Glasswrights' Master (21 page)

Maybe, in some strange way, Hamid could sense all that Rani had won, all the decisions that she had made, all the paths that she had wandered in the years that she had lived at court. Maybe the Sarmonian king was swayed by the knowing look that one of his electors cast to the others, a look that spoke of power and secrets behind the throne, even if it did not betray the Fellowship. Maybe Hamid had his own secret reason for wanting an alliance with Morenia–land routes perhaps, or ports, or grain markets, or a source for more silk. For whatever reason, the Sarmonian inclined his head. “Speak, then. Tell me what you know, and I will weigh the value.”

“Nay, Your Majesty.” Rani's insistence surprised every Sarmonian in the room. “You speak first. Tell us you will support us. Tell us you will stand beside us, as Morenia's sworn ally.”

No! Hal wanted to cry. She went too far. Rani acted precisely like a merchant in the marketplace; she was forgetting the strictures of noble life. It was not meet to demand Sarmonia's support without first making some showing of good faith.

“Ally!” Hamid's voice was hot; he did not need to glance at his Electors for that reply. “How am I to make an alliance when I do not know what issues are in play? What dangers do you face at home that you would rather take your chance jousting here in my private study, than fighting for liberation with a strong right arm and loyal soldiers at your back?”

Rani! Hal longed to say. Yield to the man. Give him something. Tell him what he asks.

What he asks. End these tasks. Shed our masks.

Of course, Rani did not yield. Instead, she took a step closer to Hamid, looking for all the world like an ale-merchant closing a deal in the marketplace. “Certainly, you've heard rumors, Your Majesty. You've heard that Liantines have taken our harbor, that Briantans hold our castle. You know that the king of all Morenia is exiled from his land. But you know older tales than that, Your Majesty. You know that Morenia is a long-time friend of Sarmonia. We have been a market for your goods, as you have been for ours. We sold you spidersilk for half of what the Liantine guild once commanded. Pledge your support, and Morenia's undying friendship is yours. Pledge your support, and Halaravilli ben-Jair will be your trusting ally, your endless friend, in the marketplace, on the battlefield, wherever you find yourself wanting.”

“My ally,” Hamid said, clearly sampling the flavor of the word. Perhaps Rani had not mis-measured. Perhaps this matter truly was as simple as a marketplace bid. Hal read the hope in Hamid's tone, the possibilities, and he tried to hold himself tall, seeming worthy of Sarmonian investment.

“Yes, Your Majesty!” Rani urged. “If you stand with Morenia now, we will stand with you through all the future. Our fighting men will be your fighting men, our soldiers yours.”

Hal saw the instant that the electors identified the threat. Their anger was transparent, their determination to silence Rani so swift that he momentarily feared for her life. One man glided forward, placing his arm on Hamid's and making the king step forward for counsel. The motion disclosed the Sarmonian's slight frame, revealed just how slender Hamid was.

The elector's words were unclear, mere hisses in the otherwise silent room, but the direction was plain. Hamid was to ignore Rani. He was to set aside her offers, her arguments, her inducement to alliance. He was to ignore her offer of freedom–independence from the electors–once and for all.

As if he were buying time, Hamid reached for one of the pens on his table, fingering it as if it were a talisman. His fingers were lean and wiry, calloused from weapon-play. The elector ignored the distraction of the pen; rather, he stepped even closer to his lord, moving his hand in a chopping motion, speaking even more emphatically. The other two electors flanked their king, standing just a shade too close for comfort.

Hal read Hamid's decision even before Rani did. He felt no surprise as Hamid shook his head, no relief as the electors stepped back. He could not even muster pity when he saw the flash of anger in Hamid's eyes, anger quickly stowed away.

The Sarmonian king shook his head, and his words were bitter. “We gave you a chance, Rani Trader of Morenia. We asked for you to show your value, to lay some guarantee of the intelligence you bring before us. Your words are naught but bluster, promises like a nursemaid's whispering to her charge. We are busy here with our court, and we have no more time to play. You will leave us now.”

“Your Majesty–” Rani began.

