Glasswrights' Journeyman (33 page)

If only Teheboth could know the depths of Berylina's faith. … If only the king could see that his daughter spoke with the gods themselves, drew their likenesses as if they were her living, breathing friends. … No midsummer ceremony would burn that devotion from the princess. But that was hardly Hal's concern, not when he intended to take his bride to Moren, to a land that understood the Thousand Gods.

Four weeks until the wedding.

“Of course,” Teheboth said, as if he could read Hal's thoughts, “you could wait a year. You could celebrate your marriage next summer. And receive the dowry then.”

Impossible. The church would not wait a year.

Eight hundred bars of gold, and the wedding in one month.

It was not the arrangement he had hoped for when he arrived in Liantine. Not when he spoke with Teheboth during the Spring Hunt. Not when he forfeited his right to ask about the Little Army, to bid for the return of Amanthian children. He had thought that sacrifice would serve him better here.

Nevertheless, eight hundred bars of gold would let him pay his immediate debts.

And four weeks left him time. Time to recall Rani from the players' camp. Time to send for Puladarati and the rest of his court. And for four weeks, he should be able to avoid Mareka Octolaris.

Hal extended his hand to his new ally, to the father of the woman he would marry. “Done.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter 12

 

Rani nodded as Flarissa gestured to the tight joins in the glass frame. The player's voice was calm and patient as she explained, “You must clean the corners carefully. Too much of the abrasive, and you'll wear away the solder. Too little, though, and the frame won't reflect light properly.”

“I understand,” Rani said. She picked up her spidersilk rag, running its tight-woven smoothness between her fingers. The players had piles of the spent fabric, ragged from long wear, torn beyond repair. They used clean lengths to wrap their glass for transport.

Rani had spent the better part of the morning studying the fine work. Flarissa had let her review all the glass she wanted, dragging wooden storage bins out of the locked storeroom. Rani had agreed to clean each piece in exchange for the opportunity to learn.

“Aye,” Flarissa said now. “You seem to understand a great deal. You've had good teachers in the past.”

“Not enough of them. I've learned most of what I know from books.”

“But that will change, as you bring your guild back to power.” The player's voice was filled with compassion, vivid from the story Rani had Spoken when they first met. “You
will
rebuild it, Ranita,” Flarissa said softly. “Have faith.”

Rani swallowed hard and when she spoke, she marveled that her voice was steady. Perhaps even steady enough that Flarissa would not realize that she was changing the topic of conversation. “How many glass panels do the players have, all told?”

“There is one for every character in our plays. I've never thought to count them – ten score perhaps?”

“Ten –” Rani's voice caught at the wonder of it all.

“Aye,” Flarissa nodded. “And most of them grimy from our travels.”

“I'll clean them,” Rani vowed. “I'll clean them all.”

Flarissa handed over the tin of scrubbing compound. “Start with the ones that are here. I'll be in my cottage, Ranita. Come and find me if you have any questions.” Before the player walked off, she brushed her warm fingers across Rani's cheek, a fond farewell, more personal than any words she might have uttered.

Rani felt the older woman's touch spread through her body like the peace of Speaking. She gathered up her spidersilk rag and began to work the cleaning compound into the joint of the first panel.

She lost track of time as she worked. Her hair kept falling into her eyes as she scrubbed, and she finally sighed with exasperation, wasting precious moments wiping her fingers clean on a fresh cloth before she twisted the blonde strands into a braid. Her fingers began to ache from clutching the rag, and the edges of the glass panels cut into the top of her legs. Once, a midge flew into her eyes, and she rubbed away the offending insect without thinking, only to be rewarded by the violent sting of the cleaning compound.

Nevertheless, she marveled at the work that had been entrusted to her care.

