Glasswrights' Master (11 page)

The old retainer's game worked. His guard relaxed even more when they saw nothing to alarm them in the satchel. Rather, Puladarati produced a handful of scrolls, each sealed with Hal's crimson wax.

King Hamid broke the sigil on the first one himself, and he scanned the words with casual negligence. Whatever was written there clearly matched Rani's story; she appeared to have royal drafts to underwrite her supposed merchant trip. “Very well, Madam Tinker. These papers support your words. Nevertheless, you had no royal charter to be in the woods.”

“I did not know–” Rani started to plead, but she was interrupted by Tovin.

“Please, Your Majesty. Varna did not know the laws in Sarmonia. She is a simple tinker, not a diplomat wise in the ways of foreign courts. She did not think to challenge your authority. How could she, with a serving girl,” he gestured toward Mair, “and an aged accounts-man?” Tovin's hand included Davin, deprecating the so-called merchant caravan with a shrug. “They are hardly an invading enemy force.”

“And yet, they are. She and her companions had no business in the clearing.”

Tovin smiled easily; he might have been discussing sweetmeats at a feast. “Your Majesty, their business was to be with me. Perhaps they were confused about our meeting place. After all, Sire, you gave permission to all my players to use the Great Clearing. Certainly, one small merchant party could not cause more disruption at a lesser place in the woods.”

Rani heard the camaraderie in Tovin's voice, the casual manner in which he addressed the king. She had seen this side of the player before; she had watched him melt into courts as readily as if he were noble-born. He could play a Touched man as well, she knew, or a merchant, a guildsman. Rani did not trust Tovin for one instant, not when he smiled that easy smile, not when he tossed his chestnut curls back from his face.

“Tovin Player, you would make me break my own rules.”

“Your Majesty, I would merely have you stretch them. You have granted a charter to me and my players. Surely it is only logical to extend that charter to my sponsor.”

King Hamid stared at the player for a long minute, then cast his eyes over Rani's companions. He counted out the soldiers, but his attention merely brushed over those he considered too old or too unimportant to recognize–Davin, Mair, Hal himself. At last, the Sarmonian sighed. “Very well, Tovin Player. You plead your case well. Your charter covers your sponsor.”

Tovin bowed his head and muttered thanks. King Hamid ignored the words, saying, “You have inconvenienced me, though. For that, I should be recompensed. I will expect your players to attend my supper this evening, in my private apartments. A short piece, a comedy, I believe. That will help me to forget all this bother.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. I know just the selection. In fact, if you have time after you hear the other matters of your court, we could Speak of it before you retire for the afternoon.”

“Speak of it.…” King Hamid repeated the words, and Rani read the thirst in his
narrow eyes. The king had already had occasion to meet with Tovin, then; he had already been lured
into the quiet depths of the players' Speaking. Rani could not blame King Hamid for the gleam in his
eyes; she herself craved the power of the secret places where Tovin could lead her. Even now, even
here, in the dangerous southern receiving hall, Rani could recall the strange power that the player
held over her, his awesome ability to take her deep into her own thoughts, into her own pasts, into
memories so distant that she could not consciously remember them. She remembered the peace that she
had found in the Speaking, and the power and the strength. “Yes,” the king said, as if he were
shaking himself awake from a dream. “We will Speak later this afternoon. Until then, take your
sponsor and leave us to our work.”

The king waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, and Rani found herself being rushed from the hall. Only when they were back in the courtyard under the late summer sun, did the guards see fit to loosen their prisoners' bonds. Rani bit back tart words as the blood began to flow into her fingertips.

Hal's men did not bother to smother their comments; most of them swore at the discomfort. None was so foolish, though, as to comment on the charade they had just witnessed. Tovin merely glanced at the Morenians as if he were accustomed to their companionship, and then he said, “Varna, I have taken a room at the Golden Bee. Shall we go there, so that I can tell you about our bookings here in Sarmonia?”

