THE WORSHIPFUL SOCIETY OF GLOVERS
Mary Robinette Kowal
Mary Robinette Kowal (maryrobinettekowal.com) is the author of historical fantasy novels: The Glamourist Histories series and Ghost Talkers. She has received the Campbell Award for Best New Writer, three Hugo awards, the RT Reviews award for Best Fantasy Novel, and has been a finalist for the Hugo, Nebula, and Locus awards. Stories have appeared in Strange Horizons, Asimov’s, several Year’s Best anthologies and her collections Word Puppets and Scenting the Dark and Other Stories.
As a professional puppeteer and voice actor (SAG/AFTRA), Mary has performed for LazyTown (CBS), the Center for Puppetry Arts and Jim Henson Pictures, and founded Other Hand Productions. Her designs have garnered two UNIMA-USA Citations of Excellence, the highest award an American puppeteer can achieve. She records fiction for authors such as Kage Baker, Cory Doctorow and John Scalzi.
Mary lives in Chicago with her husband Rob and over a dozen manual typewriters.
OUTSIDE THE CRACKED window of the garret, the cockle-seller hollered, “Cockles an’ mussels! Cockles an’ mussels!” Her voice blended with the other London morning street sounds to mean that Vaughn was going to be late.
“Botheration.” He tied off the thread in the fine blue leather of the gloves he was stitching and snipped it with the little pair of silver shears he’d snuck out of the master’s shop. Be his hide if he were caught taking them home, but worse if he bit the thread off instead of snipping it neat. No telling what his saliva would do when the guild brownie added the beauty spell to it.
Shoving back his rickety chair from their equally rickety table, Vaughn tucked the shears into his pocket and tied it to the belt of his jerkin. He grabbed the gloves with one hand and a slice of rye bread with the other.
His sister laughed, “Are you going to be late again?”
“Was trying to finish these gloves for Master Martin.” He slid the gloves into the pocket, heading for the door. “I’ll be glad when this damn journeyman period is over.”
Behind him, Sarah made a coughing grunt. Vaughn’s heart jumped sideways in his chest. Not again. He dropped the bread and the gloves and spun, but not in time to catch her.
Her chin cracked against the worn wood floor as she hit. Every muscle in her body had tightened and she shook, grunting with another seizure. Vaughn dropped to his knees next to her and rolled Sarah onto her side, brushing her hair back from her face.
She couldn’t hear him when one of the fits came over her but he sang to her anyway, just because that’s what their Gran had done.
“As I walked forth one summer’s day,
To view the meadows green and gay
A pleasant bower I espied
Standing fast by the river side,
And in’t a maiden I heard cry:
Alas! alas! there’s none e’er loved as I.”
The tremors subsided, but her eyes still had the glaze about them. Drool puddled from her mouth onto the floor. At least she hadn’t vomited this time.
Vaughn gave a breathless laugh. The things he was thankful for these days.
SWEAT RAN DOWN his back like it was chasing him through the streets of London. Vaughn dodged around a fine lady in ruddy silks with her fairy chaperone and slid around a pair of gentlemen, wearing green antlered gloves for cunning. He skidded around the corner into the alley between the perfumers and the glovers.
Slowing to a walk, he tried to keep his breath slow, as if he hadn’t been running flat out for ten streets. If the master were only in the front talking to customers...
He needn’t have bothered. Master Martin stood square in the middle of the workshop, glaring. “Vaughn Johnson! Do ye not hear the bells?”
“Yes, sir.” Vaughn swept his hat from his head. “Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again, sir.”
“’Tis the third time this fortnight!”
“I know, sir, and I’m very sorry.”
Across the workshop, Littleberry, the guild brownie who worked with his master, continued to concentrate on the gloves he was ensorcelling as if Master Martin weren’t yelling at the top of his lungs.
Sweating, Vaughn pulled the blue gloves from his pocket. “I finished the commission for Lady Montrose.”
The master glover snatched them out of his hands. “Was it that sister of yours again?”
