Weight of Stone

by Laura Anne Gilman

Mahault thought about that as the wheels turned, the pony plodded, and the fields passed by on either side, and then finally she nodded. “I suppose I understand that.”

  After that, they fell into silence again, until the sun sank into the fields behind them, and the moon rose, thick and bright, lighting the way. They did not stop, the pony contentedly walking on and on, until the fields became as familiar as Jerzy’s own limbs, the stone barns and quietly sleeping villages bringing him closer and closer to home.

  “Turn there,” he said, and Mahl clucked the pony onto the left-hand fork, and then, suddenly, they were on the cobbled road that led to the vintnery, and then they were there.

  Word must have gone ahead, or perhaps the Guardian sensed them, for they were greeted in front of the green archway fronting the House by Master Malech, a teary-eyed Detta, and a delegation of three Washers, somber-faced and disapproving. Jerzy almost bolted and ran, and only Mahl’s hand clenched in the back of his tunic kept him steady.

  “Master Malech.” Jerzy slid from Mahault’s grasp and climbed out of the cart to stand before his master, suddenly aware that the ground was rocking oddly, as though he were still on the Wave, the sea moving under his feet. “It is good to be home.”

  He thought it would be good to be home, anyway. The sight of the Washers, their faces grim, their robes fresh and clean, as though they had been waiting long enough to wash and prepare, did not fill him with confidence. Still, Master Malech would not have summoned him home if they were simply to drag him off again. Would he?

  Giordan would have. Giordan had. Yet … His thoughts tumbled madly, and he tried to order them into the calm required of a Vineart. Malech was his master. Jerzy belonged to him. What happened to Jerzy happened to House Malech. His master would not betray him.

  Malech did not say anything, but merely took Jerzy’s hand in his own, turning it so that the red mark of the mustus was visible.

  “Welcome back, boy,” he said, and released his hand, nodding slightly toward the other men, who were waiting.

  “Sar Washers,” Jerzy said, bowing slightly, slipping without noticing into the common trade tongue of Ettonian, rather than the Berengian he had used to greet his master. “Sin Washer’s solace upon you.”

  “And upon you as well, young Jerzy,” the oldest of them said, and made the offering of the cup with his hands. At that, Jerzy breathed a little easier. They would not bless him if they thought him apostate, surely.

  “And your companion?” Master Malech asked, one graying eyebrow twitching upward in a manner that was soothingly familiar even as it rebuked his failure.

  “Oh. Master Malech, my apologies. Mahault …” He paused there. She had not given her nomen familias, her Household naming, to Kaïnam, so he was not sure if he had the right to share it. “Mahault of Aleppan, who has chosen to travel with me.”

  “Indeed?” Malech looked surprised at that, but the Washers nodded.

  “Former daughter of the maiar Niccolo,” the younger Washer said, and beside him, Mahl stumbled slightly as she stepped forward to greet Master Malech, and the Washers in turn.

  Former … the maiar had disowned Mahl, then. No doubt under pressure from the aide who had poisoned him against so much, including his own city council. Jerzy still did not know that man’s master, but guessed the purpose of the tool’s being there; to undermine the maiar’s standing in his own court, and grow suspicion and distrust throughout the city. But to what ultimate purpose? And who was the master behind it all?

  They, the four of them, had been given a chance to discover who incanted those spells, who directed those actions. Jerzy could have led them to the source; he was certain of it now. A sense of indignation at being summoned back, to be dragged before the Washers when he had done nothing wrong, rose in him, making his stomach churn the same way it had when he was seasick.

  But Master Malech had his reasons, and it was not for Jerzy to question, only to obey. That was what he had wished for … wasn’t it?

  The Washers disregarded Mahault; her father had disowned her, and so she was unimportant. Instead, they focused on Jerzy, intently enough that he felt their gaze like flame on his skin.

  “Where have you been, young Vineart?” the oldest one asked. His voice was not hard, but neither did it allow for lies or avoidance. He expected an answer, given easily and without delay.

  Jerzy looked to his master.

  Malech’s expression was as hard as the Guardian’s, his beaked face as though it was carved from stone as well, but he nodded.

