Glasswrights' Journeyman (9 page)

The spiderguild. Hal had heard of them, of course. They were the strongest guild in all of Liantine – they rivaled the foreign king for power and prestige. They held a monopoly on spidersilk, a rare luxury, and they milked their investment for every sou they could harvest. He kept his voice noncommittal. “I've heard of the spiderguild.”

“Have you heard how they exploit children? How they require boys and girls to stand for long hours throughout the night, waiting for markin grubs to finish feeding on riberry leaves? Have you heard how they command children to pluck those grubs, to place them, one by one, in front of venomous spiders, without regard to the danger, without regard to potential death?”

Hal kept his voice even, countering Crestman's quaking rage. “The spiderguild is wealthy, my lord, because it deals with a dangerous commodity. They're wealthy enough to purchase what they need to meet their goals. Children. Mercenary soldiers.”

Crestman glared at Hal. “You have said in the past that you oppose slavery. You said that you would free the Little Army.”

“I will, my lord. All in good time.”

“My soldiers do not have time! It has been
two years
, my lord! Two years since we learned of Sin Hazar's treachery, and years before that since he began to ship children overseas. Your Majesty, just eight weeks ago, my scouts witnessed a horrible death. A soldier in the Little Army – one of the girls who was the last to sail to Liantine – was required to feed the octolaris spiders. She had not been trained, my lord, or she forgot her training. The spiders attacked her. A child, my lord! A little girl!”

Puladarati stepped forward, putting his hand on Crestman's arm, but the angry youth shook off the three-fingered grip. “Have you heard how spider venom works, my lord? It makes your tongue swell. It makes your tongue swell and your throat close. That child suffocated, my lord. Your soldier suffocated, in the open air, beneath the springtime sun. Her lips turned black and her skin turned blue. A little girl, my lord!”

“And what have you done, Crestman? You were authorized to speak in my name on matters of the Little Army – what have you done to redeem this child's death?”

“I wrote to the spiderguild, my lord. I demanded to know what precautions they were taking to protect children. I demanded to know how they could justify letting little girls die.”

“And?”

“And they took their time responding. I waited a fortnight for a messenger bird to arrive. When it came, the message was short, the language terse. They bought the girl, and they could do with her as they wished. They paid good money to King Sin Hazar, and I had no interest –
you
had no interest – in what they did with their purchases.”

Whispers rose around the council table, and Hal fought to control his sudden flash of anger. He hardly knew this spiderguild, and he'd never met its master. Hal had never been to Liantine, never dreamed of confronting its wealthy power-mongers. Why this disrespectful tone, then? Why this blatant incitement to conflict?

It wasn't disrespect, though. Even as Hal's chivalric soul trembled against the death of a child he had sworn to protect, he realized that the spiderguild was not being
disrespectful
. They were merely using their investment. In Liantine, slavery was the law – that land's king permitted trade in human beings, and it was perfectly legitimate to place a child, even a defenseless girl, in bondage.

Accidents happened, particularly in the dangerous world of the spiderguild. No one could argue that a slaveholder
wanted
to destroy his investment. The guild had likely been chagrined at its loss – perhaps only for financial reason, but chagrined all the same.

Hal kept his voice even. “I cannot mount a military campaign against the spiderguild at this time.”

“I'm not asking you to, my lord.” Crestman's response was immediate.

“What, then? What would you have me do?”

“Journey to Liantine, my lord. Recall the Little Army – buy back, if you must, the boys and girls who served Amanthia. Save your people as you once promised to do.” Crestman flung back his humble secretary's robes and swept his sword from his sheath – a curved, northern sword. Before there could be any chance to question his intention, he knelt in full obeisance, leaning his head against the beautifully crafted hilt.

Farso and Edpulaminbi leaped behind him, the council lords' weapons forming twin rays of light that seemed to emanate from Crestman's shoulders. Ignoring the threat, the soldier raised his chin to look directly at his king. “I pledge my sword in your service to redeem the Little Army. I pledge my sword, and all that I can do to save the children of Amanthia. Go to Liantine, Your Majesty. See your subjects as they labor in unfair service. See them and redeem the Little Army. Speak with the king of Liantine and end this travesty of justice.”

