Completed [Solo] The Hard Sell

[Montaine]

The Hard Sell Summer 15 512 AV ‘Jugs?’ It was early morning. ‘Yes,’ It was hot. ‘But really, jugs?’ That morning Montaine had discovered that while he had been out drinking the previous night, old Calbert had broken into his place and stolen his old rags, leaving him with nothing but his fancy new accoutrements. ‘Yes jugs! Stop asking!’ Monty stretched, his joints making satisfying clicks as he rolled his neck. Business had begun to pick up again as of late and the city was returning to its natural flow, financially speaking. Politically, Zeltiva was abuzz with gossip and rumour. The status quo had been disrupted and Her Ladyship appeared to making a real grab for the power that was already officially hers to have. But despite the fresh changes in harbour society it was still impossible to escape the everyday mundanity of life and work and jugs. ‘But jugs are boring,’ Calbert didn’t dignify Monty’s complaint with a verbal response, simply snarling and glaring the glassworker down. Montaine conceded defeat. As entertaining as it was to annoy the old man, there was no sense in taking it too far. Instead he grabbed his pipe and, with the instinctive care that came with over half a decade of practice, he slid it into the crucible and gathered up the glass. Jugs were simple enough, just vases with handles in truth. Simplicity was easy, but it was terribly tedious too. He had been hoping for something a little more challenging, a little more complex and dare he say it a little more artistic. In recent days he had discovered that Johann Calbert, his dear old boss and a chronic social climber, had been discussing him and his work to friends further up the figurative ladder in the hope of creating interest in a nominally new talent for which he could claim responsibility in cultivating. Monty had hoped that it might translate into slightly more interesting work. He carried the laden pipe over to the bench and propped it up, spinning it casually in his left hand and steadying it with his right. He pressed his lips to the end and softly blew down its length, watching the material expand and engorge as his breath filled it. The intense orange paled and the opaque fires gave way to a translucent glow. Monty’s mind was not on his work. He felt as though he was on fire, the heat that emanated from the ovens seemed to be cooking him from the inside out, sweat poured from every pore and couldn’t escape his fancy new frippery. Were classy clothes supposed to be this uncomfortable? Montaine had new respect for the boss if he wore this day in day out in front of the furnaces. He shimmied the pipe further up the bench, bringing the glass closer until he dared not hold the tool so close for fear of burns, and handed it over to a colleague. Freed from the burden he grabbed his jacks and used them to squeeze on end of the jug narrower and flattening the base. Next came the shears. Monty stifled a yawn. He gripped what would be the neck of the piece where it joined the pipe and Banden, who had taken up the tool, rolled it. The pressure of the shear’s blades weakened the join, allowing Monty to break it away, flip it, and reattach the jug to the end of the pipe by its base. He then took the jacks up once more and reshaped the neck, tugging out a little spout. He gave Banden a nod and the glassworker moved it over to the holder where it could happily await the creation of its handle. Montaine retrieved his pipe and gathered up a small amount more from the batch oven and used the shears once more to pull it out. The jug’s main body was moved to the marver by Banden, where Monty used his shears to clip the handle and quickly attach it to the side of the piece. Finally the whole creation was shifted over to the annealer to cool. ‘Just another five to go,’ he muttered, glaring at Calbert’s closed office door and wiping the sweat from his brow.

[Montaine]

