Glasswrights' Progress

by Mindy L. Klasky

  “He showed his own bravery, and his willingness to follow his king’s orders. Are you going to take that away from him with your cowardice?”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking!”

  “I know,” Crestman answered evenly. “Believe me, soldier, I know.”

  Rani shuddered at the grim words, at the confession painted behind the statement. Crestman had faced his own test. Sometime in the past, he had held his own blade, or arrow, or garrotte string. Captain Crestman had already passed the challenge he set for his men.

  Even without black paint, Varner’s face contorted into a mask, his mouth stretched into a gaping hole, his broken nose smashed beyond recognition. “Don’t make me do this,” he whispered. Rani could barely hear his words above the crackle of the fire, above the murmur of the waiting Little Army.

  “I don’t make you do anything, soldier. The king makes you. The king commands you. In the name of Sin Hazar!”

  As Crestman must have planned, the boys took up the cry, pounding their feet against the earth, shouting the king’s name as loudly as they could. Rani felt the hillside shake beneath them, the very ground trembling beneath the Little Army.

  Crestman stepped back, away from the fire, away from Monny. Varner staggered toward the pinned boy, falling heavily to his knees. Crestman’s loyal soldiers did not flinch; they maintained their grip on Monny’s limbs. Varner’s hands shook, and now tears glistened on his cheeks, mixing with the slimy trail of blood from his nose. He raised Crestman’s knife, offering it like a prayer to the Thousand Gods, and then he reached out with his free hand, seizing Monny’s smallclothes and slashing through the cloth with a single motion.

  Monny panted like a trapped animal, his breath whistling between his teeth. Every boy in the Little Army stared at Varner, watched as the vanquished soldier raised a blade against his own brother.

  Every boy watched Varner, but Rani watched Crestman. She saw the captain measure his men. She saw him follow the path of his own sword, his own blade flickering above a sacrificial child in the firelight. She saw him weigh fidelity and trust. And she saw him snatch a breath of midnight air.

  “Hold!” The word exploded from Crestman’s mouth like the stone walls of the Swancastle cracking down onto the field. “In the name of King Sin Hazar, hold your blade!”

  Varner snapped like a cut bowstring, falling across Monny’s chest. The soldier’s sobs wracked his body; he gasped for air like a drowning man. Monny did not even attempt to move; instead, he stared up at Crestman with a fierce glint that Rani could not read, that she could not translate to either love or hate.

  Crestman stepped forward, into the firelight, into the deadly silence that had replaced the chanting Little Army. “In the name of King Sin Hazar, I spare this boy. Fetch a calf! We’ll have fresh meat to celebrate our victory! Fresh meat as a gift from our king! A gift from Sin Hazar!”

  It took only a moment for the boys to regroup, for a bawling calf to be brought from the holding pen on the other side of the Swancastle. Rani did not bother to watch as the animal was sacrificed, as its blood was caught in an iron pail, for Shea to use in making sausages. Rani did not witness the hide peeled back from the steaming meat, and she did not see the boys carve away flesh to roast in the fire.

  Instead, she watched Crestman strip off his cloak. She watched the captain cross to Varner and settle the garment across the still-weeping boy’s shoulders. She watched Crestman raise the edge of the cloak, wipe away some of the mess from Varner’s face. The captain reached out for Monny as well, touching the boy’s forehead once. “In the name of King Sin Hazar,” Crestman murmured, but Monny flinched from his hand.

  Crestman nodded, as if he had received the response that he expected, and then he helped Varner to his feet. He took the boy to a log, and settled him comfortably. Crestman tucked his own cloak in carefully, as if he were a nursemaid, and then he called over another soldier, ordered fresh meat and watered wine brought to the blond boy.

  Once he had seen Varner settled, Crestman staggered off into the night, wrapping his arms about himself to ward off the chilly wind that had begun to blow across the hillside. Rani started to climb to her feet, to go after the boy, but Mair’s hand clamped around her wrist with a fierce force. “I told ye i’ th’ king’s palace, Rai. Ye canna trust anyone i’ Amanthia.”

  “But –”

  “’E’s dangerous, Rai.”

