Glasswrights' Progress

by Mindy L. Klasky

  “Aye,” Shea said around the morsel of venison. When she had swallowed, she picked her way across the treacherous field of nettles that the lionboy had strewn before her. “The king wanted me to be safe, after all the years I gave him. He was sending me south, away from his own city, where his enemies will attack first.” She felt Crestman relax a little against her side. She must have guessed right, then. That must be their story.

  Monny sank back on his heels, looking appeased for a few minutes. Shea took advantage of the child’s silence to finish the bowl of stew. Only when she had chewed the last bit of a carrot did Crestman set the bowl on the floor beside her cot.

  “Rest now, Grandmother. You had quite a start out there, on the road. Those boys had no right to terrify an old woman with bows and arrows.”

  “I told you,” Monny complained loudly. “We didn’t know who you were. We were out on maneuvers. We thought that you were attacking the Swancastle!”

  “Attacking the Swancastle!” Crestman exclaimed scornfully. “An old woman and a single captain in the king’s army. What sort of attack do you think that would amount to?”

  “Davin told us to,” Monny whined.

  “Who is this Davin?” Shea asked one more time, even though the waves of fatigue were beginning to swamp her again.

  “He’s Davin.” Monny shrugged, as if there could be no other answer.

  “He’s – ” Crestman started to say, but he was interrupted by the crash of the cottage door on its hinges and the swirl of autumn-cold air that swept into the room.

  “He’s standing outside the cottage, listening to an old fool and two children babble away into the night.”

  “Davin!” Monny leaped from his crouching position by the fireplace, flying across the cottage to the ancient man who entered. Along with dusty robes and a long crooked staff, the old man brought the scent of autumn into the room – cool crisp air, tinged with crumbled leaves and dark earth. “We’ve got them here! We’ve kept them as prisoners!”

  “Prisoners!” The old man snorted through his nose, and the child crumbled before the ancient disdain. “Are they chained, your prisoners?”

  “Well, no – ”

  “Are they bound up with magical spells?”

  “No, but –”

  “Are they hamstrung so that they cannot run away?”

  “No, Davin, but –”

  “Have they sworn loyalty to King Sin Hazar, and let the blood oath flow from their veins?”

  “No, but we thought –”

  “I have.” Crestman set the words amid Monny’s protest, steady and even. “I’ve sworn my loyalty to the king.”

  The calm statement silenced the thundering old man, settling his beetling brows over his night-black eyes. Davin blinked and shrugged and suddenly seemed to be nothing more than an old, old man, pottering about his cottage on a cold autumn night. “So,” he said at last. “You’re staking claim to the king’s army, then, are you?”

  “I’ve been a member of His Majesty’s troops. I’ve been a captain.”

  If the old man caught the past tense of Crestman’s words, he said nothing. Instead, he gestured vaguely toward Shea. “And what about the woman?”

  “The king entrusted her to me. She was his nursemaid when she was young. He was afraid that she would starve along the road, so I brought her with me. I gave her some of my dried beef while we traveled. I kept her alive.” Crestman’s voice was growing strong with his story, and he dared to look the old man in the eyes. “She would not be here, if not for me.”

  “And you, old woman. What do you say?” For the first time, Shea was pinned by Davin’s gaze. At first impression, the old man’s eyes were mild enough; they watered at the corners, as if stung by the wind that blew outside the cottage. She could sense the power in those deep pits, though, the raw energy that flashed far beneath the surface. She automatically looked for his tattoo, to see if she confronted a lion or a sun, a swan or an owl, but she could make out nothing in the flickering firelight. The wrinkles around the old man’s eyes were too deep; his face was too worn to provide the familiar signposts of Shea’s world.

  She wanted to tell him that Crestman spoke the truth. She wanted to rely on the lionboy’s stories to pull them out of this disaster. She wanted to find herself spirited away from the murderous child, Monny, from the strange talking bird that even now had awoken and shifted from foot to foot on its wooden perch.

  But when Shea looked into those eyes, she found that she could not lie. She was snared by Davin’s age, by the power that emanated from him like the ripples of a stone dropped into a pond. “I don’t know, lord. I don’t know what’s the truth any longer.”

