Glasswrights' Progress (24 page)

Sin Hazar had countered with a straightforward request for ransom. Gold, jewels, cartloads of iron – the king had served up a long list of demands. He noted that such wealth was necessary if he were to continue building his expensive campaign against the Liantines, across the ocean. He implied that he would not hesitate to direct his men to easier targets if he could not send them overseas. He would send his army south, to Morenia.

Again, Hal had refused. Again, he had demanded the return of all three prisoners, adding a brazen threat to harry the Amanthian border with all the troops at his disposal. And he had demanded proof that the prisoners were alive – proof that Rani Trader was treated well as Sin Hazar's captive.

Now, standing in the nursery, holding the reply to his most recent demand, Hal found himself acting without thinking, without planning, without consciously making any decision at all. His fist flew up, smashing through the window's fragile, bubbled panes. He was too high in the castle to hear the glass shatter on the courtyard stones below. The wind immediately grasped the advantage Hal had created, and its bony fingers pried into the nursery, stealing Hal's breath.

At least the cold drove away the voices, silenced the chittering swirl deep in his brain. Hal raised the letter once more, grasping it firmly against the wind's tug. He forced his eyes to read each letter, each ornate word copied out by some unknown scribe.

“To His Majesty, King of all Morenia, greetings from your loyal subject Ranita Glasswright. I have received your missive, and am honored by your concern for my well-being. Please know that I am treated well in the house of Sin Hazar, that he has provided me nourishment and succor. You asked me a question in your letter, and I provide you an answer: Dalarati. Dalarati was the person who first suffered at a Trader's hand in the cause of our Fellowship. You will know by my answer that I am well and protected by King Sin Hazar. While I would rather be in Morenia, I understand that I must stay in Amanthia for a while longer, while you and the king work out your affairs of state. I am honored that I can serve in this small way, keeping watch while you negotiate for my freedom and the glory of your kingdom. In the name of all the Thousand Gods, I remain your most loyal subject.”

The letter's author had worked hard to capture Rani's tone, her characteristic stumble over phrasing more formal than anything she had ever learned in the Merchant's Quarter. Whoever had written the letter knew that Rani would address Hal more as a friend and companion than as her liege lord. And the writer had known about the Fellowship, at least about the martyred Dalarati. But the writer had missed two key facts.

First, Dalarati had
not
been the first member of the Fellowship murdered by a Trader. There was a darker history behind the Fellowship's battles, a history that had almost broken Rani when she learned its deadly secrets. Her own brother, Bardo, had murdered one of the Fellowship of Jair, long before Rani ever learned of the secret cadre's existence. Bardo had executed Treen, a Touched woman.

Even if Rani had somehow misconstrued Hal's question, even if she had somehow failed
to understand that he would never have summoned her personal guilt about Dalarati's demise, Hal knew
that Rani had not penned the letter that he held. For Rani would never call herself Ranita
Glasswright, not of her own volition. She had vowed to restore the glasswrights' guild, but she
would not call herself by her guildish name until she had built a new house, until she had found
masters and journeymen to restore the guild that had been destroyed so unjustly. “Ranita
Glasswright” would never have written from Amanthia.

And so Hal could only conclude that Rani was dead. Murdered at Sin Hazar's hand, perhaps. Maybe she had fallen to wounds she had suffered as Bashi dragged her north. Innocent victim of a grippe – what difference did it make? Rani was gone, and Sin Hazar was trying to hide the fact. Keep Hal trapped. All life sapped.

Hal leaned his head against the stone embrasure, letting the rough wall scrape across his flesh. Rani had pledged her fealty to him here. She had decided to join him, to turn back from the horror that she had witnessed. She had trusted him, here, in the nursery. And he had betrayed that trust. He had let Bashi spirit her away; he had let her be taken by force to an enemy's lands.

He had lost her – sister, Pilgrim, Fellow, gone. Midnight doubt swirled through his brain, colder than the air from the courtyard.

“Your Majesty!” Hal started at the summons, whirling to face his squire, who stood only an arms-length away.

“Farsobalinti?”

