Glasswrights' Journeyman Page 13

  So, the men were drinking and the women were gossiping – the Liantine nobility were acting exactly as Mareka expected. They weren’t the interesting ones in this room. The interesting ones were the Morenians.

  Mareka craned her neck, trying not to be obvious as she sought out the visitors. There, near the dais, was the pale lord who had stood with King Halaravilli. What was his name? Farsobalinti. Baron Farsobalinti.

  And apparently the baron had no countess, for the man’s hand rested solicitously on the arm of the Touched girl. What was her tale? From everything Mareka had ever learned about the odd Morenian castes, the Touched were servants, when they were permitted to come in contact with nobility at all. What had the girl – Mair? Was that her name? – what had she done to warrant journeying across the ocean? And how had she gained the attention of a baron?

  The easy answer, that the Touched girl was merely a diversion for a traveling man, was belied by Farsobalinti’s rapt attention. Clearly, he was trying to deflect some argument; perhaps Mair was still complaining about being left behind while the men rode out on the Spring Hunt.

  Mareka had heard about the fuss the Morenian women had made – they had even gone into the courtyard when Teheboth returned for King Halaravilli. By the Hind’s eight horns, didn’t they realize that some things were men’s business? Didn’t they realize there were advantages to letting men play their silly games?

  Actually, Mareka suspected that Mair had not made the decision to interfere with the Spring Hunt at all. It seemed more likely that Rani Trader had led that sortie. Looking across the Great Hall, Mareka found the blonde merchant exactly where she was expected to be – at Mair’s side, looking out unhappily at the hall. Obviously, Rani Trader was searching for her king.

  Well, Mareka was looking for him also. She might as well stand by the merchant – the Morenian monarch was certain to find her that way. Pushing back her hair once more, Mareka glided across the room, skirting a boisterous group of nobles as she approached her rival.

  “My lady,” she said, dropping a quick curtsey. She swallowed a smile as Rani Trader registered the diamond that glittered against her flesh.

  “Mareka.” Rani’s tone was cold, and she did not grace the guildswoman with a title.

  Mareka affected a pout. “My lady, I fear you are still disturbed by our misunderstanding.”

  “Misunderstanding? Nay, there was no misunderstanding, Lady Mareka.” The merchant-girl sneered the last two words. “A misunderstanding implies that one of us stated the truth and the other misconstrued that truth. This morning, you stated a falsehood, which was perfectly construed by me. And by my lord, King Halaravilli.”

  “Is there a problem here?” Mareka was startled by the deep voice, and she raised her eyes to take in the man who stood behind Rani. She had not noticed him across the hall, had not taken in his simple soldier’s clothes. He was tall and broad-shouldered; he carried himself like a fighting man. The hilt of a curved sword rested easily on his hip, and Mareka was willing to warrant that he had other weapons about him.

  She raised her eyes to his face, seeing the steady gaze he held on Rani, his attentive stance as he waited for her reply to his question. Mareka was surprised to see a scar across his cheekbone. A slave, then? An Amanthian bodyguard for King Halaravilli’s pet?

  “Nay, Crestman.” Rani acknowledged the man with greater courtesy than a mere servant would warrant. “Mareka Octolaris and I are only finishing an earlier conversation.”

  “Mareka Octolaris.” The soldier – Crestman – repeated her name as he turned his dark gaze upon her. She was reminded of a stoat’s smooth grace. “You are from the spiderguild.”

  “Aye,” she said, and then she had to clear her throat. Why should this hired sword intimidate her? She had served as an apprentice in the spiderguild! She handled poisonous octolaris, without a moment’s hesitation. “Aye,” she said more loudly. “I live in Liantine now, though.”

  “My people live among yours.”

  “Your people?”

  “The Little Army. The soldiers who were under my command.”

  The slaves, of course. Unbidden, Mareka pictured Serena’s pitiful body; she could hear the child’s final, rattling breath. “We have Amanthians among us,” she said. Of course she did not say the word “slave” aloud. No proper lady would. Nevertheless, the Amanthian tensed beside her. Mareka watched Rani rest a hand upon his arm, drawing his attention away as surely as Homing distracted a ravenous spider.

