Glasswrights' Progress (16 page)

“I understand, boy. I understand th' nature o' battles, 'n' I know better than ye do, th' nature o' war.” Glair dragged a claw across her face, scraping back a few strands of glassy hair. “Ye must trust me, though. Ye canna see th' lay o' th' land from where ye're standin'. Ye dinna know what's at stake.”

“Then tell me! Tell me what's so important. Tell me what is worth having Bashanorandi poisoned against us at his uncle's knee. What is worth dragging Rani and Mair – two members of our Fellowship, Glair! – what is worth dragging them north, against their wills, at the edge of a curved Amanthian blade?”

Glair stared at him, her rheumy eyes suddenly calculating. He felt her measure his grimy clothes, his torn cape. He sensed the calculation in her mind, her weighing him as a person, as a man, as a king.

And he made his own calculations. After all, what
did
he know about the Fellowship?

They had come to
him
, seducing him when he'd been frightened and angry and alone in his father's court. His older brother, Tuvashanoran, had still lived, and the possibility of Hal taking the throne had been distant enough to be laughable. Dalarati had been his bodyguard then. The handsome young soldier had been the only person in the entire palace who had talked to Hal as if the young prince were capable of thought. Back then, Hal had worked hard to craft his facade of idiocy, to make people think that he was too stupid to bother with, too hopeless to drag into the swirl of deadly court politics. Hal had carefully cultivated an idiot's stance, so that he heard all that happened in the palace, learned the plots and sub-plots that eddied around him. Hal worked to protect himself against his scheming step-mother, against Queen Felicianda who wanted nothing more than to see her own son replace Hal in the line of succession.

All the same, though, the lonely prince had craved attention. He had grown to look forward to his casual conversations with Dalarati, to the easy answers that the soldier gave to Hal's questions. The soldier had joked with him, told the outcast youth stories about life outside the palace, about Shar, the Touched girl who had kept Dalarati's barracks room clean, who'd kept his bed warm.

When Dalarati had offered to spirit Hal away to a secret meeting, the lonely prince had gladly agreed. There was an excitement in being outside the palace compound, a positive thrill in learning things that Bashanorandi was not being taught. The Fellowship had immediately represented a place where Hal could be the person he knew himself to be – a thinker, an actor, a person who
did things
, rather than a younger prince who cowered and waited for things to be done around him. Hal had joined the Fellowship almost as a reflex, reciting his vows of loyalty calmly and smoothly, when all the rest of the world thought that the prince could do no more than babble sing-song rhymes.

But even after Hal had embraced the Fellowship, he did not know all that it worked toward. He knew that Glair led the group, at least in Moren. He knew that every official meeting of the Fellowship was opened by a prayer to Jair, the First Pilgrim. He knew that the Fellowship had been opposed to its arch enemies, the Brotherhood of Justice, and that shadowy group of traitors had set in motion the tumultuous events that led to Halaravilli ascending the throne. And he knew that the Fellowship expected Hal to act in certain ways, to make certain decisions as king.

“Tell me, Glair,” he pressed. “Tell me what is so important, so that I can decide wisely.”

“I'll not be tellin' ye all our plans, boy. It wouldna be safe.” Hal started to protest as the Touched crone shook her head, her hands clenching and unclenching on her rags, but then she seemed to reach some decision. “I'll tell ye this, though. We're not alone, 'ere in Morenia. Th' Fellowship is spread across th' lands, from th' Eastern Sea t' beyond th' mountains, 'n' north 'n' south as well. Ye think in terms o' yer kingdom, 'n' ye think in terms o' all ye know 'n' 'old dear, but ye're only lookin' at one tiny corner o' th' true picture.”

“What
is
that picture, Glair?”

“We're th' Fellowship o' Jair. Jair was one man, 'oo lived 'is life through all th' castes.” The Touched woman's words reminded Hal of the windows in the cathedral, the broad plains of glass that told the story of the First Pilgrim's life. Jair had been born one of the Touched, but his hard work and shrewd dealings had elevated him – first to merchant, then guildsman and soldier, finally to noble-priest. Glair continued, “'E 'ad th' power t' see what 'is people truly needed. 'E 'ad th' power t' join all th' world t'gether in their faith i' th'' Thousand Gods. 'E's our model, boy. 'E's what we strive t' be.”

