“He and Sandy went to check the kilns.” Shaene’s smile grew brighter and more obsequious. Achmed ignored him and went to one of the worktables, where many generations of test shards lay next to seven glass plates wrapped in burlap. Theophila followed him, her eyes taking in the tall, slender room, its lofty, tapering tower that reached into the sky above. He pointed to the circular domed ceiling, temporarily sealed with wood, divided into seven equal sections in rays around the centerpiece support.
“This is the project: I need to have that ceiling inlaid with seven colored panes of glass, all equal in size. The circle is to be divided up in eighths, each section accounting for one eighth of the area, the last eighth accounting for the lead cames, the support sections that divide the colors one from another.” The Panjeri artisan nodded.
“The forges that are available to you here rival—no, best—anything you have ever seen before. There are four furnaces the size of three oxcarts in length, a fritting furnace, a melting furnace for working the glass, an annealing furnace for cooling, and a furnace for spreading the glass sheets. If you have need of another, or any other tools, I will have them made for you.
“Here is the challenge,” Achmed continued. “Each section must be precisely the right color—I have a gauge I will show you. Additionally, it must be strong enough to withstand the thin air and the battering winds at the top of this crag, but at the same time flawless, without bubbles or imperfections. And the glass must be translucent enough to cast a clear, colored shadow on the floor of this room; different colors will shine at different hours, depending on the position of the sun. If it’s done correctly, a rainbow will arch across the floor at midday.”
“Do you have a schematic to indicate where each specific color goes?” the stained-glass master asked.
“Yes. Rhur has it now, most likely.”
Shaene shook his head. “Probably Sandy, actually.”
Achmed exhaled, remembering the nervous look on Rhapsody’s face as she reluctantly copied the corresponding colors onto the diagram.
“I will make certain you have the plans,” he said to Theophila. He picked up one of the burlap-wrapped plates and pulled off the cover. In his hand was a small plate of glowing green glass, as thick as the length of his thumb.
“This is supposed to be a gauge of the correct green—there is one for each color,” he said, handing it to Theophila. “In addition, you can test the opacity by holding it up to sunlight. If the glass has the right translucency, supposedly some sort of rune appears, some kind of writing, that can only be seen if it’s not too thin, not too thick.”
“I take it you have never seen the rune,” Theophila said, running her fingers absently through the multicolored shards on the table.
“No.”
“Not surprising. You are using the wrong materials.”
“Oh? And what should we be using?”
She picked up a shard, fingering it carefully, then held it up to the light.
“You are using the wrong type of wood for ash, for one thing. What concentration of ash to sand are you using?”
“One and one half parts ash to one part sand.”
The sealed master shook her head. “No. Two to one. You also need a finer mesh to sift it; this is still too coarse. And you need to be using different wood. This has too high a concentration of potash in it.”
Achmed swallowed, thinking. They had used the same wood that Gwylliam had used—the harvest of the deep forest glades to the east within the Hidden Realm of Canrif, past the dry canyon. “When the original tower was built, they used the same wood that we are using,” he said, picking up a blotchy yellow piece.
The artisan arched an eyebrow. “Are you certain?” she asked, looking through the test piece again. “There is wood of all different sorts around here. You’ve used the soft woods of the eastern forests, have you not?”
“Yes.”
She chuckled. “You should be looking west, not east. The foothills on the western side of your realm are full of cherry and, even better, beechwood, which has more sodium in it—much better in glass making. Additionally, you can find wormwood and nettles strewn all over the steppes—we passed enough of them to realize your brave boast about lining every mountain peak of the Teeth with stained glass. And finally, we can harvest the szeksos.”
“Szeksos?”
The artisan nodded. “Salt crusts that you find on arid land, such as that between here and the Sorbold border. Very commonly seen on steppes. They are probably the remains of ancient saltwater ponds. Whenever the Panjeri come across them, we harvest them. They make a wonderful additive.”
Achmed had been listening in an almost grateful admiration. Hearing the confidence in her voice, after so many months of failed trial and error, gave him renewed hope that his undertaking might have a chance after all.
“I’ve brought back barrels of minerals to use as colorants,” he said quickly, stepping over the broken glass and nodding to Rhur as he came into the tower. “I’m assuming you’ll want manganese for the purple, copper for the red, iron for the yellow, cobalt for the blue—
“Perhaps,” Theophila shrugged. “I may use the traditional metallic oxides, but I have my own recipes as well. Different types of ash make for different colors, different temperatures do as well.”
“What are the ingredients?”
The Panjeri woman did not smile. “Your two hundred thousand gold suns purchases my time and labor,” she said blandly. “It does not buy my secrets.”
Rhur signaled for the Bolg king to excuse himself; when Achmed waved at him dismissively, the Firbolg artisan cleared his throat and spoke, something that occurred so rarely that both the king and Shaene were startled by the sound of his voice.
“Majesty.” He beckoned with his head again.
Achmed tossed the shard into the pile and hurried across the room. He took the small scrap of oilcloth that Rhur held out to him; it was a message that came in from the aviary.
In Grunthor’s hand.
He stared at it for a long moment, trying to make sense of the words, then suddenly looked up at all three artisans.
“I must go,” he said quietly to Rhur. “I don’t know when I will return. Make certain she gets anything she needs—anything. Have the tool casters begin work on whatever she designs. See to it that she is made comfortable in the ambassadorial guest quarters. But confine her to that section of hallways. I don’t want her loose in the Cauldron while I’m gone.” Rhur nodded. “Now, go to the quartermaster; tell him to reoutfit me right away. I have to leave immediately for Sepulvarta.”
He turned back and met the stares of the men and the woman.
“I have to leave suddenly, Theophila.” He looked around quickly. “Rhur will see to everything you need. I—I will check in with you as soon as I get back. You can work independently, without my oversight, from what you have seen, yes?”
“Once I have the plans, yes.”
“Good. Shaene, make certain she gets them.”
Without another word, the Bolg king fled the chamber.
Out along the corridors of the inner Cauldron he ran, past hallways and guards who blinked but said nothing as he rushed by. Firbolg workmen and citizens passing in the corridors moved quickly up against the walls to keep clear of him; from the look on his face, the last thing they wanted to do was get in his way.
Achmed slipped into a thin tunnel that served as a vent for the circulating system of heat that warmed the inner reaches of the mountains in winter, now dormant in summer’s heat, and followed it out onto a rocky eastern ledge that overlooked the Krevensfield Plain. He tried to calm his frantically racing heart, inhaling deeply until he could feel his internal center, focusing on his own heartbeat.
Then, tremulously, he closed his eyes and pulled back the veil over his skin-web, letting the gusts of warm summer air billow over it, searching for the familiar rhythm on the wind.