  “At sea, Sar Washers.” The Sar was an honorific used in Corguruth, given to a man of standing or honor, but not noble birth. There was no equivalent in The Berengia, that he knew.

  “Indeed. And—”

  “No.” A voice broke into whatever he meant to say, and Detta bustled forward then, pushing aside Master Malech with the casual arrogance of long familiarity. She placed her round form between the Washers and Jerzy, hands on her ample hips, graying curls tousled as though she had been roused from sleep, daring them to challenge her. “Enough of this. Both of these children look near to falling over, and no wonder, considering the hour. They will be here in the morning, and whatever questions you mean to ask can and will wait until then. Now, off with you, all of you, and let me settle them down right and proper.”

  Jerzy had forgotten, somehow, what a power Detta was, like a storm or spell. The Washers backed up, reluctant but obedient, and the two travelers were whisked under the arbor arch and into the House proper.

  Hello, the House seemed to whisper, the gathered voices of the grapes growing on the vines, the roots deep in the soil, the spellwine waiting in the storerooms … welcome home.

  Pure exhausted fancy, of course. But the thought still made Jerzy smile.

  THE MOMENT THEY entered the building, there was a flurry of activity, with a sleepy-eyed Roan preparing a cold meal for them in the kitchen while a cot in Detta’s room was readied for Mahault. They ate without ceremony, cramming the bread and meats into their jaws, washing it down with goblets of vin ordinaire warmed to ease both digestion and sleep. No one asked them further questions, for which they were grateful.

  Jerzy’s own room waited for him, looking exactly the same as it had been when he left. He shed his clothing onto the floor and slid under the blanket, luxuriating in the way the thin mattress seemed to match his spine perfectly, the hard pillow holding his head just right. The blanket had been aired recently, and everything felt right. Proper.

  Home.

  The last thing before sleep claimed him was a gentle nudge in his mind, and the sense of something heavy and cool sliding in, reclaiming a space he had not even realized was empty until then.

  “’lo, Guardian,” he mumbled.

  There was no response, but the weight of stone remained.

  MORNING CAME BEFORE Jerzy realized he had fallen asleep, the sun streaming in through the window. His feet were flat on the braided rug and he was reaching for his clothing before he remembered that this was not a normal day, and he was not late for anything.

  Or, if he was, no one had told him he needed to be there.

  Then he remembered the Washers, and everything that waited, and his stomach tightened with nerves again.

  He dressed quickly but carefully, wrapping his belt around his hips once and finding a new buckle waiting for him—a dragon, styled after the Guardian, the sigil of the House of Malech. He had lost his original dragon buckle, along with the rest of his belt back in Aleppan. The dark red metal was a satisfying press against his hip bone when he slipped it onto the leather, reminding him of the press of the Guardian’s thoughts against his own the night before.

  He stopped, and felt for that presence. The merest touch, and the weight returned, forming a question.

  “Glad to be home,” he told it, and it disappeared—but was not gone. The weight remained: a steady comfort against his uncertainty.

  Master Malech was undoubtedly waiting for him. Jerzy hesitated
at the knife, then decided against hooking it onto his belt, adding only the normal student’s waterskin. The loss of his master’s gift still stung, and he did not want to use the lesser replacement a moment longer than needful.

  Satisfied with his appearance, he went down the narrow wooden stairs to the kitchen, where he was set upon by Lil, who hugged him as though he had been gone a year.

  “Look at you! You’ve grown again! Not tall, you’ll never be tall, but such muscles! And you’ve gone darker, just as Detta predicted!” Lil’s familiarity, which had once annoyed him, was like warm water on a cold morning. She lifted a lock of his hair, admiring the dark auburn sheen to it. “And we’ll need to have you trimmed … still not growing a beard, I see. All to the well, you’d only forget to trim it, not being such a peacock as the master. Come, your companion’s already to table; we saved you some tai, special like.”

  He disliked tai, which Lil knew full well, but he took it anyway. The thick, noxious brew would help him think faster, and he feared he might need all the help he could find, today. And, now that he knew sweetener helped the taste, he could add honey when Lil wasn’t looking.