He tried not to notice Littleberry’s long ears prick up with interest. Brownies valued an honest man, and if Vaughn wanted to join the guild, he had best tell the truth. “She had a fit this morning but is as well as anything now. I’ll be on time tomorrow, sir.”
“They have places for such as her.”
Vaughn swallowed. After Gran died, he looked into a sanitarium but the places that he could afford were no fit place for a sixteen-year-old girl. No fit place for anyone really, but he couldn’t send Sarah there. “I can’t afford that. Sorry sir.”
“Eh—I’m not talking about some fine and mighty place such as a lady might go. There’s almshouses.”
Rage flooded through Vaughn and it pushed words out of his mouth. “Maybe I should simply take the master test and then you’ll be shut of me.”
“Oh ho! The mouse bites.”
“Sorry, sir. It was only an idea, sir.” But what he wouldn’t give to already be a master so he could make Sarah’s gloves. With those, he wouldn’t have to worry about leaving her alone. “But if you think I’m ready...”
A bell jingled at the front of the store.
“You’ve made a contract with me, and I’ll not waste a minute more of it than I already have. Not with King Henry’s ball coming up. Bring on another journeyman, after I’ve spent all this time getting you trained up?” He barked a laugh and strode through the curtain that separated the workshop from the front of the store. Master Martin’s tone changed immediately to something honeyed and without the burr of his native accent. “Ah, my dear Lady Flannery, so honored to have you grace our store.”
Vaughn clenched his fists and his jaw. Of course, his master was too cheap to give up a journeyman early. Stalking over to the workbench, he glanced at the other end of the bench to be sure that Littleberry was occupied. The brownie’s back was bent over his work, eyes wrinkled shut.
Slipping the shears from his pocket, Vaughn set them on the bench and hoped Littleberry wouldn’t notice. He had half a mind to make a bargain with the brownie on his own. Guild rules said that he couldn’t sell unlicensed gloves, but if it was just for Sarah—
Right. If he didn’t mind making a deal without the auspices of the Worshipful Society of Glovers, losing his guild membership, and winding up in the streets.
But he couldn’t keep leaving Sarah alone. It wouldn’t hurt to simply ask Littleberry his terms for ensorcelling gloves to control seizures.
Vaughn snorted and laid a pattern on the inside of a sheet of pure white kidskin. The brownie was from Faerie. There was always the potential for harm, even in just the asking.
TO MAKE UP for being tardy, Vaughn worked well past his usual time. It was full dark by the time he left the shop, locking the door behind himself. His eyes blurred when he tried to look in the distance so the candles in the windows turned into dancing globes like will-o-the-wisps come to the city. He had the pieces for another set of gloves folded in paper in his pocket and had snuck the little shears out of the shop.
Sarah would be worried about him, but she knew well enough that the master had say over his time. Tucking his hands in the sleeves of his overgown, Vaughn hurried for home. If he was lucky, the pie shop would still have something, otherwise it was yesterday’s bread for dinner.
Before he even got out of the alley, a hand clamped down on his shoulder with the weight of iron. Vaughn gasped and tried to wrench free, but the man’s fingers dug in, unnaturally strong. His vision went white and red. He dropped to his knees, grabbing by instinct at the source of the pain and touched leather. A glove of smooth oxskin, embroidered at the knuckles with fool’s knots and chains.
Stren
gth gloves.
“I’ve got nothing.” Vaughn stopped struggling, but the scoundrel’s grip on his shoulder didn’t lighten. Lord. They’d break his shoulder at this rate. At least it was his left. He could still stitch if they didn’t hurt his right.
What a stupid thing to worry about when he might not live through the night. Vaughn knelt on the cold cobblestones, with one knee in a puddle of something.
“Don’t try anything.”
“I won’t.” Who had made the man’s gloves? Vaughn kept his head down as the fellow released him. Partly this was so he didn’t look like a threat, but also so he could see the gloves.
Bright red oxskin with the requisite fool’s knots and chains stitched at the knuckles. The man yanked his pocket off, likely harder than the man had intended, and the cloth split down the seams. Green thread marched up the sides of the gloves in flames that looked like it had come out of Master O’Connell’s shop. Not that it mattered. Like as not they were stolen.
