“Ho, there, my lady! Such mirth on market day!” Rani jumped at the loud greeting, whirling about to find the source of the shout. She was startled by the man who stood before her, shocked by his red and black parti-colored leggings, by his shimmering white spidersilk tunic. “Greetings!” he cried. “Salutations from the Spiderguild Players.”
“The Spiderguild Players?” Rani repeated, confused.
“Aye, my lady.” The man bowed, sweeping an imaginary hat into the air with a dramatic flourish. “The spiderguild sponsors us. We take their money and turn it into tales!” The man placed his invisible hat on his head, settling its imaginary weight with a wiggle of his wrist. He straightened with an infectious grin.
Something about the precise motion of his hands made Rani recognize him. “You’re the jackhand!” she exclaimed. “From last night!”
“Pollino, my lady. At your service. And have you come to the market to Speak with us?”
“Speak with you?” Rani had no intention of speaking with the players; she had not even known that they would be in the marketplace.
“Speak, my lady,” Pollino said expansively. “King Teheboth has granted us leave to Speak with whoever comes our way, for one entire day and night. We’ll leave at dawn tomorrow, packing away our new stories with our spidersilk and glass.”
“New stories?” Rani felt like a foolish child, like she could only repeat words given to her. She glanced at Mair to see if the Touched girl understood any more than she. Mair, though, was making her way toward another herbalist.
Pollino cocked his head to one side, as if he were studying her for a portrait. “You’ve never seen players before, have you?”
“Not players like your company. In my land, in Morenia, there are bards who sing, and pageant-men who tell the stories of the Thousand Gods. We don’t have companies like yours, though.” She licked her lips and ventured one more sentence. “Our players don’t have glass.”
Pollino darted a glance at her, and she was certain that he saw the yearning on her face. He smiled easily, though, and said, “Your bards, your pageant-men, do they Speak to their watchers?”
“Speak?” Once again, she heard his odd emphasis on the word. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“We Spiderguild Players borrow our stories from those who watch our tales. We invite the watchers to our tents. We charge them a small coin, and then we ask them questions. We learn their stories, and then we give the tales back to others. A watcher’s story might last through the ages, if it is clever enough. If it is daring. If it is true. The asking and the telling, that’s Speaking.”
Rani shook her head uncertainly. “The players in my land do not Speak, then. Your practice seems unfair. You take your watchers’ story, and yet you make them pay.”
“We take, that is true – coins and tales. But we give, as well. No watcher leaves unhappy, and many come to us again, Speaking as often as we let them.” Pollino edged closer, all mirth draining from his face. “And you, my lady? Would you like to Speak with the Spiderguild Players?”
She was about to refuse, about to rejoin Mair and finish prowling the marketplace for treasures. But if she agreed to Speak, Pollino would take her to the players’ tents. Their glass would be there. She could see the panels, study the finest glass she had seen since her guild was destroyed. “I –” Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard. “What does it cost?”
Pollino smiled his contagious grin. “A sovereign, my lady. A single sovereign to Speak to the players.”
Rani’s fingers fell automatically to the pouch at her waist. One gold coin. Just like the coin that Hal had wagered the day before. Just like the coin that he had folded into Berylina’s palm.
As a merchant, she knew that she should bargain down the price. She’d be a fool to accept a first bid, to buy without debate. But the wares included glass, access to the players’ precious panels.
“Done.”
Pollino nodded solemnly, as if he heard all the words she did not say, as if recognized the gravity of the bargain they had struck. “This way, then, my lady.”
“A moment, please.” Rani looked about for Mair. When she saw her friend perusing wooden charms, she called out that she was going with the players. Mair shrugged and indicated she could not hear over the noise of the crowd. Rani called a second time and a third, and then she waved Mair back to the market, exasperated.
After all, how long could this Speaking take? How long were the players likely to let Rani peruse their panels?
Rani followed the jackhand through the crowded market, winding her way to the very edge of the square. The players’ tents were assembled in a shaded corner, like a small village, brightly colored against the grey of cobblestones. A spidersilk banner flew from the tallest post, snapping smartly in the wind. It was blazoned with a twisting spider, the eight legs picked out in careful black on white.
