“What, send a storm against him, to blind him during an attack? We would need to know exactly where he was, to do that, and not even Jerzy could send a storm all the way across the sea.” Ao paused, then turned his head to look at the Vineart. “Could you?”
“No.” Something shimmered in his thoughts, not the hard, cool influence of the Guardian but something fainter, softer. The memory of the feeling when he had struck Kaï with the magic, the open palm. The scent of the soil under his bare feet, as a slave. The feeling he had, within these walls. The other mage had gone to great lengths to gather other Vinearts’ magic to him, stealing their wines, their slaves . . . why? “No, but I don’t have to send it against him. I just have to let him know I have it. That my blood-magic, my quiet-magic, carries the vines that were destroyed. Giordan’s vines, and the ones in Irfan both.”
“Not a weapon, but a lure?” Kaïnam looked thoughtful, while Mahault’s eyes lit up
“ ‘Tcha, Ximen, look at what I have,’ make him come to you, and then we cut him down?” She approved, that much was clear.
Only Ao, leaning back in his chair, seemed to have a sense that a straightforward attack was not entirely what Jerzy had in mind.
THE MEAL FINISHED, they nonetheless lingered in the dining hall, as though the comforting, homey sounds from the kitchen made them reluctant to leave. Work continued, however: Kaïnam and Mahault had unrolled a map of the Lands Vin and were moving markers around as though it were a game of Go, while Detta came in, cornering Jerzy for a discussion of something that made her wave her rounded hands in exasperation, and him scowl. Ao felt a moment’s pity: no matter what went on in the greater world, the Household budgets must be squared.
That thought nudged another into shape: leaving magic to the Vinearts, still even a mage needed supplies, services. That meant people, ordinary people, and ordinary people were vulnerable. . . .
Shaking his head at his own obtuseness for not thinking of it before, the trader picked up a scratch-pen and three sheets of paper from the pile at Mahl’s elbow and wrote out three quick notes, then maneuvered himself back into the wheeled chair, and headed through the kitchen, ducking Lil, and outside. The day was full lit now, the sky a pale blue, the sounds of the slaves working at whatever winter chores they maintained familiar enough that he barely registered it.
He could have made himself walk, exercising the still-weak connection between his body and his false legs, but instead Ao pushed the chair up the hill enough that he could be seen from the pigeon coop, and raised a hand. “Boy!”
The tousled head of the slave appeared, and Ao showed him three fingers, then a single, which he pointed to the south, indicating that he wanted three birds capable of flying to the first outpost directly to the south. The slave nodded and disappeared again, then the entire body appeared outside the coop a few minutes later, carefully carrying a wicker basket in both hands. Inside were three gray-winged doves, cooing and restless.
“Trustworthy, Master Ao,” the boy said. He could not quite say Ao’s name properly, pronouncing only the last syllable, so that it sounded like “ow.”s “As you want.”
“Good, good. They’re only off to the next posting, no need to spell them elsewhere. Here’s the first, then,” and he handed over one of the bound messages resting in his lap, waiting while the boy tied it carefully to the first pigeon’s leg. Two more were attached to their respective messengers, and the slave climbed back up into the coop and sent the birds on their way.
Ao watched them flap their way into the darkening air, then circle once, as though looking for their destination, before setting off. He did not fully understand what magic was used to train these birds, allowing them to have a multiplicity of destinations rather than flying between birth-coop and training post, but their usefulness could not be denied. At the first outpost, the messages would be transferred to other birds, and sent on the next leg, covering the distance faster than a horse and rider.
“Silent gods put wind under your wings, and keep you from harm,” he whispered, staring up into the sky even after the birds had disappeared from sight. All three messages were for members of his clan: Tel, his cousin, who was a caravan leader and a woman of rare good sense; Ret, who had been Ao’s own teacher and might still have a kindness for him, despite Ao’s behavior; and Kaji, the clan elder.
