in the center of the room. His smirk matched the superior cock of his hips. The two others were the ambushers. I expected the leader to start cackling as he had on the day they had tried to stop Zitora and me from reaching the Stormdancers. The woman magician seemed pleased with my reaction. The man sitting on the glassmaker’s bench was unfamiliar to me.
I glanced at the Zitora imposter, expecting to see Blue Eyes with a smug smile. But it wasn’t him. Standing next to me was the other magician.
“I love a surprise. Don’t you?” he asked, pulling the backpack from my shoulders.
“And I love it when a plan is executed without trouble,” the leader said. He hustled over and linked his arm around mine. “Come in, come in.” Pulling me away from the door and from any chance of escape, he made a swooping gesture with his free arm. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
My advantage was at an end.
“Let me give you a tour,” the leader said.
With his arm still tight around mine, he showed me the kiln, the glory hole and all the other equipment needed to make glass. Bowls, vases and a few glass balls littered the work space. My mind registered the information, but couldn’t produce any intelligent thoughts beyond my terror.
The leader escorted me through a door behind the kiln and brought me into a long thin room studded with bunks.
“Our sleeping quarters, but look!” He opened a door at the back. “Your own room.”
A single cot had been wedged into the narrow space. No windows and the formidable door locks were on the outside.
He pointed at my cloak. “Why don’t you leave that here for now.” He released my arm long enough for me to toss the garment on the bed.
Reclaiming my elbow, he walked me to the opposite side of their quarters and through another door, entering into a kitchen with a table and chairs. The place also had a couch along the side wall.
He whisked me back to the main room. The others looked at me as if expecting me to say or do something. “Who—”
“I’ve forgotten my manners.” The leader tsked. “Let me introduce you. My name is Sir.” He pointed to the man who had led me here. “His name is Tricky. She’s Crafty. Our glassmaker’s name is Ash.”
The ambushers all shared grins with each other, and I knew their names were pseudonyms. Sir gestured to Tal. “I believe you already met him.”
I studied Tal. He was obviously in league with these people. Logic followed and I guessed he had been the one to sabotage the lime with Brittle Talc.
“I know him,” I said. “His name is Traitor.”
Tal purpled with rage. He moved toward me with the intent to harm clear in his body language.
Tricky blocked his path. Tall and muscular, the magician was the strongest-looking person of the group. I marveled at his skill in convincing me he was the diminutive Zitora. Even criminals possessed more magic than I did. Wonderful.
“After. Wait until after,” the magician told Tal.
His ominous comment reminded me there was no sense in lamenting over my deficiencies when my situation was … well, I wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps I should draw out the “pleasantries,” and give the real Zitora more time to reach me. She had to be searching for me. I hoped. I would even welcome the arrival of Captain Loris and Lieutenant Coll.
“Where is your other companion? The magician with the blue eyes?” I asked.
Sir frowned. “Devlen was hired for his skills with the sword. We expected you and your magician friend to have a cadre of soldiers with you.” Sir paused.
Blue Eyes’ name was Devlen. Which clan did he belong to?
Before I could ask, Sir continued. “Devlen surprised us when he used his magic. I haven’t seen him since we escaped.” A murderous glint flared in Sir’s eyes. “That was a disaster. But the plan is coming together now. Much nicer than the original.”
Finally, my frozen thoughts thawed as the shock dissipated, allowing fear to flow into the empty places. What part of the plan was I in? “Why—”
“Are you here? I’d thought you’d never ask.” Sir’s cackle increased my unease. He was enjoying himself. “You’re going to help us make orbs.”
“And if I don’t?” I dreaded the answer.
“You will.” Sir’s voice held confidence. “Do you want the painful details? Or vague threats? Or perhaps you would rather be surprised?” His grip on my arm tightened.
I should have run. When I had discovered the trick about Zitora, I should have bolted. Wrong decision. Again. I should have known better. But there was no comfort in should-haves. None.
I asked another question instead of answering Sir. “Why do you want to make orbs?”
“That’s not your concern,” Sir said.
“Why do you need me? You have Tal and Ash; surely they know how to make the orbs.”
“We need you to mix the sand. The Stormdance glassmakers keep the percentages of the sand ingredients a secret. Job security, I suppose.” Sir shrugged.
“I don’t know the percentages.”
Sir released my arm and spun, slamming his fist into my solar plexus. I doubled over as the air in my lungs exploded from my mouth. Pain radiated. I knelt on one knee, keeping my bent position and tried not to gasp for air. Unfortunately, I had experienced this sensation before when sparring with my sais at the Keep. When I could breathe without pain, I straightened.
“Don’t lie to me,” Sir said.
“I overheard Varun telling his brother you figured out the recipe of their precious sand,” Tal said.
Sir accepted my silence as agreement to Tal’s statement. I had estimated the percentages, but Varun hadn’t said how close I had been to the actual numbers. Even a small difference in the mix could affect the quality of the orb. I wasn’t about to tell Sir. He might decide my usefulness was over. Tricky’s comment about “after” was a more powerful threat than Sir’s sucker punch.
“Now that the introductions are over, why don’t we get started?” Sir grabbed my wrist and led me over to a line of four barrels.
While Tal pried the lids off, Ash brought an array of bowls and a spade.
“Tell Ash what the proper percentages are,” Sir instructed.
Secret recipes were secret for a reason. My father had taught us never to divulge his special recipes. They were our pride and our livelihood. What Sir wanted went against twenty years of habit. “No.”
Without warning, Tricky slapped me. The force sent me reeling back as pain stung my cheek. Sir pulled me forward. Tricky kicked me in the chest. This time Sir let me fall. My impact with the floor was a mere nuisance compared to the sharp pains emanating from my ribs. Each time I gasped for breath, fire flared.
Tricky
