Glass Swallow (14 page)

‘Don’t know what the Master will do.’ Mikel blew his nose with a hearty trumpet, his eyes streaming. ‘Don’t know that he thinks about what happens to us ordinary folk. I’ve never seen him.’

‘What, never?’ The royal family were always on display in Tigral. It was a rare person who had never managed to see them at some state occasion.

‘Few people have. Just a couple of hand-picked jettans. The Master has to be kept from contamination.’

‘How strange. Where I come from it is thought to be the king’s duty to know as much as he can about what happens to his people.’

‘Well, not here.’ Mikel tapped his cup. ‘Enough doom and gloom. I’ve some news.’

‘More news, you mean?’

‘Yes, you impertinent chit.’ He teasingly let an impressive silence build. ‘The first window is going in today. That glassmaker will be back to oversee its installation.’

‘That’s … that’s good.’ She was torn between a desire to see what the man had done and chagrin that she had not been the one to do it.

‘Bleeding waste of money, if you ask me—’

‘But no one does,’ finished Rain with a giggle.

‘That’s just it: no one does.’ He winked. ‘Wouldn’t be in this mess if they did, I can tell you.’

A board protected the glass as the frame was winched into place. Rain had seen this many times back home and it was always a nail-biting moment. She didn’t even have to hide her interest: all the servants were hanging around the courtyard for the moment of unveiling so she could mingle inconspicuously with them. Finally, after much adjusting and swearing from the glassmaker, the time arrived. The cover was prised off the frame, revealing a stained-glass window in browns, dark blues, and reds: a battle scene.

‘What is it?’ Rain asked the cook.

She frowned, pushing her lanky hair off her face. ‘Looks like the Battle of Viguria, three centuries ago. Rolvint was founded not long after.’

Rain was disappointed. Though it was beautiful in its own way, she thought the colours were sludgy, the subject matter predictable, the battle without passion.

‘Do you like it?’ she asked the cook, wondering if her reaction was due to her Holtish tastes.

‘It’s all right, I suppose,’ the cook said grudgingly. ‘Not the sort of thing I’d like to look at day and night.’

The crowd dispersed, the unveiling an anticlimax. At least the glassmaker looked pleased; he was probably just relieved to have it in place without damage.

One of the last to leave work that night, Rain couldn’t avoid the streets for her journey home. The queues had gone from outside the Damset mansion, but the doors hung open and the pavement was littered with scraps of paper, many of which had been torn into pieces. She snagged one out of the fountain and read the inscription:

I promise to pay the bearer the sum of one thousand gold signets, signed Wealer Damset.

It was paper money. The whole plaza was covered in the stuff which told Rain that for some reason Wealer Damset’s signature was no longer worth the parchment it was written on.

She arrived back at the House of the Indigent to find the doors lay open there too. She went in, a nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach. Instead of the usual crowd of grey uniformed inmates, the place was empty. No preparations had been made for the evening meal—there was no food at the hatch where she reported for her ration. The dormitory was silent; the beds stripped. Rain hovered in the doorway, wondering what she should do. Footsteps approached. She turned. Never before had she been so happy to see the matron.

‘We’re closed,’ the matron said sharply. ‘You have to go.’

‘Go where?’

‘I don’t know. That’s your problem.’

‘But what’s happened?’

‘Wealer Damset dealt with our finances. Now he’s gone, there’s not a signet left.’

‘Gone?’

‘Committed suicide. Couldn’t stand to lose everything so jumped off the cliff into the river this morning.’

‘Poor man!’

‘Stupid man!’ corrected the matron. ‘Look what he’s brought us to: it’s the end of everything I worked for! I’ve no job any more, no place to go.’

Rain couldn’t imagine the matron sitting in a queue at the employment office.

‘Where do we go to get new places?’

The matron gave a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘Don’t you understand? There are no places. Nothing is working, nothing! The shops aren’t accepting any money but gold and there’s precious little of that to go round. People are being turned away from their jobs. Rolvint has ground to a halt, all because some idiotic wealer let his valuables be looted. If there’s any justice left in Magharna, they will string up his family, then the bandits.’

Rain didn’t think that sounded very fair at all but had no wish to argue. ‘So I’ve lost my job?’

The matron picked up a bundle of what looked suspiciously like bedding. ‘Catching on, are you? No, you’ll not be needed there any more. No one can pay for that extravagance now so there’ll be no labourers to feed. Hurry up, I’ve told you to leave; I want to lock up. I don’t want anyone to say I didn’t do my duty to the bitter end.’

‘And that includes stealing the blankets?’

The matron hissed. ‘It’s the least they owe me. Get out!’

Rain was relieved to find that her own small collection of belongings was still on the shelf she had been allocated. No one had thought her beads, charcoal, and paper worth stealing. All the other niches were empty. She stumbled out on to the street, tripping on the board listing the rules and regulations that someone had shattered on the step. The matron followed her, locking the door to the House of the Indigent with jerky movements before scurrying off into the city. In the few short minutes Rain had been inside, things had changed on the streets. She could now hear angry voices coming from nearby, the sound of breaking glass and screams. There was no sign of any law enforcers but perhaps they too had decided, like the matron, that they were not going to get paid so were no longer fulfilling their duties.

Perhaps they were the ones breaking the windows?

I’ve been here before
, Rain told herself, trying to stave off panic.
One step at a time: first I need to find shelter for the night.

She quickly reviewed her options. She only had one real friend in the city, but that meant crossing the rich districts again to reach him. There was nothing for it: she would have to take the risk.