After his first message, promising news of a great and useful—and potentially profitable—sort, the elder had finally begun sharing information. But while Kaïnam and Mahault seemed satisfied with what trickle they had been fed, Ao knew there was more. Not fact, but gossip, was what traders thrived on. Gossip, which moved so much faster than fact, and could be used in more ways. That was what he needed, now, if they were to move one step ahead of Ximen’s games, and lure him into a trap. For, surely, that had to be Jerzy’s intent?
Ao’s messages asked for that gossip, while warning them of consequences, should Jerzy’s plan—whatever that plan night be—fail, to not believe what was unspoken in Kaji’s responses so far: that no matter what fate befell the Lands Vin, the Eastern Wind trading clan would come out with a good bargain. They thought they could negotiate with whoever ended up in power.
Ao, having seen in Irfan how their enemy treated those he bargained with, thought his people were fools. Hopefully, Tel and Ret could counter some of that, with what he told them about the danger to come. . . .
“Master Ao!”
Ao turned his chair back to look toward the coop, where the slave was waving his arm. “One’s coming!”
Sure enough, there was a speck in the sky, coming in at a direct angle to the coop. Ao held his breath, suddenly sure that an owl would swoop down and take the bird before it reached them. But in a few seconds the pigeon had landed with a flurry of wings, and the slave was removing the message from its leg, bringing it back down to where Ao waited.
The message was sealed with the tree-and-vine sigil of the Principality of Atakus.
Ao’s breath caught in his throat, and he forced the sudden hope down, not allowing himself to expect anything. His people looked to the main chance, but men of power were different beasts. Kaïnam had sent a bird to his father when Ao’s first salvo went out but had warned the others that it was unlikely his father would respond.
“My father is a proud man, and I am dead to them, or worse than dead. He will have named one of my brothers as Heir, in my place, and . . . and that is assuming the birds can break through Master Edon’s spellcasting, to start.”
“If he incanted the spell to keep out animals,” Jerzy had said, “your people will be starving to death, as no fish will be able to pass through your waters, either. Master Edon is not so foolish.”
Kaïnam had seemed unconvinced.
“If not him, then perhaps others,” Ao had said, refusing to be cowed by Kaïnam’s pessimism. “We need a man of power to stand with us, preferably more than one. Jer might think he can solve this all on his own—”
Jerzy had let out a harsh bark of laughter at that.
“But you and I know more will be needed. Magic is a tool, but to win a war, you need men.”
“Men, and ships,” Kaïnam had said.
“And ships, and money,” Ao acknowledged.
The memory of that conversation stayed with Ao as he started back to the House, the wheels of his chair jolting on the uneven ground. The scarring where his legs were joined to his wooden limbs still ached, but it was familiar now, the way his arms ached and his backside seemed forever sore. Men, ships, and funds. Money to move the men and ships to buy information. To move the pieces into place, so whenever Jerzy made his hidden move, struck the blow he was preparing with all his magic and research, the Lands Vin would be ready as well. Now, if he could only convince Jerzy to tell him what he was going to do, and when.
Ao turned the chair—moving carefully, unwilling to risk a fall—and headed at an angle down the road, preferring the uneven cobblestones to the rutted and uneven grass. Intent on not flipping the r
attan-work chair on its side, he almost missed the rider coming up the road toward him until the sound of hooves reached his ears.
Ao stopped, his hands resting on the wheels of his chair, feeling the rough wood under his fingers. He could not see the figure clearly until they came into the vintnery’s grounds proper, and another few paces before they were close enough to be identified. The first thing he noted was that the horses of House Malech were brown-coated and hard-muscled, not the sleek gray form coming toward him.
Sleek gray . . . with red trappings at rein and saddle.
Washer.
“Oh, rot.”
Chapter 10
Vineart Jerzy.”
The rider leaned forward in his saddle and addressed not Jerzy but Kaïnam, who raised his eyes skyward as though in entreaty for patience, and then stepped to the side, wordlessly indicating Jerzy beside him.
The Washer, corrected, tried again without a hint of embarrassment. “Vineart Jerzy.”
