Glasswrights' Journeyman (27 page)

As Rani watched, a second length of spidersilk joined the first, also spinning, also striking the ground. There seemed to be more than two ropes at play, more interference in the clear morning air.

“There you go,” Mair called. “One more now. Stand next to the others. Start after the next turn,
now
.” Three silken ropes, all turning evenly. Mair watched them, bobbing her head slightly as she traced their arcs. “Keep them steady, now. Keep them turning at the same speed. Don't slow down when you see me move – I'll adjust for the ropes. On three, then. One. Two. Three.”

The Touched girl ran between the spidersilk, timing her entrance perfectly. She paused as one rope slapped the ground, then leaped just high enough to let it clear beneath her feet. Again, again, and the players kept twirling. When Mair had bobbed up a dozen times, she skipped free of the ropes, emerging on the near side while the steady rhythm continued.

“Don't stop,” she called. “You can run clear through them, too. Tumble between them.” To illustrate her point, she paused to count the rhythm, nodding her head once again. “There. On three. One. Two. Three.”

Mair sprang at the ropes as if they did not exist, tucking her head and rolling forward, only to land – miraculously – upon both feet. The players let out a shout of collective surprise, and Mair took a mock bow. “All it takes is timing,” she grinned, moving to take the end of one of the ropes so that a player could try her tricks.

“Timing and a foolish faith in others,” Crestman growled, and Rani jumped, for she had not heard the Amanthian approach.

“Not so foolish,” she said, recovering quickly. “If it works, she looks as nimble as a cat. If it fails, she gets slapped by a rope.”

“Or falls on her backside. Hard.” Crestman winced as a player tumbled down. The young man picked himself up immediately, calling for his companions to give him one more try.

“No great harm done,” Rani said.

Crestman scowled. “No great good, either. These players waste their time with children's games.”

“Do you honestly believe that? You're not paying attention, then. The players work harder than many other folk I've seen.” She read the skepticism in his eyes. “They do! The spiderguild is no easy master. These players pay for their patronage – they deliver stories to the guild, stories of the world and all its workings. The players know more about the world around them than any single merchant, any single guild.”

“And I'm certain they have shared this great wisdom with you.”

“Some of it, they have.” Rani doused her hot retort with the recollection of Speaking. She felt the smooth flow of blue glass like a physical thing; it seemed that she could reach for it just beneath the surface of her thoughts. “Some. And they've promised more – knowledge about their glasswork.”

“Then will they answer my questions? Will they share stories of the Little Army?”

Rani shrugged. “You can't know until you ask them. Go ahead. There's nothing to be afraid of.”

“I'm not afraid.”

“Then come. Let us find Flarissa.”

Rani led Crestman through the players' camp. It had taken her scarcely a day to learn her way about the hamlet, around the core of wooden buildings that formed the center of the itinerant players' village. The buildings were simple, sturdy, designed so that they could withstand neglect for the times that the players traveled across Liantine. Flarissa lived in one of the few central buildings, well inside the ever-changing boundaries of tents and wagons. She was regarded as a great leader among the players; she had gathered more stories, Spoken with more visitors than any other member of the troop. She was honored by a hut built with wooden walls, a thatched roof, and one clear glass window.

Flarissa's hut backed onto the storehouse. Rani had not been permitted inside that structure yet. Flarissa said that it contained great bolts of spidersilk, cloth to be sewn into tents and bolsters and clothing and costumes. It held other tools of the actors' craft – face paints and wigs, and a woodshop for crafting tools for the plays, such as the Old Man's walking stick, the Young Girl's mirror.

And the storehouse contained glass. Rani had heard the players talk about the panels casually, speculate about the screens that defined each play. She understood that the storehouse concealed whitewashed tables for laying out new designs, and lead stripping and glass to create the works. There would be solder, too, to repair broken screens, and silver stain, and paint. …

Rani's palms itched as she rounded the corner of the storehouse. A heavy iron lock hung from the oak door, mute testimony to the treasures inside. So far, Rani had needed to content herself with studying the kiln outside the storehouse, looking at the clever brick construction that let air circulate to cool the glass after firing.