Eight bells and a swift change of clothes later, as the previous ensemble was now utterly drenched in the sweat of the workshop, Montaine was adorned in his puffy, silk shirt and maroon, brocade vest, ready to take up position at the market stall. The sun was still beating down relentlessly though with the shade of the awning and without the incessant searing of the glasswork furnaces the heat wasn’t quite as unbearable as it had been earlier that day. Unfortunately, though he was certainly glad to be away from the incessantly dull chore of making jugs he now found himself lumped with the all too similarly tedious task of selling them on. Monty sat slouched in the old chair behind the counter. His head rested atop his folded arms behind the glass display and he idly blew at his fringe. As a general rule he was all for peace and quiet, but when he was sleeping, or working alone with only the soft roar of the furnace. Not for the first time in his decade working for the old man he found himself positing the quandary of his life. He thought back to the kid who had stared in such wonderment at the display adorning this very table and how that boy had dreamed of being able to create such beautiful works of art. The boy hadn’t dreamed of this. Ah petch the bells did drag. A slight breeze set in from the east, sending lightning chills to his skin where the sticky beads of sweat lingered. The breeze carried with it the smells of the lower markets, the earthy clay dust from the potmakers, the slightest of vegetable aromas from what few could make the journey by sea before succumbing to rot, there was a waft of something wholly unpleasant to which the glassworker could put no name and underneath it all the pervasive pungency of fish and brine. His stomach rumbled. Monty shuffled uncomfortably. These clothes were so restrictive, had the wealthy no need to breathe? He had always been a slim chap by anyone’s standards yet the waistcoat seemed tight as a petching corset. Maybe he could just undo a button… ‘Well hello, you look awful bored,’ Monty’s eyes flicked up, then widened. A pearly glint that formed a cavalier smile, a pair of perfect eyebrows, one raised, two dark, brown eyes. The glassworker felt his heart pick up, his blood rushing places. If he’d paused to consider it the man might not have seemed quite so physically transcendent as he first appeared but the last moment of intimate contact Monty had had with anyone had been the half remembered drunken kiss he’d bestowed upon some faceless, stinking stranger on Banden’s birthday. It wasn’t easy to find prospective partners though he hadn’t really been looking in recent days, what with the storm and the sailor’s absence but…there was something about this man. Was that a tattoo? The tell tale curl of ink that twisted its way just over the top of his slightly open collar. Petch. The glassworker tried to form words. The man was dressed in rich man’s clothes, the tell tale tightness of West Street wares, where all the wealthiest merchants and members of society procured their dress. Yet he seemed totally at ease, like he’d worn the like all his life. ‘Calbert said you were mouthy, I’ve heard he tends to exaggerate but,’ he chuckled so delightfully, ‘I was expecting a little more, to be honest,’

[Montaine]

‘It is Montaine, right?’ The glassworker’s face was flushed and he silently prayed to all the gods he could name that he could pass it off as a simple effect of the heat and nothing more. The instigator of this fresh bout of sweating stood seemingly bone dry. Perhaps there was something in the training of the wealthy where they learned not to sweat, or to breathe or show any sign of imperfect etiquette in the public sphere, in order to entice prospective acquaintances, or prospective mates. As he understood it the marriage market was another of the old traditions, the rich who married for riches, the politically weighty who married for higher status, as he understood it, it was important for the young ladies and gentlemen of a certain class to attract an adequate partner. Of course he was only here for glass, ‘Yeah, Monty, people call me Monty, you lookin’ to buy somethin’?’ he finally found his words. The man laughed, ‘Oh what a quaint accent,’ he eyed the glassworker, torso up, as much as he could see given Monty’s apparent unwillingness to stand and reveal all, ‘Yes, I’m in need of an item, a very specific item. I fear it shall need to be made in your workshop, as I doubt very much that you would have one lying around,’ Monty raised an eyebrow, ‘If’n you wanted something made special you need to go to the workshop up on Artisans’, s’not far,’ he bent over the counter, carefully placing a supporting hand between the glass pieces and indicated the direction with his other. The man took the opportunity to peer round the glassworker’s back and trace his gaze down to the base of his spine. As Monty finished speaking he snapped his eyes back. ‘Calbert says you’re the most skilled worker in his employment, I would much rather know that someone of adequate expertise would be responsible for the job, I know that Johann does so little of the work these days,’ Monty furrowed his brows, ‘I don’ get off here ‘til evening, if’n you can wait ‘til then I’ll be at the workshop, s’just me at the stall today, can’t exactly go gallivantin’ off on some special order,’ ‘Of course, I understand. I shall arrive at the workshop in seven bells, I do hope to have the further pleasure of your company,’ he wiggled his eyebrows, ‘My name is Callay, Alexander Callay, I look forward to seeing that mouth in action,’ With that the merchant’s son left and Montaine returned to his seat in a veritable puddle of sweat. Well, the man wasn’t precisely subtle, but petch it, he was good looking. The day was looking up.

