by Karen Miller
That would be the easiest answer, certainly. Let Remmie herd his little flock, leaving her to dream alone of beautiful, mageworked things, and how one day she’d escape the confines of Arndel’s artisanry. Besides, it would only be a torment to her, visiting Elvado. There were excellent reasons why she’d stayed away.
“Please, Barl,” her brother said, wheedling. “We can throw a coin in the plaza’s great fountain for Mama and Pa. Didn’t we promise we’d do that one day? But we never have. And it’s bad luck not to keep that kind of promise.”
Oh, well, now that was playing dirty. “One day, yes,” she muttered. “But does it have to be next Winsun?”
“Surely next Winsun’s as good a day as any.”
Of course it was. Staring at the blue-and-yellow checked tablecloth, she swallowed a resentful sigh. She’d have to say yes. If she didn’t, she’d give Remmie pause for thought. She’d have him fretting and nagging and niggling…
“Fine,” she said crossly, lifting her gaze. “I’ll come, but only so we can toss the remembrance coin. Oh, and so I can laugh myself sick watching you chase after your gaggle of school brats like a three-legged sheepdog.” She raised a warning finger. “But don’t you even think of asking me for help herding them. Other people’s snotty-nosed children are your delight, not mine.”
Remmie was grinning. “Don’t fret. Barton’s coming too, with his class. He’ll help me keep order.”
“Barton Haye?” Her heart sank. “Oh.”
His grin turning sly, Remmie reached for the last piece of buttered bread. “Of course Barton’s coming. I think he’s more excited than the children. He’ll be tickled even pinker when I tell him you’re joining us.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Yes, well, while you’re at it you can tell him I’m walking out with one of the mages from the artisanry.”
“Tell him yourself,” he retorted, around a crammed mouthful. “Barton’s a good fellow. I’ll not fib to him on your account.”
“It would be a kindness if you did, Remmie. Coming from me it’ll only prick his pride worse. Besides, I don’t want to lie to his face.”
“But you’ve no trouble asking me to?” Finished eating, he began collecting his plate and bowl and cutlery. “You steal my breath, Barl. You truly do.”
She handed him her own bowl and spoon, balanced on her crumb-strewn plate. “I don’t see why. Since you’ve such a fondness for him I’m surprised you didn’t offer.”
Remmie clattered their used dishes into the sink. “Look. I know Barton isn’t your dash of salt but—”
“Is he anyone’s?” She laughed. “I can’t see it. He’s short and skinny and his ears stick out. And when he laughs he—”
“Don’t!” Remmie said, turning. “Why must you be unkind? What do a man’s looks count for? Barton Haye has a good heart, he’s gentle and patient and a gifted teacher. If he’s not as handsome as you’d have him, how is that a crime? You’d best believe you could do far worse!”
Taken aback, Barl blinked at him. “I had no idea you’d appointed yourself Barton Haye’s champion. Perhaps you ought to walk out with him yourself, if he’s such a catch.”
And that, of course, was exactly the wrong thing to say… for last year, abandoning the Eighth district’s village of Granley out of loyalty to her, Remmie had left behind a young woman who might have become more than merely the sister of someone he taught school with.
Her contrition heartfelt this time, she reached out a hand. “I’m sorry. Truly. That was a heedless jibe to make.”
“I’m not trying to push Barton onto you,” Remmie said, calm as buttermilk now, as though she’d not hurt him or apologised. “Only you never seem taken with anyone. Perhaps if you did…” He shrugged. “But you don’t. I worry you’ll end up old and alone.”
Probably that was true. But she thought he also worried he’d end up old and alone, from staying loyal to her. It wasn’t something they talked of. She wouldn’t know where or how to start. But after Granley she’d not been able to pretend so easily that what she did made little difference to her loyal, long-suffering brother.
“I won’t be unkind to Barton,” she said, subdued. “I won’t walk out with him, but I’ll not make you ashamed of me.”
Remmie’s lips curved a little, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Be sure I’ll hold you to that. It’s a small school, Barl, and we teach cheek by jowl together in it. I don’t want my peace with Barton cut up.”
“It won’t be. I promise. Please, Remmie, don’t be cross.”
