Glasswrights' Apprentice Page 29

  Rani’s family had had no trial either. They had huddled in their cell, crouching against the back wall so that the other prisoners could not witness their shame. The jailed scum had seen enough, though, to tell Rani details she had hoped never to learn. She knew the order in which her brothers and sisters had been taken from the prison. Now, she could recite the tortures they had suffered as they refused to divulge the absolutely unknown whereabouts of their missing daughter-sister, and Rani’s far-too-active imagination taught her the feel of the rough rope about their necks before they were hanged like common thieves. Over and over again, she pulled her imagination away from their graves in the cold, winter earth. Unsuccessfully, she forbade herself to think of worms and dirt and putrefying flesh.

  First her brothers, then her sisters. Her mother. Her father.

  And now she had only one brother left alive - Bardo, who had been willing to hand her over to the harsh mercy of the Brotherhood of Justice. Rani found small comfort in the knowledge that the soldiers who had dragged her back to the dungeons had rounded up the Brotherhood as well. Bardo and Salina’s armed guards were penned elsewhere in the warrens beneath the castle.

  Guildmistress Salina had been here also, in this desolate dungeon full of women and the rare unfortunate family. After the woman had shouted herself hoarse, she had taken to banging her tin cup against her cell’s irons bars. The guards wrestled away the cup, only to be serenaded with a hard-soled leather shoe. At last, the guildmistress had been carted off amid much swearing - her teeth had found at least one soldier.

  Even though Rani had come to despise the old woman, she longed to cheer the spirit of such rebellion. Then she remembered the evil that Salina had directed toward her, the concerted decision the guildmistress had made when she permitted Rani’s fellow apprentice, Larinda, to be maimed. Salina had had the power to stop the madness even then, but she had not acted. Now, Rani was certain that the guildmistress had drawn on the Brotherhood’s dark loyalties to arrange her own escape, weeks ago, when all the glasswrights were first imprisoned. She had been freed to work her continuing evil in the City streets, and all of the guildsmen she had sworn to lead were maimed as Salina prowled the Brotherhood’s warren inside the City walls.

  Rani took another look at the thin gruel in her bowl and felt her empty belly contract in rebellion. She drank the cup of tepid water, but she sent the bowl sliding across the flagged stone floor, watching with sad satisfaction as it came to rest against the bars of the cage on the opposite wall. The prisoner in that cell crowed with victory and snatched up the bowl before a guard could stumble in to spoil the fun. Rani tried to close her ears to the prisoner’s gurgling satisfaction.

  She was cold in her cell, but she was loath to curl up on the filthy straw that turned to slime on the stone floor. Every time she touched the sodden stalks, she remembered Prince Halaravilli’s words. “I could lock you up where the straw still stinks of the blood from your fellow glasswrights, where you might find a thumb mixed in with the offal.”

  Well, he had certainly done that. She had no doubt that Hal had sent the guards after her in the cathedral. He had proven that he was superior to a mere masquerading apprentice. With the power of all the palace guards, he had succeeded in showing Rani who was in control. She was certain that Hal had had her arrested, seeking vengeance for the deaths of both Tuvashanoran and Dalarati.

  Rani sighed deeply and closed her eyes as she leaned her head against the stone wall. Even if she denied killing the eldest prince, she could not duck responsibility for Dalarati’s death. She had blood on her hands, and no amount of protest would wash it away.

  Her mind began to wander, freed by the hunger in her belly to roam strange hallways. Blood on her hands.… She had seen other people with literal blood on their hands. Instructor Morada for one. The glasswright had cut herself often enough as she plied her craft. Even now, Rani remembered the Instructor’s fury on the platform outside the cathedral. Who had been lurking beneath the scaffold that day?

  As if in answer to her idle query, she pictured Bardo in the cathedral, remembered the rough patches on his hands as his fingers closed around her throat. In her struggle to escape his rage, she had scarcely noted the callouses on his fingers. Now, though, with nothing to do but think on what Bardo had said and done, she connected up his roughened hands with his words. The Brotherhood, he believed, had given him a chance, an opportunity to grow beyond his caste. He had learned to use nobles’ weapons - like the bow? Rani knew, deep in her heart, that the callouses she had felt against her windpipe were the result of a rubbing bowstring.

