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  The place still smelled of burned bread, of the darkened offerings that pilgrims had roasted to Jin. On a good day, the smell was a comforting one, an anchoring memory that reminded Parion that he was a person, that his belly must be filled. He remembered the nourishment of day-to-day struggles, the pale sustenance of revenge.

  And on bad days, the smell of burned bread reminded him of ashes. The ashes of the Morenian guildhall pulled down, destroyed. The ashes of his ruined life. The ashes of funeral pyres, like the one denied poor Morada.

  This was a bad day.

  Parion ran a hand through his hair and followed the apprentice out of his study. Almost as an afterthought, he brushed his hand across the bell beside the door. It couldn’t hurt to invoke Clain’s blessing on this venture. Couldn’t hurt at all.

  Arriving at the audience hall, Parion took in the scene with a quick eye. The guild’s handful of masters stood at the front of the room, outlined against the wall of ovens that had once served Jin. They spoke among themselves in low tones, clearly concerned about this new development, obviously wondering at Parion’s intention in bringing the Traitor into their midst.

  Parion reached back into his memories. How many of them had actually known the girl when she was an apprentice? Not Delion, he was from Brianta originally, and Framia and Cordio as well. Yalinta had come from Zarithia, bringing two young masters with her. The other ranking guildsmen, though, were Morenian. Some had already achieved their rank when the Traitor worked among them. Seven had been journeymen, and thus had been spared the worst of the king’s revenge. Five had been apprentices, though, now raised to master status. Raised despite the tools they must use to complete their work, the Hands that they employed to function in their craft. …

  Thirteen who had known the Traitor and six who had not. Thirteen as likely to stab the girl as elevate her to the rank of master—and that did not even count the journeymen who had labored under a difficult system, who had struggled with their own milestones and markers, rather than relying on some wayward player-troop to validate their work.

  That would be another element to make this meeting more challenging. The Traitor was bringing her accomplice—the player man who had set up his own system of glasswork.

  Parion shook his head, wondering if he had chosen correctly in receiving the Traitor here, in public. He had no choice, truly. The guild was already in an uproar about her arrival. The day before, the journeymen had sent a formal letter to him, all twenty complaining that he had agreed even to entertain the notion of advancing the Traitor to master. Larinda had started that, he supposed. She had a way about her, a way of getting others to follow her will. The journeymen were right, though. The Traitor claimed a status that had never been officially sanctioned by the guild.

  All but eight of the journeymen had been Morenian apprentices. All but eight worked without their thumbs.

  Parion’s quick count showed that the majority of his apprentices were present as well – nearly three dozen of them. They huddled at the far end of the hall, eager to witness their guild’s grand events, but afraid to call too much attention to themselves. To an apprentice, “attention” meant obligations. Duties. Jobs delegated from the rest of the guild. He could remember when he had served as an apprentice—long ago, in happier times. Times when the guild had not needed to negotiate with religious fanatics, had not needed to pay off priests at every turn of the road. Times when it did not need to deal with traitors. …

  Well, the guild did not need to deal with this one. He did. Parion, alone. He was the guildmaster, he had written the letter on behalf of the Fellowship, and he had brought about this confrontation.

  As if he needed to remind himself of the reasons behind his decision, he looked again at the journeymen, at the masters who wore the new Liantine Hands. Each wounded glasswright had been equipped with the machinery; each now possessed the latest tools to ease a maimed craftsman’s burdens. The Fellowship had been truthful at least—it seemed that they had waited only long enough to be certain that Parion had sent his letter, and then they had released the Hands.

  That was not the Fellowship’s only interest in the guild, however. Parion glanced into the hall’s shadowy alcoves, in the corners where doors had once stood, passages to the dark pantries that had fueled Jin’s bakeries. By squinting, he could make out two shadowy figures lurking in the darkness, nearly obscured by their dark robes and high hoods. Their faces were entirely hidden by black masks.

