Glasswrights' Journeyman Read online

  Flarissa’s hut backed onto the storehouse. Rani had not been permitted inside that structure yet. Flarissa said that it contained great bolts of spidersilk, cloth to be sewn into tents and bolsters and clothing and costumes. It held other tools of the actors’ craft – face paints and wigs, and a woodshop for crafting tools for the plays, such as the Old Man’s walking stick, the Young Girl’s mirror.

  And the storehouse contained glass. Rani had heard the players talk about the panels casually, speculate about the screens that defined each play. She understood that the storehouse concealed whitewashed tables for laying out new designs, and lead stripping and glass to create the works. There would be solder, too, to repair broken screens, and silver stain, and paint. …

  Rani’s palms itched as she rounded the corner of the storehouse. A heavy iron lock hung from the oak door, mute testimony to the treasures inside. So far, Rani had needed to content herself with studying the kiln outside the storehouse, looking at the clever brick construction that let air circulate to cool the glass after firing.

  Flarissa had promised that the players’ glasswright would return that day. He had been on the road, negotiating with the spiderguild, delivering the players’ latest news of the kingdom, and bargaining for silk. Any moment, now, he was expected to return for the Spring Meet.

  Rani thrust down a flutter of expectation as she knocked on Flarissa’s door.

  “Come!” the woman called immediately.

  Rani glanced at Crestman and was surprised by the hard line of his jaw. He rested a hand upon his curved Amanthian sword before he ducked inside the building, looking as if he intended to storm the place rather than ask assistance. Rani followed, trying to set aside her misgivings about introducing the soldier to the player.

  She blinked in the cool richness of Flarissa’s hut. She’d visited every day since arriving in the players’ camp, and still she was captivated by the accumulation of wealth. A giant curtained bed filled half the room, swathed from floor to ceiling with hangings of the finest spidersilk. The hearth was set with painted tiles, careful designs that captured firelight and reflected it back. Mementos of travels were scattered about – a silver-chased goblet that clearly came from Zarithia, a child’s doll that looked to be of Briantan design.

  Most striking, though, the floor was covered with fine spidersilk weavings, lush carpets that incorporated a web design. Rays spun out from the center of the room, inviting visitors to step in, to be welcome, to settle into the player’s home.

  “Ranita!” Flarissa’s greeting was light, joyous. She set aside a leather strap that she was mending in the light from the window, a sandal for a player’s costume. “I hoped that you would visit me today.”

  Rani basked in the warmth of the player’s greeting. Flarissa reminded her of the feel of a featherbed – soft and warm and comfortable. For just an instant, Rani thought of her mother, Deela, leaning over Rani’s pallet in the long-gone Trader home, crooning her to sleep with a lullaby and a smile.

  “Good morning, Flarissa,” she said, swallowing the memory like a physical thing.

  “You’ve brought your friend, at last.”

  “Aye,” Rani said, perhaps a little too eager. “Flarissa, this is Crestman. He is a great soldier from Amanthia.”

  Crestman scowled as he bowed before the player, stiff and uncomfortable. “Amanthia has no great soldiers any longer. We have offered up our arms to Morenia.”

  Flarissa looked directly at the youth, and she might have been quoting some play when she said, “A soldier’s loyalties are never simple.”

  “I’m loyal to King Halaravilli!”

  “I’m certain that you are. That does not mean your path has been easy. Your choices were not lightly made.”

  Flarissa’s words defused some of Crestman’s tension, and Rani stepped forward, eager to do more. “I’ve told Crestman of my Speaking, about how you players gather stories. He is searching for information about the Little Army.”

  “The Amanthian children.” Flarissa’s words were not a question; they were quietly resigned. She cast a glance at Crestman. “What were you before your country’s war? A lion-boy?”

  “I was a captain in Sin Hazar’s army.”

  Rani waited for Crestman to explain more about how he came to serve, but Flarissa did not seem surprised by his recalcitrance. Instead, she nodded and said, “We players trade for stories. People pay us, then they Speak.”

