Weight of Stone

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “Catch it,” he chanted softly, trying by sheer force of will to connect the gasping hand with the towrope, its brightly dyed fibers visible as it bobbed under each passing wave and then surfaced again, tiny air bladders keeping the entire length afloat. “Catch it catch it catch it …”

  Fingers connected with the rope, and Kaïnam swallowed hard, resisting the need to wipe rain from his eyes, watching and waiting until there was a tug on the line that indicated the man below had gotten a firm hold.

  And there it came, and Kaïnam was hauling on the rope, hand over hand, hoping that the figure below had the sense to hold on to the wrack as well, to bring all three of them in safely.

  A soft thud of the spar hitting against the Green Wave’s side indicated that he had. Kaïnam snugged the rope around a wooden bolt set into the deck and looked around for the rope ladder that should have been stowed in the niche next to the towrope. But it was not there, and he swore in anger. He should have checked before he took the Wave out and not trusted to others that it was fully prepared.

  He turned back to the side, to see if the figure was able to use the towrope to climb to safety, and was greeted by a hand, glowing with the same clear white light he had seen earlier, reaching over the rail. He took a step back, as startled as he could ever remember being, and found the words to an ancient prayer rising to his lips.

  “Deep Proeden, protect and defend us from the creatures of Your depths. From the deep-swimming children and the night-glowing wraiths …”

  But the glow faded as the rest of the body crawled over the edge, its arm extended behind it, as though pulling something up by sheer force. Kaïnam, his paralysis broken, rushed forward, one hand gripping the first body by the scruff of its sodden shirt, even as he reached down to wrap his other hand around the arm of the second body clinging to the rope, hauling it over the side, and then a third figure, wet as fish and heavy as stone, until all four of them were sprawled on the deck of the Wave like so many oversized spearfish.

  “Next time, Jer,” one of the figures said weakly, “just let me drown.”

  * * *

  THE THREE FIGURES turned out to be two youths, one lean and pale, the other stockier, with the dusky-skinned, round-faced look of the trader clans from the Greater Plains, and—to Kaïnam’s surprise—a woman, tall and regal even when soaking wet. She had a gash on her head, and the red-haired boy, the one who had hauled them up the towrope, was so exhausted he could barely rise from the deck, but the third, the one who had spoken, seemed unharmed. The storm, as though realizing the damage had been done, was starting to fade. The wind no longer buffeted the Wave quite so much, and the rain, while still pelting down, no longer stung when it hit unprotected skin

  After ensuring that the Wave was in no danger of capsizing, Kaïnam enlisted the dark-haired figure to help get the others belowdeck, where he could better judge the extent of their injuries.

  “My name is Kaïnam,” he said, lowering the woman down onto the single bunk as carefully as he could. Her long blond hair tangled around his wrist like a living thing, and he peeled it off carefully, not wanting to tug at it and give her any more pain.

  “Mahault,” she said, reaching up to touch at her forehead, where the blood was still seeping from the scalp wound. “That’s Ao, and Jerzy. Thank you.”

  Jerzy, the redhead, collapsed onto a chair and was shaking as though chilled to the bone.

  “There’s vina in the cabinet,” Kaïnam told Ao. “And a goblet on the table. Pour him some to warm him up, quickly.”

  “Vina?” The redhead looked up quickly, his dark eyes surprisingly alert. No shock, then. Good. “Do you have spellwine onboard?”

  “Yes,” Kaïnam said, and a thrill of unexpected anticipation that he could not explain shivered down his arms. “Not much, but some wind-call, and a bottle of bloodstaunch.” He had thought to use it on the woman, Mahault, if the gash was deep enough.

  “Bloodstaunch.” The redhead—Jerzy, he was—sighed, but it was a sigh of … not relief. Pleasure? “May I?”

  Kaïnam looked at the other youth. “The shelf above the vina. In the—”

  “It’s probably in a gray flask,” Jerzy directed Ao. “With the darker seal on the side.”

