Glasswrights' Journeyman Page 2

  She’d show Hal. She’d show him just how narrow-minded and foolish he’d been to ignore her, when she only had Morenia’s best interest at heart. …

  “Thank you.” Rani managed to smile at her friend.

  “My pleasure, yer ladyship,” Mair drawled, slipping back into the Touched patois of her youth. “If ye think ye’re prepared t’ take on yer king. …”

  “I’ll let you know how the dinner goes.”

  “Oh, no!” Mair leaped for the door of Rani’s chamber. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Mair, you said yourself that this is a private dinner, in Hal’s own apartments. He won’t have time to attend to you –”

  “Aye, the king isn’t likely to waste his time on the likes of me. But who’s to say the king’s men won’t spare a lady a few kind words?” Mair curtseyed deeply, lowering her gaze in a gesture that might have been humble, if not for the carnal glint in her eyes.

  “You’re still after Farsobalinti?”

  “‘After him’ makes me sound like a bitch in heat.”

  “Attending to his interests, then? Sparing time for a loyal supporter of the king?” Rani grinned. “Is that better?”

  “He’s a good man, Rai. He’s a good man, who cares for his king and his kingdom.”

  “And he just happens to care for dark-eyed wenches, with hair to match.”

  Mair laughed, running a stiff-fingered hand through her hair. “You say that as if it’s a failing.”

  “No failing, Mair. No failing at all. The green in your gown sets off your eyes.” She bit off a laugh as those eyes flashed rebelliously. “Mair, there’s nothing wrong with making yourself attractive to a man! Nothing wrong with snagging his attention as he moves between his soup and his meat.”

  “A man’s meat, I know. Now where’s his soup?”

  Rani smothered a laugh, reminding herself that she was about to enter the king’s apartments as an advisor, as a lady. She had to swallow a few choice comments,, as she and Mair made their way through the palace hallways. The Touched girl tugged at her green gown repeatedly, jerking the fabric about as if it had offended her in some way. She might have lived in the palace for five years, but she had yet to leave behind all the ways of a street urchin.

  Rani found it easier to remember her mission when she stepped into the king’s receiving room. A great candelabra blazed against the wall, the finest beeswax candles giving off a gentle fragrance. Farsobalinti inclined his head graciously as Rani entered the chamber. “My lady,” he said, taking the hand that she offered and raising it to his lips as he helped her over the threshold. “Lady Mair.”

  Rani read unspoken volumes in the glance that the knight gave to Mair, in the hand that lingered on the Touched girl’s arm as he gestured both of the women into the chamber. Farsobalinti had been elevated from squire to knight the year before, and little remained in his voice or his bearing of the boy who had served his king so well for the first five years of Halaravilli’s reign.

  Giving Mair a chance to respond to the man’s attentions, Rani crossed the room, pausing by the door to the inner chamber and catching her breath, the better to hear the conversation within. She recognized Hal’s voice immediately, knowing well its serious, earnest tones. But the response, was not made by the ancient Holy Father. It was a younger man, a strident man. Rani knew that she had heard that voice before; she knew that she’d met the speaker. She started to turn to Farsobalinti to inquire about his identity, but the door to the inner chamber crashed open.

  “My lord,” a page gasped, “the king is demanding to know – Lady Rani!” The boy stopped his breathless question and managed a quick bow. “King Halaravilli is demanding to know where you are.”

  “I’m here, Orsi, just waiting for you to announce my presence.” Rani immediately regretted her flippant tone as the boy looked confused. After all, the page was one of Hal’s cousins, the king’s heir, in fact. It would not be proper to tease the child. Rani glanced at Mair for reassurance. “Shall we?”

  “Go ahead,” Mair said, her smile for Farsobalinti alone. “The king asked for you, not for a dark-haired Touched girl.” Rani almost snorted; the young knight did not even wait for the inner door to close before he sidled closer to Mair. Rani’s belly flipped as she watched Mair raise a hand to straighten the nobleman’s band of mourning, but she forced herself to set aside the picture of Mair’s fingers on the man’s firm arm, of Farso’s widening smile. Rani did not have time to speculate on what the couple did in the shadows.

