Glasswrights' Master (31 page)

Hamid's Electors, Hal remembered fuzzily. They had shown him to this room. But how had he gotten to Riadelle?

Hal took a deep breath to still the pounding in his head. He could recall standing in his tent, in the center of the Great Clearing. He had been talking with Farso, trying as ever to cheer the man, to restore him to the carefree youth he once had been. He had wished that he could find a way to remind Farso that an entire kingdom needed the knight, that
Hal
needed him.

And then, all in a blink, Hal remembered what had happened. The full force rushed in on him, punching his belly and forcing the breath from his lungs. He was blind; he was deaf; he was struck mute by what he remembered.

And somehow, he managed to groan. Old Thait must have laughed himself silly, beyond the Heavenly Gates. The god of irony had always enjoyed a vicious sense of humor, but had he ever been so cruel? Had he ever worked such ruin on a man?

Pushing through the fog that filled his skull where his brain should be, Hal could recall the soldiers who had stormed into his tent, the captain who had fallen before him, prostrate even before he delivered his report. Hal could see the bound and gagged herb witch, the old woman shoved to her knees in front of him. There had been a single endless moment when he had known what his man was going to say, when all of the blood had drained from his face.

And then the words. The terrible words.

Mareka. Dead. Marekanoran. Dead.

Hal had forgotten himself entirely. He had thrown himself at the herb witch. He pummeled her bruised face, kicked her, scrambled for a weapon, anything to inflict one thousandth of the pain that split his heart. Only Farso had dared to stop him, had dared to restrain him and order the woman taken away.

Farso had held him as he bellowed out his rage, as he tore at his clothes, his face, at anything that would yield to his blind, desperate fury.

He had been so cursed foolish! He had thought that he protected his wife, that he protected his only son and heir! He had thought that he kept them safe, hidden in the forest. He had believed that they would be more secure in their hiding place than with him in the Great Clearing, that they might yet avoid the Fellowship that surely knew where to find him.

What a fool he had been. Tarn could seek out people anywhere. The Heavenly Gates groaned open when people least expected. There was nothing Hal could do to stave off death, nothing he could do to protect his innocent family. The Fellowship had targeted him, and he was cursed, cursed, cursed.

At last, Farso had said that he must compose himself. He must ride into Riadelle, demand an audience with the king. Hal must extract his due immediately, before anyone had a chance to whisper rumors, lies. Kella Herb Witch, a vassal of King Hamid, had murdered Morenia's queen and only heir, and Hal must demand compensation. He must demand an army, so that he could fight the Fellowship, once and for all.

This was his sole chance to build the alliance he so desperately needed. Now. Bidding over the still, cold bodies of his wife and his son.

Hal had let himself be dressed in his finest robes. He'd been curried and combed like some fine beast, guided through the forest, down the road to Riadelle.

It had been after midnight when they arrived at the city gates. The captain of the guard was finally persuaded to let them pass, but there was no lever that could be applied to Hamid's chamberlain, no argument that would get them to the king in the wee hours of the morning. The servant had only sniffed down his thin nose and reluctantly agreed to place the visitors in state apartments. He would arrange for them to see Hamid after first daylight.

He would summon the night guard if Hal persisted in his impossible request. Electors backed up the threat.

So Hal had conceded. As soon as he was locked into his finely appointed cell, he had stalked to the mantel, poured a glass of Hamid's finest red. Farso had asked some foolish question, pointed out some stupid detail, and Hal had flung the flagon.

Farso had not taken offense, though. Instead, he had shrugged and found another flagon, one that was wonderfully, gloriously full. He had poured for his king, and again, and again. He had listened to Hal's raging, to the royal insistence that all the Thousand Gods were liars and cheats, that the world was all unfair. He had smoothed back the hair from Hal's face as the king collapsed onto his feather bed, as his rage melted into tears. Farso had murmured like a child's nurse as his king sobbed, weeping like the boy he once had been, years ago in distant Morenia.

And now, in the light of day, Farso stood over him, shaking out a simple tunic and leggings. The black fabric hung, as limp as Hal's hair. “Come, Sire,” Farso said. “It is time for you to dress for your audience with Hamid.”