  Mahault was already sitting at the table, dressed in a dark blue gown similar to the ones she had worn back in Aleppan, probably Lil’s best dress, from the way it almost but didn’t quite fit her taller form. Her blond hair was once again coiled back sleekly, and she was quietly eating everything that Roan served her, smiling polite thanks every time another item was offered. Roan hovered as though the Aleppanese woman was one of the silent gods come to visit, her eyes wide with awe and fascination.

  “I think she likes you,” he said to Mahl quietly.

  “She’s young. She hasn’t ever seen anyone from more than two days’ journey from here, at least not a woman.” Mahault was matter-of-fact about it, biting into the crisp slice of pork with obvious relish. “I was like that the first time I saw a solitaire.”

  Before Jerzy could respond, a deep raspy voice interrupted.

  “Ah, you’re both awake. Good.”

  Master Malech joined them, taking a mug from Lil with a nod of thanks, then pulling a chair up to the table and leaning intently in to talk to both of them. “I have no idea how much time we will have, so I will make this quick. Lady Mahault, you have already learned that your father has disowned you. I am sorry.”

  She nodded, not showing any emotion behind her composed exterior. Jerzy, who had no memory of his parents, wondered if she regretted it, or if she had resigned herself the moment she left Aleppan. She had not seemed close to her lady-mother, particularly, but he knew that her father’s change in behavior had dismayed her, yet Mahault had not mentioned her family even once in their travels; he had not thought to question that then. Had she known, or at least suspected?

  Malech was still speaking. “However it happened, whatever happened there, and in the time since then, you have aided my student, and for that I am in your debt. Anything I can do, I will, but I do not know how much help I can be, right now.”

  She nodded again, and what looked like real sympathy crossed Malech’s stone-cut face, and then was gone. He shifted his attention to his student. “Jerzy, they will want to question you. They dare not use spells, not here, not against a Vineart, but do not let that disarm you. Answer them truthfully, but briefly, and volunteer nothing! Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Master Malech.” He exchanged a look with Mahault, who gave him an encouraging smile. Had it been Ao, he would have leaped in with advice, but Mahl merely engaged Detta and Malech in conversation about their washing room versus the hot tubs of Aleppan, leaving Jerzy to eat—and worry—in relative peace.

  With impeccable timing, the youngest Washer appeared in the doorway just as Jerzy was finishing the last of his meal. He washed down the bit of egg with the last sip of tai, grimacing at the now-cold liquid’s taste, and stood. The memory of the last time he was taken by Washers shook him, the feel of hard hands and the metallic tang of swords and blood, Sar Anton standing over him, a serving boy dead at their feet, then the raised voices and magic-raised wind as Giordan tried to defend himself….

  No. Jerzy refused the memory. That was then. He was home, in his master’s House, and nothing would happen that Master Malech did not allow. His master would not allow harm to come to him. Malech would not have summoned Jerzy home if it were not safe.

  But the utter certainty Jerzy had hoped for did not come.

  “Vineart-student Jerzy of House Malech.” The Washer was only a few years older than himself, his belt single-wrapped, and his voice quavered a little.

  “I am ready,” Jerzy said, as much to himself as the Washer. The other tried to escort him, reaching for his arm, but Jerzy shot him a look that made him step back, his hand dropping.

  “This is my own home,” Jerzy said. “I know the way to the front door.”

  That bravado lasted until they came to the back field, where the Washers had erected a large tent in the same shade of red as their robes. Inside, three rope cots were tied up and out of the way, along with three travel packs and a variety of leather saddlebags. In the center of the tent there was a long wooden table that looked as though it folded for travel, and a single chair.

  And the two other Washers, waiting for him.

  The tent flap dropped down behind Jerzy, and he was alone with them.

  “Please,” the older Washer said, “sit down.”

  Not knowing what to expect, Jerzy sat down. The older Washer circled in front of him, the younger one remaining behind, barely within his peripheral vision. The mid-aged Washer stood behind the table, and picked up a stick of ink.

