The wood of the door fails to mute Jilana’s wrath. “Fragments, Mazani, why!”
After each yell comes a strained silence.
“That’s months of someone’s work you’ve ruined!”
I would not be brave enough to defy Master Jilana. But Mazani is. After each refusal to speak her mother roars louder. The weavers around me stare at their looms, hands frozen in mid-knot. My mother’s eyes dart between the door and me.
It was Mazani’s idea to lead us into battle. Her game, us versus the novices from the competitor’s workshop. Jilana’s other prentices -- we just follow along, Mazani’s little posse.
Mazani’s victims retaliate, of course: knives mysteriously blunted. Dragon dung on the yarn. If a journeymen sits on a thorn meant for us, we take the blame to hide our own inciting pranks.
But this is different. This was an accident. Mazani would never have tipped a loom.