Glasswrights' Journeyman (50 page)

“And my lords and ladies,” he continued. “There is one more whom I must recognize, one more who made today possible. I would not stand before you without the help of Baron Farsobalinti, Grand Master of the Order of the Octolaris.” Farso had been the first of Hal's knights to don the brooch of the Order, and he had led the way to Hal's financial success. The baron had presented his ten bars of gold; he had cajoled and shamed and bullied his fellow nobles into doing the same. But Farso had done even more than that—he had explored trade routes for Morenian silk, rooting out merchants who would trade in the new goods, discovering guildsmen who would adapt their broader woolen-goods looms into narrower, sturdier silk machines. He had hired the foremen for the silk hall's construction, supervised the Touched workers who had carted straw and clay, lumber and stone. Farso had worked tirelessly for the past three years, giving of his days, his nights, his heart, and his soul.

The steady labor and constant worry had taken their toll on the young nobleman. Gone was the sunny youth who had served his king with a child's dedication. Instead, Farso's hair had begun to tarnish with untimely silver; fine lines spread out beside his eyes, as if he had strained them poring over account ledgers in the dark of night.

Nevertheless, Farso stood straight and tall on this victorious day, and even as he stepped forward to accept the king's accolades, he flashed a grin at the woman by his side. Mair's response was a smile of her own, an expression that only broadened when the babe in her arms began to fuss. Mair shifted Laranifarso, Farsobalinti's own son, and cast her glance from her husband to her king.

Even with the pressures of the silk trade, Farso had found time enough to marry. Over a year had passed since he had vowed to honor his wife, and still Mair and Farso gazed at each other with the fierce eyes of new lovers. Lovers, that was, until Mair decided that Farso had done something foolish, had overstepped his bounds in some way. Then her tongue was as sharp as ever, full of the screeching condemnation that she had mastered as a leader among the Touched, the casteless poor who filled the streets of Moren. For now, though, she stepped back, offering up the moment of public recognition for her beloved to receive the honor of his king.

Despite Mair's best efforts, Laranifarso continued fussing, and the Touched mother shifted him from arm to arm. Rani knew that Mair was fully aware of critical eyes in the silk hall. Some of the elite watchers might condemn her for bringing her son to the auction. Some might question her ability to manage her own child, to stop the fussing that threatened to grow into a full squall. Nearly every person in the hall scorned Mair merely for her marriage to Farsobalinti, for daring to create a union between a nobleman and a Touched girl. In fact, Halaravilli had presided over their union, attempting to deflect vicious gossip by invoking his title Defender of the Faith to bless them.

Rani shook her head as she watched her oldest friend ease back from the dais. Mair had been realistic about the courtly bias against her. She had never expected to be anything more than Farso's mistress, nothing more than his cherished leman. Even though Farso insisted that she meant much more to him, the past three years had not proven easy. They had not flowed smoothly, despite all of Mair's seeming blessings.

The Touched woman's struggles for acceptance had tainted the way that Rani thought of the Morenian court. Of course, Rani had no hopes for marrying into the noble caste herself. She knew that. She knew that the only man who might have had her, Halaravilli, had other obligations—to the kingdom, to the court, to his queen. Besides, Rani had her own responsibilities. Not only was she growing her fledgling glasswrights' guild, but she was also responsible for the players.

At Tovin's urging, Rani had become the players' sponsor throughout all of Morenia. She had tried to explain to him that such recognition was not necessary in her homeland, that Morenia did not have Liantine's restrictions on travel and trade. But Tovin had shaken his head, holding to his own traditions. Despite Rani's repeated attempts to dislodge the limitations in the usually-creative player's mind, he would have nothing of her arguments.

The players needed sponsors, Tovin had explained at last. They needed to be subject to rules, to restrictions. Only with such limitations would good people accept the traveling acting troop. Only with such reassurance would people open their homes and their hearts to scoundrels on the high road, to folk who had no home beyond the tents they carried with them, who had no history in the castes of Morenia. Only with a sponsor would people agree to Speak to the players.