As Rani approached the tents, she saw players’ children chasing each other in an elaborate game. Closer to the largest tent, two grown men held wooden swords, walking around in measured circles. They approached each other and then fell back, joining together and coming apart over and over again. Obviously, they were practicing a fight for some tale.
A girl nearly Rani’s age sat on a bench outside the largest tent, biting her lip as she pulled a needle through black spidersilk. It was the Cat’s costume, Rani realized. The tail must have come loose.
Pollino nodded to the seamstress as he approached the tent. “Flarissa is inside?”
“Aye.” The girl looked up, and a brown-rayed sun was etched across her cheek. Another Amanthian. Another member of the Little Army, peacefully at work in Liantine. Not noticing Rani’s stare, the girl nodded at Pollino.
“Is she Speaking with anyone?”
“Nay.”
Pollino did not seem disturbed by the girl’s short answers. Instead, he grinned to Rani and gestured toward the entrance of the tent. She started to duck through the doorway, but the jackhand gripped her arm. “You pay before you Speak.”
Again, Rani knew that she should protest. She knew that she should bargain – pay half first, the rest after. After she had seen this Flarissa.
She reached into her purse and extracted a gleaming sovereign.
Pollino took the coin from her palm, exaggerating the motion by plucking the metal with his forefinger and his thumb. He held it up to the sunlight as if he were checking for shaved edges, but he was clearly pleased with whatever he saw. In a movement too fast for Rani’s eyes to follow, he snapped the coin into his own palm, hiding it behind his nimble fingers. “My lady,” he said, bowing and pulling open the entrance to the tent.
Rani caught her breath and ducked inside.
Pollino dropped the silk behind her, plunging her into darkness. Rani blinked, and she could see that a little light penetrated the heavy walls. A small brazier burned in the center of the floor, sending up curls of smoke that smelled of pine trees and forest rain. Great bolsters were scattered about, gleaming with the richness of their spidersilk coverings. The spiderguild’s patronage served these players well. That, and collecting coins from naive Morenians who agreed to Speak.
Rani blinked again, and she could make out even more in the interior gloom. Trunks were stacked against the far wall, their brass fittings glinting in the gloom. They were of a size to hold the glasswork panels. Glass, wrapped in softest spidersilk, in deepest, darkest velvet. …
“Be welcome, Speaker.”
Rani started at the voice, and she took a step back, clutching at the curtain that Pollino had closed behind her. When she squinted, she could make out the form of a woman on the far side of the brazier, a woman who was turning to face Rani. She was lifting folds of dark blue fabric from her shimmering hair, from hair that was as light as Rani’s own. As the woman pulled back her hood, she leaned over the brazier and picked up a fragrant length of incense. The end of the pine-scented stick glowed red as she moved it toward a fat beeswax candle that sat beside th
e brazier.
The wick took several heartbeats to catch, but when it did, it flared high. Rani could see that the woman was older than she seemed at first, old enough to be Rani’s own mother. She had not been in the play the night before. “Please, Speaker,” the woman said. “Enter and be at peace.”
Rani took a single step forward. At last, she found her voice. “My lady –”
The woman laughed softly. “No lady am I. I am called Flarissa. Be welcome in my tent. Come Speak with me.”
“Please, Dame Flarissa. I did not come to Speak.”
“No?” A flicker of concern passed across the woman’s brow, only to be replaced by a gentle smile. “Why did you come to us, then?”
“I want to see the glass!”
“Glass?”
“I want to see the panels!” Now that Rani was close to the hanging screens, she could scarcely breathe, for all her remembered awe from the night before. Fascination washed over her again, the flush of desire that she had felt when Pollino first hung the Prince on the dais. “Your jackhand put them on the iron stands, before you began your play. Please! I was a glasswright, I was an apprentice learning how to work glass. I was learning how to pour it, how to cut it. I was learning how to set pieces. I was … learning.”
