Weight of Stone

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “Jerzy thinks that the taint is coming from the west.”

  “South and west,” Ao corrected her.

  She nodded agreement. “West, and south.”

  “Into Mur-Magrib?”

  Jerzy looked at Ao. “On the northwest coast of Irfan. A few trading ports, not much else inland except mountains and desert.”

  “No. I don’t think so.” Jerzy frowned, rubbing the back of one hand against his cheekbone, as though the red blotch on his wrist itched, and stared at the map, his other hand tracking the line they were sailing. “The taint is so faint, it comes from farther away.”

  “My Wave can’t take us farther,” Kaïnam said firmly. “She isn’t built for the open seas, and with four of us, there’s no way to carry the proper supplies. Besides, even if we had a full complement and spellwines to speed us along and protect us, I would not take my sail into a storm on a whim.”

  He realized, as the words left his mouth, that these three had done exactly that. Still, he stood by his words. Without his sister’s whisper goading him on, he would have put about and waited the storm out, not plunged in. And then these three would have died. Did they not owe him some consideration for their lives?

  “What if you had a larger ship?” Ao asked suddenly.

  “You think you can barter for a wide-sea vessel?”

  Kaïnam noted that Mahault was not incredulous, merely curious.

  “I won’t know until I try,” Ao said, looking pleased the way only a trader could when confronted by such a challenge. “This ship is sleek and pretty enough to bring a good price, and if we’re not too fussy about the looks of what we’re bargaining for, it should be seaworthy enough.”

  “There is no such thing as seaworthy enough,” Jerzy objected, looking a little green. Kaïnam guessed that he was not a natural-born sailor.

  Kaïnam raised both hands as though to block any further discussion. “You’re asking me to sell the Green Wave?” The thought was deeply offensive, as though being asked to hand over a child, even as he understood the logic behind it.

  “Not at all.” Ao now looked offended. “I’d do the selling. You would come back with a lake skimmer and an ancient goat.”

  Kaïnam blinked at that, and then the absurdity of the situation—the entire situation—finally caught up with him. He wanted to laugh but feared that it would be taken the wrong way. Whatever the Wise Lady had led him to, it was up to him to manage it to satisfaction. He was his sister’s brother—but he was also his father’s son, and mad or no, the Principal of Atakus knew how to work things—and people—to his own ends.

  “We all want the same thing,” he said carefully, making an effort to speak to all three of them, as his earlier assessment was clearly in error. The Vineart led, yes, but only with the approval of the others. Kaïnam had to win all three in order to gain his way. “To discover the cause of the suspicious events of the past year. The attack on my home, our ships, your villages and … all of it, you say, can be traced back to this … taint.”

  The Vineart nodded. Kaïnam studied him carefully. No longer half drowned, his form was solidly muscled, his forearms sinewy, and his shoulders slightly bent but strong. When he stood, he leaned back, as though contemplating something just out of sight, but when he sat down, he leaned forward instinctively, ready to work. Had they met in a social setting, Kaïnam decided, he would have known Jerzy for a Vineart. Take away thirty years and Master Edon’s cane, and Atakus’s Vineart would have looked much the same.

  That did not mean he would trust Jerzy. He did not entirely trust Master Vineart Edon, after all, despite the Vineart having proven his dedication to Atakus, over and over again. Vinearts were independent creatures, and they did not often mingle with others—and certainly did not travel away from their vineyards, save in the greatest of emergencies. Jerzy might yet be malleable … but what game was his master playing, to send him thus?

  And yet, his sister’s ghost voice had sent him to find these three, to continue his quest. He had followed her, trusted her, all his life … could he stop now? Could she have meant for him to rely on them? Or to use them?

  He needed to decide.

  “Master Vineart Malech is well known to us,” Kaïnam said finally. “His healwines are noted throughout the Lands Vin, and I have never heard it said that he was anything other than thoughtful and wise, if unsociable.”

  The Vineart ducked his head as though to hide a smile at that description of his master, and it was that simple movement that decided Kaïnam. He looked at the map, and then placed a finger over one marker.

  “We will make landing at Tétouan, in the Mur-Magrib,” he said. “There, in their marketplace, we will find a buyer for the Wave.”

  * * *

  XIMEN, PRAEPOSITUS OF the Grounding and outlying Households, was furious. His jaw ached from being clenched, and the sides of his head throbbed as he stared at the latest missive from the vine-mage.

  Two more of my pets have approached the Iajan Islands, to strike fear into their vessels and villagers.

  That was all, the single line on a scrap of paper, as though the detail were an afterthought, barely worthy of notice. Ximen took a deep breath and was pleased to see that his hand did not shake with the rage he felt. Handing the missive back to the messenger, whose fault it was not, he managed a reassuring smile. “There is no response,” he said. “Go down to the kitchens; they will feed you before you return.” The boy, a scanty thing barely ten years young, bobbed his head and fled.

  Ximen took another deep breath, then turned on his heel and walked briskly down the hallway to the solar where Bohaide sat, working on the Household accounts.

  “Walk with me,” he said, reaching for her hand. Well trained, she did not question but abandoned the ledgers, and placed her own slender hand in his own, allowing him to draw her up and out of her chair.

  He had not said anything more as they left the main building, and she knew better than to initiate conversation. Striding through the fields, Bohaide at his side and the sun warm on the back of his neck, he felt the muscles in his jaw—as well as those of his shoulders and back—start to unclench.

