Glasswrights' Progress (25 page)

“In the name of Jair! Winter is fast upon us!”

Hal heard the warning, heard Tasuntimanu's dagger-sharp reproach on behalf of the Fellowship. He also heard the chittering voices – winter is fast, the die is cast, Hal could not last. He dared not hesitate, dared not give the voices a chance to break through his consciousness. He forced his own voice to a steadiness that he did not feel. “In the name of Jair, that's why we need to fight now.”

Tasuntimanu gaped, giving Hal the break he needed to continue. “Our spies have reported Sin Hazar's troop movements for months. He has amassed a mercenary army outside his city, and it's made no sign of dispersing as the winter sets in. Despite reports that Sin Hazar's treasury is nearly empty, he is obviously paying those men steadily, keeping them loyal, keeping them focused. They're bound to demand more, though, as the winter progresses. As the rivers freeze and the ground grows rock hard, as the hired men question their long months of useless service, we must attack. We cannot wait until the spring, until new life and new energy endanger our own men.”

“In the name of Jair –”

“Jair has nothing to do with it!” Hal pounded the table, ignoring the gasps of his lords, who were shocked by the royal blasphemy. “This is about
men
, Tasuntimanu! Not about Pilgrims, not about gods. This is about whether Morenia will survive until next winter.”

Tasuntimanu retorted, “This is about a merchant brat named Rani Trader.”

“This is about a subject of your liege who was kidnaped! This is about a foreign king who was willing to murder a hostage, a
girl
! A king who was willing to disguise murder with a fair hand and forged words. This is about
honor
, Tasuntimanu.
My
honor as a man, and as a king. And your honor as a councillor – you and all who sit at this table, saying that you uphold justice.”

Hal's heart pounded; blood beat through his temples with a rhythm stronger than any babbling voices. He clutched the edge of the table, willing himself to breathe, willing himself to think of the words that would inspire his councillors, would make them see justice and right, and not just a boy-king teetering on the edge of crisis.

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty.” The voice was cracked, so wispy that Hal almost didn't hear it above his own harsh breathing. “May an old man speak?”

“Aye, Lamantarino.” Hal acknowledged the ancient advisor with a wave of his hand.

“This matter is not entirely without precedent. We have faced such perfidy at this table before.” Several of the councillors shifted toward the far end of the table, craning their necks to make out the ancient lord's speech. As if he recognized that he must work to be heard, the trembling Lamantarino clambered to his feet. He clutched the edge of the table, apparently unconscious of how he parodied his young king. “Years ago, Your Majesty, before you were born, before Lord
Tasuntimanu
was born, your father faced such a decision.”

Hal knew that he should not question one of his councillors, not at this table, not before all of his lords, unless he already knew the answers he would receive. Nevertheless, he could not help himself. Hoping he was not walking into a trap, praying that the ancient councillor was on his side, Hal asked, “What are you speaking of, Lamantarino? What happened to my father?”

“In the first year that King Shanoranvilli – may Jair guide him in the Heavenly Fields – took the throne, messengers came from the western edge of the realm, from the Sacred Grove, where only the king is allowed to hunt. They said that a white stag had been found in the Grove, a magnificent beast, with eighteen points. Your father was young then. By Doan, we were all young then!” The god of the hunt was a young man's god, and Lamantarino's explosive exclamation took its toll, leaving the ancient councillor gasping. One of his fellows passed him a goblet, and wine was red as blood on the old man's lips when he managed to continue.

“We rode out in the autumn and hunted that beast for a fortnight. Three times, we glimpsed him in the woods, and once – one night – we saw him standing at the top of a hillock. His antlers were tremendous; they would have crushed an ordinary stag, but he bore them proudly. Your father, Your Majesty, lost three quivers of arrows trying to get that beast, but at last he had to turn back to this city, to the kingdom that needed him.”

Lamantarino shook his head with wonder, as if the hunt had been only the year before. Hal tried to imagine his father riding after a stag, sleeping out under the stars, a young man. He was unable to summon the image; even his earliest memories of Shanoranvilli were of a king worn down by age and the weight of his kingdom.