“What do you mean? The Fellowship intends to unite all the kingdoms? The Fellowship wants to conquer all the nations?” For one instant, Hal saw himself as the king of a vast empire, a land that stretched as far as the maps had been drawn.

He recognized his folly almost immediately, though. Glair had not said that Hal would rule over the Fellowship's dream. She had not said that
Hal
would succeed. If anything, she was suggesting that Hal would be forced from his own throne, that he would be forced to step aside for the greater good of the Fellowship. Hal would be forced to proffer up his birthright, like a merchant buying his way into a guild. As Rani had done, forfeiting one life for another. Hal dared not let himself dwell on how Rani's bargain had turned out. “Is that what you mean, Glair? That the Fellowship will rule all?”

The old woman grimaced and shook her head. “I've already told ye more than ye should need t' 'ear. If ye're sworn t' th' Fellowship, ye should be able t' support us wi' what ye know. What's it t' be, boy? Are ye fer us, or agin us?”

“It's not that simple.”

“Ah, but it is. As long as ye're in th' Fellowship, ye're like a soldier. Ye're given yer orders. Ye either follow ''em, or ye mutiny. 'N' if ye mutiny, then ye pay th' price.”

“You're threatening your king, old woman!”

Glair threw back her head and laughed, a throaty chortle that made the folds of flesh at her neck tremble like aspic. “I
made
ye king, boy! Now. Enough o' this. I'll ask ye once more. Are ye fer us, or agin us?”

Hal stared at the ancient woman, wondering who had made a Touched crone the power behind his throne, behind all of Morenia, behind – if he could believe her – the entire world. It was fruitless to protest, hopeless to rebel. His tone was exhausted as he pledged, “I'm for you, Glair. I'm for the Fellowship.”

The old woman started to nod, but the gesture was lost in her palsy. “All right, boy –”

“I'm for the Fellowship,” Hal interrupted, “but I'm
also
for Morenia. Before I swore my oaths to the Fellowship, I was born the son of King Shanoranvilli Ben-Jair. I owe a debt to Morenia, to her nobles and soldiers, to the guildsmen and merchants who have followed me faithfully for the past two years. I can't just hand over my kingdom to the Fellowship, to let you do whatever you think right.”

“Then what do ye intend t' do, boy?” She asked the question as if she were truly curious.

“I'll do what I promised my council. I'm sending a messenger north. I'm sending a letter to Sin Hazar, asking the meaning of his affront and demanding the return of my brother, Rani, and Mair.”

“Ye 'ave no brother, boy. Yer brothers are all dead 'n' buried, the Brotherhood's traitor, Tuvashanoran, last o' all.”

“My father called Bashanorandi his son, and I honor my father's memory. I won't compromise on this, Glair. I'm sending my messenger. When we hear Sin Hazar's reply, I'll come to the Fellowship. I'll seek your counsel then.”

The old woman cocked her head as she looked at him, and he felt her measure his words like bread on a scale. “Aye,” she said at last. “Ye can send yer one message. But ye'll listen t' th' Fellowship after this. When Tasuntimanu speaks in our name, ye'll take 'is counsel. Or ye'll pay th' price.”

Hal ignored the threat. “I'll send my message.”

Before Glair could add further qualifiers, the king of Morenia turned on his heel and left the ramshackle hut. He made his way through the city streets quickly, keeping to the shadows, drawing his ragged cloak across his face as he approached passages that were more populated. He did not know if Glair sent agents to follow him; he did not know how many members of the Fellowship of Jair roamed Moren's streets. He only knew that for the second time in as many days, he had taken a stand to rule his kingdom as he saw fit. He had stood his ground like a man, and he liked the feeling of that solid earth beneath his feet.

Exhilarated by his success, Hal only slowed his pace as he drew near the palace compound. It would not do to get caught now, discovered by some well-meaning guard or serving wench when he was so close to completing his mission. All he needed to do was keep to the shadows for a few moments more, wander down this alley, up against the back wall of the compound, and –

Hal made the last turn, expecting to find himself alone in the dimly lit passage that led inside the palace. Instead, there were two shadowed figures in the narrow street. They were men, by the breadth of their shoulders, and they stood with the easy stance of soldiers or noblemen trained at fighting.

