“Baryl, can you hand me that rod?” I ask, gesturing toward a spare metal blow pipe. I don’t want to reuse my host’s. The ubiquitous hot shop staple leans at an angle, resting up against a cart replete with tools of the trade. “I’m not used to working without my other hand anymore.”
“Nah. I’m enjoying my sweets,” he replies around a mouthful of candy, shuffling back up the three wide steps to the showroom. With a satisfied sigh, he flops down on a cozy, padded chair nestled in the corner.
I set down the slender glass rods in my hand, slip out a coin from my pouch, and wave it in his direction. “I’ll buy you dinner on the way back to Rizzi’s.”
His ears perk up, and he starts to rise from his overstuffed seat. Then he pauses, settles back in, and makes a show of tucking his hands under his head. “You’ll have to offer more than that. I’m fed and comfortable for once.”
“How quickly you take to the life of luxury,” I tease him.
Baryl waves me off, closing his eyes and chewing on his candy, so I turn my attention to finding a solution to my predicament. I’ve spent my time worrying about finding a place where I can practice, but I never bothered to think about what I’m going to make now that I have access to a hot shop again. I’m not ready for complex work, but I don’t want to waste time practicing just the basics, either.
Inspiration strikes me then, and I pick up a pair of tongs, clamping them down to the top of the work bench. I rest the slender glass rod through the upright fork of the tongs so that I can turn it with only one hand, and retrieve a torch hooked up to a thin set of flexible hosing. I turn the natural gas on first and ignite the torch, then ease in the oxygen until I’m happy with the color and heat of my flame.
“I can’t believe I’m starting with lampwork,” I mutter to myself in embarrassment. “Avelina would be so proud if she saw me now.”
“Who’s that?” Baryl pipes up. He rolls over onto his stomach, crossways on the chair, his legs dangling off the side. He swallows the last of the candy, props up his chin in his hands, and lets out a satisfied sigh. Now that he has finished his treat, he adopts the default expression of young boys at rest: boredom.
“A talented friend of mine. We used to make glass together,” I say absently, surveying the array of tools and glass materials to find what I’m looking for.
“Oooh, you like her!” Baryl replies, hopping off his chair to skip back down the steps. He waggles his eyebrows at me.
I chuckle and wave him off with my left arm; my right hand is still turning the glass in the flame, melting it down and gathering it into a globe. “She’s as liable to burn you as she is to make you a beautiful glass trinket. So, uhh, no. I’m not interested, ’cause I’m not crazy! But she’s a good sort to have in your corner.”
Baryl picks up a spare bit of glass, experimentally tapping it on the workbench. I snatch it away before he shatters glass across the floor and we have to clean up the mess. He sticks his tongue out at me. “How come you ain’t working with her anymore? Could have saved a lot of time if we didn’t have to look around for a new shop. You two fight?”
“Too many questions, my young friend. It’s not safe to tell you,” I say solemnly as I return to turning my glass rod.
He backs off immediately, retreating into himself with a stricken, all-too-knowing look that makes me wince. Of course he’s no stranger to dangerous knowledge and bad scenes. I almost feel bad about dredging up bad memories, but his trauma is his own. I’m not the one responsible for his hard lot in life.
“Now! I’m going to make some glass. You’re welcome to watch, but don’t interrupt, or I may lose my other hand,” I say with a wink, trying to inject some levity back into the suddenly heavy atmosphere.
Baryl’s eyes widen fractionally. He nods and takes a seat on the bottom step, subdued now that I’ve reminded him that I’m not safe to be around simply because I’m nice to him. Maybe I can make it up to him later by making him something out of glass. Maybe an animal? I’ll have to consider if I have time to add in an extra piece while I work.
First you should see if you can still make anything at all. Baryl is a working associate, not a charity case. Don’t lose sight of the big picture just because he reminds you of Ifran.
My stern warning to myself rings in my mind, and I suppress a frustrated sigh. I have no idea how to work without a second hand. I’ve made plenty of glass without Skills to fall back on in the past, so that doesn't bother me, but getting used to a new workflow is challenging. I have to alternate as rapidly as I can between turning the glass with my right hand, then pinning the rod in place with my left forearm while I manipulate the glass with tools held in the grip of my right hand.
It's ungainly, but workable. I'm not sure I'm ready to try the larger blow pipe and a bigger glass piece yet, though. They may be completely out of my reach at the moment. That's why I opted for lampworking as a test run. Besides, I still need a solution to tying up my hair, so a little glass toggle is probably a good choice for a simple, small scale test. If I can manage to create a small oblong shape, and punch two holes in it, then I'll be able to thread the leather thong through it in a long loop. My plan is to put the leather thong over my head like a necklace, gather my hair with my right hand, and wind the trailing edge around my left limb. If everything works out, then I can pull the loop tight through the two holes of the glass toggle. I’ll end up with a rough top knot.
