“Aye, you can speak with Bardo Trader in the morning.”
Garadolo led the way through the streets. A few shops huddled in this warriors’ quarter, but they were closed up for the night. Signs swung in the night air, and Rani could just pick out their blazons in the moonlight - one merchant sold armor, another appeared to sharpen swords and other deadly blades.
This was a strange quarter of the City, a tangle of streets that Rani had never fully explored. Her family had made a living selling finer stuff to more thoughtful patrons. She tried to recapture her caste-bound sense of superiority as Garadolo led her deeper into the maze, past various check points where the foul man saluted the guards, surrendering the night’s password like the most valuable of coins.
Each time Garadolo drew himself to attention, he set a disgusting claw on Rani’s shoulder, pulling her closer to his stinking leather jerkin. She tried to squirm from his touch, from the uncomfortable nearness of his ripped trews, but she quickly yielded before the guards’ suspicion.
At the next check point, Garadolo muttered the password, but the guard peered down at them, swinging his lantern closer to Rani’s face. “Now who’ve you got there?” queried the soldier, casting a knowing look at the sorry military specimen before him.
“Ranimara.” Garadolo improvised a soldier’s name. “A recruit for the elite corps of His Majesty’s Guard.” The man at the gate laughed knowingly and waved them through.
The charade was repeated twice more before they arrived at the barracks, and Rani had no illusion that the sentries served to protect her. They were certain they had seen a young soldier girl, intent on rising through the ranks by any means necessary. The events were common enough that they saw no need to question a child’s pinched face in the torchlight, or a soldier, groping at his swelling trews.
By the time Rani and Garadolo arrived at his quarters, she was nearly asleep on her feet, trembling from cold and exhaustion, and other, more frightening emotions. When the soldier pushed her through the doorway, she stumbled into the center of a tiny room. The remnants of a cold fire reeked in one corner, clearly extinguished by the contents of an upturned chamberpot. A mattress sagged against the far wall, stained and lumpy, and Rani did not look too closely for the vermin she was certain to find. A few other accoutrements of military life were scattered about the room - a well-worn scabbard in one corner, a dull iron knife by the threshold.
Garadolo closed the door behind them, turning a massive key in a lock that looked so shaky Rani had no fear that she could break free if need be. The soldier ambled to a shuttered lamp, fiddling with a wick until a sickly light flickered through soot-stained glass. When the mottled flame leaked into the room, Garadolo turned to his captive, stopping to scratch himself thoroughly, as if his bedbugs had already begun their nightly feast.
Rani made her way to the far corner of the room, the corner without the sodden ashes. She thought about taking out her Zarithian knife, letting it flash an eloquent warning in the lamplight, but she knew she would not be a match for the man’s strength if he became truly intent on stealing her prize possession.
Instead, she settled for bowing her head in prayer, speaking her words aloud. “May Jair and all the Thousand Gods keep us safe in the darkness of night. May Set, the god of Travelers, guide our feet upon the proper path tomorrow. May Fell, the god of Families, watch over me, and see me reunited with Bardo in the morning.” And may Lan protect me, she added silently.
Garadolo looked as if he had not said his own night-time prayers since a nurse stood over him, ready to beat the words from his reluctant soul. Nevertheless, he refrained from any untoward discussion of their bedding arrangement, and Rani’s final reminder of her brother-protector wiped the leer from his face.
“We’ll get a message to your brother in the morning, then, Ranimara.” Calling her by her newest name without apparent irony, Garadolo gave a final hitch at his torn breeches before strolling over to his bedroll. “It’s warmer here, by the lamp,” he gestured. When Rani fixed him with a glare more icy than the night-time air, he shrugged. “Can’t say I didn’t try. Let yourself be cold, Ranimara.” He chortled at her snort of disgust.
Any delusion that Garadolo might have worried about her physical comfort was dispensed within three short minutes, as the soldier fell into snoring, alcoholic sleep. Rani covered her ears with the indigo gloves she had secured from Rabe. When that proved fruitless, she tried to force her breathing to match the man’s, but she soon grew dizzy with the depth of his snores. Finally, she resigned herself to a sleepless night, leaning against the plastered wall and pulling her knees close to her chest. She passed the time by offering up prayers to Lan. Clearly, the kitchen god had smiled upon her - he had heard her pleas to stay within the City walls. Against all odds, he had guided her to Garadolo, to the Brotherhood, and to Bardo.
