Glasswrights' Master

by Mindy L. Klasky

  Zama held his gaze for so long that he thought he would collapse. Then, when he believed that he truly could not draw another breath, that he could not listen to another hammered heartbeat, she spoke. “We will investigate your claims. Those of us with access will return to your Fellowship. We will see what they intend, and we will monitor our sister. We will watch Kella and see that she minds her handsel, that she keeps her promise to the Sisters.”

  “But–”

  “Enough. You are not fit for further talk tonight. Tori?” A young woman stepped forward, brushing mousy brown hair from her eyes. “Take these two abovestairs. Place them in the front room, and leave them bread and water. We’ll continue with our meeting and work out details of what must be done.”

  Hal started to protest, to demand that he hear the rest of the discussion. Even as he shook his head, though, a wave of fatigue crashed over him. Rani was suddenly a dead weight at his side, a burden rather than any sort of aid. The pounding behind his eyes expanded into a midnight cloud, and only the deepest of breaths kept him from collapsing in the middle of the tavern. “Go with Tori,” Zama said. “We’ll speak in the morning. All will be well, never fear.”

  Never fear, Hal thought, as his leaden feet found the stairs. Tori bolstered him with one hand, even as she turned to assist Rani.

  Never fear. Shed a tear. Lose all dear.

  There, he thought. At least the voices were back to normal. He fell asleep on a thyme-scented pallet with grim rhymes circling through his nightmares, wondering if he had gained anything at all by coming to the Sisters.

  Chapter 10

  “What do you want me to do?” Rani asked Tovin. “Should I throw myself at your feet and thank you for your everlasting kindness?”

  The player shook his head. “Ranita, I’m not being unreasonable. I merely suggested that you should not spend too much time with Kella. Not alone. She’s not reliable, that one.”

  “What? Her black willow is not always brewed to perfection?”

  “I’ve told you,” Tovin said, keeping his tone even. “Black willow was a joke between us. She only mentioned it to you to disturb me.”

  “Not likely,” Rani muttered, resisting the urge to scratch at the scabs on her arms. None of the herb witches was to be trusted. Her flesh was finally beginning to heal from her encounter with the Sisters. Even now, two weeks after she had been bespelled on the Blue Rose’s rush-covered floor, she wondered what exactly had happened that night, what had driven her to hurt herself.

  She blinked hard, remembering the circle of benches. She had met Hal’s eyes across the room, agreed that they should both drink the coven’s draught. After all, she had reasoned, each of the other women was downing the stuff without hesitation.

  The sounds had begun almost immediately–the whispers of the gods around her. That noise was followed by flashes of light and by ghosts of sensation across her skin. She had swallowed hard and tasted a myriad of flavors on the back of her tongue, and when she’d opened her mouth to speak, her nose was filled with scents–pleasant and unpleasant, strong and mild.

  The Thousand Gods had surrounded her. They had filled each of her senses, threatened to overwhelm her. They had made her body heavy with their presence, and Rani had scarcely been able to lift her arms, to raise her head, to look out at the Sisters.

  And then Zama had invoked Yor, the god of healing. Yor, whose wizened face and gnarled fingers were symbolized in Rani’s mind with the stinging touch of a nettle.

  Rani had met him once before. She had felt the mild irritation of his touch. In fact, she had wondered if that god’s presence was tied to his function; Rani’s own mother had sung the praises of brushing nettles across flesh to draw out fever.

  Whatever comfort Yor might have brought with his prickles, though, was outweighed by the sheer force of the god’s presence in Rani’s mind. Aided by the Sisters’ drink, Yor was so strong, so powerful.… Even now, in the safety of the Great Clearing, Rani could remember how her flesh had burned. She had truly thought that she was dying, that she was being flayed upon the tavern floor. The pain was so precise, so overwhelming.… She would have done anything to stop it. She had tried to do anything, to strip off her skin, to beat herself into unconsciousness, anything at all to free herself from Yor and from all the other gods whispering about her thoughts.

  “There!” Tovin exclaimed. “You’ve done it again. Where do you go when you leave me? Where are your thoughts?”

