“I’ve got all the guild in the refectory for now - they know that Tuvashanoran is dead, and Instructor Parion is leading them in prayers for his soul.” The old woman’s grim laugh crept down Rani’s spine. “We may have planned a different messenger, but our missive has been delivered, all the same. Don’t worry, Nar-”
Perhaps the guildmistress would have spoken three syllables, labeling her companion as a guildsman, or four, which would mark him as a soldier. Rani would not even have been surprised to hear five syllables spilled across the Hall of Discipline, denoting the conspirator one of the princely caste.
She was not to learn the man’s identity, though. Before Salina could finish her sentence, a tremendous crash echoed down the Apprentices’ Corridor. The guttering candle flames all but died, and Rani tumbled back onto her heels, ignoring the stinging pain of her embossed knees.
Steel-shod feet clattered against the stone flags of the discipline chamber, and leather creaked against mail. Rani heard Salina’s cry of outrage, and then a man’s bellow, cut off in a sickening, wet gurgle.
Rani’s heart pounded in her chest like a chick pecking through its egg, and she clambered to her feet. What was it Salina had said? The guild was assembled in the refectory. Rani ran down the Apprentices’ Corridor, ignoring the fact that the breeze of her passing extinguished some of the dangerously low candles.
The refectory - there would be companionship there. There would be other apprentices who would understand this most recent injustice. There would be Instructors who could explain to the soldiers, who could make everyone understand that this was all a horrible mistake.
Rani never made it to the refectory, though. The soldiers moved faster than she had thought possible. She had scarcely reached the door to the Apprentices’ Corridor when a great monster of a man came crashing through from the Hall of Discipline. He bore a sword, and even in the dying candlelight, Rani could make out the sheen of sticky crimson on his blade. Surprising even herself, she screamed, and the soldier swivelled in her direction like a blind beggar.
His sword swept across Lene’s altar, and Rani cried out as the carefully balanced offerings to the god of humility crashed to the floor. Horror at the sacrilege rose in her throat like bile, and she almost turned back to defend the holy altar.
Almost, but not quite. Rani might have been raised to respect all the Thousand Gods, but she certainly was not going to die for them, not here, in a darkened hallway of the guild that despised her. Harnessing the desperate strength of the pursued, she snatched up the velvet altar-skirt dedicated to Lene, pausing only an instant to toss the cloth at the warrior before rushing headlong from the corridor. The soldier bellowed his rage as he freed his wicked sword from the dusty cloth.
The maneuver gained Rani precious seconds, and she fled into the heart of the guildhall, unfettered by sword or mail. She heard the berserker warrior behind her, leaving a trail of destruction, but she knew the corridors of the guildhall like the lines on her palm. Often enough she had been summoned to bring a pot of tea to an Instructor in the dark hours after moonset, and she had ferried laundry, glazing tools, and other endless burdens along every inch of these passages.
Instinctively, Rani dashed toward the refectory, but she traveled by way of the obscure and twisting servants’ corridors rather than the main hallways. Gaining a narrow alcove near her destination, she huddled in the shadows, drawing her pale arms inside her dusty jet tunic and crouching against the dark floor. She caught her breath as her pursuer rounded a corner, his mail clashing against the stone walls.
Either Rani’s prayers to all the Thousand Gods were answered or the soldier’s military helm obscured his vision. Whatever the cause, the berserker stumbled down the hallway toward the refectory, snarling rage at his prey. As soon as the mad soldier had clattered out of earshot, Rani sprang toward a recessed stairway just across the corridor. She took the steps two at a time, recalling when - only a fortnight after her arrival at the guildhall - she and Larinda had first explored this passage. Then, they had thought to escape the completely unreasonable wrath of the Instructors at some misdeed.
The stairs were steep, and Rani’s breath stuttered from her lips as she climbed the last dozen steps and emerged onto the narrowest of balconies, perched high above the refectory floor. Stone-carved stands indicated that the space was originally intended for musicians, but the luxury had long since been abandoned - Rani had never dined to the accompaniment of a musical serenade.
