As I sat at Yassar’s table, my father on the other side, a look of utter disgust on his face at the grinding pestles before us, there was a step at the door, and the entire workshop stilled.
Ta’uz.
Several guards flanked him, and two moved to stand further inside the workshop.
Ta’uz stared across to the furnaces, and all eyes shifted that way.
Raguel stood close by the open door of one of the furnaces, the wrapped bundle in her hands. She stared at Ta’uz, and I wondered briefly at the hatred she must bear him, then she noticeably shook herself and heaved the bundle into the flames before any could inspect it too closely.
Then, her shoulders shaking wretchedly, she turned aside and would look at Magus or furnace no longer.
Without a word Ta’uz left, but the two guards stayed.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, and Yaqob squatted close by my stool. “Was that the baby?” he asked quietly, his eyes still on Raguel.
I hesitated. “No.”
Yaqob looked at me now. “But the baby is dead?”
“Yes.”
He was silent a moment. “So Isphet has put it aside.”
“Yes.”
He nodded slightly. “Good.” His hand tightened momentarily, then he stood and lifted it from my shoulder. “You will work today and tomorrow at this table, Tirzah, but then, I think, Isphet will allow me the privilege of showing you about our small world.”
Then he walked away.
My father looked at Yaqob’s retreating back, looked at me, and grinned.
I settled in quickly. For two days my father and I ground glass to use for the manufacture of enamels, and then, as promised, Yaqob rescued us, and set us to more demanding tasks.
This was Isphet’s workshop, but she seemed content to let Yaqob keep an eye on us for the first week or two. I saw her often enough at night, anyway, when she always questioned me on my day’s work, but I think that while the guards still kept a keen watch on us she did not want to be too closely involved with my work.
Besides, like my father, Isphet’s own speciality was in the mixing and firing of glass, and she stayed by the furnaces. Not only to supervise the blending and firing, but also to make sure Raguel did not throw herself in after her sad, cloth-wrapped bundle. Raguel hardly spoke, and while she physically recovered from the birth of her daughter, her spirit sickened and died further each day.
Three days after I arrived, Yaqob took my father to the corner of the workshop where the glass was mixed and moulded, leaving him in Isphet’s hands, then he came over to me and smiled. “This way.”
He led me up to the next floor where two men sat at a table in a shaft of sunlight that fell through glass panels in the ceiling. The area was clean and airy, and I took a deep breath, enchanted. Both men were caging.
They looked up from their work, and grinned at my delight.
“The guards rarely come here,” Yaqob said. “You will enjoy the work, and I can hardly wait to see how good you are. The tale of what you did in Setkoth has spread about most of Gesholme.”
He was surely lying, but he did it well and my smile widened. “Is it normal to have such close guard in the workshop?”
“No. Ta’uz is punishing us for trying to hide Raguel’s pregnancy from him. He will soon tire of the sport and withdraw the guards. The Magi generally keep the guards around the perimeter of Gesholme, and in and about Threshold itself – where we must sometimes be ‘encouraged’ to work. The Magi occasionally visit us, but they too prefer to linger about Threshold.”
“Yaqob…” I looked outside. An open doorway led to a balcony, and I could see a great shadow spreading over Gesholme.
I had not taken more than a glimpse at Threshold, but it dominated my dreams every night.
“Soon, Tirzah.” Yaqob’s voice had darkened with my mood. “But first, come see what Orteas and Zeldon work at.”
Neither man seemed discomforted that he would be joined by such a young woman – perhaps the story of the cage work I had done for Gayomar and Boaz had spread. We chatted politely for some minutes as I ran curious eyes over their work.
The men were working on flat sections that were designed to fit into a large panel. The glass shone gold – it had been beautifully mixed and fired.
“Isphet’s work,” Yaqob murmured, running his fingers over Zeldon’s glass. “No-one can match her skill at mixing the molten glass. She has a sweetness that can cajole the most stubborn mixing.”
