Glasswrights' Test (14 page)

“Aye,” the player said softly, and now his voice was pitched for Parion alone. “I have worked glass. I have mastered the ways of silver stain and flashing, of carving sheets of Zarithian cobalt.”

The player flicked his eyes toward the bare walls of the chamber, toward the ash-blackened ovens. Parion felt an unreasoning anger rise in his throat. Of course there was no glass here! Of course he had not displayed his ability and the skill of his guildsmen in this hall. That would be a foolish waste in this home of exile!

The player's gaze intensified as he peered into the shadowed corners. He had found the Fellows. Nevertheless, he did not remark on those black-robed observers. In fact, he said nothing at all. Parion had to remind himself not to be goaded into starting a fight. He gritted his teeth and nodded once, flicking his eyes back to the Traitor, intending to dismiss the player.

He was surprised by the look he found on the girl's face. She was attuned to the player-man, soldered to him with invisible bonds. Parion watched as she measured the anger flickering behind the player's eyes, as she calculated the aggression coiled in his arms.

But beneath that watchful gaze, Parion saw more. He saw devotion. He saw dedication. He saw a glasswright who had foresworn her guild and taken up the cause of another.

Very well then. Parion had already worked out a plan to break the Traitor. He could factor in the player-man. He would even enjoy the new challenge. He stored away a sudden surge of glee and said to the Traitor, “And who else do you bring into our hall? Who else have you brought here, all uninvited?”

If the so-called journeyman were ashamed of her actions, she gave no sign. Instead, she raised an imperious hand toward her dark-haired colleague, taking in the child that was swaddled at the other's breast. “This is Lady Mair, Guildmaster. Lady Mair of Moren. She carries her son, Laranifarso, the heir of Baron Farsobalinti.”

Parion's eyes narrowed as he turned to the young mother. A Touched girl, by her name, but bred to a nobleman. What business did a rebellious glasswright have, bringing a noble's paramour to Liantine?

No, Parion corrected himself. Not a paramour. He recognized the band about Mair's wrist. She was bound to the nobleman in the eyes of the church. The Thousand Gods had looked upon her wedding and blessed her nuptials.

That was even more curious, then. A Touched girl wed to a nobleman. What else had changed in Moren since Parion had decamped? What other rules must he learn, if he were to work his vengeance, if he were to regain all that was his by right?

He forced himself to craft a civil greeting for the wench. “Welcome to the
glasswrights' hall.” He started to call her “lady” and stopped short, far enough into the
appellation to be insulting. Why give her the honor in his guildhall? Why recognize any potential
power that she could harness against him?

The Touched girl started to speak, pursing her lips to deliver some tart retort. She glanced at her companion for permission, though, and the Traitor shook her head, one tiny motion of denial. Transparent as the finest clear glass, the Touched girl at first rebelled against the instruction, but the Traitor shifted her weight.

Nothing was said. No words were exchanged. Nevertheless, the Touched wench backed down, forfeiting the argument she clearly longed to make. She inclined her head gravely, as if she were accepting a polite greeting from Parion. He did not force the point by saying anything more; rather, he returned his attention to the Traitor.

“So. You've come to the glasswright guild in exile.”

“I report to my guildmaster.” There was a curious longing behind her words, and Parion could almost believe that she did desire to submit to him, to submit to the guild that she had so nearly destroyed. “You summoned me, and I respond to that summons.”

“My call did not ask you to bring accomplices.”

She swallowed audibly. Parion caught a murmur among the other glasswrights—they were pleased that he was being curt with her. Well, they would be more pleased before he was done. They would be more impressed when they saw just how broken one traitor could be.

She finally found words to reply. “Your word ‘accomplice' connotes that my companions intend to work some evil upon our guild. They do not, I assure you.”

Argument. She was always arguing. She was always parsing words and making excuses. Morada had complained of that, years ago. He thundered: “And you can know that? You can know the inner workings of their minds?”

“They have sworn devotion to me, Master. I am dedicated to our guild, and so they are likewise dedicated to the betterment of glasswrights the world over.”