“I’m not,” he sighed. He was far too nice a man for grudges. “Though doubtless I should be.”
Relieved, she bounced to her feet. “It’s because you’re not that I love you. Now finish telling me of your day while I do the dishes.”
When the kitchen was clean again they went their separate ways, Remmie to sprawl in the cottage’s pocket-sized parlour and read a book, while she retreated to her room to continue her private magework.
During her walks to and from the artisanry, she’d had an idea for a new kind of translucent clock-housing crystal, thinner and lighter and stronger than the crystals Arndel had them use. Those crystals were created with incants of his own devising, and jealously guarded, but her crystal was better than all of his. Or it would be, once she’d perfected the incant for its creation. It called for a tricky marriage of fine Manemlin silver sand with the argumentative grittiness of Brantish coarse black. Nearly five months it had taken her, to scrimp and save enough coin for a small-weight of silver sand. So far the incant’s creation had defeated her, but she was undaunted.
And once she’d perfected the mageworking, once she had a flawless sheet of crystal as proof, she’d show it to Arndel… making sure, of course, to stress how his own incants had inspired her. Then perhaps he’d agree to her crystal’s use in the artisanry. He might even sponsor a patent submission to the Artisans’ Guild and then the new crystal could be named after her.
Lindin crystal.
She didn’t care how hard she had to work or what small luxuries she had to give up to make sure she had enough of the costly silver sand. She didn’t care how long it took to perfect the incant. What was time? Just another tool.
Settled at her small workbench, she dropped a pinchful of silver sand into a waiting crucible. The promise of success burned bright in her blood.
This incant is only the beginning. Before I am done I’ll be the best artisan mage Dorana has ever seen.
A day and a half after she’d completed Lord Traint’s journey clock, Artisan Master Arndel gave her a new commission, a nursery clock for one Lady Ancilla Grie. Clearly he resented passing her the task, but with no other artisan free or skilled enough and his own time swallowed by an established patron he couldn’t afford to offend, he had no choice.
“And let me remind you there can be no deviation from the requested design,” the Artisan Master said, scowling. “Lady Grie is a mage of great reputation and influence. Next to Lord Bren, the greatest in these eastern districts. Nothing is more important than pleasing her.”
Or more disastrous than earning her ire. So had their rival artisanry in the Seventh district township of Valdere learned, to its dismay, when its Artisan Master made the mistake of countermanding Lady Grie’s specifications.
“Tympanne has all but ruined herself,” said Arndel, thrusting his face close. “Where Ancilla Grie leads, many lords and ladies follow. Her patronage, added to Lord Bren’s, could be the making of this artisanry. Put that in jeopardy, Mage Lindin, and you will rue the day you first drew breath.”
Unmoved by his lip-spittled fervour, Barl nodded. “I will give Lady Grie no cause for complaint.”
“See that you don’t,” Arndel hissed, finger jabbing. “For you’ll not be the only Lindin to suffer from a misstep.”
Remmie. The old mole would dare to threaten blameless Remmie? She felt her blood turn molten. You scabrous toad. Biting back fury, she bowed her head, showing Arndel only what he
wanted to see, an obedient underling.
“Yes, Artisan Master,” she murmured. “I understand.”
Nearly six days it took her to complete the nursery clock… and to her surprise, the work was a pleasure. The artisanry’s new patron was no Artur Traint. Lady Grie’s design was charming, full of whimsical grace, and challenging enough to keep her mind off dark thoughts of the upcoming trip to Elvado.
For if I go, it will hurt me. And if I don’t go, I’ll hurt Remmie. No matter what I do, it seems someone always ends up hurt.
Those six days were the happiest she’d spent in Arndel’s employ, even though she had to attempt the clock’s crystal housing twice. The first time she misjudged the crucial balance between the superfine Brantish blue sand and the heavier grey sand from Trindek’s Istafarn desert. Moments after coalescence the crystal collapsed into blobs of grainy, useless glass. Shocked speechless, Barl could only stare and nod as Arndel berated her for wasting her time and his jealously guarded supplies.
“I’m sorry, Artisan Master,” she said, once his tirade ended.
