Heart Fate Page 12
Her gaze flickered past him, but he saw an idea spark.
“What?” he demanded.
“I hesitate to bring it up, since you don’t seem to appreciate the garish—the bright, but the Turquoise House is still empty. You know, the house becoming a Residence. I’ve been using it as a show home. It’s furnished and longs for inhabitants.” There was silence as she watched him rake his hair with his hands. “It might be good for you both if you—”
“I’m not a damn project!” Fligger. “Beg pardon.”
“Your feelings are tender,” she said.
Womanspeak. Let her believe whatever she wanted, say whatever she wanted, as long as she did what he wanted. He thought of the Turquoise House. Bright, at least on the outside. In a part of Noble Country very close to upwardly mobile middle class, a shabby neighborhood. People might just let him alone.
Ha.
But they wouldn’t be knocking on his door every two minutes.
“Tinne?” His Mamá called from beyond the door. “Breakfast is ready.”
Another breakfast with his loving Family. He didn’t know that he could survive the pity, or Holm’s teasing to cheer him up, or his Mamá and father’s political strategizing to minimize the scandal. He’d rather stay here and pound his drums, when he found them.
Ilexa trotted up, purring wildly, four golden tassels in her jaw. Dead, dead, dead.
He glanced around to see stuffing spread all over the room, the pillow shredded. Definitely dead. “I’ll take the Turquoise House,” he said to Mitchella. “Send me a rental agreement at the Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon in a septhour.” He’d break away from here as soon as possible.
Mitchella smiled, and it had no smugness, and especially no pity. He smiled back, bowed. “My thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Breakfast was endurable. He took no part of the conversation and stood after he’d shoveled in eggs and toast and porcine strips. “Father, Mamá, I thank you for your heroic efforts in redecorating my suite.” He ignored his brother’s smirk. “But I have decided it would be better for us all if I lived separately for a time.” He took in a big breath. “I will be moving to the Turquoise-House-Becoming-a-Residence owned by cuz Mitchella. Hopefully most of the scandal will follow me.”
“Tinne, we need your support, and you need ours,” his Mamá said. “We should stay together.”
“I need to be alone for a while.”
Lark frowned. “Your Healing program is dependent on weekly sessions in the HouseHeart.”
Tinne waved a hand. “Fine, I’ll return for that, for Family rituals, for a few meals, but right now I need to live alone.”
“But you’ve never lived completely alone!” his Mamá protested, and her words hung in the silence.
Holm put a hand on Tinne’s shoulder. “Let the man be.”
T’Holly rubbed his face with his hands. “Go if you must.” His voice was muffled.
Lark and Tinne’s Mamá shared a look. “I’ll scry D’Sea, the mind Healer, for her advice on this,” Lark said.
His Mamá pleaded, “We only want the best for you.”
“It’s best I’m alone.” He looked at the timer on the wall, and a corner of his mouth kicked up. “The Green Knight is starting a new beginning course today. Whether or not we get any students, Tab will expect me there.” He went and kissed his Mamá’s cheek, saw she held hands with his father. Met his father’s sad eyes and kissed him, too, on the cheek, which brought a fleeting smile from the man.
Holm had followed him, kept in step as Tinne went to the tele-porter. They embraced before Tinne stepped back.
“Do what you need to do,” Holm said. An arrested expression came to his eyes. “You know, I’ve never lived alone.”
Lark, his wife and HeartMate, glided up to him, linked arms with him. “Don’t you think you ever will, either.”
Holm grinned down at her. “Guess not.”
But Lark’s gaze was troubled as she looked at Tinne. “I’ll call D’Sea for your Mamá’s sake, but if you’re sure—”
“I’m sure. Like I said, I’ll be here for the HouseHeart sessions, rituals, some meals. I am not disinheriting my house.”
“Right,” Holm said.
“See you later,” Tinne said and ’ported directly to his G’Uncle Tab’s private pad. The minute he arrived he heard voices, which was surprising, since he’d been as sure as Tab that the salon would be shunned, especially for a beginning class. No one new would come.
