Glasswrights' Apprentice (27 page)

The soldier let out a muffled cry of surprise, and he slumped against the floor, scrambling desperately for the blade that Rani twisted once before she leaped across the room. “Ach! Rai!” The color drained from his face, and he clenched his teeth against a brutal spasm. “What have you done?”

“You murdered Tuvashanoran!” Rani's voice shook as she saw the results of her handiwork. “You stood on the scaffold and fired the arrow that killed the Prince and destroyed the guild and burned my parents' house.” Tears streamed down her face, and she gasped for breath like a foaling mare.

“You're mad, Rai.” Dalarati finally succeeded in pulling out the blade, but he was only rewarded by a flood of crimson blood onto the floorboards. He gasped, “By First God Ait, you're mad.”

“I'm not mad! Larindolian told me! You just said that you would betray the Brotherhood!”

“The Brotherhood,” he panted. “What do you know of them?”

“I know that you followed Garadolo. I know that you were trying to expose the Brotherhood. I know you want to bring down Bardo, and all he stands for. That's why you murdered the Prince.”

“You little fool.” Dalarati had stopped trying to move his legs, to get to his feet. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. “They've sold you a bushel of lies.”

“I'm not listening to you!” Rani squeezed her eyes closed, as if that would shut out the terrible thing she had done, as if that would take back the oath she had sworn on her own blood in the Brotherhood's chamber. “You're the one who makes up stories! By First God Ait, and by Jair the Pilgrim, I won't listen to your lies.”

Silence. Dalarati did not try to move, did not try to speak, but she knew that he still lived. His labored breathing shredded the small room. She fought back her tears as she whispered the Litany of Death in her own mind. The deaths of her parents, she reminded herself, the death of Tuvashanoran. Dalarati was a traitor. She had had no choice. She could not have acted in any other way.

“Rai,” he whispered at last, and she jumped as if his voice were a thunderclap. “I don't know what they mean for you. I only know that they have used you - used you to wipe out the threat I represented. Bardo is working great harm -”

“Don't you speak about Bardo!” she sobbed. “His name is too good for you!”

“Fine, Rai,” he gasped. “Not Bardo, then. The rest of the Brotherhood. I was close to learning their game. I told my Prince all I knew. I told him that the threat lies closest to the crown, closer than we ever feared. Don't trust them, Rai. They've murdered before, and they'll kill again.” The long speech exhausted him, and he fell back to the floor, panting.

Rani could see the beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, smell the exertion on him. She wanted to run into the City streets, but she was glued to the havoc she had created. The pool of crimson crept across the floorboards, gelling in the cold morning air.

“Hal…” Dalarati murmured, but then his eyes flew open, as if he had been shoved
awake. “Shar!” Rani glanced over her shoulder, expecting the Touched girl to appear in the doorway.
“Shar! Don't leave me! I'm so cold.…” His trembling grew more violent, his hand spasming as he
reached toward Rani. “My love,” he whispered.

Rani captured his right hand and clasped it to her chest, adding her tears to the gory mix of sweat and blood streaking the warrior's skin. Dalarati died in her arms as she struggled not to look at his fingers, not to see the complete lack of an archers' callouses on his well-muscled hands. Sick at heart, afraid even to think beyond her pounding chest and her gasping lungs, Rani dared not check for the tattoo of intertwined snakes that Larindolian had promised.

 

 

Chapter 11

 

 

“Brave as a lion, swift as a lion,” Rani muttered to herself as she knelt before the statue of the Defender of the Faith at the edge of the City's market. Larindolian had outfitted her as a pilgrim before he ordered her sternly to the marketplace, and the mid-day sun beat down against her black cape. The dark costume was a near-perfect disguise. The streets teemed with pilgrims, with the thousands of worshipers who had converged on the City for this holiest of holy days, for Jair's feast day.

The heat of Rani's Thousand-Pointed Star burned through the heavy fabric of her cloak. In the shadows by the hidden passage in the City walls the air had been heavy with dankest autumn, but here in the open market, Rani felt as if she were back in the glasswrights' kiln.

She longed for the feel of her silver mirror beneath her hand, the familiar shape of the lion pulling down the goat. For all the years that she had held the treasure, she'd imagined herself to be the lion, strong and sinewy and brave. Now, she feared she might actually be the goat.

