Glasswrights' Test (6 page)

After all, he was the one who had negotiated with the Fellowship. He was the one who was letting Larinda view the treasure now, letting her realize the riches that she would soon have at her disposal. Nevertheless, he was not surprised that the journeyman's first instinct was to salute the Pilgrim. Better to bathe in the stream of Brianta, than. … He let the old proverb trail off in his mind.

“May I, Master?” The longing on her face was naked, and she nodded toward her crippled hand, toward the wondrous new tool.

“Yes, Journeyman. I would like to see how it works. Let me help you with that.” He reached out to unfasten the heavy metal Hand that already closed about her wrist.

Larinda merely eyed him with steady accusation. Of course she did not need help with her existing Hand. She had spent eight years mastering the tool. If she could not tame the straps and buckles herself, she could hardly profit from their use.

Parion stepped back, darting his agile fingers in the ritual symbol of apology, offering up his mistake to all the Thousand Gods. He winced as Larinda set aside the precious new armature and waved her own fingers through the traditional acceptance of an apology. She made the motion without seeming to realize how awkward it was, without appearing to be aware that it required both thumbs to gather in his gesture, to reply in the traditional way.

He shook his head, knowing that he rebelled against the Briantans' strict rituals so that he did not have to pay attention to Larinda's actions. The girl began removing her older Hands, settling the heavy structures on the table. As he watched her painful progress, he remembered that she had been the first apprentice maimed in the old guildhall. A soldier's knife had flashed and left her with her without a thumb, with her right hand suddenly seeming too long, too thin. The resulting limb would have been eerily graceful, if blood had not pumped from the wound.

Others had suffered, once the apprentices were herded into the king's dungeons. There, more apprentices lost first one thumb, then the other. He could still remember how the soldiers had come for Larinda in the grey light before a winter dawn, come to destroy her other hand. They had dragged her from the squalid holding cell, bullied her into the courtyard. She had fought like a wildcat, twisting, turning, biting the soldiers who sought to overpower her. Four men had forced the hysterical child to the ground, and a fifth had raised his fateful blade. A single flash, which Parion had glimpsed from the barred dungeon window, and then Larinda had been tossed back into her cell, shivering, whimpering, unable to catch her breath against the pain and the shock and the blood. So much blood.

If Larinda resented the fact that she had nearly been spared the second amputation, she never spoke of it. She never outwardly mourned the cruel twist that had deprived her of her left thumb on the very day that the old king declared the forlorn guildsmen free to go. But Parion knew that
he
would have resented the happenstance. It would have settled in his belly like a burning stone, and he would have hated the world even more than he already did—he would have despised the Traitor with a passion hotter than a glass kiln.

But who knew how Larinda Glasswright's mind worked? Who knew what thoughts coursed behind her eyes as she stared at the new armature? She caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she studied the contraption. She rotated her wrists, as if measuring the best approach. She was a general, calculating the superior placement of troops; she was preparing to do battle with a new and untested army.

Only when she had studied the tool from every possible angle did she spare him a tight nod. “Very well, then. Let us see how this one works.”

And she reached out for the Hand. He knew not to help her. He knew that he would only make things worse if he held the device, if he offered to tighten one of the straps. She would have to work the buckles her own way, tighten down the device with her own ingenuity.

And, of course, she did. He should not have been surprised by the creativity she applied; after all, he'd seen her solve more complex problems every day of her Briantan life. Nevertheless, he admired the way that she cut through the confusion of the new tool, the way that she turned it about, maneuvered it, made it her own.

Ah, Morada, Parion thought. If you could have been here to train this one, if you could have passed on your knowledge and your wisdom to one as deserving as she. … But Morada was dead, of course. Executed because of the Traitor.

The Traitor that the Fellowship wanted him to summon.

