Listening at a distance, Irimus Rain smiled.

A few moments later they gathered in a circle. The sail leaves made purple tablecloths, and each person looked down at a bite of seared fish, slices of silver-leaf apples, strips of fried egg, one ripe riverbulb, and then-from Mousey's saddlebags-a dash of nuts and seeds and crumbs of Bel Amican cheese. The uneasy glances at the red-haired woman dissolved at the sight of such treasure.

The fire burned low, and the thick forest of stalactites above illuminated everything in shifting rays of color.

The boy sat, his legs folded beneath him, shakily holding the bottle of ale. All eyes were on him. He pressed his palm to the top of the bottle, then lifted his hand with a flourish, and-pok!-the cork appeared between his thumb and forefinger as easily as if he'd snapped the cap from an acorn. There were murmurs around the circle. How had he opened it without a corkscrew or a knife? Suddenly the tricks of an ale boy's trade seemed a matter of mystery.

He walked around the circle, beginning with their most unlikely guest. Kneeling, he poured a splash of fizzy ale into Mousey's half-shell cup. He continued to Petch, who began to explain why Bel Amican ale-craft was superior to Abascar's until Batey's scowl shut him up. The boy served Batey and Raechyl, Alysa and Wilkyn, then Crowcus, Gibhart, and Stallobo. He poured for Mandacath, Brink, Nukirk, Joustra, and the other Bel Amicans. The Abascars waited, smiling at one another as if this reminded them of something.

"Our company," said Mulla Gee, "is larger than you think."

Somehow there was just enough ale for the boy to serve all his companions.

"You should make a speech," said Nella Bye.

The boy looked down at his strange new costume and at his purple, fidgeting feet. Then he raised the bottle. "This ale was brewed by Obsidia Dram. Nobody knew her story. Nobody even remembers which king appointed her to work in the breweries. But everyone loved what she gave them. Every day and night she worked to fill bottles with surprises. She'd say, *We want them to feel new things are possible. We want to wash away their fears and disappointments.' She wanted us to savor this. She wanted to turn strangers into family. Let's drink in honor of Obsidia Dram."

And together, they did just that.

The ale was sharp and clear, like a note from a struck copper bell. Then it fizzed, and fireflies filled the drinkers' heads, notes of honey and orange on their tongues. Nella Bye giggled, giddy, as she placed her shell back down.

They ate. And they savored the meal as if they had forgotten about the threat of the shredders. But Petch kept glancing toward the break in the wall, anxious as he cleaned his leaf-plate.

As they passed around the water flask, Batey filled his shell and stood. "I propose we drink to this-the strangest treasure I've ever seen-a remarkable boy we call Rescue. We knew he was peculiar. But we had no idea."

They drank. And the ale boy discovered that the water was as extraordinary as the Abascar ale. As it cleansed his tongue and throat, it also washed away a glaze of sadness and helped him taste the sweet, brisk air.

Some Bel Amicans who had been drinking the river water long before they reached this cave only shrugged, saying they tasted nothing special about the water from the source. But as they spoke, the boy could see dark green stains on their tongues from the sludge they had swallowed before.

"This," said Nella Bye, "is what water was meant to be." Then she smiled. "I can see you," she whispered. "It's all coming back."

"What will you do in New Abascar, Nella Bye?"

"I'll tend to the children and the old," she said. And then she fell silent rather than darken this gathering with memories of the daughter she had lost in Abascar's collapse. "What about you? What will you do when there's no one left to rescue?"

He sighed. "It feels like that day will never come."

"Let's say it will," she said, poking his knee. "What will you be?"

He shrugged. "An ale boy, I suppose. People will always be thirsty."

Out on the lake, otters played with their food. When that strange, resounding thunder sounded again, shaking the ground, the golden hermits began swimming upstream, surging toward the source.

Some of the travelers got to their feet. Others spread their hands upon the ground and looked warily at the ceiling, at the spires of shining glowstone, which suddenly seemed like an array of spears ready to be thrown. Dust rained down from the stalactites. The trees shook loose clouds of leaves.

"Look," shouted Kar-balter, pointing at one of the out-flowing streams.

A ridge was rising to close that tunnel, just as ridges were closing other exits nearby. But across the cave, other gateways were opening as barriers descended. The water flowing into the lake began to rush out into those passages as well.

"That's what caused the thunder," said Em-emyt.

"That's why our river stopped flowing," said Kar-balter, and he hurried down to his raft.

"That's why Cyndere's well went dry," muttered the ale boy to himself.

"Someone's engineered this," said Irimus, "to share this water with the world."

"So, ale boy," said Nella Bye, "what did you think of the Abascar ale?" The boy smiled. "I liked seeing everyone drink it the way it was meant to be tasted."

"You didn't taste it?"

"There was just enough for the eighty-nine shells. But don't worry. I enjoyed pouring. And seeing everyone smile." Then he bowed his head. He seemed smaller, as if he had lost something in the fire. "My last sip of ale was with Auralia. I'll celebrate when I see her again."

