Flesh and Fire (35 page)

“What did you hear?” she demanded.

“N-nothing. Nothing, really. The maiar, your father, he was speaking with someone. I did not—”

Her face twisted, the calm expression finally falling away. “You were trying to follow them. Why?”

Jerzy shook his head, not having to play dumb. In the face of her anger and fear, he couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“Something is happening,” she said insistently, leaning in close enough that he could smell a pleasant, woody flavor to her breath. “Something from the outside, threatening the city, threatening us. My father won’t tell me what it is. He tells me not to worry, then he yells at me, calls me foolish, and sends me away. But I’m not foolish, and I won’t sit here while something bad comes! It’s bad, isn’t it? You’re from outside, you know! Tell me!”

“My lady, I—” He faltered at the tears forming in her eyes, and shook his head, falling back on the brutal truth. “I know nothing I can tell you.”

She released him, leaning back in dismay, and he fled, not caring if anyone saw him or wondered at his haste.

ALONE IN HIS room, his hands still shaking, Jerzy unwrapped the mirror and placed it on the table in front of him. The reflective surface showed him nothing but his own face, dark red hair pulled back with a cord, darker eyebrows straight lines over his eyes, nose peeling from too long in the warmer Aleppan sun, and mouth a discontented frown.

All he had to do was spit onto the surface and press his mark to that, and the spell would be cast that connected this mirror to Master Malech’s in his study.

Jerzy hadn’t thought before of what might happen if Malech was not there when he cast the spell. Perhaps Guardian would know and report his message?

“And none of that matters, since you haven’t found out a thing to report to Master Malech yet, have you?”

Had he?

Jerzy stared at the mirror and thought about what he
had
learned.

Ships had disappeared. Even he knew that was not unusual, when storms came up or pirates attacked, but enough had gone missing that the Carters’ Guild was concerned. Commerce was down, building unease and tension among the citizens, and raising doubts about the maiar’s competence.

The maiar, when he should have been acting strongly, was instead acting strangely: not responding to the complaints of his citizens, ignoring a trader delegation he had requested to see, having members of the council forcibly removed from his presence, leaving the entire Household on edge and his own daughter sensing a threat. At least one guildsman implied that the maiar was being influenced by an outside source—and was warned by his fellows to keep his suspicion to himself.

And now this most recent revelation, a Washer warning the maiar of dangers “inside and outside”—the same Washer who was asking so many questions about Jerzy himself.

Jerzy had hoped that the Vineart might be helpful, but Giordan seemed oblivious to all of these things . . . or was doing his best not to notice. Because he feared for his vineyards—or because he was involved?

Jerzy did not want to follow that thought, but could not dismiss it, entirely. The Washer was following the scent of misused magic, but he had not mentioned the Vineart specifically. They had been speaking of a place that had disappeared. . . . Master Malech had said something. . .no, it had been Ranulf’s messenger, speaking of the island that had disappeared somehow.

Jerzy let out a huff of air, annoyed at himself for not having anything more specific. Discontent and rumor could be placed at the feet of a dozen causes. The maiar might have innocent reasons for his words and actions, or might indeed be mad, but from some innocent cause. Giordan could be exactly as he seemed, a Vineart placing his vines before politics, as was commanded. Mahault could be trying to use him in a family argument, or to further her own plans. There was no way around the fact that he did not have enough information.

Malech had been too long inside his own House, protected by the Command. The world was too complicated for one person to understand. And yet,
tell no one
had been his master’s command.
Tell no one
.

Jerzy chewed on his upper lip, torn between the two orders—discover, and keep secret—until the tender flesh cracked and bled into his mouth. Mahault’s words, her expression, haunted him. He needed someone with more sense of what was normal for a city this busy, a court this complicated, someone who knew the outside world as well. He needed someone like, oh, a trader, who had contacts everywhere, could ask anything.

He had no choice but to take Ao up on his offer.