Pretty words, Parion thought. Pretty words that sparked obvious rebellion in the player at least. The guildmaster watched a sudden pulse beat strong in the other man's throat. That one did not like his loyalties proclaimed by another. He did not like being committed to any particular path in the battles that were brewing here. Parion swallowed a smile. Like it or not, the player was bound by the wench he claimed to serve. Bound, but he would be helpless to assist her in the final accounting.

Before the guildmaster could craft a suitable reply, he caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. There, in the darkest shadows beside the ovens. One of the Fellowship had moved.

Likely, the hooded figure had only shifted from foot to foot. After all, it
was
warm in the former kitchen; the air was still and heavy with the scent of ancient bread. Nevertheless, Parion suspected that the Fellow could have stayed still if he—or she—had chosen to do so. No, Parion was being sent a message. He was being ordered to move forward with this charade, to bind the Traitor back to the guild, to guarantee her presence for long enough that the Fellowship could have its way with her.

Very well, then. Parion was more than willing to play at that game.

“So,” he said, facing the Traitor squarely. “You call yourself a glasswright.”

“I
am
a glasswright, Master.”

“That is for the guild to determine. In this time of testing, we will set aside quarters for you here in the guildhall. You will report to one of our journeymen each morning for the next ten days. That guildsman will test your mastery of the basic concepts of working with glass. If you can demonstrate journeyman skills, you will be allowed to begin preparing for the test.”

“If it please you, Master, I cannot live at the guildhall.”

Parion let his voice freeze. “Cannot? What sort of disobedience is this?”

“Not disobedience, Master.” She answered immediately, but he saw how she swallowed hard, how she cast a quick glance toward her companions. She was not as composed as she would like him to think that she was. “I am bound to others, here in Brianta. I am not free to act entirely on my own.”

“And yet you come to us as a petitioner? A petitioner who is not prepared to follow through on her petition?”

“I come to you as a guildsman, Master. But I also come as a subject of Morenia. King Halaravilli ben-Jair himself has charged me with responsibilities here in Brianta. I must stay with Princess Berylina in our pilgrims' accommodations. Nevertheless, I shall submit to all else that my guild requires of me.”

Halaravilli ben-Jair. The cursed king, whose own father had brought Parion to these bitter straits. The house of ben-Jair would not issue commands here in the Briantan guildhall! Morenia had forfeited that right when it destroyed the innocent guild, when it ordered the glorious old hall torn stone from stone. Parion would die before he would yield to ben-Jair. He would do whatever must be done to see the king crumple in defeat!

Patience, Parion reminded himself. He had waited for all these years; he could wait for a few more. Patience was all that he required. … Eventually, he would return to Morenia. Eventually he would be back in the land of his birth, with access and power to destroy the king.

“Very well, then,” he said, and he realized that only a few heartbeats had passed, despite the fire of his thoughts, despite the flash of fury that had pumped through his veins. “You shall stay with your princess, stay with the pilgrims. But each morning, you shall report to the guildhall, by no later than sunrise. You shall report to Journeyman Larinda, that she might test your skills.”

“Larinda!” He heard the raw surprise in the Traitor's voice, and he resisted the urge to smile against it.

“Aye, Larinda. You knew her well, when you once worked with us. Who better to gauge your fitness to return to our midst?”

He saw the knowledge flit across the Traitor's face. He watched her swallow hard and curl her hands into tight fists, folding her glass-scarred fingers protectively over her thumbs. She was no fool. She knew what fare Larinda had paid. She knew how harshly the former apprentice was likely to deal with the instrument of her maiming.

Before the Traitor could fashion a response, Parion looked to Larinda. Even he was surprised by the expression on the girl's pinched face, by the open flame of hatred there. He was reminded of the look in Morada's eyes, when she first learned that the guild would not permit her to travel about the land, to present her skills to all who wished to hire a glasswright. Morada, who had given her life in service to her guild, who had struggled as an Instructor to raise up the Traitor, to teach the girl who had only brought brutal, bloody death to her sisters, her brothers. …

Parion closed his eyes for just a moment, resisting the temptation to breathe a prayer to Gar, the god of vengeance. Gar would have his due, after all, no matter what Parion did at this juncture, no matter how he acted. Gar would make all right for Parion here in Brianta, and for Morada, wherever she walked in the Heavenly Fields.

