Storm Glass
Page 19
People hustled through the streets. Most carried packages while others pulled wagons. The heavy scent of fresh bread floated in the air. The buildings, made of wood or stone or a combination of the two, leaned together in an odd collection of sizes and shapes.
We stopped at the town’s square. Zitora pointed to an official-looking building that was three times as wide as its neighbors and had been constructed with large white stones. Iron bars covered the windows along the ground floor of the structure.
“I’ll talk to the authorities about our ambushers. To save time, why don’t you buy our supplies and I’ll meet you at the market.” She recited a list of items to purchase.
Kade slid off the saddle to join Zitora and I was left to take care of the horses. Without the Stormdancer behind me, the cool air on my back gave me a chill. I couldn’t help feeling left out even though I knew Zitora was right. We shouldn’t linger too long since we had another five days before we reached Booruby.
I found the market by following the scent of spiced beef sizzling over an open flame. Tying the horses to a nearby hitching post, I wandered through the market’s stalls. The open wooden stands had roofs tiled with shale shingles and all had bamboo shades to protect them from the wind and rain. On a clear day like this morning, the shades were rolled up and tied to the roof.
I bought a loaf of bread, a hunk of cow cheese and a handful of pork jerky. After I finished shopping, I packed the supplies in our saddlebags. With my chore done, I strolled through the market again. This time I purchased a spiced beef stick to eat for lunch and lingered to examine the glasswares for sale.
A stall filled with decorative pieces drew my attention. I stopped to appreciate the craftsmanship of a delicate vase. The clear glass had a swirl of green bubbles spiraling around the tall flute. Sometimes bubbles or seeds meant a mistake, but the effect was stunning. The vase didn’t sing, but faint pops throbbed in my fingertips.
“Ten silvers for the vase,” the stand owner said. She was an older woman with gray strands streaking her faded black hair. Her lined face looked as if she had weathered one too many storms.
“Did you make this?” I asked.
“No. Imported from Ixia.”
“Ixia?” The few pieces I’ve seen from Ixia had all been thick and practical. No popping. She wanted to inflate the price.
“Nine silvers, but not a copper less.” She waggled a slender finger.
“Do you know who made the vase?”
“I’m not telling you! You’ll go right to the glassmaker, undercut my business. Eight and a half silvers. Final offer.”
“Six,” I countered.
“Seven.”
“Deal.”
The woman muttered under her breath as she wrapped the vase and snatched my money. I hoped to find the artist and the best way would be to show the vase around to see if anyone knew who made it.
The woman handed me the package. I could no longer feel the pops through the thick wrapping. Even so, I felt certain the glassmaker was in the market. I hurried toward the east side positive I would find him.
A column of gray smoke rising in the distance must be from a kiln, I decided. The hot smell of molten glass drew me on until I passed through the market and followed a narrow cobblestone street. Convinced I would find the artist working in one of these abandoned warehouses, I peered through all the windows.
One of the buildings had collapsed and covered the road, creating a dead end. When I reached the rubble, all signs of a kiln disappeared. And my conviction fled. The air smelled of excrement and garbage.
I turned to go back.
A man blocked my way.
He held a sword.
Blue Eyes.
8
BLUE EYES. But he should be incarcerated in the Thunder Valley jail with the other ambushers.
Yet there he stood. His blade poised for trouble.
I labored to keep my breathing steady. The collapsed building behind me prevented any chance to run away. In fact, the whole alley was quite deserted. A place I would normally avoid. I must have been tricked by magic. His sword was not his only weapon.
Setting my package out of the way, I pulled my sais from their sheaths, and slid my legs into a defensive position, turning my h*ps and feet to the right side so I made a thinner target.
I rested the sais’ weight in the crook of each hand. My forefinger lay on the hilt, pointing toward the weighted knob at the top. The rest of my fingers curled around the U-shaped guard. The metal shaft of my weapons felt icy against my hot forearms.
He advanced. My heart slammed in my chest as fear shot through my body. Sais were not cutting weapons. They blocked swords and bow staffs and could—in the hands of an expert—trap and yank those weapons from an opponent’s hands, but with a quick change in grip I could strike, knocking an attacker unconscious.
Five feet away from me he stopped. “Put your sais down,” he said. “And I will not hurt you.”
“No. Last time you wanted to finish the job, which included killing me and my companion.”
“Your companion.” His mouth twisted into a tight smile, but the humor failed to reach his cold eyes. “A Master Magician. A surprise that should not have been.” He stepped another foot closer. “I do not want to kill you.”
“Good to know.” I glanced at his blade. Sharpness gleamed from the edges. His actions didn’t match his words.