  The Fellowship had informed him that it was stationing members in the guildhall. The visitors could be ignored—the glasswrights did not need to feed them or speak to them, to acknowledge them in any way. Parion had agreed readily enough. The intrusion had seemed like a small thing, once the silk-wrapped Hands had arrived. If any guildsman questioned the shadowy watchers, Parion could explain that they visited from the priesthood. They were watchers looking for witches, looking for people who twisted the blessings of the Thousand Gods to evil. That would not even be a lie. At least not much of one.

  And Parion was relatively certain that the Fellowship would not discern his true plan. Not now. Not when he planted the seeds that would take long weeks to blossom. The robed figures could watch, they could listen, and they would discern nothing to make them suspicious.

  Nevertheless, Parion did wonder what the Fellowship wanted. What could they gain by lurking in the guild’s hallways? They had cleverly arrived before the Traitor; if she even noticed them when she entered the hall, she would think that they were part of the guild’s composition, some form of loyal glasswright membership here in the religious tangle of Brianta.

  But why was Parion wasting two heartbeats speculating on what the Traitor might think, about how she would view a few robed figures? Had he already forgotten that the Traitor was—at most—a journeyman? She had no right to question the guild. She had no right to challenge the guildmaster. She would not inquire about the hooded figures. Not if she valued her future as a glasswright. Not if she hoped to advance to master.

  Parion nodded tightly as he took in the Fellowship’s two obscure watchers. If they took his gesture as a greeting, neither replied.

  Parion turned to a wizened master, a woman who had made the journey from Morenia with him, years before. “Sister Gatekeeper,” he said, and the two words settled silence over the hall. “I believe that we have guests here at the guildhall.”

  “Yes, Guildmaster.”

  “Please invite them into our hall, Sister. Ask them to join us.”

  “Yes, Guildmaster.” The old woman raised a hand to her chest, fingers moving in a Briantan symbol of submission. Parion accepted the gesture with a curt wave of his own. He stifled his impatience as the elderly master walked the length of the hall; he swallowed hard as she threw open the doors.

  Of course, the Traitor was taller than he remembered. And shapelier, too—she had grown from a child to a woman. Her hair was still blond, but it swept off her face in an elaborate braid, a far cry from the tangle she had sported as an apprentice. Her eyes were the same—blue-green as ocean water, and piercing as shards of glass.

  She pinned him with that gaze as she walked into the room. Her gait was steady, slow, and she looked to neither the left nor the right. She carried herself erect, as if an iron armature encased her body. She had to be aware of the four score glasswrights around her—masters she had known before, journeymen who had served with her as apprentices, children who only knew her name as a curse.

  Carefully, with the exact touch of a new convert, she reached out a hand to the prayer bell that stood inside the doorway. She barely touched it, moving the clapper just enough to elicit a jangle. She had studied the customs of her adopted home, then. At least she knew some of what was expected of her in Brianta. At least she was prepared to offer up some semblance of submission to her new home.

  Parion was so intent on studying her that he nearly overlooked the companions that followed behind her. The first was a tall man, a bold creature who walked w
ith a nobleman’s confidence as he darted his copper gaze about the hall. The second was a woman of medium height, dark hair, dark eyes. He might have overlooked her entirely if she had not carried an infant swaddled across her chest. The child appeared to be sleeping; at least, it did not cry out in the death-still chamber. Parion resisted the urge to glance at the Fellows. Had they known that the Traitor would bring an entourage? Had they expected these others to arrive?

  She took her time crossing the hall. She must be aware that all eyes rested on her. She must know that everyone in the chamber blamed her for loss, some counting death and dismemberment onto the balance. She must know that she came as a supplicant.

  And yet, she looked as if she were a queen.

  She paused as she came to stand before him, and for a long moment, she took his measure. Parion remembered her as a child, the rebel who had complained about grinding colors, about stirring pots of paint. He remembered the shock and horror of the day that Prince Tuvashanoran died, the day that changed his life forever. Morada. … he thought, and he could picture the bold Instructor standing beside him. Grant me the wisdom to speak to this one. Grant me the courage to do what must be done.