The youth bowed at the sound of his name, grimacing as if he disliked interrupting his king. “I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I would not have called you again, if you hadn't ordered me to summon you when the council is met.”

“Call me again?”

“Aye, Your Majesty. I spoke to you from the door, and again from across the room.” The squire looked uncertainly at his liege, at the parchment that Hal had crumpled in his fist. “Perhaps you've taken cold, Your Majesty. I'll call the glaziers to fix that window. The nursery should be secure.”

Glaziers. The glaziers' guild would never be rebuilt now. Hal and all his followers would have to rely on glasswrights hired away from other lands, on craftsmen lured to work in a land that had only meant death and dishonor for their kind.

“Aye, Farso.” Hal lapsed into his friendly nickname for the squire. No reason to frighten the boy. No reason for Farso to realize yet that his life was on the line, that armies would soon be marching, that Sin Hazar was more ruthless even than Hal had feared. Still, Hal's throat almost closed as he whispered, “The nursery should be a safe place.”

The squire waited for a long minute, staring at his liege with obvious concern. “Er, Your Majesty. Your council awaits you. You asked me to let you know when they'd been assembled.”

Hal forced a smile onto his face, even though knew the expression must look like a skull's rictus. He tried not to frighten one of his few allies in court. Not to alienate a loyal sword-arm. Hal turned his back on the embrasure, on the courtyard that he had overlooked with Rani two long winters past. “Let us go, then. We shouldn't keep the council waiting any longer than necessary.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The squire reached for the nursery door, but then hesitated. “Um, my lord.…” Hal followed the boy's gaze, saw that he still held his sister's poppet. He turned back to set the doll on the bench beside the window, wasting a moment to smooth its silky hair. He reached up to close the wooden shutters, to lock out the prying wind.

“Let us go, then, Farso. Let us address the King's Council.”

As they walked through the palace hallways, Hal heard the voices in his mind. They abandoned their typical rhyming, settling for cataloging his failures. He had failed to lead his people since Shanoranvilli had died. He had failed to see the threat in Bashanorandi. He had failed to protect women he was pledged to keep safe. He had failed to negotiate with Sin Hazar. He had failed to settle peacefully a border conflict that could destroy his young reign. He had failed he had failed he had failed.…

Hal could not meet his lords' eyes as he walked to his seat at the head of the council table. The jabbering voices grabbed hold of each councillor's name, twisting the long chains of syllables into dark poems. Hal clenched his hands into fists. The voices could only harm him here. They could only make the Council rise up against him. The rhymes that had kept him alive to the age of seventeen might destroy him now, if he did not find the strength to banish them, to beat them back, to summon silence.

Silence.

Only when Hal had settled into his ornate chair did he trust himself to look out at the table, to survey the lords who attended him. Duke Puladarati was there, of course, leaning forward with both elbows on the table. The old regent was arguing with his neighbor, forcing a point with vigor and a maimed hand, as if he still held the power of the crown within his grasp.

Tasuntimanu was present as well, halfway down the table, swaddled in the dull brown cape that he favored over his domain's flashy purple and silver. The brown did not hint at the scheming behind that placid face, did not suggest the thoughts that leaped beneath the Fellow's balding pate. Although Hal allotted the nobleman a long survey, Tasuntimanu did nothing to give away his thoughts; he did not so much as flick a glance at Duke Puladarati. Very well, then. Let the conspirators continue their game – it would matter little in the face of the news that Hal bore.

Continuing his review, Hal was relieved to see that Lamantarino was present as well, wheezing at the foot of the table. The old man's eyes teared up, and he repeatedly dragged a rag beneath his long nose. Hal imagined that he could hear the old man's breathing at this distance, hear the catarrh that scarred his lungs. No matter. Lamantarino had spoken kind words to Hal. Lamantarino might be the closest thing the king had to an ally in the entire council.

Before Hal could call the meeting to order, Tasuntimanu rose and bowed stiffly. “Are you well, Your Majesty? You look pale.”

“I am well, Tasuntimanu,” Hal forced himself to reply, marveling that he could speak above the voices, speak like a normal man.

