Glasswrights' Journeyman Page 25

  “Mercy, Your Majesty, I beg of you! Where am I to find such funds? You said, yourself, my ship sank in the first spring storm.”

  “Aye, Hestaron. Your ship sank. The Hind seeks vengeance in mysterious ways. You will find the funds, or borrow them, or raise them from your vassals, whatever you must do. If not, you will be sold to any honest bidder, and your debts will be paid from your slave-price.”

  “By all –” Hestaron began again, but then he smothered his words. “Aye, Your Majesty,” he managed, barely able to choke out the rest of the expected reply. “Your Majesty is merciful and just.”

  Teheboth’s eyes glinted as he acknowledged the formula, and he waved his nobleman to his feet. “Be gone, then. We’ll expect you at our first winter court, with records showing you have paid in full.”

  Hestaron muttered as he strode past Hal, clenching his hands into fists. The braid of his beard trembled as his lips worked, and Hal quailed before the man’s fury. What land was this, where slavery was a threat hanging over vassals’ heads? Where calling on the Thousand Gods cost men honest gold? And how had Berylina clung to her faith in a household where the Horned Hind was so firmly entrenched?

  “Morenia!” Teheboth shouted from his throne, cutting short Hal’s speculation. “Are you ready to break bread with us, then?”

  “Aye, my lord,” Hal answered, striding down the aisle to meet Teheboth.

  The Liantine king gestured expansively to the courtiers assembled in the hall, to the frantic scribes and heralds. “It has been a long morning, with everyone eager to finalize business before the cycle of summer fairs begins. Let us leave this room, so that the clerks can finish their work.”

  Hal nodded in agreement, following Teheboth to a smaller chamber, a windowed room stripped bare of clinging spidersilk. Wooden panels gleamed in the light, smooth reminders of Teheboth’s woodland goddess. A table had already been laid with a fresh-baked loaf of bread, a round of creamy cheese, and a flagon of ale. The king of Liantine poured two cups and proffered one to his guest, all the time discussing the matters that he had heard that morning, the difficult decisions he had made for the good of all his people.

  Hal listened to the stories and offered polite agreement when required. Even as Teheboth boasted, Hal tried to calculate a way to broach his own difficult case. Before he could pull the talk around to Berylina, though, Teheboth set his goblet firmly on the table. His braided beard jutted forward as he said, “So. You want my daughter, and you want me to pay to be rid of her.”

  Hal was startled by the king’s directness. For just an instant, he wished that he had Rani by his side, even if Teheboth would have disregarded her woman’s words. “I would have our houses joined in friendship, my lord.”

  “And that means Berylina, does it not? Unless you’re planning on whelping a daughter on some other dam and teaming her with one of my boys.”

  Hal cleared his throat. “I ask for Berylina’s hand in marriage.”

  “I haven’t much to offer in the way of a dowry. Not with four boys to maintain, and the cost of Olric’s marriage still smarting.”

  Hal despised himself for the greedy protest that rose to his lips, but he forced himself to say dispassionately: “What can you do, then? What gifts does Princess Berylina bring?”

  “Two hundred bars of gold.” Teheboth set the figure on the table between them, as if he were reciting the cost of bread and cheese. “Along with the usual trappings and finery of a girl of her station, of course.”

  Two hundred bars. Not even half of what Hal needed, of what he must pay the church on Midsummer Day. Hal forced himself to swallow some ale. “I think that you do not recognize the true value of your only daughter, my lord.”

  “I value her,” Teheboth said. “I value her, but I am realistic. If I offered more for her dowry, my own kingdom would crumple under the pressure. My lords would rise against me if I drained Liantine’s treasury, even for our beloved princess.”

  “Your beloved princess. …” Hal knew that a shrewd bargainer would mention Berylina’s deficits – her straying eye, her rabbit teeth. Rani would certainly do as much if she were here. He could not bring himself to criticize those immutable elements, though, and so he said, “Your beloved princess appears too shy to lead folk here in Liantine. If I may say so, Berylina is a delicate creature, my lord. She must be protected from strain and stress. She should not be burdened with the knowledge that her father counts her value at only two hundred bars of gold.”

