The Glass Maker's Daughter

by V. Briceland

  “The king!” Risa was astonished. King Alessandro had been ill for longer than she could remember. When her brother and sisters had been inducted into the insulas six years ago, and the six years before that, they had received the king’s blessing on the day before the ceremony. The Divetris had assumed, however, that given the monarch’s infirmity, he wouldn’t be making an appearance for Risa and Petro.

  She now saw where Fita was leading her. They had trekked to the top of the old stone stairs leading from the end of the lower bridge to the lowest point of Caza Divetri—a wooden dock jutting out into the sea, where tradesmen could deliver the consumables and goods necessary for the workshops and day-to-day functions of the household. Her parents were already down there, wandering about on the dock’s broad expanse.

  “Risa, my darling, I’ve told you a hundred times not to run down those steps,” her mother called before Risa’s feet had even planted themselves on the wood. “You’ll dash your brains out.”

  “She doesn’t have any brains to dash out.” Petro stood with his arms around Giulia, head buried against their mother’s velvet gown. His heart wasn’t in the jibe, as he was even more sleepy than Risa. Everyone seemed weary and worn at this early hour, Risa noticed. Though Giulia was as lovely as ever in soft maroons and yellows, Risa recognized the gown she wore as one of her morning garments, plush and comfortable and rarely seen outside her bedchambers. Petro had made some kind of effort to put on breeches and a shirt, but the latter was untucked and generous enough to come nearly to his knees.

  “I’m too tired to kick you,” Risa told her brother, joining him in hugging their mother, more for sheer physical support than affection. “Fita said the king was coming.”

  “Not the king. The prince.”

  “Prince Berto?” Risa opened her eyes fully. Some early morning mist remained hovering over the sea. “Really? So we’re to have the royal blessing after all?”

  “It was a surprise to us,” said her mother. From the wry tone to her voice, Risa suddenly realized that Giulia was as inconvenienced as she was.

  “Silly woman!” Ero was accustomed to being awake so early. He wore his daily work outfit—a plain shirt, heavy boots, sturdy thick trousers, and a massive gray apron tied multiple times around his substantial middle. “Complaining about a visit from the royal family! Wouldn’t you like to see your children begin their education at the insulas with as much good fortune as the gods could shower down upon them?” The tart look that Giulia shot him was apparently reply enough. “I know you don’t like Prince Berto … ”

  “What I don’t like,” said Giulia, stroking Petro’s hair, “is how he keeps everyone in the dark about his father’s health. The Buonochios were always very close to Alessandro.”

  In her confusion and sleepiness, Risa had not noticed that Fredo had come down to the dock with everyone else. Unlike the rest of the family, he was dressed in his holiday best—almost as if he’d gone to bed in his shiniest boots and embroidered surcoat, the bow of his shirt neatly tied around his neck. He stood at its far end, staring out and to the east, where the inkiness of the sky was lessening.

  “Cousin! I think I see the barca,” Fredo announced, commanding Ero’s attention. Her father crossed the dock to look.

  Giulia, however, still appeared worried. “Oh, dear.” She forced Petro to stand on his own and attempted to smooth down his hair. Spotting a smudge of something, she withdrew a handkerchief from one of her pockets, licked it, and began to wipe off his face. Petro tolerated the attention with half-closed eyes.

  When Giulia wheeled on her daughter with the self-moistened handkerchief outstretched, Risa had to put her foot down. “No thank you!” she insisted, backing away with both hands in the air. “I’ll fix myself.”

  “Well, do what you can,” said her mother, vaguely.

  “Which won’t be much,” muttered Fita as she finally reached the bottom of the steps and wandered up to them.

  The insinuation wasn’t lost on Risa. She ran her fingers through her hair and attempted to gather it as neatly as she could in the back. Her nightgown would have to do; though not fancily trimmed or anywhere near as well-made as her more formal dresses, it was at least neat and plain and presentable, in that it covered her from neck to foot. Perhaps she could conceal most of herself behind Petro. The idea sounded good enough to her sleep-fogged brain, so she joined her family as they gathered at the end of the dock.