  Instead, she focused on the room in front of her. Orsi – Orsomalanu – Rani reminded herself, held the door open. The boy cleared his throat before addressing his liege lord. “Your Majesty.” Hal looked up expectantly, and the page bowed to his king and the visiting dignitaries. “Holy Father, Your Grace. The Lady Rani arrives.”

  Hal crossed the few steps toward Rani, his dark eyes immediately registering the single ruby around her neck. A flush rose in her cheeks as she remembered him giving her the stone, presenting it to her at the end of the summer in celebration of her eighteenth birthday. He had insisted that she wear it, and she had felt his fingers against her flesh, warm and dry. He had fumbled at the closure, and the ruby had started to slip down the front of her dress. She had caught it before it slid away, and they both had laughed easily, comfortably.

  Now, Hal looked as if he would never laugh again. In the five years since he had ascended to the Morenian throne, Hal had come into his man’s height. He was a full head taller than Rani, and over the past winter, he had increased the breadth of his shoulders, spending day after day practicing his fighting forms with his broadsword and shield.

  Half a decade of ruling had aged the king in other ways as well. Rani could see dark smudges beneath his brown eyes, smears of sleeplessness that indicated his suffering over the latest disaster to strike his city. His cheeks were gaunt, standing out beneath his unruly chestnut hair, hair that only half conceded to the weight of a crown. Hal continued to wear the black mourning that he had donned the day after the fire, and Rani wondered if Farso had needed to fight to get Hal to place the bejeweled crown across his brow. Even in the best of times, Hal was inclined to wear only a thin golden circlet, a brief reminder of the status that he insisted was proven in words and actions more than jewels.

  Nevertheless, the crown that Hal wore that night was fitting. It was woven of interlocking Js, the letter that stood for Jair, the founder of the royal family and the pilgrim who had first cemented the faith of the Thousand Gods in Morenia. It matched the heavy chain of office that hung about Hal’s neck, the sole jewelry resting on his mourning velvet. Both crown and chain contained clusters of pearls and rubies in the loops formed by each J. Hal had worn them when he was invested with his religious title, with the office that ran parallel to his worldly crown. Hal was the Defender of the Faith; he had received that charge at the hands of the Holy Father within weeks of ascending to the throne of Morenia.

  Most important, the crown and chain reminded all present that Morenia was a long-lived kingdom, a land that had seen its share of disasters, but which had survived all, with the house of Jair intact. Hal might be reduced to asking the church for money, but his kingdom would survive. Morenia would prevail.

  As if remembering this strength, Hal managed a smile as he handed Rani into the room. “Holy Father, Father Dartulamino, you remember Rani Trader, our treasured sister?”

  Sister. That was not how Rani would have asked to be presented. Nevertheless, she thought as she collapsed into an automatic curtsey, “sister” was appropriate. Particularly since the Holy Father had presided over the religious service five years before, the ceremony where Rani was welcomed into the House of Jair, where she became the First Pilgrim for a year. Then, she had become a member of the royal family, if only temporarily. She had been expected to spend a year living in the palace, living as a member of the royal House of Jair. One year, five. … The Thousand Gods worked in mysterious ways.

  As Rani ro
se from her obeisance, she concentrated on the fourth person in the room, on Father Dartulamino. His had been the voice that she had heard from the outer chamber. Of course it had seemed familiar! Rani knew Dartulamino from other hallways, from other meetings.

  Dartulamino was a member of the Fellowship of Jair.

  Rani cast a hurried glance toward Hal, wanting to confirm the priest’s secret identity. The Fellowship was a shadowy organization, and its members generally kept their daily lives hidden. In fact, in the three years since one of the Fellowship had come close to assassinating Hal, the cabal had drawn its ranks even closer. Glair, the leader of the cell that operated in Moren, had disavowed the crazed nobleman who had drawn steel against Hal; she claimed that the attacker had acted on his own, without approval or permission from the Fellowship.

  After much debate with Rani and Mair, Hal had decided to accept Glair’s explanation. To do otherwise would have required the king to challenge the Fellowship openly. Hal’s reign was still too new for that sort of upset. Instead, Hal had attempted to embrace the Fellowship even more closely, to integrate himself into their workings more completely, so that he became invaluable to them.

