Glasswrights' Test

by Mindy L. Klasky

  The visitor stepped up to the window and produced a silk-swathed bundle from beneath the disguising black robe. Plad be damned—Parion snatched the roll of cloth. As he unwound the soft, undyed fabric, his breath came fast. Twice, his agile fingers nearly let the precious thing slip to the floor.

  Careful! he tried to warn himself. You’ve waited for six months. Surely you can wait a few more heartbeats.

  Turn the cloth. Shift the burden. Position his fingers beneath the Hand, cradle it. One last twist of fabric. One last turn.

  And there it was.

  An iron bracelet, wrapped in softest spidersilk. Silk bands looped over the iron, hinting at the shape of a palm, of vital, bending fingers. Long, shimmering thread—no, not thread—ribbon, fashioned from the same precious silk, weaving from finger to finger, looping across the shimmering sunlight. Carefully oiled metal levers, weighted with a jeweler’s precision.

  Parion glanced at his visitor, annoyed that he must share this treasure with anyone, even with a silent guest, even with the person who it. Turning his back on the black-robed figure, Parion faced the window. He clenched his own fist—his four functional fingers, his thumb—and then he slipped the leather cuff over his hand.

  It was light. Flexible. He guided his fingers into the loops of spidersilk, adjusted the ribbons. Folding his working thumb against his palm, he lined up the metal jaws with the edge of his hand, pretending as best he could that he had no digit, that he was as maimed as his poor guildsmen.

  He wiggled his fingers, manipulating the metal jaws with the silken ribbons. The motion was smooth, but his hand rebelled against the strange balance. He felt the tremor of a cramp skirt across his palm. Squinting in concentration, he reached toward the large earthenware pot on the edge of the table, closest to the window. Baubles of glass filled the container—one thousand plus one, for each of the Gods and First Pilgrim Jair. It had taken Parion a year to assemble his offering in a manner acceptable to the Briantan priests.

  He reached toward the pot, catching his lower lip between his teeth in concentration. If he could just manipulate the ribbons. … If he could pull the jaws open. … There. …

  There. …

  He brought the metal teeth closer to a glass bauble, to a glinting bit of crimson on the top of the pile. Despite his intense concentration, he was distracted by a flash of light on the pebble, the smallest reflection of sunlight from the metal jaws. Which god had he saluted when he presented that trinket to the offering pot? Which of the Thousand had he recognized as he added the glass to his stash?

  Concentrate. Focus. Move the fingers. Right—no, left! Easy. Easy. Close the jaws by edging his fingers closer to his palm, by folding them over his own thumb, his real thumb. Slowly. … Slowly. …

  He caught his breath as he lifted the crimson glass. Using the Hand, he brought the treasure up to his face, looked through it at the morning sunshine. The Briantan street outside his window turned to crimson, washed in blood red as if a sudden sunset had descended upon the city. Parion turned to his visitor and barely caught a laugh against the back of his throat. “It works!”

  “Of course it works,” the hooded figure whispered. “You asked the Fellowship, and we delivered. It could do nothing less than work.”

  “There are more? I asked for two score, left and right.”

  “There will be more. The others will be delivered in a fortnight.”

  “We cannot wait!” Not now. Not when Parion had seen how well the Hand could be manipulated.

  “You must.” The visitor stepped back from the window, retreating into the room’s deep shadows. “The Fellowship demands it.”

  “I have a guild to manage!”

  “Your guild has waited eight years. It can wait another fortnight.”

  Parion wanted to howl against the injustice. Didn’t the Fellowship know? Didn’t they understand? The glasswrights needed these Hands, they deserved them. Nevertheless, there was nothing he could say. Nothing he could do. The Fellowship held all the cards. He took a deep breath and forced himself to say, “A fortnight, then.”

  “We will expect full payment, before we deliver the goods.”

  “Of course.”

  “Full payment, in gold. And in service.”

  A shiver ran down Parion’s spine, as if the Hand’s iron jaws had stroked his jugular. “What service can you need of me?”