Rani’s words suddenly sounded awkward, frantic and desperate. She wanted this Flarissa to understand. She wanted the woman to know why the panels were so important, why Rani needed to study them. She wanted the player to recognize that Rani was worthy, that she was deserving.
Flarissa nodded. “Come Speak with me, then. Tell me why you stopped learning.”
“Please, my lady.” Rani surprised herself to find tears in her eyes. “Please let me see the glass!”
“All in good time. Speak first. Then I’ll show you the glass. I promise.”
Rani was past bargaining. Flarissa had promised. That had to be enough.
Rani crossed to the brazier and stood in front of the player-woman.
“Have you ever Spoken before?” Flarissa’s voice was calm, soothing.
“No.”
“Very well, then. Sit. Make yourself comfortable.” Rani forced herself to follow the instructions. Her fingers clenched into fists as she glanced at the trunks across the tent, but she forced her attention back to the brazier. Back to the pine scented smoke. Back to the ample spidersilk bolsters. Back to Flarissa. “Very good,” the woman said, and there was an easy grace behind her words. “Why don’t we start with your telling me your name.”
Rani stared as if she had been struck dumb. What name was she to give this golden-haired woman? Rani Trader, her birth-name? Ranita Glasswright, the name that she had vowed she would not take until her guild was restored? Vows were important, vows were honorable. Nevertheless, she was so close to the glass, so close to what she wanted, what she needed. … “Ranita,” she whispered.
“Fine, Ranita. Will you join me in a glass of greenwine?”
Rani nodded, eager for something to swallow, something cool, something to ease the pounding of her heart. She had not spoken her guildname for so long. …
She took the earthenware goblet that Flarissa offered, raising it with both hands. The glazed edge of the cup was cool against her lips, mercifully, blessedly cool. She drank deeply.
“Good, Ranita. Very well. Let me explain Speaking to you.” Flarissa leaned forward and filled the goblet once again. “I am going to ask you to look at something, to look at a trinket. You will concentrate on the bauble. You will watch it closely. While you watch, I will talk to you. I will ask you some questions about the most important day of your life. Those are always the questions we ask first-time Speakers. You need not answer my questions if you choose not to. If you decide that you are through Speaking, all you need to do is open your eyes. If you decide to answer all of my questions, then I will tell you when to open your eyes. Do you think that you can do that?”
Rani’s fingers closed around the goblet. She could taste the sharp greenwine at the back of her throat, calming, soothing. She wanted to drink more. Instead, she nodded.
Flarissa smiled. “Very good, Ranita. Have another drink while I get the trinket we will use.”
Rani obeyed silently, watching as Flarissa rose from the bolsters. The woman crossed to a basket that was nestled near the trunks, and she rummaged in the container for a long time. She pulled out a strand of pearls and shook her head, dug deeper and considered a single ruby earring. She discarded a golden sphere, a drop the size of Rani’s thumb, and then she nodded sharply, closing her hand around something that fit readily into her palm. Rani drank again, running her tongue over lips that were suddenly dry and chapped.
“Fine, Ranita.” Flarissa came back to the brazier, taking the time to settle herself amid the bolsters. “Are you comfortable? Would you like to recline? No? Very well, then.” Flarissa brought her right hand in front of her, leaving it folded around the hidden object. “Remember, Ranita. You are safe here. You can stop answering my questions whenever you choose. Are you ready?”
“Yes?” Rani could not keep her answer from sounding like a question.
Flarissa nodded and opened her hand. There, in the center of her palm, was a piece of cobalt glass. It was as smooth as a sea-washed pebble, unblemished as a polished stone, perfect as the petal of an anemone. Flarissa turned her palm a little, and the glass winked, capturing the light of the beeswax candle and glowing as if it were illuminated from within.
“There, Ranita. Look at the glass. Look at its color. Look at its purity. Look inside the glass, Ranita. Look inside the glass and imagine it being poured. Imagine the Zarithian apprentice measuring out sand, measuring out color. See the apprentice stirring, stirring, stirring. See the apprentice pouring the glass, pouring the glass onto a stone table. The glass pours evenly, it pours smoothly. The apprentice counts as she pours. Count with her, Ranita. Count with the apprentice.”
