Glasswrights' Master

by Mindy L. Klasky

  Hamid bristled. “You know nothing of how we do things, here in Sarmonia. And even if your worst accusations were true, even if every one of my electors were corrupt, my land is stable. We could never fall to some lawless cabal. We could never be controlled by your Fellowship.”

  “You already are.” Hal gripped Hamid’s arm, closed his fingers around the satin and velvet until he felt the hard muscle beneath. “A fortnight ago, I watched the Fellowship gather in your forest. I watched three riders come down the path from Riadelle. Three riders with the badge of electors on their chests. You have lost your throne as surely as have Brianta and Liantine. As surely as I will now if you do not help me.”

  Hamid tugged his arm away, swearing harshly. “There is a balance in my land! We Sarmonians are enlightened. We share power among our people, among all the landed men. I would not expect you to understand how the system works. I would not expect you to comprehend what a kingdom can be when wise men wear the crown.”

  Wise men, Hamid meant, instead of some blood-bound son. Hal pulled himself to his full height, not hesitating to take advantage of Hamid’s slight build. Consciously setting aside all the voices, all the whispers, Hal said: “I know you think your system is better. I know you think your elections are fair and your methods just. Nevertheless, the Fellowship moves against you. It’s stolen your electors, and the rest of your kingdom is next.”

  Hamid shook his head. “For your Fellowship to steal my throne, it must corrupt a majority of the electors. The only way to manipulate electors is to manipulate all landed men. No secret society could be that strong.”

  “They need not build the system from the ground. They only need to grab you now. Grab you now, and change the rules.” Hamid started to protest, but Hal overrode him. “Do you have a queen, my lord?” Mareka. Hal felt tears rise hot behind his eyes, let them hover on his lashes, splash down his face. “Do you have a son and heir?” Marekanoran. “Who do you hold dearest in all the world?”

  Hamid brushed Hal’s hand from his sleeve, as if Morenian tears might be contagious. He crossed to the window and studied the cloudless sky, apparently seeking answers there. He stared out over Riadelle, over the surrounding countryside, out to the forest that smudged the horizon. He twisted the golden band around his wrist, the symbol of his marriage.

  Hal pitched his voice low. “Dead, brother. All of them. Dead. The Fellowship can do it. These mourning rags are proof.” He tugged at his own forlorn tunic.

  Hamid’s jaw was set as he finally said, “What would you have me do, ben-Jair?”

  “Raise your army.” Hal rushed through the words before he could lose the foothold. “Take the men that you trust, the ones that are loyal to you directly. Ride with me to Moren, and help me deliver my homeland from our common enemy. Liberate Morenia and crush the Fellowship, and make yourself secure.”

  “The electors would never permit that. Not in autumn. Not when they must return to their own halls and attend to the landed men, to their own local courts.”

  “You must defy your electors, Hamid. If you do not, you will have no kingdom left to rule.”

  “If I defy them, they will cast me from my throne.”

  “Let them try! Even if they choose to replace you, the voting will take time! Time that you can spend strengthening your bonds with your loyal men! Time that you can spend consolidating your own base of power, your own means of support.”

  Hamid glared at him, but his fingers still twisted his golden armband. When he spoke, his words were sharp. “And do we have a single chance against your Fellowship?”

  “All I know is this. We have no chance with them.”

  “So you would drag my wife and heirs into your battles?”

  “I drag no one. All I can promise, Hamid, is that you will lose your family if you do nothing. Maybe not this winter. Maybe not the next. But when the Fellowship rules Sarmonia and has need of your compliance, your family will pay the price.”

  “And if I ride with you? How can I keep them safe while I am gone?”

  Hal swallowed acid sorrow. “Hiding will not work, no matter how secure you think the place. Bring your lady with you, your lady and your heirs. Keep them in your sight, and hope our battle will be fast.”

  Hamid shook his head, and Hal sensed that the man longed for the easy days, for the times when he could look to his electors and know what he should do. “If I stand with you, you can defeat the armies that hold your land?”