  “Nothing you will mind giving.” The hooded figure took a single step forward. “Only that you summon one here, to Brianta.”

  “Summon one? Who?”

  “The one you call the Traitor.”

  Parion’s reaction was automatic; his unbound hand moved in the ritual gesture of cleansing. “You cannot ask that of me.”

  “The Fellowship does not ask. It demands.”

  “I will not communicate with her. You demand too much.”

  “We offer much. Forty Hands, Glasswright.”

  “She is the very reason that we need the Hands! She is the one who destroyed us.”

  “All the more reason for you to send for her, then. Get her to Brianta. Her fate awaits her here. Get the Traitor to our land, and the Hands will be yours.”

  Parion opened his mouth to protest. Anything but that. Anything but reaching out to that one, welcoming her in, bringing her back to the good glasswrights that she had betrayed. Before he could speak, though, the hooded figure turned and crossed to the door.

  From the threshold, a heavy whisper carried across the room: “Send the message today, Glasswright. In a fortnight, spidersilk can burn. Iron can be reforged.”

  The Fellow glided out the door, even as Parion started to protest. The master glasswright stretched his right hand toward the door, toward escape, toward a fleeing dream. The monstrous metal jaws gaped as Parion drew back, as he lowered the device to his side.

  He sighed. Contact the Traitor. Invite her to Brianta. Could he force himself to write the letter?

  Parion turned back to his window. Reaching across his body with his left hand, he unfastened the spidersilk ribbons that nestled the Hand against his flesh. When the contraption lay on the table, the metal jaws pointed up, accusing him with their smooth surfaces. How could he let his pride interfere? How could he imagine not inviting the Traitor to Brianta, if that was the payment the Fellowship demanded? He owed all of his glasswrights, all of the children who had grown into competent journeymen, actual masters, despite their injuries in service to the guild. He must swallow his pride, his wrath. He must send the letter.

  Parion reached into his offering basket and palmed a bauble of glass, cool blue this time. He rolled it across his flesh and felt the trinket absorb the heat from his skin. Over his fingers, under his fingers, across the white-gleaming cicatrices of his craft. This, too, was a meditation on Jair. This, too, was worship of the Thousand Gods. Without consciously planning, he muttered a prayer to the pilgrim, words that passed his lips a hundred times a day. “May First Pilgrim Jair intercede for all my prayers in the true course of time.”

  Somehow, Brianta had converted him into a religious man. At first, he had adopted the Briantans’ complicated prayers because he wanted to prove his fitness for their society. He wanted to illustrate that he was safe, that they could trust him. He needed the security of a land where the king held little power, where the glasswrights could lick their wounds and recover. Over time, however, Parion had grown to find comfort in the prayerful words, refuge in the familiarity. His mind glided over the religious salutations like a blind man striding along a familiar path. Briantan worship had become a salve. A support. A guide.

  Parion’s reflections were interrupted as the door to his study opened yet again. No knock this time; no request for admission. One of the glasswrights, then. One who expected to be welcome in this chamber.

  He glanced up in time to see Larinda Glasswright slip into the room. She reached out automatically for the prayer bell, passed her palm across the surface with a smooth touch that set the chimes to jangling. The action
was reflexive for the girl. After all, she had spent nearly one third of her life in Brianta, eight years surrounded by the paraphernalia of First Pilgrim Jair.

  Parion forced a patient smile onto his lips. “Blessings of the Pilgrim, Journeyman.”

  “Blessings of the Pilgrim, Master,” she responded immediately.

  “How fares the guild this morning, Larinda?”

  “Well, Master.” She ducked her head in the traditional salute. “The apprentices are counting out the new shipment of Zarithian glass. Our silver stain arrived this morning as well; it is already placed in the treasury.”

  “And Instructor Tanilo?”

  “He remains in the infirmary. He has not awoken yet. Sister Domira fears for him. She says that the Instructor’s fits had been growing worse before he was found in the garden yesterday. It is not good that he has not regained consciousness.”