Curiosity tickled him as he walked from the private space into the main salon itself and then to the outer waiting room. There he stopped and scanned the room where some teenaged boys lounged. The next generation of Nobles: Laev Hawthorn—son of Tinne’s father’s once enemy, was the oldest at nearly seventeen, he’d be having his Second Passage in a few months. Then there was Antenn Blackthorn and several Clover lads—an up-and-coming Commoner House—in their mid-teens. Muin “Vinni” T’Vine, the GreatLord boy prophet, was the youngest at twelve.
Tab said, “Let’s get you sorted out. Laev Hawthorn, never thought I’d live to see the day a Hawthorn would grace my salon, welcome. You’da been havin’ lessons at home.”
“That’s right,” a man said, stepping from the shadows in the corner of the room. He bowed with not much style. “Cratag Maytree. I’ve been teaching him what I know, but it’s rough and ready. We’ve had a fencing instructor from a lesser house teaching Laev, but I don’t think it’s stuck.”
“It will stick from us,” Tab said. He crossed to the man and offered his arm for a greeting clasp. Maytree seemed surprised, but complied, hand to elbow. The man was larger than Tab and much younger, about Holm’s age.
Tab nodded. “We know who you are. Glad to meet here insteada over feuding blades. Tinne?”
So Tinne came forward and managed to meet the eyes of the man who’d been the Hollys’ main target during the Hawthorn-Holly feud. Cratag’s grip was strong and firm, but he applied no pressure to impress. “Greetyou,” Tinne said, squeezing the man’s rocklike forearm, then dropping his hand.
He turned to look at the boys. “So you all decided to be the Green Knight’s newest class.”
Antenn Blackthorn, adopted by Tinne’s cuz Straif Blackthorn, stuck out his chin. “Vinni talked us into it. Said we should come. Said we will all be doin’ business and such in the future so we’d better start learning about each other now.”
Everyone looked to Vinni, the youngest, but Vinni was staring at Tinne. Tinne saw his eyes change colors from hazel to green, become intense, probe him. He even felt the wisp of a connection. Vinni had seen something in the future that had concerned Tinne, something that had prompted him to bring these boys to the Green Knight. Tinne wrenched his gaze away.
Hands on hips, Tab surveyed the new students, glanced at Vinni who had flushed. “Interestin’ boy you are, Vinni.” That’s all he said about what Vinni might have seen in a prophecy.
Tab continued, “We have to sort you out. Laev, here, has had some trainin’, and probably knows some good street fightin’ but not much of the duello.”
Laev straightened to his full height. “My MotherSire is a Grove. Groves don’t feud.”
Another snort from Tab. “The Green Knight will teach you to recognize when you should talk and when you must fight. We will teach you to fight when you have no choice, teach you to defend yourselves and your Families and your homes.” Tab rolled into the opening lecture he’d given to hundreds of students in his forty years of teaching, after he’d retired from the sea.
Tinne said, “You’re right, Tab.” He bowed formally. “We must determine the skill levels of our new students.” He gestured to the Clovers. “From what I hear, the Clover boys have rough-and-tumble fights often.”
“We will teach them proper technique,” Tab said, no hint of the sea in his voice, now. “Give them formal training. We already have three of your Family in the school. Two boys and a girl. No girls here today.”
“I do,” Antenn said. “But she isn’t close to my age.”
“We have plenty of girls in the family,” said one of the Clovers, sticking out his chest. They were one of the few prolific families on Celta. “But none of them wanted to come.”
“A boys’ class will do well enough,” Tab said philosophically. He went over to stare at Antenn, and the boy straightened from his casual slump. “I’ve been askin’ your dad to send ya to me for the last two years.” He rubbed his hands. “But Mitchella wouldn’t have it.” He smiled. “Now you’re mine.”
Antenn paled.
“You recall anything from your days in the Downwind gang?” Tab asked bluntly.
Swallowing, turning even whiter, Antenn said, “No, sir, but I’ve been fighting with the Clovers for a while.”
“No gang moves to unlearn, just boy stuff, should be fine,” Tab said. He glanced at the others. “We all know everyone else’s history here. But what determines status within these walls is nothin’ but fightin’ skill.” He tapped his thumb against his chest. “I’m the Master, what ya would call FirstLevel in other professions.” He swept a hand in Tinne’s direction. “Tinne, here, is also FirstLevel.”
