“Ah, Etton. You have traveled far, to come to our humble city.” Giordan’s voice was odd, as though he were speaking through his nose. “Most of your fellow Washers stay within a tenday’s journey of their placements. What brings you to these parts?”
“My own desire to see what is over the next hill, I am afraid. I met Sar Anton on the road, and he spoke of the wonders of Aleppan, and here I am. My Brothers despair of me, this wanderlust, and yet I find I meet the most interesting people in my journeys. After all, did not Sin Washer’s blood travel to every land, and touch every soul? How can I do less than to follow that example?”
It was neatly said, but the answer didn’t calm Jerzy’s discomfort. He remembered, clearly, Sar Anton’s words to Brother Darian scant days before: the . . . youth we were discussing. Giordan, on the other hand, seemed to relax, and his voice smoothed out into his normal tone. “I do envy you the ability to travel,” he said. “We are bound to our vines, never to see beyond the extent of the lands we cultivate. And while I would not choose to be other than I am, still. . .”
“And yet, here is young Jerzy, traveling.”
Giordan seemed to suddenly realize that he had led the conversation directly where it should not go, but it was too late.
“Do you not feel tied to your roots?” Darian asked, and the tone of his voice was casual, but the look in his eyes was not. Jerzy’s mind scurried to find a possible response, something that would satisfy the Washer but not give anything away, but no words came into his mouth.
No one can call a Vineart to task.
“I go where my master sends me,” he said finally, as though the stone-cool voice in his head had released the sounds. “His desire was that I see how Vineart Giordan planted his vines, as we had an outbreak of root-glow earlier this year, and he thought that the row-trellis would allow us to reach the roots more quickly, to prevent further loss.”
It was a reasonable answer, had the advantage of being nearly true, seemed to satisfy Darian, and allowed Giordan to turn the conversation to a discussion of the Washers’ needs for vin ordinaire, since he was thinking of adding another small parcel to his enclosure but did not want to commit to making more spellwine immediately.
They came to the garden courtyard, the same one Ao had shown Jerzy as being perfect for snooping, and strolled along the graveled path, talking about shipments and costings, things that Detta dealt with back home. Jerzy allowed his attention to wander, chewing on their makeshift meal and fretting over the fact that his sole accomplishment in his time so far had been learning how to skirt telling the truth to authority figures. When someone else entered the courtyard he tilted his head, hoping to be able to pick up some tidbit, but caught only mentions of a party that had recently been canceled and the uproar that was apparently causing. He had no idea if that would be a usual thing, or unusual, and his spirits sank again until he saw a now-familiar form across the courtyard, lifting a hand in greeting.
Speaking of lying and snooping. . .
“If you will excuse me?”
Giordan looked up and absently nodded permission for him to leave. Not waiting for the Washer to say anything, Jerzy walked quickly across the courtyard to where Ao was waiting.
“Ah-ha. Looked like hard talking going on there. I saw Pour-and-Preach chase you two down the hallway, thought you could use a rescue.” Ao’s expression was so placid, an observer might think he was merely wishing Jerzy a good afternoon, if they weren’t close enough to hear the mocking tone. He was wearing his usual tunic, this one dark green, but there was a deep blue half cloak over one shoulder, giving him a dashing look.
“You don’t like Brother Darian?” Jerzy didn’t, either, but he was curious why Ao had taken the Washer in dislike.
“Oh, I don’t mind him. I don’t mind most people, unless we’re trading, and then I either love them or hate them, depending on how the trade is going. He was just too obviously on the hunt, and anyone hunting a friend of mine, I watch carefully.”
“Hunting?” Friend? he really wanted to ask.
Ao jerked his chin to indicate that they should start walking—away from the direction Giordan and Darian were taking. “As I said, he was following you two with the obvious intent to catch up with you. He’s only been in the city three days, and it seems as though every time I turn around, he’s asking after you. You, specifically, not Vineart Giordan. Why is he so interested in you?”
