Glasswrights' Master (19 page)

“Sweet Lar bled fer me, Rai. I told 'im 'e'd be safe 'n' I lied. I bleed fer 'im now. I bind 'im t' me. I keep 'im in me thoughts.”

“Oh, Mair.…” Rani fought back tears of anger and frustration. “He does not need
you to cut yourself. He knew that you loved him.”

“'Ow could 'e know that? 'E was a babe, too young t' understand my words. 'E could 'ear 'em, but 'e couldna know what they meant.” Slowly, deliberately, Mair reached down to the most recent cut on her leg, to the one that Rani had cleansed, had finally stanched. Catching her tongue between her teeth, Mair stretched at her flesh, pulling it open so that the cut began to bleed again.

“Mair! Stop it!”

“I can bear th' pain, Rai. A little pain t' remember th' son I let die.”

“You didn't let him die!”

“I left 'im when 'e most needed me.”

“You left him with a nursemaid! You thought that he was safe! You did nothing wrong. He still
could
have been safe if–” Rani caught her words at the back of her throat, but she knew that her eyes had widened in horror. No. Not that secret. Not those words that she had vowed she would never say.

“If?” Mair asked, and her eyes were suddenly locked on Rani's.

“I don't know, Mair,” she whispered, wishing fervently, desperately, that she could steal back her words.

“If what, Rai? Laranifarso could have been safe if what had happened?”

Rani did not miss the fact that Mair had lapsed into her courtly speech. The Touched woman had drawn herself up straight on her stone seat; she had raised her chin imperiously, applying all the tricks of command that she had learned at court. Rani swallowed hard. “It won't change anything. No matter what I tell you, your son will still be gone.”

“You must tell me what you know, Rai. I have the right.”

How could she argue with that? Didn't she believe that Mair had the right? Wasn't that why Rani had spent the better part of the past ten months avoiding her friend? Wasn't that why the bloody cuts on Mair's thighs ached on Rani's own flesh?

Rani collapsed onto the stone outcropping. A part of her mind registered that the rocks still radiated heat from the height of the noonday sun. The air was cooler now. There would be fog in the glade that night. Fog might obscure the sliver of moonlight.

“Rai.”

She was delaying. She had delayed this moment for months.

“Rai.”

It was time. Mair deserved as much. Laranifarso deserved as much.

“When–” She had to stop. She had to swallow hard, and then she licked her lips, trying desperately to moisten them enough to speak. Her heart pounded inside her chest, pushing against her lungs and making her take short gasps. “When we were in Brianta, I went to see Princess Berylina. When she was in prison. Before she was brought before the Curia.”

Mair stared at her, not interrupting, not breathing, not betraying her thoughts with a single movement.

“I left Berylina, Father Siritalanu and I did. As we returned to the inn, to you and to Tovin, we were stopped. Attacked.” She waited for Mair to ask a question, to clear some sort of path. The Touched woman offered no such assistance. “By Crestman,” she managed to choke out. “He forced a vial into my hand, told me that I must kill Queen Mareka.”

At last, Mair spoke. “And he said your test was held in the balance, that you would not make master if you did not comply.” The story was familiar, of course. Rani had told as much before.

“He made another demand.” Rani's voice had shrunk, shriveled to a dry whisper that required Mair to lean closer. “He said that he had taken Laranifarso. He said your son would die if I did not act.”

“Act.” Mair repeated the word as if she had never heard it before. “But you did not kill the queen. You spilled the poison and left water in its stead.”

“Aye.”

“And you failed your master's test.”

“Aye.” Rani watched Mair measure out the betrayal, weigh the full offense.

“And you killed Laranifarso.”

“I did not kill him!”

“You set the wheels in motion. You acted in a way that was certain to cause his death!”

“Not certain! Mair, do you think I would have switched the poison if I'd known I would fail? Do you think that I would have forfeited my rights within my guildhall?”

“Your guildhall, aye.…” Mair repeated the words as if she were discovering them
for the first time, as if she were seeing Rani all anew. “You wanted a position of power and
prestige. How foolish of me to think about my poor, defenseless babe.”

