“Attacked?” That, Malech had not heard, and the not-hearing disturbed him greatly. “How, if the island itself is not to be seen?” Months ago, they had received an order of bloodstaunch, a very particular spellwine of his crafting, from Atakus. He had dismissed it at the time as being none of his concern, but now he wondered at the timing. Had their cloaking in fact been a prelude to something more fierce? Was the menace he sent Jerzy to find coming from Atakus? He would not have thought it of Edon, but he had admitted that he did not know the man personally.
No. A man of Edon’s years would not suddenly break Commandment so brutally, not without some pressure brought to bear on him. Who was the princeling there? Naïos? No, his son Erebuh. What was Erebuh up to?
“A fleet of Caulic ships approached, during a storm,” Neth said, picking up the thread of the story.
“Approached?” Malech felt one eyebrow rise at that.
“Attacked,” Brion admitted, less reluctant to use the word than his elder companion. “The Cauls have always been on the hunt for any crack in Atakus’s neutrality. They take offense at anyone telling them how they must behave while on the seas, even beyond their own island.”
Caul boasted of the greatest fleet, their rocky, cold island growing not spellwines, but sailors. Unlike the Iajans, they were not known as explorers, but as warriors and merchants.
“And they feel that Atakus’s disappearance … is an act of aggression?”
Neth sighed. “Master Malech, do not play the fool; it does you no service and merely wastes our time. For magic to be used in such a matter … Principal Erebuh and Master Vineart Edon have long held too close a relationship for the comfort of many. And they are not alone. Your Vineart Giordan and lord-maiar Niccolo of Aleppan, Vineart Conna and his town council, they overstep the Command to keep the vines separate from men of power. We have overlooked these transgressions in the past, thinking them distant enough, bonds of temporary convenience. But in recent years there are signs that they have become stronger, more significant—and then this, on Atakus.
“Master Malech, your oath clears you, but it does not address the fact that you yourself suspect that Edon might be capable of such an act. And so I ask you, on your oath: If a spellwine of such power did exist, could any soul who knew the decantation be able to control it? Or would the magic overwhelm them?”
Malech narrowed his eyes but did not immediately speak. On the surface it was a simple matter: Should the Washers look to a Vineart, specifically, or might anyone have used such a spell? However, the question brushed against knowledge Vinearts held as close—closer, even—as the intricacies of vinecraft itself.
Any spellwine properly incanted, no matter how powerful, could be decanted if the speaker knew the proper words. But a spell that could adapt and expand to such a task as this? That spellwine had not been incanted, had remained a vin magica, which meant that it required quiet-magic to command it.
Quiet-magic, the physical expression of the ability that turned a slave into a Vineart. More than the small aid he had described to Jerzy; quiet-magic, blood-magic, meant that no Vineart was ever tied to a specific decantation so long as the magic recognized his authority.
If Sin Washer had sought to neuter magic-users entirely, he had failed. And that was what no Washer could ever know. No Washer could ever know of the quiet-magic. No one could ever know that Vinearts were more than they appeared. The moment that truth escaped, fear of the prince-mages would return, and all hands would turn against the Vinearts.
“If such a spell were to exist …,” he said, holding Neth’s gaze steadily, aware of both Brion looking intent and the presence of the Guardian overhead. If he gave the word, the Guardian would kill both men, its stone talons crushing their spines without hesitation. It would be a simple matter, after that, to dispose of the bodies….
The thought came and went. Killing two Washers meant only that more would come, bringing with them worse trouble for the House of Malech.
But carefully, carefully. Truth won more than the best-spun lie.
“If such a spellwine were to exist, it would require a Vineart to properly decant it, I suspect. The potency would overwhelm a man not well accustomed to handling spellwines on a daily basis. However, I do not know of a vine that could create it and have never met a man who could place such an incantation.”