Sumptuary laws being what they were, someone of their station couldn’t afford a pair of gloves, much less flaunt them. Heavens no, if they wore something so fine, someone might mistake them for nobility.
“Ha!” The thief dug through the shredded pocket and found Vaughn’s meager purse. Thank heavens he hadn’t been paid yet this week, but there went any chance of buying Sarah a pie for dinner.
When the thief drew out the leather for the gloves, Vaughn groaned. “Please—those aren’t ensorcelled yet. It’s just leather and—”
The thief threw the kidskin on the ground, right in the puddle Vaughn knelt in. Bollocks. Even if the liquid were by some miraculous chance pure water, the leather would warp and stiffen. Master Martin would take it out of his wages.
The man found the little silver shears, and tucked them away. Small though they were, a pair of silver shears were worth more than Vaughn would make this month. Thank God he’d already hocked his father’s snuff box, or that would be gone as well.
“That’s it?” The thief grabbed him by the collar.
“I’m a journeyman.”
“You don’t dress like one.”
“My master wants us to look smart for his customers.” He’d near beggared himself meeting the requirements for the journeyman contract, but it was the only way to advance in the guild. If he were wearing a cotte, as he had most of his life, the thief wouldn’t have looked at him twice. “If you thought I was a nobleman, I am sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Guess I’ll take your overgown and hat for my troubles.” He snatched the hat off Vaughn’s head.
“Please—I’ll lose my place if I’m not—”
“Your place or your life. Either way, they’re mine, ain’t they.” The thief clapped his hands together and the threads glimmered with the spellwork caught in them. “Off with your overgown.”
What choice did Vaughn have? He shrugged off the overgown, and though it was tempting to throw it in the puddle same as the leather, he wasn’t a fool. He handed it over, jaw clenched to keep from crying as the thief threw the overgown across his arm. It wasn’t fair. He’d worked so hard to get here, to make something of himself and—
The thief’s free hand drew back, curling into a fist. If that connected, Vaughn was a dead man. He threw himself back. The blow whistled past his face, just brushing his cheek. Even that fleeting contact lit the night sky for a moment. Then his head smacked against the cobbled street, and everything went dark.
THERE WERE NO bells to tell him the time. All Vaughn knew as he dragged himself up the stairs of their garrett was that he stank. The bastard had robbed him of his shoes and the buttons off his jerkin while he lay there. He was lucky to still have his doublet and netherhose, but his feet ached from walking home in nothing but his stockings.
When he reached the top of the stairs, a light flickered under their door. He winced. It had been too much to hope that Sarah would have gone to bed. Before he’d even reached for the latch, a chair scraped on wood and Sarah’s footsteps hurried toward the door.
“Vaughn?” She yanked the door open, a shawl over her nightgown. “Oh my lord. What happened?”
He tried to grin, but his cheek hurt too much. At least his jaw wasn’t broken. “Robbed coming home. But I’m fine.”
“You are not fine!” She put an arm around his waist, as if he hadn’t just walked home all by himself. “Come and sit. Oh—your face.”
“Bad, eh?” Probably for the best they didn’t own a mirror. He patted her shoulder and slipped out of his sister’s grasp. “Let me get out of these clothes first.”
“I’ll heat some water to clean your cheek.” She hurried over to their small hearth, one of the few perks of the garret, and put another log on the fire.
“I’m fine. Really. Look worse than I feel.” That might have been a lie, but he couldn’t stand to see her worried on his account. Vaughn limped over to the curtain they’d hung in the corner to give some modesty for bathing. “How was your day?”
He’d pulled off the stinking jerkin—at least he didn’t have to unbutton it—then his doublet, which was also sans buttons, and tugged up his shirt. The movement made the bruises on his left shoulder catch, dragging his breath out with a hiss. He couldn’t lift his arm higher than his waist.
He bit back a half dozen curses as he tried to wriggle out of the shirt, and then realized that Sarah hadn’t answered. “Sarah?”