Every panel illustrated techniques that Rani had read about but never seen in practice. There, three pieces of glass were held in an intricate framework so that light could play through their layered depths, creating deep, dark shadows of color. And there, long, thin pieces were worked into a figure's hair – pieces so finely cut they must have been created by a master with a diamond knife. And there, wires had been incorporated into the very armature of a stallion so that part of the glass swung free, creating the illusion of a horse's jaunty gait.

This last creation captured Rani's attention most completely. She had already learned a great deal about designing single planes of glass, about structuring windows. She knew how to sketch a drawing on a piece of parchment and how to scale up that drawing on a whitewashed table. But this craft was different from anything she had tried, anything she had imagined. Like the players' troops themselves, the horse panel needed to be mobile. Rani leaned close over the metalwork, studying how the craftsman had joined the links together, how he had secured the chain to the top of the glass panel.

She could see
what
had been done, but she could not calculate how it had been accomplished. She could imagine creating a design, creating separate sections that worked together to form a complete panel. But even if she had the skill to pour the glass and to cut it, she could not set it properly. She did not know how to make a chain that was smaller than her fingers, certainly not a chain of lead. Lead would twist, crimp, and pull. Some unknown tools must have been used, some unknown skills harnessed to make the stallion's links.

Rani raised both sections of the panel above her face, letting the lead dangle in the sunlight. She could make out the grooves of tiny instruments, of careful workmanship. The implements, though, must be finer than anything she had seen before, than anything she had ever used to pull and temper lead stripping. …

“Breathe, girl!”

Rani was so startled that she nearly dropped the horse panel. “Tovin!” she said, as Flarissa's son glided to her side.

“So, Mother has set you to work, has she?”

“I volunteered!” Rani rose to the player-woman's defense. “I wanted to study the glasswork. We bargained for it when I first Spoke with her.”

“There's no better way to study than to touch the pieces.”

“Aye,” Rani agreed, uncertain whether Tovin was criticizing her. “I was looking at the chains, there. I don't know how you made those.”

“Tools, Ranita Glasswright. Surely you know that a workman is only as good as his tools.”

She made a face at the trite expression. “But which ones? I've never seen glasswrights' tools to work so fine a chain.”

“I could show you, Ranita, but you would need to pay for the knowledge.”

Rani shot a glance at the man's smooth face, at his calm features. She was suddenly aware of the glass panel pressing against her thighs, of the heated sunlight splashing across her chest. She felt color rise in her cheeks, and she fumbled for an answer. “What coin, then?”

“The same as before,” Tovin said easily. “Speak with me. Tell me more about your homeland.”

About her homeland. About the Fellowship more likely. That was Tovin's interest before. Nevertheless, Rani heard the demand like a thirsty woman listening to a fountain. She longed for Speaking, for the depthless calm of that altered state. And if she should also learn about working the glass, about crafting the magnificent panels. … She could hear Tovin's dispassionate Speaking voice even now, leading her beside the stream of her memory, further and further into the knowledge that she alone possessed.

She was afraid, though, afraid of that longing, frightened by the strength of the desire that thrummed through her belly. “I've already Spoken with you. I've answered all your questions.”

“I've thought of more things I'd like to know.” Tovin eyed her steadily.

“I –” Rani began, and then she had to clear her throat. “The Fellowship is secret. No one is supposed to know.”

“Aye,” Tovin agreed. “The Fellowship is secret. Just as my craft is secret. Just as any guild's workmanship is secret. Your masters would have taught you secrets, if any lived in Morenia still.”

Was he agreeing with her or disagreeing? Was he saying that he would avoid the Fellowship and respect her obligations? Rani's hands trembled as she leaned forward to catch his soft words, and the horse panel leaped into motion, its legs mimicking the swinging motion of a true beast. The impossibly tiny chains caught the sunlight, glinting like the light streaks in Tovin's hair.

“The choice is mine,” Rani said, but she made the statement a question.

“Aye. You know by now that you control the Speaking.”

“And if I don't tell you enough?”

