“You did not know, Mair. I told no one. I could not think, I could not stop to ask for help. I could not figure any other way, and I thought that it would all work out. I thought that all would be well.”
Mair pulled herself to her feet. She stared down, a look of disgust twisting her lips into the ugliest sneer that Rani had ever seen. “You thought wrong. You, Ranita Glasswright. You, Rani Trader. You used your guild-knowledge and your merchant-ken, but you thought wrong. A little of the Touched, and you might have been saved. A little turning to your troop, and we all might have come through this. Alive.”
Mair took one step forward, the spiderguild knife flashing in her hand. Rani bit back a cry, but Mair only laughed, a bitter sound as chill as the fog that had begun to breathe from the earth. She stooped down, and Rani had to blink to identify the object that she held. The silk square, of course. The remnant of Lar.
The Touched woman held the cloth against her wrist, pressing it hard as she worked to stop the bleeding. Without lifting the fabric, she turned on her heel and started to walk away, into the forest, away from the path.
“Mair! Wait!” But Mair continued walking. “It isn’t safe! You should not be alone in the woods!” The Touched woman’s skirts melted into the shadows of the trees. “Mair, come back! Mair, please!”
But no amount of calling made the grieving mother return.
Chapter 8
Hal watched from the shadows as Tovin Player came forward on the stage. Hal and Tovin had debated long into the previous night about which play the troop should present. Hal had argued for one of the tragedies, a dark tale of secret mystery, of ominous instruction that would serve as a reminder of all the obligations of the crown.
Tovin, though, had said that he should present a comedy, a froth of amusement and humor. He had argued that such a production would lighten Hamid’s mood, make the Sarmonian monarch receptive to demands that would be difficult for him to meet, even under the best of circumstances.
At last, Hal had given in, stifling a yawn against the back of his teeth. What difference did the players make, in any case? What were the chances that Hamid would pay them any mind, no matter how telling the production proved to be, no matter how crafty the players?
Hal had to admit that if the tables had been turned, he would not be inclined to help out another royal. Not one who had been driven into exile by two enemy armies. Not one who had hidden in his forest under false pretenses. Not one who had lied before his very court.
Lied to the king. Long to take wing. What will fate bring?
Hal grimaced at the dark rhymes in his head, and thrust a quick glance at Puladarati, hoping that the duke had not noticed his momentary distraction. Fortunately, the nobleman was focused on Tovin, fixed on the player’s sing-song proclamation: “We hope you liked our ballads; we hope you liked our show. We’ll please you well the next time; for now our troop must go.”
The player swept his cape behind him as he bowed, the flourish nearly as thrilling as the play had been amusing. As he stepped back into the shadows, three machines rolled onto the stage. Earlier in the evening, Hal had watched the players consulting with Davin. The ancient engineer had been instrumental in pushing the troop to use his toys, to experiment with their possibilities.
Each engine rolled forward on a nest of interlocking gears, rounds and pegs that Davin had fashioned from deadwood in the forest. A shield set atop each creation, sheltering the workings and disguising the motive power–a crankshaft that had been wound tightly by teams of players just off the stage.
The watching Sarmonian nobles fell silent as the engines crept forward, their wooden parts rattling in the hall. As one, the shields slid back, revealing carved pegs striped with bright colors. Hal heard a few exclamations, a number of whispered questions, and then each crankshaft finished its unwinding. The machines stopped, frozen on the edge of the stage.
Hal glanced at Davin, saw the old man’s lips moving inside his long, grey beard. One. Two. Three.
And then the machines sprang to attention. The ribbon-wrapped pegs flew from their horizontal position to an upright stance, and the energy carried lengths of silk forward, streaming across the audience. The nobles cried out with surprise, and then they laughed as soft silk billowed to the floor–brilliant lengths of cobalt and crimson and topaz. The audience erupted into applause, stamping their feet against the floor and roaring their pleasure.
Hal did not think that the trick had been as good as all that, but it was more memorable than the play. Thinking back, he could not recall a single word of the performance. There had been a shepherd boy and a dog–Hal remembered that much. The sun had been a character as well, and a maiden, and a fat, pompous mayor from a silly mountain village.