He slid sideways so he could lean against her, resting while the people picked crumbs from their leaf-plates and Mousey began pouring cups of goldenwine. He began to tremble, and a tear spilled down his face. "I killed them," he said brokenly. "Those men up in the cave. I tried to make them stop. But they wouldn't. I killed ... I ..."

She gathered him into her arms.

Batey eyed the incoming river, where birds went on dancing and the turtles were bumping against one another, making steady progress against the stream. "I've got an idea," he said, winding a length of cord around his hand.

When the ale boy woke, he knew he'd slept for hours. He also knew that he no longer felt any pain from his fiery ordeal in the shredders' cave.

The water will heal us all.

His head rested in Nella Bye's lap. But they were not on the bank of the river. They were moving again along the misty river, and the vapor that he breathed was invigorating and cool. Nella Bye smiled down at him, and the bruises on her face were gone. Her eyes were bright and sharp.

"We're moving upriver," she said. "The turtles, they seem happy to pull us."

Then another figure leaned over him. It was Mousey the slaver. She leaned in close to him as if she'd kiss his brow-and he would not have minded that much.

"Fireboy," she whispered in his ear urgently, "I'm still here. I didn't run away."

"I'm glad," he sighed. "Wait, did somebody else run away?"

Nella Bye told him the tale.

Soon after they had bound their rafts to the turtles like carriages to horses, they had turned to find that the rafts at the back of the company were gone, having cut their bonds to their turtles. Aronakt, Petch, and seven Bel Amicans had abandoned them, taking the best spears and the rest of the food with them.

19.

THE GLASSWORKER HOMECOMING.

t's like Barnashum," murmured Brevolo to Tabor Jan. "Except that it's beautiful." Winding through waves of rocky hills north of Fraughtenwood, Tabor Jan had led the anxious company to a lush valley where the air whispered with breezes from dancefanner ferns that spilled down to the base of a towering mountainside cliff.

It was a view that struck all of them silent. Down in that depression a tall, toughstalk fence protected a fort that was built against the cliff wall. The fort was made of several stout, black-brick structures with tall, swooping rooftops that glittered with green glass tiles. Cobbled walkways connected the buildings, each path sheltered by red canvas.

Dull brown tents surrounded a central courtyard, their circle broken by a broad avenue that ran to a dark tunnel in the cliff's face. People were pushing empty wagons inside the tunnel and hauling burdened wagons out.

Frits voiced his surprise at the tents. The old glassmaker had never seen them before. He held a hushed, anxious conference with the miners' scout who had come to determine the business of this unexpected company.

Tabor Jan watched Frits quietly instruct the scout, who then took his vawn back down to the mine to report the travelers' purpose.

"He came to say they've no room for guests," said Frits. "He was surprised to see me. There's trouble down there. Deathweed has driven merchants from across the Fearblind North to seek refuge, and many have come to our fort. But merchants aren't easy company. Looks like I've come home just in time."

They made their way down to a hastily organized welcome party. Horns rang out, the sound bright and clear as a sunlit mountainside. One would blast from a balcony high on the cliff wall, and another would answer from the canyons between nearby hills as if it were an echo. Then a chorus of similarly crystalline calls would come from all directions, catching notes that had fallen and casting them back into the air.

"What are they?" asked Tabor Jan.

"Glass trumpets!" shouted Obrey, breaking free of the company to hop and skip down the path. "Milora, look! There's Dynise! There's Lindsy! And Amilynd and all the rest of my friends!"

Milora whispered in Frits's ear and then followed the girl, carrying a heavy saddlebag over her shoulder.

"Milora's a strange one," said Tabor Jan. "Lost in her own head."

"It's a wonder Cal-raven didn't fall for her," Brevolo laughed. "He always likes them half-crazy."

"That's not fair," said Tabor Jan.

Brevolo looped her arm through his. "I think we should change our plan," she said. "What can it hurt if we stay awhile? Have some good meals. Get some sleep. Maybe pick a fight with some merchants."

Tabor Jan frowned. "The longer our people live in Bel Amica, the more difficult it will be to draw them out of there."

"One night," she whispered, tugging on his arm. "Haven't we earned that? Wouldn't we travel faster and feel stronger if we had a good meal and some rest?"

The miner clan was a small but muscular company, strangers to the sun, their pale skin smudged and stained with mine dust.

Nearly three hundred in number, they were boisterous, social people who clearly lived for their celebratory evenings, supping together on blankets around the open courtyard, with rain canopies ready to be raised if weather required it.

On this night they shared a meal of simple grains and herbs with more than a hundred merchants who clustered in small groups and other rough-looking strangers who muttered suspiciously to one another. And yet, all visitors enjoyed generous helpings from the miners' provisions. They accepted cups of tea from leaves grown in modest gardens and greenhouses. Later, as they cupped their hands around bowls of warm rice wine, a woman with a voice of tremendous power sang from a stone balcony on the mountain's cliff, and the song carried all about the region in sustained echoes while the sun went down.