They took a left turn out through the archway and back into the palazzo proper. As they walked, courtiers and servants passed by them, intent on their responsibilities, their faces downturned and their body language tightly closed.
“I don’t know,” Jerzy said. Could the Washer know why he was truly there? How? Should he confide in the Washer, ask his help? No, he could not do that. Giordan said they were already suspicious of him, merely for working on the maiar’s lands. If they thought that Jerzy was somehow actively interfering in something they deemed not a Vineart’s concern, playing at secular things. . .
He did not know what they would do, but he suspected he would not enjoy it.
“Ao? How did you see the Washer coming after us? I’ve barely seen you anywhere. I thought you were dancing attendance on the maiar?”
“We were.” Now it was Ao’s turn to look away, crossing his arms against his chest. “That’s how I heard that Washer asking about you. But after calling us here specifically two months ago, scheduling meetings and presenting terms, the maiar first leaves us to wait for hours, and then refuses to meet with us, or brings us in and then has a servant whisper in his ear and remember something else he must attend to, first. It’s as though he’s playing a game we don’t know the rules to yet. Tan, our delegation leader, is ready to claw at the walls in frustration, and Ket just mutters a lot under her breath.” Ao almost laughed. “Ket has a temper.”
“How many of you are there?” He had been wondering about that— “clan” implied many, but. . .
“Only three, here. That’s how we do it. One to lead, one to support, and one to play fetch-and-carry.” Ao struck a servile pose. “Guess which role is mine?”
Jerzy laughed, despite his glum mood.
“There you go. The plus is, Tan’s given me leave for the day, and now I’ve time to spend with you. Come on, we both need some fresh air after being indoors so long, and I have it on good authority that the ladies of the court are taking that same fresh air in the city gardens.”
The gardens turned out to be a massive square a few streets over from the palazzo. In the time Jerzy had been in Aleppan, this was the first chance he had to be out on the streets proper, and while he tried to mimic Ao’s seen-it-all poise, by the time they reached the tall hedge that hid it from street view, his jaw ached from the effort it took not to gape.
“It’s all right, you know,” Ao said, clearly amused. “They like it when they can make the provincials gawp.”
He couldn’t deny he was a provincial. But pride made him retort, “I wasn’t gawping.”
“But you wanted to.”
“Did you see that woman?”
Ao looked back casually over his shoulder. “The one with the head-dress?”
“It was taller than she was!”
“Fashionable ten years ago. The well-dressed Aleppanese lady today has a cloth cap-and-band over her hair, which is coiled at the back of her neck once she reaches her majority, and in braids before then. And before you even ask, we carried a shipment of ladies’ clothing last spring from Parta to the Southern Isles, and I had to learn every single style, in case someone asked me a question at the receiving end.
“Now, the woman there, with the girl carrying the basket? Quite fine, and I don’t only mean her clothing.”
Jerzy saw the woman his friend referred to, but couldn’t say there was anything about her that put her above any other, and said so.
Ao snorted. “It’s true what they say about Vinearts, then? You save your seed for the ground?”
Jerzy felt h
eat rise in his face. To cover it, he took a swing at Ao, who blocked it badly, taking more of the blow on his shoulder than Jerzy had intended.
“Oh-ho, the Vineart can fight,” Ao crowed, seemingly undismayed by the bruise that was going to appear on his arm. “That’s good to know.”
“The best way to win a fight is to not get in one,” Jerzy said automatically. “Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“Hurts like fire,” Ao said. “Next time, aim for my face. Bruises work wonders for making the ladies sympathetic.”
“Are you ever serious?”
“Constantly,” Ao said, making a sweeping bow to a young girl and her older companion, who scowled back at him and pulled her charge away from the duo. “It’s all a very serious business, playing the fool. There, I’ve told you a secret. Now you tell me one, and we’ll have traded, fair and foul.”
“I don’t have any secrets,” he protested.
“Everyone has a secret, Jer. Everyone. Sometimes it’s a stupid secret nobody else cares about, but it’s important to them.”