  “What sort of coin?”

  “A single sovereign, typically. For you, though, we could work a different exchange.”

  “What?” Crestman’s wariness was like a wild animal’s, poised on the edge of a ravine. He was equally ready to scramble down or retreat.

  “Show our players how you wield your curved Amanthian sword. Teach them to use the weapon so they may work it into plays.”

  “And for that?”

  “I’ll Speak with you. I’ll gather up your story.”

  “You get my labor and my tale.”

  “And you get the peace of the telling.”

  Rani hovered, waiting. Suddenly, it was tremendously important to her that Crestman agree. Rani could not explain why. She could not find words, any more than she could describe the cobalt lake that spread beneath her own thoughts. Crestman needed to agree to Flarissa’s terms. He needed to reach out to the player, to her bargain, to the healing she could offer.

  “Very well, then,” Crestman said at last. “I’ll teach your players.” Rani exhaled her relief. “However –” he continued before Flarissa could reply, “you must give me something else as well. You must tell me what you know about the Little Army, about my soldiers who are scattered throughout Liantine.”

  “Crestman,” Rani said, “you can’t bargain.”

  “He can,” Flarissa contradicted. “You bargained to see the glass.” Rani flushed as Flarissa turned back to Crestman. “Very well, then. Speak, and I’ll tell you what I know about the Little Army. Ranita, if you will leave us now –”

  “She can stay,” Crestman interrupted.

  Flarissa looked at him for a long moment. “You will be safe here. There will be no danger.”

  “I’m not afraid of your Speaking. But Rani may stay and listen.”

  At first, Rani thought that Flarissa would protest, would make her leave the hut. The player looked at Crestman’s face, studied the hand that still curved around the hilt of his sword. She started to speak, stopped, then started once again. “Very well, then. She may stay.” Flarissa nodded to a low chair that crouched beside the window. “Sit, Ranita. Make yourself comfortable so that you do not interrupt the Speaking.”

  Rani complied, crossing the room and settling quickly. She tried to seem invisible, tried to mask her breathing, tried even to keep her eyes from flicking back and forth, from Crestman to Flarissa. She listened as the player explained the art of Speaking, outlined what she would ask and how she would guide the conversation. Rani watched as Flarissa collected a single pearl earring, stringing the bauble upon a chain of gold. She told Crestman to settle on a great bolster beside the hearth, and she waited for him to make himself comfortable.

  “Very good, Crestman,” Flarissa said. “Remember, you need not tell me anything you wish to keep secret. If you wish to stop at any time, you can open your eyes and walk away. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Look upon the pearl and think back to the most important day of your life. Think. Decide. Choose the story you will tell.” Flarissa waited several heartbeats. “Do you see it? Do you see the tale that you will Speak?”

  “Yes.” Crestman’s voice was loud enough that Rani started. He darted his eyes from the pearl to her face. The motion made the white scar upon his cheek leap out.

  “Look upon the pearl, Crestman,” Flarissa said. “Look upon the pearl and remember your story. Remember the day. How old were you that day?”

  “Fifteen.” The single word was rough, raw against Flarissa’s honeyed tone. He c
leared his throat and said again, “Fifteen.”

  “Very good, Crestman. Relax. Breathe in. Breathe out. Look into the pearl. Think back to the day. You can see it reflected in the pearl. Breathe in. Breathe out. If you wish to close your eyes, you may.”

  Crestman kept his eyes open, staring at the pearl with unblinking intensity.

  “Relax, Crestman. Focus. Take yourself to your story. Breathe in. Breathe out.”

  “I am breathing!”

  “Calm yourself. Focus. Think of this as a training exercise, a chance to build your skills.”

  “I can’t do this!”

  “You can, Crestman, if you let yourself. Allow yourself to travel in your thoughts. Look at the pearl. See yourself when you were fifteen. See what you were wearing. Remember how you felt.”

  “This will never work!” Crestman sprang to his feet, forcing the player woman to sit back abruptly. “I won’t be witched by your crooning and your pearls!”