“As you should be! Don’t make me regret giving you this commission, Mage Lindin.”
Oh, how it galled her to be wrong in front of him. To have failed in a task she’d assumed would be simple. “I won’t, Artisan Master. You have my word.”
Arndel glared, unappeased. “You have but four more days to complete this clock, Mage Lindin. Do not waste them.”
Spurred mercilessly by such a public failure, the muffled snickers of the other mages burning in her ears, her second attempt at the clock housing succeeded. Shimmering like Lake Nartana, jewel of the Second district, the crystal’s flawless beauty stunned her to tears and helped to bolster her shaken confidence.
“Better,” said Arndel, grudging, called to inspect her progress. “Now get back to work.”
Hunted by a sense of urgency, haunted by the fear of failure, Barl finished Lady Grie’s nursery clock eight minutes before midnight on the fourth day following her disastrous mistake.
Alone in the artisanry, driven to sleeping there the past three nights so she might complete her task on time, she let the tears fall as she stared at the beautiful nursery clock.
I’m not imagining things. I was born for this. For greatness. Now not even Arndel will be able to deny it.
Next morning, Winsun Eve, Lady Grie herself came to hear the clock’s first sounding. Scant weeks from giving birth, her body bursting ripe, she swept into the artisanry’s private viewing room in a cloud of rich rose scent. Arndel trailed behind her like a fart.
“And of course, Lady Grie, if the piece does not meet with your approval we will simply begin again,” he declared, with a pained enthusiasm. “But I think you’ll agree that—”
“Hush,” said Lady Grie, one finger imperiously raised. Her sunrise silk gown rustled, murmuring of wealth and authority. “Incessant chatter bores me.”
Too exhausted to feel nervous, Barl clasped her hands tightly behind her back, kept her face tactfully blank and watched Ancilla Grie as the woman inspected her commission. Roamed her sharp gaze over the nursery clock’s arching crystal rainbow, with every bright colour shining, rested it on the small boy quaintly fishing with a rod and line, and then on the pond fringed with nodding bulrushes. Last of all she stared at the leaping crystal fish… and smiled.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I knew I wasn’t mistaken. That fool Tympanne said my design could not be executed, but I knew it could be… by the right mage.”
Torn between triumph and the importance of never criticising a Guild colleague, Arndel gobbled something in the back of his throat.
Lady Grie’s amethyst-blue stare shifted. “You. Young woman. Why do you stand there pretending servility? What have you to do with the making of my clock?”
Barl looked to Arndel. She knew better than to answer without his permission. The Artisan Master was resentful enough of her already. Offer him the smallest excuse to whet his temper on her, and he’d snatch it.
“This is Mage Lindin,” Arndel croaked. “She—she—” His larynx convulsed. “Under my strict and constant supervision, she made your clock.”
“She made it?” Lady Grie’s finely arched eyebrows echoed her surprise. “Not you, Master Arndel?”
Clasped fingers tightening to breaking point, Barl took a small step forward. “It’s true I performed the incants and conjurations, Lady Grie. But Artisan Master Arndel made certain of every syllable. Not a single piece in this artisanry is created without his involvement, or released to a patron without his permission. If the clock pleases you, my lady, you have him to thank.”
Arndel cleared his throat. From the look on his face it would be easy to think he’d swallowed a hedgehog.
“Mage Lindin’s work is of the highest standard, Lady Grie. There isn’t another mage in my artisanry I’d have trusted with your design.”
“I’m sure,” said Lady Grie, pettish. “But why did you trust her with it at all? For the exorbitant fee I’m paying I expected you to make my nursery clock.”
“Lady Grie, it would’ve been my great pleasure to do so,” said Arndel, chin lifted. He was astonishingly close to looking down his nose. “But I had already undertaken a commission from Lord Bren. You were unwilling to wait and I was unwilling to inconvenience a patron who has shown this artisanry much grace these past two years.”
Barl held her breath. That was more spice than she’d ever thought was in the old trout. She might not like him but she could respect him for that much, at least.
“Indeed?” Unexpectedly, Lady Grie laughed. “A proper answer, Artisan Master. I will expect no less a defence of me in the future.”