The Morenians lent their applause as well, but without the Sarmonian enthusiasm. There were too many worried watchers, too many northerners who knew precisely what was to follow the production. Puladarati surveyed the assembly of Sarmonians, nodding occasionally as he counted out worthy allies. Farso was less obvious in his calculation, but he remained tense by Hal’s side.
Only Rani seemed to measure out the crowd’s approval for its own reward, noting who stooped to gather up the silk banners, who edged forward to view Davin’s wondrous machines. Perhaps she was counting her potential wealth from sponsoring such fine players. Her merchant mind must function even here, even now, when the moment of confrontation drew near.
Had Tovin chosen his play well? Or might Hamid see himself mocked as the fat mayor? Might he take exception to the depiction of political might?
Political might. Traditional right. Soldierly fight.
No! Hal must focus. His mind must not wander. Too much depended on what was said next, on the alliances that he might forge on the heels of the players’ tale. His ears buzzed as if he had consumed a deep draught of Mareka’s spider nectar, but he managed to force his rhyming schemes into a small corner of his mind. He made himself turn a mental key, locking away the distraction of despair.
Silence. He was ready, then. He was prepared.
On the stage, Tovin had sunk to one knee and bowed his head to Hamid in unaccustomed humility. “Your Majesty,” he said, “If our piece pleased you, I would beg a boon.”
“A boon?” Hamid pounced on the request like an eagle snatching a fish from a mountain lake. “Beyond the right to settle in my forest, you mean? Beyond the right to make your camp in the middle of my Great Clearing?”
For all the anxiety Tovin showed, he might have been cajoling his mother for an extra portion of pie. Hal envied the man. The player grinned and shrugged. “Aye, Your Majesty. Those gifts have served us well, of course, and we have been honored to return your hospitality upon this stage tonight. There is more, though, that I would ask.”
Hamid’s nobles looked to their king expectantly, clearly curious as to how he would handle such an unaccustomed request. After all, what reason did Hamid have to cater to the players? The traveling troop was not likely to curry him favor with his electors.
As if to protect their own rights, several noblemen edged forward, taking up bellicose stances. Hal watched three of the nearest electors expand their chests with pride, forcing attention to the symbols blazoned there, to the scrolls of parchment and plumed pens. These were the men who had made King Hamid, they seemed to say, and they could unmake him if he showed undue favor to an outsider.
Tovin appeared oblivious to Sarmonian politics. “Come now, Your Majesty!” he gestured toward the stage. “The lesson of our little play was clear! The shepherd was asked for three things, and his riches grew each time he gave of himself.”
“Your piece was meant to prepare me, then? You will request three favors?” Hamid’s tone was dry, and he clearly hoped to shrug off the player’s request.
“Nay, Your Majesty.” Tovin laughed infectiously, letting his copper curls catch the torchlight. “A king is mightier than all the shepherds in the world. One favor from a king is worth infinitely more than any th
ree from a shepherd.”
“One.” Hamid set the word between them with the wariness of a forest beast expecting a trap.
“Aye. And this is something easily within your ability to grant, Your Majesty. Perhaps by the granting you will grow, like the shepherd in our play. You will grow, and I will grow, and then I can beg more indulgence in the future.”
The assembled nobles, even the electors, waited for Hamid to smile before they laughed at Tovin’s impertinence. As if he had been outwitted, the king waved one bejeweled hand. “You’ll keep at me, if I do not give in. I learned that much when you asked for rights to the Clearing, and again when you insisted that your sponsor be permitted to join you. Go ahead, Tovin Player. Ask your favor.”
Tovin took a single step forward, and his eyes grew sharp. Suddenly, Hal wondered if he could trust the man. Might Tovin turn against him? Might Tovin actually work for the Fellowship, work against Hal and Morenia, and all that hung in the balance?
Then, the dangerous moment was past. The player gestured expansively, directing Hamid’s attention to Hal’s dark corner. “All I ask is this, Your Majesty. Speak with my friend. He has some questions to ask of you.”
