best idea I’ve heard all day.”
Janco followed me to Gressa’s glass factory. I imagined the storefront would be boarded up or a new business opened in its place. A colorful sparkle from the window display greeted us. Rows of elegant glassware lined the shelves. Perhaps a new glass artist had bought her studio.
I peered at the vases and bowls. The excellent craftsmanship and intricate designs were the unmistakable marks of Gressa’s vast talent. She had returned.
We entered the store. More of her pieces decorated tables and filled shelves. The centerpiece of her collection spanned over four feet—a delicate yet top-heavy, fan-shaped vase crafted with translucent orange glass defied gravity. The saleswomen wore silk tunics. Their serene smiles and sales pitch were as smooth as the glass they sold.
A tall woman glided toward us. Her expression didn’t change after her gaze swept our dusty travel clothes. Bonus points.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I need to talk to Gressa,” I said. No sense wasting time on niceties.
A tiny wince creased her saleswoman mask, but in a blink of the eye, it was gone. “I’m sorry. The Artist is on important business right now. Perhaps you would like to leave a message?”
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“No. She is extremely busy. If you leave her a message, she might arrange a time for you to talk.”
“Might.” Janco huffed. “Which translates to not in a million years.”
The woman strained to keep her polite demeanor.
“This is regarding her brother, Ulrick. It’s very important,” I said.
“Brother?” The woman’s confusion appeared genuine. “She never mentioned a brother.”
“Is she here? Or do we need to search the place?” Janco’s threat was not idle.
The heart of the factory—the kilns and equipment needed to melt and work with molten glass—resided behind the storefront along with Gressa’s office.
Flustered, the woman gaped at Janco.
He turned to me. “We should search anyway. Ulrick could be hiding in the back.”
I led him to the door marked Employees Only. Alerted by the saleswoman’s attempts to stop us, the rest of the sales staff turned their attention our way. Unconcerned, Janco barged into the factory, trailing a line of protesting women.
“Let me know if you see anyone,” Janco said.
We wove through the heat surrounding Gressa’s four kilns, annealing ovens and various benches. The workers glanced at the parade, but kept spinning their rods to keep the molten glass from sagging toward the ground. My hands itched to help. It had been a long time since I’d worked with glass, and the need ached inside me.
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.
Chapter 4
CONFUSION REIGNED. Between the town’s guards and the factory 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