  “Ah,” Teheboth sighed. “Perhaps you are correct. But maybe my daughter’s shyness would be entirely cured if she learned how much her suitor truly values her. I’d gladly entertain a bid for a bride-price, my lord. Especially because you will take my only daughter so far away.”

  Teheboth’s paternal piety sparked Hal’s temper. He was not about to purchase Berylina, to spend his own precious gold on the princess! Morenia was not some outlying swamp, after all. It was a strong kingdom, an old kingdom. The House of Jair had sat its throne for generations, far longer than a Liantine upstart –

  Hal forced himself to smother all his angry thoughts. He must remain calm. He must not let himself be provoked. “Surely a princess so beloved would warrant a greater price paid by her father. Say, one thousand bars of gold.”

  Hal wanted to ask for more. He wanted to declare that he would not take Berylina for a sovereign less than two thousand bars. Two thousand bars would let him pay the first installment to both the church and the Fellowship, avoid Rani’s still-nascent octolaris plan.

  But two thousand bars would never change hands. Teheboth had his own battles to fight in Liantine – honoring the Horned Hind left little room for play. If Hal demanded two thousand bars, he risked being dismissed outright. So he repeated: “One thousand bars.”

  Teheboth choked on his wine, spluttering, “One thousand! You think me a richer man than even I hope to be!”

  “I know you are a rich man,” Hal countered, “and a loving father.” He put his goblet on the low table, and he snared the gaze of the Liantine king. He kept his voice steady, hoping to convey beyond any doubt that he was through with bargaining. He was through debating. He would have his thousand bars or Berylina would stay in her father’s court, perhaps forever. Hal said, “I see the richness of your palace, Teheboth. I drink your fine wine, and I eat your food. I see the newbuilt palace chambers, with all your fine-carved wooden panels replacing dusty spidersilk. I know what you can pay, when you care to do so. Do not undervalue your daughter. Do not sell her so cheaply that you embarrass her, and yourself as well.”

  Teheboth’s face flushed crimson, and Hal wondered if he would have dared to be so blunt before Moren’s fire, before his kingdom was threatened with ultimate collapse. “Mind your tongue, my lord,” Teheboth managed to say.

  “Mind your daughter! Mind that you honor her as the only girl your lady ever birthed. Mind that you honor her as the only sister among her brothers, as the bridge that can join our kingdoms forever.”

  “Five hundred bars,” Teheboth countered.

  “Eight hundred.”

  “Done. But the wedding must be held on Midsummer Eve.”

  “Why Midsummer?” Hal asked in surprise.

  “It is a day most blessed by the Horned Hind. Berylina is a potent symbol for my people, my lord. As you have argued so shrewdly, she is my only daughter. There are rumors about in Liantine that she holds to the old faith, to the ways of your Thousand Gods. If she weds on Midsummer Eve, my people will be assured of her true beliefs. They will know the holiness of all the house of Thunderspear, and I will not be bothered by fools like that Hestaron you saw this afternoon.”

  If only Teheboth could know the depths of Berylina’s faith. … If only the king could see that his daughter spoke with the gods themselves, drew their likenesses as if they were her living, breathing friends. … No midsummer ceremony would burn that devotion from the princess. But that was hardly Hal’s concern, not when he intended to take his bride to M
oren, to a land that understood the Thousand Gods.

  Four weeks until the wedding.

  “Of course,” Teheboth said, as if he could read Hal’s thoughts, “you could wait a year. You could celebrate your marriage next summer. And receive the dowry then.”

  Impossible. The church would not wait a year.

  Eight hundred bars of gold, and the wedding in one month.

  It was not the arrangement he had hoped for when he arrived in Liantine. Not when he spoke with Teheboth during the Spring Hunt. Not when he forfeited his right to ask about the Little Army, to bid for the return of Amanthian children. He had thought that sacrifice would serve him better here.

  Nevertheless, eight hundred bars of gold would let him pay his immediate debts.

  And four weeks left him time. Time to recall Rani from the players’ camp. Time to send for Puladarati and the rest of his court. And for four weeks, he should be able to avoid Mareka Octolaris.