  “My thoughts are right here,” she said wearily, knowing that she could never explain the hold that the Thousand had taken over her. “My thoughts are with you, Tovin.”

  “Easy to say. I see no proof in your actions, though.”

  His petulance reminded her of all the reasons they had parted, of all the reasons that he had traveled to Sarmonia in the first place. “What do you want from me?” Her anger burned so hot that it frightened her. “You were the one who left me! Have you forgotten that? Have you forgotten that you left me all alone in Moren?”

  “I forget nothing, honored sponsor.” His sarcasm dripped heavily. “I am merely a humble player who watches over the woman who supports his troop.”

  “You haven’t been humble a day in your life. And that’s not fair, Tovin. You were the one who insisted on my sponsorship. Whatever passed between us, I never harmed your players. I never stood between them and a commission.”

  She saw him weigh his response, and she wondered which lines he was considering. He had thousands at his disposal, short couplets that captured the perfect invective, solemn quatrains that left her feeling ignorant and ashamed. He had not been like this when they shared apartments in Moren. Then, he had often been Tovin the man, not always Tovin the player. He had spoken to her directly, without the constant burden of hurt and anger. When had they stepped onto this endless, angry road? And where was the path to lead her away to a new and peaceful place?

  But no, this time he did not quote a player’s piece for her. Instead, he shook his head, and she could imagine the glint of tears in his copper eyes. “Why do we do this, Ranita Glasswright? Why do we fight this way?”

  “I’m not fighting,” she said immediately, but she heard the very lie in her tone. She sighed. “I’m sorry, Tovin. I’ll sponsor your troop, now and forever, as much as I can. But that still won’t make me the woman you want me to be.” She turned to leave the tent.

  “You’re going to Kella, then.”

  “Yes. We misjudged the Sisters. They have not come to Kella, have not pressured her about the Fellowship. There has been no sign of them since we left Riadelle. I have no choice but to work with Kella, convince her to bring me directly to Crestman and the others.”

  “Ranita–”

  She turned back at the urgency in his voice, moved quickly enough to see the conflict spread out across his features. “Yes?”

  He paused for a long moment, and then he said, “Nothing.” She waited for him to change his mind, but he only shook his head and repeated, “Nothing.”

  As she walked along the forest path, she wondered what he had been about to say. What would he tell her about the herb witch? What had he observed, in the long months before she and Hal had arrived in the forest? Tovin had an unerring sense of power; he would have gravitated toward Kella if he thought that she could serve him. After all, that was what the player had done to her, to Rani. He had come to her because he sensed her power, her strength, the riches that she held as one of Hal’s favored retainers.

  A whisper at the back of her mind told her that she was being unfair, that Tovin had stayed with her for more than her influence in Morenia. She set the nagging voice aside, turning her energy to watching the forest.

  Hal would have her whipped if he knew that she was walking the pathways alone. He feared that Crestman was waiting behind every tree, that Dartulamino lurked at every forked path.

  Rani had seen other patterns, though. The Fellowship would not waste time skulking in the forest. Since they had not struc
k in the first few days after Hal had been revealed, they were clearly gathering strength for their last great offensive. They were preparing to wipe out Hal and his line once and for all. They would not be content with dispatching him, alone, beneath the trees. They wanted total victory–complete and unalloyed–Hal, his wife, his heir. They wanted total warfare. Rani was safe. For a while.

  There was another who might be hiding in the forest, though. Mair.

  Rani had not seen her friend since their encounter in the glade, since Rani had confessed to her role in Laranifarso’s death. The guards about the camp reported nothing, no sign of the Touched woman. Rani was surprised; she could not believe that Mair would abandon her entirely, not after all their years together, not after all the battles they had fought. Nevertheless, she felt a thrill of fear as she imagined Mair watching over her at night. Surely the Touched woman would not harm her as she slept. Mair would not seek direct revenge for Lar’s death.

  And yet, Rani had to admit that she could not be completely certain. She did not know the woman that Mair had become, the madwoman, the crazed mother. And so, with every step down the path, Rani tried to convince herself that she could see her friend, stepping from the shadows into the light, ready to leave off lurking in the forest, ready to rejoin the civilized world.