“Questions?” Hamid peered into the shadows, apparently taken aback by the request. “He can wait until I hold court in a fortnight.”
“His questions are more urgent than that, Your Majesty. He needs you now.” With a player’s touch, Tovin placed a low rumble of import behind his words. “This only do I ask, Your Majesty. Speak with my friend, and then my players will be at your command–to play for you or leave your court, whatever you desire.”
Hamid measured Tovin carefully, his narrow eyes ignoring his nobles, ignoring their questioning looks. “Very well, Player,” he said at last. “Whatever I command.”
Tovin bowed deeply. “You are most generous, Your Majesty.”
Hal caught the pointed glance that Tovin cast his way, the certain proclamation that debts were changing hands upon the players’ stage. Hal nodded once, accepting the new bargain. Yes. He would pay Tovin later, pay with coin, if he could devise nothing else that the player wanted from him. With coin, that was, if this gambit was successful, if he managed to find his way back to Morenia, and his throne, and his treasury. Otherwise, all debts would be cleared with Hal’s annihilation.
Tovin’s arm swept toward the shadows, toward Hal. “Then I present my friend to you, Your Majesty.”
Hal made sure that he had removed his hand from the pouch at his belt before all eyes turned in his direction. It would not do for the Sarmonians to assume he fumbled for some weapon. He emphasized his innocence by shrugging, by turning his palms outward and displaying their pale flesh like a treaty flag upon a battlefield. He forced himself to stand straight, to throw his shoulders back.
And then he stepped toward Hamid and bowed the short courteous salute from one man to an equal. “King Hamid,” he said, carefully avoiding any superlative title, even as Puladarati and Farso flowed into place behind him like an honor escort.
Hal raised his eyes in time to see anger flit across the Sarmonian’s face. From the southern king’s perspective, he had just been tendered a grave insult. He was slighted, embarrassed in front of all his court. Hal did not have long to clarify his stance, did not have many heartbeats to explain what was happening.
“We are honored by your welcoming us into your court, brother.” Hal made the words hearty, boisterous, as if he had just returned to the Sarmonian hall after a good day’s hunting.
Hamid cast a quick glance toward one of his retainers, the court herald who stood against the wall. The man resorted to shrugging. He clearly did not recognize Hal’s face or the guise of his companions. “We?” Hamid said before the pause became embarrassing. His voice was dry, skeptical.
“We hope that you will not think ill of our loyal retainer Tovin,” Hal soldiered on, brushing a hand to bring the player into the circle of his power, even as he attempted to absolve his vassal. “The player acted solely at our command.”
“Command? What power do you think to hold in my court?”
“The power of embassy, I hope,” Hal said, and he thrust his hands forward, turning his wrist so that the large signet on his finger caught the light: J for Jair, for the ancestor of his house.
The herald recognized the symbol. The old man eased to his king’s side, leaned close to whisper in Hamid’s ear. Hal waited, feeling tension expand in the crowd behind him. Whispers started to roll; sharp eyes penetrated between his shoulder blades.
“Halaravilli ben-Jair,” Hamid said, and the name sounded almost like a curse. “You come to my hall, Morenia, when half the known kingdoms search for you.”
“More than half, I suspect,” Hal said, forcing a grim smile across his lips. “Certainly my own land, and my enemies of Liantine and Brianta.”
“And your retainers in Amanthia as well, no doubt,” Hamid said, for the herald had whispered more information. “Duke Puladarati. Baron Farsobalinti.” Hamid nodded greeting, clearly measuring, calculating. “We should be honored that you chose Sarmonia for your sojourn, Halaravilli ben-Jair. We trust that you found our Great Clearing to your liking?”
“It met our needs,” Hal said smoothly. He could see Hamid’s anger; the king resented being pulled into the politics of surrounding kingdoms. “Those needs were great, my lord, and our mission secret.”
Hal forced himself to keep his attention on Hamid. There was no time to wonder who among the Fellowship was watching. He must not speculate on who might have slipped from the hall already, who might be carrying messages to Dartulamino or Crestman, or any of the Fellowship’s other hidden forces.