Parion shook his head, shying away from the letter that he had pledged to write. He spoke to fill the awful silence, to distract himself from the pained expression on Larinda's face as she worked the silken ribbons, as she struggled to find the new balance in the tool that would be her life. “What other news, Larinda? What is happening in fair Brianta this summer morn, outside our own guildhall?”

“The priests prepare for the feast of the Pilgrim's birth.” She answered immediately, but her tone was distracted. She was moving her wrist against the silken padding, reaching out with the fingers of her left hand to smooth the cuff. “We journeymen will be ready to show you our glass designs by noon.”

Parion was surprised. He had not expected to see the sketches for another week. He nodded, though, as Larinda tightened two of the ribbons. The metal jaws flashed open. “And have we decided which cycle we will tell?” He tried to make the question casual, tried to seem as if he wasn't hanging on her every action with the new Hand.

After all, he had listened to hours of debate among the glasswrights, about the new commission. Some thought that the guild should create works depicting Jair's life in Brianta—six panels, one for each of the castes, and one for the holy, over-arching status of Pilgrim. Others, though, believed that the glasswrights could better serve their purpose by imagining on a larger scale. One journeyman had argued eloquently for the six windows to depict the five great kingdoms, with Brianta taking precedence, of course, as the land of Jair's birth.

Larinda glanced up from the mechanism, blinking her eyes as she focused on Parion's question. “I should not tell you, Master. You should see the designs for yourself.”

“Aye, and I will. But you can tell me the direction that the discussions have taken.”

Larinda looked uncomfortable, and she let her gaze return to the Hand. She flexed her wrist to close the jaws, then arched her palm to settle the iron bracelet more comfortably against her flesh. She chose her words with care as she found a better balance with the tool. “One of the journeymen hit upon a solution, Master. A combination of the various plans that had been discussed.”

“Yes?” he prompted when she fell silent.

“Jair's life should be depicted—each of the castes. But he should be linked with a kingdom for each of the stations. With Brianta, we'll focus on his life among the Touched. With Liantine, his merchant days, for the goods he traded in that land. For Sarmonia, we'll show him in the weaver's guild. In Amanthia, he'll be a soldier, and in Morenia, a nobleman, a priest. The last window will show him in his true guise, in his overarching presentation, as First Pilgrim.”

Parion heard the pride in Larinda's voice, and he knew that she must have devised the plan. “You think, then, that all will be pleased, if we follow this path.”

“Of course not. We will never find a design that pleases
everyone
.” Her disdain was palpable. “I think, though, that this is a good plan.”

Parion nodded. “Very well, then. I will look at the designs. We'll see what works.”

“The guild is honored by the Master's attention.”

“Noon, then? I'll come to the hall and view the drawings.”

“Noon, Master.” She nodded and returned her attention to the Hand. This time, however, she slipped her fingers out of the silken ribbons. She wriggled her wrist through the cloth-covered band and returned the treasure to his work table. “That is a good tool, Master. A great tool for your humble glasswrights.”

He heard the longing in her voice. Curse the Traitor! Why should a glasswright as good and loyal as Larinda be reduced to pining after a twisted pile of silk and iron?

“Two weeks, Larinda,” he said. “Two weeks, and it shall be yours.”

“Clain smiles upon us, Master.”

“Aye. Clain smiles upon us.”

He waited for Larinda to take her leave, to let him return to his work. She did not make any motion toward the door, though, and she did not mutter one of the standard prayers to end conversation. “Is there something else, Larinda?”

“One thing more. We have completed our survey of the cavalcade points.”

The cavalcade points. In the midst of all his other plans, Parion had nearly forgotten the basis for the upcoming glasswrights' test, for the journeymen's ascension within the guild.

The points were scattered throughout the capital of Brianta—one thousand of them. Each was dedicated to a different god, forming the start for pilgrims' journeys. A priest was stationed at each point, offering a parchment scroll and an ornate wax seal. Pilgrims planned carefully before beginning their travels, plotting a course through Brianta so that a personal series of gods watched over their journeys.