Forcing herself to wait patiently for the messenger that Larindolian had promised,
Rani bowed her head over her tightly clasped hands and began to recite the holy litany for Dalarati,
as if the soldier's cooling body still lay at her feet: “Hail Cot, god of soldiers, guide of Jair
the Pilgrim. Look upon this pilgrim with mercy in your heart and justice in your soul. Guide the
feet of this pilgrim on righteous paths of glory that all may be done to honor you and yours among
the Thousand Gods. This pilgrim asks for the grace of your blessing, Cot, god of soldiers.”

She repeated the incantation, calling on her private patron, Lan. It seemed like years since she had adopted the kitchen god, years since Cook had helped her escape from the garden. What would Cook think of her now? Would the old woman have deemed her sacrifice worthwhile? Shying away from her own questions, Rani began to invoke the gods of the Virtues. When another pilgrim knelt beside her, Rani knew that she should concentrate on her prayers for the peace of Dalarati's soul, but she could not restrain her wandering eyes. “Mair!”

“Aye. Ye sent fer me, didn't ye?”

“Yes, but I didn't think you'd come - not after.…” Rani trailed off, her words drowned in a pool of soldier's blood. Blinking, she could still see her crimson-washed dagger in the dim light of Dalarati's quarters. She'd left the Zarithian blade behind, forgotten it in her panic to be free of the soldier's corpse.

“I shouldna be seen 'ere with ye, that's fer sure.”

“But where did you get a pilgrim's robe?”

“That's 'ardly important now, is it? The better question is why
ye
are wearin' one, and what ye plan t' do now that ye've killed th' soldier.”

Rani could not keep from darting her eyes at the crowd, fearful that someone would overhear Mair's harsh whisper, that Larindolian's messenger would choose that terrible moment to arrive. Fortunately, the marketplace was crowded, and no one spared attention for two small pilgrims who offered their obeisance at the feet of a stern statue. “If you know what happened, then you know I had no choice.”

“I know ye sent Shar t' get a message t' me, 'n' I know she discovered th' soldier's body when she made 'er way back t' 'er only 'ome i' th' world.”

“How is she?” Rani reminded herself not to cry. She must not give in to pity. Shar was better off with the Touched, better off with her own caste. Surely, Larindolian had only thought to use Shar in his battle against the Brotherhood. Against Bardo.

“That's none o' yer concern, Rai. The better question is what'll 'appen to ye. Those soldiers'd be glad to learn 'oo ye are, beneath yer Pilgrim's cloak.”

Rani looked up in panic. There were more soldiers in the marketplace than usual; the entire City was set on edge as suspicion surged from quarter to quarter. Even those castes that had not deigned to note a soldier murdered in his barracks could sense the added uneasiness in a City already strained to its limits of patience. The hundreds of visiting pilgrims only heightened her feeling of anxiety. “You wouldn't dare! The soldiers are no friends of the Touched.”

“Dalarati was a friend t' one o' th' Touched. A friend 'n' more.” Mair moved her fingers in a holy sign. “Poor Shar. She should've minded 'er caste.”

Mind yer caste
. That was what the Touched creature had said outside the hut, where Larindolian had met Morada. If only Rani had listened to the warning then.… If only she knew which caste she was to mind.… Such speculation was nonsense, though. Larindolian's messenger was certain to arrive momentarily, and Rani did not want to justify her actions any further. “Mair, I can't explain; there isn't time.”

“Ach, no time t' talk t' th' family ye chose fer yer own.” Mair spat toward Rani's feet.

“I have other family, Mair!”

“So ye say, Rai, so ye say. Ye've an odd way o' showin' yer family loyalties, though. T' think I believed Shar when she said ye'd be payin' yer debts t' me i' th' marketplace.”

Rani remembered the lie she had fashioned to send Shar on her way; she had promised to pay Mair the tribute owed to Rabe.… That, at least, Rani could make right. Afraid to look the Touched leader in the face, Rani ducked a hand beneath her black Pilgrim's robe, grabbing for her pouch. Her fingers closed immediately on the strip of golden paper, the receipt that she had stolen from the tribute offered by the merchants in the cathedral compound.

“I didn't lie, Mair. Here's what I promised, why I sent Shar to find you.”