  Even as he voiced the thought inside his own mind, the Traitor sank to her knees before him. Her plain grey cloak billowed behind her, as simple as a pilgrim’s garment. She had already learned that the Briantan street preachers expected modesty in dress. Parion would see if she extended that lesson to his guild.

  She inclined her head as if she knelt before an altar, but when she spoke, her voice was pitched to carry through the room. “Guildmaster Parion.”

  He forced himself to speak her name, twisting his lips around the bitter syllables. “Ranita Glasswright.”

  “I am grateful that you summoned me here. I am pleased to be within the hall of my fellow glasswrights once again, after all the intervening years.”

  A Briantan would have added a hand gesture, emphasizing the humility. Parion caught his own fingers twitching, automatically moving into the sign that accepted a humble offering. At least the girl’s words were spoken with an appropriate tone; he could not voice anger at her phrasing. Grudgingly, he settled for vague truths. “Much may change over the course of years.” Traitor. He could not bring himself to repeat her name. “Your guild welcomes you.”

  He felt her eyes on his face, and he knew that she was measuring him, counting up his anger, calculating her risk in coming here. She settled on an earnest response. “That pleases me, Guildmaster. More than I can say, that pleases me.” He heard the catch in her voice, saw the moment that her lower lip began to tremble. She stifled the emotion quickly and said, “I would introduce my companions to you, Guildmaster.”

  Again, he resisted the urge to glance at the Fellows, to gauge their acceptance of the additional intruders. Why should he worry, though? It wasn’t as if the Fellowship could take back its Hands. He had done his part. He had gotten the Traitor to Brianta. His voice frosted, though, as he thought of how the others might ruin his own plans. “Please do.”

  She cleared her throat and raised a hand. “Guildmaster, I present to you a man who claims mastery of our craft in his own right. Tovin Player of Liantine.”

  At least the man wasn’t staking claim to a guild name. But what sort of station was “player”? Had the man been a true Morenian, his name would have identified him as a merchant. Parion had certainly heard of the Liantine players, though. They did more than sell wares. They worked all sorts of witchery in their land, playing with men’s perceptions, tricking them into seeing things that were not there.

  Parion raised his chin, making his challenge unmistakable. What would the upstart glassworker do? Would he submit to the guild’s power here in Brianta?

  Tovin Player met Parion’s gaze without hesitation. The man nodded once, as if he were deciphering some mystery, calculating the true meaning of an important tale. As all the glasswrights watched, Tovin Player swept into an elegant bow, bringing his chestnut curls to rest against one well-turned knee, and he flung one arm up behind him.

  The effect was to look grand and important, and at the same time to acknowledge the guildsman’s power. Parion had to admit that he was impressed—the glassworker was certainly not submitting to him, but he was acknowledging Parion’s position. In fact, he was recognizing Parion as an equal, conveying the information effectively without the constant Briantan coded gestures.

  “Welcome, Player.” Parion tested the words in his own mind before he spoke them aloud. He was not quite disdainful—that might be construed as an insult. Nevertheless, he was skeptical. He was wary. He was protecting his guild from a potential invader.

  “Many thanks, Glasswright.” The player’s response was cool, and his voice filled the kitchen. He had pitched his few words carefully, so that everyone present could hear what he said, so that each listener thought that he or she was being spoken to directly.

  And, of course, he refused to acknowledge Parion’s title.

  Parion took a moment to glance at the newcomer’s hands, to see if he bore the scars of a true glass craftsman. He was annoyed when he realized that the intruder wore soft leather gloves. Then he caught Tovin’s gaze and realized that the player had known that he would be measured by such a standard. Annoyance turned to slow-burning anger.

  “Aye,” the player said softly, and now his voice was pitched for Parion alone. “I have worked glass. I have mastered the ways of silver stain and flashing, of carving sheets of Zarithian cobalt.”