“Oh.” Jerzy was distracted from the conversation by his first sight of the gardens. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but as they walked around the tall hedge and entered the gardens proper, stones crunching under their feet, the blaze of chaotic color took his breath away.
Everywhere he looked, there was color: bright reds and deep blues, glossy greens and vibrant yellows, each contained within neatly tended beds. Small flowers and large ones, stems and vines and leaves setting off the explosion of colors.
“They say there are over a hundred men hired every spring to maintain it. Can you imagine, spending your entire life tending to flowers? The same flowers, in the same pattern, every single year?”
“Yes,” Jerzy said simply, and Ao laughed. “All right, I am put in my place. But I would go mad.”
While Ao was speaking, Jerzy suddenly realized what was wrong.
“They have no aroma.”
“What?”
“These flowers. They have color. . .but no smell.”
“They were magicked.”
“‘What?” The boys turned to face the speaker, a man with a face like an old apple, wearing a leather apron that covered him from neck to knees. He leaned on a wooden hoe, and nodded at the nearest flower bed. “The flowers. They was magicked. Years and years ago. So they don’t smell. Smell brings bugs, don’t you see? And the ladies who walk here don’t like the bugs.”
“That must have cost the city a small fortune,” Ao said in appreciation.
“A large one,” the gardener said, and laughed, a harsh, wracking noise. “But the ladies, they like it, and so do the dandy-men as meet them here.”
“Then how do they propagate?” Jerzy asked. “If no insects find them. . .”
“Ahhh.” The gardener nodded his head wisely. “Young but not stupid, you. More magic.”
“A growspell,” Jerzy said. “For a garden? For flowers, that were spelled not to grow in the first place?”
“That’s a bad thing?” Ao looked back and forth between the two, his nostrils practically flaring with interest.
“It’s a waste,” Jerzy said. “Growspells are meant to encourage life; they enhance harvests so we don’t have another famine. They allow women to bear healthy children, and animals to thrive. This—”
“Is there a shortage of growspells? Are they rare?” Ao asked.
“No,” Jerzy admitted. “One that would do this, a very basic fertility decantation, is the most basic. Expensive, but not rare.”
“So then? How can it be wrong?”
“The young Vineart did not say it was wrong,” a cool, feminine voice said. “He said that it was a waste. Common, even.”
Jerzy bit back a groan even as they turned to face the maiar’s daughter. “I never said common,” he said. “Not now, and not then.” He was exasperated enough that he added, without thinking of whom he was speaking to, “And don’t tell me that I thought it, because you have no idea what I think.”
Mahault blinked, her expression almost as surprised as Jerzy’s at his outburst. “Right now you think that I am an annoyance of a female and would gladly see me sunk headfirst in the nearest pond,” she replied tartly.
Jerzy felt his lips twitch, even as he tried to scowl, but the look of astonishment on Ao’s face was too much, and the laugh escaped. Honors were about equal, he decided, and from the slight warming in her expression, he determined that she had decided the same.
“My lady Mahault,” Ao said, ignoring his friend with as much dignity as he could manage. “We met, briefly, as I was pacing in one of your father’s antechambers. Ao, of—”
“The traders, yes.” Her cool gaze turned to him, assessing. “My father has not yet seen you?”
“No, my lady. Perhaps you might—”
“My father does not see fit to take my advice, Trader Ao.”
Something Giordan had said, about her not being a favored child, stirred in Jerzy’s brain at the faint bitterness in her voice. “An angry person says more than a happy one.” Another of Ao’s words of advice.
“Trader Ao was offering to show me about the gardens,” he said, taking a chance. “But you, who live here, surely could show us both the best views?”
Mahault did not look displeased at the suggestion, although her gaze sharpened as though she knew he had ulterior motives. “Of course.”
“Ahem.”
Mahault looked back at her companion, an older woman with ruddy skin like Cai’s, and gray hair almost hidden under her cap-and-strap, who had made the unhappy noise.