  Before Mareka could think of something else to say, a voice behind her exclaimed, “Your Majesty!”

  Mareka whirled, prepared to offer a curtsey to one of the Liantine royal princes. Instead, she found herself at arm’s length from King Halaravilli. He still wore his crimson-washed riding leathers, following the example set by his Liantine peers. A brown smear across his forehead testified to the success of the hunt. Mareka could make out the ancient emblem of the Horned Hind, rough-drawn on the king’s brow. So. King Teheboth had honored this westerner with the spring’s first blood. King Halaravilli must be destined for great things in the Liantine court.

  “My lord,” Mareka said, folding into her deepest curtsey. It took only a small curve of her fingers, a delicate wave of her hand, to direct his attention to the diamond she wore, to the gem that nestled between her breasts.

  “My lady,” he replied, and fresh blood tinged his cheeks when she caught him staring at the jewel. He reached for her hand, raising her up with a courtly elegance. Mareka let her fingers rest against his palm, trembling slightly. She blinked her blue eyes and he edged closer, ostensibly shifting to let another man walk behind him. His lips parted, as if he were about to speak, but Rani Trader stepped forward, forcing them apart.

  “Sire,” the merchant girl said to her liege. “Crestman and I were just speaking with the Lady Mareka.”

  “Mareka?” The king looked confused. Alas, the game was ending.

  “Aye, my liege. May I present to you Lady Mareka Octolaris? She was an apprentice in the spiderguild, before her masters sent her here to court. She serves the guild’s journeyman, Princess Jerusha.”

  So, the little merchant knew something of spiders herself, at least of their venom. Rani Trader could not have made her words more hateful if she had been affianced to the king himself.

  King Halaravilli had drawn back his hand from Mareka’s palm, and now he looked quite flustered. He shot a worried glance at Crestman, as if he feared the Amanthian’s restraint, and then he returned his attention to Mareka. “I’m sorry, my lady. I must have misunderstood.” He glanced to Rani Trader and back again. “I thought you were the princess, Berylina. You said that your brother had wed last month, and I – I just assumed. …”

  “As you were meant to do!” Rani Trader spat, in a voice that she must have thought quiet enough not to attract attention.

  Mareka lowered her eyes, as if she were ashamed. “I’m sorry, my lord. I was so startled when I saw you! I was expecting the Great Hall to be empty. You must understand – as a mere servant, I am not permitted to cross the Great Hall. If Lord Shalindor learned that I was here earlier. …” Well, the old man would want to punish her, at least that much of her implied tale was true.

  The Morenian king’s face clouded. “My lady,” he said, as if in apology. Mareka forced herself to shrug, pretending to be resigned to an unfair burden. “I am but a guest in King Teheboth’s palace, after all. I should not have abused the hospitality of my host by crossing the Great Hall.”

  “But when you said that Prince Olric is your brother –”

  Mareka nearly grimaced. Was the Morenian king usually this slow? “He is, my lord. Now, he is. My guild sister Jerusha married him, a fortnight ago. The husband of my sister is my brother. Is that not the way of things in the west?”

  “Well, yes, of course. But … your guild sister?” This Halaravilli was too much a gentleman to accuse a lady of dissembling, not without more, not without proof. He continued, a bit ruefully: “
So now I understand Lord Shalindor’s surprise when I told him I had spoken with Princess Berylina. She was nowhere near the Great Hall this morning, was she?”

  “She was likely with her nurses, my lord. The king permitted her to offer the stirrup cup when he first left for the Spring Hunt. I understand that the excitement left poor Berylina rather … overwrought.”

  “Overwrought. …” King Halaravilli said, clearly disconcerted. Mareka smiled brilliantly. After all, there was more than one way to complete her bid for return to the spiderguild. Jerusha had redeemed herself with the riches of a Liantine prince. How much more rapidly would Mareka rise within the guild if she returned with a bid from a foreign king, from the overlord of both Morenia and Amanthia?

  Before Mareka could weave a new web from Halaravilli’s dashed expectations, King Teheboth strode up to the knot of westerners. Mareka collapsed into the deep curtsey that her liege expected, lowering her head so that her chin touched her chest. Such an obeisance was a small fine to pay if the king permitted her continued access to the visitors. Besides, Mareka knew that her swanlike neck was one of her best features.