“That winter, as the snow filled the courtyard and the entire kingdom slept, King Shanoranvilli received a ... gift. It arrived on a dray, covered in green and gold, the colors of Brianta, which lies to the west of the Sacred Grove. Your father lifted off a heavy cloth of samite, and he found the stag's head waiting for him. Its broken antlers glittered as if they were caught in new snow, like diamonds in the coldest silver setting. The Briantans had killed the stag and mutilated its horns.”

Lamantarino drew a shuddering breath against his outrageous story, and even now, decades later, the noblemen grumbled that their king had been so insulted. “King Shanoranvilli wasted no time. He forgot that it was winter. He forgot that the ground was covered with snow. He forgot that he had a kingdom asleep, a kingdom that needed him to plan for spring. He gathered up his loyal men, and coursed his hounds all the way to his western border. He found the poachers and he executed them on midwinter eve.” The old councillor raised his reddened eyes, caught his king's gaze down the length of the table. Lamantarino's voice was steady as he proclaimed. “Your father preserved the honor of his kingdom, Your Majesty. He preserved
your
kingdom, using his coursing hounds to honor the memory of that noble stag.”

Coursing hounds. Noble stag.

Hal stared at his aged councillor, his jaw jutting forward with amazement. This was all fiction, all a rousing story! Lamantarino was intentionally riling up Hal's loyal councillors, reminding them of Shanoranvilli's glory, driving them toward Hal's goal. Let them think they're the noble stag, but treat them like the coursing hounds! That's what Lamantarino had said – that was what he'd
done
, helping out the fledgling king who needed deft guidance.

Hal nodded incredulously as Lamantarino wheezed his way back to his chair. As a fable,
the story was unassailable. What councillor could argue that a human life – an innocent female
hostage's life – was worth less than a stag's? Who could speak out against Hal leading his men
north, winter or no? “My thanks, good Lamantarino. It's all too easy to remember the great
Shanoranvilli who sat this chair for decades, and yet forget that he was once a young man, once a
young king, who needed to fight to secure honor and justice in his kingdom.”

Lamantarino inclined his head, as if he'd received some benediction in the name of all the Thousand Gods. He collapsed into his chair, spent as if he had run miles to deliver his tidings. It was Duke Puladarati who spoke next, who broke the reverent silence in the hall. The regent's voice echoed against the stone. “Then you will ride, Your Majesty? You will take back the honor of your kingdom?”

Hal swept his gaze over the table, measuring the tension in each of his councillors. He let his eyes come to rest upon Tasuntimanu before he replied. “In the name of Jair,” he said, forcing irony from his voice, “could I do anything else?”

 

Rani caught her breath as she stepped near Davin's worktable, momentarily forgetting the creeping itch down her leg. “But how can you know how much to carve away? Do you grind off the same amount each time?”

Davin did not answer until he had lowered his sand-covered cloth to the table. “It's different for every type of glass. Cobalt grinds differently from red. They're both softer than clear glass.”

“But what about clear glass that's stained? Does paint make it harder or softer?”

Davin nodded as if she had asked some shrewd question. “You understand the point, girl. It depends on what the paint is made of. Lead-based paints eat away at the glass, making it more brittle. Even I break lenses, if I try to grind them out of lead-painted glass.”

“But why would you? You can't see through the lens if it's covered with paint.”

“Foolish girl!” Rani recoiled from the old man's sudden rage. His squinting eyes flashed from deep in his wrinkled face, from the obscure tattoo that Rani still could not decipher into one of the northerner's castes. “You waste my time with your questions! If you aren't even
trying
to think of answers yourself, why should I be bothered?”

In the past fortnight, Rani had become accustomed to the old man's sudden tirades. They were a fair price for the lessons that she was learning, the instruction she had gained in pouring glass and carving it and making it meet her needs. As Davin spluttered and grumbled, Rani set her shoulders, staring at the lens that the old man had been working. Why would he want to paint glass and then curve the lens? What would be worth the paint, worth weakening the glass in the first place?

