“Not to worry, I’ll just make a note of it so we can come back to it later . . .” Flipping to a new page, Marta wrote that down as well. “Right. It might be a better idea to start the apprentices with just two guilds’ worth of experiences instead of three, since you’ll have a harder time getting anyone from the more limited pool of the Gearmen’s Guild. But it’s wise to have that cross-guild understanding of how the various crafts and skills work. So. On to the next question . . .”
• • •
“You.”
Waiting in the front hall for Alonnen to finish checking via talker-box on the condition of the roads, Rexei flinched inside at the sound of the archbishop’s voice. Silently in the back of her mind, she started humming hard; she hadn’t done much of it during her long conversation with Marta Grenspun because the subject had been too fascinating for her to concentrate, but now, she needed her protective meditations.
Turning to face the middle-aged man, she gave him a bland look. “Yes, Mister Tuddlehead?”
From the narrowing of his eyes, he didn’t like being addressed as anything less than Your Holiness or Archbishop. Still, he merely gestured sharply with a slash of his hand that ran from his assistant to her. The novice at his side stepped forward and drew a coat and cap out of the cloth bags he carried. Rexei took her cap, quirked her brows at the light brown wool of the coat, then shook her head. Flushing, the young man dug deeper. Two coats later, she nodded and held out her hand for the correct one.
“Thank you,” she stated as calmly as she could. The wool jacket, she draped over her left arm; the cap, she shoved into one of its pockets. A subtle glance to the side showed that the apprentice Gearman who had been mopping melted snow off the stone floor was trying not to move, so as not to draw attention to his brown-clad self. She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to draw the ex-priest’s attention.
She wasn’t sure what to make of the archbishop personally coming along to deliver her and the other Servers’ belongings. For all I know, he’s placed some sort of tracing spell on this coat. He was quite upset with me last night. As much as she wanted to curse him and kick him out of the land, Rexei’s rather lengthy chat with Marta had included a few questions about how she, the head of the new Holy Guild, should behave. Which means I need to be gracious and forgiving . . . ugh.
Taking a deep breath, she pictured her anger and her fear, imagining them as heavy bucket handles. In her mind, she opened her hands—though she kept humming to disguise her magic and hide herself from any magical traps or tracking spells—and let go of her burdens. Unbidden, words rose up within her, gracious words. She hoped Guildra would be proud of her for speaking them.
“May Guildra guide you onto a path of remorse and reparation in the days to come, Mister Tuddlehead,” she told the ex-priest. “Returning our things is an encouraging first step. One, I hope, of many that will lead you to a much more worthy and well-deserved life.”
“May who, what?” Elcarei asked, frowning in confusion.
The same quirk of courage from before made her flash him a brief smile. “Guildra. Goddess of Guilds, Protector of Heiastowne . . . and soon to be our new Patron Deity, the Goddess of Guildara. The kingdom that is about to rise from the ashes of Mekha’s many mistakes.”
Elcarei reddened at her claim. “Listen, boy—”
“Master,” she countered flatly. “It’s Master Longshanks.” Another tight smile, and she dipped her head. “I have you to thank for my elevation to the rank of Master Actor last night. Which also elevated me to the rank of Master Gearman. So I thank you.”
“Thank me, for fooling me?” he asked, his own mouth twisting into an equally tight but far less pleasant smile.
She softened hers. “Yes. You must remember that everyone here had regarded you, the Archbishop of Heiastowne, as a very astute, keen-eyed, sharp-witted man. You served a cruel, hated, and utterly unwanted master in the False God . . . but aside from that one particular flaw, no one in this town ever considered you a fool. And again, I remind you I went into the temple to investigate allegations of abuse against the members of the Servers Guild . . . and in two months found none. Not unless you count verbal abuse.”
Elcarei folded his arms across his chest. “Every master has the right to castigate an apprentice. Regardless of guild affiliation.”
“It can be carried to an irresponsible extreme,” Rexei admitted, thinking of the foulmouthed, foul-minded bastard in the Roofers Guild she had fled from after only two months of his version of verbal abuse. “But in your case, it was more a matter of dismissive arrogance than destructive vitriol. I saw no reason to mention it as a flaw in my report to the Consulate.”
Elcarei stepped forward, brows drawing together. “You dare judge me? You? A boy too young to grow a beard?”
Instinct warred with experience. Instinct said she needed to avert his wrath and avoid his attention. Years of ducking and hiding said she should apologize, grovel, and extract herself as quickly as possible from his attention. The Consulate apprentice did just that, quickly taking himself out through a side door so that he could escape further notice. She hoped he had also fled to report to one of his superiors, but she wasn’t going to hold her breath.
Experience, however, told instinct to shove off. Similar moments in her past had taught her that one should never back down from a bully. Particularly when one was in the right, and definitely when in a place with plenty of witnesses. Even if the apprentice had fled, off to one side, she spotted a familiar long-nosed, scarf-wrapped face coming down the hall, hair re-illusioned to look nut brown instead of ginger red.
Encouraged, she lifted her chin slightly, not budging an inch. “Physical age is no obstacle to maturity, Mister Tuddlehead. And yes, I dared to judge you. I was doing my job. By the laws under which Mekha oppressed us . . . you did an excellent job as archbishop. Do keep in mind, however, that some of those laws have now changed . . . and were changed last night by a full quorum of Guild Masters.”
He frowned, looking somewhere past her shoulder as he silently counted in his head. “I know all the Gearmen, save yourself, that were at that table. Subtracting them, the count should have been short of a full quorum.”
“That’s because we appointed a new Guild Master last night, of a new guild,” Alonnen stated, joining Rexei. He looked remarkably relaxed, for the one mage the priesthood would have cheerfully killed to get their hands on just three days before, had they known of his strength and his existence.
“What new guild?” Elcarei asked, glancing between the two of them.
“The Holy Guild. The new priesthood,” Rexei answered. It was her place to do so, though she certainly wasn’t going to tell this velvet-clad bastard who the new Guild Master was. “Those who serve Guildra, Goddess of Guilds, shall also serve the people of this land. Rather than try to bully and abuse them.”
He sucked in a sharp breath . . . but said nothing to her for her impertinence. Turning instead to his novice, he pointed at the reception desk. “Leave the rest for the ingrates to pick up. We have better things to do with our time.”
Nodding, the young man fished out the various coats, hats, and scarves from his bag and dropped them on the currently unoccupied desk. Flattening the bags, he rolled them up and stuffed them into the pockets of his long velvet overcoat, not quite as luxurious as the ex-archbishop’s but still clearly a cut above the average Mekhanan’s woolens.