  “He’s frightened. And he’s filled with remorse.”

  “’E’s bound these boys t’ Sin ’Azar better than any oath could ’ave. ’E’s dangerous.”

  Rani pulled her wrist away from Mair and limped away from the fireside, ignoring the invitation of roasting meat, ignoring the ache in the back of her throat, ignoring the memory of Crestman, who had looked back at his private, untold torture as he ordered Varner to act. Instead, Rani remembered her own past, her own longing to join a group. She recalled the innocent blood she had shed to further that goal.

  She knew the pain of belonging. She knew Captain Crestman of the Little Army, even if she could not, would not, go to his side.

  Chapter 8

  Hal stood in the embrasure of the nursery, staring down at the courtyard through the mullioned window. It had been months since he’d been in this room, in the chamber that he had shared with Bashi and his four half-sisters, the apartments that he had shared with Rani when she first came to the palace. A few minutes earlier, when Hal had strode in, the nurses had looked up from the princesses’ morning meal. They had needed only one glance at the king’s face, one glance at the knife-like shards of wax that jutted from the parchment in his hands, and they had fled, taking the princesses and leaving Hal alone.

  All alone. On his own. Blood and bone.

  Consciously refusing to read the parchment letter again, Hal scooped up a doll that the youngest princess had been holding. He smoothed his thumb across the toy’s wooden face, down the silky locks of horsehair. Rani had owned a doll when she had been designated First Pilgrim. She had offered up the poppet on the dais in the cathedral, cementing her oath to her king, to the Defender of her Faith.

  Defender of the Faith. Remember the wraith –

  No! No more rhymes!

  After Rani had settled in the castle, after the horrific events that had cost her her brother and set Hal on his throne, Rani had confided to him that she had dreaded parting with her past, that day in the cathedral. She’d been loathe to hand over the final bond with her mother and father, with the family that had sheltered and loved her as she had grown up within the city walls. Of course, the old king, Shanoranvilli, had known nothing of a child’s hopes and desires. He had accepted the doll with an incredulous laugh, propelling Rani forward on her quest.

  On her quest. To her rest. Death is best.

  Death is best.

  Why hadn’t Shanoranvilli refused the childish offering? Why hadn’t the old king mandated that Rani could not be the First Pilgrim, that she was too young? Maybe, then, Rani would still be alive. Shanoranvilli might still sit on his throne. Halaravilli might be left alone in the corner of this very nursery, playing with his soldiers, lining up his toys. Playing like a boy. Any little ploy.

  Anything other than reading this parchment, reading it again, and knowing that it reeked of death. Death for Rani. Death for soldiers, who would fight to avenge the merchant girl. Death for Bashi who had brought them all to such straits. Death for Hal, most likely, who would be hunted down by the Fellowship of Jair for rebelling against their orders, even if he somehow survived his war in the north.

  For Hal had no option now. He and Sin Hazar had engaged in a stilted exchange of letters, two traveling in each direction. The king of Amanthia had made it clear that he desired nothing more than to return Rani to Morenia, along with Mair and Bashi. Sin Hazar claimed to be worried, though, afraid that he could not guarantee safe passage of his hostages. He believed that the journey could only be secured if he were allowed to move his troops into northern Morenia,
into the rich borderlands between the two kingdoms.

  Hal had refused, of course. As king, he could not permit entire divisions of armed men to encamp in his territory. Instead, Hal had suggested that the three hostages be returned on the next available ship, with no further questions, no further threats between the parties.

  Sin Hazar had countered with a straightforward request for ransom. Gold, jewels, cartloads of iron – the king had served up a long list of demands. He noted that such wealth was necessary if he were to continue building his expensive campaign against the Liantines, across the ocean. He implied that he would not hesitate to direct his men to easier targets if he could not send them overseas. He would send his army south, to Morenia.

  Again, Hal had refused. Again, he had demanded the return of all three prisoners, adding a brazen threat to harry the Amanthian border with all the troops at his disposal. And he had demanded proof that the prisoners were alive – proof that Rani Trader was treated well as Sin Hazar’s captive.