  “The truth is what you make it to be.”

  Shea heard the words, but she did not understand them. They sounded like the sort of thing Father Nariom said, like an owl’s hooting.

  “I don’t know how to make things, lord. I’m a sunwoman. I raise my children. I find food. I keep a clean house.”

  Crestman stepped forward, settling a firm hand on Shea’s arm. “You did those things in the king’s household, Grandmother.” Shea blinked, confused. She’d never been in the king’s household. She’d never been farther north than her little cottage.

  Davin turned his piercing gaze on the lionboy. “You set your game pieces on an unsteady board, boy.”

  Crestman’s reply was immediate. “I play no games, lord. I haven’t played games since I set aside my toy sword for a real blade.”

  There was a long moment, while the only sound was the fire crackling on the hearth. Then, the old man exhaled slowly. “It’s been a long night. The stars are bright, and I stayed out to see the Owl rise. The Owl will watch over the next phase of my work. My work for the king.” Davin shuffled toward his hearth, letting his ragged cloak fall onto the packed earth floor, as if he were an absent-minded child who did not care where he set his belongings. “Monny! Bring me some ale. And you’d better tell me that you’ve kept some stew for an old man.”

  “Yes, Davin!” The boy was prompt to answer. Shea could hear the relief in his voice, his joy that he’d done right in bringing Crestman and Shea to the cottage. Or at least, he had not done wrong.

  “We’ll wait until the morning,” Davin grumbled as Monny tugged off the old man’s boots. “We’ll decide what to do with our prisoners in the daylight.”

  Chapter 5

  Sin Hazar rubbed his hands, sliding his fingers over the dead chill of the cabochon-cut rubies and emeralds set into his rings. A draft seeped through the stone chamber, blowing across the packed earth floor deep beneath the castle. It was unnecessary to continue holding war strategy sessions here – the Uprising had been crushed for more than seven years. The days of secret planning against rebellious nobles were long past. Nevertheless, the planning had begun here when Sin Hazar needed to fear spies and traitors. Habit kept the soldiers gathering in the bleak stone room as they began to plot their campaign against Morenia.

  Habit or tradition. That was the problem with these noblemen – every one of them was snagged by the dead branch of tradition. We can’t fight a war as winter approaches because no Amanthian had before. We can’t feign war against the Liantines over the ocean to the east because no Amanthian had before. We can’t raise an army of children, because.…

  An army of children. They were wrong there. Sin Hazar could raise an army of children. Could and had.

  Certainly the Little Army was not going to march for days and then pitch battle against that southern upstart Halaravilli. The child soldiers would never take a battlefield by sheer force, and the advantage of surprise – the startling appearance of bloodthirsty, screaming babes – would only last for one battle, or at most two.

  But there were other advantages to the Little Army.

  Sin Hazar looked up from the map that he had been studying, from its grim message that Sin Hazar needed a deeper treasury. Money. Mercenaries. Supplies. With scarcely a conscious thought, the king of all Amanth
ia raised a broad finger to the swan’s wing that stretched across his cheekbone, reinforcing the royal command behind his question: “What word from Teleos?”

  “Your Majesty.” Al-Marai, Sin Hazar’s older brother and the most senior general in Amanthia, bowed deeply before answering. The king braced himself for yet another round of argument. “May I speak plainly?”

  Sin Hazar nodded once, tautly. It would not do for his own brother, for his own general to fear him. Honor him, yes. Respect him, certainly. Recognize the power of his swan tattoo, of course. But fear did not have a place on a battlefield. At least not on one’s own side of the bloody, trampled earth.

  Al-Marai narrowed his eyes to a squint above his curling chestnut beard. The grim expression crinkled the lion tattoo that sprawled across nearly half his face. “You know that the men despise Teleos. They hate what he stands for and what he does. That hatred is weakening them as your tools. Is it necessary for us to continue doing business with that pig?”

  “Are you saying that your soldiers are ready to rebel because I choose to conduct business with a particular merchant?”