  “Yes.” This youth knew the Vineart’s seal. Not that bloodstaunch was unusual, and if he were a sailor he likely would have been injured before, but …

  Jerzy took the flask from Ao’s hand, his arm shaking with the effort. But rather than opening the flask immediately, he instead let his fingers run over the surface of the flask, lingering on the seal in a way that suggested a fond memory associated with it. Then he uncorked the flask one-handed and lifted it to his nose, breathing in the aroma rather than drinking it directly.

  The combination of actions explained everything to Kaïnam, and the shiver deepened, until he expected the Wise Lady to whisper in his ear again.

  “You’re a Vineart.”

  The youth—man, Kaïnam supposed, although he looked dreadfully young, waterlogged as he was—nodded, then brought the flask to his lips and drank. He did not sip, did not take the required mouthful onto his tongue and mumble the words of the decantation—he drank it, three long swallows, the precious liquid sliding down his throat as though it were vin ordinaire.

  Kaïnam would have protested but something held him silent.

  The reaction was almost immediate: the youth’s skin flushed with a healthier color, and his shaking ceased. He sat up a little taller, and his frame seemed stronger, more filled with vigor.

  “My thanks,” he said, stoppering the flask, again one-handed, and with the ease of long practice. “I will see to it that you receive full measure and more, in repayment.”

  He stood then, and with surprising grace for someone so recently near-drowned, made a shallow bow. “I am Jerzy of House Malech.”

  Malech. The bloodstaunch was of Master Vineart Malech’s making. No wonder the youth—the Vineart—had recognized it.

  “I am Kaïnam of Atakus,” Kaïnam said, returning the formal bow, peer to peer. “It is my honor to be of service.” The echo of his sister’s voice came to him, her warning to come this way to find his answer, and the shiver of anticipation he had felt on hearing Jerzy’s voice, and he looked again at the young Vineart, this time with more interest.

  “Although it may be that we meet not by coincidence,” he said thoughtfully. “In fact, there is no coincidence here at all.”

  Chapter 4

  From that beginning, relations between the refugees and their rescuer did not improve.

  “You owe me your lives.”

  “That does not give you the right to order them around to your whim.” Mahault was in a fury, her earlier gratitude long gone. Even wrapped in a blanket, after shedding her soaked-through clothing, she still projected a regal stance that would have had Jerzy backing away quickly. The princeling didn’t seem to even notice; he was more occupied in not looking directly at her, as though he had never seen a female body before.

  Ao, Jerzy noted, had no such hesitation, casting sideways glances at Mahault, especially where her legs showed underneath the blue woven fabric. Jerzy shook his head. They had seen Mahault’s legs often enough, on shipboard. They still looked the same.

  “It is no whim.” The princeling made an impatient gesture, then looked away, toward the door of the cabin. “I must check on the ship’s progress. I will be back.” He made a curt incline of his head to Jerzy, and left, the door closing firmly behind him with the audible snick of a latch.

  “How dare he … Who does he think he is?” Mahault asked, her voice high and thin with annoyance.

  “The man who pulled us from the sea before we drowned?” Ao suggested.

  Mahl stalked back and forth in the narrow cabin, her hair, now dried and pulled back into its usual long braid down her back, flicking between her shoulder blades as she moved. “He is a princeling. Worse, the son of a princeling! He has no right to order a Vineart like that!”

/>   Jerzy sat on the bunk, his knees pulled up to his chin, and watched the two of them go at it. Mahault had a point. If Vinearts were enjoined by Sin Washer’s Command from holding sway over men, then equally men of power were forbidden hold of magic—and by extension forbidden hold over those who worked with magic. Separate and distanced, to prevent the rise of another generation of prince-mages that so troubled the Lands Vin two thousand years before.

  The Washers would doubtless have a few things to say about this princeling’s demands. A pity they couldn’t go to them to complain.

  Their clothing was spread out over a wooden rack against the far wall, drying. He could feel the healwine he had drunk warming his belly, settling into his limbs, connecting him once again with the vines that had claimed him. Bloodstaunch did more than stop bleeding, although most used it for that purpose. It strengthened the blood as well, gave it vigor to speed healing throughout the entire body.

  What had happened in the water, both times in the water, gave him pause: Dare he? If he was in truth tainted, if he were apostate, would summoning quiet-magic do more damage than good? Would he still be able to command it?