  “My lord,” King Teheboth said, pounding the visiting monarch on his back. “I hope that you will join me for the feast. A place has been prepared at my right hand. They say that the venison is ready to serve, and I would have you savor the first bite of our spring success.”

  “I would be most honored, my lord,” King Halaravilli said easily. His smooth acceptance was marred, though, by the quick look that he cast at his countrymen.

  “Lady, er, Mareka, is it?” King Teheboth grunted. “Will you see the king’s companions to their places?”

  “Certainly, Your Majesty.” Mareka inclined her head graciously.

  Mareka wasted no time escorting the westerners to the lower tables. There. The Lady Mair would do just fine, seated next to King Teheboth’s ancient nurse. The old woman was so deaf that she would not hear a word the western girl said, even if the visitor were inclined to protest her treatment. And if Mair had to help the old woman gum her food, well, the Touched girl would just have to manage.

  The baron, Farsobalinti, would sit at the end of the bench, then, across from Mareka herself. She would enjoy watching the torchlight flicker on his pale hair. It reminded her of spidersilk.

  Rani Trader to her left, and Crestman beyond that. It was wise to have a buffer from the Amanthian soldier. There was something wild about his face, something untamed. He was here to cause trouble, more trouble than the normal mating rut in King Teheboth’s court, the usual jostling for prestige and position.

  Across the room, the high table settled quickly. King Teheboth had indeed saved the place at his right hand for King Halaravilli. Farther down the long table sat Olric, with Jerusha beside her husband, the only woman permitted a place of honor upon the dais. The newlywed princess was radiant, twining her hands about her groom’s arm and leaning close to whisper secrets.

  Mareka’s stomach twitched at Jerusha’s display. Undoubtedly, Jerusha hoped to bring home riches – hard gold or the more precious gift of a royal heir – by Midwinter Eve, when all the scattered children of the spiderguild traveled home for the annual Grand Convocation. Jerusha would want to prove that her parents had not spent foolishly when they bought her the title “journeyman.”

  Well, Mareka was determined that she, too, would be recognized at that gathering. She would stand with her brothers and sisters and offer up the riches that she had garnered for her guild. Her stolen octolaris would help with that. Stolen octolaris, and contacts with the west. After all, Mareka was only being punished for the death of a slave girl, and a stupid one, at that. No one could not be expected to pay forever, for such an accident.

  Although the nobles settled into their places at the high table, the gilded chair next to King Halaravilli remained empty. The rumors were true then. Princess Berylina was expected at the feast.

  Mareka swallowed a smile. The meal might prove amusing yet, with Berylina present. It was unfortunate that Teheboth’s queen had died birthing the princess. By all reports, the queen had been a wise woman, and she might have used some common sense in raising her only daughter. The king, of course, had thrust most of that responsibility on royal nurses, on servants who had long ago grown used to the rough and tumble games of the boys placed in their care. They did not know what to do with a quiet girl, how to nurture a creature who was afraid of her own shadow.

  One year in the spiderguild would have brought Berylina into line. She would have learned to fight for what she wanted, or perished in the process. But in the royal court, Princess Berylina had been coddled and protected, swaddled like a precious gem. The cruel fate of her ugly teeth and her crossed eyes only made such extravagant care seem more foolish.

  Mareka’s speculation was cut short by the entrance of the princess herself. Green and silver spidersilk curtains were swept away from one of the many side doors. Two nurses entered the Great Hall, sailing forward as if they were sweeping the room free of marauding pirates. Princess Berylina followed reluctantly in their wake, clutching the hands of two other attendants.

  The child wore a white spidersilk gown, Mareka noted, an unfortunate echo of her own finery. The princess’s garment had none of the subtlety of Mareka’s, though, none of the flashes of inspired color. It was not cut well for the child’s plump body; it bunched beneath her arms and across her belly. The sophisticated styling might have suited a maiden who had begun to grow into her woman’s form, but for Berylina, the low neckline seemed a cruel jest. Clearly, the princess was not happy with the design – she dared to drop the hand of one of her nurses to tug at the fabric. Repeatedly.

