Glasswrights' Journeyman (48 page)

Teheboth laughed, the bark of a madman. “The
journeyman
speaks?”

“Aye, my lord. I, Ranita Glasswright. The leader of the glasswrights in my land.”

“And what would you say that any of us should hear on this dark day?”

Rani looked across at Hal. She saw the tension in his face, his drawn features. She saw the way Mareka Octolaris lurked behind him, a shimmering white shadow. She saw how Hal raised a hand to the chain of office about his neck, to the necklace of interlocking Js, how he nodded to her even now.

Hal did not know what she would say. He did not know how she would speak, what she would do. But he placed his faith in her. He placed his kingdom in her hands.

Rani took a step forward, as if she were easing back into the negotiations that she and Hal had begun so long ago, in the king's private apartments in Moren. She remembered how the light had glinted on Hal's chain then, how the candles had shone across the table. She remembered the ancient Holy Father, the spent and broken man.

Rani looked across the tent now, at the new Holy Father. She saw Dartulamino watching her, narrowing his eyes. He was waiting for her; he expected something of her. For just an instant, she wondered at the pattern that the man envisioned, the path he saw before her. Did he see it as a holy man, as a priest of the Thousand Gods? Or did he see it as a Morenian, as a countryman loyal to his king? Or did he see it as a member of the Fellowship, a soldier in the shadowy cabal that she continued to question, to challenge?

Whatever drove the man, whatever sparked his attention, Rani knew that she must act. She must step forward now and pour her glass, spread it on the cooling stone before it reached the brittle, breaking stage. She must hold her diamond knife at the ready, cut the new glass with a strong, straight line. She must stand prepared to set the pieces of Morenia, to shape her land.

“Hold, Teheboth Thunderspear. You will not have Shalindor take back the gold.”

“My daughter is dead to the world. Your king could not wed her corpse, even if he had not plowed the spiderguild's fields.”

“Your daughter may be lost to Liantine, but she is far from dead. She comes to the Thousand Gods as a penitent, as a pilgrim. Even now, she travels to the homeland of holy Jair, where she will don a Thousand-Pointed Star and begin a sacred pilgrimage under the tutelage of Father Siritalanu.”

“She will be no bride.”

“But she will enter the house of the Thousand Gods.” Rani saw the answer spread out before her, flow past her like leaves spun across a swirling stream. “She will enter the house of the Thousand Gods, and she will fall under the protection of the Defender of her Faith. She will be accepted as a pilgrim, accepted as a wise and holy woman, once she has offered up her worldly goods.”

Rani remembered her own brief time as a pilgrim, her own humbling before the Holy Father now dead and burned in Morenia. She had had nothing but a doll to offer up, a child's poppet. Berylina had so much more. “The gold will buy Berylina's entrance into the house that has waited for her all her life. Offer up her dowry to Morenia's Defender of the Faith. To Halaravilli ben-Jair.”

“Never!” Teheboth bellowed.

“It is already done, my lord.” Rani forced her voice into a certain register, into the ringing tones of a merchant who closes a deal. She sounded like a marketplace trickster, sniffing out a certain bargain. She stepped closer to Teheboth, edging between him and Hal. She felt her own king beside her, knew that his breath came fast as he let Rani drive her deal. “
Think
, Teheboth Thunderspear. Would you have it said that you have no control over your very house? That you let your own daughter flee with a man unknown to you? That your Horned Hind failed to discern the resolution of this tale, failed to see how the house of Thunderspear would be betrayed? Would you have your people say that? Would you have that story told?”

Teheboth's throat worked, and his face flushed crimson. He reached for his plaited beard, tugged at the bits of antler worked into the design. He glanced outside the door of the tent, as if he sought wisdom in the forest, from the priestess who had not deigned to step inside.

Rani spoke even more quietly, forcing the man to move closer to her. “Do not answer, King Teheboth, until you have thought through all the points. You have already committed to the dowry. You counted it gone from your treasury. You counted yourself lucky to marry off your daughter. Her broken gaze will never darken your palace again, and her jutting teeth will be gone forever, all reminder of her so-called sin. You thought to buy the friendship of Morenia with your eight hundred bars, and you can have it still. Just leave. Leave the wain and return to your castle. Take your people and fashion whatever stories you care, to forget about today. But leave the gold. Leave the gold behind.”