The beautiful, elegant streets were given over to a running battle. One house of coinage was on fire, the people taking off with bags of gold signets and silver jettals rather than attempt to control the blaze. The owner stood outside, screaming at them to stop, but his cries went unheeded. Rain ducked down an alley, hoping to avoid the scene entirely, only to find her path thick with choking smoke. She pulled off her scarf and wrapped it over her face. Couldn’t they see that if no one put out the fire, the whole district would go up in flames? Didn’t they care?

The answer was clearly ‘not’.

In the next street, she found a huddle of people pelting a purveyor with paper money.

‘Here, take it,’ they shouted at him while a chain of men removed the bronze statues from his display cases.

He wept and pleaded but the looters were determined.

‘Fair exchange!’ they chanted. ‘Fair exchange!’

At first, Rain was terrified that the crowd would attack her, but she soon realized that no one was interested in a foreigner. Rolvint had turned into a frantic free-for-all: shops being emptied, houses of coinage looted, mansions belonging to the rich sacked. There was plenty of violence—fights over spoils, arguments between householders and rioters, drunken brawls—but she managed to slip through unscathed to arrive outside the site of the summer palace. As it was still a shell, the rioters had not thought to come here yet.

She hammered on the gate. ‘Open up, Mikel, open up!’

There was silence from inside.

‘It’s me—Rain.’

She heard a hacking cough and then the entrance scraped open a fraction.

‘Get in quick,’ Mikel said hoarsely. ‘Best if they think no one’s here.’

She darted inside and watched as he chained the gate. He was bent over and wheezing, his face flushed.

‘You’re ill,’ she said.

‘My cold’s turned out to be a bit of a fever,’ admitted Mikel.

‘You must go back to bed. If you let me, I’ll stay and look after you.’

He shuffled back to his cabin. ‘Looks like you’ll have no choice. I won’t let you back out there for all the money in Rolvint.’

‘There’s hardly any of that and what there is, is worthless,’ Rain remarked, going on to describe the scenes just a few streets away, how the paper money had been discarded and the precious coinage looted. ‘I don’t understand how your Master can allow it. Things have changed so quickly—it was all right this morning and now places are on fire, people stealing things. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone gets killed: it’s madness.’

Mikel collapsed on to his thin pallet, his narrow ribcage heaving in another bout of coughing. ‘Then you stay with old Mikel,’ he said when he’d got his breath. ‘I may be a stubborn cuss but at least I’m not crazy.’

‘No, you’re not. You’re the best man in Magharna.’

He laughed at that and lay still, following her with his eyes as she pottered around his cabin making him a little soup from the scraps of vegetables she’d got him from the kitchen earlier in the day.

‘Your father must miss you,’ he said after some minutes of silence had passed.

‘And I him.’

‘I had a daughter once.’

‘Oh yes?’ Rain realized she knew very little about her friend’s past. ‘What was her name?’

‘Mikela, of course.’ His wheezy laugh petered out into coughing.

‘And your wife?’

‘We weren’t married. Bondsmen aren’t allowed. No point anyway. Your owners send you where they like, split you up just for the fun of it.’

‘No one would be that cruel!’

‘You want to bet on it?’

She grimaced, considering what she knew about Magharna. ‘I suppose not.’

‘Wise girl.’

‘What about Mikela?’

‘She was left with me, worked in the kitchens like you do. Died in an accident on another site: wall fell on her. She didn’t suffer. Gone just like that she was.’ He snapped his fingers.

‘I’m sorry. How old was she?’

‘Twenty. My world died with her.’

‘That’s awful.’

‘But then you came. Mikela would’ve liked you.’

Rain wondered what she could say to comfort him, but words were inadequate. ‘And if she was anything like her father, I’m sure we would’ve been friends.’

‘You mustn’t worry about what’s going to happen. I’ll see you are all right,’ promised Mikel, folding his hands on his chest to rest.

Rain thanked him and then helped him drink his soup before having some herself. It was kind of him to say so, but she feared that he would need someone to look after him before he could offer protection to others. Sitting by the fire in their quiet enclave while the city burned and rioted around them, she made her plans. Her first step was to break into the kitchen. The looters had not yet considered it worthy of their attention with so many richer places to rob so she was able to take from the stores. She chose carefully, selecting items that would not spoil and that could be hidden in the cabin. She had already decided that safety lay in looking poorer than everyone else. She took several trips to transport her findings across to Mikel’s home, and here her yoke and buckets came in useful. Once she had enough for a few weeks, she set about hiding the bulk of it. This was no easy task: the cabin was a simple building. In the end she found places under the floorboards. Knowing that the food would be vulnerable to rats, she buried it all in cooking pots with lids, also liberated from the communal kitchen. Her job done, she stirred Mikel’s fire and sat down with a cup of Magharnan tea, a pale yellow leaf that smelt of cinnamon, thinking how precious it was at a time when she could not guarantee replacing it. How strange to be reduced to looting. Though she did not want to count herself as one of the rioters romping through the streets, she knew she wasn’t much different from them. In a crisis, it was everyone for themselves—or at least everyone for those they loved.

She smoothed the old man’s white-shot black hair off his brow, pleased to note that his fever was not too bad, his breathing less laboured. She’d make sure he was all right, she vowed; he was her only responsibility now.

The rioters came as she had anticipated late the following day. Mikel was still sleeping when they battered on the gates and ordered them to be opened. Grabbing a lantern, Rain approached the entrance.

‘What do you want?’ she asked. ‘There’s little left in here.’

‘Get these doors open or we’ll bash them in,’ shouted a man on the far side.

Gingerly, Rain unlocked the gate and stood back to let the group of ten men enter. They were a motley bunch: some wearing the livery of servants of the jettan families, others the leather aprons of blacksmiths. It seemed that the distinction between classes had collapsed along with the Magharnan state. The leader, a short, square-built man who carried a spear, hauled her from the shadows, using her own lantern to illuminate her face.