There was silence as Orteas and Zeldon stared at Yaqob, then dropped their eyes hastily back to their work.
Although I noted their reaction, for the moment I preferred to ignore it, more fascinated by the design itself. I moved closer to Zeldon and pointed at his work. “Yaqob, what is this?”
His face hardened. “This is part of Threshold’s wrongness, Tirzah. See? These curves form pieces of numbers, and this section here, is the lower segment of a portion of writing.”
“Why wrongness?”
Yaqob took a deep, uneasy breath. “You know of the Magi and their fascination with mathematics?’
“Yes, Isphet has explained some of it.”
“Some of it is too much of it, but you need to know. Tirzah, can you read or write?”
“I can figure a little, and write numbers. All glassworkers need to be able to do that, especially for measuring powders and metals. But alphabets and words are beyond me.”
“Then be grateful. The Magi control the power of numbers and form, but in doing so they have subverted the alphabet. For them, each letter of the alphabet is mated with a number, so that when they write, when they form words and then sentences, the writing has a double and darker significance. Do you see my meaning?”
I noticed how he had avoided the phrase, “Do you understand?”
“Yes, I think so. Each time a Magus writes words, he also writes calculations and formulae. Sorceries.”
“Everything about them is dangerous, Tirzah, and evil. Beware of them, and especially beware of their writing.”
He was angry now, and I nodded quickly.
“Never let one try to teach you letters, girl, for he will seek to ensorcel your soul with each word you write. Run screaming, for if you don’t run, then you will succumb to their sorceries.” He managed a small smile, although it did not quite reach his eyes. “And then you will not be the same sweet girl who stands before me now.”
“Yaqob, I swear that I have no intention of ever learning to write. I won’t be entrapped, nor entrap you.”
“Good.”
The promise finally satisfied him, and Yaqob continued to explain the caging. “The Magi need workers skilled in caging for two areas of Threshold. The first is the central chamber, called the Infinity Chamber, where these pieces will eventually fit. All wall and floor spaces of this chamber are to be covered in caged glass work depicting the words and incantations that the Magi require for their formula.”
“And the ceiling?”
“There is no ceiling, Tirzah. No, wait, you will see eventually. You will have to take your work in there to be fitted.”
“And the second area that needs caged work?”
He paused, and looked outside. “The capstone.”
“Capstone?”
Yaqob smiled, but it was sad, and he took my hand and pulled gently. “It is time to let Threshold see you, Tirzah. Then I can explain.”
As I was to find out, the glassworkers held high positions within the slave encampment of Gesholme, and perhaps that is why Isphet’s workshop was allowed such a roomy balcony.
Or perhaps it was so Threshold’s presence could the more easily infiltrate one of the most important workshops of its existence.
Outside it was hot and humid, but I ignored the discomfort as I stepped onto the wooden planking and stared northwards.
It was over one hundred and fifty paces away, but it reared so far into the sky I had to crick my neck back to take it all in. Its shadow cut neatly across the outsid
e wall of the workshop.
Yaqob stood comfortingly close, his hand warm on my shoulder. “Threshold.”
It was a massive stone pyramid, yet unlike any I’d heard tales of as a child. I frowned, then pointed.
“Yaqob, what are those? Why have they not been filled in? Is that what remains to be done?”
All over the two faces of the pyramid that I could see, gaps had been left in the stone. Several score on each face, placed at regular intervals, and I guessed the two faces I could not see had similar gaps. Men swarmed over the structure, and I saw that near the base of one wall was a yawning entrance. As I watched three Magi emerged, their heads bent over a large scroll.
Yaqob stared at Threshold a long time before he replied.
“What you see now is the stone core, which has eaten more years and lives than anyone cares to remember. Now the Magi are increasing the glassworkers on the site, for our work is vital.”
He paused, and shifted his hand. “Eventually the Magi want to plate Threshold entirely with blue-green glass.”
