The Glass Maker's Daughter

by V. Briceland

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said flatly, but the siblings looked unmoved. “I insist.”

  “We just can’t take a risk with your life,” Milo explained.

  “Anyone could attempt to kill you on the streets,” added Camilla. “Someone’s already tried twice.”

  “We’ll go after dark, then,” she said. “Like last night.”

  Her remark elicited a sharp bark of laughter from Milo. “No, we won’t.”

  “It really is for your own good,” Camilla added in a consoling tone.

  “It would be for my own good to see Ferrer Cassamagi today,” she said, surprised by the fierceness in her own voice. Anger choked her. A few moments before she had felt guilt for the way she’d treated Milo, but now she wondered if her instincts had been correct. He was a hindrance.

  “We think it would be best to restrict you to the caza,” Camilla said slowly. Milo nodded at her. They had obviously discussed the issue.

  “And if I insist on leaving?”

  “Then we’ve agreed we’ll tell Tolio about last night’s attack,” Camilla said. “He’s wanted to restrict you to the caza grounds since we arrived.”

  “You’ll be reprimanded! You could lose your professions!” She was utterly astounded by the turn of the argument.

  “But you’d be safe,” Milo pointed out. “Keeping you safe is our duty. We could find other jobs eventually.”

  It was impossible to argue with them. “I thought we were friends,” she told Milo. “You can’t make decisions for me behind my back as if I was a child. You’re not my father!”

  Milo took a step toward her, his temper as frayed as hers. “One of these days, when you stop being such a little baby, you’ll realize that your father isn’t the only person in the world who gives a damn what happens to you!” His voice reverberated down the hallway until only a hollow echo lingered in the stairwell. He snapped his mouth shut.

  “I despise you.” At that moment, she meant every word.

  With one hand he pushed his crimson cap back down over his lanky blond curls and looked her straight in the eyes. “Right now, I’m not that fond of you.”

  “Milo!” Camilla dropped any pretense of guard-like detachment. She looked plainly distressed at the shouting. “Risa, please—”

  The door’s slam cut off whatever reconciliation Camilla might have proposed. Seething with fury, Risa paced across the room and finally threw herself onto the bed. Baby! He had called her a baby! He was the stubborn one who had refused to listen to her argument. If they had been on the way to Caza Cassamagi, she might have solved their problems by sundown. She was not the baby!

  A smile warped her lips. Even now, Camilla’s extra guard uniform hung within her wardrobe. A baby could not have devised the plan that was animating her imagination at that moment.

  She would show Milo how clever she could be.

  26

  —

  A shrill cry of woe sounds into the night.

  The city lies quiet in dread.

  And high in the palace, a king in his robes

  Lies quiet and still: He is dead.

  A thunder as hoofbeats pound over the bridge—

  Its echoes sound over the water

  “Oh father, don’t leave me!” resounds a soft cry—

  The cry of the glass maker’s daughter.

  I hate that song,” Risa growled to herself. Its singer was not very accomplished, either. His scratchy voice made her long, for the first time, for Ricard’s. The people within the small taverna, however, shouted out their approval so loudly that panes of glass rattled. They were singing along with the minstrel lustily, banging their mugs on the tables in rhythm, unaware of the siege just outside the taverna’s doors.

  The shadows along the side alley of the taverna afforded her shelter, for the moment. She adjusted the sack over her shoulder, careful not to let it collide with the wall. It contained the most precious object in the world to her—her bowl of blue-green glass whose phenomenon she trusted Ferrer Cassamagi to explain.

  It took only a little effort to peer beyond the building’s corner, toward where the bridge leading to Caza Cassamagi’s main entrance lay bathed in the light of two moons. Silvery light sparkled from the blades of two-score drawn swords.

  It had been so easy, until that point. Risa had spent most of the daylight hours shut away in her rooms, scorning all company. She’d opened the door only to admit a dinner tray and later to emerge to perform the rite. Several times, when she caught him looking at her, she thought Milo might be trying to speak; when he did not, she hardened against him even more.