Hal saw the tableau the soldier had created, the fealty that was offered anew, even as a transformed feudal promise was demanded. Well, Hal had already pledged to bring the Little Army home. He had vowed to get the children out of Liantine, as many as he could find, as many as could be freed. His days had been filled with other obligations, though, other demands upon his time and energy and treasury. And now, with Moren burnt and failing, with increased pressure to bid for power within the Fellowship, with the world turned upside down. …

He looked down the council table, saw the faces of his nine most treasured advisors. Edpulaminbi and Farso. Puladarati. Men appointed by his father to serve Morenia; men that Hal had chosen himself. All gazing at him. All expecting him to act.

And what was he to do? He could not buy back the Little Army – his treasury likely would not have withstood that
before
the fire. Now, with the Holy Father holding him hostage? To gain himself a bit more time, Hal said, “I accept your pledge, Crestman. I accept that you intend your naked sword to offer honor to my crown.”

He waited a moment, for the weight of his words to register. The northern soldier inclined his head and returned his sword to his sheath. He was no fool.

Edpulaminbi and Farso retreated a few steps, each man sliding his own weapon home at Hal's flicked glance. Puladarati cleared his throat, shifting slightly from foot to foot. The man was obviously discomfitted by the turn the council meeting had taken, by Crestman's presumption. He glanced from his young northern charge to his king and back again. Before the regent could fashion some diplomatic words, though, another councilor spoke, Count Jerumalashi.

“Your Majesty. If I may speak?”

“Aye, my lord. All councilors may speak at this table.”

“Sire,” the nobleman said. “As long as the subject of Liantine is on the table, there is another matter there that concerns you.”

Hal pulled his attention from the still-kneeling Crestman. “Aye?”

“We have discussed this matter in many council meetings, Sire, meetings well before the fire and our latest challenges.” Jerumalashi laughed nervously. He was a man of three-score years, a sturdy, scholarly farmer who had advised Hal's father for over two decades. Hal had kept Jerumalashi on the council as a gesture toward the House of Jair, as a visible symbol that the son learned from the father. Even so, Jerumalashi and Hal had no great love of each other, no great friendship that had drawn them together. The nobleman was clearly nervous as he completed his thought. “Your Majesty, you come from a long line, a noble line that traces its roots all the way back to the house of Jair the Pilgrim.”

Hal tried to make himself relax, tried to breathe out a little of the tension that twisted through his gut. He knew now what Jerumalashi was going to say; the argument had become painfully familiar in the past two years. The older man continued, “Your Majesty, your heir is an unruly child.”

“Orsi is my cousin, my lord.” Hal tried to keep his voice light. “He's a good cousin. He's even learning to be a good page.”

“It is time that you established an heir of your body.”

“How many of you lords councilor advised me to wait for that, when a girl first caught my eye?” Hal tried to turn the words into a joke, and a couple of the nobles at the table dutifully smiled, but Jerumalashi stiffened in visible disapproval.

What? Hal wanted to ask. There have been other girls who've interested me since Rani!
Do you really think that I would make Rani Trader my queen? Do you truly think that I – even I
– would try that? Jerumalashi, and other older nobles, had trouble remembering to give Rani
the title “Lady” when she dined in the palace. Hal would hardly expect his nobles to accept his
marriage to the girl. Woman. Glasswright. Merchant. Whatever she was.

Besides, he wasn't even speaking to Rani. She had not acknowledged his gift of anemones.

Puladarati remonstrated with him, where Jerumalashi might not have had the nerve. “This is not a matter for jest, Your Majesty. You know that it is important for you to secure your dynasty. To that end, two years ago, you authorized Count Jerumalashi and me to open discussions with the great houses.”

Hal's lungs compressed in his chest. Of course he had authorized his lords to act. He
had been seventeen years old, by Jair. He had been eager to “secure his dynasty”, or at least to
practice.