From this vantage point, she could make out a milling horde of Instructors, guildsmen, and apprentices. Clearly, the glaziers had been surprised at their afternoon work - many people clutched the tools of their trade. In happier times, Rani might have grinned as one particularly absent-minded Instructor held a piece of crimson glass to her eye to check for impurities, looking for all the world as if she were daft. Rani felt the urge to cry.
Cook was in the refectory, too, holding a wooden spoon coated with evil-looking glop. Even from this height, Rani could hear the woman complaining that her meal was being ruined, that the fire was burning too high, that an apprentice should be in the kitchen stirring the pot.
The soldiers who burst into the refectory obviously did not care if the guild went hungry for the night. Rani recognized her pursuer from the hallway below, but it took her several minutes to realize that all the guards were looking for her. In fact, it was only as one particularly burly man with a filthy, tangled beard pushed Larinda to her knees near the dais that Rani even realized what was happening.
One by one, the apprentices were cut out of the crowd. As the guildsmen and Instructors recognized the wolves in their midst, they attempted to shelter the children. Parion, the Instructor whom Salina had appointed to guide the guild in prayers for Tuvashanoran, swept off his cloak and settled it around the shoulders of one of the most senior apprentices.
The subterfuge, witnessed by a soldier, merely won Parion a backhanded gauntlet across his mouth. Rani felt ashamed when she saw the Instructor’s hand come away from his split lip, a trickle of blood glinting even at this distance. As the apprentices were herded to the far end of the refectory, the leader of the guard stormed through the door, his face apoplectic beneath his ornate helm. He sent the heavy wooden door crashing back on its hinges as he pushed Guildmistress Salina into the hall.
The dramatic entrance was heightened by Salina’s appearance. Her hair had come undone during her struggle in the Hall of Discipline, and cottony wisps of grey haloed her face. A gash stood out on one pasty cheek, and her quivering hand drifted to the narrow trickle of blood as if she could not believe her fate. Before any of the soldiers could stop Parion, the Instructor moved to his mistress’ side, offering Salina an arm to lean on. The guildmistress accepted the assistance with a humility that was more devastating than anything Rani had yet witnessed.
The captain of the guard glowered as Salina lowered herself onto her chair on the dais. Only when the soldier towered over the seated guildmistress did he speak, immediately claiming the undivided attention of all in the room. “I am sent by Shanoranvilli, king of all Morenia, to convey this message to the Glasswrights’ Guild. It is known that you have conspired against the heir of Shanoranvilli, the Prince of the People, the man who would have been Defender of the Faith. Tuvashanoran is dead, and Shanoranvilli has decreed that this shall be the penalty.”
The guard’s words evoked rumbles among the glaziers, protests that they were innocent. The soldier ignored the glasswrights and continued in a stony voice. “At least one of your brotherhood stood on the scaffolding outside the cathedral. We know that you delayed completing your commission until the Presentation Day. We have found the missing pane of glass that let the arrow fly. Even if, by some miracle of the Thousand Gods, a glasswright was not the person who shot the arrow, your brotherhood bears full responsibility. You gave access to the assassin. You summoned His Highness, Prince Tuvashanoran, from his holy meditation to his death.”
It was a warning!
Rani wanted to cry out. I was trying to save the Prince’s life! But she held her tongue. Tuvashanoran had been beloved; all Morenia would be set on revenge. No one would ever believe in the innocence of a glasswrights’ apprentice, in her very bad luck. The guard continued his pronouncement: “Before my soldiers leave this hall, they will question each of you. Guildmistress Salina has already denied any knowledge of the glasswright who stood on the scaffold, and she has paid the penalty for her ignorance.”
The soldier reached behind him and dragged Salina to her feet. As the guard pulled the woman forward, he jerked her right arm up, applying enough force to dislocate her shoulder if she had hesitated in the least. Now, as Salina swayed before her guild, the source of her disorientation became readily apparent. A ragged bandage slipped loose, revealing a crimson flower that bloomed against the length of her forearm.