All of a sudden, Rani remembered Davin watching the assault on the Swancastle. She thought of the notched instrument that he had used to measure something about the walls, or about the hole that the boys had dug. Of course! She could paint
measurements
on the glass, not obscuring it completely. The paint would etch its way into the surface, weakening the glass, but it would leave behind useful guide-lines. Then, Rani could grind the glass into a lens, using the paint that remained to help her measure what she saw, to help her calculate distances brought near by the lens.…

“You'd have to keep your hand very steady as you paint the lines, or else they'd be useless,” Rani mused. “If they weren't perfectly even, your mistaken distances might be worse than knowing no distances at all.”

“Aye.” Davin spared her a rare grim smile. She had deciphered the mystery. That one, at least.

“What's that glass for?” she pushed. “What are you making?”

“A flying machine.”

Rani sighed – that was Davin's standard answer when he did not wish to be disturbed. Before she could rephrase her question or think of something else to draw out the old man, the giant bird – the macaw, Davin called it – began to squawk from its perch. “A flying machine! A flying machine!”

“Quiet, you beast!” Davin threatened. “Quiet, or I'll pluck you bald!”

“Pluck you bald! Pluck you bald!”

The macaw captured Davin's tone precisely, and Rani could not bite back her laughter. She had realized after only a few days in the cottage that the wondrous bird could not actually speak
new
thoughts; it could only recite phrases it had memorized, mimicking its teacher precisely. Rani had spent hours while Davin was out with the Little Army, trying to get the bird to say her name. “Rani Trader,” she had repeated over and over, taking care to keep her intonation uniform. “Rani Trader.” The bird had refused to learn the lesson.

Now, Davin set down his grinding tools with an exasperated sigh. “I don't have time to play nursemaid to a girl. Get out of here and let me finish my work.”

Rani left with a cheerful smile, stopping to snag a pocketful of small apples from their bowl by the door. “Finish my work! Finish my work!” the macaw croaked as she headed down the path toward the Swancastle.

Even though it was nearly winter, the sun streamed down on the hill beneath the castle, and Rani let her cloak fall back from her shoulders. Her leg was bothering her less – the wound had not reopened for two days, and the reddened, puckered flesh on either side of the brutal scab had not spread. Shea and Davin had both insisted that she spend ridiculous amounts of time lying on a pallet, keeping her wound elevated, letting it suppurate. The old woman had forced bitter teas down Rani's throat, claiming that they would help cool the fever that burned just beneath the surface of her blood. Rani had given up asking when she would be fit to ride; she contented herself with learning about glasswork and spying on the Little Army. It would only be a couple of days now, she promised herself, and then she would be well enough to flee Amanthia, to ride to Morenia, and Hal, and freedom.

As Rani approached the mined walls of the Swancastle, she saw that the Little Army was hard at work. A score of boys stormed the south side of the castle, where the curtain wall was still intact. They kept advancing a few feet and then falling back, reworking their approach to take advantage of every tuft of grass, every stone on the hillside. They were drilled by two of Crestman's lieutenants.

Rani could glimpse more boys inside the Swancastle. Through the gap in the curtain wall, she could make out at least a dozen soldiers scaling the inner walls, stretching for handholds, for footholds. The boys were bound together with a sophisticated system of ropes and pulleys; Rani could see the tangle anchored around one of the merlons at the top of the wall. Another of Davin's inventions, she surmised, and she watched for a moment until she could decipher how the ropes slid over each other, how they acted as brakes to keep the climbers from tumbling all the way to the ground when they lost their grips. The pulley system would be useful for glasswrights, Rani realized. Glaziers could use the suspended ropes to avoid erecting expensive and risky scaffolds when they needed to work on glass that was already installed in high places.

Even as Rani filed away the thought for her future guild, she noted that the remaining soldier boys were gathered around Mair, clustered close in the center of the castle keep. The Touched girl was exclaiming, “Now pay attention, Mon! If you can't figure out which hand I've put the stone in, then you'll never be able to follow my
knife
.” As Rani watched, Mair lifted a pebble from the ground. She displayed it to the boys flamboyantly, and then wove it over and under her fingers, hiding it behind one palm and then the other, tucking it between her thumb and her first finger and retrieving it on her next pass.