Flarissa had promised that the players' glasswright would return that day. He had been on the road, negotiating with the spiderguild, delivering the players' latest news of the kingdom, and bargaining for silk. Any moment, now, he was expected to return for the Spring Meet.

Rani thrust down a flutter of expectation as she knocked on Flarissa's door.

“Come!” the woman called immediately.

Rani glanced at Crestman and was surprised by the hard line of his jaw. He rested a hand upon his curved Amanthian sword before he ducked inside the building, looking as if he intended to storm the place rather than ask assistance. Rani followed, trying to set aside her misgivings about introducing the soldier to the player.

She blinked in the cool richness of Flarissa's hut. She'd visited every day since arriving in the players' camp, and still she was captivated by the accumulation of wealth. A giant curtained bed filled half the room, swathed from floor to ceiling with hangings of the finest spidersilk. The hearth was set with painted tiles, careful designs that captured firelight and reflected it back. Mementos of travels were scattered about – a silver-chased goblet that clearly came from Zarithia, a child's doll that looked to be of Briantan design.

Most striking, though, the floor was covered with fine spidersilk weavings, lush carpets that incorporated a web design. Rays spun out from the center of the room, inviting visitors to step in, to be welcome, to settle into the player's home.

“Ranita!” Flarissa's greeting was light, joyous. She set aside a leather strap that she was mending in the light from the window, a sandal for a player's costume. “I hoped that you would visit me today.”

Rani basked in the warmth of the player's greeting. Flarissa reminded her of the feel of a featherbed – soft and warm and comfortable. For just an instant, Rani thought of her mother, Deela, leaning over Rani's pallet in the long-gone Trader home, crooning her to sleep with a lullaby and a smile.

“Good morning, Flarissa,” she said, swallowing the memory like a physical thing.

“You've brought your friend, at last.”

“Aye,” Rani said, perhaps a little too eager. “Flarissa, this is Crestman. He is a great soldier from Amanthia.”

Crestman scowled as he bowed before the player, stiff and uncomfortable. “Amanthia has no great soldiers any longer. We have offered up our arms to Morenia.”

Flarissa looked directly at the youth, and she might have been quoting some play when she said, “A soldier's loyalties are never simple.”

“I'm loyal to King Halaravilli!”

“I'm certain that you are. That does not mean your path has been easy. Your choices were not lightly made.”

Flarissa's words defused some of Crestman's tension, and Rani stepped forward, eager to do more. “I've told Crestman of my Speaking, about how you players gather stories. He is searching for information about the Little Army.”

“The Amanthian children.” Flarissa's words were not a question; they were quietly resigned. She cast a glance at Crestman. “What were you before your country's war? A lion-boy?”

“I was a captain in Sin Hazar's army.”

Rani waited for Crestman to explain more about how he came to serve, but Flarissa did not seem surprised by his recalcitrance. Instead, she nodded and said, “We players trade for stories. People pay us, then they Speak.”

“What sort of coin?”

“A single sovereign, typically. For you, though, we could work a different exchange.”

“What?” Crestman's wariness was like a wild animal's, poised on the edge of a ravine. He was equally ready to scramble down or retreat.

“Show our players how you wield your curved Amanthian sword. Teach them to use the weapon so they may work it into plays.”

“And for that?”

“I'll Speak with you. I'll gather up your story.”

“You get my labor and my tale.”

“And you get the peace of the telling.”

Rani hovered, waiting. Suddenly, it was tremendously important to her that Crestman agree. Rani could not explain why. She could not find words, any more than she could describe the cobalt lake that spread beneath her own thoughts. Crestman needed to agree to Flarissa's terms. He needed to reach out to the player, to her bargain, to the healing she could offer.

“Very well, then,” Crestman said at last. “I'll teach your players.” Rani exhaled her relief. “However –” he continued before Flarissa could reply, “you must give me something else as well. You must tell me what you know about the Little Army, about my soldiers who are scattered throughout Liantine.”