Despite the warmth in the silk hall, Rani shivered when she thought of Speaking. Her tremor was not from fear, but rather from naked longing. Only that morning, she had Spoken with Tovin, telling him of the merchant ceremonies that she had witnessed in her youth. Tovin's voice had woven a curtain around her, spinning a cottony nest of safety and security. Even now, she could feel his words thrumming through her chest, taking her deeper, deeper, into her knowledge, into her memories. …

Swaying, Rani forced her attention back to the present, back to the silk hall and the
dais where her king proclaimed: “And now, let the bidding begin. Our first lot is this bolt of
crimson silk, the first ever spun in Morenia, dyed in honor of our crown. What am I bid for fair
Morenia's venture into the silk trade?”

“One gold bar!” Farso cried out, and the crowd took a collective step forward. Three merchants shouted over themselves, topping the bid, and Hal graciously nodded toward each successive bidder, gesturing toward them with the ceremonial baton of the auction conductor.

Rani looked at the excitement in Hal's face, at the energy that thrummed across his shoulders. He had waited for this day impatiently; harrying the octolaris wranglers, demanding that silk be collected twice daily, bullying Davin constantly into building bigger looms and better ones. He had paced in front of the breeding spiders' cages like an expectant father, waiting with frozen breath as he learned that the first clutch of spider eggs had hatched successfully on Morenian soil, that the riberry trees had borne fruit, that the markin moths had spun their clumsy cocoons, produced their sightless white grubs. Long days and longer nights had slipped away as Hal pinned his kingdom's hopes on the poisonous spiders, and now he hoped to gather in his reward.

It appeared that both merchants and noblemen were willing to oblige their king. Twelve golden bars were bid on the bolt of cloth. Thirteen. Fourteen.

“Twenty-five bars of gold!” Tovin shouted into the hall, his player's voice rising to the rafters. The strength of his bid shattered the air, silencing the buzzing watchers.

“What is that, Tovin Player?” Hal turned to the broad-shouldered man, taking only an instant to flick his eyes over to Rani. She understood the momentary question there, the flash of doubt as he demanded to know if he were being mocked. She could only meet Hal's gaze steadily. She knew nothing of Tovin's intentions.

“Twenty-five bars of gold, Your Majesty. The players bid twenty-five.”

Rani ran her merchant's mind over the figure. Tovin could pay it. The players had more than that in store after three years of touring Morenia. Exiled from their homeland, they had proven thrifty, relying on existing costumes and curtains. The players' only cost had been a score of new glass panels, and Rani had been more than happy to supply the glass for those, to supply the lead and paint and silver stain. After all, she sponsored the players. She supported them. And she learned from them, all for free.

Rani closed her hand on Tovin's forearm, feeling the energy pulse through the man's taut muscle. She watched Hal measure her motion, watched him calculate the genuine offer behind the player's words.

“Very well. Twenty-five bars of gold. And is there anyone who will bid more? Is there anyone who places greater value on the first fruit of the Morenian looms?”

Merchants looked at each other, fingering the pouches of gold at their waist. One man shook his head and eyed the other bolts of cloth, bolts that would not command the same premium as the first. A nobleman cleared his throat, drawing attention, but then he flushed and stepped backwards.

“Very well, then,” Hal proclaimed. “Twenty-five bars of gold from Tovin Player! The first bolt of silk is sold!”

Cheers rang out to the hall's ceiling, and the crowd surged even closer to the dais. Hal acknowledged the enthusiastic congratulations, and then he stepped down, handing the traditional baton over to the silk official who had been appointed to conduct the body of the trades. Another lot—this one of undyed silk—was displayed before the crowd, and bidding began anew.

Hal worked his way through the crowd, touching one man on a shoulder, leaning down to listen to the hearty words of another. He was in his element, Rani thought. He was happy and comfortable—his land was thriving for the first time since he had taken the throne. The northern kingdom of Amanthia was paying tribute as expected. Poor Moren was springing back to life after her devastating fire—whole quarters of the city were nearly rebuilt, with wide avenues and sturdy new buildings. The spring had been warm, and plants had gone in early. The early summer had boasted days of gentle heat, punctuated by long, soaking rains. All was well in Morenia.