  “May Yor bring strength to the man.”

  “May Yor bring strength,” Larinda repeated, making a gesture to summon the protective attention of the god of healing.

  Ironically, the motion was nearly impossible for the girl to complete. Her own hands had been maimed in Morenia, destroyed by the King’s Men when the Traitor worked her evil upon the guild. Larinda wore a crude Hand, one of the first that Parion had ever commissioned for his charges, but the tool was heavy and lacked both grace and ease of use. In fact, she winced as she twisted her wrist in the complicated salute to Yor.

  “Does your hand pain you, Larinda?”

  “No, Master,” she responded immediately, but he saw the way she cradled her right wrist with her left.

  He made a decision. Stepping over to his work table, he waved the journeyman to his side and lifted the spidersilk shroud that covered the new device. “You should see this, Larinda Glasswright. You should know that we will soon have new Hands for you and all the wounded guildsmen.”

  For just an instant, suspicion clouded the girl’s face. She glanced at the table, as if she were afraid of trickery, as if she feared that her hopes would be destroyed in a flicker of cruel fire. She could not keep from gazing on the Hand, though. She darted a look at Parion, silently asking for permission. He nodded, and she lifted the new Hand in her heavy, awkward grip.

  She ran her fingertips over the silk covering, and a look of awe spread across her face. She straightened the ribbons, twisting them so that they fell in their proper configuration. With two fingers, she manipulated the metal jaws, catching a gasp against the back of her throat as she discovered the smooth motion, as she measured the increased gripping strength.

  “Master, it’s amazing!”

  “We’ll have forty of them within a fortnight. Left and right—they’re on their way to Brianta now.”

  “All thanks go to the Pilgrim,” Larinda said. Parion swallowed a grimace. All thanks did not go to the Pilgrim. In fact, some thanks should go toward him, toward Parion.

  After all, he was the one who had negotiated with the Fellowship. He was the one who was letting Larinda view the treasure now, letting her realize the riches that she would soon have at her disposal. Nevertheless, he was not surprised that the journeyman’s first instinct was to salute the Pilgrim. Better to bathe in the stream of Brianta, than. … He let the old proverb trail off in his mind.

  “May I, Master?” The longing on her face was naked, and she nodded toward her crippled hand, toward the wondrous new tool.

  “Yes, Journeyman. I would like to see how it works. Let me help you with that.” He reached out to unfasten the heavy metal Hand that already closed about her wrist.

  Larinda merely eyed him with steady accusation. Of course she did not need help with her existing Hand. She had spent eight years mastering the tool. If she could not tame the straps and buckles herself, she could hardly profit from their use.

  Parion stepped back, darting his agile fingers in the ritual symbol of apology, offering up his mistake to all the Thousand Gods. He winced as Larinda set aside the precious new armature and waved her own fingers through the traditional acceptance of an apology. She made the motion without seeming to realize how awkward it was, without appearing to be aware that it required both thumbs to gather in his gesture, to reply in the traditional way.

  He shook his head, knowing that he rebelled against the Briantans’ strict rituals so that he did not have to pay attention to Larinda’s actions. The girl began removing her older Hands, settling the heavy structures on the table. As he watched her painful progress, he remembered that she had been the first apprentice maimed in the old guildhall. A soldier’s knife had flashed and left her with her without a thumb, with her right hand suddenly seeming too long, too thin. The resulting limb would have been eerily graceful, if blood had not pumped from the wound.

  Others had suffered, once the apprentices were herded into the king’s dungeons. There, more apprentices lost first one thumb, then the other. He could still remember how the soldiers had come for Larinda in the grey light before a winter dawn, come to destroy her other hand. They had dragged her from the squalid holding cell, bullied her into the courtyard. She had fought like a wildcat, twisting, turning, biting the soldiers who sought to overpower her. Four men had forced the hysterical child to the ground, and a fifth had raised his fateful blade. A single flash, which Parion had glimpsed from the barred dungeon window, and then Larinda had been tossed back into her cell, shivering, whimpering, unable to catch her breath against the pain and the shock and the blood. So much blood.