“Crestman,” Rani said, “you can't bargain.”

“He can,” Flarissa contradicted. “
You
bargained to see the glass.” Rani flushed as Flarissa turned back to Crestman. “Very well, then. Speak, and I'll tell you what I know about the Little Army. Ranita, if you will leave us now –”

“She can stay,” Crestman interrupted.

Flarissa looked at him for a long moment. “You will be safe here. There will be no danger.”

“I'm not afraid of your Speaking. But Rani may stay and listen.”

At first, Rani thought that Flarissa would protest, would make her leave the hut. The player looked at Crestman's face, studied the hand that still curved around the hilt of his sword. She started to speak, stopped, then started once again. “Very well, then. She may stay.” Flarissa nodded to a low chair that crouched beside the window. “Sit, Ranita. Make yourself comfortable so that you do not interrupt the Speaking.”

Rani complied, crossing the room and settling quickly. She tried to seem invisible, tried to mask her breathing, tried even to keep her eyes from flicking back and forth, from Crestman to Flarissa. She listened as the player explained the art of Speaking, outlined what she would ask and how she would guide the conversation. Rani watched as Flarissa collected a single pearl earring, stringing the bauble upon a chain of gold. She told Crestman to settle on a great bolster beside the hearth, and she waited for him to make himself comfortable.

“Very good, Crestman,” Flarissa said. “Remember, you need not tell me anything you wish to keep secret. If you wish to stop at any time, you can open your eyes and walk away. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Look upon the pearl and think back to the most important day of your life. Think. Decide. Choose the story you will tell.” Flarissa waited several heartbeats. “Do you see it? Do you see the tale that you will Speak?”

“Yes.” Crestman's voice was loud enough that Rani started. He darted his eyes from the pearl to her face. The motion made the white scar upon his cheek leap out.

“Look upon the pearl, Crestman,” Flarissa said. “Look upon the pearl and remember your story. Remember the day. How old were you that day?”

“Fifteen.” The single word was rough, raw against Flarissa's honeyed tone. He cleared his throat and said again, “Fifteen.”

“Very good, Crestman. Relax. Breathe in. Breathe out. Look into the pearl. Think back to the day. You can see it reflected in the pearl. Breathe in. Breathe out. If you wish to close your eyes, you may.”

Crestman kept his eyes open, staring at the pearl with unblinking intensity.

“Relax, Crestman. Focus. Take yourself to your story. Breathe in. Breathe out.”

“I am breathing!”

“Calm yourself. Focus. Think of this as a training exercise, a chance to build your skills.”

“I can't do this!”

“You can, Crestman, if you let yourself. Allow yourself to travel in your thoughts. Look at the pearl. See yourself when you were fifteen. See what you were wearing. Remember how you felt.”

“This will never work!” Crestman sprang to his feet, forcing the player woman to sit back abruptly. “I won't be witched by your crooning and your pearls!”

“Crestman!” Rani exclaimed, jumping to her feet.

“No! I will not Speak! I'll learn about the Little Army some other way!”

Before Rani could say anything, before she could beg him to come back and try again, he turned on his heel. His boots clattered on the wooden floor, even through the spidersilk covering, and he yanked the door open. For just a minute, he hovered on the threshold, and then he pulled the door behind him, slamming it with a resounding thud.

“I'm sorry,” Rani began. “Flarissa, I never thought that he –”

Before she could complete her apology, the door opened again. Rani whirled about, expecting to see Crestman, but she was shocked into silence by the sight of a grinning stranger.

“Another satisfied customer leaves the player's hearth?” The man crossed the room with familiar ease.

“Do not mock me, Tovin.” Flarissa's voice carried a hint of warning, but her flash of annoyance was quickly damped. She turned to Rani. “Some people are not able to Speak with us. Some cannot find their pathways back inside their tales. You can tell your friend that I am willing to try another time. Perhaps when he has come to trust us more.”