[Montaine]

The remainder of the day passed by in painful tedium. Extreme heat, though rare in the harbour city, was death for sales for truthfully who wanted to go shopping on a day such as this? It was a familiar boredom, one that increased and grew and swelled every time he was forced to suffer the mediocrity of his life. As he sat behind the dried out table with his head resting on his bare forearms he found his senses drawn once more to the subtle salt that pervaded the city’s smell. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the sensation, inhaling the essence of the city, of the sea. To go out onto those great, beautiful ocean waves, to be surrounded by the brilliance of the brine and the sea air and see the world, go out and find new places. Perhaps he would have been happier growing up somewhere else. He had spent his life listening to the sailors passing through the city streets and speaking of the lands they had seen, the wondrous, impossible places of Montaine’s dreams. The great jungles of Falyndar, with their cannibal tribes, and the vast plains of Cyphrus and its great tent city where his father had been raised, the Anchorage Flotilla out in the middle of the Suvan Sea and the dark shores of Sahova. In all his years he had listened to the stories, and dreamed. It couldn’t possibly be boring out there. He loved Zeltiva, with all of his heart. It was the city of his mother, the woman he had never known; it was a city of precarious positioning, and in turn frequent famine; it was a city of foolhardy security, perched on the edge of a mountain rage where people were free to ignore the troubles of the time. It was his home, and would always be such, but it was difficult to truly appreciate home when you had never had the opportunity to leave it. Travel was rare outside of the merchant ships that kept to safe, known paths. People were happy, content to stay where they were, where they knew, where they felt protected and secure. Monty didn’t understand it. After what seemed like days but was in fact a short few bells the sun began to droop, sailing slowly downwards towards the horizon. The glassworker stood up and stretched, yawning in a hopeless effort to somehow expel the tedious tiredness from his body. He carefully packed up the remaining pieces into their respective crates and unhooked the awning from its posts, rolling it up and propping it against the back of the stall. He picked up one of the smaller boxes and set off back to the glassworks, and potentially the dapper Mister Callay.

[Montaine]

By the time Monty returned to the glassworks the sun had long since set but Syna’s light still peeked over the rooftops, lighting the sky with a dull glow. The heat of the day had passed into the coolness of the evening but the warmth of the furnaces kept the workshop toasty. The glassworker flicked open the buttons on his waistcoat and slipped it off as he entered, thankful for the space to breathe. Mory and Banden were lolling around by the annealer as Fogle swept the space round the marver and Calbert was in deep conversation. With him. The novice noticed him first and greeted him with a smile and a wave and was treated in return by a snapped order to carry on his work by the boss who nodded at Monty and beckoned him over with two quick flicks of the wrist. Callay turned round. He had had an impatient look, the furrowed frown and pursed lips of a spoilt child, but once he caught sight of the glassworker the expression was wiped clean from his face for a more favourable one. ‘Monty!’ the merchant’s son clapped him on the back, causing the craftsman to splutter, ‘You came, I’m so glad, I’ve just been talking about my request with Johann here,’ Calbert grimaced slightly at the lack of deference and over familiarity in Callay’s voice as he indicate him by forename, ‘Yes, young master Callay here has requisitioned a bottle,’ ‘Not just any bottle, Johnny, a big one, very big, yea high,’ Callay indicated roughly to his waist with a hand, ‘There or thereabouts, your boys have already prepared the, what was it, annealer?’ Monty looked over at where Mory and Banden looked incredibly bored, the racks from the furnace propped up to one side, allowing the full volume of the oven to be used, ‘Right, a bottle ain’t too much trouble, but Calbert’s here, why d’you need me?’ The merchant’s son waved his boss away and, to Monty’s surprise, the old man begrudgingly went. This man, or his family, must have been quite rich for Calbert to give him so much leeway. Callay leaned in close to the glassworker’s ear. ‘I really wanted to see those lips wrapped around a pipe,’ his breath brushed lightly against Montaine’s ear, ‘Johann wasn’t wrong about you was he?’ The glassworker felt himself suddenly go very flush. Callay wasn’t talking about Calbert’s comments on his skills with the glass. The old petcher knew, he always knew so much more than he let on, he knew, he knew. When? Was it at Banden’s birthday? Shyke it could have been any time, he’d known the old bastard for ten years, ten years, was it really any surprise? What about the others, did they know? He glanced round. Calbert was standing to one side, fuming perhaps, at the disrespect accorded to him by their patron. Fogle was staring, scowling, at Callay, while the others resolutely kept their eyes away. What was this? Callay leant back and smirked, ‘Didn’t think so,’

[Montaine]