The lucky pilgrims, the ones who had both money and time, would leave Brianta then. They would travel to distant shrines made sacred to their chosen gods, or to places holy to the First Pilgrim. At each stage of their journey, they would add to their cavalcade, to the scroll that recorded their worship.

The most faithful of the pilgrims would make their way to Morenia, tracing Jair's own path. Jair had lived out the final decades of his life in Moren, and he had died in that city. Each year, hundreds of pilgrims arranged to be in Moren for the annual recreation of Jair's arrival in the city, for the presentation of the First Pilgrim.

“So, the survey is finished,” Parion repeated.

“Yes, Master. I have instructed one of the younger journeymen to copy over the figures. I'll deliver them to you before the end of the day.”

“And what do they tell us?”

“Much as we expected. There are only forty-three cavalcade points that boast full churches.”

Forty-three. That left hundreds of opportunities. Parion forced himself not to leap ahead too far in his plans. “And are there windows in each of those churches?”

“Certainly. Some of them are quite good, in fact. We need not direct our attentions to them for a while.”

“And the ones that are not churches?”

“There are four hundred and twenty-two buildings. Mostly single rooms, in priests' houses, or in shops that are sacred to a particular god.”

“Windows?”

“In a handful. Not many. The owners of the rooms would likely be grateful for anything that we offer.”

“And the others? What about the other gods? It's what—more than five hundred?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“They have altars. Small shelters for priests, little more than single walls to protect a candle flame. The priests don't stay there on a daily basis; they visit only occasionally. Once a week, perhaps, to attend to pilgrims' needs, to stamp their cavalcades and send the faithful on their way.”

“And those altars, are they decorated?”

“They have cloths. The faithful bring flowers in season, or other devotional offerings.”

“And glass?”

“At none of them.”

“None.” Parion repeated the word, breathing in as if he spoke a prayer. None. The gods were being neglected. Eighty glasswrights, here in Brianta. More than five hundred altars. They could craft symbols for the abandoned gods, Larinda and the other journeymen who were ready to rise to master status. They could recognize the power and the glory of each deity. Parion said, “I'll need the list.”

“It will be done by this afternoon.”

“Very good.” Already, he could see the whitewashed tables, could imagine his people
hard at work. The emblems they would create would be fine work, worthy of the accolade “master.”

The neglected third tier gods would exalt in the attention. The priests would be grateful, eager to recompense such a pious guild. They would use the glasswrights' devotion to inspire activity by other guildsmen, more concrete examples of craft offered up in honor of faith. The priests would preach about the glory of the glasswrights who offered up their art and skill in service of the gods.

And even if the priests didn't pay for the new altarpieces outright, the pilgrims would. They would make offerings at the cavalcade points. They would seek out glasswrights to create replicas of the insignias, reproductions of the masterpieces. The guild could create a formbook, a description of each piece and how it should be made. Apprentices could learn their craft by practicing on those forms. Journeymen could set the pieces, stain them, solder them. A master could certify them—yes, a stamp would be necessary. Each medallion would have a lead tag, an official designation, proving that it was issued by a master glasswright.

The guild could sell them at the larger cavalcade points—the more senior apprentices could work the transactions. The complete set would be available to interested pilgrims who visited the guildhall itself.

Would anyone want all of the medallions? Was there a nobleman in all the world devoted enough—and wealthy enough—to want one thousand emblems? One thousand and one, Parion quickly remonstrated with himself. He mustn't forget Jair. The guild would create a separate symbol for the Pilgrim, for the man who defined true faith in all the Thousand Gods.

“Very good, Larinda,” Parion forced himself to say. “Send me the list as soon as it is complete, and we will begin to plot our course among the points. You'll be working on your masterpiece by the end of summer.”

“Thank you, Master.” The gratitude in her voice was palpable. “I look forward to serving the guild.” Like a good journeyman, she bowed her head as she left his study, nearly managing to avoid a last longing glance at the Hand on Parion's work table.