  “Crestman!” Rani exclaimed, jumping to her feet.

  “No! I will not Speak! I’ll learn about the Little Army some other way!”

  Before Rani could say anything, before she could beg him to come back and try again, he turned on his heel. His boots clattered on the wooden floor, even through the spidersilk covering, and he yanked the door open. For just a minute, he hovered on the threshold, and then he pulled the door behind him, slamming it with a resounding thud.

  “I’m sorry,” Rani began. “Flarissa, I never thought that he –”

  Before she could complete her apology, the door opened again. Rani whirled about, expecting to see Crestman, but she was shocked into silence by the sight of a grinning stranger.

  “Another satisfied customer leaves the player’s hearth?” The man crossed the room with familiar ease.

  “Do not mock me, Tovin.” Flarissa’s voice carried a hint of warning, but her flash of annoyance was quickly damped. She turned to Rani. “Some people are not able to Speak with us. Some cannot find their pathways back inside their tales. You can tell your friend that I am willing to try another time. Perhaps when he has come to trust us more.”

  The man – Tovin – grinned and said, “Or maybe you should have another player try. Some are better at extracting stories than others.”

  “My lady Flarissa was brilliant at getting me to Speak,” Rani answered hotly, stung to defend the player woman. She was surprised to hear Flarissa laugh.

  “Ranita! Thank you for your praises. But you need not defend me to this impudent whelp. Ranita, this is Tovin. My son.”

  Son. Now that Rani looked, she could see the strong line of the man’s jaw, the exotic angle of his cheekbones, and she could recognize traces of Flarissa’s nose and mouth. Where the player-woman was soft though, a calm and loving mother, the man was hard. Rani recognized the look immediately. Tovin was a trader. He might live in players’ clothing, but he was a merchant man at heart.

  “Ranita,” Tovin said, pinning her with copper eyes that mirrored his mother’s gaze. “You’re not from Liantine, are you?”

  “I’m from Morenia, sir,” Rani said. She tried to keep her voice courteous.

  “A westerner, hmm?” He ran his eyes down her body, as if he were appraising horseflesh. She sensed him counting out her name, measuring up her caste. “What guild do you hail from, then?”

  “The glasswrights, sir.”

  “Then you’re an outlaw among your people?”

  “The glasswrights are no longer outlaw,” Rani said stiffly. “We have been recognized by King Halaravilli. We are rebuilding.”

  “Rebuilding.” Tovin rolled the word around on his tongue, and Rani could picture him upon the players’ stage. He might take the part of a lord, a noble, a person accustomed to command.

  Flarissa interrupted before Rani could elaborate on her hopes for the glasswrights’ guild. “Tovin, she’s a guest among us players. Don’t tease the girl.”

  Tovin snorted and crossed to the mantel, pouring himself a cup of wine. He was tall, Rani noted, taller than Hal, and he was broad through his shoulders. “Forgive me, Ranita.” He offered up the apology without any hint of regret. “My mother thinks that I’ve been rude.”

  “You have been,” Flarissa remonstrated, but she smiled as she chided. “Don’t think that you can ride into camp on the very day of the Spring Meet, come into my cottage, drink my greenwine, and insult my guests.”

  Tovin laughed and saluted his mother with his goblet before he turned toward Rani. “I trust you will forgive me, Ranita Glasswright? Pardon me before my mother, or I’ll never hear the end of her complaints.”

  Rani tried to remember how she would respond to a merchant boy who teased her, but she was oddly at a loss before Tovin’s glinting grin. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she managed, although she did not reach the light tone that she’d hoped for.

  Flarissa nodded indulgently, as if she were pleased to see peace among her squabbling children. “How was your journey, Tovin?”

  He shrugged and drained his cup. “Not good. They’re driving a hard bargain this time. They claim that they can no longer afford to support a troop of players. The sale of spidersilk is off. The priests are calling for the faithful to give up spidersilk hangings in favor of wood panels, reminders of the Horned Hind.”