Alexander Callay moved off and joined the brooding Calbert, leaving Monty in a state of confused arousal. So everyone knew. At least, that was the way things seemed to be. No one had said anything, had they just found out? Did they care? How long had they known? It didn’t really matter, he supposed. The secret was out now, for better or for worse. He let out a sigh, it felt like he hadn’t exhaled in days, fearful of shattering whatever precarious peace the moment held, fearful everything would suddenly break, like glass on the workshop floor. All things considered he was taking it quite well. He was somewhat surprised he hadn’t collapsed into a wheezing, vomitous mess. Well. To work. ‘Okay, fellas, this’s a big one, so’s you’re all goin’ to have to bear the weight, Mory, fetch the long pipe, Banden stoke up the furnace a tad, Fogle, you’re goin’ be up my end, alright? Less chance you’ll petch it all an’ burn yourself. Callay!’ the glassworker yelled at the merchant’s son and beckoned him with a jerk of the head, leaning in as the young man had done to him a chime before and whispering, ‘You’re in for a petchin’ show,’ he straightened up and grinned, ‘Need anythin’ special ‘bout the shape? Or just smooth all round?’ Alexander swallowed and for tick had no idea what to do with his face, before finally settling on a smile to match, ‘A ridge, right the way around, from about a third of the way from the top to about a sixth or so from the base, and two handles, one on either side, near the top, like the vases they have up in the dovecote,’ Monty nodded, ‘I know the ones, right fellas, let’s get this done,’ Mory, Fogle and Montaine each grabbed a length of the great glassblowing pipe, Mory about halfway down, Monty at the very end and Fogle some way between them, as Banden continued to shovel coals into the heart of the batch oven itself. Calbert exhaled sharply through his nose and walked over to the grate into which the fuel was funnelled and held out his hand to Banden. The worker looked briefly confused until the boss snatched away his shovel and shooed him away, taking up the duties himself. Banden looked to Monty, dumbstruck until the glassworker nodded towards the furnace. The little hatchway where the pipe entered was still shut, so the spare craftsman jogged over and slipped it open, allowing the three pipe bearers access to the molten glass within. Mory winced as his gloved hands grew closer and closer to the searing flames but gritted his teeth and bore the pain. Monty guided them without words, the slight pressures he placed on the pipe led their hands to his path and when Mory spotted the reflection of the tool on the liquid glass he nodded and together they gathered up enough for the task at hand. The added weight of the material made Montaine thankful for his colleagues’ assistance and once they managed to carefully extract the laden pipe, slowly steering it through the hatchway and avoiding the metal sides, Banden closed the furnace shut, redirecting the intense heat through the open exhaust at the top. He then joined his co-workers in supporting the pipe as it was carried and rested on the bench. Monty turned to Callay, smiled, and so very slowly wrapped his lips around the pipe, and blew.

[Montaine]

Montaine Redsun possessed no great lung capacity. Ever since he had been a child he had struggled with any sort of great physical exertion to the point of potential injury. Yet when he blew glass it felt, it felt different. In truth nearly anyone else in the workshop, Callay included, would probably have been better suited to the task, so great was the amount of air needed to expand so much glass. Yet even when he had exhausted all the paltry wind his weak, shyking lungs could give he didn’t feel the pain he felt when he wasn’t blowing glass. It was like the flute music he heard when he worked the ovens alone. It calmed him. He kept one hand on the end of the pipe to keep the tool pressed against his lips and used the other, index finger lazily extended, to govern the speed of the spin, which was the responsibility of his colleagues. It was accepted that they would follow his every movement, he was in control, they were simply extensions of his hands, doing what he would, yet could not. He had played the part of the puppet for each of the workers in the room at one point or another, save the novice Fogle. But Fogle would get his turn, soon enough when he had reached a level of experience and practice suited for such work. Mory and Fogle continued to spin but, with a look from Monty, Banden released the pipe from his grip and grabbed his jacks, pressing them gently into the side. Calbert, now freed from the stoking duties he had undertaken, retrieved a pair of his own and did the same, at the other end of the bottle. Glass collected up against the tools, forming a ridge which the two workers flattened out with the square ends of their jacks. After a few chimes of this repeated activity, Callay’s desired effect was formed. All the while the merchant’s son’s eyes were transfixed on Monty’s lips. A droplet of sweat rolled down the glassworker’s forehead and round his cheek to collect on his chin. The next job was to form the opening at the top. Normally, with a regular sized bottle or vase, or the jugs he had formed that morning, it would be a simple job to break the piece off from the pipe, reverse it and attach the base of the piece back on to the end, freeing up the top. With something so large and unwieldy as Callay’s commissioned piece it would require something more. Monty flashed a look at Calbert, the boss would understand what was required better than the rest. Calbert grabbed a second pipe and dipped it into the batch oven, collecting just enough material to coat the base of the piece and attached it to the great bottle’s bottom. The second batch of molten glass was an unfortunate necessity as the piece at cooled to such an extent it wasn’t safe to simple attempt a straight transfer. Banden and Fogle then moved to help the boss support the weight as Monty and Mory broke the first pipe free. There was a brief lurch as the second team took the full weight and steered the whole thing into the second oven, the holder, to allow it to heat up a little more. Monty placed his pipe to one side to cool and flashed the merchant’s son a grin, was the man sweating? Maybe those poncy clothes were having an effect on him after all, though really it was a cool enough night. He grabbed the puffer and prepared to blow once more.

