Glasswrights' Journeyman (7 page)

The slave's fingers trembled so hard that she barely needed to touch her hand to the riberry wood, to make the branch shake. The girl leaped backward, as if she were chased by hordes of hungry octolaris.

Jerusha nodded. “Then all you have to do is complete the Homing.” She waggled her fingers in illustration. The slave girl gaped, clearly not catching the nuances of the traditional pattern. Jerusha swore and repeated the Homing, impatiently waiting for the slave to mimic the motion. The girl let two huge tears fall down her cheeks, but she managed a vague semblance of the traditional protection.

Jerusha said, “And then you feed them grubs. Reach inside the basket.”

Mareka watched in fascination as the slave girl did as she was told. Mareka had let grubs run across her fingers every day for eight years, but she had never been so attuned to the scrabble of their legs, to their tiny clawing feet as they struggled for a purchase. She watched the slave girl grimace at the slimy creature, saw the rigid determination as she caught her lower lip between her teeth.

“There. Now, lean over the box. Farther. Farther.” Jerusha leaned too, reaching for the end of the riberry branch. “A little more. The grub must be close enough that the spider can leap for it.”

Another crystal tear trembled at the edge of the slave's eye, brimming over to shimmer down her swan tattoo. Mareka watched the sunlight glint on the tear, shine on the tattooed wing, and then Jerusha said, “Move up!”

Jerusha seized the girl's neck with one hand, shoving her up against the very edge of the box. The movement sent the woven basket flying, arcing into the air, and grubs tumbled onto the ground and into nearby boxes. The slave girl cried out, a wordless wail of terror.

Afterwards, Mareka could remember everything with perfect clarity. She saw the giant octolaris – nearly twice the size of any ordinary guild-spider. She saw each of the beast's eight legs, crooked and glinting with hairs. She saw the swollen body, the cruel head with its pincer jaws and protruding eyes. She saw the spinnerets, small projections beneath the spider's body, curving out from its hairy underside. The organs looked like deformed legs, like fingerless hands, and even in her amazement, Mareka wondered that they could craft the silk that made the guild so rich.

And then, Mareka saw the octolaris's mouth, the two slender fangs that sank into the slave girl's wrist. She saw the spider open and close her jaws, knew that the beast was pumping venom into the wound. She saw the spider scramble for another hold, bite again, pump again, once, twice, three times, four.

The slave girl screamed. High and thin, she wailed at the pain. Swearing, Jerusha leaped forward, snatching the riberry branch from the cage to brush the octolaris from the slave's forearm. The spider landed in her box and tried to scurry beneath her stone, but there was no longer any cave, no longer any escape.

Footsteps crashed along the gravel paths as other people came running, apprentices, and journeymen, and masters too. Mareka was absurdly aware that the gathering spiderguild avoided the markin grubs that were strewn upon the walkway; they reflexively did not step on the food for their beloved spiders.

Master Amrida pushed to the front of the crowd, his barrel chest accentuated by the heavy neckpiece that he wore. Embroidered knots stood out like drops of blood as he towered over the slave girl. “What happened here?” he demanded of Jerusha.

Jerusha had no answer. She looked down at the twitching slave, shaking her head in disbelief. She still grasped the riberry branch, a forlorn stick now that looked like a child's plaything. Amrida swore a horrible oath in the name of the Horned Hind and pushed Jerusha aside.

The slave's eyes had rolled back into her head. Even as Mareka watched, her lips swelled, dark and purple, as if they were filled with sour wine. Her body began to convulse, her head slamming against the gravel of the walkway, and Master Amrida tore at his spidersilk cloak, wadding up the fine garment to try to cushion the child's skull.

Mareka could hear the girl struggling for breath, hear the chatter of her teeth as her jaws clenched and unclenched repeatedly. She was moaning, keening, forcing an eerie, high-pitched sound past her teeth. The tone of the single word changed, tightened, and Mareka knew that the girl's throat was swelling closed.