Swallowing his thoughts as if they were a bitter draft, Parion raised one hand to summon Larinda forward. The guildmaster made certain that his sleeve fell back as he did so; he guaranteed that all who stood in the meeting hall could see the ragged scars across his own forearm. The Traitor blanched at the inflamed reminder of his blood sacrifice.

In response to the gesture, Larinda stepped away from the other journeymen. As if inspired by Clain himself, she crossed her arms over her chest, taking care not to jostle her silk and metal Hands unduly. Parion could not have crafted a finer gesture if he were sketching out a design on parchment—the girl managed to capture her loss and her power, her anger and her sorrow, all in one smooth motion. He nodded once, again regretting that Morada could not be here to witness the child that she had trained, the shrewd guildsman that she had set upon the path toward success.

He turned back to the Traitor. “Do you accept that term?” He nearly stumbled and called her by his private epithet. That he could not do. Not yet. Not publicly. “Will you report to Larinda Glasswright?”

The Traitor glanced toward her Touched companion, clearly seeking counsel. The dark-haired girl took advantage of the infant that she held, shifting the child from one arm to the other and using the motion to soften the shake of her head. So. The Touched girl thought the guild's requirement was overly harsh. She thought that her precious friend should not submit to Larinda's oversight.

The Traitor was not content with that advice, though. Instead, she also looked to the player, settling her gaze on the man's face for a long moment.

The player was more aware than the Touched girl. He knew that Parion was watching him. With all the composure of a man accustomed to performing in crowds, the rogue glassworker took a step backwards, settling his gloved hands on his hips. The motion let him shrug his shoulders eloquently, disclaiming any certainty, any knowledge, any belief in what would happen if the Traitor acted or if she did not. Tacitly, he indicated that she should submit.

The Traitor was clearly displeased with such counsel; she started to protest. Before the words could rise from her throat, though, Larinda spoke.

“Ranita.” The journeyman's words were low, whispered as if she were only just awakening from deepest sleep. “Welcome to our guildhall, sister. I look forward to sharing with you once again, as we shared the secrets of our youth.”

The Traitor had the grace to look ashamed as she turned to face Larinda. When she answered the gentle words, Parion could hear emotion behind her voice. “I think of you often, Larinda. I remember our working as sisters, in furtherance of our guild.”

“Side by side, we labored. And now, we may do so again.”

The Traitor swallowed audibly and stepped toward Larinda, extending her hand in a time-honored gesture of peace. She said, “We may do so now. I look forward to the opportunity.”

Parion saw the instant that Larinda grasped the Traitor's hand. He saw the way the maimed journeyman flexed her wrist, the way that she closed her Hand more tightly. He knew enough about the mechanical contraption to understand the pain Larinda was causing, but the Traitor did not register the hurt.

Instead, she merely shifted her own wrist, tightening her own grip. She set her jaw and raised her chin, as if she were once again the defiant glasswrights' apprentice, once again the girl who had spent untold hours on her knees before the altar to Sorn, the god of obedience, to Plad, the god of patience.

“Be welcome in our house, sister.” Larinda said.

“Many thanks for your kindness. I will do everything in my power to make you pleased with the decision you have made.”

Parion wondered if he was the only person who heard the shuffle of the Fellows in the shadows. He must complete this exercise now, before they chose to show themselves, before they elected to tear down the fragile edifice that he was constructing.

“That is settled, then. You will submit to Larinda Glasswright during all the time you visit our guildhall. That is not our only requirement, however. There is more that we expect of you.”

“More?”

Parion heard the challenge in her throat, saw the uncertainty that flashed across her eyes. He raised one hand, pointing sternly to count off the second of his rules. “You shall eat no food in Brianta but what we serve in this guildhall. I will allocate for you a plate, a bowl, and a cup for your exclusive use.”