Weight of Stone (20 page)

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.

“And Sar Anton, of course,” he added with a touch of malice well hidden from his voice. Sar Anton and Washer Darian had been the ones to accuse him, using him as a way to get at Vineart Giordan. It could have been as simple as internal politics—Anton fearing Giordan’s influence with the maiar, but then why would Washer Darian be part of it—unless it was, as they half feared, part of some greater plan of the Washer Collegium. And that made no sense at all. But he had no hesitation giving Sar Anton to these men.

“Sar Anton.”

The Washer’s voice made it clear he had not expected that.

Jerzy nodded, trying to shape his features into what Ao had once called his “innocent dolt” expression. “Oh, yes. Sar Anton spoke quite often with me. He came with Vineart Giordan to meet me, when I landed. And he was most curious as to what I was doing there—he and Washer Darian.”

“You are accusing us?” the Washer behind him burst out, and Jerzy jolted forward at the noise; he had nearly forgotten the younger man was there. “You dare to—”

“Oren.” The older Washer’s voice grew hard and cold, as it had not been during the questioning, and the man behind the desk lifted his head as though watching players perform for his amusement.

“He accused no one of anything,” the eldest Washer went on. “Merely answering a question I put to him. Taking offense at an honest answer is not the mark of a clear mind, and none are above suspicion. Be still.”

Jerzy tried to force his heart to a calmer beat, and the Washer turned his attention back to him. “You say Sar Anton took an unusual interest in you?”

“I do not know what would be unusual,” Jerzy answered. “Only that I noted it at the time.”

The Washer at the table let out what sounded like an amused grunt, and his inquisitor went on to the next question. The matter of Washer Darian’s intent was left untouched … but not, Jerzy suspected, forgotten.

W
HEN THE
W
ASHER
finally released Jerzy from his questions, the light outside the tent had taken on the pale purple light of dusk, and the slaves were being served their evening meal at the long tables beside the sleep-house kitchen. The sight made his stomach rumble, reminding him that he had eaten nothing since dawn, and suddenly he was starving.

He walked back to the House, stretching his arms overhead and feeling his spine crack pleasurably. Washer Neth, as he had finally learned the older man was named, had been calm-voiced and polite, and rarely asked the same question twice, but he had been thorough; Jerzy felt as though he had been put through one of weapons master Cai’s more intense lessons while Master Malech asked him detailed questions about how to temper a new cask. All Jerzy wanted now was to eat something that required as little effort as possible to chew, not think about anything at all, and then sleep for an entire night. And possibly half the next day as well.

When he walked up to the House, however, Detta was there, inspecting the dark red flowers blooming on runners against the far wall. She took one look at him, sniffed the air, and then shook her graying
head in mock dismay. “Bathing room for you, my boy, before you go in among civilized folk. And then Master Malech wants to see you.”

“Food, before I die,” he begged, not having to fake the pathetic expression on his face.

Detta wasn’t impressed. “You’ll never be dying from not eating, you. I’ll have Roan fetch you something and bring it to the study. Now go, hurry!”

In truth, he did not need all that much encouragement. The first time Jerzy had seen a washtub, he had to be ordered in, and the water had been near-black when he emerged. Now he slipped into the water with a blissful sigh.

Despite the seductively warm steam coming from the tub, he could not forget Detta’s urgency—or the thought of food. Once the water cooled, Jerzy made quick use of the soap and brush, and then took a rough towel from the pile on the shelf and dried himself off. He made use of the chamber pot, then reclaimed his clothing from the bench where he had dropped them, dressed, and did his best to untangle and smooth back his hair, finally tucking it behind his ears in disgust. He would either need to cut it short, or begin wearing it in a queue the way his master did.

He stared into the mirror that hung on the wall, remembering the first time he had seen himself in it: shorter, scrawnier, with hunched-over shoulders and a look in his eyes better suited to a rabbit than a Vineart.

The person who looked back at him was taller, and not only because he stood upright now, the way Cai had beaten into him. His hair was a darker red, his skin weathered from the wind and sea, and the look he gave himself was steady, considering.

He did not feel all that different from the slave called Fox-fur. And yet … he did not feel the same at all, as though that self had been a lifetime past, not a simple cycle of seasons.

It made no sense, and Jerzy didn’t let himself linger on it, aware that Malech still waited for him—and would be growing impatient, by now.
While he no longer feared his master would toss him back into the yard, he had no desire to be cuffed across the ears again, either.

He left the bathing room and headed across the open courtyard to Master Malech’s quarters, but the moment he entered the courtyard, Jerzy stopped, his rush forgotten. Mahault sat on the low wooden bench under the single tree growing off to the side, her head tilted back to admire the blossoms. Jerzy had taken lessons from Mil’ar Cai in this courtyard, crossed it hundreds of times to reach his master’s study, had helped Roan and Lil fetch water from the well set in the center of the courtyard, and never, in all that time, had he noticed that the tree had tiny white flowers hidden among the dark green leaves.

“It’s lovely here,” Mahl said when he came to stand next to her, without so much as a hello to greet him. “I understand why you love it so much. But … I’m not staying.”

Even when she had announced her intent to travel home with him, he had known that she would not stay. He had not expected her to change her mind overnight, however.

“But—”