter, a definite flutter!”
She threw a pillow at him.
Chapter 17
The summer passed in a blur of performances, both in and around Gallantrybanks. Their schedule of shows was both grueling and lucrative. The Downstreet’s owner (more to the point, his wife) was ecstatic to have Touchstone break as many glasses as possible, for as many nights as possible, and agreed to whatever Lord Kearney Fairwalk stipulated by way of payment. Blye’s loan was taken care of for the next three months with just the trimmings. Fairwalk himself was paying for the heir search.
Despite professional success and the personal satisfaction of helping Blye, Cayden was a wreck. He appeared to have misplaced his sense of humor. Mieka began to think that all the times he’d seen Cade laugh were naught but the delusions of a stronger than usual bit of thorn. Vicious during rehearsals; locking himself for days in his fifth-floor room during fits of what Mieka assumed was creative vehemence; ruthless with his criticisms after each and every show—even their triumphant first appearance at the Kiral Kellari (oh, the delights of smashing all those lovely little mirrors!); demanding, dictatorial, he hadn’t even joined them to celebrate the Guild’s reluctant acknowledgment that there was no heir to the glassworks other than Blye. Rafe and Jeska had experienced his moods before, and most of the time simply shrugged when he sulked. But Mieka was rapidly losing what little patience he’d ever had. What in all hells did it take to make the man happy?
In midsummer, on one of Touchstone’s rare days off, Mieka took his twin sister and two eldest brothers on a little expedition to visit Blye. He’d thought to nip up to the fifth floor of Number Eight, Redpebble Square, to ask Cade if he wanted to use up a bit of the previous night’s trimmings on a nice evening out. There was a new tavern over by the Plume that sounded fun: a spectacular view of the waterfall, outdoor tables beneath a canopy of twinkling lanterns, and an exotic bill of fare promising authentic tastes of faraway lands.
But Mistress Mirdley shook her head. “He’s in another of his mopes, and will welcome no company. It’s my thought that he can barely tolerate his own.”
So back Mieka went to the glassworks, annoyed, and busied himself inspecting a dozen new withies while Blye demonstrated how a big glass platter was made.
“Y’see, with flint glass, you work it at a lower temperature, and it’s easier to get rid of trapped air bubbles.…”
Mieka glanced up from the withies. “Did you hear something?”
“… and you get a brilliant, sparkling effect with every facet you cut, because the light is reflected all through the object, whether it’s a plate like this or—”
“Oy!” he said. The knock at the shop door sounded again.
“Could you do that with a window?” Jinsie wanted to know. “It’d look splendid in a window, wouldn’t it, Jez? West-facing, to catch the sunset.”
“But if you get the melt wrong the glass will crizzle—that means lots of little cracks—”
“Blye,” Mieka said loudly, “I think there’s somebody wanting into the shop.”
“That’s a fine word, that is, crizzle—I’m expecting Cade to steal it any day now—”
The knock became pounding. “Blye!”
At last Jinsie turned to him. “
Will
you stop yelling?”
“There’s somebody thumping the shop door down.”
“Probably Cade.” Blye shrugged. “Go let him in, won’t you, Mieka? Beholden. Anyway, as I was saying, once this cools I’ll let you hear how it rings. You can always tell lead crystal from plain glass by the ringing of it.”
“Master Glisker on the First Flight of the Winterly Circuit,” Mieka muttered as he opened the connecting door from the glassworks, “and now I’m playing footman. Keep yer hair on, I’m comin’!” he hollered as the pounding started up again. And then it occurred to him that Cade would call out—loudly and impatiently these days, his voice as well as his temper flayed raw with nerves about the Winterly. Slipping into the shop, he lifted the window’s heavy parchment shade a trifle and swallowed a yelp.
They all stared as he came running back into the works and snatched up all the illegal withies.
“Guildmasters!”
“Quick!” Jinsie opened and presented her sizable shoulder bag—whatever did girls keep in such things, that they required so much room? he wondered stupidly, shoving the withies inside.
“Anything else needs hiding?” Jezael asked.
Blye’s silver-blond hair came loose of its tie as she looked frantically round the works. “I don’t know—I don’t think so, just the withies—”
“Done,” said Jinsie. “Jez, go open the door to them. And then go find Cayden.” And, after rummaging about in the bag with a clink and clatter that made Mieka wince, she pulled out a comb and a clean scrap of silk, leaving him in charge of hiding the bag.
“What can they want?” Jedris asked.
Blye winced as Jinsie wielded the comb through her tangled hair. “I haven’t done anything!”
Mieka gave her a sardonic smile. “And that matters?”