  “You are Vineart-student Jerzy of House Malech,” the older Washer—he had not been given their names—said.

  “I am.”

  At the table, the Washer wrote down his response.

  “The beginning of last spring, your master, Master Vineart Malech, sent you to study with the Vineart Giordan of Aleppan. To what purpose?”

  “My master told me to learn what I could of Vineart Giordan.”

  “To what purpose?”

  Jerzy kept himself still, focusing on the Washer’s face, reminding himself to speak only of what was asked, and no more. “To learn.”

  The Washer sighed. “Jerzy, your master has given you into our holding. You may answer our questions freely, with no fear of harm.”

  That was almost funny. No harm, no. Only apostasy, and death, if they were to discover that Malech had sent him to spy on the court of Aleppan, to learn of the doings of a man of power with the intent—if needful—to interfere with the actions of a man of power.

  That last was forbidden by Sin Washer’s Command, even before the thing they had accused him of already, the attempt to interfere with another Vineart’s wines. The fact that Master Malech felt it needful, that it was a lesser of evils to allowing the force that was moving against them free rein would not save him, if they discovered the truth. Although he had, in fact, not interfered at all, it was merely that he had not been given the chance to do so, before being taken, and then rescued.

  Jerzy took refuge in a lesser truth. “He believed that Vineart Giordan had a special skill with the crafting of his spellwines, and that I might be able to learn from that, and bring it back to our vines, to add to our abilities.”

  Not forbidden, that. Merely not done. Vinearts kept their secrets to themselves, by tradition centuries old, and difficult to break.

  “And when you were there. What did you learn?”

  Jerzy widened his eyes, not having to work hard to feign shock. “Washer! You know I may not speak of that to you!”

  The Washer’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded, accepting the rebuke. “Tell me of the trader, Ao. How did you become friends with him?”

  Admitting that the trader had caught him, ineptly trying to eavesdrop on courtiers, would not go over well with the Washer. Jerzy improvised.

  “He had never met a Vineart. His people do not use spellwines.”
That was a fact the Washers would know already, and would support his story. ‘’And Ao was curious.” He allowed humor, and a little exasperation, to fill his voice. “He is always curious, especially if he thinks that he can make a profit on the information somehow.”

  Ao was off with Kaï, by now in Caul and therefore out of the Washers’ reach. Throwing a little suspicion on him couldn’t hurt.

  “And he helped you escape …”

  “Because he believed I was not guilty.”

  Actually, Jerzy suspected that Ao did not understand the accusation, and would not have cared if Jerzy were guilty even if he had understood.

  “And the girl, Mahault?”

  Jerzy opened his mouth to respond, then shut it.

  “Vineart?” The Washer learned forward, as though scenting rot.

  These were not his secrets to tell. More, he was not sure how much of what he knew was safe to share. If Washer Darian had been involved somehow in what was happening in Aleppan, would these Washers believe Jerzy, or would they assume he was hiding something to protect himself?

  “Lady Mahault believed that her father was not entirely himself.” In point of fact, she was convinced that he had been under the influence of another person for months before Jerzy arrived, although she did not know who, or why. “She believed that whoever had caused the accusation against me had also worked against him.”

  That should set the cat in among the doves, he thought, watching the Washer behind the desk pause to take in his words, then continue writing.

  Plots driven by plots. Players playing one another. Like Kaïnam’s conviction that someone in Caul would be able to explain why his sister had been murdered. It made no sense … and yet there were roots, if you looked, connecting it all. Were the Washers aware of that? Jerzy did not know, and could not ask. He could not even ask his master, not without disclosing Kaïnam’s own story, and Jerzy did not know if speaking of it would help or hinder the princeling’s mission. Not knowing, he would say nothing. Unless his master asked directly, he would share no confidences.

  Thankfully, the Washers seemed to accept Jerzy’s answer. The questions continued, polite questions asking who he spoke with, and why, and what they discussed. For the most part Jerzy answered without hesitation: he had spoken to very few people in the time he was there. Vineart Giordan, of course, and Ao, and the occasional guard or servant, and then Mahault. But that was it.