“Now.” Hamid set the word down firmly, not even bothering to glance at his retainers.

“Your Majesty–” Rani tried one more time.

“Rani,” Hal said, for he could see that Hamid would never yield. Not with the electors at his side. Not with his crown held in the balance.

Rani heard the note in Hal's voice, clearly understood that she must not brook his command, even if she longed to deny the explicit order of another monarch. Swallowing hard, she managed to sketch a bow toward the Sarmonian king, and then she faded back to Hal's side.

“We will stay here,” Hamid said, gesturing at the table's parchment rolls. “We will review these accounts and do what must be done to manage our kingdom. We have wasted enough of our time with players' fancies.”

Hal made his own smooth bow. He curled his tongue around proper words, words that accepted his defeat. He set his arm on Rani's elbow and guided her toward the doorway, leaving Puladarati and Farso to make their own retreat. Only as they made their way down the long corridor did he realize that he had no idea where they might turn next. He had no idea how he could work to save Morenia, to save his people, to save himself. He had no idea how to defeat the Fellowship of Jair.

 

 

 

Chapter 9

 

Hal listened to Rani sigh again and say, “I don't know how I misjudged him so badly.”

He barely kept his irritation from smothering a reassuring tone. “You've spent a lifetime bargaining with merchants, and you struck the wrong balance with a nobleman. Eat your pie.” He blew on a steaming bit of kidney to make his point, refusing to speak more until Rani had placed a bite in her own mouth. “The man is not free to act. If he could, your arguments would have swayed him.”

“He did not listen at all.”

Hal raised a pottery mug to his lips and swallowed some surprisingly good ale. “You might as well have made your arguments to a father whose son was held at knifepoint. His decisions are not his own.”

“I'm a
trader
, though.” Hal raised an eyebrow at her elevated tone, and she hissed, “I am supposed to be better than that! I should have found a way to offer a deal that he could accept.”

“That
he
could accept? Or that his electors could?” Hal darted a glance about the tavern common room. They were alone now; no one could overhear his using the word ‘electors.' Nevertheless, he lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “Rani, you could not structure a deal to meet everyone's needs–not his, not … the nobles', not our own, all bound together.”

“I might have–”

“You might have done nothing! There was no way to bring him to our side!” He forced himself to calm down, to swallow more ale. Why was he so angry with Rani? She had only tried to build an alliance with Sarmonia. How could they have guessed that the electors held Hamid on such a short lead?

Short lead. Men bleed. Crows feed.

Hal pushed aside the whispers of defeat, smothering them with false bravado. “Rani, you're no use to me if you lose faith in yourself.”

“I'm not losing faith!” She slammed her hand down on the table. Together, they glanced toward the motherly woman who stood at the far end of the room. The proprietress of the tavern had looked up from her task of trimming tallow candles with a short, sharp knife. Rani lowered her voice and repeated, “I'm not losing faith. I'm the one who thought to come
here
, didn't I?”

“Aye,” he agreed, hoping that she could not discern how much the admission cost him. Even as they had left Hamid's palace, she had devised yet another plan to save him. She had figured out where they might find one last ally in Sarmonia, where they might forge a final bulwark against their rising tide of enemies. “But are we sure that you were told the truth?”

“They'll be here,” Rani said, easily abandoning her guilty irritation to comfort him. “This is the fourth day after the full moon.”

“Full moon,” he muttered. “Superstitious, trust-in-magic claptrap. Why a group of–” But he never completed his tirade. The Sisters arrived before he could finish his rant.

Rani had argued that the Morenians must stave off the Fellowship, first and foremost. Now that Hal's identity was revealed, the shadowy group must immediately be located and penetrated. Only by direct confrontation could Hal avoid assassination.

They had precious few tools to find the enemy. They could attempt to use one of the electors that Hal had seen in the Forest, but only if they could identify the specific men who had journeyed to the cottage. Identify them, find them, calculate a lever to use against them. All possible, but only with time and knowledge–two commodities in pitifully short supply.

They could comb the forest for Crestman or Dartulamino. Those enemies, though, were heavily armed, and known to be deadly in a fight.