It certainly won't be the most impressive piece of glass I've ever made, but I need a proof of concept. As I alternate between turning the rod, gathering the molten glass into a small globe, pinning it in place, and manipulating my creation with the tongs and reamer, I fall into a familiar rhythm. I hadn't realized until just now how much I've missed making something with my own hands. Making my glass knife on the road feels like a distant memory—someone else's fever dream, twice removed.
A little over five minutes later, I finish the piece and twist it free from its glass rod. I spend another minute turning it slowly in the flames and smoothing out any imperfections left over from my awkward manipulation. Working with only one hand after relying on both hands for so many years is frustrating, and I'm far slower than I'd like to be. Nonetheless, I've proven that making a piece of glass is not impossible. I'm slow, and I'm lacking finer manipulation and dexterity, but that just means I need to learn patience. There's no sense getting upset about things completely outside of my control.
Well, I could have chosen not to go into that rift. I'd already cleared out most of the monsters, and between Smoke, the [Demolitionist], and the [Miners], the townspeople probably would have been fine until the army got there. Not meddling was definitely within my control.
I shake my head to clear out the negative thoughts. I made my choice. Harboring regrets is a luxury I can't afford. What's done is done; all that remains now is to find a path forward.
My conviction firmly in my mind, I stride over to the kiln in the corner and pop in the little glass hairpiece toggle I made. I squint, catching sight of runes etched onto the outside, and smile as I recognize them. The annealing process is accelerated, and I’ll be able to take the glass with me when I go back to the inn tonight.
“What's that little thing for?” Baryl asks, his nose wrinkling up. “I thought you were some fancy crafter. That looks boring, like something I could make."
“You certainly could," I say, nodding in his direction. "Are you interested in learning how? I'd be happy to show you a trick or two."
“Not a chance! I don't want to jeopardize my good standing with my new dealer.” He winks at me and I realize he's talking about all the sweets that he got.
“Ha! Dealer indeed. Very well, that's probably a wise choice if you want more candy. Although, haven't you ever heard the saying that it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission?”
“Forgiveness doesn't come easy to the folk I deal with,” Baryl says, a stormy expression flitting across his face.
“I don't think she'll mind if you help me,” I say, although I have no idea what the resident [Glass Smith] will or won't care about. For all I know, she only let me work with glass because she's bored. Letting a dirty street kid touch her expensive equipment might be a step too far.
Once again, Baryl shakes his head vigorously at my offer to teach him. He sprawls out on the steps and fakes a mighty yawn. “You go on and do your thing. I'll watch and tell you what a bad job you did once you're done.”
“At least you're honest,” I reply with a chuckle
I gather more equipment, letting my mind roam through possibilities of what I might want to create. Grand Ile is a study in opposites: vast man-made structures, gleaming white and gold in the sun; exotic animals and verdant wilderness surrounding the sophisticated metropolis; an endless stream of gold flows through Grand Ile’s gates in river trade, yet, just like anywhere else, the shadow of the city hide pockets of misery and suffering.
I shake my head ruefully. I'm not sure I’m skilled enough to capture the essence of this city's dichotomy and opulence, but perhaps I can commemorate it one element at a time.
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
Humming to myself, I rummage through the drawers and bins until I find the ingredients I'm looking for, grateful this glass shop has enough resources on tap to suit my every whim. If I had to make the glass from scratch, using some of the more expensive constituent parts, the price and time commitment might make this project untenable. Clear glass is easy enough to come by. I hope that she's wealthy enough not to miss the golden colors that I select for the rest of my piece.
Once I have everything arrayed in front of me, I take the golden-colored glass to the furnace. I haven't regenerated anywhere near enough mana to use [Heat Manipulation] for this project, not to mention that the pain of sustaining it that long would be unbearable. I'm trying to strengthen the skill and feed it much-needed mana so that it recovers its previous condition, but it's a slow, laborious process. I don't have the willpower to grit my teeth and suffer through the pain day after day.
I've been down that route before—that's how I lost a hand.
No more heroic acts, I remind myself. No more shortcuts, or skipping important steps. I'm going to rebuild my skills slowly, meticulously, and correctly this time.
The glass grows elastic and pliable as I turn it in the flames of the furnace. Although I'm not relying on my Skill to change the temperature around me, years of experience have created some sort of harmonic resonance between me and heat. I have, at the very least, a semblance of a sense of how hot the glass is without even trying.