The Briantan princess's visit had been an unfortunate result from Hal authorizing his lords to search for a suitable bride. The Briantan, and before her, a toothless duchess, and a dim-witted countess from only the gods knew where.

Now, with a wounded city, with Crestman's challenge to redeem the Little Army, with a thousand details of state. … Hal did not have time to discuss brides and wedding vows. Morenia could ill afford the expense and distraction of royal nuptials when it needed to rebuild. Nevertheless, Puladarati and Jerumalashi were both waiting, and Hal forced himself to say, “Aye, my lord. So I authorized you.”

The former regent nodded his silvery head. “And Count Jerumalashi and I have attempted to make reports to you on a regular basis about our progress.”

“Aye.” Hal knew that he should not feel the urge to justify; he should not try to convince his councilors that he had been too busy to focus on those reports. After all, he
had
 listened. He
had
heard about the endless supply of breeding stock that ranged in age from newborn princesses to a dowager duchess who was nearly fifteen years older than Hal.

“You have not listened closely, Your Majesty. No, no, I understand – you have had many matters on your mind; you have been consumed with affairs of state. But it is time for you to turn to affairs of the heart, my lord.”

“I hardly think that ‘heart' enters into these negotiations, Your Grace.”

Puladarati shrugged. “As you will, Sire. Nevertheless, you must negotiate.”

Jerumalashi stepped forward again, apparently eager to present his point, now that Puladarati had frayed some of Hal's wrath. “And, Sire, you could scarce do better than to join with Berylina, the only daughter of the king of Liantine.”

“Berylina!” Hal exclaimed. There was a whisper at the table, a couple of the lords conferring with each other. There was no outcry, though, no grand surprise. Clearly, the council lords had discussed this matter between themselves. They had obviously been informed of the princess's name before. Both Puladarati and Jerumalashi stayed silent, and Hal took a moment to marshal all his arguments for one fight. He drew a deep breath and gripped the edge of the table, offering up a fleeting prayer to Hin, the god of rhetoric.

“She's only thirteen years old, my lords. Her family has held its throne for only two generations; they're more controlled by the spiderguild than by their own interests. She's got four older brothers who will distribute the wealth of Liantine among their heirs before anything reaches the princess.” And she has buck teeth, Hal wanted to say. And her eyes are crossed. He had not completely ignored his lords these past months. He had listened to the rumors about every candidate they considered.

Jerumalashi glanced at Puladarati. When the former regent merely shrugged, the other nobleman said, “Her dowry could bring you much of the money you need – now – to repay the church. Her mother was obviously fertile; the girl has four brothers.”

Hal turned his blush into a rebellious attack. “And I'll need to wait five years before I can think of serving stud.”

“Not that long,” Puladarati said mildly, smothering the breath of surprise from some of the more prudish council lords.

“She's a
child
!”

“The Liantines marry early, Your Majesty.” Jerumalashi might have been discussing grafting apple trees, for all the emotion in his reply. “Two years is not so long to wait. Not when one of those years will be consumed with planning a royal wedding. It's been a long time since the house of Jair has taken a wife.”

“Two years! That's impossible! She'll only be fifteen!”

Puladarati said mildly, “And what were you doing when you were fifteen, Your Majesty?”

Hal swallowed a hundred acid retorts. He had been trying to save his kingdom. He had been fighting for all Morenia, battling the Brotherhood of Justice, negotiating with the Fellowship of Jair. He had been trying to save himself, and Rani.

Rani. He could not imagine telling her that he was taking a child as his bride.

He grasped at arguments. “Puladarati, you yourself have said that I must yield an heir. Why would you have me wait nearly three years for that?”

“It will take the better part of one, no matter whom you wed. The merger with Liantine will provide Morenia with much needed gold now, and with the potential for more in the future. Who knows what other possibilities for profit might lie overseas, even in the silk trade? Why not marry into the family that has been exploiting that trade for longer than you've even been aware of it? Why not let this union benefit everyone?”