The assumed name still sounded odd in her ear, but she agreed for the sake of the Sarmonian soldiers who still stood within earshot. “Aye. My men would do well with a pint in the common room.”

It was a testament to the training of Hal's Morenian troops that they did not hesitate to group around her, acting as her escort when they left King Hamid's palace. They even turned toward her with the slight deference that trained fighting men owed their employers. Rani could not help but notice that Hal stayed close to her side–that made the job easier for his men, no doubt.

They held the formation out into the city streets, permitting Tovin to guide them through the warren of Riadelle.

“Very good, men,” she said, on the threshold of the Golden Bee. “Tovin Player and I will take our cups in the far corner. We'll be safe enough in the common room. Order supper–first ale for each of you will come from my purse.” She tried to sound as if she had directed caravan guards for her entire life, lest any observers run back to King Hamid.

The men allowed some honest pleasure to crease their faces, and then they commandeered three long tables. Rani was not surprised to see that Hal ended up in the middle of the crowd, protected, made invisible by his loyal men. Mair huddled in the shadows, apparently doing her best to look like a merchant's serving girl, although she held her black square of cloth in nervous fingers.

Rani forcibly set aside her worry and followed Tovin to a small table in the corner. The seats were close to the fire, and everyone else in the common room had the good sense to avoid the heat. Rani found herself thinking of fires back in Moren, of a welcome glow against autumn's growing chill. The first harvests would be coming in, fresh grain, strong new wine.…

She recognized the pattern of thoughts in her own mind. She was attempting to avoid the fact that she sat across the table from Tovin, that they were alone together for the first time since their ragged parting. She had dreamed of the things that she would say to him; she had imagined the apologies that he might make. She had despaired that she would see him ever again.

Trying to set aside the cloud of quite unmerchant-like thoughts that besieged her, she said, “Varna Tinker?”

“If I'd given your real name, the Fellowship would be upon us in a heartbeat. You know they must be searching for you. You and your king.”

She appreciated his restraint, his failure to indicate that Rani's king was in the very room, even as she wished that he was yet more discreet. Even as she wished that they were discussing something else. Even as she wished that he would take her hand, place his fingers against her cheek, against the flesh at the V of her neck. She cleared her throat. “What do you know about that? You weren't even
in
Morenia.”

“I have my sources. My players are still there, of course. They have ways of conveying messages, faster than Hamid's intelligence.”

She must not look at his copper eyes. She must not think about the feel of his curls beneath her fingertips. She roughened her voice and asked, “If your troop remains in Moren, who are you working with here? Who will perform for King Hamid?”

“My new company hails directly from Liantine. They arrived in Riadelle just as I did. We've been together now for seven months. They had some good basic players, and I've been able to teach them a thing or two.”

“From Liantine?” Rani asked. “Then they are sworn against Morenia in the northern battle?” She could not keep condemnation from her tone, even though she knew her question put herself and her companions at risk, even though she knew her words might tell too much to anyone who overheard.

“They are players,” Tovin said, shrugging. “They have no loyalties to kings, to boundaries on a map. They honor their sponsor, their plays, and cold, hard coin.”

“So you feel nothing for the land you left to come to Sarmonia? For the people in the home you built away from Liantine?” She knew that her voice sounded hurt; she was not speaking merely of players.

He knew as well. “What is that to you?”

She struggled to stake out a claim of righteousness, of moral high ground for the battle that she wanted to wage. “Do you know how much your mother has missed you? Have you even thought about the players you left behind? They need you–your glasswork and your guidance and your skills.”

“My mother always misses me. She knows that I've been gone for longer trips in the past, buying silk, trading for glass. She always survives. As for the other players, they hardly remember I'm in the troop until I come back bearing riches.”

Rani could not gainsay him; she knew that the others
were
accustomed to his strange comings and goings. Far more accustomed than she had ever become, in any case. She looked away, suddenly fascinated by the hem of her sleeve.

