Glasswrights' Journeyman Page 4

  “You’ve heard the stories, same as I. You know the masters think they’ve been too lenient in the past.”

  Mareka held her tongue, all the while that she braided her hair into the apprentices’ distinctive double braids, all the time that she shed her rough sleeping gown and donned her simple white tunic.

  She did not care for Jerusha watching her, did not like the way the other girl ran an appraising eye over her body. Yes, Mareka wanted to shout. I know that I’m small. I know that I’m scarcely the height of a ten-year-old girl. “A spiderling,” her father used to call her, and the endearment was charming on his ruddy lips. He was a short man himself, stretching to reach across his enormous vats of dye, working with his wife, with Mareka’s mother, to lift the water-logged silk from its colored pools.

  At least Jerusha chose to keep her counsel as Mareka tugged her tunic over her hips. The older girl did not taunt Mareka about her height, about her narrow shoulders, about her flat chest.

  Jerusha did, though, take a moment to dust some crimson powder on her lips. Mareka started to protest. Apprentices must be clean. They must be presentable to the octolaris. They must not distract the spiders with scent, or sight, or sound.

  Of course, Jerusha knew the rules. She knew them as well as Mareka did. And she knew that a panel of five masters would quiz the apprentices that afternoon – Mareka, Jerusha, and the four others who were ready to rise to journeyman status. Jerusha wanted to be noticed – and if that endangered her scores for purity, perhaps the risk was worthwhile. Jerusha rubbed the powder into her cheeks and glared at Mareka defiantly. “I’ll see you at the guildhall.”

  “Aye.” At the guildhall. Where their testing would begin in a few hours.

  Mareka waited for Jerusha to close the door behind her, taking the extra moment to focus her thoughts. One, she was a Liantine. Two, she was a daughter to her parents. Three, she was a sister to her brother, and to her two sisters. Four, she was a cousin to all her far-flung family. Five, she was a worshiper of the Horned Hind. Six, she was a spiderguild apprentice. Seven, she was a student of her masters. Eight, she was a servant to the octolaris.

  One, two, three, four. Five, six, seven, eight. The counting calmed her. There was order in the world. There was rightness in the world. She had studied. She knew the rules. She would rise to journeyman, and then continue along the trail to power and glory within the octolaris guild.

  The sunlight was bright as Mareka stepped out of the apprentices’ quarters, and she raised a slim hand to shield her eyes. It was late – too late for her to go to the dining hall, to join the other members of the spiderguild. Besides, she was supposed to be fasting, preparing her body along with her mind, for her encounter with the masters. She was relieved of all apprentice duties for the day so that she might be well-rested for the examination.

  Nevertheless, her belly growled, reminding her of the second leg of the morning prayer. She always ate in the morning. That was habit. That was custom. It would hardly do for her to faint from hunger half-way through her examination.

  Her dilemma was solved when she saw a slave girl huddling at the corner of the apprentices’ quarters. The wench was probably waiting to sweep out the room.

  “Girl!” The slave jumped at Mareka’s bark. She could not have been more than eight years old – young, even for the child-soldiers that the guild had acquired from Amanthia.

  She seemed to be a bit slow in the head, too. It took the brat long moments to find her voice, to ask, “Spidermistress?”

  The fool had not even learned proper titles in the guild. Mareka was not allowed to be called mistress until she was elevated to journeyman. Until that afternoon, after her testing. Well, if the slave were that foolish, then she should not question Mareka’s command. “Girl, go to the kitchens and get me some seedcake. Meet me at the fourth canal, among the riberry trees.”

  “Spidermistress, I may not!”

  “What!” Mareka took a step toward the child, sudden anger spiking her thoughts. How dare a slave defy her?

  “Apprentice Jerusha said I was to follow you. She said I was to walk behind you all morning, and report to her all that you do.”

  Jerusha! Spying on her! As if she hoped to learn some secret from Mareka, gain some edge in the questioning that both apprentices would face that afternoon. How dare she! Just because she was the daughter of two weavers! Just because she was the favored apprentice in the guild! Knowing the answer to her question, Mareka asked the slave, “And is Apprentice Jerusha your owner?”