  But Mair was nowhere to be found.

  Arriving at Kella’s clearing, Rani felt relief. She emerged from the gloom of the forest canopy and turned her face toward a brilliant noon sun. The cottage sparkled in the light. Its thatched roof looked comfortable and hearty, like an overstuffed pallet. The mullioned windows glinted, as if they concealed some amusing tale. A pathway led to the door, each round stone brushed clean of dirt. Along the way, herbs perfumed the air, their heads grown heavy with flowers of late summer. Lavender and rosemary baked in the sun.

  Rani stopped short and filled her lungs, letting the beauty soothe her. She only moved to the door when a crow’s murderous screech cut through the cheery sunlight.

  Still, she hesitated on the threshold. What if Kella had learned that she was sought by the Sisters? What if the coven had come to her, secretly, without sharing their actions with the Morenian camp? What if, even now, Kella knew that the Morenians intended to use her, knew that they meant to reach the Fellowship through her?

  Nonsense. The Sisters had been outraged by Kella’s behavior. Rani and Hal had compared their memories after their strange night in the Blue Rose. While their drugged perceptions had been completely different, they had both known that the herb witches were furious with Kella, enraged that one of their own would threaten a handsel.

  A handsel. One bound by contract. Rani’s merchant heart understood that bond, understood the outrage that an herb witch might harm a customer after swearing otherwise. Wondering again why the Sisters had stayed their hand, Rani knocked on Kella’s door.

  Silence.

  She rapped again, surprised at how hard the wood was beneath her knuckles. There was a curious rustle inside the cottage, and then nothing else. Rani waited several breaths, and then she knocked a third time. Before her hand fell back to her side, the door was flung open. “What?” Kella demanded bluntly.

  Rani leaped into her masquerade, determined not to let the witch gain the upper hand from the beginning. “Do you remember me? I’m Rani Trader. I came here when you were helping Father Siritalanu.”

  “I remember you.” The herb witch squinted in suspicion, edging forward half a step as if she wanted to keep Rani from looking into her cottage. Rani thought she glimpsed a quick emotion beneath the suspicion. Fear? Guilt? Something quick and furtive, anyway.

  “I’ve come to learn from you,” Rani said, as if demanding instruction from herb witches was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m here for you to teach me all your herb lore.”

  At first, Rani thought that the old woman would laugh out loud. The witch’s surprise was quickly replaced by a closed expression, though, a grim tightness about her lips. Her fingers clenched on the edge of her door, and she cast a furtive glance toward the woods.

  Who did she look for? Did the Fellowship watch them even now?

  Before Rani could reconsider her rash plan, Kella seemed to remember something, or at least she appeared to settle on some decision. She took a step back and turned her head to one side, looking for all the world like a crow studying a shiny treasure. “And why should I teach you?”

  “Because I’ll pay you.” Rani jangled the purse at her waist.

  Rani feared that Kella would refuse. Caution twitched across the witch’s face, as if she were a coney scenting danger on the wind. The witch must not back away. She must not retreat into her cottage. Rani must get inside, must get Kella talking. Rani must negotiate the bargain of a lifetime, learn about the Fellowship, about Kella’s contacts. The witch was the last bridge to Crestman and the others, and Rani would do whatever was necessary to gain the knowledge she required.

  “What will you pay me?” Kella asked at last, and Rani almost smiled. She recognized the tone of a bargain begun, a negotiation that would have a mutually satisfying conclusion.

  “One copper penny for every herb you explain to me.”

  “Twenty. Every herb is its own reward.”

  “Seven. With a silver Flower to teach me techniques for drying, and grinding, and the other work you do.”

  “Fifteen for each herb. And a silver for every skill, separately.”

  Rani shook her head. “Do you think that I’m the queen of all Morenia?” She peered at the herb witch as she made her protest, saw the faint smile that curved the women’s lips. No. Kella had learned the identity of Morenia’s queen. Kella knew Mareka’s power, her prestige. The knowledge was perfectly clear on her face.