Rani became aware of the clutch that had gathered around Tovin, of the men who had collected to congratulate him. “A fine gesture, Players' Count Jerumalashi was saying, one of Hal's own councilors. “I should like to see what you do with that silk, in my own court. Speak to my chamberlain, when you have a moment—let us know when you'll be able to play for us.”

“Of course, my lord,” Tovin said. “I would be most honored.”

“And when you've played for Count Jerumalashi, you can present your work for us,” Farsobalinti said, muscling his way through the crowd and offering a hand to Tovin. “You're a good man, Tovin Player.”

“Aye,” Rani heard at her elbow, and she turned to meet Mair's amused glance. “A grand man, that Tovin Player is.”

Rani stepped to the side, the better to converse with her friend. As she moved away from the nobles, she heard the silk master declare another bolt of silk sold, realized that he was beginning the auction of yet another lot. “What do you mean by that?”

Mair shifted the burden of her son to her left shoulder, taking care not to wake the now-sleeping babe. “Only that Tovin Player is a shrewd bargainer. You must have taught him a thing or two about driving a deal.”

“I hardly needed to do that!” Rani said, automatically springing to the man's defense, as if he needed it.

“I meant no insult, Rai! I only meant that the man made a good bargain. Twenty-five bars he'll pay, and the story will be all through the city by the end of the day. Every person in Moren will pay a gold crown to see the next players' show, and when the troop announces that it has made costumes with the king's silk. … He's no fool, your Tovin.”

The excited buzz of merchants bidding on silk rose higher as Rani thought, he's not my Tovin. She glanced at the man's copper eyes, at his unkempt curls, and a flash of longing curled through her belly—longing for the Speaking that they had shared, for the quiet days when they had first returned to Moren. Days without Tovin pressuring her to wed. Days without the obligations of studying glasswrights' lore, of plotting to rebuild her guild. Even as Tovin darted a smile to her across the hall, she thought of the argument they'd had the night before.

“Ranita, it should be enough!” he had said. “You have studied the books. You have learned new techniques. Announce that you're re-opening the guild and be done with it.”

“It isn't enough.” She had pulled away from him, even as she was reluctant to leave the warmth of his palms across her back. She had settled her silk dressing gown around her shoulders, jerking the sash tight as she crossed to the window. The Pilgrims' Bell had tolled across the city, steady and secure in the moonlit night. “It isn't enough at all.”

She'd heard him sigh from the bed, realized that he was biting back a dozen arguments. He had come to stand behind her, folding his arms around her and pulling her to his chest. She could make out the criss-cross of glass scars on his fingers, perfect white in the moonlight. “Tell me, then. Tell me why. Tell me why you cannot declare the guild rebuilt and your obligation paid.”

Tears had welled up in her eyes. If she leaned forward, she could see the executioner's block in the courtyard. She could see the stone that had cradled her brother's neck before he paid for his treason, before he yielded up all that he had to give. She could see the iron grate that led to the dungeons, to the dank stone corridors where prisoners awaited their fate. Where glasswrights huddled in terror and rage, masters and journeymen and apprentices imprisoned for their imagined crimes against the crown.

She forced words past her tightened throat, forced a confession from her choked misery. “The obligation is not paid. I don't know if it ever can be.” She swallowed hard. “After Prince Tuvashanoran was slain, I hid. I did not come forward, even to explain my innocence, even to say that it was all a terrible mistake. I did not say that I never meant to call the prince into range for the arrow that took his life. The glasswrights bled for me, Tovin. They paid a blood debt each time they were interrogated, the masters and the journeymen. The apprentices were maimed, for me.” Maimed. That word was not enough. That single sound could not capture the horror, the brutality. The apprentices had been culled methodically, one each day—for the entire time that Rani had remained loose in the city streets. Every sunrise, a child was torn from the pack, dragged to the courtyard, forced to the block.

Was it the executioner who did the job? Or was there another master, a butcher who specialized in hands?