Three floors below, Maythorm happened to be walking down a hallway when a cold, whistling wind hit him in the face. The Lord of Entertainments immediately broke into a cold sweat, and dashed back to his sumptuous apartment. It had been a very curious week, altogether. Maythorm resolved not to come out of his room again until it was over.
After a brief taste of spring, a sudden sleet storm hit Pleclypsa, coating everything with a thin layer of sheet ice. The troupe huddled together for warmth in Gerrig’s wagon, which still stood parked behind the theatre. Gerrig’s temper seemed to rise with every drop in temperature. “When are you going to wipe that silly greasepaint off your face?” he growled at Pelmen.
Pelmen turned his head slightly to study his reflection in Gerrig’s large mirror. “When it’s time,” he said quietly.
“I think it’s time now!” Gerrig snapped. “You look like a fool!”
Pelmen smiled. “That’s the idea, isn’t it?”
“You put that stuff on to hide your identity from Ligne, didn’t you?
Well it’s certain we won’t make it to the court this year, so do us all a favor and clean it off.” He seemed enormously aggravated.
“Fm not as certain of that as you seem to be,” Pelmen calmly replied.
“We did win the Festival, after all in addition to a public apology from the Festival organizers.”
“So what?” Danyilyn snorted. “Maythorm didn’t see us win it! As far as he’s concerned, our play belongs to Eldroph-Pitzel and Berliath!”
“They’ve not received any court invitation as yet…”
“How do you know?” Gerrig muttered. “We’ve been shut up in here all day.”
“The sleet probably delayed the blue-flyer,” said Danyilyn morosely and she leaned back on her couch and gazed at the ceiling. The paint was peeling. It seemed a fitting comment on their recent fortunes.
“That’s possible.” Pelmen nodded. He glanced down to the far end of the wagon where the troupe’s smallest member played earnestly on the floor. “Coralai,” he called, “how’s your mother?”
“She’s sick,” the child answered. She didn’t miss a beat in the game she played, and her solemn expression never changed.
“Is she not feeling any better?”
“Nope.”
“Perhaps I’ll visit her,” Pelmen announced as he stood up.
“Don’t slip,” Danyilyn warned. “That ice is wicked.”
Pelmen was nodding at her as he opened the wagon door. He didn’t see the shivering messenger beyond it until the door caught the man in the chest, skating him backward across the ice and down. Pelmen hustled out of the wagon and moved gingerly over to offer nun a hand. The messenger grabbed it too vigorously, and Pelrnen skidded down beside him. The white-faced player laughed aloud and suggested, “Maybe we’d better not help each other up.” After a few moments of slipping and sliding, they both struggled through the door of the wagon to safety.
The group crowded around expectantly, for the man wore the livery of Minlaf-Khen, the premier organizer of the Winter Festival.
“Well?” Gerrig demanded after a moment. The messenger shivered so hard that he couldn’t get a word past his teeth. “You have a message?”
the big actor prodded. “What is it?”
“Give him a chance, Gerrig,” Yona Parmi scolded. “Can’t you see he’s freezing?”
“Just nod yes or no. You’ve a message from Minlaf-Khen?” The messenger nodded. “It must be important…” The man nodded again.
“Does it have to do with the court?” The messenger nodded once again, and Gerrig could no longer contain himself. He seized the fellow by the collar and hoisted him into the air. “What is it, man?”
“Put him down,” Pelmen ordered, and Gerrig set the man back on his feet.
“Minlaf-Khen received a flyer from the Queen,” the man chattered, determined to deliver his news before Gerrig assaulted him again.
“You’ve been asked to appear at the Imperial Court.”
The messenger was quite unprepared for the ensuing commotion. Shrieks of surprised joy greeted his words, and he found himself the target of another of Gerrig’s assaults; the bearded player engulfed him in a massive bear bug, then dropped him on the floor and raced on to embrace Danyilyn, Yona Parmi and the others in turn. Now ignored, the messenger crawled to a corner of the carriage and huddled there, awaiting a safe route to the door. He would spend no longer with this crazed assembly than he had to.
Yona Parmi grinned widely, gasping for the breath Gerrig had squeezed from his lungs, as he glanced around at the celebration. His smile faded when he caught a glimpse of Pelmen’s face. Despite its clownish paint, the expression there could not have been more solemn. Yona Parmi followed Pelmen’s gaze to the dancing form of Coralai, who rejoiced with the rest. He slipped over to his friend’s side. “You should be pleased,” he muttered quietly. “You’ve done it.”
“No, Parmi,” Pelmen responded. “I’ve only begun it.” Then he turned to look Yona in the eye. “We’ll need to leave Coralai and Sherina here. Sherina’s too sick to travel…” He looked back at Coralai.
“…And the court’s no place for a child.”
“I’d sooner fight a bear than be the bearer of that news.” Yona Parmi smiled sardonically. Coralai could be a terror when aroused. “But come don’t you feel at least some joy in this accomplishment? After all, you’ve launched your plan.”
“I’ve launched it, Yona. But what have I launched us toward?”
“Evidently, to the court of the Queen.” Yona Parmi shrugged.
“The Imperial House.” Pelmen nodded, his eyes and his thoughts focused somewhere far away. “Within the walls.”
“And what do we do once we’re there?”
Pelmen looked over at him, allowing him a hint of a smile. “You never give up, do you?”
“I haven’t yet.” Yona Parmi smiled back.
The springtime sun returned the next day, bringing with it a glorious thaw that set every heart in the troupe singing all, save the littlest one. By late afternoon the train of wooden wagons had departed for the north, leaving a disappointed little girl and her relieved mother behind. Sherina knew nothing of Pelmen’s purpose and still less of his unusual powers, but she’d known him long enough to be sensitive to his moods. This trip to court was far more than it appeared to be on the surface. She felt perfectly happy to be left out of it.
CHAPTER SIX
A Pair of Rogues
IT WAS EASY to pretend she was flying. Bronwynn’s long golden-brown hair, newly washed in a chill stream fed by the melting snow, had dried in the flying wind. Now it fanned out behind her like the plumes of a peacock, as her mount careened through thickets and past naked trees, keeping pace with a pack of racing rogues. Admon Faye’s cutthroats were extravagant riders, daring disaster just to make riding fun. They formed no orderly columns, picked no single best path, felt no compunction at breaking rank. For there was no rank. Admon Faye’s band attacked the forest before it in an unending cavalry charge, each man abreast of every other. Ducking tree limbs, jumping hedges, they threatened a hundred collisions every day, yet miraculously their horses never seemed to falter or brush flanks.
Bronwynn, no longer in bonds and perfectly free to fall behind and be lost if she so chose, had to ride her hardest to keep up. She found the experience exhilarating and would have thrown back her royal head and screamed in excitement were it not for the treacherous, onrushing trees that demanded her constant attention.
They had hit the snow line days ago, and the wet, white blanket had deepened now to a layer a half a foot thick. It deadened the sound of five hundred pounding hooves, giving emphasis to the weird crackling of scores of cold-deadened twigs, as horses and riders shattered branches aside.