  A cable of braided retas, knotted with a number of sashes from her gowns, had been all that was necessary to effect her escape after the sun had set. She had waited until all was quiet in the hallway, then had tied the makeshift rope to the sturdy iron grille of her balcony. Ridiculous, really, how easy it had been to lower herself down into one of the gondolas tethered at the servants’ dock.

  Everything had gone precisely as planned. No one saw her flight or questioned her when she punted along the canal route along Cassaforte’s outer rim. It was not until she approached Cassamagi that she encountered any problems. She had planned to mingle among the guards encamped on the bridge, attracting little attention to herself until she could make her way into the residence. There had been a commotion upon her arrival, however, that caused her to scurry into the shadows. Scarcely had she climbed the old stone steps from the canal bank to the Via Torto, the street that led to a warren of homes and shops in this old part of the city, when she heard the clamor of shields and swords rattling against each other. City guards came running from all directions to meet in the center of the bridge, their swords drawn. Risa had made sure of her grip upon the padded sack containing her bowl, and scurried for the shadows by the taverna before any of the guards—the real guards—found her.

  “There’s commotion at the caza,” someone murmured. Risa saw that a handful of people had gathered in the narrow alleyway with her. She hastily clawed her cap from her head and prayed that her uniform would be invisible in the darkness.

  “These are sorry times we live in. Don’t you think?” An old man was questioning a hooded figure next to him. The figure did not reply.

  As she watched, a squadron in two columns poured through the gates from the caza, their march steady and swift as they kept pace with a vehicle between them. Some of the guards gathered on the bridge fell into the lead, while others waited until the procession had passed and took up the rear. As the assembly crossed the bridge, Risa could see that they were surrounding a carriage—the very copper-colored carriage in which she had conducted her interview with Ferrer Cassamagi two days before. Was Ferrer inside? Where in the world could they all be going, so late at night?

  Instinctively she drew back as the regiment spilled from the bridge onto the Via Torto, turning westward and heading past her. The four or five others who observed the spectacle with her waited until the carriage and the last of the guards had passed, before stepping out into the moonlit street. As the noise faded, all save the hooded figure disappeared.

  Questions battered Risa, as hopelessly as moths battered the lamp-bright windows above her. She stepped out into the street to catch a glimpse of the retreating forms. Should she follow the carriage? Had it contained the Cazarro? Or was he still within the caza itself?

  “Rather late for you to be out, is it not?” She was startled to hear a voice address her; it was instantly familiar, yet she could not immediately identify it in her confusion. Oily and syrupy it was, and oozing with a sweetness that was as foul as the scent of cloves and pine oil and tobacco leaves that accompanied it. “Why are you so far from home … cousin?”

  The realization that the hood concealed Cousin Fredo made her gasp and stumble backward. “What are you doing here?
” she asked in a choked voice.

  “It is not so puzzling a tale.” Though the rough fabric of his hooded cloak concealed his eyes, moonlight caught his lips and pointed chin in sharp relief. He smiled. “I happened to be passing through the Piazza Divetri when I noticed someone dangling from your balcony. Naturally, after what happened last night, I was concerned. So I took it upon myself to ensure your safety.” He took a step closer to her and put his hand on her shoulder as Risa backed up against the taverna wall. His nails began to dig through the thick fabric of her uniform and pinch her flesh.

  “You followed me,” she accused him, trying to escape his clutch. “Stop that!”

  “I followed you for the best reasons, my dear. Let me relieve you of your burden, so that I can escort you home. Shall I?” Before she could protest, he had scooped the padded sack from over her shoulder and put it upon his own.