  Fredo had been correct. Though she hadn’t seen it before in the darkness, the palace’s famous barcinoro was nearing at an astonishing rate. Its base was the length of perhaps ten to twelve gondolas. Unlike an ordinary barca, it had been gilded from its stern to the prow that curved up and out of the water; a fat cherub adorned the ferro projecting from its nose. Even in the dawn’s modest beginnings, it seemed to gleam and radiate its way along the shoreline. All but the very back of the boat was covered by a steeply pitched roof, painted in the city’s purples and browns. The city’s banner flew from a golden standard at the top. Instead of relying on a lone punter, like a gondola, the king’s barcinoro moved swiftly forward thanks to the work of twelve oarsmen hidden in the hold, six to each side, whose blades swiveled through the water in perfect unison.

  It was so majestic and impressive a sight that the family waited in absolute silence as the vessel neared. The oarsmen changed the motions of their blades without any individual variation or hesitation, as neatly as any mechanical toy. The barcinoro slowed and began to turn in a counter-clockwise motion until it was parallel with the dock. As hypnotic to Risa as the smooth operation was, Petro seemed to find it boring. He let out a loud and noisy yawn.

  “Respect your king and country, boy!” Fredo’s voice was savage as he reached out to pinch Petro’s waist.

  Risa’s eyebrows furrowed angrily as her brother let out a shrill squeal and accidentally stepped on her toe. “That hurt!” Petro complained.

  “It’s only the prince,” Risa growled at Fredo, instinctively putting her hands around Petro’s shoulders. Giulia, too, was trying to comfort her son, shushing him.

  “The prince who is to be king when his father is taken by the Brother and Sister.”

  Risa had her cousin on that point, and she knew it. “Not until the king formally names him his heir. Until then, he is only a prince.”

  “There is no only when it comes to royalty,” was Fredo’s pious answer. “Any family of the blood deserves the same respect as its head.”

  Risa stared at him with dislike and wondered if he really was talking about the prince, or about his own position within the caza. “Pinch someone your own size,” she warned him, “but not Petro. Not ever again.”

  Their eyes locked for a moment, both combatants fierce and unyielding. “Cazarra,” he at last implored, reaching for the metal box in his pocket. “My nerves … ”

  “It is my nerves that concern me most at this moment, Fredo,” said Giulia, bucking up Petro with a gentle caress at the back of his neck. Her lips quirked with displeasure in Ero’s direction, for he notoriously declined to participate in any of the family squabbles that involved his cousin.

  Perhaps, though, he was too busy watching the barcinoro. Two palace guards were tying it to the dock, while another two hoisted out a ramp of burnished bronze to form a sturdy bridge between dock and vessel. The barcinoro’s surface was intricately etched, but Risa was too dazzled by the proximity of the golden boat to pick out the details. Then one of the palace guards, in his deep red uniform and long cape, stood forth from the others, cleared his throat, and declaimed, “Prince Berto, son of Alessandro, requests an audience with the family Divetri, of the Seven, on this most auspicious day.”

  In return, Ero bowed his head and replied, “My family would be humbled to enjoy an audience with the prince.”

  That, apparently, was their cue. The guards who had erected the ramp stepped aside
, arms outstretched, to welcome them aboard the barcinoro. Ero and Giulia went first. The guards held Risa and Petro’s hands when it was their turn. Risa was secretly happy that when Cousin Fredo tried to follow, the guard on the dock held up a hand. Fredo was not allowed on the golden barcinoro; like Fita, he would have to watch from the dock. As she boarded, Risa resisted the temptation to smirk in his direction, and instead turned toward the boat’s covered bulk and waited for what was to follow.

  Fortunately, they did not have to wait long. The deep purple curtains parted, their gold fringe drifting across the smooth planks of the boat.

  “Bow,” Ero instructed, quietly. Giulia’s hands, resting upon her shoulder, pressured Risa down into a low curtsey. With her head inclined, Risa saw first one black boot, and then another, which quickly disappeared as Prince Berto’s ceremonial robes were lowered over them. Pools of embroidered brown velvet puddled around the man’s ankles as he came to a stop.