Soon, it reaches a sufficient temperature for me to work the glass. I hook one end of the long, hollow metal pipe under my left shoulder, balancing it with my right hand while I walk back to my workbench with the ball of glowing glass.
“Ready for an amazing show?” I ask Baryl, projecting an air of confidence even though my hand is trembling.
“Anything will be a step up from your last attempt,” Baryl says, sticking out a tongue at me. Yet for all his teasing, he dutifully takes his spot on the steps and watches me with rapt attention, curious to see what I’ve in mind.
First, I blow through the pipe, using a flexible hose with a mouthpiece to force air along the length of the pipe and into the bulb of glass at the end. It’s awkward, turning the blow pipe with one hand, but I manage to keep it steady enough to produce the size and shape I’m after for this particular piece.
As always, gravity is both friend and foe. If I move too slowly, the glass will droop down, or even flow like candle wax and splatter on the ground. If I tilt the metal rod at a right angle to the floor, however, then I elongate the bulb of hot glass, as long as I maintain the discipline of turning at a steady, even pace.
The golden glass flows down toward the ground, stretching into a long, slender tube as I turn the rod to make the upright portion of the lampstand. Once I deem the glass is long enough, I turn it around a few degrees at a time, pressing the sides flat with the paddle six times, until I have a hexagon-shaped pillar at the end of the metal blow pipe.
I use my heel to hook the nearby cart and pull it closer. There’s a shelf protruding from the side with a large, flat plate of dense glass on it. Inscribed across the top is a familiar script that produces a soft current of air that prevents glass from falling on it, up to a certain weight. Without an assistant to catch the part I created, I need somewhere safe to detach the glass without worrying about it shattering on the hot shop floor.
With a quick tap, I break the prepared glass at the join between the pipe and the tube I’ve made. The glass plate catches it on a bed of air, cradling it from harm. I wheel it to the side and position another cart near my workbench so it’s ready for the next transfer.
My world shrinks down to the glass in my hand, the heat radiating in waves from the half open furnace, the rhythm of the shop. I make two more hexagonal lamp bodies, falling back on a lifetime of work to ensure that each of the three are an even match, with clean, strong lines, and set them aside for later.
I switch to the clear glass, creating delicate glass bulbs shaped like a ball dahlia. Holding the hollow rod steady while I work with the shears, tongs, and paddles to create the right shape is a challenge, but I pinch the end of the blow pipe between my torso and left bicep, squeezing it in place to keep from jostling my work too much. Without [Heat Manipulation] at my constant beck and call, I have to run to the furnace more often than I’d like, reheating the glass to working temperatures in the blazing, glorious light of the superheated fire.
My body is aching by the time I finish the eighteenth flower, six for each base. My right arm is shaking, unused to bearing the brunt of all the work, and my muscles are screaming to take a break, but I refuse to give in. I wipe off the sweat of my brow, focusing on the task at hand, and return to the lampworking station.
I smile wryly at the terminology I’m using in my mind. Working with a blowtorch instead of an oil lamp means that this is flamework, yet Avelina conditioned me to still call it lampwork. She liked to reserve the term “flamework” for her own projects, since only she could shoot a jet of pure flames from her fingertip. Other people relied on oil lamps and gas torches for their work; she commanded the flames directly.
I take a deep breath, clear my mind, and begin the delicate, demanding work of creating the graceful arms of the lampstand. I’m modeling them on tree branches, ending in calyxes and flowers, and that requires patience and a deft touch so that they won’t break as I add more and more forks and projecting twigs and flowers. My mind is racing ten steps forward as I work on the current piece, designing each of the leaves. They need their own character and history. They tell a narrative of nature, in their own way.
I spin the slender glass rods through the torch, lengthening them and narrowing them as I go, caught up in a creative fugue. I slice delicate cuts into the surface of the glass in odd patterns with the tip of a knife, trying to emulate the rough, random texture of bark. Whenever the lengths of glass seem just right, I apply a sharp twist with the metal shears to make a set of angles in the branches, hoping that they look natural and unsullied by human hands.
I’m getting lightheaded from the work, but I press on until I’ve completed all eighteen of the branches. I finally allow myself to pause then, breathing heavily and drenched with sweat. I’m not used to long hours in the hot shop without the shielding of [Heat Manipulation], and the blaze of the furnace behind me is harsh and oppressive. Nonetheless, I only stop long enough to chug cool water from a pitcher and set of cups sitting on a counter along the wall, and then get back to work to make bases for the stands.
I’ll opt for a broad, geometric base to hold them each up. The floor-level will look the most industrial and artificial. The farther up the lamps go, the more they transform, growing into trees and flowering bulbs. I’m not sure yet how I’ll light them, but that’s a problem for later. Maybe I’ll get someone to enchant them, rather than relying on oil.