  “No! The spiderguild owns me!” The slave rushed to shout her reply; she had clearly had it beaten into her skull some time in the past. No individual owned the slaves; King Teheboth would not permit such trade in human flesh. Rather, guilds owned slaves. Guilds, and merchant trading companies, and platoons of soldiers. Slaves were like mercenaries, purchased by organizations to achieve a purpose. The cowering girl was bound to all the spiderguild at once, subject to Mareka’s command just as much as to Jerusha’s.

  The wench huddled against the wall of the apprentices’ hall, as if she wanted to limit the target that she presented. Mareka took a step closer, her shadow blocking out the brilliant sunlight across the slave’s face. In the depth of the shadow, Mareka could just make out the glint of a tattoo beneath the girl’s eye, the silvery spray of a swan’s wing across her cheek. Odd, that swan. The boys all had their tattoos carved from their faces, scarred before they were sold to their Liantine masters. Only the girls had kept their marks. Only the girls – and this was the first swan that Mareka had ever seen.

  “What’s your name, slave?”

  “S – Serena, spidermistress.”

  “Why haven’t I seen you here before?”

  “I was purchased in Liantine, spidermistress, in King Teheboth’s courtyard. I have served the honorable spiderguild in the city for the two years that I have been in Liantine. I only came to the guildhall last night, with my spidermaster.”

  Serving in the city. … The girl must have been bought by one of the guild’s experts charged with selling spidersilk in the world beyond the guild enclosure. No wonder she called Mareka spidermistress, then. The fool knew no better. She thought to honor all of her owners, never realizing that she would anger some with her impertinence.

  Still, even a free child should have understood the simple order Mareka had given. A slave should certainly know to follow straightforward commands. “Slave, do not make me order you again. Seedcake. Riberry groves. You can see them, there.” Mareka gestured across the courtyard. “I’ll be waiting at the fourth canal.”

  “Y – yes, spidermistress.”

  The child did not move.

  “Serena! Now!”

  “But spidermistress, will you tell Apprentice Jerusha that you sent me? Will you explain to her?”

  I’ll explain to her, Mareka thought. I’ll explain that she had no business setting a Hind-cursed spy on me. “Aye, but only if you get me my cake without anyone seeing. Without anyone knowing that you are fetching it for me.” Without another word, the slave girl bolted out of the shadow of the building, her red-slashed tunic fluttering about her knees.

  Jerusha might be conniving. She might be manipulative. But she was brilliant as well. Mareka would never have though to track her own rival, on this, the day of testing. Who knows what Jerusha might have learned, to further her own mastery? Who knows what secrets Mareka might have shared, all unknowing, that would have resulted in Jerusha being chosen over her. Jerusha’s only mistake had been in ordering about a slow child, a slave too new to do her cursed job properly.

  As Mareka strode to the riberry grove, she drilled herself on her lessons, on all the things the masters might ask of her that afternoon. She ran through the eight gifts of the riberries: seed, pith, bark, wood, shade, fruit, green leaves, markin leaves.

  The green leaves made a stimulant tea, a bitter preparation that helped many an anxious apprentice study through the night. The markin leaves, though, they we
re the greatest gift of the riberry trees. The yellow leaves that uncurled at the very tips of the branches were the only food fit for the markin grubs, for the fat, white larvae of the markin moths.

  And markin grubs were the only food fit for octolaris.

  Mareka had seen enough of the white grubs in the past eight years to make her hate the things. Every morning, she worked for the octolaris, collecting the slimy creatures from the yellowing riberry leaves. Every afternoon, she fed them to the spiders, so that every octolaris would grow large, every spider would spin silk, every spider would increase the guild’s wealth.

  But after today, no more. After today, Mareka would move beyond grubs. After today, she would be a journeyman.

  Mareka made her way to the fourth canal without hesitation. She was disappointed as she looked into the green-scummed channels – the night’s rain had not been sufficient to fill their thirsty depth. She would have to ferry water from the Great Well that evening. She sighed, but then she realized the work would not be hers. An apprentice would drive the donkeys. An apprentice would descend into the well and fight to transport the awkward panniers of water.