  “Rise, family Divetri.” Prince Berto’s voice was not as deep as Risa had imagined it would be. Nor was it as commanding or, well, royal. To her ears, his nasal intonation sounded much like one of the quarrelsome merchants who made Fita’s life an annoyance trying to wring extra lundri for a shipment of lemons. “Cazarro, I trust our visit did not incommode you all.”

  “Not at all, Your Eminence.” Ero bowed once again.

  “I would so dislike inconveniencing so prominent a family of the Seven.” Now that she was upright again, Risa could see what the prince looked like. His nose was sharp and almost too large for his features; his brow was high and projected at a slant. There seemed to be almost no spare flesh on that face, so close was the bone beneath the skin. “But the illness of my father the king has prevented me from attending to many of my lesser, though not unimportant, duties.” The hollow caverns around his eyes made them look almost ghostly, or as if he were the one who was sick.

  “How fares your father?” asked Ero. Giulia tilted her head with interest.

  The prince brought together the massive sleeves of his robes. For the first time, Risa noticed that they completely covered his hands. In fact, in those massive brown robes of state, Prince Berto looked a little like a scarecrow—a tiny, shriveled, apple-doll head stuck atop a farmer’s voluminous festival garb. Did he even have hands? There was no evidence for it.

  “Sadly, I fear he is coming to the end of his days,” Berto said to Ero. His doll-head dangled forward for a moment, then rose again. “He allows only me to attend upon him, and refuses all others. As you can imagine,” he continued, addressing Risa’s mother, “it’s so very tiring.” Giulia murmured with appreciation. “What a lovely caza you keep, Cazarra,” he remarked again.

  “Why, thank you, Your Eminence.” Giulia curtseyed prettily once more. Risa, however, was studying Prince Berto. His unearthly eyes, dark as polished obsidian and glittering even more brightly, were looking not at her mother but at the caza above, as the slowly rising sun illuminated its walls and structures. His eyes seemed to dart from the workshop chimneys belching out their smoke, to the warm glow of the kitchen windows, to the stairs leading into the main residence, all plainly visible beyond the courtyard at the end of the lower bridge. Strangely, Risa thought she could see greed in that glance, almost as if he wanted to reach out with his hands—if he actually had hands beneath those billowing sleeves—and grab the buildings, then stow them away in the hold of his golden barcinoro.

  Then his dark eyes met hers. Risa froze, suddenly aware of how intently she’d been staring at him. She felt like a mouse scavenging the storerooms, suddenly confronted by the hungry kitchen cat.

  To Prince Berto, though, she was apparently nothing. He’d barely noticed her. His eyes flicked away and softened as his eyelids lowered. “Let us attend to business then, shall we?” He gestured for Risa and Petro to approach.

  “Kneel down before the prince,” Giulia prompted, obviously pleased with their demure behavior so far.

  Both Risa and her brother dropped to their knees, preparing to receive the blessing. Risa felt as if she were being smothered in velvet when the prince laid his hands upon her head, but at last he stepped aside. The purple curtains parted again, and one of the palace priests stepped from inside the enclosure. While the circlet around the supplicant’s head was more elaborate than the circlets of the ordinary, insula-trained priests, his blessing was definitely of the ordinary—the almost generic, mumbled sort. He seemed sleepier than anyone else.

  In fact, the blessing was over so quickly that Risa was almost surprised that the prince had bothered at all. Fita lingered longer over breakfast prayers. Scarcely had their knees touched the deck than it seemed that the priest was urging them to stand once again, and the guards began ushering them all back over the shining bronze ramp onto the dock. “It has been a pleasure,” intoned the prince, “to see the family Divetri on the dawn of this special day.”

  “The pleasure has been all ours, One Most High.” Cousin Fredo, reunited with the family, acted as if he’d been with them all along. “A most grand pleasure indeed.”

  One of the guards undid the knot in the barcinoro’s rope. “A thousand gratitudes for your visit, Your Eminence,” said Ero. Risa might have been mistaken, but she could have sworn that her father’s face was as puzzled as her own at the brusqueness of their treatment. “Perhaps we will meet again soon.”