He hadn’t known. He swallowed surprise.
“T’Holly and Holm HollyHeir may drop by, too. Holm is second to me, T’Holly is third, Tinne is fourth. That’s our ranking.”
Another surprise. Holm had overtaken their father. Tab’s cool gaze met Tinne’s. “Ya all can figure out why T’Holly slipped in the rankings. Think about it. Other life decisions affect everything.” An oddly delicate way to refer to a broken Vow of Honor that led to a curse.
Tab continued, “While you’re here there’ll be no gossip about others’ scandals. If any of you have a problem with anyone else, say so now. Tinne, you gotta a problem with Laev?”
Tinne blinked at the handsome boy with the Groves’ height, the blue shading to purple eyes of the Hawthorns. The boy who had nearly killed Tinne’s Mamá. But Laev had been a fearful, untrained child. “No,” he said and bowed slightly to the boy who would be a FirstFamilies GreatLord. “I actually forgot.” So many other extreme experiences had occurred since then. Though that one action on Laev’s part had led to all the rest, the stupidity of Tinne’s father. But T’Holly was a grown man.
“Laev,” Tab said. “You got a problem with Tinne?”
Tinne flinched. He’d forgotten that, too. He’d killed the boy’s father. Laev didn’t look at him. “No, sir. It was a duel—”
“Both events were street melees,” Tab said flatly. “In street melees anyone can live and anyone can die.”
“That’s right,” Cratag rumbled. “The three of us were there, me, Tab, Tinne. Your father wounded Tinne near fatally, and Tinne killed your father. That’s how it went. Could’ve been the other way around.” He shrugged. “Anything can happen in a street fight. A child can wound a woman with a blade he didn’t know was poisoned. A foot can slip and you’re dead. That’s the reason you’re here, to make sure that if you ever have to duel, ever have a feud called on you, you’re trained the best that you can be, and mistakes . . .” He shrugged again.
“. . . are minimized,” Tinne finished. The Clover boys were looking at the Nobles, fascinated. The mixture of Noble and Commoner would be all to the good.
“You have a problem with Tinne, Laev?” Tab repeated.
This time the boy set his shoulders and met Tinne’s gaze. “No, I don’t have a problem with Tinne.”
Tinne’s breath came out, and he realized he’d been holding it. He offered his arm to the young man. Laev grasped it, looked at Tinne straight. “You were twenty, only three years and a little older than me.”
Raising his eyebrows, Tinne said, “I’m not that much older than you now, I’m only twenty-three.” But he smiled. He recalled when anyone past the twenty mark seemed ancient.
Laev grasped his arm, squeezed and let loose at the same time as Tinne.
Tab said, “If any of you develop a problem with anyone else, you come to me or Tinne. If it can’t be worked out, one of you will leave. The least skilled will leave, go to someone else to learn. But when you’re all adults—after your Second Passage—you are welcome to join the Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon.
“Now, let’s see what you can do. We will provide pale green robes for beginners. As you gain technique, you will proceed through fighters’ robes, then, if you reach the proper level, you can wear your own house colors.” Tab led the small procession from the entry area to the main salon. Tinne brought up the rear, shaking his head. Not a word had been said about the scandal the Hollys were embroiled in, his own divorce. But if it hadn’t been for the precocious and strange Vinni T’Vine there would have been no beginners’ class.
So he was grateful to the young prophet, more for Tab’s sake than his own. But his mind still shied away from any contemplation of what future Vinni T’Vine had seen.
Twelve
With more enthusiasm and comradeship than Tinne expected, the youngsters donned sparring clothes. Tinne tested them with a basic pattern of attacks. None of the boys countered any move well, though a couple of Clovers tried rushing him with brute force and landed on their butts on the mats.
Tab demonstrated three attacks and defenses, set the boys to practice, and joined Tinne to watch. “I’m grateful for that Vinni T’Vine,” Tab said. “We’ll have more FirstFamily younguns in this class tomorra.”
“You think so?”