Older than any of them, a man in the prime of his life, the Washer carried himself with the assurance of someone secure in the knowledge that he was welcome in any House or village he rode into.
Any save this one.
Ao had barely time to recognize who approached before Jerzy and Kaï had joined him, both quickly dressed in their available best: Kaï in a dark blue tunic and trou, his boots polished, his hair pulled back with a ribbon that was probably one of Lil’s from the way it fluttered rather than tying in a neat knot. Jerzy, on the other hand, had merely thrown a somber robe over his attire, but the belt at his waist was oxblood leather, and the silver spoon and knife that hung from it gleamed under the subdued winter sunlight, for any with the wit—or experience—to look. He was less gaudy than Kaï, but Ao did not understand how the Washer could not sense who was master here.
Whatever his failings, the Washer had the look of a hard man to him. Ao didn’t know how the others had known company was coming, but he was just as glad not to be confronting the Washer alone. If he was here to try and take Jerzy . . .
The trader felt the solid weight of the cudgel in his lap where Jerzy had placed it as they walked past him. He might not be able to walk without wobbling, yet, but his arms were strong, and he could by-the-gods hit.
It was one man against the three of them. Four, if you considered Mahault, who was not visible but doubtless waiting in a window of the House, bow at the ready. One Washer, no matter how hard, could not be a challenge. Yet Ao could feel the tension building.
“I am Vineart Jerzy of House Malech.”
The Washer dismounted, again showing the ease of a horseman and the stiffness of someone who had long been in the saddle. Was this their watcher? Ao didn’t think so.
A slave appeared out of nowhere, taking the reins of the horse and leading it a few steps away, waiting to see if the visitor would leave again, or stay.
“You are doubtless surprised to see me—”
“Not particularly,” Jerzy said, his voice cool. “You followed us from the docks; we have been waiting for you to work up the nerve to approach us.”
Jerzy did not mention the fact that the Washer had not helped them when they were attacked by the beast-birds. There was no point: if the Washer knew they had seen him then, he also knew that they knew he had not come to their aid. Not mentioning the incident gave it more weight, not less, and put the Washer on the defensive.
Jerzy did not let his expression show it, but Ao could tell that he was rather pleased with himself. A Vineart might not dabble in politics, but he was not doing so badly, for all that.
“That was not I,” the Washer said, bearing out Ao’s suspicions. “But one of my Brothers, yes.”
Jerzy showed no reaction to being corrected, or the news that another Washer still lurked beyond the boundaries. “What is your purpose in being here, Washer? Are you here to offer us Solace?”
“If there is need, a show of violence will not stop me from offering,” the newcomer said, his voice steady even as his gaze flickered from Jerzy to Kaïnam, then back up to the House, bypassing Ao entirely. Ao took solace in that—he could do more damage, if needed, if he was not counted as a threat. Off the horse, the Washer was short and wide across the shoulders, and looked to be from one of the lands north of Mahault’s home, with skin the white of river foam and hair only a shade darker, like cream. His eyes were light colored, and cold. “But, no. Neither Solace nor violence is my purpose in approaching you, Vineart. My name is Edmun. You avoided giving my Brothers an answer at the docks, and left without further discussions. It was feared from these actions that you . . . misunderstood our intent. To clarify our position, I bring a message from . . . certain members of the Collegium.”
“Certain members?” Kaïnam’s voice had the distant, cultured quality to it that had been absent lately, the Named-Heir of the Principal of Atakus coming out of the shadows for the occasion. “I was not aware that the Collegium was allowed independent thought.”
The Washer flushed an angry red, but held his ground, refusing to be baited by a man half his age who bore no obvious signs of rank, despite—or perhaps because of—his earlier error. “My business is not with you, young master, but the Vineart.”
“You speak with us all, or not at all,” Jerzy said. That comment earned him a quick, startled glance from Kaïnam beside him. This was Jerzy’s home, and no other held sway in another man’s House. Certainly, no lord could claim any rights at all within a vintnery. For Jerzy to state that, so bluntly; he was telling the Washer that he broke the Commandment of isolation to work with men of power, even if it was merely the disinherited son of a small Principality. And what the Washer would think of Ao and Mahault being included in that . . .
