Glasswrights' Progress (46 page)

“My lord,” said the oldest, flushing scarlet so that the scar across his cheekbone stood out like a white flag. “My lady.”

Before either Davin or Rani could speak, Crestman strode into the hallway. “What's
keeping you, boys? Those crates have to make it onto the last dray. Move –” The captain caught
sight of the hall's other occupants, and his words stopped in his throat.

Davin cleared his throat with unaccustomed tact. “I was just instructing the boys,” the old man lied. “I need them to help me repack some goods. I have herbs from swampy Brandir that must be sheltered from the cold.”

Before Rani could argue, the old man had moved away, setting his oversized book on a nearby trestle table. He began to bully the boys who had come to help him, ordering them about with the same irritability that he had shown when he housed the Little Army near the Swancastle.

Rani was left staring at Crestman. She caught her fingers opening and closing on the cloth of her robe, and she tried to remember a civil greeting.

“Crimson.” He spoke first, after a painful pause. “It suits you.”

For just an instant, she did not know if he referred to the color of her garment, or Hal's banner, or the blood that had streaked her hands on the plain outside the city gates. “Crestman,” Rani whispered, wincing as the boys behind her started to heave crates about the room.

“Why won't you let me come?” the lion pleaded. “The Amanthian countryside is not yet safe! You need a guard.”

“Hal can guard me. He has an army at his command.”

“Hal.”

“Crestman,” Rani said miserably, “we need you here. If you don't stay behind to command the Little Army, they'll suffer.”

“Command them? They're boys. There is no more Little Army.”

“Precisely.” Rani glanced over Crestman's shoulder, distracted by the youths' squabbling. Good-natured debate began to turn as one boy called another a filthy name. In seconds, knives were drawn and Davin's goods forgotten.

“Men!” Crestman's voice rang out across the hall. “I'll take your daggers and melt them down, same as I did with your swords!” The boys fell silent immediately, hanging their heads and scuffling their boots against the flagstones. “Now if you can't get these crates out to the courtyard, I'll find some soldiers who can!”

Crestman waited until the fighters had sheathed their blades, but then he took care to turn away before they went back to their assigned labors. Rani understand that this was the way he showed his trust. This was the way he let his soldiers know that he believed in them. She waited as most of the boys left, carrying crates out to the courtyard. The only noise left in the hall was Davin berating the unfortunate trio who had been designated to help him repack his herbs.

“Crestman,” Rani said into the uncomfortably heavy silence, “they
listen
to you. Puladarati's men would have them strung up in a day. These boys must be reminded of the Little Army – they can't just be ordered to forget what happened. You can help them. You can teach them how to keep their pride while you prepare them to return to their homes.”

The lion refused to meet her gaze, refused to acknowledge the truthfulness behind her words. Rani sighed and reached out a finger to trace the scar along his cheek. “It's a better life than Sin Hazar had planned for you.”

“It isn't!” Crestman protested, and he grabbed at her hand. His fingers were icy claws around her wrist. “It's the same life! Sin Hazar would have enslaved me to the Liantines, and your precious ‘Hal' has bound me to his Morenians! What difference does it make?”

Rani trembled at the rage in his voice, at the hurt behind his words. “You wear no chains, Crestman. If you had been on the other ship, or on an earlier vessel, you'd be in shackles by now. In shackles or worse.”

She watched him measure her words, watched him remember the other ship, the one that had not turned back from Liantine. Fifteen thousand soldiers, all told, lost in the Little Army, and he was complaining about striding free in Sin Hazar's palace. She saw his grudging acceptance of her argument, his reluctant admission that he was better off in Amanthia. Beneath that resignation, though, she could still see anger. Anger and hurt and shattered trust.

“This will get easier,” she urged. “When you begin to send the boys home, you'll see that you're making the right decision.” Rani struggled to change the subject. “How is Shea doing?”