“Mair, it wasn't like that! It wasn't choosing one and ignoring the other! I was trying to do the best that I could. I was exhausted, and I was starving. I had that trembling sickness, and my hair was falling out–”

“My son died because you lost your hair?”

“Mair, that isn't fair!”

“Don't tell me what is and isn't fair, Rai. Don't tell me what your actions cost you. Don't tell me what price you paid the day that
you
thought out your course of action, that
you
chose to save Mareka. You chose to defy the Fellowship and Crestman. Don't speak to me of fairness!”

Mair's shout ended as she grabbed the spiderguild knife from Rani's unsuspecting fingers. The Touched woman was fast, faster than Rani had imagined. She set the blade against her forearm, cutting quickly, smoothly, moving the blade perpendicular to her arm.

“Mair, no! Stop it!” Rani leaped for the knife, toppling them both from the rock. The fall knocked the air from her lungs, but then she scrambled to her feet, fumbled for the weapon, for Mair's arm. Her breath came out in a sob, and her fingers came away sticky with her friend's blood. “Mair, this isn't your fault! You can't cut yourself again. You were not responsible for Laranifarso's death! You had no way to stop it!”

Mair scrambled backward until her spine rested against the rock. She was panting like a wild thing, but she made her words absolutely clear. “I
did
have a way to stop it. I should have stopped you.”

“You did not know, Mair. I told no one. I could not think, I could not stop to ask for help. I could not figure any other way, and I thought that it would all work out. I thought that all would be well.”

Mair pulled herself to her feet. She stared down, a look of disgust twisting her lips into the ugliest sneer that Rani had ever seen. “You thought wrong. You, Ranita Glasswright. You, Rani Trader. You used your guild-knowledge and your merchant-ken, but you thought wrong. A little of the Touched, and you might have been saved. A little turning to your troop, and we all might have come through this. Alive.”

Mair took one step forward, the spiderguild knife flashing in her hand. Rani bit back a cry, but Mair only laughed, a bitter sound as chill as the fog that had begun to breathe from the earth. She stooped down, and Rani had to blink to identify the object that she held. The silk square, of course. The remnant of Lar.

The Touched woman held the cloth against her wrist, pressing it hard as she worked to stop the bleeding. Without lifting the fabric, she turned on her heel and started to walk away, into the forest, away from the path.

“Mair! Wait!” But Mair continued walking. “It isn't safe! You should not be alone in the woods!” The Touched woman's skirts melted into the shadows of the trees. “Mair, come back! Mair, please!”

But no amount of calling made the grieving mother return.

 

 

 

Chapter 8

 

Hal watched from the shadows as Tovin Player came forward on the stage. Hal and Tovin had debated long into the previous night about which play the troop should present. Hal had argued for one of the tragedies, a dark tale of secret mystery, of ominous instruction that would serve as a reminder of all the obligations of the crown.

Tovin, though, had said that he should present a comedy, a froth of amusement and humor. He had argued that such a production would lighten Hamid's mood, make the Sarmonian monarch receptive to demands that would be difficult for him to meet, even under the best of circumstances.

At last, Hal had given in, stifling a yawn against the back of his teeth. What difference did the players make, in any case? What were the chances that Hamid would pay them any mind, no matter how telling the production proved to be, no matter how crafty the players?

Hal had to admit that if the tables had been turned, he would not be inclined to help out another royal. Not one who had been driven into exile by
two
enemy armies. Not one who had hidden in his forest under false pretenses. Not one who had lied before his very court.

Lied to the king. Long to take wing. What will fate bring?

Hal grimaced at the dark rhymes in his head, and thrust a quick glance at Puladarati, hoping that the duke had not noticed his momentary distraction. Fortunately, the nobleman was focused on Tovin, fixed on the player's sing-song proclamation: “We hope you liked our ballads; we hope you liked our show. We'll please you well the next time; for now our troop must go.”