  Try as she might, Rani could find no reason to believe that Bardo had not killed Tuvashanoran. The thought made her laugh, but it was a laugh of madness. Her family had been tortured and killed so that they would divulge a murderer’s whereabouts. They had thought the guards sought Rani, thought they had been betrayed by the youngest child in the family. In reality, the Traders’ disaster had been brought about by Bardo, the eldest son and brother who had been lured away by power. By murderous, thieving power.

  Perhaps Halaravilli was right - in a manner of speaking, Rani had killed Prince Tuvashanoran. If she had stayed on the scaffold that day, if she had ignored Instructor Morada’s command to leave, she might have been able to persuade Bardo that he was wrong.… Even if she had returned to the guildhall like a good apprentice, if she had held her tongue when she saw the bow silhouetted against the window, she might not have aided Bardo in his deadly mission.…

  Rani strung together the beads of disaster as if she were creating another pattern in the wares at her father’s stall.

  The clank of metal interrupted her mawkish thoughts, forcing her to full wakefulness with a sudden heart-pounding terror. The guards could be coming for any of the prisoners. They could be bringing some new unfortunate. But Rani knew the soldiers came for her.

  They were rough as they pulled her from her cell, and their exclamations were even harsher as the leader exclaimed, “Put her in chains! She’ll not be a threat when we take her before the king.”

  The iron shackles looked evil in the soldiers’ hands, and the men had no compunctions against using brute force to place them on Rani. The nearest soldier pulled her upright with a force that nearly yanked her arm from its socket, and then he hurtled her across the damp stone corridor until she fetched up hard against the iron bars of the opposite cage. She was still trying to draw a breath into her bruised lungs when he jerked her arms behind her, twisting lengths of chain about her neck and waist before he secured the links with a giant padlock.

  Rani shook her head dazedly, trying to clear the cobwebs from her mind. Lan protect her, surely the soldier did not need to be so rough. He must be putting on a show for the benefit of his men. Show or not, Rani’s arms settled into a dull ache as the unaccustomed weight pulled at her joints.

  The soldier, though, was not finished. As if Rani were the most dangerous of criminals, the guard produced another length of chain. This time, two of the armored men pressed her against the prison bars, crushing her narrow chest against the cruel iron as their leader wove the links about her ankles, clasping the shackles to the chains at her waist.

  One of the soldiers dug a mailed fist into the nape of her neck, forcing her to turn her head to the side, to gasp for air. Out of the corner of her eye, she could make out the occupant of the cell she pressed against, an ancient bundle of rags, more filth than human. As the soldiers tugged at their handiwork, testing the locks, the other prisoner looked up, snaring Rani’s eyes with a surprisingly clear gaze. “Mind yer caste, little one. Mind yer caste i’ th’ court o’ th’ king.”

  Rani knew the voice; she knew the all-seeing eyes that peered from the heap of filthy rags. She remembered the ancient Touched creature who had spoken to her on the doorstep in the abandoned quarter where Larindolian had betrayed Instructor Morada. “You!” She managed to breathe, before a soldier’s open-handed slap sent her head careening into the cell’s bars.r />
  “Silence!” bellowed the soldier, and the ancient Touched creature began to cackle. Rani was led away before the guards could retaliate against the other prisoner.

  It took all of her concentration to keep her feet amid the tricky chains. More than once, a soldier reached out to steady her, jerking her upright as she over-compensated for the weight slung about her chest and ankles. She was so disconcerted by her bonds that she did not pay attention to the corridors they strode through. The tall doors of the royal audience hall were a complete surprise.

  The soldiers, though, did not waste time for their young charge to gape in amazement. Instead, they knocked the doors back on their hinges, sending a shudder through the hall’s stone walls. Silence collapsed over the room, and Rani immediately became the focus of dozens of eyes.

  The audience chamber was lined with fluted columns, and a well-armed guard stood between every two posts, sword drawn, mailed hands caressing imminent death. More threatening by far, though, were the black-robed figures standing at the base of each column - Jair’s Watchers.

