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remains of the embankment and quickly crossed the rest of the rocky ledge, coming to a halt beneath the
scaffold. Several of the Panjeri stopped in their transport of materials to stare at him.
'Who is your leader?" he asked three men and a woman who were watching him sharply.
The men exchanged a glance, then returned to staring.
'Do any of you understand me?" Achmed said, trying to contain his frustration.
The silence answered him.
Finally he moved away from them, feeling their eyes locked on him, and approached the scaffold.
The woman atop it was still intent on her work. She was edging the window with a small, crude tool,
buffing the glass as she checked the seam once more. One of the other craftsmen shouted up to her
impatiently in a language Ach-med did not recognize, and she acidly called something back to him. As
she turned to answer, her eye caught the Bolg king for a split second, but she did not favor him with a
longer glance before returning to her work.
Finally, as the rest of the Panjeri began to descend with the crates and animals, two men came over to
the scaffold. One grabbed the supports impatiently and shook it.
The woman atop it swayed slightly at the motion, then caught herself with a lightening-quick act of
balance. She seized a small brass pot from which she had been clipping and hurled it at the man's head,
missing it deliberately by a hairsbreadth, but splattering him with glaze. Then she tossed her tools down to
the other man and descended the scaffold, her dark eyes flashing at the one who had shaken it.
Achmed stood by, trying to catch her notice, as she exchanged a few pointed words with her fellow
craftsman, then stooped to pick up the pot. The men seized the scaffold and broke it down, carrying the
pieces quickly to the remaining wagon. The woman, having retrieved her pot, turned to follow them.
Achmed interposed himself quickly between her and the wagon.
'Hello," he said awkwardly, grinding his teeth and wishing Rhapsody were here to make the approach
for him; he hated conversation in general, hated initiating it even more, and hated initiating with people
with whom he could not communicate past the point of being rational about it. "Do you speak the
common tongue of the continent?"
The woman's eyes narrowed. "No, I do not, my apologies," she said curtly, then attempted to step
past him.
Achmed jumped to the side to block her again. "Wait, please." He looked down at her, a sense of
guarded excitement coming over him.
The woman was not much taller than Rhapsody, if that. Like Rhapsody, she clad herself in practical
clothing, trousers and a stained cambric shirt. She was breathing heavily from the exertion, so her cheeks
were ruddy; short, dark locks of hair framed her facial features, which, while hidden beneath a layer of
grimy sand and streaked with dried sweat from her work atop the scaffold, were delicate, her dark eyes
large and interestingly shaped. Those eyes held a gleam of contempt that he couldn't help but recognize;
he had seen it in his own reflection.
She shared his attitude; she did not brook fools, or anyone who interposed himself in her way.
'Are you finished here?" he asked.
The woman tossed the pot to one of the men who was waiting near the wagon. "Have you been sent
to pay us?" "No," Achmed said quickly.
'Then move out of my way." She strode past him to the wagon, and prepared to climb aboard;
Achmed caught her arm.
The flurry that resulted caught him by surprise even as cursed himself for not expecting it.
Without hesitation the woman slammed her hand into his shoulder and pushed him back, loosing his
grip. As she spun, the remaining artisans, men and women, pulled an assortment of small knives and
sharp tools. Achmed dropped her arm quickly and held up his hands.
'Apologies," he said, cursing himself inwardly. "I am not good at this. I want to hire you."
The woman leveled her gaze at him for a moment, then shook her head at her companions, who went
back to loading the wagon.
'Hire us?" she asked disdainfully. "You cannot afford the price." "I I am King Achmed of Ylorc,"
Achmed stammered. "How fortunate for you. You cannot afford the price. Now kindly move out of the
way." The woman turned her back and walked away.
Achmed felt like he was drowning. All of his normal calm had fled, leaving him feeling desperate,
anxious beyond reason. "What is the price?"
The woman turned and regarded him sharply. She considered his question, inhaling slowly to calm her
breath, then spoke.
'Each of us is a sealed master. Two hundred thousand gold suns." Achmed swallowed heavily.
"Done," he said. "In gems. We cannot carry that much in coin." "As you wish." "Today."
The Bolg king coughed. "Today?"
The woman nodded, her eyes fixed on his face. "Today. Before the setting of the sun."
'I cannot possibly do that."
She nodded. "As I told you you cannot meet the price." She returned to the wagon and prepared to
climb aboard.
Achmed chased after her. "Wait, please. I can have a bill of tender stamped this evening."
The woman laughed. She stepped off of the wagon's rim and came to stand in front of him.
'You do not know of the Panjeri, do you?"
The Bolg king shook his head, swallowing to keep from misspeaking.
'You know nothing of the craft, of the trade, then. Nor anything of our language. The word means'the
dry leaves.' We are called that because we blow about in the wind, racing along from place to place,
never staying anywhere for longer than a fallen leaf would stay in a windy desert. It pains us to remain still
for too long. To ask a dozen Panjeri to come to wherever you would need us, would be as to ask a
dozen leaves to remain on the ground in a high breeze."
'I don't need a dozen Panjeri," Achmed said quickly, struggling to keep his tone from becoming
imperious. "I need but one the best one, the most talented, highly trained one. The leaf least likely to
skitter in the wind." He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to view each of the other assembled
workers, a wry smile coming over his face. "Which one would that be?"
The woman's eyes narrowed in response.
'That would beme ," she said haughtily.
'And by what name are you called, as the greatest of the Panjeri?"
'Theophila."
'I see. Since I have no way to ask the other Panjeri," the Bolg king countered, continuing to size up
the artisans, who stared blankly at him from the wagon, "and would find it difficult to communicate my
needs to them, I'll just accept that you are the heaviest leaf."
The woman crossed her arms. "Well, even if they did not agree, how would you understand what they
said?"
Achmed nodded, his lips pressed together in a mock show of agreement. "You do have a point there.
Very well, Theophila, assuming you are in fact the best stained-glass artisan of the Panjeri, what would
the price be to hire just you?"
She considered for a moment. "For how long?"
'However long the project takes. If you would not commit to finish what you begin, I would not have
you anyway."
The woman scowled. "I never leave any aspect of my work unfinished, even as the others pack to
leave," she snarled. "I believe you have witnessed this."
'Indeed. So again I ask you, what is your price?"
The woman regarded him again, leaning back against the clapboard of the wagon.
'A reason," she said.
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