  If Larinda resented the fact that she had nearly been spared the second amputation, she never spoke of it. She never outwardly mourned the cruel twist that had deprived her of her left thumb on the very day that the old king declared the forlorn guildsmen free to go. But Parion knew that he would have resented the happenstance. It would have settled in his belly like a burning stone, and he would have hated the world even more than he already did—he would have despised the Traitor with a passion hotter than a glass kiln.

  But who knew how Larinda Glasswright’s mind worked? Who knew what thoughts coursed behind her eyes as she stared at the new armature? She caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she studied the contraption. She rotated her wrists, as if measuring the best approach. She was a general, calculating the superior placement of troops; she was preparing to do battle with a new and untested army.

  Only when she had studied the tool from every possible angle did she spare him a tight nod. “Very well, then. Let us see how this one works.”

  And she reached out for the Hand. He knew not to help her. He knew that he would only make things worse if he held the device, if he offered to tighten one of the straps. She would have to work the buckles her own way, tighten down the device with her own ingenuity.

  And, of course, she did. He should not have been surprised by the creativity she applied; after all, he’d seen her solve more complex problems every day of her Briantan life. Nevertheless, he admired the way that she cut through the confusion of the new tool, the way that she turned it about, maneuvered it, made it her own.

  Ah, Morada, Parion thought. If you could have been here to train this one, if you could have passed on your knowledge and your wisdom to one as deserving as she. … But Morada was dead, of course. Executed because of the Traitor.

  The Traitor that the Fellowship wanted him to summon.

  Parion shook his head, shying away from the letter that he had pledged to write. He spoke to fill the awful silence, to distract himself from the pained expression on Larinda’s face as she worked the silken ribbons, as she struggled to find the new balance in the tool that would be her life. “What other news, Larinda? What is happening in fair Brianta this summer morn, outside our own guildhall?”

  “The priests prepare for the feast of the Pilgrim’s birth.” She answered immediately, but her tone was distracted. She was moving her wrist against the silken padding, reaching out with the fingers of her left hand to smooth the cuff. “We journeymen will be ready to show you our glass des
igns by noon.”

  Parion was surprised. He had not expected to see the sketches for another week. He nodded, though, as Larinda tightened two of the ribbons. The metal jaws flashed open. “And have we decided which cycle we will tell?” He tried to make the question casual, tried to seem as if he wasn’t hanging on her every action with the new Hand.

  After all, he had listened to hours of debate among the glasswrights, about the new commission. Some thought that the guild should create works depicting Jair’s life in Brianta—six panels, one for each of the castes, and one for the holy, over-arching status of Pilgrim. Others, though, believed that the glasswrights could better serve their purpose by imagining on a larger scale. One journeyman had argued eloquently for the six windows to depict the five great kingdoms, with Brianta taking precedence, of course, as the land of Jair’s birth.

  Larinda glanced up from the mechanism, blinking her eyes as she focused on Parion’s question. “I should not tell you, Master. You should see the designs for yourself.”

  “Aye, and I will. But you can tell me the direction that the discussions have taken.”

  Larinda looked uncomfortable, and she let her gaze return to the Hand. She flexed her wrist to close the jaws, then arched her palm to settle the iron bracelet more comfortably against her flesh. She chose her words with care as she found a better balance with the tool. “One of the journeymen hit upon a solution, Master. A combination of the various plans that had been discussed.”

  “Yes?” he prompted when she fell silent.

  “Jair’s life should be depicted—each of the castes. But he should be linked with a kingdom for each of the stations. With Brianta, we’ll focus on his life among the Touched. With Liantine, his merchant days, for the goods he traded in that land. For Sarmonia, we’ll show him in the weaver’s guild. In Amanthia, he’ll be a soldier, and in Morenia, a nobleman, a priest. The last window will show him in his true guise, in his overarching presentation, as First Pilgrim.”