There was one other, however, one last person who could take them to the Fellowship. Kella. The herb witch in the forest. If they could challenge Kella, she might break. She might bring them access to the Fellowship if they could find the proper … motivation.

Once Rani thought of the herb witch, Hal warmed to the idea. Of course, they could not threaten the woman directly. She was Hamid's vassal; the Sarmonian king would hardly tolerate one of his people being terrorized in her own cottage.

Hal had proposed that they use Tovin to manipulate Kella. After all, the player had sent Rani to the witch's cottage weeks before, to retrieve Father Siritalanu. Rani had dismissed the idea flatly. When he had pressed her for a reason, she had merely said, “Black willow. That is reason enough, no?”

Black willow? That meant nothing to him, but Rani refused to elaborate. Refused to elaborate and refused to be swayed. Well, who was he to comment on the player? He certainly did not trust himself to measure the man fairly. Not when he saw the troubled memories that skated across Rani's brow. Not when he imagined the … conversations that had passed between Tovin and Rani, here in Sarmonia, and before.

Rani had paced the narrow streets outside Hamid's palace gate, muttering to herself as she considered options, measured out ways to make the herb witch help them. Hal had stared at her with concern, with growing certainty that she had turned as mad as he. “Wait!” Rani exclaimed as the sun darted behind a fluffy autumn cloud. “The Sisters!”

Kella had delivered the possibility herself. She had told Rani about the Sisters, about the conclave that controlled all herb witches. Kella must obey the Sisters. If Rani and Hal could reach them, the Sisters could motivate Kella.

Once they hit upon the plan, it took Rani little enough time to find the circle of herb witches. The Sisters were more discreet than secret; their existence was known throughout Riadelle. Rani had taken Hal's leave to wander through the city's Merchants' Quarter, to ask a series of careful questions. She was pointed first toward one merchant and then another, and a last kind soul directed her to the Blue Rose tavern, to the proprietress whose name was Zama. The directions had been easy enough–take the second street from the market square, enter the first inn past the apothecary.

In fact, it had proven easier to locate the coven than it had to slip away from Hal's retainers. Puladarati and Farso had argued for an immediate return to the Great Clearing, to the comfort of Hal's meager troops, now that his name was known in Sarmonia. Ultimately, Hal had pleaded exhaustion, insisting that they pass the night in a city inn. He had said that he would steal a nap, in hopes that he might make fresh plans later that night. He and Rani had barely succeeded in sneaking down the servants' stairs, escaping Farso's nervous patrol of the common room.

Upon entering the Blue Rose, Hal and Rani were treated like any other tavern patrons. Zama herself had served them, pridefully setting down plates of kidney pie. The tavern was tidy, the floor strewn with fresh rushes, the tables scrubbed. A small fire burned on the hearth– enough to chew the edge off the autumn's chill, but not so much to make the room uncomfortable. And so they ate and drank and waited for the coven to gather.

Coven to gather. Mind in a lather. Anything, rather.

Hal shook his head. The chittering words were constant now, a ceaseless muttering that distracted him if he gave it half a chance. He could not risk frayed attention, not now, not with Zama approaching from behind her long wooden bar. “Good lady, good sir,” she said, wiping her cracked hands on her apron and nodding her head in a casual approximation of a bow. “Is there ought else that I can get for you this evening?”

Hal sensed her expectation, her desire to close the door behind them. Swallowing his nervousness, he managed an easy smile. “Nay, good dame. My companion and I, we'll just sit beside the fire a bit longer.”

The woman was clearly accustomed to having her way, even with difficult patrons. “I'd love to accommodate you, but that won't be possible this evening. I'll give you each a pasty, now, a nice meat pie to take into the night. But I'll need to close the door after you both.”

“Close the door?” Rani laughed, as if she did not understand. “But you have new customers who have just arrived!”

Zama looked up as a half dozen women shrugged out of their cloaks. She nodded a greeting to the newcomers, but she was not to be deterred. “Aye. Those are my sisters. We've a bit of family business to discuss.”