  Hal extended his hand to his new ally, to the father of the woman he would marry. “Done.”

  Chapter 12

  Rani nodded as Flarissa gestured to the tight joins in the glass frame. The player’s voice was calm and patient as she explained, “You must clean the corners carefully. Too much of the abrasive, and you’ll wear away the solder. Too little, though, and the frame won’t reflect light properly.”

  “I understand,” Rani said. She picked up her spidersilk rag, running its tight-woven smoothness between her fingers. The players had piles of the spent fabric, ragged from long wear, torn beyond repair. They used clean lengths to wrap their glass for transport.

  Rani had spent the better part of the morning studying the fine work. Flarissa had let her review all the glass she wanted, dragging wooden storage bins out of the locked storeroom. Rani had agreed to clean each piece in exchange for the opportunity to learn.

  “Aye,” Flarissa said now. “You seem to understand a great deal. You’ve had good teachers in the past.”

  “Not enough of them. I’ve learned most of what I know from books.”

  “But that will change, as you bring your guild back to power.” The player’s voice was filled with compassion, vivid from the story Rani had Spoken when they first met. “You will rebuild it, Ranita,” Flarissa said softly. “Have faith.”

  Rani swallowed hard and when she spoke, she marveled that her voice was steady. Perhaps even steady enough that Flarissa would not realize that she was changing the topic of conversation. “How many glass panels do the players have, all told?”

  “There is one for every character in our plays. I’ve never thought to count them – ten score perhaps?”

  “Ten –” Rani’s voice caught at the wonder of it all.

  “Aye,” Flarissa nodded. “And most of them grimy from our travels.”

  “I’ll clean them,” Rani vowed. “I’ll clean them all.”

  Flarissa handed over the tin of scrubbing compound. “Start with the ones that are here. I’ll be in my cottage, Ranita. Come and find me if you have any questions.” Before the player walked off, she brushed her warm fingers across Rani’s cheek, a fond farewell, more personal than any words she might have uttered.

  Rani felt the older woman’s touch spread through her body like the peace of Speaking. She gathered up her spidersilk rag and began to work the cleaning compound into the joint of the first panel.

  She lost track of time as she worked. Her hair kept falling into her eyes as she scrubbed, and she finally sighed with exasperation, wasting precious moments wiping her fingers clean on a fresh cloth before she twisted the blonde strands into a braid. Her fingers began to ache from clutching the rag, and the edges of the glass panels cut into the top of her legs. Once, a midge flew into her eyes, and she rubbed away the offending insect without thinking, only to be rewarded by the violent sting of the cleaning compound.

  Nevertheless, she marveled at the work that had been entrusted to her care.

  Every panel illustrated techniques that Rani had read about but never seen in practice. There, three pieces of glass were held in an intricate framework so that light could play through their layered depths, creating deep, dark shadows of color. And there, long, thin pieces were worked into a figure’s hair – pieces so finely cut they must have been created by a master with a diamond knife. And there, wires had been incorporated into the very armature of a stallion so that part of the glass swung free, creating the illusion of a horse’s jaunty gait.

  This last creation captured Rani’s attention most completely. She had already learned a great deal about designing single planes of glass, about structuring windows. She knew how to sketch a drawing on a piece of parchment and how to scale up that drawing on a whitewashed table. But this craft was different from anything she had tried, anything she had imagined. Like the players’ troops themselves, the horse panel needed to be mobile. Rani leaned close over the metalwork, studying how the craftsman had joined the links together, how he had secured the chain to the top of the glass panel.

  She could see what had been done, but she could not calculate how it had been accomplished. She could imagine creating a design, creating separate sections that worked together to form a complete panel. But even if she had the skill to pour the glass and to cut it, she could not set it properly. She did not know how to make a chain that was smaller than her fingers, certainly not a chain of lead. Lead would twist, crimp, and pull. Some unknown tools must have been used, some unknown skills harnessed to make the stallion’s links.

  Rani raised both sections of the panel above her face, letting the lead dangle in the sunlight. She could make out the grooves of tiny instruments, of careful workmanship. The implements, though, must be finer than anything she had seen before, than anything she had ever used to pull and temper lead stripping. …

  “Breathe, girl!”