Tasuntimanu nodded gravely, showing his bald spot as if he were offering up fealty, and intoned, “May the Pilgrim Jair look upon you and keep you in good health, Your Majesty.” The benediction would merely sound like piety to the other councillors, but Hal understood the message. Tasuntimanu was taking no chances that Hal might forget his bonds to the Fellowship.

Well, Hal had sworn many oaths, some aloud, and others only in his heart.

“May all the Thousand Gods watch over this council and be praised,” Hal answered. He was encouraged by Tasuntimanu's grimace. The man understood their unspoken exchange, Hal's refusal to give way to Jair in all things. Before Hal could lose his nerve, before the voices could begin their whispering again, he turned to his other lords.

“Well met, my lords,” Hal said, settling both hands on the table. As he pinned the crumpled parchment against the oaken surface, he hoped that he would assume some of the table's bulk, that he would appear more imposing before his noblemen. “Be seated.”

He watched as the nobles settled into their chairs. When an uneasy silence had sifted over the assembly, Hal raised the crumpled parchment in one trembling hand.

“I have had a letter, my lords, from the court of Sin Hazar.”

“From the king's own hand?” Puladarati demanded immediately, and Hal resisted the urge to clear his throat like a nervous schoolboy. He reminded himself that Puladarati was no longer regent, that Hal no longer owed the bluff general any special obligation.

“A letter that purports to be from Lady Rani,” he clarified. He knew that he should not give Rani her title, that he should not provoke his councillors, not now, with so much at stake. Nevertheless, he could not keep the honor from his lips, could not help but bring her some shred of dignity. Who knew what shame her body had suffered before she succumbed to Sin Hazar? Rani had been loyal to Hal's cause; she had been one of his first subjects to accept his rule, to realize that the king spoke more than tricksy riddles. He would honor her with words in this council chamber, and with his sword on the battlefield.

Puladarati scowled; Hal could not tell if he objected to Hal's choice of title or to the message behind it. “Purports, Your Majesty? What does the merchant girl say?”

That was fine. Let Puladarati sneer, let him remind the council of Rani's station. Hal needed someone to feed him questions, to draw out his plan. He would use Puladarati, as he would any other tool. “She says that she is well and protected by Sin Hazar. She says that she is honored by the messages sent by this body.”

“Then Sin Hazar is treating her as a noble hostage.”

“Nay, Your Grace. Lady Rani is dead.”

If Hal had hoped to provoke a spectacle with his solemn pronouncement, he was not disappointed. Several of the lords exclaimed aloud, and at least one blasphemed the Thousand Gods. Hal waited to hear Rani's name, waited to hear a single one of his nobles protest the murder of an innocent girl, but that desire was not filled. Rather, the council was united in decrying the insult to
Hal
, the threat to Morenia.

“Your Majesty, how can you be certain?” Puladarati at last made himself heard above the tumult. The man's tone was strong and steady, almost pedantic. Hal wondered suddenly if the old warrior had known the contents of the parchment all along, if the grizzled fighter already knew what had transpired in the north.

“There is no doubt. In my last letter north, I asked Lady Rani a question that only she could answer. The words in this reply are fair, and they shape an honest guess, but they do not answer my question correctly. An impostor hopes to make me believe that the lady still lives.”

“And what question did you ask, Your Majesty?” Puladarati pushed.

Hal met the old soldier's eyes directly. “I'll not divulge that, Your Grace. It was a secret between Lady Rani and myself.” Again, an explosion down the table, a rustle of whispers and invocations, blatant outrage that a noble – a king! – should hold secrets with a mere merchant girl.

Puladarati raised his voice to be heard above the outcry. “Yet you'd have us act based on that secret. You'd have us fight your battle without knowing the terms.”

“I'd have you stand loyal to your king, man!” Hal pounded the table, letting a little of his emotion rock his voice. “I'd have all of you stand loyal to your king!”

Before Hal was ready to continue, Tasuntimanu leaned forward, his flat face creasing in disbelief. “You tell us that an impostor is writing from Amanthia. Are you ordering us to fight in the north, then, Your Majesty?”

Well. Hal had thought that he'd be the one to broach the subject. “That's precisely what I'm saying, my lord.”