[Montaine]

The puffer was a curious device in both appearance and function. It consisted of a short metal rod ending in a pointed cone, a thin hole running down through the entire length, permitting the passage of air. Once the immense bottle was adequately reheated and removed from the holder by the combined efforts of Mory, Banden and Fogle, Monty pressed the tip of the cone against the top of the piece and pressed gently inwards, forming a shallow dip, before blowing down the end, puncturing the glass and spreading the hole with the cone. He then put the tool to one side and picked up the boss’ jacks, squeezing them tight and inserting them into the newly created gap, pulling the glass outwards and expanding the opening, his colleagues spinning all the while. Once the hole was judged to be of an adequate size, Monty used the flat end of the jacks to smooth out the rim, his forehead creased in concentration. Calbert, meanwhile, had once again collected more molten glass and was fashioning it into a handle much as Monty had also done earlier that day. When it was ready it brought it over and, grabbing his shears from the tool rack as he passed, the old man snipped it off and stuck it to the great bottle’s neck. Montaine, finding the heat a little too much despite the night breeze, popped open another button on his collar and picked up the pipe where the boss had a discarded it. No permission, no orders, no speaking was required throughout the process, everyone knew their place, everyone knew what they had to do and what was required of them. The glassworker gathered up what little molten glass remained in the crucible and pulled it into a second handle and as Calbert had done, he brought it to the bottle and attached it to the other side where the boss was ready and waiting with his jacks to mold them into perfect mirror images. The piece, in the end, was not astoundingly pretty but was a fair estimation of the dovecote’s vases in glass and after a quick roll on the marver to cool it just enough to solidify any remaining sagging sections the team placed it within the annealer’s heart to rest until morning. As the others cleared up Montaine found himself being approached by the merchant’s son, ‘So how long do I have to wait?’ Callay was right behind him and whispering once again into his ear, it sent shivers down his spine despite the heat, despite the sweat, ‘For a piece this big you’re goin’ to have to wait a fair few bells, midday tomorrow at least, I ‘spect,’ The merchant’s son placed a hand on his bare forearm, ‘I wasn’t talking about the glass,’ Monty swallowed. Petch. He turned round, very aware of a growing issue considering the tightness of certain parts of his clothing, and it certainly wasn’t his vest on this occasion, ‘Ah, well, if’n you’re lookin’ to wait for it, I s’ppose you can always stay at mine, s’only across the road, but I doubt it’s anythin’ as fancy as what you’re used to, jus’ one room bein’ as it is,’ It had been a long time since the glassworker had seen a look like the one in the merchant’s son’s eye as he grabbed him by the arm and veritably pulled him from the workshop, barely giving him a chance to grab his discarded vest as they crossed the way and pounded up the stairs to Monty’s flat.

[Montaine]