Rani must have slept at last, because she was alone in the sordid room when she awoke. A finger of greyish light pointed across the floor, prying apart the wall through a jagged crack beside the shuttered window. Outside, she could hear the troops stirring, accompanied by a great deal of clanking metal and creaking leather. The symphony was accented by frequent curses, and Rani could picture the army of men, jostling each other in the chilly dawn with the camaraderie she had often observed among her brothers.
Her brothers! Where was Garadolo? Was he bringing Bardo to her even now?
Rani stood up and stretched a crick from her neck. Her clothes were grimy, telling a tale of too many nights spent in the streets. She ran filthy fingers through her hair, reminding herself that she would soon have a comb and a mirror; she would soon be returned to the comfort of family.
The thought brought momentary tears to her eyes - she had strictly forbidden herself to think about the bitter news Mair had brought about her family’s death. The Touched leader might have incorrect information, after all. She might have been spreading vicious rumors, created by Bardo’s enemies, or by marketplace merchants who were jealous of her family’s success in the Merchants’ Quarter. Rani would know the whole truth shortly. However reluctant Garadolo might have been, he would bring Bardo to her. He would reunite her with her favorite brother, and then this nightmare would end.
As the daylight seeped into the room, blushing with a semblance of rosy life, Rani looked about, realizing she would be deeply embarrassed if Bardo saw her in such squalor. After all, the last time she had seen her brother, they had stood inside the glasswrights’ prestigious Guildhall. Now, she was reduced to utter poverty, to the depravity of a filthy soldier’s kept girl. Her surroundings were foul; her clothing was ragged. She was a sorry excuse for a well-raised merchant child.
Rani berated herself for accomplishing so little since Tuvashanoran’s murder. She had run from situation to situation, letting the guild be destroyed about her very shoulders, letting one lead after another disappear in the City’s brutal, bloody streets.
Remembering how Bardo always preferred the counters of the family shop to be orderly and neat, Rani looked about Garadolo’s quarters. She might be the disgraced daughter of merchants, she might be the castout apprentice of glasswrights, but she was still Rani Trader. She knew how to put a home in order.
On the floor beside the door, a wooden bucket leaned on its side, mute witness to Garadolo’s disgusting hygiene. Rani fetched the pail, surprised but pleased to discover that its bottom was solid. There had to be water somewhere here in the Soldiers’ Quarter; it was just a matter of finding one of the City’s many wells.
Rani made her way through the narrow streets, walking a spiral path from Garadolo’s door. She was careful to count the turnings so that she did not become lost. As it turned out, she did not have far to go - her sensitive ears soon picked up the music of water falling from a fountain. Sure enough, Rani rounded a building and found herself in the middle of a cobbled square.
Water flowed freely from a tall font, a robust statue fashioned like a soldier. The fighting man wore the king’s
uniform, and he leaned his sword against his shield. That shield bore the head of a lion, and the lion’s mouth opened to send an arc of water into a spreading pool. Rani grinned at her success, surprisingly pleased to discover she was not alone at the fountain.
A line of women - no more than girls, really - stretched around the jet of water, each bearing a bucket or a water flask. The girls chattered among themselves, taking their time as the line moved forward slowly. Rani took her place at the end of the queue, raising the empty bucket to her shoulder in imitation of the two girls in front of her.
One of those girls turned to face her, brushing stray brown locks out of her eyes as she inspected Rani from head to foot. “What’s yer name?”
Rani almost choked on her answer. It was a simple question, really, and one that she should have been prepared to give. Nevertheless, she did not know if she should say her birth name - betraying her caste as merchant - or if she should call herself Ranimara, a soldier girl. From the accent behind the girl’s question, Rani’s companion was one of the Touched - a single syllable might suffice.