  The fear was worse than knowing could possibly be. The taste still warm in his mouth, Jerzy brought up enough of the clean, fresh taste to rinse the salt from his tongue, and summoned a flicker of quiet-magic.

  It came quiet as its name, obedient, waiting for decantation. While the other two argued over whether they should listen to the princeling’s demands, Jerzy considered the still-wet clothing, and asked the quiet-magic to take the dampness from the cloth.

  It was nothing he had not done a hundred times before, to the point where the act had been less than the physical act of wringing cloth out by hand. Yet this time, feeling the magic do his bidding, sensing the firespell consume the moisture, leaving their attire dry and ready to be worn again, filled him with an exultation similar to the first time he had tasted spellwine.

  He might still be apostate. But the quiet-magic obeyed him.

  Obeyed, but drained. Jerzy leaned back and considered his surroundings, while he tried to follow where Ao and Mahault were in their argument now.

  COMPARED TO THE ship they had been on, this one was positively luxurious, although it was of a similar size. The wood gleamed with polish, the furnishings were crafted rather than simply built, and the bedding was of a finer, softer material than the scratchy blanket Jerzy had been resting on for the past tenday. He could very easily have curled up, rested his head on the feather-stuffed pillow, and slept until his exhaustion left him.

  He didn’t have that option. Not with this Kaïnam wanting—demanding that Jerzy lead them to the person or persons who had attacked his homeland.

  The fact that they had been planning to do exactly that, somehow, before the storm wrecked their ship, didn’t seem to deter Mahl’s annoyance, and Ao’s casual comment that the princeling was better suited to fund such a voyage simply made her angrier.

  Jerzy had a suspicion that her annoyance was due less to the princeling’s suggestion, and more to the way he had reacted when he realized that she was female. Once he had taken note of her hair, and her form, he had draped a blanket over her shoulders and turned his back on her, as though she no longer existed. Of course, he had not treated Ao much better, once the trader had identified himself by name and clan connection, focusing all of his attention on Jerzy, as though he were the sole person worthy to speak with.

  Or, Jerzy thought with a touch of his master’s dry humor, the only one worth using.

  Ao finally shrugged, refusing to argue with Mahault any longer. “I don’t like him, either. But he has the ship, and the means, and we’d be fish food if it weren’t for him—and Jerzy’s getting us off the ship. How did you accomplish that?” he asked, turning to Jerzy with a return of his usual impossible curiosity.

  Jerzy didn’t know. The entire time, from calling the magic to hearing the voice call out to them was a blank space in his memory. Flush with his smaller success, he didn’t want to think about how he might or might not have used a forbidden legacy. “Our clothes are dry,” he said, using that as a distraction.

  “Already?” Mahault went over to touch them, to determine the truth for herself. “They are! Thank you, Jerzy.”

  She glared at Ao, who finally got the hint and turned around, while Jerzy merely closed his eyes to allow her privacy to re-dress herself. There was the sound of cloth moving against skin, and then her satisfied grunt. “All done.”

  Before Jerzy could find the strength to open his eyes again, there was a soft thump on the cot next to him, and when he looked, his clothing, in a neat pile, was waiting for him.

  Heedless of the others in the room, he unwrapped himself from his blanket and dressed himself, feeling an ache in his body as he did so that suggested the morning would bring colorful bruises as well as exhaustion. He was adjusting the tunic over his shoulders when the door to the cabin swung open.

  “The storm has let up.” The princeling himself stood in the doorway, looking at them. His long black hair was slicked back, and the cape around his shoulders glittered with rain, the moisture beading off it, suggesting that it had been treated somehow to repel water. Not a spell, Jerzy thought, but almost as expensive. The princeling slipped it off and hung it on a hook beside the door, coming all the way into the cabin.

  Suddenly the space, no matter how luxurious, was too small. It had not been designed for four people to be in at once. Jerzy felt the press of too many bodies around him, reminding him of night in the slaves’ sleep house, memories he had thought dead and gone. Uncomfortable and feeling crowded, he decided that there were too many pillows on the bed, and shoved them to the far end, resisting the urge to use them as a wall between himself and the others.

