Flesh and Fire (11 page)

Her father and Master Edon both looked at her in surprise, while the others gathered in the garden took a step back, all pretending that they had not been listening intently to the two men speak, seconds before.

“No,” Edon said, heading off whatever scolding her father might have given her for interrupting. “Let the girl speak.”

Thaïs was well into childbearing years, but to Edon any woman short of a crone was a girl. She took no offense.

“If Master Edon says that it is no spell which causes these things, then it may be man caused, or it may be freakish behavior of Nature. Either way, we have no way to predict or defend against it. Nature most especially must be taken in stride, if it is her will we suffer. The cause, either way, is less important than the result, that we are weakened. And so you ask: who would benefit from this?”

She did not wait for them to answer, and did not insult either of them by answering her own question. Any of the lands around them would benefit, were Atakus to fall.

“So you ask instead why?”

“Why, and why now. What has changed, this year? What has created a situation where another might be able to take advantage of our weakness? If this is man caused, why would they fall upon us first, rather than a weaker force? If this is Nature, why would we be the only ones affected? That question will lead us to the culprit faster than listing our enemies in order.”

She knew, in her bones, that she was right, but Master Edon was shaking his hairless head, his fingers holding his staff lightly, confidently.

“The girl has wisdom, and I do not dispute her. And yet, she is wrong. Not in her logic, but in her conclusions. Neither the who nor the why is what is important, not immediately. If this is not magic, then it is mankind. And if it is mankind, it may be defeated by magic. We must determine the how, if we are to mount a proper countermeasure.”

Thaïs chose her words carefully, knowing how quickly both men could turn to anger, and that she, however dear, would be the nearest and most obvious target. “More of the world is seen by your eyes,” she acknowledged. “Yet might not such a countermeasure be better aimed if we first understood why it is required?”

Her father listened to them both, then held up a hand to stop Master Edon from responding, and instead turned to a third party. “Brother Joen. Will you give us Sin Washer’s counsel on this?”

Brother Joen stood from where he had been waiting on a small marble stool, seemingly admiring the dance of a tiny bird over a flowering bush. His red-dyed robes swept gracefully around his legs as he moved into the discussion. A young man, handsome, if too pale to ever be mistaken for an Atakusian, his steady brown-eyed gaze and soft voice speaking of Sin Washer’s love had soothed many an argument in the court since his arrival two years before, and for that alone the prince prized him, even as they argued over his reliance on Master Edon.

Thaïs did not trust him, not for his sake but the sake of the Collegium he represented. She had not trusted his predecessor, Brother Siyu, either. The Sin Washer had died centuries ago, and His legacy seemed often to be in the accumulation of connections and power more than the distribution of emotional or spiritual ease. She kept that thought to herself. Wisdom came in many forms, and silence was often the most useful.

“The Collegium acknowledges the Vinearts’ wisdom and experience,” he said, his voice as soft and smooth as ever. “Sin Washer Himself poured the holy wine upon our hands and so protected us from evil.”

“I don’t need schooling,” the prince interrupted. “We speak not of sin but physical danger.”

“All danger is sin, and sin danger,” Joen replied calmly, but took the warning. “For now, the counsel of the Collegium is to assume no malice if there is no direct assault. In ancient days we might have assumed such events to be the work of the gods, but with Sin Washer’s intervention they too have stepped aside, leaving us, as children must, to age into wisdom through our own experiences. As the lady Thaïs has said, this may be the acts of random Nature, and so must be endured, not defended against.”

That was not what she had said, but Thaïs held silent again. She could argue with Master Edon, and know where she stood at all times. Brother Joen was a puzzle she had not yet put together, and until she had, she would not tangle with him, even in words. Perhaps most especially not in words. The Brotherhood might be all that was wise and noble, but they did not live and die here on Atakus, and Brother Joen might speak less from wisdom than some yet-unknown agenda that might not have her homeland’s best interest at heart.

Call it not paranoia, but caution.