  “When will you go back, then?”

  “I’ll stay here for the Spring Meet and a bit more. Perhaps a week, all told. Then, I’ll conclude our deal.” He set his cup upon the mantel. “I’ve plenty of business to complete, before I return to the road. I just wanted you to know that I am home.”

  Flarissa glowed with pride. “I’m pleased to see you well.”

  He bobbed a quick bow and headed for the door, but then turned back to Rani. “Ranita Glasswright. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “A pleasure, sir.” Rani kept her words short, for she was not at all certain that Flarissa’s son pleased her. Not at all sure that it was a pleasure to meet those probing copper eyes. Tovin bowed again and left.

  Rani waited for Flarissa’s proud smile to fade, and then she asked, “He’s been with the spiderguild, then?”

  “Aye. He negotiates for us. He buys our silk and settles on our patronage each year.”

  “The guild must be very strong.”

  “Strong as spidersilk.” Flarissa shook her head. “They don’t seem so powerful, if you merely take a glance. Their guildhall is on the high plains, three day’s ride from Liantine, two from here. But they spin their webs and measure out their power. Spiders, silk, and poison. The Horned Hind may encroach upon their power, but they are far from beaten yet.”

  Rani shivered, thinking of the venomous creatures that spawned such wealth. “But enough about the spiderguild!” Flarissa cried. “You must think of all the questions you would ask Tovin.”

  “Ask him?”

  “Of course! Tovin is our glasswright. Did I forget to say that?”

  Rani’s dismay bubbled up inside her. That man? That unsettling, arrogant. …

  Flarissa smiled. “I’ll make sure that he speaks with you tonight. Now sit beside me and keep me company while I finish mending these sandals.” Rani settled down beside the player-woman and let herself be drawn into conversation, even as she thought about the lessons she might learn from Tovin.

  * * *

  Rani watched Mair rub at her wrist. “You’re not a Touched child anymore.”

  “I didn’t fall because I’m old, Rai. I fell because they didn’t turn the ropes evenly.”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t break that arm again. It’s been weak ever since Amanthia.”

  Mair did not answer, only looked out at the stream. Both girls had been banished from the players’ camp, told to stay away for the afternoon and early evening. The players were conducting the most secret part of their Spring Meet, plotting their business deals for the coming year, deciding where they would travel and what they would play. Flarissa had promised to send someone along as soon as the Meet was
concluded. Rani and Mair were expected to join in the evening feast.

  Rani wondered where Crestman had gone. She had been unable to find him when she and Mair departed for the stream. He was likely spying on the players, counting out the Little Army members they had scattered through their midst. She hoped that he would not offend their hosts.

  “So,” Rani said to fill the silence. “We were so astonished when Hal received the Fellowship’s demand that we scarcely spoke about the reasoning behind it. What do you think that they intend to do with a thousand bars of gold?”

  “Break the crown.”

  “Surely they mean more than that? They must intend to use the gold for something.”

  Mair pursed her lips. “We already know that they can hire Yrathi mercenaries and turn those soldiers to their will. If they have a treasury so deep, why would they bother collecting a thousand bars of gold from King Halaravilli?”

  “It would prove his loyalty. Not a bad plan, that – they test him and they get a lot of wealth. Perhaps they intend to do something in Morenia. Something specific to the fire and our rebuilding.”

  “Aye.”

  “Or maybe they want to seek out all the Little Army, settle the matter once and for all.”

  “Aye.”

  “Or maybe they are going to honor Hal’s marriage, to send some gift welcoming his bride.”

  “Rai, you’re making these things up! You have no way of guessing what the Fellowship will do.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you? Not knowing?”

  Mair shrugged. “I’ve never known anything about the Fellowship. From the day I joined them, they kept their secrets. I know they gather power. I know they work in every land. Aside from that, they’ve kept me ignorant, and I can’t lose sleep waiting to learn their next move. I’ll protect myself the best I can, use them when I might, and go about living my life.”