  Rani’s heart sank. She knew now that she would be subjected to the Defender’s Judgment. No council would sit to judge her; no disinterested panel would determine her fate. King Shanoranvilli, as Defender of the Faith, would decide the punishment for the girl he believed had murdered his son. He had such jurisdiction because the murder had taken place in the cathedral, because the victim had been prostrate before the altar. The Defender could act without explanation, without justification, so long as he acted in the sight of Jair’s Watchers.

  If Rani despaired at the black robes’ message, she nearly cried out when she looked at Shanoranvilli on his dais. Gone was the grandfatherly lord who had welcomed her into his family, into the bosom of his household. Now, the king wore his heavy crown of state and a robe of bloody crimson. His eyes were red-rimmed, sunk deep above his collapsing cheeks, and Rani imagined that she could hear the rattle of his breath across the hall. His chain of office lay across his chest, the heavy golden J’s smothering him.

  Weak as he was, the king did not stand alone. On his right side, ready to do the royal bidding, stood Lord Larindolian. Rani’s eyes narrowed as she met the noble’s vulpine eyes, and she barely resisted the urge to spit at the chamberlain’s feet. Larindolian, for his part, merely nodded once, as if Rani were a faintly disgusting specimen he had seen delivered to the royal menagerie.

  On Shanoranvilli’s left side, perched on the edge of a straight-backed throne, sat Queen Felicianda, flanked by her son, Prince Bashanorandi. The noble woman’s chin jutted forward as she surveyed Rani, and her fingers tightened on her husband’s arm. Even now, as Rani knew she should hate and fear this conspiring traitor, she found herself snared by the queen’s fragile beauty, by the grace of a doe caught unawares at the edge of a forest.

  Before Rani could embarrass herself by appealing to the queen’s mercy, the captain of the guard saluted his liege. “The prisoner, Your Majesty.” Rani had only an instant’s warning before the soldier’s mail-clad hand spread across her back, propelling her forward with a vicious thrust until she tripped and landed hard on her knees.

  “Your Majesty,” she whispered, licking her lips to help force out the words. “My lady,” she inclined her head toward the treacherous queen.

  “Silence!” ordered the guard. “You’ll not speak until the Defender of the Faith gives you leave!”

  Larindolian nodded his head in support of the brutal suppression, but King Shanoranvilli scarcely seemed to hear the command. Instead, he looked down at Rani with a fog of sorrow across his gaze. “First Pilgrim.… I had thought to make you one of my family, to bring you into the house of Jair. I believed you were true to the Thousand Gods.”

  “Your Majesty,” Rani responded, ignoring the frustrated shift of soldiers’ boots on stone. “I am true to the Gods, and loyal to your House as well.”

  “You show your loyalty in strange ways, First Pilgrim. You murder my son and then you conspire against me inside the very walls of my palace.”

  “I -” Rani started to interrupt in protest, but she was cut off by another voice.

  “Begging your pardon, Sire.” All eyes turned toward the speaker, captivated by his smooth and respectful tone. “Begging your pardon, but by the laws of Jair, you may not condemn the First Pilgrim for murdering our brother until she has been formally judged guilty of that heinous crime. First, we must question the prisoner and determine the truth. With your approval, Sire, I will serve as Chief Inquisitor.”

  Rani knew the voice, but she was amazed at the steady force of the words. Squaring her shoulders and bracing herself against her strangling bonds, she turned to face Prince Halaravilli. A shudder wriggled through her as she realized that Hal had wholly set aside his sing-song chants. She met his eyes boldly, and after a moment, she managed to say, “Your Highness.”

  “Your Majesty,” Lord Larindolian interrupted as Hal acknowledged Rani’s greeting with the slightest of nods. “I renew my protest. Need I remind you that we are dealing with a traitor here? A murderess who has royal blood upon her hands? It is one thing for you, Sire, to sit in judgment, on the seat of Jair.… But to hand over the reins to one so … so inexperienced as Prince Halaravilli.…”

  The king sighed deeply. “Prince Halaravilli is my heir, Lord Larindolian. The one I would have bear this weight for me is the very one who cannot be here today. Prince Tuvashanoran has been gathered to Jair’s breast, and I must see that my other sons are prepared to follow in my footsteps.”