She should not have let Tovin speak for the Morenians back in King Hamid's reception hall. She should have figured out some other way to escape. She should have worked out some other solution, found some path that did not include debt to Tovin.

For this way was simply too hard. She longed to tell him all that he had done wrong, all the ways that he had hurt her, and yet she feared to hear his bill of woes filed against her. She knew that he could manipulate her; she had given him license to do so many times in the past. She knew that he could make her feel guilt, and pity, and responsibility.…

As Rani took a steadying breath, Tovin accepted two tankards of ale from a serving girl, and he ordered a plate of roasted capon. Rani drank deeply as soon as he placed her cup on the table. She had not realized the thirst she'd built as she was hauled before the king. Tovin waited until she had finished, and then he passed her his own cup, offering it with a crooked smile. She dispensed with politeness and swallowed half of it as well.

“Tovin,” she said, fortified enough that she could meet his eyes. “I've missed you.”

“You say that now. I doubt that you took the time to notice your feelings while you were still in the north.”

“How can you say that? You
know
that I did not want you to leave.”

“I know that you wanted me to stay. And you wanted to be alone. You wanted to pursue your guildwork and your courtly life. You wanted to keep me as some sort of hound, a devoted beast who would stay beside you until you sent him to the kennels.”

“Or the mews,” she said, without thinking first. Tovin was no dog, no devoted, slavish follower. Rather, he was a falcon, a scarce-tamed raptor who would flee from her if she gave him half a chance. Who
had
fled from her.…

She caught her breath, aware that her words might be construed as an insult, knowing that she now owed him, no matter what she might otherwise have wished.

“Or the mews,” he repeated, and he grinned. Her body responded to that open smile. She relaxed and leaned toward him, as if she would harvest more of his good nature. He sighed and said, “Shall we dispense with tales, my merchant girl? You say that you miss me, and yet you never sought me out. I say that no one in Morenia mourns my absence, and yet I've avoided sending messages to my mother, to my troop, to my sponsor. Peace?”

She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that he was selfish, that he was stubborn and foolish and vain. Instead, she nodded. “Peace,” she said, but she had to lick her lips and repeat the word so that he could hear her.

“So,” he said, his voice full of brio. “Are you going to tell me what you're doing in Sarmonia?”

“Not here. Not now.”

“But the stories are true? Halaravilli is a hunted man?”

He phrased the question in the abstract, as if the subject of the question was not sitting a dozen paces away. Her face flushed, and she could not say if it was from the lie they presented to the tavern patrons, or the fire beside her, or the rush of ale to her head. “Aye. He's hunted. Rumor says that he's fled Moren. That he's hoping to regroup where it's safe. Once he's had a chance to plot a course, he hopes to find allies.”

Tovin nodded, as if she were discussing the unseasonably warm weather. “He'll do well to avoid Sarmonia, then. No allies to be had here. King Hamid has loyalties no Morenian will ever understand, between the electorate and the landed men.”

“What exactly does that mean?” Rani asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. “The landed men?”

Tovin shrugged. “Here in Sarmonia, each man who owns ten hectares is allowed to cast a vote. He names an elector, a sort of regional liege lord. The elector takes his region's concerns to the king. When an old king dies, the electors gather together and choose the successor.”

“How secure is the king, then, if he has to answer to all these men?”

“An elector can call for a vote at any time. But if he calls too often, or if the challenge goes against him, then he's not likely to stay elector for long.”

Rani nodded, trying to make sense of the strange pattern. Electors to keep fulfilled. Landed men to satisfy. A king who ruled at their pleasure, with the goal of keeping them happy, but advancing himself as well. A king who already traded with Liantine, who already embraced a player's troop from that distant land.

And, spinning out from the tangled web were strands that Rani could not even see. “The Fellowship?” She risked the open question, more desperate for information than for perfect safety. “Have you made contact with them here?”