The bites on her arm already festered, great bubbles of pus gathering at each puncture wound. Mareka saw the child reach with her good hand, stretch across her agonized body to rip at the bloody fang-marks. Her convulsions were too strong, though, and she could not reach her own flesh, could not rip out the spreading poison.

Master Amrida called for a knife, ordering someone, anyone to get him a blade. Mareka knew that she should move, she should run to the kitchens, she should do what she could to save the child. She could not tear her gaze away, though, could not abandon the slave girl, Serena.

Three times, she wanted to cry. She only bowed three times, not four! That had been enough to precipitate the virulent octolaris's attack. That had been enough to bring about this bloody, violent death.

Before Mareka could think of speaking, the child gathered her breath, sucking in air in a frightening, devastating whoop. Mareka reached forward, her hands trembling as if she were moving in her own Homing, her own arcane ritual to ward off the virulent power of the octolaris. As if Serena were responding to Mareka's silent command, the child arched her back, every muscle in her body tightening in one final spasm. The crack of breaking bone was audible to every stunned listener, and Mareka watched in horror as Serena fell back to the gravel.

Her arms lay still, their twitching done. Her legs were spraddled on the stony path like an unruly child's. Her back was twisted in an unnatural, impossible position, and her chin was streaked with pink foam, foam that mimicked an octolaris master's neckpiece. But Mareka found that she could not look away from Serena's mouth; she could not tear her gaze away from the swollen, tooth-marked lips, the lips as red as berries, the lips that bloomed beneath the silver wings of a swan tattoo.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

“Your Majesty, it is good to see you looking so well, and after all that you have suffered in the past several weeks.”

Hal waved off the compliment, following through with the gesture to indicate that Duke Puladarati should rise from the cold flagstones in the palace corridor. The former regent may have spent the past three years in the northern kingdom of Amanthia acting as Hal's most trusted governor, but whenever the lion-maned retainer returned to court, he insisted on making a full obeisance. Such symbolic submission embarrassed Hal, even though he was grateful, pleased to know that he had no reason to fear the man who had once held all the reins of power in Morenia. It was particularly reassuring that Puladarati would take to his knees before his own servants, before the cloaked and hooded secretary that trailed him like a shadow.

“Walk with me, my lord,” Hal said. “As you taught me long ago, we mustn't keep the council waiting.” Hal matched his stride to the older man's.

“I should hope there were a few more lessons you gleaned from me, Sire.”

“There were, Puladarati. Of course there were. You heard about the bargain that I struck with the church?”

“The entire kingdom has heard, Sire.” The older man's tone was dry.

“Then you don't approve.”

Puladarati stopped abruptly, forcing his secretary to shuffle back a few steps. “The question is not whether I approve, Sire. The question is whether you negotiated the best deal that you could for Morenia. There are no easy answers, not with all the guilds in Moren destroyed, all the richest merchants burned out, the soldiers' barracks leveled. No easy answers at all.”

“No. There aren't.” Hal swallowed hard. In the darkest corner of his heart, he knew that he had not managed the best possible arrangements with the Holy Father. The ancient prelate had followed Dartulamino's ironclad lead, raising the stakes so high that Hal was barely able to agree, desperate or no. Hal wondered whether Dartulamino's hard bargaining was driven by his hidden connection to the Fellowship. How much did the priest know of Hal's aspirations? How much did he know about Hal's dream of leading the secret body? And how much was the priest willing to distort Morenian politics as he jostled with Hal for power in the hidden organization?

For Hal
did
intend to lead the Fellowship of Jair. It was only natural, only right, for a nobleman to step to the helm of the shadowy cabal. Certainly the current leader, the Touched woman Glair, was superb at her craft; she had manipulated the Fellowship into a better position than Hal could have imagined when he was first spirited into the secret ranks. But Hal could do more. He could use the power of his throne to move the Fellowship forward even further.

He had watched, these several years. He had studied. Glair could not control the Fellowship forever, and when she sought out her successor, Hal was determined to be the man.

Only so could he protect his fair Morenia. Only so could he protect himself.

