S. Grove - The Glass Sentence

Shadrack sat alone, his hands tied behind his back, his ankles bound to the legs of the chair. He was staring up at the ceiling, his head resting against the cool stone wall behind him. The floor had long since been cleared of its pews, so that the chapel appeared more a workroom than a place of worship. Shelves weighed down by thousands of books lined its walls, and the numerous long tables were covered with piles of paper and open books and ink bottles. At the front of the chapel, where the altar would have been, stood a huge, black furnace. The furnace was, at the moment, unlit. It stood quietly in the company of its bellows and tongs and a pair of charred leather gloves. From the tools and materials scattered around it, the furnace appeared to have a single purpose: making glass.

Shadrack watched the furnace’s creations circling silently through the chapel vault far above him: hundreds of large glass globes in a gliding constellation, controlled by a single mechanism that rose up from the center of the floor. The metal gears connecting them—not unlike those of a clock, to Shadrack’s inexpert eye—must have been well-oiled, because they emitted no sound. He watched the globes’ smooth, endless rotations. He had been staring for hours.

The globes’ surfaces were not still. Each seemed to shiver with a perpetual motion that appeared almost lifelike. The light streaming through the stained-glass windows reflected off them onto the stone walls and ceiling. They were too high up for Shadrack to see clearly, but this delicate trembling only added to their beauty. As they dipped closer, the globes seemed at times to reveal subtle shapes or expressions. Shadrack felt certain that if he watched for long enough, the pattern they traced would become clear.

He was also trying with all his might to stay awake. He had not slept since leaving the house on East Ending Street. In part, he had been trying to work out who had taken him captive. The men who had seized him were Nihilismians. It was evident from the amulets that hung from their necks: small or large, metal or wood or carved stone, they all bore the distinctive open-hand symbol. But they were unlike any other followers of Amitto that Shadrack had ever known, and he speculated that they belonged to some obscure, militant sect; for apart from the amulets, they all carried iron grappling hooks. Shadrack could tell by the way they used their weapons in the rooms of his house that they were practiced. Most disturbingly, the silent men all bore the same unusual scars: lines that stretched from the corners of their mouths, across their cheeks, to the tops of their ears. They were gruesome, unchanging, artificial grins, etched onto unsmiling faces.

Once Shadrack had persuaded them that they had found what they were looking for, they had ended their assault on the house and retreated into unresponsive silence. The ride out of Boston in the coach had been a long one, and he had tried—with only partial success—to map the route. It had been difficult once they blindfolded him and placed him in a railway car, but his inner compass told him that they had traveled north several hours, and from the occasional gust of cold wind he suspected that they were no more than an hour or two south of the Prehistoric Snows.

All the anger he had felt when they first captured him had slowly faded during the day-long journey. It had changed to a sharp-edged attentiveness. The night air, as they emerged from the railcar, had felt cool but still summery. He had smelled pine and moss. The scarred Nihilismians had brought him directly from the railway car to the chapel, tied him to a chair, and removed his blindfold. Then they had disappeared. The slow movement of the globes had soothed the remaining sting of his anger, and now he felt only an intense curiosity as to his circumstances and surroundings. His captivity had become another exploration.

As he stared at the globes, he suddenly heard a door open somewhere near the altar. He turned to look. Two of the men entered the chapel, followed by a woman wearing a cream-colored dress with tightly buttoned sleeves. A blond linen veil hid her features entirely. As she approached with a quick, easy step, Shadrack tried to make out what he could from her bearing without being able to see her face.

The woman stopped a few feet away from him. “I have found you at the end of a long search, Shadrack Elli. But not the Tracing Glass that I sought—where is it?”

The moment Shadrack heard the woman speak, the meaning of her words became indistinct. Her voice was beautiful—and familiar: low, gentle, and even, with a slight accent that he could not place. Though her words betrayed no emotion, their sound threw him into a tempest of inchoate memories. He had heard her voice before; he knew this woman. And she must know him, too; why else hide her face behind the blond veil? But despite the rushing sense of familiarity, he could not remember who she was. Shadrack roused himself, trying to shake off the feeling that had taken hold. He told himself to concentrate and to give nothing away in his reply. “I’m sorry. I gave your men what they asked me for. I don’t know what glass you mean.”

“You do, Shadrack,” the woman said softly. She took a step closer. “You and I are on the same side. Tell me where it is, and I promise I will put everything right.”

For a moment, Shadrack believed her. He had to make a monumental effort to hear the meaning of her words and not just their sound. “If you and I are on the same side,” he said, “then there is no reason why I should be tied to this chair. In fact,” he added, “there is no reason why your Nihilismian thugs should have dragged me from my house in the first place.” As he spoke, he found the effect of the woman’s voice fading. “Why not let me go, and I promise I’ll put everything right.”

The woman shook her head; her veil quivered. “Before I do anything else, I really must insist that you tell me where it is.” She rested her gloved hand lightly on his shoulder. “You fooled my Sandmen, but you won’t fool me. Where is the Tracing Glass?” she whispered.

Shadrack stared as hard as he could through the veil, but even this close it revealed nothing. “I have dozens of glass maps. Or at least I did, before your ‘Sandmen’ broke most of them. Perhaps you should look through the pieces—the glass you want is probably there.”

The woman let out a small sigh and stepped away. “I thought it might be this way, Shadrack. Still, I am glad to have you here.” The woman’s tone was calm and only slightly troubled, as if she were discussing a trifling concern with a friend rather than issuing threats to a bound man. She indicated the swirling glass globes above her. “You may be the greatest known cartologer in New Occident—perhaps in the world,” she said. “But you will forgive me for saying that I believe I am the greatest unknown cartologer.” She gazed up at the globes and spoke to them, rather than to Shadrack. “I would have benefited from your company before now. Years and years of work,” she said quietly. “Trial and error—mostly error.” She once again looked at her captive. “Do you know how difficult it is to create a spherical glass map? The glass-blowing technique alone took me ages to perfect, and working with a sphere adds a whole new dimension—if you will—to the mapmaking. Still,” she said softly, “the effort was well worth it. Don’t you think?”

“I’d really have to read them for myself to determine their quality.”

The woman turned abruptly. “Yes—why not? I’ve wanted nothing more for quite some time.” She signaled to the two men, who were standing some distance away. “That desk,” she said, pointing. Without untying Shadrack, the two men snagged the chair with their grappling hooks and dragged it to a heavy desk that stood several feet away. It held a glass globe on a metal stand.