“These are guests within my mother’s house,” the maiar’s daughter said strongly, her chin jutting stubbornly. “It would be discourteous to refuse them such a harmless request.”
The woman looked over the two boys as though she were considering their purchase and nodded grudging permission, not looking particularly happy about it. While a Vineart was not to be scorned as a companion, a trader was less so, and neither of them were anywhere near Mahault’s social level. Jerzy had no doubt that the companion would just as soon not allow her charge to speak to them in the first place, had she been given a vote. Mahault, however, clearly did not care, any more than she had seemed to notice that her dark blue gown and sturdy boots were drab compared to those of the women strolling past her.
“The centerpiece of the gardens is the sculpture of Alagatto,” Mahault said, moving forward, the two of them flanking her, and the companion trailing behind like a disapproving watchdog. “The roses there are the only ones that do have a scent. You will like that, Vineart Jerzy.”
“If my master heard you calling me that, he would cuff me so hard your ears would ring,” Jerzy said. “Jerzy, please. I can’t claim the title until my master says I’ve earned it.”
“Is it true you are—were—a slave?” Mahault asked, her eyes widening. Jerzy noticed then that they were outlined with a dark smudge, making her skin seem paler, and her eyes larger.
“Yes.”
“Was it. . .terrible?”
Jerzy was puzzled by the question. Cooper Shen had assumed so, also: that slavery had been terrible. “I had a place to sleep, two meals a day, I worked hard, and the overseer was not a man who punished for no reason.”
“But you. . .were a slave,” Ao said, picking up the conversation. “You couldn’t choose your master, or where you would live, what you would do. You weren’t free.”
Jerzy simply shrugged. “I don’t know what free is.”
“Free is being able to choose. To go where you want, do what you want,” Ao said, gesturing madly for emphasis.
“To make your own decisions,” Mahault added, with a guarded, sideways glance at her silent, disapproving companion.
“And you can?” Jerzy asked, feeling a little overwhelmed by their urgency. He found his hand going to his belt, touching the bone-handled knife that hung there, next to his purse, as though for reassurance.
“Of course!” Ao said immediately.
“You could just walk away, tonight? Your clan would understand, and welcome you back when you returned?”
“Yes.” Ao’s voice was a little less certain there, though.
Jerzy’s comment struck home with Mahault as well. “He is right. The painful truth is that while we might have the illusion, none of us are free,” Mahault said as they came upon the sculpture she had mentioned; a man in robes, made of white and red marble. “At least Jerzy will be, someday, once he becomes a Master. Vinearts do what they will. I envy you that.”
Ao looked as though he wanted to protest, but something in Mahault’s voice said that the discussion was ended. Jerzy leaned forward to smell one of the deep red roses that were planted around the statue. True to her word, the flower gave off a soft, warm smell that reminded him of mustus.
“My father used to grow these roses,” Mahault said. “In the courtyard outside our private rooms: ones with fragrance. He said. . .he said they were the roses of justice, that’s why they were planted here. Brother Alagatto stood against the first maiar of Aleppan, back in the founding years when all was chaos, and called him a dictator. They killed him for it. But, like Sin Washer, his blood ran into the ground, and turned the white roses of the maiar’s coat of arms red.”
“That’s blasphemy!” Ao said, scandalized. “Isn’t it?” he appealed to Jerzy, who looked at Mahault, who looked back with those cool eyes.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not a Washer. It’s probably just a story. If it did happen. . .how can a miracle be blasphemy?”
Ao looked as though he was going to argue the point, then dropped the subject and turned back to Mahault. “What happened to the roses? You said he used to grow them?”
She touched a pale finger against the crimson of the petals, and Jerzy was struck by how delicate the flower looked, and how strong and capable her hand was, not what he would have expected from the daughter of a maiar, at all. He wasn’t sure what to expect from Mahault. She reminded him, again, of Detta, or the Guardian, stone-made-flesh, although he couldn’t say why.
If he were drawn to a woman, it would be Mahault. But his body felt nothing.
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