  “Of course not, Your Majesty.” Al-Marai ducked unhesitatingly into a bow, folding at his waist as if that were the most natural reaction in the world. Of course not. But that was what Al-Marai had implied. Sin Hazar continued to gaze at his brother, at the greatest commander in all of Amanthia. The grizzled warrior grimaced at the map, avoiding his liege’s eyes. The soldier fidgeted with the belt that held his sword about his waist, finding ways to occupy his fingers, his eyes, his mind. But Sin Hazar could be patient. He knew the compelling power of silence. At last, Al-Marai shifted from foot to foot, slamming a hand against the map board so hard that three of the pieces toppled to their sides. “He is a pig!”

  “You may call him a pig, Al-Marai, or say that he eats the flesh of boars, or say that he couples with swine. Debase him in any way you see fit. The fact remains that he is the man who fills our coffers. I need hardly remind you of the expense of horsing and housing and feeding my men at arms.”

  “Nay, Your Majesty.” Al-Marai swallowed hard, mastering his fury. He inclined his head and spoke through set teeth: “I know the costs of war.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll help me pay a little of the toll.” Sin Hazar pinned his brother with a steely gaze. “I asked, what news from Teleos?”

  “He says that he can take another hundred before the new year. In the spring, he’s prepared to take as many more.”

  “Two hundred? That’s all?”

  “Sire! That’s two hundred more of your subjects shipped overseas!”

  “Two hundred children who would otherwise starve come spring! Al-Marai, I need hardly remind you of the facts. Every child who boards one of my ships for Liantine lives longer than he would live in the countryside. Every child who serves his king abroad plants a seedling of support over the sea. Every child who is given to Teleos will come back to reward us a thousand-fold.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Al-Marai bit his lower lip. He swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was pulled even tighter. “There’s more, Sire.”

  “Aye?” Sin Hazar refused to spare his brother more than the single word. The man should know better. Al-Marai was the one who had taken the coin gained from those children and transformed it into a winning army at home. He was the one who trained the children before they left, who inspired their passion and their confidence. Al-Marai made certain that the Little Army would stay loyal to its king, even in a strange land, even in the midst of adversity.

  “Teleos is willing to buy more than two hundred boys.”

  “You just said –”

  “He’ll buy girls as well. He’ll pay for them, the same as soldiers.”

  For just an instant, Sin Hazar was knocked silent, surprised enough that he did not bother to reprimand Al-Marai for cutting him off. The possibilities unfolded like a rare flower blooming beneath a chilled midnight moon. Girls.… The kingdom was filled with girls – suns, lions, owls, even swans – who would never find a husband, not with all the men and boys gone or killed. Girls who would become more of a risk than they were worth once they realized they would never find a husband, never bear babes.

  “What does he want with them?”

  “What does one ever want with girls, Your Majesty?” Even with distaste creeping across his words, Al-Marai managed to keep his voice dry. “I suppose he’ll keep some of them as soldiers. He said they need not be trained, though. No moreso than the girls who already tag along beside the camps, in whatever unofficial capacity.”

  “Girls.…” Sin Hazar said aloud, turning the concept about in his mind. The word felt smooth beneath his thoughts, like coins cascading between his fingers. Why had he never thought of it before? Why had he passed up the possibility?

  Before he could follow up on the thought, a guard hurried into the stone chamber, bowing deeply before his king. “What is it, man?” Sin Hazar snapped.

  “You have visitors, Your Majesty.”

  “I’m the king. I always have visitors.” Sin Hazar was frustrated at being disturbed, interrupted before he could work out the import of Teleos’ new offer.

  “You’ll want to see these, Sire.”

  Sin Hazar shot the man a probing glance. “Will I?” Whatever his frustration, Sin Hazar trusted his household lions. He shrugged his robe off his shoulders, the better to display the dragon-chased azure doublet that he had chosen for the day’s formalities. “And who is so important?”

  “Prince Bashanorandi, Sire.”

  “Felicianda’s bastard?” Sin Hazar heard a surprised note creep into his own voice.

  “Aye, Your Majesty. He’s just come from the harbor.”

  “Is he traveling as an ambassador from Halaravilli?”