Hal's belly turned as he saw the funereal clothes, and he scarcely managed to scramble from the bed, to find the chamber pot before bile burned his throat. His retching lasted longer than he would have thought possible, leaving his sides aching and his throat raw.

Farso waited for him, a few steps away. Ever the mindful servant, the baron had a basin of water at hand and clean strips of linen. When Hal finally managed to stand, Farso eased him to the edge of the bed. The man was more comfort than any nurse could have been, silent and watchful as he sponged his king's face, as he offered up a cup of pure water and a simple clay basin to spit into.

Hal accepted the attention woodenly. This was impossible, he thought. Impossible that he should once again don the black of mourning. Impossible that he should once again contemplate a pyre. Another son lost–this one, who had been born alive, who had thrived.

And Mareka. Gone. The spiderguild journeyman who had snared him with a poison. The wife who had worked beside him to build an empire. The woman who had trusted him to keep her safe, to keep her alive, even as she fled from her house, from her adopted land.

Adopted land. Murderous hand. All unmanned.

The rhymes swirled through his thoughts, louder than they had been for days, for weeks. Hal nearly lost himself in the echoes, stumbling down dark corridors, through reeking hallways where there was nothing but madness and sorrow and hopeless, hapless memories.

Somehow, he became aware that Farso was offering him a crust of plain white bread. “It would be best, Sire. You have a difficult meeting ahead of you.”

“I cannot eat, Farso.” Hal was surprised that his voice could sound so even, that his words could be so measured, so calm, even as they tamped down the voices.

Of course, Farso understood. He bowed and set aside the bread.

Hal let his friend dress him then. He allowed Farso to slip a black tunic over his head. He waited while the bands of satin were straightened, while the hem was tugged into place. He permitted Farso to adjust the silk leggings, to pull them into alignment over Hal's knees. He forced his heel into one black boot, and then another, forbidding himself to wonder where the grim clothing had been found and on such short notice.

Only when he was fully dressed did he speak, and then the words were pulled out of him, sharp and painful, like a blade from a wound. “Who waits out there?”

Who waits. Heavenly Gates. Tarn sates.

The voices were a physical burden that pulled down his spine, and Hal's knees nearly buckled.

Farso said, “Puladarati, of course. Father Siritalanu. The Electors who escorted us here last night.”

“Rani?” He asked the question as a hedge against further thought, already certain that she was there, even though he could not remember her on the late night march through the woods, could not recall her face staring at him in helpless concern.

Farso shifted from one foot to the other. He scrutinized Hal's shoulder, picking at a bit of lint. “Farso,” Hal said more pointedly. “Rani will be there, won't she? I need her to bargain for me. I need her to present our case to Hamid.”

Present our case. Enemies face. Win the race.

The voices chattered faster now, more eagerly, as if they knew Hal was on the edge of a precipice, at the end of his resources.

“Sire.…” Farso's voice was strained.

“Where is she?” Hal flashed on an image of a woman's throat, slashed and bleeding. “What has happened to Rani?”

“Sire, the herb witch–”

“No!” Not another death. Not another soul counted out against his own. “I'll poison her myself! My wife and son were not enough? She has killed Rani too?”

“No!” Farso shouted, and then he lowered his voice. “No, Sire. The herb witch did not kill Rani.” Hal heard the words, forced himself to take a breath, to listen. “She did not kill Rani. But she left the glasswright in her cottage. Left her bound.”

“Bound?” Hal might never have heard the word before.

“Bound. For … the Fellowship.” Farso winced at Hal's wordless cry. “Sire!” he managed, when Hal had to pause, had to take a breath. “Sire, she still lives.”

“How can you know that?” Rani was dead. Dead, dead, dead. No rhymes, only the single word, repeated over and over again in his mind. Dead. Dead. Dead.

“Would the Fellowship be stealthy in something like this? They long to see you defeated. They long to see you ruined. If they had killed Rani Trader, they would have left her body for you to find.”

“Then where is she?” Dead. Dead. Dead.

“We believe that she returns to Moren. Hamid's men saw a large company on the road, riding north in the darkest hours of the night.”