  Mareka would be a journeyman by the end of the afternoon.

  Reaching down, Mareka adjusted the climbing pads that were strapped around her knees, part of her apprentice uniform. Some masters thought that the cushioned silk was an abomination, a sign of weakness and lack of dedication. Mareka, though, knew that she could stay in a riberry tree that much longer, that she could harvest that many more markin grubs. After all, her goal was to serve the octolaris. By keeping the spiders healthy and fat, she benefitted all of the guild.

  And then, because she knew that she would not be climbing the trees after her examination, because she knew that she would never scramble for markin grubs again, Mareka decided to climb the nearest riberry tree. She would harvest one last meal for the octolaris, provide one final offering, in gratitude for her passing to the spiderguild’s next rank.

  The riberry bark was smooth beneath her palms. The trees were convenient for climbing; they had been bred for it. They branched often, providing easy hand- and foot-holds. Mareka’s roiling thoughts were soothed by the unblemished bark beneath her fingers – she could not remember a time that she had not climbed, that she had not sought out the markin grubs.

  As she moved out toward the ends of the branches, she thought about the eight-fold aspects of markin moths: black grub, black cocoon, grey grub, grey cocoon, white grub, white cocoon, moth, cadaver. The black grubs fed on the bodies of their mothers, hatching from eggs still embedded in her flesh. They spun small cocoons within a fortnight and emerged as thin, grey grubs. They feasted on their cracked cocoons, then on anything green and growing. After another fortnight, they climbed to the tops of riberry trees and spun their grey cocoons, attaching the triangular shelters to the undersides of branches. The white grubs hatched within ten days, fat and ravenous. If permitted, the white grubs ate until they tripled their size, becoming awkward, clumsy. They spun a final shelter attached to the trunks of the riberry trees, and then they emerged as moths – dusty grey with streaks of white and two marks like staring black eyes. And the process began again.

  Black grubs, black cocoon, grey grubs, grey cocoon, white grubs –

  Mareka’s clever fingers found a cluster of white grubs, squirming amid the yellow leaves at the end of the riberry branch. She made short work of harvesting the writhing beasts, tucking them into her tight-woven apprentice basket with an expert’s disregard for their clinging feet. She found three more knots of grubs on the one branch – someone had not harvested this riberry tree for quite some time. That other apprentice’s failure to perform his or her duty worked to Mareka’s benefit. She could complete her harvest all the sooner.

  She had just finished stripping grubs from a smaller pocket of yellow leaves when she glanced down at the foot of her tree. The slave-girl was staring up, her eyes as wide as octolaris. “Please, spidermistress!” the child called. “Have a care!”

  “I’ll show you care,” Mareka muttered, disgruntled to think that the child doubted her skills. She placed her feet carefully on the branches as she descended the tree, gripping the smooth wood with her palms and her knees, automatically swinging her collection basket to the safety of her back.

  When she reached the ground, she held out a demanding hand. “My cake.”

  The slave-girl proffered up a silk-wrapped bundle, her hands trembling. Mareka took the cloth and unwound it, once, twice, three times. She swallowed her irritation at the odd number of wrappings. Any spiderguild slave should have known to turn the silk four times at least. Eight would have been better. Still, the slave had managed not to lose the cake.

  And what ho! The girl had taken more than cake. Nestled on top of the golden yellow seedcake was a fistful of strawberries – plump, crimson fruit that glistened in the morning heat. Mareka glanced at the girl, reappraising her skills. “So, what have we here?”

  “My mistress in the city liked berries with her morning meal. I thought you’d like the same.”

  Mareka placed a piece of fruit in her mouth, biting down on the sweet flesh, feeling her mouth flood with juice. She could not remember the last time that such a delicacy had been permitted a mere apprentice – had she truly not enjoyed a strawberry since leaving her parents’ home? She placed another berry in her mouth, closing her eyes against the pure, sweet taste.

  “What are you doing, stupid girl!”