  Rani knew that Hal had taken on special missions in the past three years, that he had offered advice and the distinct advantage of royal secrecy to at least one information-gathering sojourn that the Fellowship had conducted in far-off Brianta, homeland of First Pilgrim Jair. Rani did not know the details, but she understood that Hal was maneuvering toward the heart of the Fellowship’s cell in Morenia. He had worked hard to make himself indispensable, to make himself the rumored Royal Pilgrim.

  The Royal Pilgrim. … Neither Rani nor Hal nor even Mair – with her long history in the Fellowship – knew precisely what the Royal Pilgrim was. Hal had heard about the Pilgrim from a madman, learning the Fellowship’s aspirations from the rogue member intent on assassinating him. The Royal Pilgrim would unite the kingdoms – north and south, east and west. The Fellowship pinned its future on the figure. Hal and Rani might not know the details, but they understood one crucial fact: Hal must ingratiate himself even farther with the Fellowship if he were to claim true power in its ranks.

  And while Rani had not been privy to all of Hal’s maneuvers within the Fellowship, she had attended at least two secret meetings of that brotherhood where the sallow Dartulamino had spoken. The man was a priest; he had dedicated his life to the holiness and the sanctity of the Thousand Gods. Now, he was clothed in the simple green robes that all the priests wore in springtime, his unadorned surplice falling from his narrow shoulders like a curtain. His lips were chapped inside his sparse black beard, but they twisted into a passing smile. “Lady Rani, you honor us with your presence.” The priest turned toward his superior and raised his voice. “Father, do you remember Lady Rani?”

  The Holy Father leaned forward, his skull-like head trembling on a neck that seemed too thin. Rani caught her breath; she remembered looking up at the Holy Father with all the awe of a child, with the certainty that he alone stood between her and the tricksy power of all the Thousand Gods.

  King Halaravilli’s reign had not been kind to the Holy Father. The old man was bent, as if his spine were collapsing upon itself, and his hands shook with uncontrolled palsy as he leaned heavily on an oaken walking stick. His gaze was cloudy, and his right eye watered, as if he were bothered by dust or new-mown hay. His voice quavered as he raised a trembling hand in blessing, “Lady Rani. First Pilgrim. But that was not your name then, was it?”

  Rani blushed at the subterfuge she had played so long ago. “No, Holy Father. You knew me as Marita.”

  “Blessed be Jair,” the Holy Father intoned, and Rani was not certain that he had heard her or that he had understood her words.

  In any case, Dartulamino aped the Holy Father’s sacred sign across his own chest, and then the younger man turned back to the king. “Aye, blessed be Jair, who watches over all Morenia,” the priest said. Rani thought she heard a warning behind those words, a message from the Fellowship. Before she could be certain, though, Hal gestured his guests over to the marquetry table that stood in the center of the room.

  Ordinarily, Rani admired the inlaid wood, letting her fingers play across its impossibly smooth surface. Tonight, though, she found the beautiful work distracting, just as she found that she could not concentrate on the finest golden goblet or the carved ivory fork beside her trencher. She was present as a negotiator, as a merchant. She would have time to dwell on all the finery later. For now, she needed to devote her attention to the trade being conducted around her.

  That work was not long in beginning. As the servants brought in steaming trays of fresh-roasted meats, Dartulamino nodded shrewdly. A footman served him a portion of pheasant prepared with fresh herbs, and the priest observed, “It’s surprising to see the Defender’s kitchens unaffected by the recent tragedy in Moren’s streets.”

  Defender. The title was perfectly appropriate, but it underscored Hal’s submission, labeling the king a servant to the church. Not a good stance for beginning negotiations.

  “Unaffected?” Hal sat back in his chair to let the footman place food on his own trencher. “Hardly, my lord. My kitchens, my palace, all of Moren suffers from the fire. I merely hoped to honor you and the Holy Father, and to provide you with a token of my pleasure that you could join us tonight.”

  “One man’s token –” Dartulamino began, but he was interrupted by the Holy Father staggering to his feet. “Father?” the priest asked solicitously, easing a supportive hand beneath the elderly prelate’s arm.