  “But, Your Majesty, it would defame Tuvashanoran’s memory if his murderer’s trial were conducted by the prince,” Larindolian pushed. Rani thought she heard a note of desperation behind the chamberlain’s tone; she was not the only person who had heard the steel in Hal’s formal invocation.

  “Lord Chamberlain,” sighed the king, “you know the rules as well as I. I may appoint a Chief Inquisitor, so long as Jair’s Watchers preserve the trial’s fairness.” Larindolian started to protest further, but Shanoranvilli raised a quaking hand, lowering his voice and pulling his chamberlain closer. Although Rani could just make out the king’s whisper, she was certain his words were lost to the more distant witnesses in the vast chamber. “My lord, I am old. I am tired. I still mourn the loss of my eldest son, and this new loss of the pilgrim I took into my house. I dare not harness the power of the Inquisitor’s Orb.”

  The king should never have made such a confession in open court, before soldiers and scribes and the anonymous subjects of Jair’s Watchers. Rani saw a light spark in Larindolian’s eyes, a glint of joyful confirmation that he was correct, that the Morenian throne was ripe for the plucking. For now, though, the conspirator was left with no choice but to bow in submission. “Of course not, Your Majesty. I was only concerned for the prince; you know he is of tender years. I had thought to spare him the weight of these decisions. Perhaps he should share the burden with his brother.”

  Bashi, standing beside his mother’s throne, creased his handsome face to a frown as he eavesdropped on his elders’ conversation. He spared a worried glance at Larindolian, just a flash across the king’s seated figure, but Rani read volumes in that look. Bashi expected Larindolian to win the day.

  As if to echo her son’s desires, Queen Felicianda settled a hand on the king’s arm, and for just a moment, Rani thought the chamberlain might succeed with his suit. If the king felt he must prove his trust in his lady, his faith in her line, then he might indeed let the reins be shared by the princes.

  Before Rani could calculate the cost of letting Bashi sit in judgment over her, Hal cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, Sire, my lord.” He inclined a respectful bow toward the chamberlain as he interrupted, and Rani wondered if she were the only person in the hall who could see the prince’s hand clenched into a fist at his side. “With all due respect to Lord Larindolian, the crown is a heavy weight, and it will not sit on two heads when you walk with Jair in the Heavenly Fields, may that be lon
g in the future.” Hal paused to make a religious sign, and there was a noticeable delay before the spellbound watchers also invoked Jair to spare the king for many years. Rani struggled to follow suit, fighting her massive iron chains. “I can do this, Sire. Trust me to avenge my eldest brother.”

  The fire behind Hal’s words burned to the edge of the audience chamber, and even Bashi stepped back in surprise. The court had become so accustomed to Hal’s sing-song games that they were overwhelmed by his calm, insightful logic. Shanoranvilli eyed his oldest living son for a long minute and then nodded his head in slow approval. “Go ahead, my son. Seek justice with Jair’s guidance.”

  Again, Hal made his religious sign, invoking the Pilgrim’s support and the light of all the Thousand Gods. Then, he raised his eyes and proclaimed directly to his father, “First, we are missing two prisoners. Guard!”

  There was a moment of confusion, and then the doors to the chamber crashed opened once again. Two clusters of soldiers swarmed into the room. Rani craned her neck, ignoring the heavy pressure of iron against her jugular as she took in her fellow accused - Bardo and Guildmistress Salina.

  Then, before Rani could fully think about what their presence meant for her, for the City and the Brotherhood, Hal raised an imperious hand, gesturing for the nearest of Jair’s Watchers to approach. Two black-robed figures flowed from the embrasures between the nearest columns. The first Watcher bore a wrought iron stand, an intricate piece of darkest metal, which settled on the stone floor on four steady legs - one leg for each of the four castes of noble-priest, soldier, guildsman, and merchant.