Free Glasswrights' Journeyman by Mindy L Klasky Page A

chairs in a cacophonous shriek of oak against stone. “My lords!” he exclaimed, doing his best to imitate a man who had slept well the night before, a man who was looking forward to the coming hours and the determination of policy, plans, administration.
    He took a moment to seek out Farsobalinti, his former squire. Farso had been Hal’s most recent appointment to the council; the young nobleman had been elevated just one year before. Hal had come to value Farso’s steady good temper, his calm acceptance of council machinations.
    Today, though, Farso did not meet his gaze. Hal was annoyed that the man was distracted, fully engaged in listening to Count Edpulaminbi. There would not be much of interest there, Hal was sure – Edpulaminbi would be discussing the new soldiers’ barracks that he hoped to build. The count had had little else to speak about for the past fortnight – barracks, and wells, and other details of civil construction.
    Shrugging off Farso’s inattentiveness, Hal nodded to the scribe, who rapidly swore in the council meeting in the name of the day’s deity, Nome, asking for the blessing of the god of children. When the formalities were completed, Hal granted Puladarati the honor of making the first report.
    The former regent glanced over his shoulder at his cloaked and hooded secretary, as if he would require assistance from the man. Nevertheless, he stood and bowed to Hal, addressing his first words to his liege lord before he included the rest of the council with an expansive three-fingered gesture. “Amanthia is healing well, Your Majesty. Whatever flaws Sin Hazar might have had, he organized his country well. His administrative officers have continued to maintain taxing rolls, and the priests still record births and deaths, tracking all the people by the northern castes of sun, lion, owl, and swan.”
    Hal nodded. He still did not understand the northern system, could not comprehend how a man’s entire life could be ordained by the stars that shone in the sky at his birth. Nevertheless, the Amanthians had operated under that system for generations. Hal knew that, at one point, Puladarati had considered tattooing his cheek with a swan – the northerners’ hereditary caste of leaders – but he had rejected the notion as unnecessary for a conquering governor.
    And Amanthia was well and truly conquered. Sin Hazar may have been a shrewd administrator, but he had not fully contemplated the end result of his plan to sell off the children of his land. He had not imagined what it would be like to rule a country bereft of an entire generation of boys, of men. Even in its absence, the Little Army continued to harrow Amanthia. The lost children constantly reminded the northerners of how much they had lost. Mothers, sisters, ancient grandfathers – all were daunted by their visions of what the proud Amanthia had been, what it no longer was. Without the children, Amanthia had faced famine and riot, utter political disorganization.
    Puladarati concluded his summary: “We have seed corn in the barns for the first time since Your Majesty took control over Amanthia. It should be planted within the next month, and we have every reason to expect that it will mature into bountiful rations for animals and men. In addition, we have high hopes for the wheat crop. The trade fairs, which were stopped entirely after Sin Hazar’s execution, are now prepared to begin again, at least the one in Amanth itself. Your northern territory, Your Majesty, is well on the way to recovery.”
    â€œWe thank you, Puladarati,” Hal said. Mention of the trade fairs, of course, called Rani back to mind. Hal’s pulse quickened, and he curled his fingers into involuntary fists. Even if he had been wrong in fighting with her about the Holy Father’s loan, even if their dispute were his fault, she should have acknowledged his apology. It had not been easy to find