By the time Jezael escorted the two Guildmasters into the glassworks—and then departed to fetch Cade—the smudges had been cleaned from Blye’s face and hands, and her hair was smooth. Mieka was all affability and charm, performing introductions, saying that he and his brothers and sister had just been watching the artist at work.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he finished, gesturing to the platter—two feet long and a foot wide, clear flint-glass and curved ever-so-slightly at the edges.
“Competent,” grunted one of the Guildmasters, a Goblin from his crooked yellowing teeth to his long, grasping fingers.
“Your pardon for the intrusion, Mistress,” said the other, whose height and heft and large thick hands would be more suited to a blacksmith than a glasscrafter, “but as you have recently been declared the inheritor of these works, it’s our responsibility to inspect the premises.”
“What for?” Jedris asked, a smile on his broad-boned Human face but the chill of Snowminder Elfenblood in his gray-green eyes.
“Violations,” said the Goblin, and, clasping his hands behind his back, began taking tiny, precise steps around every inch of the glassworks.
“Have any been reported?” Mieka asked innocently.
“No,” the tall Guildmaster admitted. With a glance at Blye, he added, “But she is, after all, a woman.”
Nothing could be more calculated to put sparks into Jinsie’s eyes. This was not the time for one of her lectures. Mieka scowled furiously at her behind the Guildmaster’s back, and stood aside to watch as the premises were scrutinized.
Blye had recovered the powers of speech, and answered whatever questions were put to her. Mieka listened absently; he was alert for the sound of the shop door opening again, glad that Jinsie had thought to send for Cayden. But long minutes went by, and longer minutes than that, and still Cade didn’t arrive.
Blye’s voice lost its nervous shakiness as she spoke. Yes, almost all her father’s pieces had already been sold. It was part of the Guild’s agreement allowing Blye to run the glassworks that everything bearing her father’s hallmark be got rid of, so that no one coming into the shop would think that any of the wares were anything but of her making. This meant that all the goblets, glasses, cups, bowls, and anything else hollow—including withies—were gone from the shop now. Those of her father’s things that remained were in the back room, waiting for Blye to sell them—and if she couldn’t, to give them away.
Yes, she now made plates, mirrors (Mieka hid a smirk on catching that word—after the Kiral Kellari show, Lord Fairwalk had negotiated the contract to replace the mirrors Touchstone had broken), windows (Jed attested to their quality), bases of goblets (it was allowed for an apprentice to make these, so Blye did, and sold them for hallmarked crafters to add the hollow glass on top), and coiled-glass flat-topped candleflats (unsuitable for narrow tapers because there was no socket, but perfect for wide pillar candles). Mieka noted the absence of the word
withie,
and with his heel nudged Jinsie’s bag a little farther under the workbench.
Yes, she adhered to the Guild’s specifics for the content of the glassware. Mieka heard words like
flint
and
limestone
and
quartz
and
soda ash,
and edged towards the connecting door to the shop. Where in all hells was Cade?
The Goblin Guildmaster had finished his investigations. He stood before the worktable where the new-made platter had cooled by now, scowling at it as if it had done him a personal injury. For a moment or two he fingered the embroidered badge of office on his plain brown jacket. Then he glared at Mieka.
“Door!”
Mieka jumped to open it, even more annoyed with himself for the obeying than with the Guildmaster for the ordering. Footman, for certes. The Goblin stirred not a step from the table.
“Boy!”
Unsure who was being addressed, and pricklying in spite of himself, Mieka nearly jumped again as a strange and scrawny shape darted past into the glassworks. No taller than Mieka’s elbow, there was Goblin in the boy’s long fingers and ragged teeth, Troll in his oversized nose, Light Elf in his white-blond hair and pointed ears, and his very white skin had a bizarre bluish cast that could only mean Westercountry Piksey somewhere in his lineage.
“Bottle,” growled the Goblin.
Cheap white wine was opened and poured onto the platter, enough to reach the slightly curving rim. Mieka looked his bewilderment at Blye; she seemed surprised but not worried. Then her eyes went wide, and as a familiar flowery scent touched his nostrils Mieka knew before he turned his head that the woman sweeping past him into the glassworks—almost certainly for the first time in her life—was Lady Jaspiela Silversun.
Cayden was right behind her: grim-faced, steel-jawed. He gave Mieka one imperious, silencing look before following his mother to the main workbench.
“Cayden,” said Lady Jaspiela, “you may make these persons known to me.”
“I would do so, if I had the least idea who they are.”
The arrogance was breathtaking. All Mieka could do was watch, dimly aware of his brother Jezael standing beside him, equally awestruck.