  “How many men can you bring?”

  “I cannot be certain. Five score, perhaps, if we send word now. Five score by the time we reach Moren’s gates.”

  An entire kingdom at his disposal, and Hamid could promise no more than one hundred men.

  Something was better than nothing, though. Something was better than the ragtag group that had fled the cathedral with Hal so many weeks before. “Five score can win,” Hal said, marveling inside that he could pretend such confidence. “I know Moren’s defenses. I have the man who designed her ramparts with me here, in Sarmonia.”

  “But so few.…” Hamid seemed to shrink within his magnificent robes.

  “Enough.” Hal nodded, the tang of imagined revenge giving him strength. “Enough to win. For I have everything to gain by fighting, and nothing left to lose.”

  Hamid shook his head again, but he extended his hand. “I will join you then, brother. I will join you in your fight against the Fellowship, Halaravilli ben-Jair.”

  “Against the Fellowship,” Hal echoed. He raised the pounded goblet to his lips and drank, and then he passed it to Hamid. “Against the Fellowship,” he said once more, and then both men turned quickly to the table, and their plans, and their goals to liberate Morenia.

  * * *

  Hal bit back an exasperated sigh as Hamid leaned back in the small boat and squinted into the moonless night. “This cannot work,” Hamid said.

  Hal did not bother to fashion a reply; he had already tired of comforting the man. He had fought down enough of his own questions, banished enough of his own doubts. Even now, he rallied his spirits with a bold–if silent–retort. Could not work! Who was Hamid to say what could and could not work! Had he ever seen Davin’s miracles? Had he ever seen the marvels that the old man could craft?

  Hal tried to remind himself that he must be patient with the Sarmonian. After all, Hamid had broken against all tradition in his southern land. He had fled his own capital, leaving behind his palace, his throne. He had traveled north with only a handful of loyal companions, men who had marched because they were faithful to him and not his electors.

  Hamid had a right to be pessimistic. Whatever the outcome in the north, the electors would be furious that their power had been challenged. Hamid would not rule in Sarmonia again.

  And yet, he had come with Hal. He had brought loyal knights and their vassals. He had left behind comfort and familiarity and certain power to fight with Hal against known evil. It was no wonder that the man questioned their ultimate success.

  Hal could only nod toward Davin, who crouched near them in the boat, huddled next to Tovin Player in the prow. “Are we ready then?”

  “Aye.” The old man was disapproving as ever. Hal had never seen Davin smile, and he certainly did not expect that to change as they crouched in a coracle on a glass-smooth autumn sea, just off the Morenian coast. “Better to do it now. The players’ muscles will cool down, and they’ll become less flexible.”

  “Very well.” Hal gestured to the two soldiers who held oars. The men bowed their heads and stroked forward. Once. Twice. A dozen times.

  The boat glided into a pod of similar craft, a dozen vessels all, bobbing on the glassy water. If the moon had been out, they might have been visible on the ocean, clear to any sailor who looked out from the ships that barricaded the Morenian harbor. In the darkness, though, they were practically invisible.

  Hal looked at the faces in each small craft. They had rowed all the way from shore, launching from a sheltered cove well after sunset a
nd laboring hard to reach this spot outside the Morenian harbor. The players were accustomed to hard work, but the necessity for silence had weighed heavily on them. They were ready for their performance to begin.

  Hal looked to Tovin one last time. “You are certain?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Aye. It is all that we can do.” The player had volunteered his men as soon as Hal and Hamid began to plan their attack. At first, Hal had laughed away the prospect–it was hardly likely that they could defeat their enemies with rhyming comedies, with woeful tragedies, all performed on a well-lit stage.

  But then, Davin had mentioned an old plan that he had sketched in his endless notebooks. He needed strong men for it to work, but men who were short and light. As soon as Tovin heard the plan, he volunteered his players, and the troop leaped into their rapid training with an infectious enthusiasm. Hal had reluctantly conceded that the players had the precise skills that Davin’s desperate ploy demanded, even as he wondered what payment Tovin would demand. Hal was scarcely in a position to haggle, though. He would pay the players, pay them richly, if ever he saw his treasury and his throne.