Teheboth's hands twitched, opening and closing as if he longed for his spear. He glared at Rani, and then at Hal. “So, Halaravilli ben-Jair. You let this one speak for you?”

“She speaks the truth,” Hal said.

“And you would steal my gold? You? Who lay with a woman beneath my roof, in the very days that you courted my daughter?”

“Your daughter is dead to you, Teheboth Thunderspear.”

Rani thought that Hal might have spoken too glibly, might have pushed the man too far, too soon. For just an instant, the Liantine king looked as if he would grasp his spear from the nurse's body, send it back to finish its gory work.

But then Teheboth stopped himself. He looked from Hal to Rani to Mareka, and he muttered a curse beneath his breath. “Very well, Morenia. You win this round. Be gone from Liantine by noon tomorrow. You and your women and your priests – be gone.”

Rani heard the words and felt a rush of satisfaction, a tangible breath of relief. Her strategy had worked. She had gained the dowry. The dowry, the spiders, the riberries – Morenia had all.

She looked across the tent to Dartulamino, measured how the Holy Father accepted the news of his defeat. For a moment, anger flashed across his sallow face, sparking in his eyes, settling in the shadows beneath his bony cheeks.

Then, he nodded slowly. His anger washed away, and it was replaced by a more subtle look, by a more delicate shading. Rani wondered if Dartulamino thought of the eight hundred bars of gold, the dowry that would release the church's immediate claim against Hal's crown. She wondered if he thought about Farso's ten bars, about the Order of the Octolaris, made real by the spiders and the trees that waited back in Liantine's courtyard.

After all, what did the Fellowship intend to do with its thousand bars of gold? What did it intend to build through its secret tax? How would Hal's payment affect Moren, affect all of Morenia?

Rani could not know. She could not imagine. But looking across the pavilion, she saw the Holy Father's lips quirk into a shadow of a smile, and then he lifted an imaginary cup. He held his hand as if he toasted her victory across the spidersilk tent. He flourished his wrist for just a moment, and Rani ducked her chin, acknowledging the gesture.

And then, all unaware of the drama that had passed between Rani and Dartulamino, Teheboth Thunderspear stalked from the tent, calling orders to all his waiting men. He told them that the tent should be struck, that the silk should be burned. He told them that they were never to speak the name of his dead daughter. He told them they were to make an offering to the Horned Hind, a sacrifice of wine and bread, that very afternoon. And he told them to leave the wain behind.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 18

 

The breeze tugged at Rani's hair, and the ship's sails belled out, as if they too yearned to return to Morenia. She watched Hal raise a golden cup and swallow fine Liantine wine, and then he held the goblet toward Mareka. After she drank, Holy Father Dartulamino accepted the goblet and raised his hands in blessing. “May the Thousand Gods look over your union, Halaravilli ben-Jair and Mareka Octolaris. May your union be fruitful and prosperous. May you bring glory to First God Ait and all the Thousand Gods. And let us say, Amen.”

The assembled witnesses mouthed the word, Amen, and then Dartulamino gathered up the spring-green shawl that had cloaked the shoulders of the bride and groom. Farso stepped forward to congratulate his lord, and he bowed toward his new queen. Mareka blushed prettily at the attention, but then she glanced at the sun, which stood directly overhead.

“I beg your pardon, lords and ladies, Holy Father. The octolaris must be fed. It grows close to their time.” She moved toward her cabin, sheltered in the foredeck, but then she looked back to the Morenians. Her smile was shy, like a child's, as she reached a hand toward King Halaravilli. “Please, my lord. Will you assist me with the spiders?”

Hal hesitated for a moment. He looked to Dartulamino, blushing from his throat to the roots of his hair. The Holy Father nodded, though, for he had seen scores of shamefaced bridegrooms. Mareka passed through the doorway to the cabin, already pulling the sleeves of her gown close about her forearms, preparing to tend her brood. Hal turned to follow her.