“Your life is precious to me now that I know who you are.”
“You knew I was a glassmaker before.”
We stopped at the town’s square. Zitora pointed to an official-looking building that was three times as wide as its neighbors and had been constructed with large white stones. Iron bars covered the windows along the ground floor of the structure.
“I’ll talk to the authorities about our ambushers. To save time, why don’t you buy our supplies and I’ll meet you at the market.” She recited a list of items to purchase.
Kade slid off the saddle to join Zitora and I was left to take care of the horses. Without the Stormdancer behind me, the cool air on my back gave me a chill. I couldn’t help feeling left out even though I knew Zitora was right. We shouldn’t linger too long since we had another five days before we reached Booruby.
I found the market by following the scent of spiced beef sizzling over an open flame. Tying the horses to a nearby hitching post, I wandered through the market’s stalls. The open wooden stands had roofs tiled with shale shingles and all had bamboo shades to protect them from the wind and rain. On a clear day like this morning, the shades were rolled up and tied to the roof.
I bought a loaf of bread, a hunk of cow cheese and a handful of pork jerky. After I finished shopping, I packed the supplies in our saddlebags. With my chore done, I strolled through the market again. This time I purchased a spiced beef stick to eat for lunch and lingered to examine the glasswares for sale.
A stall filled with decorative pieces drew my attention. I stopped to appreciate the craftsmanship of a delicate vase. The clear glass had a swirl of green bubbles spiraling around the tall flute. Sometimes bubbles or seeds meant a mistake, but the effect was stunning. The vase didn’t sing, but faint pops throbbed in my fingertips.
“Ten silvers for the vase,” the stand owner said. She was an older woman with gray strands streaking her faded black hair. Her lined face looked as if she had weathered one too many storms.
“Did you make this?” I asked.
“No. Imported from Ixia.”
“Ixia?” The few pieces I’ve seen from Ixia had all been thick and practical. No popping. She wanted to inflate the price.
“Nine silvers, but not a copper less.” She waggled a slender finger.
“Do you know who made the vase?”
“I’m not telling you! You’ll go right to the glassmaker, undercut my business. Eight and a half silvers. Final offer.”
“Six,” I countered.
“Seven.”
“Deal.”
The woman muttered under her breath as she wrapped the vase and snatched my money. I hoped to find the artist and the best way would be to show the vase around to see if anyone knew who made it.
The woman handed me the package. I could no longer feel the pops through the thick wrapping. Even so, I felt certain the glassmaker was in the market. I hurried toward the east side positive I would find him.
A column of gray smoke rising in the distance must be from a kiln, I decided. The hot smell of molten glass drew me on until I passed through the market and followed a narrow cobblestone street. Convinced I would find the artist working in one of these abandoned warehouses, I peered through all the windows.
One of the buildings had collapsed and covered the road, creating a dead end. When I reached the rubble, all signs of a kiln disappeared. And my conviction fled. The air smelled of excrement and garbage.
I turned to go back.
A man blocked my way.
He held a sword.
Blue Eyes.
8
BLUE EYES. But he should be incarcerated in the Thunder Valley jail with the other ambushers.
Yet there he stood. His blade poised for trouble.
I labored to keep my breathing steady. The collapsed building behind me prevented any chance to run away. In fact, the whole alley was quite deserted. A place I would normally avoid. I must have been tricked by magic. His sword was not his only weapon.
Setting my package out of the way, I pulled my sais from their sheaths, and slid my legs into a defensive position, turning my h*ps and feet to the right side so I made a thinner target.
I rested the sais’ weight in the crook of each hand. My forefinger lay on the hilt, pointing toward the weighted knob at the top. The rest of my fingers curled around the U-shaped guard. The metal shaft of my weapons felt icy against my hot forearms.
He advanced. My heart slammed in my chest as fear shot through my body. Sais were not cutting weapons. They blocked swords and bow staffs and could—in the hands of an expert—trap and yank those weapons from an opponent’s hands, but with a quick change in grip I could strike, knocking an attacker unconscious.
Five feet away from me he stopped. “Put your sais down,” he said. “And I will not hurt you.”
“No. Last time you wanted to finish the job, which included killing me and my companion.”
“Your companion.” His mouth twisted into a tight smile, but the humor failed to reach his cold eyes. “A Master Magician. A surprise that should not have been.” He stepped another foot closer. “I do not want to kill you.”
“Good to know.” I glanced at his blade. Sharpness gleamed from the edges. His actions didn’t match his words.
“Your life is precious to me now that I know who you are.”
“You knew I was a glassmaker before.”