Neither of them spoke a word from when they left the workshop until it was over. They weren’t two steps into the apartment before Callay was desperately tearing open the buttons on the glassworker’s shirt, their lips pressed together. Monty’s left hand was wrapped round the merchant’s son’s shoulders, pulling him closer, as his other eased open the man’s top and revealed, oh petch, the tattoo that snaked down from his chest, down, down his side and trailed ever downwards below the waist of his breeches. The glassworker could have finished up right there. Clothes were quickly and haphazardly discarded, one of Monty’s shoes narrowly missing the hearth. Cally pushed him down onto the bed and straddled him, the old mattress creaked under their combined weight. He grabbed the glassworker’s hands in his own and ran his fingers over the calloused palms, feeling the tell tale rough pads of a labourer’s hands, worn hard from years of handling the tools of his trade, spinning the pipes and smoothing the glass with leather. The merchant’s son’s breathing hitched when he came across faded burn scar and, unable to resist it any longer, crashed down onto the mouth of the man below him. It briefly struck Montaine as odd quite how excited Callay seemed to get with his hands and his mouth but any thoughts of such things quickly evaporated as he came towards him. In the apartment downstairs, old Mrs Nolty was lying in a bed of her own dressed in the thickest, heaviest nightwear imaginable. She was simply a pile of so many rumples and rolls of fabric that even the heights of manners and morality would have dictated unreasonable and a scrunched up little face in the middle of it all, glaring daggers at the ceiling. Increasingly loud moans were echoing down from that evil boy upstairs. She gripped her sheets in frustrated fury and would have leapt from the bed, grabbed her broom and slammed it on the ceiling if only she could manage to right herself in those voluminous petticoats. In the apartment next door Sofia Fletcher was sound asleep and snoring alongside her husband when their daughters raced into their room and shook their father awake, asking what the noise was. Struggling for an answer he dismissed to them as Montaine, next door, fixing his bed, as it was always causing him troubles and sent his girls back off to sleep. In his eternal joviality he silently congratulated the boy next door for finally having a little fun. As noisy as he was. A fair time later Monty and Callay were lying side by side in the glassworker’s sweat soaked sheets, one panting and the other wheezing quite badly. The merchant’s son rolled over and rested his head on his hand, grinning at Montaine. ‘Petch, Monty, blowing really is your thing, isn’t it?’ Monty laughed and punched him in the shoulder, struggling to speak for the rasping pain in his lungs, just about managing a ‘shut up,’

[Montaine]

‘So the wheezing?’ Monty trailed his finger up and down the ink black tattoo, the softness of his touch raising goose bumps on the other man’s skin, he sighed, ‘Weak lungs, can’t do much about it, can’t do much with it, too much exercise puts me in fits,’ ‘You seem to be alright blowing glass,’ ‘Yeah, don’ know why really. I’s just, I don’ know, calmin’, like I get out of breath but it’s fine ‘cause I know the breath ain’t gone it’s jus’-it’s just in the glass now. I guess me body just doesn’t want to give up when I’m lookin’ at somethin’ beautiful like glass,’ his eyes followed his finger along the dark curves and curls of the ink. ‘Doesn’t it hurt though? The wheezing? And these…’ Callay took Monty’s wandering hand and carefully, gently, turned it over, tracing his own fingers across the long healed burns and cuts of the glassworker’s trade. The craftsman chuckled, ‘Sure, but it’s worth it ain’t it? A little pain’s fair exchange for doin’ somethin’ you love, ain’t it?’ The merchant’s son made a noise, so deep that the glassworker almost missed it, almost a growl from the back of his throat, ‘Gods, Monty, you know how rare it is to find passion like yours where I’m from? My father wants me to take over the family business, buying, selling, just moving around, never creating, never changing, just me and a bunch of fusty old men talking numbers, but you-’ he pulled Monty’s calloused hand up to his lips, ‘You make things, beautiful things, and you feel so strongly about them. I wish I knew what that was like,’ ‘So why don’t you find out? If’n there’s somethin’ you’d rather be doin’ why ain’t you doin’ it?’ ‘Oh I’m doing precisely what I want right now,’ Callay laughed and ran his hand down the glassworker’s body, under the covers and delighted in the sudden sharp intake of his breath as the merchant’s son found what he sought, ‘Someday my father will make me marry some girl and give him lots of little grandchildren, regardless of whether or not I want to, but until then I’m going to enjoy myself,’ his voice had receded into a whisper as he began to massage Monty back to life. ‘Petch, Alex, slow it down, me lungs still hurt, an’ trust me you don’ want me to start fittin’, I don’ think the bed can take it,’ Monty reached down and removed Callay’s hand, ‘If’n you don’ want to do it, you don’ have to. What’ve you go to lose? Your money? Your status? Are they worth so much?’ The merchant’s son furrowed his brows and pursed his lips in annoyance, ‘You don’t understand it, you’re just a worker, it’s different for you. You don’t have these expectations put on you by everyone,’ ‘Oh I don’t, do I? Well I do apologise Mister Callay, for darin’ to suggest otherwise, it’s not like I don’ have friends and bosses waitin’ for me to do somethin’ great, expectin’ me to do somethin’ worthwhile, it’s not like I got a Da o’ me own askin’ after grandkids, but you don’ hear me petchin’ about it do you? ‘Cause I just do it, ‘cause I got somethin’ worth doin’,’ Callay reared back under Monty’s glare, his mouth opening without words until finally he shut it closed and crawled back towards the glassworker, embracing him, ‘Let’s not talk about it anymore, let’s just enjoy it, while we still have the time,’