Sin Washer’s Commands were clear: those of magic shall hold no power over men, and those princes of power shall hold no magic, nor covet or manage that given to another. No matter how the original language was translated, what he had done—sending the boy to Giordan, poking his fingers into events outside his yards—was not traditional, but it was not explicitly against Command, either. Edon, if he had done this thing, even if he had merely been the one to decant the spell, had broken Command—no, he had shattered it.
These Washers wanted to blame Edon; he would throw Edon to them willfully.
“The fleet that … attacked Atakus has disappeared. The Caulic king is most wroth and demands repayment for his losses.” Neth’s tone was dry, indicating what he thought of Caul’s chances for reparation. “The petty squabbles between one nation and another are none of our concern; they will resolve them in the usual fashion. However, the Collegium has determined that it is no longer able to turn a blind eye to the events leading up to this … unfortunate incident. It is time for us to take a stand in the matter. No more indulgence, no more allowance.”
Malech stroked his pointed beard thoughtfully, feeling his way along the man’s words, alert for traps while setting his own. “That would be dangerous,” he said finally. “Perhaps even more dangerous than leaving it be. In fact, you may already have made things worse, with your intervention in Aleppan.”
Neth looked startled, clearly expecting Malech to be cowed, not countering him. Brion, on the other hand, leaned forward with bright-eyed interest. “How so?”
Malech kept his voice even but did not soften his words. “You said it yourself: the Collegium has remained true to its roots as the common folk’s advocate, all these ages. Where princeling warred over territory and pride and Vineart stood apart, you were walking the roads, sleeping in the cots of the common folk, listening to their woes.”
“That is our calling, yes,” Neth said, but this time it was Brion who gestured for him to remain silent. Malech, however, had spoken his piece.
“You think that our actions in this matter could be seen by the princelings as a rebellion against them, an affront to their given authorities?” Brion sat back, taking his words into his own thoughts, juggling them into a new shape.
“Impossible,” Neth snorted, the voice of a man secure in the strength and righteousness of his position.
Malech was suddenly weary beyond even his age. For a year, he had been watching events unfold, keeping his own counsel and hoping that he was wrong, that they were merely isolated events that he could ignore as was proper, and look only to his vines, his yards. But now, Jerzy missing, Washers on the offense … it could undermine everything Vinearts had accomplished in the past two thousand years, picking up the shards of the First Vine and protecting their own. “You are, I trust, trying to prevent full-scale bloodshed rather than instigate it, but recent events have placed both princelings and Vinearts on such edge, those actions could have exactly the opposite effect, yes.” He could not imagine it … but he could sense it, waiting to happen.
Neth snorted again, but suddenly it was Brion, and not Neth, who led their little delegation. “Master Vineart Malech. Tell us what you know.” When Malech hesitated, trying to find his way through the verbal thicket of truth and near-truth, the Washer played his final card. “If you would save your student—and yourself—tell us.”
Chapter 3
Ao and Mahault would not return until closer to sunset, but after the shock of his experience in the water, Jerzy decided to stay within the safer confines of the ship itself. Boredom, just then, seemed a better option.
Stretching out in a shad
ed spot toward the stern of the ship, he tried to relax, but his thoughts kept him tense, and the headache returned, not helped by the oppressive heat. When sitting quietly did not help, he decided to use the time instead to clear out the area belowdeck where they had been sleeping. At least it would be darker, and cooler, there.
The space below was open, but the ceiling was low, and there was no way for the breeze to circulate, so the air had gotten stiff and stale. Jerzy stood in the middle of the space and tried not to gag. They slept in this? How had he not realized how bad it had gotten?
With the right spellwine, he could clean this space in a matter of minutes. Jerzy made an exasperated noise at the thought. A full assortment of the Vineart’s tools, and he could have made the entire journey one of pleasant experiences, not hardships. Wind, to freshen the air. Fire, to light the shadows and make it seem more hospitable. Aether, to relieve some of the echoes of previous sleepers, their bad dreams and fears still hanging in wood and metal. All those spells he knew, if only from study.