My search through the materials drawers pays off when I pull out a chunk of white glass. I grin, glad I still have some of the gold left over from creating the bodies of the lamps. I’ll mix in thin threads of the golden glass after I create the heavy bases out of pure white. The white glass veined with gold glass will echo the walls of Grand Ile itself.
At some point in the process, Baryl falls asleep, huddled up on the steps without a pillow under his head. His little face softens into contentment, and it occurs to me just how young and innocent he is. He shouldn’t have to work with thieves and swindlers just to feed himself. Maybe I can send him to Vicario’s, I wonder after a while, although I know it’s a long shot. Still, he’s only a child. He deserves better than this.
I stretch my neck, groaning as a pounding headache wreaks havoc on my shoulders and neck and the sides of my head. I’m not finished yet, however, so I keep working on the lamps. I’m fighting off the temptation to follow Baryl’s lead, and stretch out on the floor for a nap, but I can’t stop until the glass is annealing. Forcing myself to continue, l use fire and pressure to connect the bases and the bodies, the branches and bulbs, until three completed lampstands as tall as I am are ready for the kiln.
I step back with a grunt, admiring my work. The branches each twist and turn in organic, intricate shapes, like the slender twigs of blossoming almond trees. The flowers almost look real enough to smell. I nod slowly to myself in satisfaction. The upper branches are a good contrast to the heavy, industrial look of the bases.
Now I have to figure out if they’ll fit in the kiln, I think as I eye the equipment dubiously. This shop caters to smaller pieces of high quality. Maybe I’ve overshot my mark and made the lamps too large? To my embarrassment, my panicked suspicion is soon confirmed. Despite my searching, I can’t locate a larger annealer.
The tap of a cane coming down the back stairs draws my attention. I wipe off the worst of the sweat on my face, straighten my clothes, and try to look presentable as the stately owner of the glass shop emerges from her nap.
Her eyebrows creep up when she sees the massive lamps in the middle of the floor near my workbench. She gestures toward them with her cane. “Problem, boy?”
“They, ah, don’t seem to fit in the kiln for annealing,” I say, my face flushing hot.
“Then do it by hand,” she says in confusion, her brows knitting together. “You’re not new to the hot shop. I shouldn’t have to tell you how to handle hot glass.”
“I don’t have the Skills,” I finally admit, breaking eye contact and staring at the floor.
She waves her hand at me dismissively. “Rubbish! I saw you using [Heat Manipulation] earlier. Surely even at your level, you can automate the Skill to regulate the temperature as those strange trees anneal. I rely on the advanced variant for all my larger work since they won’t fit in the kiln. You’re not new to the Skill, so get to it. There’s work to be done!”
“I . . . I can’t anymore. I used to be able to do it, but now I can’t,” I say quietly. A wave of exhaustion and shame crashes over me as I force out the words through grit teeth. I lean against the workbench, sagging as my legs give out.
“You used to be able to use a Skill? What’s that supposed to mean?” she demands, her voice sharpening as she stares at me. Then she sighs wearily. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. You’re in my shop, using my resources, so I’ll not have all the glass go to waste. I’ll take care of these trees before you ruin them.”
Mana spools out from her, ensconcing the lamps in an opaque matrix. Immediately, the temperature stabilizes as she guides the annealing process far more adroitly than I can. She’s freestyling her control, as far as I can tell, not using a Skill as a crutch, and I’m amazed at how precise and fast her process seems.
“Thank you,” I croak, my throat dry and closed off with sudden emotion. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you, but I’ll try. Er, forgive me, I don’t even know your name.”
She smacks her cane against the floor. “Ha! That’s why I like you, assuming you’re telling the truth. I’m Lady Evershed, a retiree and occasional dabbler in glass. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“I’m N—Zebulun, a traveling craftsman,” I introduce myself, wincing internally at my near slip-up. I’m still struggling to remember who I’m supposed to be. It would be so much easier to simply be myself.
“Hmph! You really don’t know who I am, do you? How delightful.” Lady Evershed’s eyes crinkle as she gives me a dazzling smile. “Why don’t we settle in for a little evening snack and get to know each other better? I’m sure your little waif friend pretending to be asleep on my stairs won’t protest at the prospect of food.”
Baryl sits up. He dips his head toward Lady Evershed sheepishly. “I’d be right pleased to eat something, your Ladyship.”
Her laughter rings out, bright and sparkling. “You look like you haven’t eaten in weeks! I’ll have to send you home with extra sweets. Now, as for you, Zebulun,” she says, turning to frown at me, “don’t think you’re getting off easily. I’ve given you glass, a studio, and the benefits of my Skills. In exchange, I believe you owe me a story.”