She looked up at that thought, and found Master Edon looking at her. In his aged eyes that had watched a lifetime of Washers come and go, she saw a similar thought. In this, at least, they were united. Atakus came first. The Collegium, for now, was not to be trusted.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, the wind freshened smartly off the cliffs, making old, retired sailors across the island lift their faces to the sky and long for open seas. Anchored at bay, a ship waited, its canvas wings furled and impatient, for the order to sail.

“NEGOTIATOR TOMAS!”

Tomas turned away from the clothing he was placing into his carry bag, the weary resignation on his face schooling itself into something more appropriate to greet the eldest daughter of his host, however unexpected the meeting might be.

“Lady Thaïs.”

“You had hoped for more, from my father.” She saw no purpose to pleasantries, but instead cut directly to her purpose. If you needed information, go to the source.

“I had no hopes at all,” he said smoothly. “My only purpose was to bring my master’s words to this court, to inform them of incursions and alarms my master felt they should be aware of. Prince Erebuh’s office was uncommon gracious.”

“Well said.” She walked into the guest quarters, well aware that she should be doing no such thing. The small cottage Tomas had been housed in was on ground level, near enough to the royal residence that a casual stroll might conceivably bring her by, especially if she were struck by the desire to contemplate the bright red salt-berries that grew in profusion along the western cliffs. Nothing could explain her presence inside the personal quarters, however temporary, of a man not related to her, however. “Well said, but not entirely true. You came here wanting something. What was it?”

“Who is asking me this question?” he asked in return, watching her warily. His eyes were deep green, and alert as a bird’s. Despite the poor condition of his clothing, he bore himself as a man of confidence and status. The way he parried her so smoothly only enhanced that contrast. He was no errand boy pressed into the negotiator’s sash: no, her instincts were correct. This man had been sent for a reason.

“A concerned daughter of Atakus.”

“Ah.” He could read that sentence any way he chose to: it was vague enough to mean both everything and nothing. He turned his back to her, and went on with his packing.

“Vineart Jaban looks to Atakus in few things,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. Having entered and made her point, she saw no reason to add to her risk by sitting down. “You supply your own food, both fielded and fished. Your men are decent warriors and better sailors. Vineart Jaban’s spellwines fetch a fair price on the market, if not in the same category as his teacher’s, and your population is reasonably healthy and thriving. The only thing you need from us is the continued protection of Master Edon’s winds, to keep your own harbor safe. And that is the one thing that failed you.”

“The ships were destroyed by fire. We do not blame a failure of your spellwines for that.” A firespell was needed to protect against fire, and neither Master Edon nor Vineart Jabon crafted those. Vineart Pel, another of Master Jabon’s students, did, but had they thought to carry any, if they used spellwines for lighting? Information they did not have. She made a note to mention it to her father, later.

“No?” she asked the negotiator. “But you expected us to be more concerned than we were. You expected us to do more than mouth concern and vague promises of heightened awareness?”

“I had no expectations.” He reached over to the small table and picked up a shaped-shell cup of water, sipping it and then placing it back on the table. His throat moistened, he turned back to her, clearly about to issue a prepared speech that would lay his agenda out, or send her away, abashed. She waited to see which path he would choose. And that, in turn, would indicate what her next move would be.

Negotiation was both subtle and blunt, in turns. The skill came not in how you wielded each tool, but knowing which to use, when.

“Vineart Jaban fears that Atakus has become too. . .insular,” Tomas said. “Too isolated, as damaged by their spellwines as protected by them. The fact that Master Vineart Edon was aware of what had been occurring reassures. . .but the fact that he does nothing, does not.”

It was her turn, then, to say “ah,” in understanding. It was not her father this negotiator had come to evaluate, but the Master Vineart. This was not a matter political, but magical, one Vineart to another. She had not known they played such games with each other. That was a surprise, but the way of the vine was closed to those of royal blood, by Sin Washer’s Command. As such, their parries and counterparries were none of her concern. And yet, Master Edon
was
Atakus, in many ways. Unlike so many other nations, there was no layer of distrust between ruler and Vineart to stir the waters or rend the sail. Therefore, what concerned Edon, concerned her.