  Now, standing in the nursery, holding the reply to his most recent demand, Hal found himself acting without thinking, without planning, without consciously making any decision at all. His fist flew up, smashing through the window’s fragile, bubbled panes. He was too high in the castle to hear the glass shatter on the courtyard stones below. The wind immediately grasped the advantage Hal had created, and its bony fingers pried into the nursery, stealing Hal’s breath.

  At least the cold drove away the voices, silenced the chittering swirl deep in his brain. Hal raised the letter once more, grasping it firmly against the wind’s tug. He forced his eyes to read each letter, each ornate word copied out by some unknown scribe.

  “To His Majesty, King of all Morenia, greetings from your loyal subject Ranita Glasswright. I have received your missive, and am honored by your concern for my well-being. Please know that I am treated well in the house of Sin Hazar, that he has provided me nourishment and succor. You asked me a question in your letter, and I provide you an answer: Dalarati. Dalarati was the person who first suffered at a Trader’s hand in the cause of our Fellowship. You will know by my answer that I am well and protected by King Sin Hazar. While I would rather be in Morenia, I understand that I must stay in Amanthia for a while longer, while you and the king work out your affairs of state. I am honored that I can serve in this small way, keeping watch while you negotiate for my freedom and the glory of your kingdom. In the name of all the Thousand Gods, I remain your most loyal subject.”

  The letter’s author had worked hard to capture Rani’s tone, her characteristic stumble over phrasing more formal than anything she had ever learned in the Merchant’s Quarter. Whoever had written the letter knew that Rani would address Hal more as a friend and companion than as her liege lord. And the writer had known about the Fellowship, at least about the martyred Dalarati. But the writer had missed two key facts.

  First, Dalarati had not been the first member of the Fellowship murdered by a Trader. There was a darker history behind the Fellowship’s battles, a history that had almost broken Rani when she learned its deadly secrets. Her own brother, Bardo, had murdered one of the Fellowship of Jair, long before Rani ever learned of the secret cadre’s existence. Bardo had executed Treen, a Touched woman.

  Even if Rani had somehow misconstrued Hal’s question, even if she had somehow failed to understand that he would never have summoned her personal guilt about Dalarati’s demise, Hal knew that Rani had not penned the letter that he held. For Rani would never call herself Ranita Glasswright, not of her own volition. She had vowed to restore the glasswrights’ guild, but she would not call herself by her guildish name until she had built a new house, until she had found masters and journeymen to restore the guild that had been destroyed so unjustly. “Ranita Glasswright” would never have written from Amanthia.

  And so Hal could only conclude that Rani was dead. Murdered at Sin Hazar’s hand, perhaps. Maybe she had fallen to wounds she had suffered as Bashi dragged her north. Innocent victim of a grippe – what difference did it make? Rani was gone, and Sin Hazar was trying to hide the fact. Keep Hal trapped. All life sapped.

  Hal leaned his head against the stone embrasure, letting the rough wall scrape across his flesh. Rani had pledged her fealty to him here. She had decided to join him, to turn back from the horror that she had witnessed. She had trusted him, here, in the nursery. And he had betrayed that trust. He had let Bashi spirit her away; he had let her be taken by force to an enemy’s lands.

  He had lost her – sister, Pilgrim, Fellow, gone. Midnight doubt swirled through his brain, colder than the air from the courtyard.

  “Your Majesty!” Hal started at the summons, whirling to face his squire, who stood only an arms-length away.

  “Farsobalinti?”

  The youth bowed at the sound of his name, grimacing as if he disliked interrupting his king. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I would not have called you again, if you hadn’t ordered me to summon you when the council is met.”

  “Call me again?”

  “Aye, Your Majesty. I spoke to you from the door, and again from across the room.” The squire looked uncertainly at his liege, at the parchment that Hal had crumpled in his fist. “Perhaps you’ve taken cold, Your Majesty. I’ll call the glaziers to fix that window. The nursery should be secure.”

  Glaziers. The glaziers’ guild would never be rebuilt now. Hal and all his followers would have to rely on glasswrights hired away from other lands, on craftsmen lured to work in a land that had only meant death and dishonor for their kind.