  “I don’t think so, Sire. He has a handful of soldiers with him – our men.” The guard brushed the tattoo on his right cheek, silent explanation of his words. “There are two girls as well. No one in Morenian livery.”

  So. That gambit had paid off at last, sending lions to Morenia. Sin Hazar had almost given up on Bashanorandi. He had debated before deciding to send lions south in the first place. If the men had been discovered, if they’d been unmasked as Amanthian soldiers, then that upstart Halaravilli would have pitched a diplomatic tantrum. Nevertheless, Sin Hazar had argued with Al-Marai, the risk of sending a dozen men was minimal. A dozen men, dispatched alone or in pairs.… It was worth the gamble.

  Now, Sin Hazar resisted the urge to turn to Al-Marai, to gloat over his success. Which of his lions had been successful in penetrating the Morenian court? Well, time enough to learn that. Even more intriguing was the question of why Bashanorandi had come north. He could just as easily have used the lions to consolidate power in Morenia, to build up his own loyal corps.

  Sin Hazar ran through a handful of scenarios. Bashanorandi had come to stake a claim as the childless Sin Hazar’s heir. He had come to plead for assistance in his internecine battle against Halaravilli, to beg reinforcements for his fledgling rebellion. He had come with battle plans and passwords, ready to betray his so-called brother.

  Of course, there was no reason to trust a half-breed bastard. No reason to trust a boy whose mother and father had both been executed as traitors.

  Not that Sin Hazar had any complaint against Felicianda’s attempt to deliver the kingdom of Morenia to her ancestral home, to her family line. No – Sin Hazar’s only concern was that his sister had failed. She had always been given to complicating things, Felicianda had been. No reason to ride in a straight line, she’d always thought, when a looping jaunt could be done instead.

  Grinning ferally at Al-Marai, Sin Hazar nodded to his soldier. “I’ll see them here.”

  By the time the guard had led the trio into the stone chamber, Sin Hazar had taken a stand beside the detailed map. He lifted a token in his hand, a marker that represented ten horsemen. The piece moved easily between his fingers, over, under, over, under, soothing with its
familiar feel. While Sin Hazar had initially planned on being engrossed in the map when his visitors entered the chamber, he decided at the last instant to scrutinize their approach.

  He raised a jeweled finger toward his swan tattoo, as if he were smoothing away a momentary itch. The movement was not lost on the three southerners, all of whom obediently followed his pointing finger. He saw each of them acknowledge the silvery swan wings that spread across his cheeks. Sin Hazar remained focused on the boy, though. On his nephew.

  Bashanorandi had not yet reached his full man’s size. Certainly he had his mother’s height, but at ... what was it? ... fifteen years of age? ... he had yet to fill out in his shoulders and across his chest. The boy wore Halaravilli’s colors, although the livery looked like it had been slept in for a fortnight. Simple clothes, Sin Hazar noted. No velvet. No silk. As if Bashanorandi were nothing but a poor relation. Well, even that was not quite the truth, was it?

  The Morenian crimson clashed with Bashanorandi’s auburn hair. Ah, yes, the auburn hair that had also been the gift of his mother. That, and his blue eyes. The shape of the boy’s face, though, was more delicate than Felicianda’s had ever been. The boy’s chin came to a point, and his eyes tilted up just the slightest bit. The vulpine expression made him look vulnerable. Legacy of his traitor father, Sin Hazar supposed.

  Sin Hazar flicked his gaze across the boy’s companions. Two girls. One, scrawny with the pinched look that came from a lifetime in the streets. She had one arm bound up in a sling, held awkwardly across her chest. The other girl was better-fed and lacked any outward sign of injury, but she was more ill-at-ease, looking about the stone chamber as if she expected guards to throw her in the dungeon at any moment. Neither of the pair looked worth a wasted heartbeat. The king turned his gaze back to Bashanorandi.

  “Cousin.” He kept his voice low with the one word, not tinting it with a hint of welcome or distrust. He watched Bashanorandi register the two syllables, and confusion was apparent across the youth’s face. Should he respond with a familial greeting to this man he’d never met? Should he reply as nobleman to royalty? As prince to king? Sin Hazar kept his eyes steady on the boy, purposely not giving him any sign of a proper resolution.