  It was too much: he was too raw from the magic he had drawn on, too battered by the storm and the stress, and the press of the others breathing the same air, disturbing his thoughts, grew until Jerzy felt that if he did not find quiet space somewhere, he might lash out, shove them away physically.

  But there was nowhere, shipboard, that gave him room to breathe, not unless he went up into the rigging, and the one time he had tried that the heave and toss of the ship had made him splatter the contents of his stomach all over the deck below—and his companions. They had not been pleased.

  “We look to be nearing the Balears,” Kaïnam said, as though he had been there all along. “The storm pushed us exactly in the direction we needed to go.” He shook his head. “It was as though the hand of Deep Proeden carried us.”

  “We needed?” Exhausted or not, Jerzy found himself torn between annoyance at their rescuer’s high-handedness, and an unwelcome relief that someone else was taking control, making decisions.

  “I don’t think any of the silent gods had anything to do with that storm,” Ao said, trying to play the Washer and sooth ragged tempers.

  “No?” Kaïnam tilted his head and looked inquiringly not at Ao, but Jerzy, who squirmed under the observation, not sure what any of them expected him to say.

  “There was a taste of magic to the storm,” he answered finally, speaking as much to Ao as Kaïnam. “We realized that, before our ship broke up, but I was unable to do anything about it.” Best to let the princeling know, from the beginning, that there were limits to what his rescued Vineart could do.

  “You use weatherspells, you know that they can often spread far beyond the intent, if you are not careful, or use too much force,” he continued. “I think that someone decanted a powerful spell and we were caught in the backwash.”

  He did not share the fact that the “feel” of the storm had the same feel as lingered on this ship. Some magic Kaïnam had used, or been used on him. No need to feed the princeling’s feelings of destiny, or fate. He did not distrust this man, had no reason to distrust him, especially since they owed him their lives, but he had no reason specifically to trust him, either. And Mahl was right: his attitude was insulting. Jerzy received respect a
s befitted his status as Vineart, even if it was because the princeling sought to use him. The others he treated not quite as servants, but not equals, either.

  Jerzy supposed that to the son of a man of power, a trader—especially one without his clan, without official trade status—was not his equal. And Mahl, for reasons of her own, had not given her family connection with her name. Still, it rankled, for his companions to be so dismissed.

  “Ah.” The princeling nodded at Jerzy’s words, as though he understood. No, not the princeling: Kaïnam. Master Malech might speak scornfully of men of power, but he, still a student, far from the protection of his Master’s House and with a death sentence on his name, could not afford to be so dismissive.

  Especially while on that man of power’s ship, in the middle of endless waters.

  “You planned to head north,” Mahault asked, her pique forgotten with this new information. “Why north? What is there, to interest a prince of the Atakian Islands?”

  Kaïnam did nothing to refute Mahault’s first impression of him, addressing all of his comments to Jerzy, even when the others spoke originally. “My direction was not chosen by whim. Vineart, I ask again. Will you aid me in my journey?”

  Behind Kaïnam, Ao rolled his eyes up to the heavens dramatically, and Jerzy almost laughed, schooling his features just in time. He suspected that Kaïnam would not find laughter an appropriate reaction.

  The Atakian’s voice was stiff, formal, but Jerzy could hear a note of desperation behind it, and if he could hear it, then certainly Ao and Mahault could, as well. A man who was desperate could be dangerous, too.

  “Why north?”

  “My goal is to seek the island of Caul. My home was attacked by ships of their fleet, and I would know why.”

  “Perhaps because you have used magic to hide yourself from the rest of the world?” Ao asked, and they were rewarded by seeing Kaïnam flinch, as though the words had been an actual physical blow. When Mahault and Jerzy looked at Ao, he shrugged. “It is my business to hear things,” he said. “And the disappearance of a major port? Word travels quickly. The entire Principality of Atakus … disappeared. Shipping routes were thrown into chaos. Rumors flew—and the price of shipbound goods trebled.” Ao frowned in disapproval. “You don’t suddenly take away a major port. It’s bad trading.” His gaze rested on Jerzy. “You weren’t surprised—you knew, already.”