He had none of those, not even a basic waterspell to rinse the floors, but Jerzy had been a slave for years before he ever tasted a spellwine, and he was not afraid of hard work. Especially if it kept him busy enough that he no longer thought—or remembered.
The space echoed; the three of them had no belongings save what Mahl had thought to load onto the horses when they escaped: a few changes of clothing each; a small bag of coins, including several silver pieces with her father’s image on them, similar to the copper token with his master’s sigil imprinted on it that Jerzy carried on a leather thong around his neck as safe passage and promise of payment throughout The Berengia. There was also a single blade, the length of his arm, sheathed in a dull-looking leather cover. Other than that, and the few items that had come with the ship, the sleeping quarters were barren.
What would Detta do? The answer came to him as though the House-keeper of the House of Malech were standing beside him, hands fisted on her ample hips, her gray curls bouncing as she scolded him. Air the bedding out, and wash clean the floor.
Jerzy unhooked the cloth hammock pads and lugged them up the steps, hanging them carefully over the railing and tying them again to the frame so they would not fall into the water if the ship rocked the wrong way. That done, he dipped a bucket over the side of the ship and brought the seawater back down the steps, using it and a stiff brush he found to scrub some of the dirt and grime off the wooden planks of the floor.
The work was slow, but when he had scrubbed his way from one end of the space to the other, Jerzy sat back on his haunches, wincing a little at the ache between his shoulders and in his knees, and could see a difference.
It wasn’t up to Detta’s standards, but it was better.
He stood, hearing his knees crack a little, and, dropping the brush into the bucket, brought it back up to the deck. The sun had passed into the far corner of the sky while he worked, and the rays were softer now on his skin. He left the bucket in the corner where he’d found it and checked the bedding. The ticking was warm, and the stuffing smelled of salt air and green spray rather than dank wood and mildew. Pleased, Jerzy wrestled them off the railing and back down into the sleeping area, tying them back down in place. When he went back above deck to get the blankets, he heard a distant sound that made him freeze in place, suddenly alert and tense. Splashing on the water.
Then his eyes spotted the source of the noise: two figures heading in from the shore on a raft barely worthy of the name. No creature from the depths, only Ao and Mahault, returning from their expedition.
By the time they reached the ship, their raft—a makeshift wooden thing held together with coarse rope—was already starting to come apart.
“Some help here?” Ao asked, even as Jerzy was leaning over the side, reaching down to take casks and bags off before they sank.
They had secured two small water casks and a bag of dried meat strips, plus fresh fruit, including the green, egg-shaped fruit called pieot Master Malech had given him to try during the early months of his training.
“I’m sorry,” Mahl said, seeing the way his gaze flitted over their acquisitions. “The village was so small—there were no spellwines to be had, not at any price.”
Jerzy hadn’t really expected that there would be; while those at Mahault’s social level might consider them daily essentials, the price kept even the most basic healwines out of the reach of most farmers or guildsmen, and the more powerful or well known a Vineart, the more coin a spellwine with his sigil would earn. A land-lord or guild master might distribute spellwines among his people, at need, but a small island village without direct patron or generous lord? They would likely never see magic used in their lifetime.
“No matter,” he said to Mahl, feeling the lack in his gut and on his tongue, the accomplishments of the morning floating away like dust.
A Vineart without a vineyard. A Vineart without spellwines. A Vineart without enough experience to have a deep quiet-magic, and what he had done that morning likely used up the little he had left. No Vineart at all, without even his belt and knife to identify him. He was useless except as physical labor, nothing more than the slave he had once been, the absence of soil under his feet and fingers like a physical ache once again.