JERZY THOUGHT IT would be simple to find the trader—it seemed as though every time he turned around, Ao was there, lurking nearby. Now that he needed him, though, Ao seemed to have disappeared. Jerzy was annoyed that he had never thought to ask Ao where in the palazzo he was housed; it would not do to go poking around the private quarters, yelling Ao’s name. And yet, how else was he to find him?

He supposed if he waited until the evening meal, he could find Ao then. . .assuming he wasn’t off in town, carousing in another tavern. Grumpy and yet vaguely intrigued by the thought, Jerzy went back to his room to put on sturdier shoes and to throw his few coins into his pouch. Ao had paid the night before, but he couldn’t expect. . .

Jerzy paused, realizing that he had no idea how much a tankard of ale cost. At home, Detta handled all the expenses, and here. . .it had never been an issue, with the maiar’s House servants supplying whatever they needed.

“Giordan is right,” he said to himself in disgust. “We are sheltered.”

That thought in mind, walking off the palazzo’s grounds into the city streets was a different experience. What had been bright and different and exciting days before now had a more ominous overtone, and Jerzy couldn’t quite shake the idea that people were looking at him. Not to mock, as he had first feared, with his unstylish clothing and odd accent, but to scorn—or plot against him and his ignorance. Using the smaller side gate, with the trickle of servants and tradesmen, Jerzy hung back a moment, trying to gather his thoughts and his courage.

“Vineart!”

Jerzy jerked his shoulders, his body’s instinct to respond warring with his brain’s instinct to flee, but managed to change it halfway into a semigraceful greeting.

“Guardsman.” It was the same guard who had hauled him and Ao out of the galley. His face today was not scowling, but Jerzy was cautious.

“You are looking for your trouble-companion? He and his folk were in the antechamber again this morning, but the lord-maiar was called away by one of his aides and did not see them, and their leader, he was not happy. They left this way at the start of my watch, and have not come back as yet.”

Jerzy bit back a sigh. Maybe he would have to go wandering, and just hope that Ao found him again.

“You might try the Cockerel’s Egg,” the guard suggested. “The owner was a tradesman himself, and many trader folk go there for news and such. You know how to get there?”

Jerzy grinned a little sheepishly, aware that his reputation for being able to lose himself in a single room would outlast his actual stay there. “You will draw me a map?”

A few minutes later Jerzy found himself walking down an unfamiliar street in the wake of an off-duty servant the guard had roped into service. The boy, perhaps two or three years younger than Jerzy, moved with complete assurance through the crowds, often looking back to make sure that his charge was still with him. If asked, there was no way Jerzy could have said how they got there, or how to find his way back.

“Here you are,” the boy said, gesturing down the street, which ended with a low, windowless building blocking the way. The red-painted door was open, and a large, scruffly gray cat sat in front, washing itself rudely.

The cat looked up as Jerzy approached, as though judging his worth to enter, then went back to its grooming.

Thus dismissed, Jerzy entered the Cockerel.

Inside, rather than the noisy, low-ceilinged room he had expected, Jerzy was confronted by a space that would have fit in well at home. The walls were whitewashed and the ceilings high enough, despite its being only one level, that the space felt larger than it was. There was no bar, but an open doorway in the back where, even as he watched, a woman came out bearing a tray of covered plates and several mugs. There were tables, but they were lower than expected, and placed at angles to the groupings of chairs and benches where men and the occasional woman were gathered, all talking intently over their mugs and plates.

This, he realized, was less a place of drinking than one of business. What right did he have to be here? He was no trader. . ..

It was as though Malech were standing next to him, the mental slap was so real. Or maybe it was the memory of Guardian’s voice:
You are Vineart.

Only slightly more resolved, he looked around again, but did not see Ao. “Excuse me,” he said to the serving woman as she passed by, her tray now empty. “I am looking for the Eastern Wind traders?”

The woman gave him a once-over remarkably similar to that of the cat’s, and pointed with her chin to the back of the room.

“Thank you,” he said, but it was to her backside, as she headed for the kitchen.