Arndel’s thin lips stretched wide in a smile. “The future? Most certainly, Lady Grie.”
“Not so fast, Artisan Master. There are conditions.” Lady Grie smoothed the vastly curved front of her glorious dress. “Firstly, I must be satisfied with the clock’s sounding. And secondly—”
“Yes, Lady Grie?” Arndel prompted, after a moment.
Ignoring him, Lady Grie shifted round. “You. Mage Lindin. What does your family call you?”
Barl loosened her clasping fingers, making sure to keep her gaze far from Arndel. “Barl, Lady Grie.”
“Hmm.” Lady Grie sniffed. “Odd name for a girl, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps, but I find myself content.”
“And if I tell Artisan Master Arndel that should my first condition be met, my second condition is that you, and only you, are to execute my commissions? Would that content you, too?”
Barl felt her heart stutter within its cage of curved bone. Moistening her lips, she risked a glance at Arndel. His eyes bulged at her in a face now flushed dusky red.
“My feelings in the matter are of no import, my lady. But should Artisan Master Arndel agree to such an arrangement, I would of course be honoured.”
“Ha!” said Lady Grie, trenchantly amused. “And I suppose butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, either.” She turned back. “Well, Arndel?”
“This artisanry would be pleased and proud to serve you, Lady Grie,” Arndel replied. Only someone who knew him well, who worked with him day in and day out, would hear the lemon tang in his voice. “And of course I will assign your commissions to any mage whose work you find pleasing.”
“And you’ll agree never to argue with me when it comes to what I want?”
Arndel bowed. “Of course, Lady Grie. She who pays, says.”
“What about you, Mage Lindin?” Lady Grie demanded. “Do you agree, as well?”
“Certainly not,” she said, and met Lady Grie’s challenging stare with a challenge of her own. “If I believe you’re mistaken in your desire or design, I’ll tell you. I could hardly call myself an artisan mage and lie to you, could I? That would be disrespectful to both of us.”
“Mage Lindin!” Arndel’s voice exploded the silence. “You stand too high in your own esteem! Please, Lady Grie, I beg you, accept my most—”
/> But Lady Grie laughed again. “Restrain yourself, Arndel. Begging is so unattractive. Mage Lindin, it seems you have fire in your belly. I like that.” Her gaze flickered to Arndel. “It makes a nice change from being fawned over.”
Wary, Barl offered the woman a slight bow. “It’s not in my nature to fawn, Lady Grie. All I can promise you is my best work and my honesty.”
“And I’ll take them both, gladly,” Lady Grie replied. “Provided I’m thoroughly satisfied with my clock. Let me hear its tick and chime.”
A catch in her breathing. A hitch in the steady beating of her heart. She’d spent nearly eleven hours perfecting the nursery clock’s voice. If Lady Grie should find it displeasing…
But she won’t. She can’t. She doesn’t seem a lackwit.
Arndel was glaring, daring her to fail. If Lady Grie was displeased there was no doubt Mage Lindin would be held responsible and cast into the cold.
On a breath, in a whisper, she released the nursery clock’s voice. A ticktock of silence… and then the steady, rhythmic sound of a horse’s hooves on beaten earth filled the private viewing room. Clop-clop-clop-clop, ticking time with a jaunty air.
“Oh!” Lady Grie clapped her hands once, delighted. “How diverting. And the chime?”
Smothering her own pleasure, Barl silenced the tick-tock. Then, her heart hitching again, she sketched the brief sigil that would set free the nursery clock’s chime.
“Beautiful,” whispered Lady Grie, as the liquid music of a marsh warbler’s cry softened to silence. “Mage Lindin, that was beautiful.”
Yes. And so difficult to recreate with an incant that she’d thought until the last moment the task would defeat her.
“Thank you, Lady Grie,” she murmured. Relief and the crushing fatigue she’d been fending off combined to make her head swim and her eyes blur. “I’m very happy you like it.”
Lady Grie nodded to Arndel. “Mage Lindin is a credit to you, Artisan Master. I look forward to seeing what she creates for me next. Now, shall we discuss the particulars of our arrangement?”