  “Aye, Farso.” Hal lapsed into his friendly nickname for the squire. No reason to frighten the boy. No reason for Farso to realize yet that his life was on the line, that armies would soon be marching, that Sin Hazar was more ruthless even than Hal had feared. Still, Hal’s throat almost closed as he whispered, “The nursery should be a safe place.”

  The squire waited for a long minute, staring at his liege with obvious concern. “Er, Your Majesty. Your council awaits you. You asked me to let you know when they’d been assembled.”

  Hal forced a smile onto his face, even though knew the expression must look like a skull’s rictus. He tried not to frighten one of his few allies in court. Not to alienate a loyal sword-arm. Hal turned his back on the embrasure, on the courtyard that he had overlooked with Rani two long winters past. “Let us go, then. We shouldn’t keep the council waiting any longer than necessary.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The squire reached for the nursery door, but then hesitated. “Um, my lord.…” Hal followed the boy’s gaze, saw that he still held his sister’s poppet. He turned back to set the doll on the bench beside the window, wasting a moment to smooth its silky hair. He reached up to close the wooden shutters, to lock out the prying wind.

  “Let us go, then, Farso. Let us address the King’s Council.”

  As they walked through the palace hallways, Hal heard the voices in his mind. They abandoned their typical rhyming, settling for cataloging his failures. He had failed to lead his people since Shanoranvilli had died. He had failed to see the threat in Bashanorandi. He had failed to protect women he was pledged to keep safe. He had failed to negotiate with Sin Hazar. He had failed to settle peacefully a border conflict that could destroy his young reign. He had failed he had failed he had failed.…

  Hal could not meet his lords’ eyes as he walked to his seat at the head of the council table. The jabbering voices grabbed hold of each councillor’s name, twisting the long chains of syllables into dark poems. Hal clenched his hands into fists. The voices could only harm him here. They could only make the Council rise up against him. The rhymes that had kept him alive to the age of seventeen might destroy him now, if he did not find the strength to banish them, to beat them back, to summon silence.

  Silence.

  Only when Hal had settled into his ornate chair did he trust himself to look out at the table, to survey the lords who attended him. Duke Puladarati was there, of course, leaning forward wit
h both elbows on the table. The old regent was arguing with his neighbor, forcing a point with vigor and a maimed hand, as if he still held the power of the crown within his grasp.

  Tasuntimanu was present as well, halfway down the table, swaddled in the dull brown cape that he favored over his domain’s flashy purple and silver. The brown did not hint at the scheming behind that placid face, did not suggest the thoughts that leaped beneath the Fellow’s balding pate. Although Hal allotted the nobleman a long survey, Tasuntimanu did nothing to give away his thoughts; he did not so much as flick a glance at Duke Puladarati. Very well, then. Let the conspirators continue their game – it would matter little in the face of the news that Hal bore.

  Continuing his review, Hal was relieved to see that Lamantarino was present as well, wheezing at the foot of the table. The old man’s eyes teared up, and he repeatedly dragged a rag beneath his long nose. Hal imagined that he could hear the old man’s breathing at this distance, hear the catarrh that scarred his lungs. No matter. Lamantarino had spoken kind words to Hal. Lamantarino might be the closest thing the king had to an ally in the entire council.

  Before Hal could call the meeting to order, Tasuntimanu rose and bowed stiffly. “Are you well, Your Majesty? You look pale.”

  “I am well, Tasuntimanu,” Hal forced himself to reply, marveling that he could speak above the voices, speak like a normal man.

  Tasuntimanu nodded gravely, showing his bald spot as if he were offering up fealty, and intoned, “May the Pilgrim Jair look upon you and keep you in good health, Your Majesty.” The benediction would merely sound like piety to the other councillors, but Hal understood the message. Tasuntimanu was taking no chances that Hal might forget his bonds to the Fellowship.

  Well, Hal had sworn many oaths, some aloud, and others only in his heart.

  “May all the Thousand Gods watch over this council and be praised,” Hal answered. He was encouraged by Tasuntimanu’s grimace. The man understood their unspoken exchange, Hal’s refusal to give way to Jair in all things. Before Hal could lose his nerve, before the voices could begin their whispering again, he turned to his other lords.