Hal caught his breath, the better to hear their whispered words. “I tell you, the council won't tolerate many more scenes like the one yesterday.” The speaker stepped back as he made his declaration, and his broad face was clear in the evening light, serious beneath his thinning, muddy hair. Tasuntimanu!

“Aye. The boy played us like we were his chess pieces. He's good, I tell you. That's what worries me. He's as good as his father ever was, maybe better.” Hal could barely make out the words, but the tone was clear – the speaker did not intend a compliment by his comparison with the old king. The hairs on the back of Hal's neck rose in silent warning, and he sidled closer to the pair, determined to learn who joined Tasuntimanu to speak against him.

“His father is dead,” Tasuntimanu muttered.

“Aye, may he walk beyond the Heavenly Gates.” Both men made a religious sign before the unknown speaker continued, “We'll see if the boy has the skill to keep from meeting Tarn himself.” Hal heard the threat behind the words, as clearly as if the god of death loomed over the pair in the alley. “He may have a chance, if he'll just listen to his elders. His
elders
and not his own, headstrong self.”

The speaker chose that moment to raise a hand to his bushy hair, to scratch at some passing itch. In the gloaming light, Hal could see quite clearly that the unknown man was missing two fingers on his right hand. Tasuntimanu was meeting with Duke Puladarati, Hal's former regent.

Of course. The men's words made perfect sense. Of all the men in court, Puladarati was
the “elder” who stood the most to lose by Hal's growing independence. It was even logical that they
would be standing in the shadows, by the secret entrance to the palace. After all, it was Dalarati
– a member of the Fellowship – who had taught Hal about the shadowy passage. Tasuntimanu
would certainly know the secret as well.

Hal melted into the safety of the shadows. Even as he waited for the nobles to duck inside the palace, he wondered just how hard Duke Puladarati would fight to keep the power he had once tasted, the crown that had once been practically his. Hal wondered just how close he was to fighting for his life.

 

 

Chapter 6

 

 

Rani looked down from the parapet, reflexively raising one hand to catch her hair against the tugging fingers of a wintry breeze. Her hair was not blowing in her eyes, though. Instead, it was pulled back tightly from her forehead, tugged into place beneath a tight-fitting headdress. Rani almost knocked the winged structure from her head as her fingers fumbled awkwardly with her odd costume. She swore under her breath and turned back to the scene far below her.

“Look, Mair!”

“I can see from here.”

“Mair!” Rani looked up from the busy courtyard and took a step toward her friend. The Touched girl was as pale as the bleached cloth that framed her face, and she huddled beside the lion-tattooed guard who silently watched over the pair. Mair also wore one of the strange northern headdresses, and the ornate piece underscored how pointed her cheekbones were, how thin her face had become. “Mair, what's wrong?”

“Nothin's wrong, Rai.” Mair swallowed audibly, letting her Touched patois leak past her chapped lips. “At least not like ye mean.”

“Then what? Come look at the courtyard from here! It's filled with carts, like it's market day, or something.”

“I believe you, Rai. No need t' look at th' obvious.”

Rani turned back to the parapet wall. “There must be two dozen drays there! Just feeding those oxen would eat up a merchant's profit in no time. It's strange to hold a market now – everyone must be getting ready for winter.” Rani watched for another minute before she exclaimed, “Wait! They're not setting up any market. These carts aren't
arriving
. They're leaving Amanth!” Rani leaned out over the low wall, craning her neck for a better view of the ground close to the tower.

“Rai, don't!” Rani turned to look at her companion as she registered the note of fear in Mair's voice. “Don't be leanin' over th' wall!”

The soldier smirked at the Touched girl's obvious terror, and Rani shot him a glowering look. “Mair, it's fine,” Rani hastened to assure her friend. “I'm perfectly safe.” Mair only shook her head, flattening her palms against the stone wall behind her. She managed to dart a glance at the railing, a look akin to terror. No, Rani realized, not
akin
to terror –
filled
with terror.