  “Give it back!” she protested. Fredo did not resist when, with a tug, she reclaimed her glass treasure. But his grip on her shoulder intensified; his pinch felt like it was drawing blood. It was the fierceness of his grasp that warned her, more than anything else, that Fredo had no intention of seeing her safely home. “You can’t have known about last night,” she said, finally understanding. Camilla had said her attacker smelled awful. She probably had gotten a snootful of his tabbaco da fiuto. “Unless you were there.”

  A breathy smirk escaped Fredo’s lips. He shook his head so that the hood dropped onto his shoulders, revealing a face like a ghoul’s. It took her several seconds to realize that the dark pools around his eyes were not shadows—they were the bruises that had formed after Camilla broke his nose the night before. “Perhaps I was. You must think you’re clever!”

  “You are my cousin!” she reminded him, fighting with all her might to escape. Fredo laughed and jerked her hand, burning her wrist. The padded sack fell to the ground, the glass bowl within crashing onto the stones of the street. Risa cried out at the noise.

  “I was there, you little bitch.” Fredo’s voice was fierce and angry. His arms were around her from behind now, squeezing the breath from her lungs. Her legs kicked out, trying to connect with his knees or groin. “Of course it was me, forced to sneak around like a criminal! An outsider in my own caza! You wouldn’t know what that feels like though, would you, Cazarrina?”

  Despite her desperate attempt to wrench herself free, Risa could appreciate the irony in that remark. Instead of replying, though, she fastened her teeth onto one of her cousin’s hands, chomping down hard until she heard him yell in pain.

  She felt a blow against the side of her head that seemed nearly to swivel her neck past the breaking point. He had hauled off and struck her, stunning Risa so that she ceased kicking and struggling. “You’ll not have the chance to best me again, either, you damned wildcat!”

  Whatever substance was soaked into the cloth he thrust under her nose smelled sweet, but its pungent stench brought tears to her eyes. Pain shot through her shoulder blade as he wrenched her forward, forcing her to inhale.

  Her throat no longer worked. It seemed choked and clenched. Around her the world reeled; her mind could form no words or pleas for help. Even if she could have cried out, who would have heard her? Milo was nowhere near … why hadn’t she listened to Milo?

  The last sensations she knew before slipping into unconsciousness were Fredo’s hot breath against her neck and the sound of his triumphant laughter, as the men and women in the taverna launched once again into song.

  The night passed, the moons set. The sun took their place.

  No sign of her parents did greet her.

  She wandered alone, her fair self not knowing

  Another had plans to defeat her …

  27

  —

  The Palace of the Cassafort Citie was established at the highest pointe of the swamplands on which the citie was established. Though it has been rebuilt several times throughout the centuries, a royal residence has always occupied that very spot.

  —Anonymous, A Briefe and Compleat Historie

  of the Cassafort Citie

  They had piled rocks atop her. What other reason could there be for how she felt? Her limbs were so heavy that she could not lift them. Even drawing breath took more effort than it should.

  “ … glad to be of service … from the bottom of my heart, I wish I could … anything you wish … ”

  Fredo, she thought to herself, recognizing the voice. The single word pulsed sluggishly through her brain, taking a moment to register. Why couldn’t she move? Why did her eyes refuse to open?

  A deeper and more deliberate voice rumbled in response. She could only hear a few words. “ … risk … amply rewarded.”

  “I would gladly forego … merely for the pleasure … serving you … .”

  “ … curious. How did you … ”

  She had to shake off whatever was holding her down. “ … clever little music box … ” she heard Fredo saying. His words now came in near-sentences, but she still had to struggle to capture their meaning. “It nearly worked, but the little bitch squirmed out of it. When I heard that you were looking for a way to get her, after you heard that ballad … ”

  Ricard’s song was my undoing after all, she thought to herself, surprised at how slowly the words came to her. Despite how hard we tried …

  “Why?” Fredo’s voice continued, in answer to a rumbled question. “Because I hate them all! My father married outside the Seven and Thirty, and they have always looked down upon me, despised my tainted blood. What a fine thing it would be, indeed, to have them working for me. I know you make no promises, but you did say that you would consider me as the new … ” She heard a clink of coins. Lundri had passed hands. She heard Fredo let out a hiss of satisfaction. “Oh. Oh!” he repeated, sounding astounded. “How marvelous!”

