Glasswrights' Test (20 page)

Tovin glanced toward the window. He lowered his voice just enough that she needed to step closer to him. “Are you willing to wager that there are not eyes in that tower across the courtyard? Are you willing to stake a bet that there are no ears about this place? If not in the hallway outside this door, then in the room above us, or below.” Tovin raised his voice. “You forget, Ranita. You forget the power of the guild you joined as a child. You forget how that guild knew your comings and your goings, every one of your thoughts, just as well as it knew your deeds.”

For an instant, Tovin's words catapulted Rani back to a time when she had believed that the guild was invincible. Her Instructors could read her very mind, could sense rebellion in her unspoken thoughts.

Of course, she had learned much since those naive days. She had learned the suspicious look of a guilty child, the furtive curve of a sneaking person's back. She had learned to parse half-truths and partial tales. She knew the ways of the world around her.

And yet, she could not shake the belief that the glasswrights' guild could control her, could know the heart of what she thought and what she said and what she made be true. She had sworn an oath to Parion Glasswright, and she must stand by that promise. At least until she was declared a master in her guild.

Silently, she bowed her head over the ochre, working the pestle with a tight wrist. The grains squeaked between the glass surfaces, and she bore down harder, spun faster. Only when her breath pressed tight against her throat did she look up at Tovin defiantly. “There. Is that texture right?”

He quirked an eyebrow at her, and she knew that he was commenting on more than her grinding. “Aye,” he said at last. “It seems fine enough.”

She set the work aside, trying to ignore the trembling in her forearms. She should not exert herself so much, this early in the game. She had a long course to play; she would fail in her quest if she pushed too hard now.

All of this would be easier, she sulked, if she weren't so hungry. If her head did not ache.

She tried not to think of the long tables in the Pilgrims' Hall, the communal feasts shared by all who came to Brianta to honor the Thousand Gods. At least she had been spared that temptation tonight. At least she had not needed to sit beside Berylina and hear about Ile's temple as the princess filled her belly with mutton stew and wine. Praying to Hern had spared Rani the pilgrims' feast.

The feast, and Berylina's growing distance. The princess's conversation had become saturated with the gods—it seemed that she was determined to visit the shrines of each of the Thousand, in addition to her cavalcade choices. Night after night, sitting at the table, she chattered with Father Siritalanu as if they were the only pilgrims ever to grace Brianta. They recounted symbols and omens, coincidences and facts that tested Rani's credulity. They spoke about the rabid street preachers as if they could make out some secret message in the crazed babbling.

And all of those tales were relayed over boards that groaned with fresh baked bread, with new-churned butter, with rich, wholesome fare. Repeatedly, Rani was catapulted back to her apprenticeship in the guild. Then, too, she had been hungry. Then, too, she had longed to belong to a community, to a group of worshippers. …

Her belly growled, loud enough that Tovin looked up from across the room. She fought against a blush. “Ranita,” he said. “Starving yourself again?”

“I eat.” She answered too quickly. “I'll eat tonight. At the guildhall.”

“A grand feast, I'm sure.”

She started to reply, but the door glided open. Mair entered, matter-of-factly running her fingers over the prayer bell. “Lar's sleeping now,” she said. “Chalita said she could keep him until dawn.”

Without her son, the Touched girl looked her old rebellious self. She still wore her hair short, cropped unevenly, as if she had taken her own dagger to it. Her smile was crooked, and she posed nonchalantly, with one hand on a jutting hip. “We'd best get our cloaks and hoods, then. There's no telling when the Fellowship will come a-calling.”

Mair did not fall back into her Touched patois, not quite. Her words were loose, though; they flowed more easily than any noble's. Rani took comfort in the easy drawl, gathering strength in the things that were not said. Even in a strange land, Mair did not hesitate to take the lead. She did not pause before moving forward. All would be well in Brianta. No matter what the Fellowship had in store for them.