  When Berylina realized that all the eyes in the hall were directed at her, she shrank between her attendants. The nurse on her right leaned forward to whisper encouragement, without success. The woman on her left tried as well, bending over the girl’s ear and smiling as she gestured forward. Finally, one of the advance guards turned about and scowled at the child, clearly threatening some dread punishment. Berylina’s face wavered as if she were about to burst into tears, but she managed to take a single step. The stern nurse spoke again, and the girl took another step, then another, and at last she stood before her father.

  All four attendants edged away from their ward, and Berylina dropped a rigidly formal curtsey. So, Mareka mused. She had finally mastered that maneuver. But tonight the princess offered even more surprises. “Sire,” she said, locking her eyes on her father’s. It was the first word she had ever proclaimed aloud in a formal court setting.

  “My lady Berylina,” King Teheboth said, clearly surprised into a broad smile. “You honor us with your presence.” The compliment was nearly too much for the child; she had not rehearsed a reply. Teheboth salvaged the moment. “I have held a place for you at my table, next to our most honored guest. Will you join us, daughter?”

  “Aye, Sire.” The princess glanced shyly at King Halaravilli, meeting his eyes for an instant before lowering her own. Berylina blushed a crimson as deep as the visiting king’s riding leathers, but she stepped up to the dais.

  Well. The Horned Hind brought ever-renewed wonders. Mareka listened to the flurry of amazed whispers as her fellow Liantines watched the princess take her seat beside King Halaravilli.

  King Teheboth must have feared that his daughter’s poise would be short-lived. He raised a commanding hand and caught Lord Shalindor’s eye. The skeletal chamberlain inclined his head for one quick moment, and then he pulled back a green and silver curtain with a flourish.

  Several servants waited in the hallway. The first held an enormous platter decorated with spring flowers. A stag’s head was centered in the greenery, its eyes already grown cloudy and grey. The antlers were enormous – Mareka could only guess at the size of the beast that had borne them. Truly, this first kill was a good omen for the coming year. The Horned Hind must intend great things for all of Liantine.

  The servants paraded their trophy around th
e entire hall, accepting salutes from noblemen and squeals from ladies with equal aplomb. Mareka raised her cup as the platter passed, drinking to salute the Horned Hind.

  Rani Trader, sitting at Mareka’s side, raised her cup as well. The girl swallowed only once and stared at her cup before setting it back on the table. She must be unused to Liantine drink, to the acidic touch of the greenwine. Well enough. Perhaps she would quaff too much, unaware of the greenwine’s alcoholic bite. Perhaps Mareka would learn more about the Morenians, more that would help her ultimate mission.

  The servants had clearly been instructed to avoid carrying the stag’s head past Princess Berylina. Instead, they circled behind the high table, edging around the most honored nobles until they came to rest at King Teheboth’s side. The king raised a heavy goblet in salute to the slain beast, and then he drank deeply. Only when the cup was drained did he climb to his feet.

  “My lords! My ladies!” A restless silence fell over the hall. “We have ridden in search of the Horned Hind this first day of spring. Our horses were swift and our dogs were sure – the day was merciful to us. Let us feast on the first fruits of the season and offer up our thanks for another winter survived! To Liantine!”

  “To Liantine!” shouted the assembly, and Mareka joined them all by sipping at her greenwine. Rani Trader drank as well.

  “And we welcome visitors to our court, nobles who have traveled far across the springtime ocean. To King Halaravilli ben-Jair!”

  The Liantines had trouble with the visiting monarch’s name, and Mareka had to hide a smile behind her cup as Rani Trader’s voice rang a little too clearly in the hall. Another sip of greenwine, and then King Teheboth gestured again to Lord Shalindor. At the chamberlain’s command, more servants streamed into the hall, this time carrying platters groaning with venison and new-harvested roots, braces of partridges and loaves of braided bread, all seasoned with expensive eastern spices.

  As the food was passed around tables and piled onto trenchers, Mareka continued to concentrate on the high table. King Halaravilli sampled each dish that was placed before him, but he concentrated on addressing Princess Berylina.