The golden paper glittered in the sunlight, and Mair glanced at it curiously before thrusting it deep inside the folds of her own robe. “A dozen robes,” the Touched girl recited. “A dozen robes fer a soldier's life. Do ye think ye've traded well, Rai?”

“It's not what
I
think,” she began to protest, but Mair waved her to silence.

“I'll give ye more t' th' bargain. Shar did find me wi' th' Core, though 'ow ye knew I'd be there, I can only begin t' guess. Th' Core 'eard yer message, and told me t' bring 'er own message to ye when we met. Th' Core says this: “Th' doe runs fleeter than th' buck, and she dinna get tangled by 'er antlers in th' brush.”

“What does that mean?” Rani stared at Mair as if the other girl had taken leave of her senses.

“'Ow do I know? I merely follow orders when I'm given 'em.”

“The doe…” Before Rani could repeat the cryptic message, a commotion began on the far side of the marketplace. Craning her neck, she could make out the Pilgrims' progression that Larindolian had told her to expect. She was nearly out of time. “Mair, thank you for coming here. You have to believe me - I never wanted to kill Dalarati. I never wanted to hurt Shar.”

Before the Touched leader could respond, a child-figure darted from the shadows at the edge of the marketplace. “Mair!”

“Rabe, I told ye t' wait fer me wi' th' others!”

“Mair, Jair's Watchers 'r' 'ere! Th' Progress is comin' t' th' market! They're choosin' th' First Pilgrim. Th' group is afraid we'll miss -”

All of a sudden Rabe looked at the small pilgrim Mair was talking to, and recognition spread across his face like a rash. “You!” he breathed, even as Mair exclaimed, “Rabe, I bind ye by yer oaths t' th' Touched!”

“But Mair, she -”

“I'll not 'ear it from ye, Rabe.”

“You '
eard
Shar. You '
eard
th' Core.”

“Aye, and as long as I'm th' Leader o' our troop, Rabe, I'll 'ear more than that, 'n' about more things.”

The youth stared at Mair, clearly disbelieving that his leader would cast her lot with a wandering, caste-jumping murderer. “I'll not let ye do this, Mair. We'll not let ye lead us down this path.”

Mair put ice into her voice as she faced down her lieutenant. “Ye'll do as ye see fit, Rabe. Just remember that ye dinna know all th' tale. None o' us knows th' full story bein' writ 'ere.”

“None but that one.” Rabe did not restrain himself where Mair had, and Rani felt the warm gobbet of his spit like a slap against her face. She hissed and sprang from her knees, fingers crooked as she launched at his sneering face.

“Stop, Rai!” Mair's command bit through Rani's anger like the sharpest Zarithian dagger. “Leave 'im be. 'E dinna know yer story, and ye canna take th' time t' tell 'im now.”

“But -”

“I said t' stop.” Mair's command brooked no argument, and Rani clenched her hands into fists as Rabe crowed his delight.

Meanwhile, the commotion on the far side of the marketplace had worked its way near. Even Rabe was silenced by the spectacle that wound through the plaza. A dozen figures, Jair's Watchers, stood at key points in the marketplace. Each was robed in solid black, with a pointed hood that obscured any human features. The Watchers were the holiest of Jair's representatives in the City, purified by days of fasting and prayer. Their presence denoted the power of this holy day, the force of Jair in all men's lives.

Hundreds of pilgrims, also gowned in black, wove through the stalls beneath the Watchers' hidden eyes. Each bore a golden Thousand-Pointed Star. Merchants cried out in religious fervor at the procession, and more than one pilgrim helped himself to the fresh fruits and ripe cheeses offered up in homage. The vendors who were favored loudly praised the Thousand Gods, grateful at being singled out in this most honored of spectacles. More than one merchant spoke Jair's name, calling on the founder of King Shanoranvilli's house, on the man honored on this holiest of feast days.

The cacophony deepened as the pilgrims chanted the Processional, calling in turn upon each of the Thousand Gods to bless their pilgrimage, to bring peace and prosperity to the City and the Kingdom and the lives of the pilgrims themselves. As the first of the black-robed holy wanderers reached the Defender's statue, Rani's stomach tightened in expectation. This was the moment Larindolian had told her to wait for; this was the reason she had been praying in the morning light.