Approaching the indicated group, Jerzy finally saw Ao perched on a bench, for once staying very still and quiet as two older men and a woman argued vehemently about something in a tongue that managed to be both guttural and flowing at the same time, like water over sharp rocks. The woman and the older man both had similar features, with rounded faces and broad noses, and were dressed like Ao in soberly formal attire that made sense if they had meant to meet with the maiar today. The third man, however, had much darker skin, wore a sleeveless leather jerkin trimmed with white fur, and his long black mustache was braided, giving him a wildly exotic look. He was the one doing most of the talking, while the others seemed to be disagreeing with him.

Uncertain again, Jerzy paused, and at that moment the woman looked up. She was old, with white hair and deep wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but Jerzy got a sense of strength and determination from her. Mahault, he thought suddenly, would get old like this woman.

The trader woman paused long enough to tap Ao with her elbow, and direct him toward Jerzy’s direction, saying something to him in an undertone. Ao looked up, then looked back to the woman, replying in an equally low tone. The man—the delegation’s leader, Jerzy recalled— said something over the both of them, and the woman shook her head, tapping Ao again, more firmly this time. Ao’s expression did not change, but he was clearly hoping that the woman would prevail.

Finally, the man made a gesture with his left hand, and Ao shot up out of his seat and came forward to join Jerzy.

“Out, quickly, before he changes his mind and makes me sit through more useless complaining about things that can’t be changed!”

Once out in the street, Jerzy looked at his friend suspiciously. The trader was bright-eyed, without any hint of the shadows or puffiness Jerzy had seen on his own face that morning.

“What?” Ao touched his wide, scarred nose as though expecting to find something stuck to it.

“You told me you don’t drink,” Jerzy said suddenly. “Your people, you said they had no use for drink. But you had ale with me, and in there. . ..” He wasn’t quite able to accuse his friend of lying to him, but the suspicion came through in his voice.

“Oh, that was truth, true enough; my people have no truck with your Vineart’s ways. An occasional ale, though, now that is needful to business discussions. It soothes the throat and loosens the tongue and makes the work seem ever so much more social. For the other person, that is.” Ao hooked his arm in Jerzy’s companionably and started walking down the street, still talking. Bemused, Jerzy followed along without protest.

“The first thing you learn,” Ao said, without apology, “is when to drink. . .and when to let half of your mug find its way elsewhere. The tavern we were in last night, did you notice the floor?”

Jerzy tried to remember, then shook his head.

“Softwood. Very popular in places like that; it soaks up liquids, so there’s less cleanup to do when they close. I only drank half my first tankard and dumped most of the rest when you weren’t looking.” Ao chuckled, clearly proud of himself. “I wanted to see what you might say when you were foam-faced.”

“You. . .I. . .” Jerzy stopped dead in the street, forcing Ao to stop as well. “You—”

“And you said not a word, not sober or drunk. I say again, I could make a trader out of you.”

It was so clearly meant as a compliment, Jerzy couldn’t find a comeback this time.

“But you did not come down here to learn my secrets,” Ao said. “So, what is it?”

“I did, actually. Or, not to learn your secrets. But to learn my own.” Jerzy stopped, aware how jumbled that sounded. “I need your help.”

Ao looked at Jerzy, all joking gone, and in that moment the few years’ difference in their ages seemed closer to a decade. “We need to talk. No, not here. Somewhere you are comfortable.”

* * *

THAT “SOMEWHERE” WAS the stone fence enclosing Giordan’s vineyard. The flesh of the fruit was starting to swell with juice, and Jerzy felt a pull inside to be home, watching their own vines. He shivered, and Ao mistook it for cold.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go inside somewhere?”

“No. Here is better.” The sun had warmed the stones, and the breeze was fresh coming off the hills. Looking at the vines, even if they weren’t his, gave him the courage he needed to speak.

“You asked me before, what I was here for. I told you the truth, I’m here to learn from Vineart Giordan. My master sent me for that purpose.”

He paused, looking out into the vines. “That purpose . . . and another.” It was harder to say the words than he had thought, enough to make him wonder if Master Malech had incanted him somehow, to prevent the secret from being shared. But no, there were no spells that could do that against a person’s will.

Or so Malech claimed. Might he have lied about that?