The Shattered Vine (24 page)

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 rattan-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.”

V
ineart 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.

“W
HAT 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 the 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.

I
NSIDE 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.”

Master Malech had died when last Washers entered the House. The fact that Washers had also died, or disappeared, at the same time, did not ease the House-keeper’s anger.

Ao touched Detta’s hand as he rolled past, lifting his hand from the wheel to do so, and the older woman’s lined face smoothed out briefly. “Go then, both of you. I’ll feel better if that man’s soundly outnumbered.”

There were only two ways to reach the Courtyard: through the kitchen or via the square chamber that led into the Vineart’s private chambers in the right-hand wing. Ao’s chair required the wider span of the kitchen entrance. They went through the now-deserted dining hall, the great wooden table now cleared and empty, the benches pushed back against the wall, and came out into the open space to find Mahault seated on the bench under the single tree, its bare branches draped with cloth to create a makeshift canopy against the midday sun.

She was dressed in a simple blue gown, and her feet were demurely shod in soft shoes, her golden-blond hair pinned back in a neat coil. No one looking at her would ever suspect she had only moments before been holding a crossbow aimed at a man’s heart.

The Washer was seated opposite her in a chair that must have been pulled out from storage, a gracefully carved wooden piece far more formal than they had seen in daily use here. The two were already
chatting softly, seemingly sharing nothing more important than a reflection on the weather of the day.

Clearly, some hurried scurrying had been occurring inside the House while they confronted the Washer out front.

Another chair, similarly shaped, was set at an angle to it, and Kaïnam took that, allowing Ao room to place his chair between the two so that he could watch the Washer without being in his direct line of sight. Clearly, the Washer’s overlooking of Ao had been noted, and made use of.

Jerzy was pacing slowly, seemingly preoccupied with his own thoughts, waiting for the two latecomers to arrive and settle themselves.

“All right,” Jerzy said, without turning around to see if they were listening, and Mahault leaned away from the Washer, subtly isolating him. He merely turned slightly in his chair to face Jerzy’s back, aware that he was being manipulated, possibly still feeling wrong-footed and unwilling to protest.

The Vineart continued without turning, refusing to give their visitor the honor of face-to-face. “You had someone follow us from the docks, lurk and watch, spy on us, and, for all I know, send a message back to your Brothers to come with more men and weapons to take this vintnery by force.”