And Rani did not have long to wait before the Fellowship asserted its presence. She had scarcely shaken out her midnight cloak, fingered the folds of its shadowy hood, when there came a knock at the door. Tovin stepped forward to open it, his hand displayed broadly on the hilt of the dagger at his waist. Tovin Player was no pilgrim. He walked the streets of Brianta armed.

The hooded creature who waited in the corridor might have noticed the bellicose display, but it gave no hint. Instead, the Fellow bowed slightly, taking in all of them with the gesture of one black-swathed arm. “Come,” the person whispered.

“Where?” Tovin grunted the word, but the messenger did not deign to answer. Rani saw the player start to tense; she watched anger spread across Tovin's face like a painted design. She took a step forward and raised her hand as if she would smooth away his ill temper.

Tovin pulled back, glaring at her. He would remember her glasswright's oath even now; he would keep her from touching him. She had wounded him in the guildhall, although he had laughed out loud. She knew that he'd been hurt when she accepted the guild's edict so readily, when she agreed to avoid his solace and support.

There would be time enough to repair that bridge later. Time when the Fellowship was not watching their every move. Time when she did not need to fear spying eyes and ears and tongues.

Rani pulled on her own cloak, taking only a moment to settle the hood carefully. The motion reminded her of her midnight meeting with Holy Father Dartulamino. She must make a choice, he had said. She must decide between loyalties. Was the matter to fall before her now? Was she to learn more of the Royal Pilgrim, now that she was ensconced in Brianta?

She pulled her hood forward, reaping comfort from the familiar gesture, and she caught a whiff of incense on the silk. She remembered the last full meeting of the Morenian Fellowship when she had worn the heavy cloak.

She had known who led her cell, then. She was accustomed to receiving cryptic orders from Glair, the twisted Touched woman who commanded the Morenian congingent. Rani was familiar with the castes of her world being turned upside down by the Fellowship.

The Briantan branch could hardly be more surprising, more unsettling. Or so Rani hoped.

Her hopes, though, turned to queasy fear as the hooded Fellow produced three scraps of cloth from a hidden pocket. “Here,” the creature whispered. “For your eyes.”

For just an instant, Rani thought that she would refuse. She had been blindfolded before, brought before another enclave, another group united with evil in their hearts. Standing here in Brianta, she could remember those early days in Morenia. She could remember the feeling of walls pressing close around her, the dread that had filled her belly when she realized the blood oath that the evil Brotherhood had expected of her.

“We can't,” she said. “We can't wander through Brianta, blinded in the middle of the night. We'll lose our way.”

The hooded figure waited for a moment, and Rani wondered what type of eyes glared at her, what sort of anger waited inside the other's hood. Then, the Fellow whispered, “Pilgrims are blindfolded every day. As a test of their faith. Their dedication.”

Rani had to admit that she had seen such worshipers in the street. They came alone or in pairs, with a guide to bring them around to shrines. They wore elaborate Thousand-Pointed Stars, as if he or she hoped to announce to all the world the depth and breadth of faith.

Rani believed in the Thousand Gods, like any good merchant girl from Morenia. She had even donned a Star for this journey. It had never occurred to her, though, to announce her faith so broadly, to place her trust in the pantheon quite so blatantly. “I—we can't,” she extemporized, looking frantically at Mair and Tovin, wishing for their support. “We can't go with you tonight. If you've found us here, you know why we have journeyed to Brianta. You know that we came with Princess Berylina, and we cannot abandon her to go with you.”

“The princess is safe enough with her priest.” The hooded figure stood straighter, and Rani felt an aura of menace emanate from its dark cloak. She still could not determine if she spoke to a tall woman or a short man, and the confusion was disorienting. The hissed voice did nothing to ease her distrust. “The Fellowship commands your presence. You may choose to obey, or you may pay the penalty later. I will argue with you no more.”

Rani swallowed hard, and she glanced at Tovin. His eyes were narrowed in the way that meant that he was weighing options, calculating costs. She knew that he produced such mannerisms as carefully as he crafted a performance on the players' stage, but his aggressive stance did nothing to ease her mind. Did he truly feel threatened?