I gasped, and stared at him, then back at Threshold. It would be beautiful!
“The capstone fits on the very peak, Tirzah, and that will be in the same caged gold glass you saw Orteas and Zeldon working on. And the gaps in the stonework? They will be filled, but not with stone. These are the openings of shafts that eventually lead into the Infinity Chamber; the capstone will sit atop the great central shaft. All save the central shaft will be covered with the blue-green plate glass. Along their lengths are gates that can control the amount of light allowed to flood into the Infinity Chamber; the Magi command the devices which control the lighting of the chamber. It will be possible, I suppose, to open every shaft and allow Infinity to be flooded with light.”
We stood there a long time in silence, staring at Threshold, staring at the beast that still lay silent, waiting.
Waiting. Watching.
The shadow deepened.
5
AFTER two weeks, the guards disappeared, and the workshop relaxed, but not entirely. I think it was because of the strangers present – my father and myself. And while all were friendly towards us, they showed a reserve that hid a watching. A careful considering.
I wondered at their secrets, but for the first few weeks I was just relieved to be working in an environment that I understood, and with people I liked. Orteas and Zeldon were far more skilled than I, and they showed me many new techniques and tools useful to the art of caging.
We worked from the plans the Magi sent us, carefully drawn and measured. None of their designs made sense to me, not only because I could not read or write, but because each piece we caged was only a small fraction of a whole panel, and it contained only fragments of the numbers, words or symbols it would eventually help to form. That cheered me, because I did not think fragments could harm me.
Orteas and Zeldon taught me, but they watched me, too, almost as closely as Isphet did. Once the guards left she spent long periods of each day in the high workroom where we caged. Sometimes she chatted, sometimes she questioned, sometimes she told me of the history of Gesholme and more of the Magi, but always she watched.
“You work well with the glass,” she said abruptly one day in the fifth week after my arrival, interrupting her tale of the day the Lhyl flooded and threatened to broach the walls surrounding Gesholme. “Almost as if you can communicate with it.”
I kept my head bowed, feeling the thrill of the glass beneath my fingers. Isphet made beautiful glass – extraordinary, in fact. I had never worked with the like before.
She was waiting for an answer, so finally I shrugged, pretending disinterest. If they would not yet tell me why they watched, then I would not tell them all my secrets, either. “I take pride in my work, Isphet. My father taught me that.”
She remained silent, and finally I could bear no more, and I lifted my eyes. Isphet was staring at me, her beautiful eyes veiled. “I was at Izzali’s workshop four or five days ago, Tirzah. I met Mayim, who came down the river with you. He was astounded by the skill you showed in caging that piece of glass before the Magi. He said he’d thought that no craftsman could have done what you did. He said it was almost as if you had magic within your fingers. ‘Magic’, Tirzah?”
I was silent, caught by her eyes.
“No-one can work such glass, persuade such glass to her will, unless she can –” Zeldon broke off at a sharp glance from Isphet.
“I have a good ear for the sounds of the tap of the chisel and the drill through the glass, Isphet,” I said. “Nothing else. You must know that anyone who works with glass develops an ear for the pure ‘singing’ as the drill bites. Sweet singing means the glass is being ground well, but if the glass screeches, or cries, then one must add more oil to soothe the passage of the drill. I used no magic other than a good ear, a sure sense of when I drew too close to a fracture, and years of patience. Perhaps Mayim was overly impressed by my skill.”
“Perhaps so,” Isphet said quietly, “but I wonder if your talent for the glass goes deeper than pure mechanics. Now,” she stood up, “no doubt the workshop below has ground to a halt without my presence to guide and encourage. I will look forward to continuing our conversation tonight, Tirzah.”
I was growing tired of the subterfuge, but I bit back a retort. I knew the workers in this shop were hiding something, yet I understood their need to make sure I could be trusted before they revealed it.
Just as Isphet left the room and I was bending my head back to my work, Yaqob entered.