“Shanoranvilli claims the pledge of blood fealty from every glasswright - Instructor, guildsman, and apprentice alike.” Rani’s stomach turned as an aide glided forward, slyly displaying the symbols of the guild’s blood oath to the king. In one hand, Rani could make out a golden cup, still tinged with crimson. In the other was a glass knife - sharper than any metal blade, Rani had heard, and able to cut as deep. The instruments of the Oath differed for each guild, but the principle remained the same. The king could demand fealty of any of his vassals upon any whim, ordering his subjects to prove their loyalty with an oath sealed in blood. And even the most bitter of protesters would say that unveiling Prince Tuvashanoran’s murderer was more than mere whim.
The captain returned to his proclamation, certain now that he had the glasswrights’ full attention. “Each of you will be questioned, every morning and every evening, until the identity of the glazier on the scaffold is known. Each of you will be required to swear the oath of blood fealty every time that you are questioned.”
There were angry murmurs among the crowd, and Rani clutched the balustrade with rigid fingers. The room seethed against the injustice of the king’s order, but Rani raged against Salina. The guildmistress could have named Morada. The guildmistress could have saved her people from the terror and the pain that the soldiers were now certain to distribute. Crouching in the gallery, Rani tried to remember if any other guildsman could name Morada, if there was a single brother or sister who could spare the others from Shanoranvilli’s justifiable wrath. For that matter, Rani thought for the first time to search the refectory floor for Morada herself.
Before Rani could complete her review of the ranks, the officer continued. “We know that the glasswright on the scaffold was not the only malfeasor in the cathedral. We will find this guild’s apprentice, the whelp who cried out to Tuvashanoran to bring him into range for the assassin. That name, at least, Guildmistress Salina has provided. We know we look for Ranita, and we know she is not among the apprentices gathered here.”
Rani’s fury was a physical thing. The guild was supposed to be her family. It was supposed to take the place of the flesh and blood she had turned from, the folk whom she had abandoned to the market’s vagaries. Even as Rani stared at the bloody bandages about Salina’s wrist, even as she imagined the sting of salt rubbed into the bloody line of the guildmistress’ treacherous fealty oath, tears sparked in her eyes.
She was abandoned, and for a crime she had committed all unknowing.
Again, Rani’s attention was recaptured by the captain of the guard. “Aye, we know the name Ranita, and we know the look of the traitor we seek. And we suspect that you know her as well, and at least one of you harbors her even now, in your misguided plot to bring about the fall of the house of Jair. As loyal soldiers to that house, we must do all within our power to help you recall your loyalty to your king.”
The soldier made a curt hand gesture, and one of his men swooped into the herd of apprentices that milled at the foot of the dais. Rani squelched a cry as the soldier emerged from the chaos of frantic arms and legs, dragging Larinda forward by her hair. Before any of the stunned glasswrights could move, the soldier whipped a blade from his waist. Larinda did not even have a chance to pull away before she was screaming, holding up four fingers and a bloody stump where her thumb had been. The soldier kicked away the digit and, at the gestured command of his officer, gagged the shrieking girl.
Rani swallowed the sudden sickness that rose in her throat, taking a deep breath against the vertigo that threatened to pitch her onto the refectory floor. Even if she had retched, it was unlikely the sound could have been heard above the turmoil in the room. Instructors and guildsmen cried out, and the herd of terrified apprentices threatened to stampede past the soldiers’ bared swords.
“You bastards!” Salina’s voice rose above the chaos. “She’s only a child!” Salina held out her arms, and Larinda took shuddering refuge, burying her face in the guildmistress’s voluminous robes, even as Parion stepped forward to staunch the wound. The captain of the guard took a menacing step toward the trio, but drew back when the glasswrights’ hum reached the frenzied pitch of a wasp’s nest.
“Aye, she’s a child,” he settled for grumbling. “And the traitor who called Prince Tuvashanoran to his death was a child as well. We shall mark one child, each dawn, until you deliver your murderous rat to us.”
Rani’s first thought was to flee the gallery, to run back to the safety of her childhood and the luxury of her mother’s embrace. Her second thought was more honorable, and she ordered herself to run down the narrow gallery stairs, to force her way into the refectory to save her fellow apprentices. Her third thought, though, won out. There was no way that she would survive a confrontation with the guard. They were certain she was guilty; they knew she had murdered Tuvashanoran.