What should she do? Where did the true danger lie? And what might the Fellowship teach her?

Rani shrugged and reached for the blindfold.

It was more substantial than she expected. The black cloth was tightly woven, and it covered a broad pad of some soft stuffing. As Rani settled the device about her brow, she lost all of the light in the chamber, even the glints of vision at the corners of her eyes. She started to rethink her decision, began to change her mind, but then the Fellow was standing beside her.

She felt wiry fingers through black gloves, tightening her baffle, and then a rope was slipped around her wrist. Even though her thinking mind knew that the rope was intended to help her, intended to give her something to grasp as she was guided through the streets, she felt as if she were a prisoner, a condemned woman being marched toward a scaffold. Before she could speak, she was tugged toward the doorway.

Rani thought that she was first in the strange line of blinded pilgrims. The rope played out in front of her, strong and steady, and she believed that the seeing Fellow must move before her. She wanted to stretch out her hand behind her, to see if Tovin or Mair was next, but she did not have the time. She needed to devote all of her attention to walking through the city streets.

As always, Brianta was full of pilgrims. The chatter of their collective voices reminded Rani of the great market days of her childhood, when merchants and customers would come to Moren from all the corners of the world.

This was no Moren, though. Heat radiated up from the ground, even thought the sun had set hours before. Rani could smell the press of hot bodies, and she tasted dust at the back of her throat.

As they maneuvered through the streets, she forced herself to walk steadily, to set her feet upon the cobblestones with confidence. She attempted to ignore the sharp odor of rotting food, the stench of thrown slops. In between the unpleasant smells, there were softer scents—a flower garden, obviously nestled beside some woodland god's shrine, the whiff of bread, fresh-baked from an oven, even at this late hour.

It was difficult to keep track of time and space. When Rani had left her rooms, she had told herself to count footsteps, to measure the turns that they took. She hoped that Tovin and Mair would do the same; they could compare their results later.

Such naive plans, though, were dashed as their mysterious guide drove the pilgrims deeper and deeper into the city. Brianta seemed to have no organization, nothing of the order in Rani's home. There were no distinct quarters for the castes of the world—such division was not mete in the birthplace of the First Pilgrim, who had traveled through all the castes.

Instead, streets were jumbled together, a row of fine noble houses fronted on to the marketplace, a sturdy barracks for soldiers hulked beside a chapel. And there were chapels everywhere—tiny huts dedicated to obscure gods, grand churches like Hern's, devoted to the most popular of the Thousand.

Rani knew that she was marched past many of these tumbled buildings. She suspected that her guide twisted the path, bringing them to some places two, three, even four times. The scent of roses was heavy in Rani's nose at the beginning of their trip, and in the middle, and as they neared—she hoped—the end.

And, at last, they
did
approach the end of their wandering. They arrived at a stone threshold; Rani felt the surface beneath her feet. The walls of the building that they entered must be thick, for the interior was blessedly cool.

Cool and silent and tinged with a hint of dankness, as if water seeped through the stone walls. Rani breathed deeply, wishing that her hands were free so that she could mop at the perspiration that trickled down her face, that crept against her spine and made her want to shudder.

There was no time, though, no respite. The guide moved them across a long room, a chamber that seemed to be empty, for they did not need to dodge furniture or altars or any other clutter. At the far end, Rani heard a door scrape open, and then the Fellow tugged on the rope, indicating that she should step down. Stairs. One. Two. Three. Rani counted forty before she hit level ground, jamming her knee a little with the unexpected solidity of the floor. Another few steps, another door, another large chamber, from the feel of the air.

A large chamber, with many people present. They stood quietly, but Rani could hear their breath. She could make out the tiny rustles as they shifted from foot to foot, as they watched Rani and her companions.

How many people stood inside the chamber? A dozen? More than that. Two dozen? Three? Rani longed to tear away her blindfold, to see the forces arrayed against her.

“Hail, Fellows. Well met.” Rani started at the volume of the voice. Female. Young. Confident. The sounds well formed and schooled.