“Still the same. She's mourning those girls, her Tain and Serena. It was cruel for her to see them again, in the stockade, only to have them sent to Liantine. She'd lost them once, and she may never recover from having to let them go again.”

“Don't give up on her, Crestman. She'll help you with the Little Army, especially with the girls. She'll help you send the children home.”

“And when we're done? When all the Little Army is disbanded? What plans do you have for me then?”

“Crestman, I –”

Before she could fashion a lie, she was interrupted by a bass voice, booming from the doorway. “Lady Rani, King Halaravilli said that I should –. Ah. My lady.” Duke Puladarati took a step back, swallowing his message and drilling his gaze into Rani's hand, into the wrist that was still encircled by Crestman's fingers. “Excuse me, my lady. The king instructed me to find you.”

Crestman braved the duke's gaze. “I was just leaving, Your Grace.” The boy paused deliberately and shifted his grip, moving his fingers to curl beneath Rani's palm. She let him raise her hand to his lips, struggled not to reveal a hint of emotion as he brushed a kiss across her flushed skin. “My lady,” he murmured, and bowed before he strode over to the boys who still fumbled at Davin's belongings. 

“Crestman!” Rani started to call out, but then she caught his name at the back of her throat. She swallowed hard and forced herself to face Puladarati.

“Yes, my lord,” she said instead, and her voice sounded curiously high in her own ears. “You were sent to find me?”

“Aye. King Halaravilli wanted to know your preferences for tomorrow's feast.”

King Halaravilli.… Hal had scarcely spoken to her since the bloodshed in front of Amanth's gates. Rani knew that he was purposely keeping to his appropriated apartments, that he was mourning the deaths of the men he had led north. There were so many.… The seventy soldiers who had been destroyed by Davin's glass eggs. The councillor, Lamantarino. Monny. Even Bashi, in a way.

Rani wanted to go to Hal, wanted to comfort him with words and understanding. She
knew
why he had acted, why he had endangered his kingdom and his vassals. She wanted to tell him that he had made all the right decisions, that she was grateful for her rescue, for the liberation of the Little Army.

She wanted to go to him, but she would not. She would wait until he wished for her company, until he summoned her to his side. He was her king, after all. Not her brother. Not more. Her king.

Until then, she would serve him as best she could. Struggling to turn her attention to the matter at hand, Rani asked Puladarati, “Tomorrow's feast?”

The former regent scowled and ran his maimed hand through his mane. His words were pointed, as if he were berating a young child. “After the Amanthians swear their fealty.”

“Of course,” Rani replied, shaking her head as she forced herself to focus on Puladarati's words. “What was the king asking about?”

“Would you have Lady Mair sit at the head table? Or should she be with His Majesty's generals?”

“I should think at the head table.” Rani forced herself to turn away from the boys at the far end of the hall. “Puladarati, you're going to be the governor here. You can make these decisions without me.”

“I tried to tell that to His Majesty, but he insisted that I consult with you. Just as he insists on everything else around here. He thinks he has to be involved with everything, decide every last detail. He thinks we'll judge him harshly if he hasn't decided who sits above the salt cellar.”

Rani sighed. “Don't worry about him, Your Grace. He'll be more reasonable once we return to Morenia.”

“Reasonable!” The duke harrumphed and shook his head. “I don't question his
reason
! I question the burdens he's taking on. He scarcely knows how to run a council meeting! Just because I'm no longer his regent doesn't mean that I can't assist him.”

“Of course it doesn't.” Rani struggled to put all of her reassurance into her tone. “Your Grace, he chose you to be his governor here precisely because you
have
 assisted him. Who else could he trust to administer Amanthia? Sin Hazar's own lords must be watched over closely. It will be some time before their loyalty can be trusted, whatever oaths they swear tomorrow.”

“He's only a boy, though! He needs me at his side, not leagues away.”

“He's a boy who was man enough to lead an army up here. He was able to convince his council to ride. He broke the Little Army and Sin Hazar's regular forces. He has begun administering his lands with all the skills you've taught him.”