Rani could see a girl’s hands, measuring out sand. She could see the golden fire kissing the crucible. She could see the grains of color, the precious cobalt tinting the glass. She could see the smooth stone waiting to receive its molten burden. She could see the apprentice, see the glass, hear the girl’s voice as she measured out the perfect pour. “One,” Rani breathed.
“That’s right,” Flarissa agreed. “Slowly now. Pour the glass slowly. If you’d like, you may close your eyes.” Rani did. “As you pour, breathe in. Breathe out.”
“Two.”
“Yes,” Flarissa said. “Breathe in. Breathe out.”
“Three.”
“Yes. You may only think the next number. You may say it to yourself, silently.”
Rani knew she could say “four.” She knew that she could continue pouring the brilliant cobalt glass. But there was no need to speak, no need to move, no need to stir from the depths of her vision.
Flarissa waited for a long moment, for long enough that the cobalt glass began to set on the pouring stone, began to harden. Rani watched, perfectly content. She was aware that Flarissa was leaning forward, was taking the earthenware goblet from her hands, removing the greenwine. “May we Speak now, Ranita?”
“Yes,” Rani whispered.
“I want you to think back, Ranita. Think back to the most important day of your life. To the most important thing that you have ever done. Picture yourself on that day. Picture what you were wearing. Picture where you were standing. Can you see yourself?”
“Yes.”
“When you are ready, Ranita, tell me where you are.”
The words were hard to say, hard to drag past the soft blanket of relaxation. “I’m in the cathedral.”
“Which cathedral?”
“The house of the Thousand Gods. In Moren.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
“What are you wearing?”
Ranita saw her apprentice uniform, her short black cloak, her leggings and tunic. She had worn that costume with pride; she had taken such pleasure in the gold
-chased glasswright emblem on her sleeve. Tears pricked behind her eyes, and a sob caught in her throat. Flarissa said calmly, “This happened long ago, Ranita. You need not fear your story. We are only Speaking. Picture the glass pouring. Picture the smooth blue flow. There, Ranita. … There you are. …” Ranita felt the sorrow loosen in her chest. Flarisa crooned, “Now Speak to me. What are you wearing?”
“My guild uniform. I am an apprentice.”
“Very good, Ranita. Now, when you are ready, tell me what is happening.”
“There is glass.”
“Yes?”
“There is glass. Blue glass. And sunlight. Sunlight through the glass.” Ranita trailed off, losing herself in her memory of that day, so long ago. She had sneaked into the cathedral, where she had no right to be. She was observing the Presentation of Prince Tuvashanoran, the man’s entrance into the church as the Defender of the Faith. She had seen an archer’s bow against the glass. …
“Speak to me, Ranita. Tell me your story.”
“I look through the glass. I see a bow. An archer’s bow.”
Now, with her eyes closed, sitting beside a brazier in a player’s tent in Liantine, Ranita could see every detail of the Morenian cathedral. She remembered the Presentation ceremony as if she were living it again. She told Flarissa how she had cried out, how she had tried to save Prince Tuvashanoran. She told how the prince had stood, how he had grabbed his ceremonial sword from the altar. He had whirled around; he had tried to find the danger. An arrow flew through the cathedral, and it came to rest, quivering and deadly, in his eye.
And all the time Ranita spoke, her voice stayed calm and steady. She could see the story in front of her, see it as clearly as if it were a glass window. She told Flarissa how the King’s Men had blamed her, how they had destroyed the glasswrights’ guild. She told how she had vowed that she would rebuild the guild one day.
And when she was through, she sat beside the beeswax candle, eyes closed, breath slow, holding on to the memory of her promise.
“Thank you, Ranita.” Flarissa’s voice was gentle, soothing, smooth as greenwine. “Thank you for Speaking to me.”
Glasswrights' Journeyman Page 16