  Rani was so startled that she nearly dropped the horse panel. “Tovin!” she said, as Flarissa’s son glided to her side.

  “So, Mother has set you to work, has she?”

  “I volunteered!” Rani rose to the player-woman’s defense. “I wanted to study the glasswork. We bargained for it when I first Spoke with her.”

  “There’s no better way to study than to touch the pieces.”

  “Aye,” Rani agreed, uncertain whether Tovin was criticizing her. “I was looking at the chains, there. I don’t know how you made those.”

  “Tools, Ranita Glasswright. Surely you know that a workman is only as good as his tools.”

  She made a face at the trite expression. “But which ones? I’ve never seen glasswrights’ tools to work so fine a chain.”

  “I could show you, Ranita, but you would need to pay for the knowledge.”

  Rani shot a glance at the man’s smooth face, at his calm features. She was suddenly aware of the glass panel pressing against her thighs, of the heated sunlight splashing across her chest. She felt color rise in her cheeks, and she fumbled for an answer. “What coin, then?”

  “The same as before,” Tovin said easily. “Speak with me. Tell me more about your homeland.”

  About her homeland. About the Fellowship more likely. That was Tovin’s interest before. Nevertheless, Rani heard the demand like a thirsty woman listening to a fountain. She longed for Speaking, for the depthless calm of that altered state. And if she should also learn about working the glass, about crafting the magnificent panels. … She could hear Tovin’s dispassionate Speaking voice even now, leading her beside the stream of her memory, further and further into the knowledge that she alone possessed.

  She was afraid, though, afraid of that longing, frightened by the strength of the desire that thrummed through her belly. “I’ve already Spoken with you. I’ve answered all your questions.”

  “I’ve thought of more things I’d like to know.” Tovin eyed her steadily.

  “I –” Rani began, and then she had to clear her throat. “The Fellowship is secret. No one is supposed to know.”

  “Aye,” Tovin agree
d. “The Fellowship is secret. Just as my craft is secret. Just as any guild’s workmanship is secret. Your masters would have taught you secrets, if any lived in Morenia still.”

  Was he agreeing with her or disagreeing? Was he saying that he would avoid the Fellowship and respect her obligations? Rani’s hands trembled as she leaned forward to catch his soft words, and the horse panel leaped into motion, its legs mimicking the swinging motion of a true beast. The impossibly tiny chains caught the sunlight, glinting like the light streaks in Tovin’s hair.

  “The choice is mine,” Rani said, but she made the statement a question.

  “Aye. You know by now that you control the Speaking.”

  “And if I don’t tell you enough?”

  Tovin snared her eyes with his own. “We’re both traders, Rani. We know how to measure value. If you fail to deliver true value through the Speaking, then you’ll owe some other payment. Cleaning panels, or stitching costumes for the troop.”

  She raised her chin and tensed her arms, setting the horse’s legs swinging once again. “Very well, then.” She smothered the panel’s motion by snugging it against her body, and then she reached out a hand. “I’ll trade with you.”

  The tradition was an old one, well-settled in the marketplace. Tovin hesitated for a moment, though, and then he clasped her arm at the elbow. She jerked back in surprise, startled to find him using an older symbol than the one that she had offered. Tovin used the soldier’s clasp, showing that he had no steel concealed up his sleeves, checking to confirm that she was similarly unarmed. His fingers burned against the meat of her arm and then skimmed past her elbow to her wrist. “Well played, Ranita.”

  She swallowed hard, wondering if he had lied to her before. Would he truly settle for her cleaning glass frames, in payment for the Speaking? She could not doubt the invitation in his touch; she could not fail to understand the silent offer that his fingers made.

  She did not want that, she told herself firmly. She had kissed Crestman, long ago in Amanthia, and the heat that had burned between them still warped their conversations. She had felt Hal’s lips upon her hand, a pledge of a future life that tangled her hopes and dreams beyond her comprehension. As little more than a child, she had longed for a soldier man, but he had died with her knife twisted in the small of his back.