“You aired out belowdeck?” Ao spotted the last of the bedding and drew the proper conclusion. “Good man! I think I’d have rather drowned than spend another night in that stink hole. Why they couldn’t design these ships with sleeping quarters above the waterline … oh yes, I know the whys, but it still frustrates. I once spent an entire month belowdeck, on my first trading voyage. I was barely ten, along only to listen and haul freight, and had to sleep under the bunk of my sponsor, for there was no room anywhere else …”
Ao’s usual chatter was good cover, but Jerzy didn’t think that his mood had escaped either of his companions. Ao was a trader, trained practically from birth to read people, and Mahault was the daughter and granddaughter of maiars, and had grown up surrounded by politics and negotiations as her birthright. A simple slave had no protections against them.
Mahault, not even pretending to listen to Ao, finished handing their acquisitions up from the raft to the ship itself, and then climbed over the railing, the skirt of her dress trailing damply against the deck. As usual, she did not waste time with niceties. “I hope that you had brilliant thoughts about what we should do next, because as much as I enjoy being at sea, we can’t be aimless much longer. Ao used the last of his baubles and tricks on this trip—we’ve nothing left to barter save ourselves, and I doubt any of us are good enough fishers to feed us that way.”
Jerzy looked at Mahault, both flattered by and quietly resenting her assumption that he would have their next move decided, as though he were the oldest and wisest of the three, rather than the youngest and least experienced. Hadn’t he already proven that he didn’t know what he was doing?
He was spared having to answer for a moment, when she looked over the railing and said something in a language he did not recognize, but sounded rude. The sodden ropes had loosed, and the driftwood planks were floating away. Ao threw the paddles they had been using overboard as well, watching as they sank below the surface. “Barely worth the riddle I traded for them,” he said. “Not that it was a very good riddle anyway.”
“You traded words for a raft?”
Ao grinned at him, for a moment the worry and exhaustion sliding off, his attitude that of the cocksure know-everything Jerzy had first met. “In a small village like this? A song or riddle or new story can make the poorest, most homely of men into a lord among the ladies,” he said, clearly pleased with himself. “You’ve never won a fair maid’s attention with a well-turned tale of life among the vines?”
Jerzy had never tried for a maid’s attention, fair or foul. While a female might occasionally work in the vineyards—usually an older woman without family to house her—slaves were all male, and he had never wished for those attentions, or invited them to himse
lf, although a few had taken without his asking when he was younger and unable to say no.
There were female servants in the House, of course. Detta, and Lil, and Roan. Lil and he … flirted, he supposed. But neither of them had ever gone beyond that. He liked Lil, but it was the same way he liked Mahl, or Ao, for that matter.
Giordan had commented on that when he had first met Mahault, warning Jerzy that he should act on such feelings before the vines took them. The vines, Jerzy suspected, had already taken everything. He understood the way men and women went together; he simply had no urge to do so himself.
It puzzled him a moment, how he felt about that, then Jerzy shrugged it off. He was as he was, and now was not the time to worry about things that did not matter.
“You got what we needed?” he asked instead.
“That and more—Ao is almost as good as he thinks himself to be—and although we found no spellwines, we did hear news,” Mahault said, taking several odd-shaped pieces of fruit out of the rough sack and placing them into the storage chest, a box lined with a thin layer of hammered tin in order to keep out rats and seabirds.
“Yes,” Ao said, changing topics easily. “Only the news is that there is no news. The village was large enough to have a relay tower, so they know what happens across the island and even on the mainland coast, and the tower-keeper said that it had been quiet of everything save the marriage of the local lordling’s eldest daughter to a liege of Seicea. That is going to do wonders for their trade.” Ao was diverted for a moment by that thought. “If the marriage is successful, they’ll have a direct line into the newest ships Seicea turns out, at a better price than most. That could decrease their travel time, and—”
Jerzy waggled his fingers in front of his friend’s face, attracting his attention. “Ao? The matter at hand?”
“Right.” The trader looked abashed, glancing down and then up again, a sparkle in his eye. “Sorry. I really can’t seem to stop.”
Weight of Stone Page 6