“I know this business, boy. The scandal coulda gone either way for us. Wildly popular or deadly empty. Figured most of our regulars who are serious about fightin’ would stay. We are the best. An’ those who treat this as a social club and fitness center, ’bout half of them woulda stayed, half found another place. But with this class”—he made a sweeping gesture—“we should do all right. You and the place should do all right. We’ll still lose people, but if this bunch sticks, the Green Knight should be good for another century. These kids and their children. All a man can ask, to see his business continue.” The Clover battling Laev Hawthorn jumped him, yelling all the time. “These Clovers.” Tab shook his head. “Time to teach the duello to the middle class.” He went to the pair, walking with a renewed spring in his step.
Tinne smiled. Tab and the older generations might think the Clovers Commoners, but Tinne was willing to bet that by the end of that century Tab spoke of the Clovers would have a title. Not just a “GraceLord or GraceLady,” either. They’d move up the ranks to “GrandLord or GrandLady.”
Cratag Maytree crossed to him, gave a little bow. “You and your G’Uncle do good work. Wish I had this training when I was young, but we don’t run to such places on the Southern Continent.” He glanced around.
With Cratag’s and Tab’s words on his mind, Tinne saw his inheritance with new eyes. Hard wooden floors with the occasional scar gleaming under miniature suns that washed the place in full spectrum light. The walls, also wood, of a lighter honey color. Weapons hung on one wall. Mats of deep green. The salon had a certain elegance, appeared as if it had been around for several centuries and would remain for more to come.
Cratag said, “It’s good for Laev to know fighting. Think if his FatherSire had a better idea a few years ago, there wouldn’t’ve been a feud.”
“Hmm,” Tinne said. The Hollys and the Hawthorns had been feuding since the current GreatLords were young.
Clearing his throat, Cratag said, “I address the salon.”
“I am here,” an older, raspier Holly voice, Tab’s G’Uncle.
“A transfer of funds from T’Hawthorn to the Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon for the education of HawthornHeir for the next year is approved.”
“Done,” the salon said.
Another little bow from Cratag. “This is a good place. I have no doubt that Laev will continue, but he’ll be an adult soon and should
be allowed to make his own choices. I’ll leave him in your competent hands.”
“Merry meet,” Tinne said. The formal words seemed suitable.
Cratag appeared a little surprised, “And merry part.”
“And merry meet again.”
Nodding, Cratag left the salon, moving with a fighter’s grace that Tinne recognized. He hadn’t said anything about patronizing the Green Knight himself. Too bad.
The salon said, “T’Willow scries.”
Tinne caught Tab’s gaze, and his G’Uncle jerked his head for Tinne to answer. In the office, Tinne touched the rim of the large green enameled bowl. “Here.”
Saille T’Willow smiled at him, three dimensional from the water droplets hanging over the bowl. “Greetyou. I’m sorry if I am interrupting your beginners’ class.”
Tinne was reminded that here was another man who was an ally with him and who would be sending his future children to the Green Knight. Tab was right. The place would survive. “Greetyou.”
The GreatLord flushed. “It occurred to me when I saw the schedule that I have very little training in fencing and fighting. A GreatLord should not be delinquent in that.”
Not when the most common way of settling differences was duels. “No,” Tinne said.
“But I don’t want to take a beginners’ class. I’d like to arrange personal instruction from you, please.”
“My G’Uncle Tab—”
“Would wipe the floor with me.” A flashing smile. “He looks as hard as stone and intimidates me.”
“Very well, let’s schedule three times a week, two septhours. Twice for fencing and blazer work, one for fighting.”
Saille grimaced. “All right.” He was looking at his own calendarsphere, spinning silver near him. “MidAfternoonBell acceptable? Say on the days of Mor, Midweek, and Koad? I’m finished with my own work by then.”
Tinne scanned his calendarsphere. “Fine, we’ll use a private salon here.”
Another brilliant smile from Saille. “My thanks, though I don’t think I have any enemies except T’Yew.”
The name jolted through Tinne, scattering his thoughts. He must have paled, because Saille said thoughtfully, “I shouldn’t reveal my enemies, should I? But you’re my ally, so you have a right to know. And I don’t see T’Yew challenging me anyway. He wouldn’t hire an assassin, he’s too proud. He’d try to hurt me in other ways, manipulative bastard.”