Tovin snared her eyes with his own. “We're both traders, Rani. We know how to measure value. If you fail to deliver true value through the Speaking, then you'll owe some other payment. Cleaning panels, or stitching costumes for the troop.”

She raised her chin and tensed her arms, setting the horse's legs swinging once again. “Very well, then.” She smothered the panel's motion by snugging it against her body, and then she reached out a hand. “I'll trade with you.”

The tradition was an old one, well-settled in the marketplace. Tovin hesitated for a moment, though, and then he clasped her arm at the elbow. She jerked back in surprise, startled to find him using an older symbol than the one that she had offered. Tovin used the soldier's clasp, showing that he had no steel concealed up his sleeves, checking to confirm that she was similarly unarmed. His fingers burned against the meat of her arm and then skimmed past her elbow to her wrist. “Well played, Ranita.”

She swallowed hard, wondering if he had lied to her before. Would he truly settle for her cleaning glass frames, in payment for the Speaking? She could not doubt the invitation in his touch; she could not fail to understand the silent offer that his fingers made.

She did not want that, she told herself firmly. She had kissed Crestman, long ago in Amanthia, and the heat that had burned between them still warped their conversations. She had felt Hal's lips upon her hand, a pledge of a future life that tangled her hopes and dreams beyond her comprehension. As little more than a child, she had longed for a soldier man, but he had died with her knife twisted in the small of his back.

She did not want to desire Tovin. He was acting as her guildmaster; he was providing her with glasswrights' lore. Anything else would be confusing, would be frightening, would be wrong.

Tovin must have read her indecision, for he took a step away. “I need to consult with the players, learn what else they intend for me to purchase at the spiderguild. Come find me when you are finished, and we'll complete our work together.”

She mumbled some appropriate reply and bent quickly over the glass before her, determined not to watch him walk away. Her intense concentration, though, was broken by someone blocking her light. She looked up to see Crestman looming over her.

“Mair says you're going to bargain for spiders.”

“Aye.” She recognized the determination in his set jaw, remembered the driven power she had first seen as he commanded his platoon of boys in Amanthia. “We spoke about it while the players had their Meet. We wondered where you'd gone to.”

“I was speaking with my soldiers.”

“Your soldiers?”

“The slaves within the players' camp.”

Rani glanced about her. On the far side of the compound, a dozen players gathered around a low stage, laughing as a juggler attempted to toss five silk-wrapped balls at once. The performer dared to spin about, completing his turn and keeping all the balls in full rotation. He clapped once, twice, three times, all the while juggling well. But when he tried to jump down from the stage, he lost his concentration and bright silk spheres went flying.

A child whooped with laughter and collected three of the balls, jumping onto the platform to try his own hand at the game. Across the courtyard, Rani could just make out a scar glinting on the boy's cheek. She looked back at Crestman. “I'd hardly call them slaves here.”

“They seem to be accepted. I've spoken with all of them now – nearly three dozen men, all told. Each once fought for Sin Hazar, and each was sold on reaching Liantine. They've found their way here from other masters. The players are given slaves sometimes in payment for their presentations.”

“And? Do your men want to rise up against the troop?”

Crestman shook his head, and she wondered what the admission must cost him. “They do not want to leave the players. They do not want to overturn their lives.”

Rani reached out, setting her hand upon his rock-hard arm. “You must honor their decision.”

He pulled back, as if she had cut him. “I know that!” He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “I know that, Rani. I thought that they would follow me. I thought that all the Little Army longed to be free.”

“Three years is a long time, Crestman. Three years at least. Some of them were in the earliest shipments from Amanthia – they've been here even longer. They were children when they arrived. They have no family, no home back in Amanthia. Let them be.”

“I would, Rani. I would sail for home tomorrow, but there is still one thing that troubles me.”

“What?”

“The tale my scout delivered. The story of the spiderguild. The slave that he described was not like the children here. She was frightened. She was used. She died in service, against her will. I must see my soldiers who are held at the spiderguild. Take me with you.”