  “In the name of Jair, let us pray.”

  Rani obediently bowed her head, watching Hal and Dartulamino follow suit. The footman, caught by surprise as he held a platter of new-dug carrots, tucked his elbows closer to his side, inclining his head. “In the name of all the Thousand Gods, let us offer up gratitude for the food placed before us this night.” The Holy Father’s voice quaked less as he continued his speech. “In the name of Til, the god of goldsmiths, let us give thanks, for Til has guided us in the creation of things of beauty and things of worth, and Til has seen that the coffers of the church are never empty.”

  Rani intoned, “In the name of Til,” thinking that it was a good sign that the Holy Father had mentioned the church treasury on his own. She swallowed hard and raised her head, prepared to settle down to business.

  Before she could reach for her goblet, though, the Holy Father continued: “And let us pray in the name of .”

  “In the name of Kif,” Rani muttered. In the name of Kif, in the name of Win, in the name of Bur, on and on and on the Holy Father droned.

  “And let us pray, first and last, always and longest, in the name of First God Ait Ait brought the world out of nothingness, breathing it into being, with the power of his lungs and his thoughts alone. Ait blessed all of creation, the earth and the sky, the darkness and the light, and each of the Thousand Gods. Ait blessed men and women, adults and children. He blessed each of the castes, welcoming the nobles and priests, the soldiers, the guildsmen, the merchants, the Touched. He blessed the seasons, the turning spring, the summer and autumn and winter. Blessed be First God Ait.”

  “Blessed be First God Ait,” Rani echoed, and she thought that she detected a note of exasperation in the voices of Hal and Dartulamino, as well as the servant who continued to hold the carrots.

  “Very well, then,” the Holy Father said after an expectant pause. “Don’t stand on ceremony for an old man.” Rani swallowed several sharp retorts before she managed to reach for her goblet.

  Dartulamino appeared to take refuge in his wine as well. After a sip, the young priest raised an appreciative eyebrow toward his host. “Defender, you honor us by serving Liantine red.”

  “This is the last that survived – our cellars were flooded by the storm that stopped the fire. I’m grateful for the opportunity to share it with you.” Hal inclined his head. Rani took a sip of her own wine, but the fine bouquet was lost on h
er. What was Hal thinking, admitting that the storm had caused such damage? If he intended to negotiate for a loan from the church, he should hardly start by admitting desperate need.

  “Of course, we expect to purchase more stock, now that it is spring, and the sea passage is safe between here and Liantine,” Rani said. Hal glared at her, and she buried a tart reply beneath a bite of carrot. Dartulamino certainly did not miss the exchange; he studied her closely. Rani swallowed hard and forged ahead. “We intend to trade a great deal with Liantine in the coming year.”

  Hal was clearly furious, but he did not have a chance to make additional bidding mistakes before the priest said, “That surprises me, lady, after the blow the gods have dealt fair Moren.”

  “Was it the gods?” Hal finally asked. “It seems to me that we men and women made mistakes. I hear now that the fire may have been started by a smith’s flame, left unattended as the breeze picked up.”

  “And could that not be the work of Ith, Defender? Or of Pron?”

  “Why would the god of blacksmiths rise up against all Moren? Or the god of wind?” Hal asked. “What could the entire city have done to have angered those righteous gods?”

  “Prayer!” the Holy Father exclaimed, and Rani was not certain if he was responding to Hal’s question or if he was replying to words that only he heard. “Prayer is the answer to all the people of Moren, to all Morenia, to all the world!”

  “Aye, Holy Father. Prayer is always advantageous,” Hal replied courteously, pausing to see if the ancient priest would continue. The old man, though, returned to his roast fowl, forking a huge bite into his mouth and chewing with relish.

  When it became apparent that the Holy Father was not going to comment further, Hal said, “We prayed, of course, after we toured the city, after we saw the damage done by the fire. It will take much to rebuild from this loss.”

  “The church has offered up many prayers of gratitude that it was spared the flame.” Dartulamino made a holy sign across his chest, his hand standing out like a skeleton’s claw against the green cloth.