As he passed by Rani and Tovin, the ship bucked, hitting the trough of a wave and making Hal stumble. The player reached out a quick hand, steadying the king even as Rani caught her breath. Hal paused then and looked at her. He hesitated, but then he said, “Ranita Glasswright.”

“My lord.”

“I bid you a joyous Midsummer Day.”

Her belly flipped at the layers of meaning in his voice, at the greeting, the apology, the slightest hint of challenge. As Rani struggled for words, she felt Tovin step behind her; she felt the heat of his body close to hers. “I feared this day, Sire,” she said. “I feared the counting out of debts.”

“The Holy Father has received his payment from the funds I have as Defender of the Faith.”

Rani nodded, knowing that there were other debts, other countings. The breeze caught her hair, whipping an errant strand across her eyes. Hal reached out to brush it from her face, but then he stopped himself. He stood, frozen, uncertain. Rani wanted to speak to him, wanted to tell him that she understood, that she knew he had choices to make, choices for a kingdom. The words, though, sat in her belly like stones, and she stayed silent until he turned away, until he crossed the deck and followed Mareka into her spider lair.

Tovin waited until the door was closed. When he spoke, he stood close enough that she could feel his words trembling through her spine. “This one ship bears all of Morenia's salvation.”

“Salvation?”

“A good king. Gold for debts. Spiders for the future, and riberry trees. Lamb's breath to treat firelung. A dedicated guildsman who gives what she must so that her kingdom might survive.”

“But what if the king chose wrong? What if the gold is not enough and the spiders die, and the riberries shrivel to nothing? What if the lamb's breath does not ease the firelung – if the merchants were wrong in Liantine?”

“Then you'll find other answers, Ranita Glasswright. You'll find other patterns. You'll pour your glass and cut your designs and set your pieces until they work.”

She sighed. “I fear I do not have the skill.”

“You do. You must.”

“And why is that? Why must
I
manage this?”

“Your king depends on you. Your king, and your mysterious Fellowship, and a troop of feisty players who even now take ship for Morenia.”

Fellowship. The way Tovin said the word sent shivers down her spine. He knew all that she did of the fellows. She had told him, Spoken with him, never dreaming that she would be bringing him into their midst. What would Tovin do with his knowledge? How would he play out the game?

Rani sighed, unable to predict what the future would bring. “More people. More people who rely on me, who lay claim to me.”

“Aye, Ranita Glasswright. But more you can depend on. More you can rely upon to help you.”

She shook her head. “I have done so much wrong. The Little Army remains in Liantine. Crestman is lost. The Fellowship. …”

“The majority of the Little Army is safe and grown. You'll see some with our players, when they arrive in Morenia. You'll redeem the few who are still unwilling slaves come spring. And Crestman. … He made his choice.”

“He did not know.”

“He had no faith.”

“Faith. …” Rani breathed the word, thinking about the faith that a princess
had, to defy her father, to leave her home, to travel in search of the Thousand Gods. She
thought about the faith that she – Rani – had placed in Tovin, in an itinerant
player who admitted that he traded tales and information, all to better his people, his
players' troop.

Tovin said, “When you first Spoke to Flarissa, you told her the story of the most important day in your life. You went on faith and paid a coin and told your tale. Was that a bargain well made?”

A coin, a single sovereign, for all that had happened in Liantine. The players she had come to sponsor, the riberry trees she had negotiated for, the dowry she had wrested from Teheboth Thunderspear. The man who stood beside her.

“No answer?” he asked, as she remained silent beside him. “You think your bargain poor? Perhaps I must sweeten the deal?”

She started to protest, started to explain, but he shook his head with a smile. His long fingers reached out to cup her face, but then he pulled back, feigning startlement. She saw the glint of gold between his fingers, and he displayed a new-minted sovereign, as if he had found it in her hair. Despite herself, she laughed.

She reached out for the coin, but Tovin shook his head. He closed his fingers around the gold piece, and when she tapped his fist, he uncurled his fingers to reveal two coins. Still, he would not let her take them; he folded his hands about the sovereigns and made as if he would drop them into her outstretched palm.