“We will go after her.” Dead. Dead. Dead.

“Aye, Sire.”

“We will go after her, and we will get the Fellowship, and they will pay for all that they have done.” Dead.

“Aye, Sire. But for that you must speak to Hamid.”

“Aye.” Hal must garner support. Not for him–he was lost forever; he would never find the path away from the whispering voices in his mind. Not for dead Mareka, for dead Marekanoran. For Rani. Rani, who had fought for him. Rani, who had worked to build his kingdom. Rani.…

Hal knew that he should notice more as he walked through the corridors. He should be more aware of the Sarmonians who hovered in doorways. He should listen to the rumors whispered behind raised hands. He should see the pitying stares, the shaking heads. He should acknowledge the condolences of his lords, of Puladarati and Father Siritalanu, of the soldiers who formed an honor guard behind him.

But Hal could only see the dreams inside his head. He could see Mareka, her sly face smoothed into the contented mask of motherhood. He could see his son, his own Marekanoran, sleeping by the fireside.

And Rani. He could see Rani a hundred different ways–as merchant and glasswright, as soldier who had stood beside him in the battle against their staunchest enemy.

Dead. For even if the Fellowship had not killed her yet, it would soon enough. It would murder her when he least could stand the blow. It would cut off the last of his great supporters, the last of his true allies. Rani would pay with her life so that he might be controlled. Her name would be added to the lists, along with Mareka, Marekanoran, with all the loyal men and women who had died in his service.

Somehow, they reached Hamid's Great Hall. Somehow Hal was announced, was ushered into the king's presence. Somehow, he made his appropriate bows, gracefully, fluidly, as if he were not wearing borrowed clothing and the weight of death, as if his belly were not roiled by too much wine and too little sleep.

“My lord,” Hamid said, and his sharp voice was solicitous. His narrow frame was swathed in midnight-colored silk. “I grieve with you at your loss. I wish that our stories might have been different, that I might have known the forces that sought you out. I would have offered you all the protections of my house, for all we kings are brothers.”

Fine words, but scarcely the truth. Hamid had not wanted to borrow grief, not from Hal, not from any of the Morenians. Hal glanced at the assembled electors, thinking that Hamid had known trouble enough, even before the Fellowship made their presence known in Sarmonia.

Unaware of Hal's scrutiny, Hamid continued. “If there is anything that I can do for you, Halaravilli ben-Jair, if there is any comfort that my house can offer yours.…”

Hal inclined his head in acceptance of the sentiment, ignoring the flurry of death-whispers that the movement evoked in his skull. He was supposed to demand support now. He was supposed to say that Kella had belonged to Hamid, and that the Sarmonian must pay for the herb witch's wrongs.

Looking at Hamid, though, Hal knew that the argument would fail. Oh, Hamid would likely execute Kella, that was easy enough. But he would never agree to raise an army against the Fellowship. Not here. Not in front of his electors.

Perhaps Rani Trader would have had the skill to persuade Hamid. But Hal did not. Hal would need a different approach. He would need his own subterfuge. He glanced at Puladarati and Farso, knowing that his councilors would not approve of the step he was about to take. He flicked his gaze toward Father Siritalanu. Would the priest be swift enough to follow what Hal would say?

These were desperate days. It was time for desperate measures.

“There is one thing, my lord.” Hamid merely quirked an eyebrow, waiting for Hal to
continue. Swallowing hard, Hal spun out his lie. After all, what was one more story? What was one
more tale in the face of all that had transpired in Sarmonia? “In my kingdom, it is customary for
brothers to drink together over a loss. The Thousand Gods expect us to raise a cup as family, in
salute to those who have reached the Heavenly Gates. The Gods intend for us royals to grieve without
restraint, in private and away from the eyes of all our retainers, all our people.”

To foster credibility, Hal gestured at Father Siritalanu. Fortunately, the priest had learned something in his time at court–he merely inclined his head and looked for all the world as if he were familiar with the custom Hal described.

Farso appeared surprised, but he stayed silent. Puladarati, alas, was less accepting. The old advisor stepped forward, reaching out with his three-fingered hand as if he would interrupt the delicate balance that Hal was creating.