Rani covered her confusion by coughing, dragging out the subterfuge until the other girl pounded her between the shoulder blades, almost making Rani drop her wooden bucket. “Easy there,” the girl crooned. “Take it easy.” When Rani finally let herself take a deep breath, she thought the other girl might have forgotten her question. That wish proved too optimistic. “All I asked was yer name. Ye needn’t get so frightened.” The girl leaned closer, casting a shrugging glace toward their companions. “Ye’re new ’ere is all. We all know what it’s like. We know ’ow cold th’ streets can be at night. There’s no shame i’ it, keepin’ ’ouse fer a soldier.”
Rani started to protest - she was not so naive that she mistook the meaning behind the girl’s words. She started a rambling argument to redeem her honor, but then remembered that she was playing a role. If this girl was going to believe her, she could hardly protest in her merchant’s well-bred accent. Rani let herself slip into Mair’s patois. “I ne’er been ’ere before.”
“Ye’ll find it’s not so bad. The soldiers always ’ave bread ’n’ wine, ’n’ they’re more ’n ’appy t’ share, if they think it’ll keep ye i’ their bed.”
A hot blush painted Rani’s cheeks, even as her belly twisted at the thought of yielding to Garadolo’s attentions. She was more glad than ever that she was Bardo’s sister. By now, the girls were up to the fountain, and Rani filled her bucket behind her companion. As they stepped away from the water, the other girl flashed a smile. She was missing a tooth on the side of her mouth. “Welcome t’ th’ Soldiers’ Quarter. I’m Shar.”
“Rai,” Rani responded.
Before she could scrape up more conversation, Shar let out a surprised yelp. “Dalarati!”
Rani looked up to see a young soldier standing on the edge of the square. His hair was jet black, swept back from his forehead, with lines of a comb still furrowing the strands. His eyes were laughing, and Rani’s breath caught in her throat. He was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen, almost as handsome as Bardo.
“Dalarati, what are you doing here?” Shar grinned, and she dug her toe between two cobbles, affecting a delicate shyness. Rani noticed that she turned her face to the side, hiding the gap of her missing tooth.
The soldier smoothed his tunic’s pleats, and his strong fingers did curious things to Rani’s pulse. “We’re moving to the night shift, starting with sunset. We’ve been given the day to prepare.”
“Th’ ’ole day?” Shar crowed, shifting her pail to one hand and reaching up to play with the careful lacings at Dalarati’s throat. Rani thought that she should look away.
“The whole day,” the soldier confirmed, “after you’ve broken your fast.” He produced two sweet rolls from the sack at his waist, proffering both to Shar.
“Oh, Dalarati! You remembered me!” Shar pulled him close, coming dangerously close to sloshing water on his leggings.
“How could I forget,” he answered wryly, when he had finished kissing her thoroughly. He traced a finger along her throat. “Now, are we going to stand in the square all morning, or are we going back to my quarters? I’ve got a lot to do before duty tonight.”
“A lot to do?” Shar pouted, starting to turn away from her handsome benefactor.
“Aye,” he laughed at her posturing and reached out a loose fist to chuck her lightly on the chin. “I’ve exercises to complete.” His supple fingers closed around Shar’s waist. “And weapons to polish.” Shar giggled, and let the man lead her toward the edge of the square.
Rani was still staring in a bemused combination of shock and jealousy when the Touched girl wriggled out of the soldier’s embrace. She darted across the square, coming to a breathless stop in front of Rani. Before the apprentice could speak, the Touched girl thrust one of the sweet buns into Rani’s hand. “But -” Rani began to protest.
“Take it! I’ll not ’ave time t’ eat both.” Shar giggled and glanced at Dalarati, who was feigning impatience. “Welcome t’ th’ Soldiers’ Quarter, Rai.”
Rani barely managed to wait until the pair was out of sight before she tore into the roll. She was hungrier than she had imagined, and the sweet almond filling left her licking her fingers unabashedly. On her way back to Garadolo’s lair, she imagined the meals she could feast on in the Soldiers’ Quarter. Feast, that was, if she were willing to pay the price.
Of course, such thoughts were sheer foolishness. She would be leaving the Quarter before supper time. Bardo would be there by noon, taking her away from the dingy room and the frightening filth, carrying her off to whatever life he had built for himself.