The player swept his cape behind him as he bowed, the flourish nearly as thrilling as the play had been amusing. As he stepped back into the shadows, three machines rolled onto the stage. Earlier in the evening, Hal had watched the players consulting with Davin. The ancient engineer had been instrumental in pushing the troop to use his toys, to experiment with their possibilities.

Each engine rolled forward on a nest of interlocking gears, rounds and pegs that Davin had fashioned from deadwood in the forest. A shield set atop each creation, sheltering the workings and disguising the motive power–a crankshaft that had been wound tightly by teams of players just off the stage.

The watching Sarmonian nobles fell silent as the engines crept forward, their wooden parts rattling in the hall. As one, the shields slid back, revealing carved pegs striped with bright colors. Hal heard a few exclamations, a number of whispered questions, and then each crankshaft finished its unwinding. The machines stopped, frozen on the edge of the stage.

Hal glanced at Davin, saw the old man's lips moving inside his long, grey beard. One. Two. Three.

And then the machines sprang to attention. The ribbon-wrapped pegs flew from their horizontal position to an upright stance, and the energy carried lengths of silk forward, streaming across the audience. The nobles cried out with surprise, and then they laughed as soft silk billowed to the floor–brilliant lengths of cobalt and crimson and topaz. The audience erupted into applause, stamping their feet against the floor and roaring their pleasure.

Hal did not think that the trick had been as good as all that, but it was more memorable than the play. Thinking back, he could not recall a single word of the performance. There had been a shepherd boy and a dog–Hal remembered that much. The sun had been a character as well, and a maiden, and a fat, pompous mayor from a silly mountain village.

The Morenians lent their applause as well, but without the Sarmonian enthusiasm. There were too many worried watchers, too many northerners who knew precisely what was to follow the production. Puladarati surveyed the assembly of Sarmonians, nodding occasionally as he counted out worthy allies. Farso was less obvious in his calculation, but he remained tense by Hal's side.

Only Rani seemed to measure out the crowd's approval for its own reward, noting who stooped to gather up the silk banners, who edged forward to view Davin's wondrous machines. Perhaps she was counting her potential wealth from sponsoring such fine players. Her merchant mind must function even here, even now, when the moment of confrontation drew near.

Had Tovin chosen his play well? Or might Hamid see himself mocked as the fat mayor? Might he take exception to the depiction of political might?

Political might. Traditional right. Soldierly fight.

No! Hal must focus. His mind must not wander. Too much depended on what was said next, on the alliances that he might forge on the heels of the players' tale. His ears buzzed as if he had consumed a deep draught of Mareka's spider nectar, but he managed to force his rhyming schemes into a small corner of his mind. He made himself turn a mental key, locking away the distraction of despair.

Silence. He was ready, then. He was prepared.

On the stage, Tovin had sunk to one knee and bowed his head to Hamid in unaccustomed humility. “Your Majesty,” he said, “If our piece pleased you, I would beg a boon.”

“A boon?” Hamid pounced on the request like an eagle snatching a fish from a mountain lake. “Beyond the right to settle in my forest, you mean? Beyond the right to make your camp in the middle of my Great Clearing?”

For all the anxiety Tovin showed, he might have been cajoling his mother for an extra portion of pie. Hal envied the man. The player grinned and shrugged. “Aye, Your Majesty. Those gifts have served us well, of course, and we have been honored to return your hospitality upon this stage tonight. There is more, though, that I would ask.”

Hamid's nobles looked to their king expectantly, clearly curious as to how he would handle such an unaccustomed request. After all, what reason did Hamid have to cater to the players? The traveling troop was not likely to curry him favor with his electors.

As if to protect their own rights, several noblemen edged forward, taking up bellicose stances. Hal watched three of the nearest electors expand their chests with pride, forcing attention to the symbols blazoned there, to the scrolls of parchment and plumed pens. These were the men who had made King Hamid, they seemed to say, and they could unmake him if he showed undue favor to an outsider.

Tovin appeared oblivious to Sarmonian politics. “Come now, Your Majesty!” he gestured toward the stage. “The lesson of our little play was clear! The shepherd was asked for three things, and his riches grew each time he gave of himself.”