  Deep inside her, a voice whispered a word of warning. It surfaced slowly, as a mud bubble might from the bottom of a pond. There’s trouble here, Cazarra, she heard. What are you going to do about it?

  Her lips parted, admitting cool air into her mouth and lungs. “Milo?” she said softly.

  Across the empty space in which she lay, silks and velvets rustled. “She’s wakening,” Fredo hissed.

  “Take care of it.” For the first time, she clearly heard the other man’s voice. Like a large bell it was, deep and resonant, tolling out her fate with deliberation.

  Once again, aroma overpowered her, sending tides of scarlet and black to carry her back into their drowning depths.

  When she awoke again, after what seemed like decades, her fingers tingled first, then her toes. Her extremities felt as if they were being warmed before a fire on a very cold winter’s day. The tickle at the end of her nose spread to her cheeks, then to her ears, just as the rest of her body twitched back into life. She groaned, aware at how parched her throat felt.

  “Do not move.” The voice was masculine yet whispery, like the midnight speech of trees as they rustled to one another in a breeze. It was the voice of an old man, reassuring her. “All will be well, child. Yet do not move.”

  Her eyelids fluttered open, seeming to rip through a crust that sealed them together. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the brightness of the room. A face hovered over hers. “Cassamagi,” she murmured.

  Ferrer peered down at her through his double spectacles. Risa winced. The twin crescents of light they reflected reminded her of the moons. “You’ve been under the effect of camarandus seed oil. No, don’t try to talk yet.” She felt him apply something wet and cool to her forehead and cheeks. The soft cloth licked away the flames from her skin. “Camarandus is a flower of the woods, you know. Quite harmless in its native form. When the seeds are harvested and treated with brine and pressed, however, they produce a sleeping philter that, while usually short-lived, is remarkably potent in its—no, do not sit up yet,
my dear. You will be … ”

  The sensation of motion caused her stomach to churn. Fluids burned her gullet as her gorge rose. She sensed the cazarro thrusting a container into her hands. As she vomited into it, she was dimly aware that he was holding her hair, so that it would not fall into the slop.

  There was not much left in her stomach, thankfully. After a few racking heaves, the uneasy feeling in her middle began to subside. She accepted the wet cloth Ferrer offered and dabbed at her sweating face and her mouth, mortified. “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to blink back the tears that had formed during the contractions of her stomach.

  “Youth today! So headstrong! As I was trying to tell you, the other effect of camarandus oil is a tendency toward nausea. Well, we learn by doing, do we not?” With the utmost gentleness he dipped another cloth into an ewer of water and handed it to her, taking the soiled rag and tossing it onto the hearth.

  “Where are we?” she asked, looking around the room in wonder. They were in a space roughly half the size of her own bedchamber at home. Cozily furnished with four settees arranged in a square at its center, the room had been appointed with an excess of woolen tapestries, carpets upon the floor, and decorations of fine craftsmanship. It was plainly the parlor of some vastly wealthy citizen; even the table legs had been gilded. Its fireplace was a glorious thing of marble, carved with grapes and apples and an abundance of other fruit strung around columns that supported its deep mantel. A narrow window provided their only illumination. Daylight streamed in through its panes. “And who is he?”

  Curled into a fetal position on the sofa opposite her own was a tall, thin boy. His hair was dark and limp, as if it had not been groomed in some time. He appeared to be sleeping, but his breath was so shallow and undetectable that for a moment she feared he was dead.

  “If our view out the window is any indication, we are somewhere in the palace,” answered the Cazarro. “And our companion, inert though he may be, is Baso Buonochio.”