Behind him came a Magus.
All three of us at the work table froze, tools half buried in the glass or half raised to our work. I stared at the Magus. I had not seen him before; his bulbous nose would have given him a comical air save for the power of the One that radiated from his eyes.
Yaqob’s manner was perfect. If I had not seen him display his hatred of the Magi on numerous occasions, I would have thought him their deepest admirer.
He bowed low as he spoke, his voice soft and respectful. “Excellency Kofte has requested that either Orteas or Zeldon accompany him and myself into the Infinity Chamber to oversee the laying of several more panels of caged glasswork.”
“You know the stresses such glass can take more than any other,” Kofte said lazily, wandering across to our table. “To break it now, as it is finally laid, would be such a pity.”
He had stopped behind my chair, and I could feel the soft breeze of his movement lift some loose hairs along my neck. Or was it the fleeting touch of his fingers?
I stared frantically at Yaqob, but there was nothing he could say or do. His pleasant expression did not waver, and he merely waited, head slightly bowed, hands folded, for the Magus’ will.
“You are new here,” Kofte said abruptly.
“Yes, Excellency,” I managed.
“Your name?”
I opened my mouth, but horror had so dried my throat and mouth I could say no more.
“Her name is Tirzah, Excellency,” Yaqob said, and I flashed him a grateful look.
Kofte leaned over my shoulder, his arm brushing my skin, and tilted the glass I was holding so he could see it the more clearly.
I was sure he could feel the tremble of my fingers through the glass, and I was sure he smiled as he felt it.
“You cage with great skill, young Tirzah,” he said. “Do you understand the stresses of such glass?”
Gratefully I discovered my voice had returned. “Yes, Excellency.”
“Good.” Kofte’s tone was now brisk. “Have you seen Threshold’s interior, Tirzah?”
“No, Excellency.”
“Then you shall now. Orteas, Zeldon, you may stay with your work. Tirzah will accompany me into Threshold.”
I was torn between apprehension and excitement. I had not yet even been near Threshold, let alone inside it…but the last person I wanted to escort me was one of the Magi.
Still, Yaqob would be there, and his presence would make everything all
right.
We left the workshop and followed the alley further north, Yaqob and I several steps behind Kofte’s languid stride. Yaqob risked throwing me a small smile and a wink, and I relaxed, determined to enjoy his company.
The alley led into a narrow street, bounded by the noise and stink of metal workshops, and that in turn led to the main thoroughfare into Threshold’s compound.
I glanced at the compound of the Magi as we passed its gates. Unlike the close humidity of Gesholme, the Magi’s compound was spacious, its palm-shaded avenues cooled by pools and canals fed from the river.
I hoped I never had reason to go in there again.
Above Gesholme, and to the east of the compound of the Magi, lay Threshold. Like the other two, Threshold’s compound was walled, but only lightly, and mainly to protect the tools and materials left there overnight.
No-one spent any more time than they had to in that compound after sunset.
Kofte led us along the avenue towards Threshold, then through the wide and open gates in the compound’s wall. Scores of other workers hurried to and fro: stonemasons; carpenters; surveyors; engineers; a large number of porters carrying sheets of glass – for the interior, I thought, for Yaqob had told me that the outer layer of glass would be the last applied – and two or three glassworkers, to whom Yaqob nodded silently. Every one of the workers, as Yaqob and myself, was dressed as briefly as possible to counter the heat of the sun and the sweat of work: body wraps for the women, hip wraps for the men.
Among the workers moved the Magi. They seemed to be everywhere. Some checked plans and calculations under shaded awnings. Others stood at corners or on balconies, adjusting their robes slowly, carefully, as they studied those who passed by. Some sat in chairs under the shade of broad palm leaves, making notes on papyri as they watched who went where, and why.
And, as we drew closer to Threshold itself, I saw several Magi silhouetted against the skyline as they stood motionless on the walls of the pyramid, staring at I knew not what.