Rani occupied herself with such thoughts as she set about straightening the small room. As the morning ripened, she found herself singing “The Merchant’s Blue-Eyed Daughter.” The song had always been Bardo’s favorite, and before the sun set that night, Rani would make him sing it aloud, rolling his rich bass voice over the notes.
As she sang, she set about loosing the locks on the shutters, but when the morning light streamed into the room, she almost wished that she had not bothered. A layer of grime covered wood, plaster, everything in the chamber, as if Garadolo and an army of predecessors had never washed their greasy hands, but had fondled every surface. Repeatedly.
Sighing, Rani set her pail of water by the door. The shreds of some garment were tangled on the floorboards - it appeared that Rani was not the first person to rip Garadolo’s rotten clothes. She set her lips in a grim smile as she salvaged the filthy cloth, so full of holes that it could serve no legitimate purpose.
No legitimate purpose, that was, except as a rag. Rani shivered when she plunged her bare hands into the bucket of cold water, and she needed to wring out the cloth three times before the water ran clear. Still, she started in the corner, cleaning out a circle of human living space.
It took her the rest of the morning and a good part of the afternoon, but the room was reformed when she was finished. She had listened to the cathedral bells toll noon, unable to resist waiting on the doorstep for Garadolo to show up with Bardo, but she had been sorely disappointed. Now, as she added a sheen to the rippled glass reflecting sunset in the window frame, she fought a wave of despair.
Despite the chill in the air, she left the door open and sat on the front porch. She had made several more trips to the well for fresh water, and her arms ached. Her belly roared with hunger as well, and she fought back the suspiciously salty taste of tears as she leaned against the doorframe.
The sun had set before Garadolo returned to his room. He strode jauntily down the street, beefy legs rolling in new trews that he had apparently cajoled from the quartermaster. The spring in his step faded visibly when he saw Rani sitting on the doorstep. “Still here, are you?” he grunted.
“Of course. Where’s Bardo?”
“Where’s Bardo?” he mimicked, pushing her into the room. “Don’t be saying his name aloud in the streets! What do you want
, for the entire quarter to know the mark I bear?” There was honest fear behind his words, a cowardice that fed Rani’s disappointment. “What in the name of Cot! What have you done with my room?”
“I cleaned it.” Rani resisted the urge to add an epithet to her simple declaration. “You told me you’d bring Bardo to me. You lied!”
“I didn’t lie, little tiger.” Garadolo looked around as if in shock, seeming scarcely to recognize the neat bed roll against one wall, the shimmer of glass behind dust-free shutters. Stroking his greasy beard, he turned to her with a leer he doubtless intended to be soothing. “I tried to find him, honest I did. It’s not easy for one as low in the Brotherhood ranks as I. I tried to see my commander, to send a message up the ladder. Your Bardo has himself better protected than a spider in his web.”
“Fine,” Rani seethed, nearly yelping as Garadolo left streaky fingermarks on the clean window. “I’ll find him myself, then. I thought one of Shanoranvilli’s own soldiers could get things done, but I clearly was mistaken.”
“Those words are creeping close to treason, little one. Don’t be dragging the king’s name through your own muck.”
“My -” Rani started, anger crystallizing to push her fingers toward her Zarithian knife.
“And don’t think you can pull a knife on one of the King’s Guard.” As if to underscore his meaning, Garadolo set one hammy fist on his own much longer dagger.
“If you won’t -”
“There’s no ‘won’t’ about it. I could not, not today. The whole City was crazed, with heralds standing on every street corner, crying out the search for that cursed Ranita Gl- that cursed guild-girl. Tuvashanoran’s pyre was lit at noon, you know.” Rani had not known, although she should have remembered. Her thoughts flashed to the ladanum she had worked among the winding sheets, to the shroud she had prepared. Garadolo harrumphed as Rani slunk away from him; she could not tell if he knew her true role in the prince’s death. When she merely stared at him sullenly for a long minute, he swore and repeated, “I tell you, I could not! I’ve sent a message, and tomorrow I should receive a response. Of course, I’ll need to pay the messenger.…” He trailed off meaningfully, twisting his fingers in the air.
Glasswrights' Apprentice Page 17