Indeed, she could hardly argue in her own defense - she was guilty, because her words had summoned the prince to his execution. Her actual innocence would hardly be considered by a man who was willing to lop off the thumb - the thumb! - of an innocent child.
And so Rani stayed in the gallery, gripping the stone balustrade as the guardsmen finished their job. She was hardly surprised when a young soldier entered the refectory, bearing aloft the Orb that symbolized the power of the glasswrights’ guild.
Each guild in the City had its Orb, consecrated to its particular god and blessed by the High Priest in annual ceremonies of great solemnity. Even now, Rani could envision the Holy Father standing in the guildhall’s convocation chamber, invoking Clain, the glaziers’ god, while Defender of the Faith Shanoranvilli presented Salina with a large purse of gold coins, rewarding her for royal commissions well completed in the prior year.
The glaziers’ Orb, as appropriate to their craft, was fashioned of glass. The workmanship was ancient, the globe’s lead tracery as fine as spider’s silk. Each fragile metal frame held a panel of glass so thin that it shimmered in the air. Blue swirled into red and green and yellow - dramatic colors presenting a map of all Morenia, fashioned to appear like a globe of all the world.
When Rani was first presented to the guild, she had sworn her apprentice oaths upon the Orb, and she knew that each confirmed master spoke his words of commitment and brotherhood before its delicate glass planes. The Orb was the guild’s heart, the core of the glaziers’ power.
Even at this distance, Rani could see her fellow guildsmen’s awe, inspired by the Orb. The globe’s essence was tangible across the room, and a few of the glaziers relaxed visibly in the soothing familiarity of that energy. For Rani, though, the presence of the Orb was anything but soothing. Soldiers who could mutilate a child - what would they do to a bauble of glass and lead?
In an instant, Rani’s worst fears were confirmed. The young soldier presented the globe to his captain, scarcely bothering to hide his gloating smile as the burly soldier hoisted the fragile thing. His voice, when it poured across the refectory, was oily and gloating, and Rani was more chilled than she had been to witness Larinda’s maiming. “I speak in the name of Shanoranvilli, King of Morenia, lord of the City, and Defender of the Faith. ‘My f
orefathers gave the glasswrights’ guild its charter, and in times past the glaziers have served my family well. In remembrance of that old service, I am merciful, and I do not yet demand the life of every man and woman in the guild. I offer this mercy despite the fact that the guild has stolen the heir of my body.’”
The captain raised the globe above his head, even as some of the instructors made a furtive religious sign, muttering gratitude to their individual gods that their lives were to be spared. The soldier continued, unresponsive to the whispered prayers. “‘I, Shanoranvilli, have harbored an asp at my breast, in the glasswrights’ guild. Therefore, I order the guild destroyed, and all its members outlawed in the eyes of the land. I order its buildings razed, stone by stone, by the labor of the former glasswrights. I order its wells befouled so that no man, woman, or child may think to take shelter in the ruins. I order its lands sown with salt so that no loyal citizen of the realm will pollute his faithful soul by eating of the fruit of the traitors’ guild.’”
“Have mercy!” Salina cried, awkwardly setting aside the maimed Larinda and falling to her knees before the captain of the guard. “We are innocent, my lord!”
The soldier ignored her. “‘Henceforth, the sign of the glasswrights’ guild will be a sign of treachery. Anyone seen wearing the badge of the aforementioned guild will be beaten for a first offense. A second offense will warrant branding - an image of grozing irons crossed upon the brow - to forever mark a traitor. A third offense will be paid for with the traitor’s life, worthless as that coin may be.’”
The outcry was probably more than the captain had expected - his men needed to lay about with the flats of their blades before any semblance of order could be restored to the hall. “So speaks Shanoranvilli, King of Morenia, lord of the City, and Defender of the Faith. Let any who defies his will taste the justifiable force of his anger.” The soldier raised the Orb above his head, turning it for a moment to catch fitful torchlight. Then, with a flick of powerful wrists, he dashed the glass and lead to the floor.
Glasswrights' Apprentice Page 4