  “Queen or no, I must support myself.” Kella shrugged. “I’m an old woman, and all alone. Winter comes soon, and I must buy a new blanket against the cold.”

  “Ten coppers for every herb, then. And three Flowers for all the skills combined.”

  Kella studied Rani’s face, then let her eyes dart to the leather pouch at the glasswright’s waist. “The silver paid now.”

  “The silver paid now,” Rani agreed, and out of habit, she half-turned away as she dug in her pouch. She let the coins clank against each other, though, not minding if she sparked more greed in the witch. Let Kella have incentive to teach her. Let the old woman fight to keep Rani in the cottage, talking, listening, learning more.

  The three Flowers glinted in the afternoon sunlight for only a heartbeat before the herb witch stored them away, deep in the pocket of her apron. “Come along, then. I was grinding up alton bark. You might as well learn about that.”

  Rani took a deep breath before she entered the cottage. It was dark inside. There was a pallet in the corner, stretched so that it took advantage of heat emanating from the hearth. Rani’s nose twitched; herbs scented the air like heavy fog. “Lavender?” she asked, speculating on the first that she could identify.

  “Ten coppers.”

  Rani grimaced, but she counted out the coins. Kella nodded over each one, studying the edge of the last piece closely, as if she suspected Rani of shaving off a bit for her own advantage. When she had the coins safely in own apron pocket, Kella shrugged and said, “Lavender. It smells nice.”

  Rani’s anger was immediate. She wanted to snatch back her coins, to rip them from the selfish old woman’s pocket. Instead, she reminded herself to think of the coppers as an investment, as a payment made toward future knowledge. She would remember Kella’s craftiness, though. She would apply the lessons learned here for all her days to come.

  “Very well, goodwife.” She chose the Amanthian title of respect. Kella reminded her of another old woman she had met, years ago in the soldiers’ camps of the north. Rani did not have time to concentrate on the past, though. Not with so many problems in the present. “Very well,” she repeated. “Show me the alton bark.”

  Kella held out her hands for more coins, and Rani bit back angry
words. She settled for a more tradesman-like, “Let us run an account. Here.” She dug in her leather pouch, pulled out a handful of coins. “You can see that I am good for my debt. Let us keep a tally. Those sticks of kindling. Set one on the edge of the table. It will count for the bark.”

  She thought that Kella would protest, that she would demand money across her palm before she would share anything with Rani. In the end, though, the old woman only nodded, her eyes narrow. Certainly she was plotting her lessons, planning all that she could milk from this willing customer.

  “Alton bark,” she said at last. “I scrape it from the sapling trees at sunrise on the first morning after the moon is full. It comes off in sheets, flexible, like parchment.”

  “And if you do it any other time?” Rani asked the question without thinking. Her main purpose might be to reach the Fellowship, but she could not let herself miss the opportunity to gain a bit of herb lore. There was no telling when she might need it in another trade.

  “Then the bark’s power is lost.” Kella’s words were short, as if the question were offensive. “Listen to me, girl. All the things I do, I do for a reason. It would be easiest for me to stroll through the forest, gathering flowers and roots as the fancy takes me. That would never work, though. That would never seal the power. There are rules for all these things. If you think you’ll learn my herb craft, you’ll listen to the details.”

  Rani let the old woman’s rant wash over her. She had suffered through enough angry instructors to last a lifetime. First, her mother, intent on teaching her how best to display trade goods in the family’s tidy shop. Then, the glasswright masters, who had shown her the basics of her craft. Mair, who had taught her the ways of the Touched; Shea, who had guided her through life as a child soldier.… Even Berylina, who had modeled her lessons with grace and patience, teaching Rani how to walk among the Thousand Gods.

  Without thinking, Rani brushed her fingertips against the scabs on her arms. Yor. As she expected, she felt the prickle of nettles. This touch was a gentle reminder, though, not the overwhelming pain that she had felt in Riadelle. She looked up to see Kella eyeing her strangely. “All right,” Rani said. “I’ll listen to the details.”