“And what message will you carry back to your master, then, if I may be so forward as to inquire?”

“I shall return with the message that was given to me. Atakus is aware of the situation, and will take steps as it deems suited, to protect the well-being of Atakus. . .and the lands that fall within its protection, of course.” The last was crafted with delicate irony, and Thaïs shook her head, amused despite her concerns. He was no new-hewn negotiator sent on this task, no. Vineart Jaban had complimented them by sending the very best.

“As Vineart, Jaban is no indentured citizen of Atakus, to claim anything of us beyond the use and protection of his lands,” she reminded him. “Our concerns sail together, true, but he pays no tax into our coffers, and for the honor of holding his lands, he pays only nominal tribute.”

“Great tribute will be paid,” Tomas said, and it was such an odd thing for him to say, his voice neither mocking nor promising, but somehow threatening, that she looked up at him quickly, hoping to catch his expression before it was hidden behind the negotiator’s façade once again.

Because of that, she saw the throwing knife coming toward her, seconds before it landed blade first in her breast.

* * *

“NEGOTIATOR TOMAS? We are ready to take you to your ship now.” The young voice came through the doorway; a young male voice, full of cheerful humor. “If you miss the tide, we’ll have to row, and you don’t want to make us sweat now, do you?”

When he didn’t get a response, the sailor shrugged, then pushed open the door, a little surprised when it opened easily, even more surprised when it stopped three quarters of the way into the swing, as though it had hit something heavy.

“Didn’t know you had bags. I’ll haul ’em down for you, if you want. Negotiator Tomas?”

The door wouldn’t open, no matter how hard he shoved, so he slid sideways, some of his good humor disappearing as he narrowly scraped through. “Negoti—”

The words died in his mouth as he saw what had been blocking the door, and his hands moved together as though cupping water being poured from above. “Oh, Sin Washer, give us cleansing. Guards!” He backed out of the door, yelling at the top of his considerable lungs. “Guards, now!”

“MY DAUGHTER is dead.” The prince stood in the reception room of the guest quarters, not looking at either of the bodies still sprawled on the floor. He didn’t have to look; the first glance had told him what was important.

“My lord. . .” The other man in the room was far younger but carried himself with an authority that marked him as a Vineart. He had arrived in response to an urgent summons, speaking for Edon, who was too old to travel that quickly anymore. He had been studying the room intently, hands clasped behind his back so as not to disturb anything even by accident, not touching, merely observing.

“Who killed them?” the prince asked, his voice demanding an answer without rising in volume or intensity.

‘I believe. . .” The young Vineart had studied with Master Vineart Edon for almost half of his life. He knew how to craft a handful of spellwines and could competently cast another dozen, but he had never seen a dead person before. It was disturbing him more than he cared to admit.

“Yes?” The prince had no patience for hesitation now.

“I believe that he killed her, my lord. And then killed himself.”

The two bodies were both bloodied, but the girl’s wound was a single blow, hard to the chest, killing her instantly. The man’s were jagged, the blade going in several times before striking the final, awkward blow, as though the killer were resisting the act. The girl’s face was still, almost serene in surprise. The man’s was twisted in a rictus of rage and confusion. There was no evidence of anyone else having been in the room, other than the sailor who had called the alarm. The guards had taken one look and sealed off the entire quarters. By the end of that day the Vineart’s student arrived, clearly having been thrown onto a swift boat and brought thence without delay.

“Why?” The one word was spoken in a steady, almost dispassionate voice, but underneath was the anguish of a bereaved parent given impossible news.

The young Vineart swallowed nervously, and looked around the room again, searching for some explanation. Something caught his attention that he had overlooked during his initial study. It might be nothing, and yet. . .He stepped carefully over the dead man and touched one spit-dampened finger to the rim of the earthenware pitcher of water on the table, next to a half-filled cup. “If it is fresh enough, perhaps. . .”