The duke shook his head and his throat worked as if he wanted to continue to argue, but he stood a little straighter as he looked out over the hall. “I've got to get this room prepared for tomorrow's feast. We need fresh reeds on the floors, and the tables moved out from the walls. And we've got to get that old man's rubbish out of here.”

“I'll take care of that, Your Grace. Davin is nearly through packing his belongings.” Rani gestured toward the boys who were hefting the old man's crates, following Crestman from the hall. She shrugged. “If you see Mair, you can send her to me, and we'll make sure that the feast goes smoothly.”

Puladarati started to argue, but he cut himself off. “Very well, my lady.” He managed a scant bow before he crossed toward the door.

“Your Grace!” Rani called, and the burly councillor reluctantly turned back to face her. “You aren't being banished from Morenia. We'll see you in the south come spring, when Hal calls his first council meeting in the new year.”

“That isn't far away,” the proud man said grudgingly.

“No, Your Grace. It isn't far away at all.”

Puladarati bowed again and took his leave.

“Well, you handled him like a tame pup,” Davin grumbled before Rani could smile with satisfaction.

“He's a good man, Davin.”

“Aren't they all?” the old man asked caustically. “If you're quite through holding court, we can get back to the business at hand.”

Rani started to bristle at the insulting tone, but she settled for a shrug and turned her attention to the large book that sat on the trestle. At Davin's waved invitation, she walked over to it, shifting it closer across the planks of the table. The book was even heavier than it looked; it took a solid effort to pull it near. “Why is it so heavy?” she asked, surprised that the old man had carried it so casually.

“That's lead about the binding.” He gestured toward the tracery that sprawled across the cover.

“Of course,” Rani breathed, belatedly recognizing the metal. She leaned closer to examine the binding. Upon inspection, the lead design was strangely familiar, carving up the underlying leather into distinct sections. The leather itself had been tooled with a series of different patterns. Some sections remained light and golden, seeming to leap forward from the surface. Others had been carefully stained so that they appeared to recede. The pattern was the work of a master. “It's like a window,” Rani said, with dawning recognition. “A window in the cathedral.”

“Aye. I had it from a master. A glasswright from the west.”

“May I?” Rani's hand trembled at the edge of the volume. She had seen books like this back in her guildhall, back when she had served as an apprentice. Then, she had scarcely been trusted to wipe the dust from such treasures. She would never have been permitted to touch a master glasswright's treatise.

“I brought it to you, didn't I?” Davin shook his head, as if he were doubting his decision, but then he waved his hand toward the volume. “Go ahead. There's no spell on it.”

Rani caressed the edge of the cover and breathed a prayer to Clain before she dared to open the tome. There was a creamy page of parchment, extravagant in its blankness, inviting her to turn it over. She did so with a mounting excitement and then leaned closer to the next page, picking out the words from their ornate script. “The Glasswrights' Craft, being a Treatise on the tempering and construction of all Things glass and the Ways of the master Glaziers.”

“Not
all
things,” Davin grumbled. “There's precious little on lenses there. But the book will tell you about making your own glass, about the fires you'll need and your tools. It has quite a lot on grozing irons and bits. And there's a useful section on dyes.”

“We don't have anything like this in Morenia! All the treatises were destroyed with the guild.”

“I'd heard as much. I suspect you can do something with this.”

“I can.” Rani resisted the urge to turn the page, to begin reading the treatise right there, in the middle of the hall. The smell of the leather, though, kindled in her memory all the reasons that she wanted to rebuild the glasswrights' guild. She thought of the windows she would craft, the glass creations that would capture the sacred rays of the sun and shape the very light itself. She would fill a dining hall with glowing illumination to inspire gaiety and nobility; she would soften a chapel with visions of light that would make the proudest man fall on his knees in worship of the Thousand Gods.… “Davin,” she managed to whisper, “Thank you.”

“No,” the old man said, raising his veined hands in protest. “Thank
you
.”

“For what?” Rani was surprised.