Certain that his sister would be on the floor, Vaughn came around the curtain in just his shirt and netherhose. But she knelt in front of the fire, setting the kettle on the grate.
His heart slowed a little. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” Sarah shook her head. “I was just thinking about how to answer.”
“That sounds like something is wrong.” He stepped back behind the curtain to splash a little cold water over his face. His cheek stung and the water in the basin turned pink. He probed the side of his face and winced as he found the raw edges where his skin had split over his cheekbone. Vaughn shucked out of his netherhose, managed to pull his shirt off, and then dragged a nightshirt on, carefully.
What the hell was he going to wear to work tomorrow?
Carrying the basin of dirty water, Vaughn limped over to their single, high window and reached up to open the casement. He grunted as the bruises on his left shoulder caught. “Sarah... I’m sorry. Could you?”
“Of course!” She hurried over to take the basin from him. “Go sit by the fire now.”
“I’m fin—”
“Now.” And of a sudden, her voice snapped like Gran’s.
Vaughn went. As she opened the small window and dumped the waste water on the street below, he dragged their other chair next to the fire and settled into it with a groan. He might never stand again.
Sarah hurried back over to him, firelight warming the room around her and catching in the honey gold of her hair. It also caught on a new cut on her lip.
Vaughn straightened, catching his sister’s hand as she sat. “Did you have another fit? After I left?”
She pressed her lips together as if that would hide the cut. With a shrug, she turned to the fire. “What if I did?”
“Sarah... You’re supposed to tell me.”
She set the empty basin on the floor by the fire. “Why? There’s nothing to be done about it.”
But there was. It was just that tonight’s mishap put it even further from his grasp.
DRESSED IN HIS workboots, second-best hose, doublet, and jerkin, Vaughn hunched over the bench. His shoulder had stiffened overnight and all it was really good for was holding down the leather while he traced. His eye had swollen up enough that he had to tilt his head to the side to see the leather clearly. But his right hand was steady and he gave thanks for that.
The shop bell jangled at the front as Master Martin arrived. As the glover whistled his way into the back of the shop, Vaughn laid his pencil down and prepared to make his case. He turned on his stool and Master Martin jumped, taking a
step backward. Sitting on his shoulder, Littleberry had to clutch his collar to stay seated.
“Good lord!” Swiping his hat off his head, Master Martin’s astonishment turned into a scowl. “I’ve got no patience with brawlers.”
“I—” Brawling? He’d been working for the man for three years and had never so much as raised his voice. “I was robbed, sir. Sorry for my appearance, sir.”
“Robbed? Here?” Master Martin swung around as if someone might be lurking in the shadows.
Littleberry used the motion to jump down onto the workbench, his nose wrinkled in sympathy. At least someone felt sorry for Vaughn.
“No, sir. On my way home.” Vaughn bit his lower lip. “I had the leather for the Lady Flannery commission, I’m afraid.”
“The royal blue! Do you know how dear that shade of blue is?”
“Yes, sir. I’m very sorry, sir.”
“It’ll have to come out of your pay.” Master Martin set his hat on the rack next to the door. “Anything else?”
If he could have hidden it, he would have, but at some point Master Martin would notice that the little silver shears were missing. “I’m afraid I had inadvertently had the small shears in my pocket.”
“Those were not to leave the shop! You think I can just run willy-nilly over to Faerie anytime I need enchanted silver?”
“I’m very sorry, sir. Of course, I will pay for them.” Before Master Martin had time to get redder in the face, Vaughn drove forward. “The brigand also took my overgown and shoes. I have nothing else appropriate to wear. Would it be possible—?”
“An advance? After all this, you have the nerve to ask for an advance?”
Vaughn had actually planned to ask if he might be excused from wearing an overgown until he could afford to buy a new one. He wouldn’t be allowed in the front of the shop anyway until the bruises faded. But, in for a penny, in for a pound. He was going to be paying for this for the next year anyway. “I’m sorry, sir. I know you take pride in the neatness of your shop and I want to be a credit to you.”
The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year, Volume 12 Page 56