  Each member of the troop was tested, to be certain that he did not fear the water. Each had been trained, quickly, in the rudiments of swimming, in case Davin’s invention failed. Each had been reminded that he need not volunteer for a mission that might well mean death, that he need not agree to Davin’s outrageous plan.

  And each had proclaimed, in a loud, clear player’s voice that he would undertake the task for his sponsor. Each had agreed to fight in honor of Rani Trader.

  Hal had looked away when he saw the glint of tears in Tovin’s eyes. Hal had never understood the player, but he had no problem comprehending loss. Loss and aching sorrow. Perhaps the player would not demand gold after all. Perhaps love had extracted its own toll.

  Now, as Hal’s boat bobbed on the ocean surface, he heard Mareka’s voice, whispering in the deepest part of his brain. “There is no sorrow here, my lord. No sorrow beyond the Heavenly Gates. You can come with me, you know. Just lean against the edge of the boat. It is not so far. Not so far to the water.…”

  He had heard Mareka for days now, for the fortnight that his men had been marching north. At first, she had come to him in his dreams, her voice soft, comforting, saying that she and Marekanoran felt no pain.

  Then, she had whispered to him as he scraped away the bristles of his beard, telling him that the edge of his blade was sharp. He could come to her with one quick slash, one painless cut. He had cried out, and she had slipped away.

  But not for long.

  He had heard Mareka when he sat beside a well-built fire–she had whispered of the power and the beauty of the flames, reminded him how quickly they could consume a man. He had heard her when the road passed beside a swift-running river. She had spoken to him when they camped under sturdy tree branches, limbs that were strong enough to support a man and a length of clean-knotted rope.

  Each time, he set her aside. Each time, she cried out as if he wounded her, as if he assaulted her with whatever mayhem she was suggesting. Each time, he heard her sobbing, desperate, frightened, alone.

  He was still king. He must not yield to her ghost. He must not yield to death, no matter how strong the attraction.

  He shook his head, looking out at the expectant faces, at the taut players’ bodies in their stretched-leather boats. He hoped that they would think his voice shook because he was trying to keep it quiet in the night. “Men,” he said. “You are the first link in a chain. Tonight, the work that you do will allow us to enter our harbor, to reclaim the port that is rightfully ours. You go forth with a power never seen by man before. May all the Thousand watch over you.”

  Hal leaned back, permitting Hamid to say a few words of his own. He thought that the Sarmonian king might only repeat his negative motto, might remind them all that their scheme could not work. The man was made of sterner stuff, though. He threw back his thin shoulders and said, “Morenians. My Sarmonian soldiers stand with you, ready on the shore. We rise up together, in a battle that will change our lives forever. Our children’s children will speak of our glory for all the years to come.”

  And then both kings leaned back. They allowed Davin to look about the players, to check the hastily crafted handiwork that would support such spirited lives. The old man had bullied the troops on the long march north, grumbling over great bone needles and lengths of leather thread. Davin had shown the players how to cut shapes out of the well-tanned leather that Hamid had produced from his treasury before they left Sarmonia. Davin had shown how to join the edges with a quick whiplash stitch. Children had been set to dripping wax over the seams, to oiling the finished products.

  If Hal had seen Davin’s creations in another context, he would have laughed. Even now, as hefty soldiers manned fragile bellows, he felt wholly inappropriate amusement rising in his throat. The players looked as if they played with toys, as if they bobbled in a summer fountain.

  But this was no game. Lives were at stake. Brave men and women went forth to reclaim the harbor.

  Hal watched as the volunteers strapped on Davin’s leather contraptions, sealing the pods tightly around each foot. Oiled laces were rigged around each player’s calves, laces that fit into holes sewed into leggings. The leather sacks were secured, oiled again, waxed closed.