The Washer didn’t seem at all taken aback by such heresy; perhaps it was no more than they expected from someone like Jerzy, accused apostate, masterless student, and threat, in the Collegium’s eyes, to all that was. Or perhaps it was such a common thing now, that affront against Command, they could not afford to blink.
“If we might go inside, then?” the Washer suggested gently, keeping his shoulders soft, his hands well away from his body, as though to indicate that he was no threat.
Jerzy nodded and inclined his head to indicate that the Washer should walk with him. To Ao it was as though he had observed a player’s scene, scripted and yet somehow unrehearsed, each so careful not to fumble a line.
The two seemed an odd pairing: a quick glance might think that the Washer was the master of the House and Jerzy the acolyte, but it was clear, as they moved under the green arch—still in full leaf even well into the Fallow season—onto the House grounds proper, who was master there.
“WHAT DO YOU think this means, him coming now?” Ao rolled his chair next to Kaïnam, the sound of wood moving against stone an oddly comforting noise, like the slap of a hull against water. Never tall, and now seated as he was, Ao’s head barely came to Kaïnam’s shoulder, but his voice carried easily to the princeling’s ear.
“I have no idea. He was surprised that we were waiting for him, expected Jerzy to fall over in awe the moment a man of age and experience showed up, rather than the boy they sent before. That tells me he’s spent most of his life within the Collegium walls, not on the road.”
Most Washers were wanderers, spending their lives moving from one wayhouse to the next, preaching and giving Solace. But there were those who stayed behind, handling the day-to-day life and training of the next generation. Like House-keepers, maintaining the Collegium building and its daily affairs, save that there were no women among the Washers.
Kaï stared after the two men, not yet ready to follow. “In my experience, House-bound life breeds men prone to politics and overplayed manipulation, as much out of habit as need. But that does not mean we should underestimate him.” The prince sighed. “Jerzy’s playing out the courteous host . . . I suppose that means I get to be the abrasive lord.”
“And me?” Ao kept pace with Kaïnam as they moved toward t
he House, the wheels of this new chair moving more easily than the old. “How shall I play it? Meek, unassuming, useless cripple?” Ao’s voice dropped into a self-pitying tone, but his expression was bright, almost cheerful, the mischief that seemed to perpetually live in his eyes in full view.
“If it’s possible for you to stay quiet that long, yes,” Kaïnam said. “Until Jerzy decides otherwise.” Kaïnam might have been Named-Heir, but he had been one son among many for most of his life, scion of a man who ruled the principality of Atakus without hesitation, and he had no difficulty giving the Vineart the lead on this.
The words of an old Atakuan prayer, a child’s recitation to a sea god leagues and centuries distant, to give his liege good-sailing, came to Kaïnam’s lips, unbidden, and he mouthed them silently, almost without realizing it.
In truth, Kaïnam did not want the lead in this. He might have been the one to first spot the greater net being thrown over them all, but his interest, even now, was to save his homeland from the disastrous course his father had steered it on to and have his revenge on the man who ordered his sister’s murder, as though she were nothing more than a pawn to be sacrificed to lure out the king.
If he had to abandon other interests to accomplish that, no matter how dear they had become to him, he would, without hesitation. Jerzy knew this, even if the others did not.
“Right,” Ao said, maneuvering his chair under the green archway, unaware of the way the leaves stretched, as though moved by a breeze, to touch his hands and hair as he passed by. Kaï noted, but when he touched the leaves, they did not react to his presence.
INSIDE THE ARCHWAY, they found Detta standing alone, scowling, at the open doors of the House, and no sign of the other two, or Mahault.
“They’ve gone into the courtyard,” she informed them, her hands fisted at her ample hips, her voice harder than they had ever heard it before. “I would not let that snake into the master’s rooms, not even if the dragon led him there itself.”
The Shattered Vine Page 18