  Mareka jerked back to the riberry grove, even as a flurry of white announced the arrival of another apprentice. She rapidly secreted her seedcake at the top of her collection basket, determined to preserve her forbidden morning meal. It took her only an instant to realize that the interloper was Jerusha, and the other apprentice was furious with the slave girl.

  “I told you to watch her! Are you too stupid to understand that?”

  “I did, spidermistress!” The slave girl yelped.

  “Watching means that you see her. Not that she sees you! What are you doing standing here in front of her, you idiot!”

  “She saw me by the apprentices’ quarters, spidermistress. She ordered me to get her cake.”

  “Cake!” Jerusha whirled on Mareka. “Cake! You know we are supposed to fast until the masters consider us for advancement.”

  Of course Mareka knew. And she had no doubt that Jerusha would use the irregularity against her, cite her before all the masters. Feigning contempt, Mareka sneered at the slave girl. “And now you’re going to believe a child? An Amanthian slave?”

  The slave looked at Mareka indignantly, pulling herself up to her full height. “You did ask for cake! And I brought it to you! With strawberries!”

  Mareka shrugged and looked at Jerusha. “Strawberries! Are you going to believe that? You made a mistake, choosing this slave for your spy-work. She’s too green to know the first thing about the spiderguild.”

  “She’ll learn,” Jerusha hissed. “She’ll learn how we treat slaves who disobey simple direct orders. Come with me, slave.”

  “Wh – where?” The foolish girl twisted her hands in her short tunic, clearly reluctant to follow any additional commands from a spiderguild apprentice. Well, she should have thought of that before she let herself be sold into slavery, Mareka thought, squelching a moment of pity. After all, the stupid child had been swayed to Mareka’s side easily enough. And she had brought the berries, when she could have eaten them herself. Any slave worth her purchase price would have had the presence of mind to steal the berries. A simpleton, that’s what this child was.

  Besides, what sort of girl would be placed on the auction block? Her own family must have found her to stupid to keep. Or evil. Maybe she had been incorrigible in her own home, terrorizing an infant sibling. All the more reason for Mareka to help enforce the rules.

  She managed to slip the last berry into her mouth without Jerusha noticing.

  “Come along, slave,” Jerusha was saying menacingly. “We’re go
ing to the octolaris.”

  “The spiders?” Mareka had seen that look of fear before – on older faces than the slave girl’s. The child’s face paled, making her shimmery tattooed wing stand out like scales.

  “Slaves do not ask questions,” Jerusha said. “I don’t know what your master taught you in Liantine, but here you’ll learn the real rules. You’ll learn what it truly means to serve the spiderguild.”

  Mareka was so intent on watching the slave girl that she forgot to rebel against Jerusha’s high-handed leadership. She let the other apprentice guide them out of the canals, past the riberry grove and across the expansive guildhall courtyard.

  Other guildsmen were about now. Journeymen supervised a trio of young apprentices who were learning how to balance bolts of spidersilk on a dray. Mareka could make out the ornate embroidery on the journeymen’s arm-straps, the stitchery glinting beneath the slashed sleeves of their robes. Her work would be even better, even finer, fashioned in brighter thread, in greater detail.

  Two masters spoke on the steps of the guildhall, their heads close together as they conferred on some obscure point. Of course, they also wore arm-straps, but they wore the collars of their profession as well – brilliant necklaces of woven and embroidered spidersilk, covering their throats from chin to chest. Mareka’s fingers twitched as she scratched the hollow of her own throat. One day. … One day, she too would have a master’s neckpiece.

  Mareka followed Jerusha and the slave girl past a clutch of journeymen, who called out good-natured taunts. The journeymen would soon be Mareka’s peers, would soon permit her in their own hall, with its private rooms and common hearth, its studious camaraderie. Mareka skipped a few steps to catch up with Jerusha.

  The other apprentice led her little procession past rows and rows of spiderboxes. Each of the containers was the same – a wooden enclosure surrounding a flat rock that baked in the morning sun, a dead riberry branch that propped up the rock and created a carefully anchored cave to shelter the octolaris within, a woven floor of delicate reeds, fashioned to support the spiders’ heavy silken webs.