And so, he had proffered secret payments to the Fellowship for the past three years – ten bars of gold here, twenty there. He had sent his own messengers deep into Brianta to deliver a clandestine missive for Glair. After all, he was the king. He had thought that he had the wealth and power to spare. He had thought to use his riches to cement his claim – even if he did not know the precise manner in which Glair used his gifts.

He'd know soon enough. When he ascended to true power in the Fellowship's inmost core.

In the current crisis, though, Hal had ultimately
received
five thousand gold ingots from the Holy Father's treasury. He must repay five hundred bars in three months – on Midsummer Day – as symbol of his honest intentions. A full five thousand bars would then be due in one year – the loan plus the cost of borrowing from the church. And if he were not able to repay the debt, the church would levy additional charges – five hundred and fifty additional bars by the following winter solstice, six hundred fifteen by the spring after that. All in addition to the original five thousand.

Usury, clear and simple.

But Hal had no other option. He needed to save his people, his kingdom. All the time that he had bargained, he refused to look at Dartulamino's smug smile. Both men knew that Hal needed the gold, and he needed it immediately. If Hal abandoned the church's cruel negotiations, he would need to turn elsewhere. He would need to admit his need to the Fellowship of Jair.

Now, Hal forbade himself to dwell on how he might have brokered a better deal if not for Rani. If she had not fled his apartments just when he needed her most. … All the time that Hal grappled with Dartulamino and the Holy Father, he had yearned to have the merchant at his side. She would have bargained down the price; she would have argued successfully for a longer period of time to pay back the debt, for more time between interest payments.

Nevertheless, Hal had closed the deal, and the church had conveyed its riches immediately. A covered wain had brought the first installment of heavy gold to the palace courtyard the morning after negotiations were concluded. Hal had overseen the unloading himself, immediately dispatching crown riders to procure herbs and lumber, to hire skilled workers who could begin the hard labor of remaking Moren.

And now, all he had to do was find a way to repay the Holy Father. He met Puladarati's scowl with his own serious gaze. The man's brows were still dark against his high forehead, the shadows beneath his silvery hair lending him a penetrating gaze. “I made the only bargain I could for Morenia.”

“There is never a single bargain, my lord.”

Hal flushed. Was Puladarati condemning him for not forcing Rani to rejoin the negotiations? Could the former regent possibly know about the Fellowship, about the terms that they might have offered? Or was Puladarati merely enforcing a lifetime of lessons – look for options, look for escape, look for a dozen open ways and choose the best?

“Aye,” Hal agreed. “There is never only one bargain, but some are too costly ever to consider. Besides, the church has lived up to its commitment. The final transport arrived this morning, with the last of the gold that we negotiated. My fastest messengers are riding for Brianta to secure their leading architects.”

“From Brianta?” Puladarati seemed surprised. “I had understood that there would be no, er, commerce with Brianta.”

“There will be no
nuptials
with Brianta,” Hal clarified, and his cheeks blazed. Why should he be flustered at remembering his last exchange with the princess? She had been the one to call
him
names. Even now, he clenched his fists, remembering the tightening snare of chivalry, the almost-overpowering longing to make retorts that would have driven his childhood nurses to wash his mouth with wormwood. “Other negotiations are conducted with the guildsmen of that land, and its merchants. They're willing to take Morenian coin.”

He would be a fool to endanger the trade that came from Brianta, even if the princess was no treasure. Her tongue was sharper than any builder's adze, and she knew words that would make Hal's own soldiers blush; he could not subject Morenia to such a queen. Hal continued, brushing away the bitter recollection: “Tomorrow, we will begin to cart away the ruins in the Merchants' Quarter. It will take weeks, but we'll rebuild there first. We might be able to hold a small fair, come spring.”

“You have the men to labor, then? To get construction under way?”

“We have some. Enough, if the firelung does not spread.” Hal swallowed hard, trying to push away the gnawing rat of fear about the disease.

“And how many are infected?”

“Nearly four hundred, now. More each day. Mostly Touched. They were the ones who put Davin's engines into place, who made sure that the fire was stopped.”