  The player flicked his eyes toward the bare walls of the chamber, toward the ash-blackened ovens. Parion felt an unreasoning anger rise in his throat. Of course there was no glass here! Of course he had not displayed his ability and the skill of his guildsmen in this hall. That would be a foolish waste in this home of exile!

  The player’s gaze intensified as he peered into the shadowed corners. He had found the Fellows. Nevertheless, he did not remark on those black-robed observers. In fact, he said nothing at all. Parion had to remind himself not to be goaded into starting a fight. He gritted his teeth and nodded once, flicking his eyes back to the Traitor, intending to dismiss the player.

  He was surprised by the look he found on the girl’s face. She was attuned to the player-man, soldered to him with invisible bonds. Parion watched as she measured the anger flickering behind the player’s eyes, as she calculated the aggression coiled in his arms.

  But beneath that watchful gaze, Parion saw more. He saw devotion. He saw dedication. He saw a glasswright who had foresworn her guild and taken up the cause of another.

  Very well then. Parion had already worked out a plan to break the Traitor. He could factor in the player-man. He would even enjoy the new challenge. He stored away a sudden surge of glee and said to the Traitor, “And who else do you bring into our hall? Who else have you brought here, all uninvited?”

  If the so-called journeyman were ashamed of her actions, she gave no sign. Instead, she raised an imperious hand toward her dark-haired colleague, taking in the child that was swaddled at the other’s breast. “This is Lady Mair, Guildmaster. Lady Mair of Moren. She carries her son, Laranifarso, the heir of Baron Farsobalinti.”

  Parion’s eyes narrowed as he turned to the young mother. A Touched girl, by her name, but bred to a nobleman. What business did a rebellious glasswright have, bringing a noble’s paramour to Liantine?

  No, Parion corrected himself. Not a paramour. He recognized the band about Mair’s wrist. She was bound to the nobleman in the eyes of the church. The Thousand Gods had looked upon her wedding and blessed her nuptials.

  That was even more curious, then. A Touched girl wed to a nobleman. What else had changed in Moren since Parion had decamped? What other rules must he learn, if he were to work his vengeance, if he were to regain all that was his by right?

  He forced himself to craft a civil greeting for the wench. “Welcome to the glasswrights’ hall.” He started to call her “lady” and stopped short, far enough in
to the appellation to be insulting. Why give her the honor in his guildhall? Why recognize any potential power that she could harness against him?

  The Touched girl started to speak, pursing her lips to deliver some tart retort. She glanced at her companion for permission, though, and the Traitor shook her head, one tiny motion of denial. Transparent as the finest clear glass, the Touched girl at first rebelled against the instruction, but the Traitor shifted her weight.

  Nothing was said. No words were exchanged. Nevertheless, the Touched wench backed down, forfeiting the argument she clearly longed to make. She inclined her head gravely, as if she were accepting a polite greeting from Parion. He did not force the point by saying anything more; rather, he returned his attention to the Traitor.

  “So. You’ve come to the glasswright guild in exile.”

  “I report to my guildmaster.” There was a curious longing behind her words, and Parion could almost believe that she did desire to submit to him, to submit to the guild that she had so nearly destroyed. “You summoned me, and I respond to that summons.”

  “My call did not ask you to bring accomplices.”

  She swallowed audibly. Parion caught a murmur among the other glasswrights—they were pleased that he was being curt with her. Well, they would be more pleased before he was done. They would be more impressed when they saw just how broken one traitor could be.

  She finally found words to reply. “Your word ‘accomplice’ connotes that my companions intend to work some evil upon our guild. They do not, I assure you.”

  Argument. She was always arguing. She was always parsing words and making excuses. Morada had complained of that, years ago. He thundered: “And you can know that? You can know the inner workings of their minds?”

  “They have sworn devotion to me, Master. I am dedicated to our guild, and so they are likewise dedicated to the betterment of glasswrights the world over.”