  And then each player sat in Davin’s specially designed rope harness, dangled over the open sea. Each spun back toward his boat, leaning in the suspended chair so that the soldiers’ bellows could find the small access holes, could pump the leather full of air.

  In the dim night, the pods looked like nightmare feet, like bolsters attached to the players’ legs. The strangeness was only accentuated by the final piece of Davin’s handiwork–matched poles made of the lightest wood, each ending with an inflated bladder.

  Even though Hal had heard the tools described, even though he had learned never to doubt Davin’s creativity, he was amazed when he saw the first man walk across the water. The player’s gait was awkward, and he fumbled with his poles, but he was walking on the ocean like a clumsy man on land.

  “Slide, you fool! Slide!” Davin’s instruction hissed down from Hal’s boat. The player stiffened and seemed as if he would turn about to respond, but then he flexed his knees and kicked off for a longer glide on the water’s surface.

  Under other circumstances, Hal might have laughed. He might have marveled at a mind that had imagined men walking on water–imagined and then made that vision a reality. He might have sighed at the wonder of the poles–tools to help with balance, but weapons in their own right. Weapons that would reveal a poisoned spike, swaddled inside the bladder. Weapons that would be wielded against the Liantines that slept on ships in the harbor. Weapons that would gain back access to the port, even as they sowed confusion.

  You could take one of those poles, Hal heard Mareka say. You could remove the bladder and plunge the spike into your chest. You could lean your full weight against it. It would hurt for a moment, but then you would be safe. You would be here, beyond the Heavenly Gates.

  Hal tossed his head, pushing out Mareka’s suggestion. Another coracle bumped against his, and Hal found himself looking into Farso’s earnest eyes. “Come, Sire.” The baron nodded his head to include Hamid. “My lords, we must go meet the landward army. While we have tarried, they have moved into position outside the city.”

  Army. That was hardly the word for it. One hundred men that Hamid had gathered–every last soul who owed loyalty directly to him, and not to one of the electors. One hundred men who had never seen Moren, who had never walked the city streets that they hoped to conquer before the next nightfall.

  Hal set aside his doubts. One hundred men must be enough. One hundred warriors, relying on Davin’s tricks. One hundred soldiers, well fed and already rested from their march north. If there had been more than five score, they could not have eaten from the tithing barns along the road. If there had been more than five
score, Hal and Hamid might have already lost the war, before the first battle was begun.

  The boat returned to shore without adventure. Along the way, Mareka whispered to him, assuring him that the water would close over his head quickly, that his lungs would only burn for a few minutes as he drowned.

  He thrust away his wife and made himself think about Rani Trader. She had feared the sea. He had watched her face that fear, watched her try to conquer a rebellious stomach besides. She had been a brave woman, braver than he. He tried to convince himself that the moisture he wiped from his face was innocent sea-spray.

  The short march inland was easy enough. The roads were clear, and when the light breeze blew from the north, Hal could make out the sound of the Pilgrims’ Bell, tolling across the hills. It would guide him now, he vowed. He would embrace its solemn tones like the holiest of pilgrims reaching out for the Thousand Gods. For the Gods, for the Heavenly Gates.…

  Hal sighed and pushed away yet another of Mareka’s invitations, this one to grab the short sword from his bodyguard, to plunge the blade into his heart.

  He was tired. More tired than he had ever thought he could be. How had his father lived to be such an old man? How had King Shanoranvilli stirred himself to rise from his bed every morning, no matter what chaos he faced?

  Chaos he faced. Ever he raced. Sometimes he paced. Paced. Paced.

  Hal let the rhyme carry him down the road, ignoring the mutter of the men beside him, forcing down the constant expectation of a cry from some Briantan guard. Surely the invaders had left sentries upon the approach to the city.… Surely they knew that someone would come to oust them.…

  Perhaps they did not, though. Perhaps they believed themselves completely invulnerable–and that thought was even more distressing. If the Briantans believed themselves so secure, who was Hal to challenge them? Perhaps he should call a halt, stop the soldiers, try to save a few lives before the carnage of the battle.