First God Ait started at the beginning, Hal reminded himself, taking cold comfort in the familiar nursery saying. “We would speak with you, my lord,” he said. “With more privacy than this hall can provide.”
Hamid eyed him steadily, weighing the request as if it might cost him his life. “You’ve lied to us once already,” he said at last. “We’ll not meet with you alone. We’ll bring our men.” He pointed rapidly toward three of his retainers, electors who stiffened to prompt attention.
“And, with your kind permission, we will bring ours.”
Hamid weighed the request, obviously balancing Hal’s appearance of respect with the need to continue commanding the situation. “Not that one,” he said, pointing toward Tovin. If the player were offended, he gave no sign. Hal merely added to his mental tally; the player would surely demand additional payment for the insult. Fine.
“Not Tovin Player,” Hal agreed. “Duke Puladarati, if it please my lord. And Baron Farsobalinti. And Rani Trader.”
“Who is this Trader?”
“You met her as Varna Tinker. She is a loyal retainer of mine, so true that she risked all to disguise her name before you.” Hal gestured toward Rani who completed a perfect bow, well-practiced from her years of service in his court. Hamid measured out the obeisance, and then his eyes pinned Tovin once more. It was the player who had hidden Rani’s name, who had purposely misled Sarmonia. The lie would cost Hal still more gold coins. It had seemed a better bargain at the time.
At least Hamid shrugged his acceptance. “Let us retire to my study,” he said, and a page led the way from the Great Hall, apparently oblivious to the hum of curious courtiers behind them.
As they made their way through the long corridors, Hal wondered again what he might say to convince Hamid to form an alliance with him. After all, Morenia could not offer wealth or prestige or meaningful alliances, not at present.
No path, his feet scratched out against the stone floor. No path. King’s wrath. Blood–
No! He would not yield to the voices. He would not give in to their hopeless suggestions. This was what Hal had bargained for. This was why he had traded his safety and his security, the anonymity that had sheltered himself, his men, his wife. His son.… He was risking all so that he could end his charade, so that he could return to the sort of life that he and
his family and his devoted followers deserved.
When they arrived at one particularly well-carved portal, Rani stepped up to his side, almost as if she intended to enter before him. The movement was awkward, but she succeeded in capturing his attention. “I will speak,” she said, the words so soft that he might almost have imagined them.
Was he a coward, then, to hide behind a retainer?
No, he made himself answer in the silence of his mind. Not a coward. Rather, he was a shrewd general, mustering his forces. He relied on a loyal soldier, a warrior who had a specific skill destined to win the day. Rani Trader’s negotiations were her strength, her very identity. They formed the core of her being, for all that she had masqueraded through other lives within Morenia and without.
Hamid stalked across his study, drawing up near a carved wooden desk. From the far side of the room, Hal could make out a tangle of writing implements–scrolls, quills, ink, and sand. A gnarled knot of wax rocked as Hamid set his hands upon the desk. The Sarmonian king cleared his throat peremptorily, and Hal’s attention was drawn to the men that came to flank their king.
The electors’ own symbolic scrolls and quills were embroidered on their chests. Fleetingly, Hal thought that the men looked like prison guards, that they seemed to corral Hamid and subdue him.
Was Hal any less controlled by his own retainers, though? Puladarati stepped closer, his three-fingered hand smoothing his forest leathers as if he’d been born to the disguise. Farso shifted from foot to foot, a sheen of perspiration brightening his features as he measured out the room, no doubt calculating approaches and escapes. Like Hamid, Hal had a past with his lords; they bound him to certain futures.
And yet Hal was permitted to make his own decisions. Even if every member of his council disagreed, Hal held his throne by the divine choice of First God Ait and by all the Thousand. Hal ruled because First Pilgrim Jair had ruled; he could not be voted from his throne. Strange Sarmonia, where Hamid was bound directly to his electors, bound to please them and all their landed men! How could any king rule for longer than a season when he must answer to so many?
Glasswrights' Master Page 15