  The prince’s only reply was a smile. Tense and noncommittal, it seemed. Once again, however, his eyes seemed to gallop over the landscape of the caza, devouring the sight hungrily. Still holding his sleeves firmly together, he stepped back behind the curtains. A guard shouted a command. As one, the twelve invisible oarsmen dipped their blades into the water and the vessel slid away, propelling itself in the direction of Caza Catarre.

  “Well!” said Giulia, once the barcinoro was out of earshot. “The cheek!”

  “Now, love,” said Ero, already calming the tempest he knew was coming.

  “I’m surprised he came at all, since he couldn’t be bothered to give the children a blessing himself!”

  “The prince is a busy man,” said Cousin Fredo, watching the Barcinoro disappear to the southwest.

  “He does have other cazas to visit,” Ero added, still trying to placate his wife. He ruffled Risa’s already messy hair. “Ours are not the only children receiving a scrutiny today. What did you think of the prince, little lionkit?”

  Cousin Fredo sighed, his shoulders slumped. “A fine man, didn’t you think?”

  No. Risa didn’t think that at all. “He was interesting,” she admitted.

  For a moment she thought about sharing her uneasy feelings, but she was distracted by the sight of her brother. He had pulled up the collar of his shirt until it covered his mouth and nose, and pulled his hands inside the cuffs. All she could see of him were his ears, bulging eyes, and hair. “Risa, look!” he said from underneath the fabric. “I’m Prince Berto!”

  Risa’s special day might have started hours earlier than she’d intended, but now that it was here, she couldn’t help but be excited. Her mouth twitched at her brother’s clowning, and then she laughed. “For the love of Lena, don’t let Fredo see you!” she warned him, scampering in his direction.

  Poor Cousin Fredo, still peering after the golden vessel. He seemed to be the only Divetri who had truly appreciated the royal visit.

  4

  —

  As every object has its intended purpose, let the sons and daughters of the Seven and Thirty discover the purposes for which they were born within the walls of two insulas. Whether they learn the trades of their families, achieve scholarship, or pursue monastic lives, the end result will be civil stability and a blossoming of the arts.

  —Allyria Cassamagi to King Nivolo of

  Cassaforte, from a private letter in the

  Cassamagi archives

  Blue and green banners flew from ever
y window of Caza Divetri later that day. Leaning over the rail of her chamber balcony, Risa watched as servants decorated the tops of the canal walls with bunting. Gaily arrayed were the servant docks below, where bobbed a dozen gondolas. The day even smelled festive. From the kitchens wafted so many fragrances that it was difficult to identify one before it was replaced by another. Duck. Roast pork. Red snapper baked in lemon juice, its insides stuffed with sliced roast apples. Crushed olives. A fruit tart. Baked custards. A hundred delicacies for the feast to be served after the Scrutiny.

  If she leaned out and peered around the corner, Risa could see Caza Divetri’s two bridges to the mainland. The higher one was the grander of the two; it stretched from a piazza in Cassaforte to the gracious formal courtyard of the caza. The lower bridge was usually used by merchants and craftsmen, for it traveled more directly to the stable yard. Bell-arrayed vendors marched along the bridges and canal walls selling pomegranates and sugared apples, or comic broadsides printed with songs and poems.

  Everywhere Risa looked, she saw that the capital city had donned its finest for the Festival of the Two Moons. Caza Catarre flew their red and green family colors as well as the purple and brown banners of the city. From the windows of the less wealthy homes and tiny shops that lined the canals and streets flew colorful streamers and paper flags. The Sorrendi family had gone to elaborate extremes for the occasion, arranging enormous displays of summer flora in boxes hanging from each window. The Sorrendis were of the Thirty—the most elite families in all of Cassaforte, save for the Seven of the Cazas—and thus were allowed to display the family arms above their door. Even now, Sorrendi servants hung out of an upper-story window, polishing the impressive brass crest. When the midday sun streamed into the piazza, it would shine proudly.

  A servant squawked, pressing herself against the wall as Risa dashed down the stairs into the pillared room where the family was eating a late breakfast. Her feet slapped over the cool black and white marble. “It’s here!” she sang at the top of her lungs. The wild animal inside her burst free of confinement, and she leapt with joy alongside it. “It’s finally here!” she cried.