Frits, when he stood and addressed those gathered, seemed years younger. His voice rang out with renewed vigor as he commended those who had overseen the mine in his absence and praised his people for their generosity to needy visitors. His speech quietly assured the newcomers that this was a temporary arrangement, a clever way to remind them to have some respect. If they would help the miners resist the new threat that had troubled his company in Fraughtenwood, they would be welcome guests indeed.

He earned a ripple of affectionate laughter when he described how House Bel Amica had fallen in love with young Obrey. Some of the tension dissolved. He also spoke of his relief that Milora had come back free of the Seers' poisons. The hesitant applause suggested that even the miners were not entirely sure what to make of the despondent young woman.

Then he asked everyone to consider the plight of House Abascar's missing king. After describing Cal-raven's courage in striving to rescue prisoners from beastmen, he asked for a long moment of silence that they might all meditate on his selflessness and his vision for an honorable house.

Frits is thinking of the future, thought Tabor Jan. He is thinking of how he wants to see Abascar rise. It would be good for his clan.

One of the glassworkers, clad in a vivid green wrap, walked up to Frits carrying a package wrapped in white strips. Frits called Tabor Jan forward.

"A gift for King Cal-raven," he said. "Only he can open it. If the darkness never releases him, let this package remain closed until a ceremony in his memory."

Tabor Jan bowed in gratitude, embracing the gift.

"And there is one more blessing we would bestow ..." Frits broke off, tears spilling like splinters of glass.

"Is there a problem?"

Frits raised his countenance, struggling to collect himself. "It is with a heavy heart that I make this offer to your house. For I am loath to suffer this loss."

"We're already friends," said Tabor Jan softly. "We'll share any blessings with you, however valuable. Cal-raven would not have it any other way."

"But this ... this is difficult." Frits turned. "Milora, will you come forward?"

Milora, looking scared and awkward, rose. She approached, and Tabor Jan noticed that she was empty-handed.

Obrey broke away from her friends and dashed to stand at Milora's side. Grabbing her hand, she looked up quizzically.

"What do you offer us?" Tabor Jan asked.

"Myself," said Milora. "Myself and any ability I might have with glass or other arts. To New Abascar's glorification. To help ready it for King Cal-raven's return."

Tabor Jan's eyes widened.

Obrey let go of Milora's hand, a storm breaking across her face. Then she seized it again with both of hers. "And me too!" Obrey announced to Tabor Jan. "I'll come too!" Frits reached for Obrey's hand, but she turned her back, scowling. "Cal-raven needs a queen!" she exclaimed.

Laughter spread as Frits knelt before Obrey. "Granddaughter, I need you here with me. Who will take care of me if you go? If Milora makes this journey, you'll get to go with me whenever I visit King Cal-raven. We can bring them gifts of your own making. You're old enough now to have your own glassworking mitts and begin teaching others as Milora has taught you."

Tabor Jan welcomed Milora in a clumsy embrace, for it seemed that this unusual ceremony called for it. But as he did, he glanced fearfully at Brevolo, who put on a mock scowl and wagged her finger at him.

Wynn made his way toward the stables. Tabor Jan had asked him to brush the vawns and horses and make sure they were fit for tomorrow's journey up through rocky ground, and he had obeyed, if only to be alone. Once again he found himself surrounded by strangers who made him feel invisible.

The Abascar visitors were given a line of tents along the courtyard's edge. Most travelers sat out in front of the tents to watch constellations decorate the dusk and to marvel as the courtyard came alive with hundreds of candles. Frits sent miners with second helpings of the sweet rice wine.

As Wynn wound through this scene, past musicians who played lullabies on glass flutes, he knew that nothing would help him sleep. The sheltered walkways and the courtyard were quiet enough. But the feeling in the courtyard had changed. The fort's guards, who regularly patrolled against bearcat attacks, were out in numbers, pacing the walkways and alert in the watchtowers. The various factions of visitors remained close together, murmuring. A palpable tension intensified. Some merchant clans surrounded themselves with arrays of torches, looking as if they were plotting a fiery revolt.

"What's happening?" he asked a guard.

"One of our watchmen is missing," the guard replied. "His blood was found at Fraughtenwood's edge. We suspect Deathweed."

"Give me a bow and some arrows, and I can help," said Wynn.

"Why don't you go to the tent for the Abascar children? Leave the arrows to those trained to use them," the guard answered.

"Do you know who I am?" Wynn growled.

The guard walked away.

Wynn marched across an avenue and into the stablehouse, flexing his hands into fists. He was already in a sour mood. He hated farewells. He hated ceremonies where others were honored while he was forgotten.

He was even more distressed to think that Obrey would stay here when the company departed. She was pretty, she liked to make trouble, and she was always up for an adventure. He'd dreamed of luring her out of the camp and telling her stories about life on the merchant roads. He might even give her a kiss on the cheek, if she wanted. Maybe she'd run away with him. Maybe he and Obrey could be like a father and mother to Cortie-merchants in the wild, with no commitment to anybody but themselves.

We could leave. Make a life of our own. Why not? To them, we're just a story that makes them feel good about themselves.