Maria Snyder - Sea Glass

The familiar hum of the kilns vibrated in my ears. Not all of the factory employees were in the middle of a project. A large man grabbed a punty iron. The five-foot-long metal rod made a formidable weapon. He ordered us to leave the factory.

Janco continued his search, ignoring the man. Using his picks, Janco popped the lock to Gressa’s mixing room and entered. I stayed by the door with my hands wrapped around the handles of my sais, keeping the man in sight.

Janco returned and headed toward Gressa’s glass-walled office. After another order to stop failed to work, the man swung his rod. I yanked my sais from my cloak and deflected his strike. The clang of metal pierced the air. I switched my sais to a defensive position. With the shafts along my forearms and the knobs up, I could attack or defend, depending on the circumstances.

Two things happened. One good and one bad.

The noise created instant silence, but then the sales staff moved away to give their fellow worker more room to maneuver. A few disappeared.

Janco nodded at me. “Keep him busy.”

Great. My opponent pulled back to bash me on the head. Perhaps barging in here hadn’t been the best idea. I flipped my sais out and crossed them into an X-shape, blocking the head shot. The force of his blow vibrated down my arms.

He jerked the rod back, but I followed, closing the distance between us. I stepped to within a foot of him and jabbed him hard in the solar plexus with the sais’s knobs. He stumbled, gasping for breath.

I caught a glimpse of another armed attacker and turned in time to stop a hit to my stomach.

Janco’s voice cut through the din. “No sign of Gressa or Ulrick. Now what?”

The factory workers abandoned their tasks and armed themselves with rods, jacks and battledores.

“Time to leave,” I shouted, but Janco was already engaged in a fight with two men. “Don’t hurt anyone.” I ducked a wild swing. The workers were strong, but unskilled at fighting. They also outnumbered us four to one.

Janco easily countered his opponents. He had almost cleared an escape path for us. Hope of a quick exit died when the town’s guards burst through the door.

CONFUSION REIGNED. BETWEEN THE TOWN’S GUARDS AND THEfactory workers, we were overwhelmed. Janco and I admitted defeat and surrendered our weapons. Explanations about why we had forced our way into Gressa’s glass factory fell on deaf ears. It was obvious we didn’t belong there. As we were led to the guards’ headquarters, I hoped we would get a chance to tell our side of the story.

However, once we arrived at the station, we were stripped of our possessions, dumped into adjoining cells and left. The metallic clang of the lock echoed in my ears with a sickening familiarity. I counted the number of times I had been imprisoned and had to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Janco asked.

Three of the cell’s walls were stone, but iron bars lined the door and front wall, allowing me to talk with Janco. “Just thinking about how this time is a legitimate arrest versus some of my other incarcerations.”

“Ah, yes. I’m sure we’ll be charged with trespassing, breaking and entering and attempted armed robbery. They’ll probably add in resisting arrest and disorderly conduct for good measure.”

“Sounds like you’ve had experience.”

“Knowledge learned from my misspent youth. You gotta love the disorderly-conduct charge. It covers a wide range of behaviors, and, to my mother’s horror, I was determined to test the boundaries.” Humor laced his voice. “Speaking of bad behavior, I think I’ll wait until dark to pick the locks.”

“But they searched you and confiscated your picks.”

He laughed. “Let me tell you a story about a beautiful seamstress in Ixia. Dilana has a fine hand with needle and thread and a fine smile, too—all warm and caring. Although she found my request to be a bit…odd, she acquiesced. With her clever stitchery, she has sewn lock picks into all my clothing. They’re just a ripped seam away.”

“I’m glad you’re using your knowledge for good.”

“My mother’s ecstatic, and my new position earns enough money to pay for her hair dye.” He tsked. “Poor woman went gray at a very young age.”

Poor woman indeed.

“We should be here overnight,” Janco said. “The guards know who you are and are probably contacting the magicians at the Citadel as we speak. If they decide not to press charges, we’ll probably be escorted there. I don’t think the Council will trust me again to bring you home.”

“Who would press charges?” I asked.

“Gressa owns the factory, so it would be up to her.” He paused. “I thought you said she was a fugitive.”

“She was. Something must have happened.” I considered. Gressa had been helping Councilor Moon’s sister by crafting realistic yet fake diamonds from glass. The sister had been selling these fakes to finance her efforts to overthrow the Councilor.

The Sitian Council would honor a new Moon Councilor if she had gained her position through legitimate channels. The Moon Clan had a matriarchal government. The Councilor’s oldest daughter inherited the position, but there had been times in the past when the Moon Clan’s citizens had believed another sister was a better candidate for the job. They would stage a coup, and install their chosen with little to no bloodshed. The Council viewed this as the will of the people and accepted the new Councilor.

However, if the efforts to usurp the present Councilor originated from the dissatisfied sister, and if she used illegal means to purchase weapons and bribe the townspeople, then the Council wouldn’t accept her and they would help the ousted woman regain her rightful position.

Master Magician Irys Jewelrose and Yelena had been in Fulgor to keep an eye on developments, to learn who led the unrest and to protect the Councilor. She had been convinced she was targeted for assassination, an illegal act according to the Sitian Council.

Irys’s signature on my order to return to the Citadel meant she was no longer here. The crisis must have been averted. Otherwise, if the sister had gained power, the Council would have interfered. However, neither option felt right to me.

“Do you feel the…unease in the townspeople?” I asked Janco. “Or is it just my imagination?”

“It’s not your imagination. The people around here are as tight as bowstrings. I could probably play a tune if I brushed up against enough of them.”

“What about your interaction with the guards?”

“Wary and watchful. But that’s typical behavior. I’m surprised by how civil they’ve been to me, considering I’m Ixian.”

“It’s because we don’t automatically assume you’re a vile magician intent on harm like you Ixians do when meeting a Sitian.”

Janco harrumphed. “I don’t assume that .”

“No?” Doubt colored my voice.

“I assume you’re a vile magician.”

“There’s no difference.”

“Yes, there is. I don’t assume your intentions are harmful. I know no matter what your intentions are, magic causes harm to someone somewhere at some time.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re the expert on Sitians. You should have been the one appointed liaison between Ixia and Sitia instead of Yelena. Unless it’s because the Commander and the Council have at least a crumb of intelligence between them.”

“Nasty, Opal. I must have hit a nerve. Perhaps it was my ‘magic causes harm’ remark. You have plenty of experience with that.”

“Shut up.”

“As you wish.”

I brooded in silence. Dozens of examples of positive results from using magic popped into my mind. Stormdancers tamed killer storms, healers saved lives, Story Weavers helped people and my glass messengers sped up communications between the clans. All good.