  Getting out of the House had been a good idea, as had stealing Bo. Walking with her could soothe even his worst moods, and this morning had been the father of all black tempers.

  “The vine-mage will be the death of me,” he said finally. “The fool. I warned him against such arrogance.”

  “You let yourself worry too much about such things,” Bo said calmly, although she had no idea what the vine-mage had done, nor did she particularly care, save that it upset him. She did not look up at him, as was only proper, but kept her gaze on her feet, watching where she placed them in the soft dirt. Her feet were high-arched and delicate, but the flesh was firm and strong, and he delighted in watching her wash them before bed each evening, as she told him of the events of the day, the small and large matters that made up a Household.

  “It is my responsibility to worry about such things,” he responded, but his tone was softer than his words. She was correct, even without knowing the specifics; the thing had been done, and he could not undo it, not with all the foul temper and scathing words at his command. You did not argue with a vine-mage, not if you wanted—needed—his help. The fact that the rope pulled both ways, the vine-mage knew as well. If Ximen were to send back a scathing reply, asking him if he had finally gone mad …

  Ximen let out a deep sigh. If he did, the vine-mage would likely laugh. Damn the man—if he were not irreplaceable … But he was. There was no other vine-mage; the bastard had made sure of that ten years past, and none of his slaves had been chosen to take up the vines should he meet with an unfortunate accident of his own.

  Ximen was slightly more expendable—he had cousins he had allowed to live, since none of his sons were of age to inherit, yet. A man might be forgiven for caution, but the Praepositus had an obligation to his people not to leave them without a leader. Thankfully, none of those cousi
ns had proven themselves of interest to the vine-mage. That fact kept Ximen healthy—and his own wits kept him in power.

  A drop of sweat ran down his cheek, and he brushed at it with the back of his hand, surprised. It had been too long since he walked outside in the light of day, too often busy with matters of the Grounding, and now, this Agreement he had forged with the vine-mage. Bo, wiser, had a scarf draped over her head, and her blouse was loose enough to let the light breeze dry her skin. He had left his surcoat tossed over the back of the chair in his chamber, but the shirt underneath was still too warm. He briefly considered unlacing it and tossing it aside as well. The thought of his people’s reaction to the sight of their lord running about bare-chested like a weanling made his mood lighten even more. He would never do such a thing, of course. His people expected dignity and control from him at all times. But the thought lightened his spirits nonetheless.

  “It is my responsibility,” he said again.

  Bohaide shrugged, her sleek body giving the gesture a grace akin to the strike of a great cat taking down an ebru. “You are the praepositus.”

  Yes. He was. The burden of that was there when he woke in the morning, and when he lay down each night, and often even as he slept. The only thing he had no say over were the vineyards, and the man who controlled them.

  “He understands nothing but his own twisted mind,” Ximen said out loud, here where only Bo and the plants could hear him. “We had an understanding: he was to use the sea beasts as strategic weapons, and keep them contained, otherwise. Allowing the beasts to attack on impulse increases fear, but it also allows our enemies more time to study the attacks and muster a defense. If we are to keep them off-kilter … I do not care what that bastard son of a catamite says, there was no benefit to his actions.”

  He knew that Bo had no idea what he was speaking of. She was a good woman, gentle with his children and fierce with the Household workers, but she did not poke her straight nose into matters of governance. She had not been raised to it; women were too few, too valuable to be risked in the games of men.

  Decade after decade, his family had watched, waited while others grew complacent, forgot where they had come from, what they had been. And they did forget, a little more with every generation. The people clung to rules to appease the dangers of daily life—the wild dogs and vicious, solitary cats, the poisonous snakes and deadly crawling things—even the shallow waters could be deadly. Ximen wanted more. For himself, for his children … his people.

  “We are almost ready, he tells me. Justice will be meted out, the sins against our fathers washed clean, our honor reclaimed. That is what I must focus on, not his mad games. Leave the vine-mage to his work, and be ready. That is how I will win.”

  “And then you will leave us, sire?”

  Ximen lifted his face to the sky, drawing in a deep breath of the warm, dusty air. Leave. His grandfather’s great-grandfather had landed on the shore of what would become the Grounding that fateful night, when the sky opened in flame and the waves rose up in turmoil, and the Betrayal was made clear. Four ships’ complement and cargo, and only six score had survived. Had it not been for Bo’s people taking them in, the story would have ended there.

  The Praepositus was responsible for them all, from the youngest child in the crèche to the oldster on his final walk. From those who served to those who ruled, the ones who survived, and the ones who went to feed the Harvest’s need.

  His family had ruled the settlement for three generations, but their blood and bone were bound deeper to the soil than that, seven generations since they came to this place as unwilling settlers. His forefathers and Bo’s had not been of the same people, but time and hardship had bound them together as vines were bound to stalks, growing together in one single purpose. Survival.

  “Sire!”

  He turned and saw a servant running toward him. A girl-child, barely at puberty, her long dark legs flashing through the lengths of fabric around her waist, her bare torso gleaming with sweat from her effort under the warm sun.

  He held up a hand to keep Bo from going farther and waited for the servant to catch up with them. He identified her as she came closer: Suraya, the daughter of his stableman.

  “Sire, my father sends me summon you. A horse has come in, lathered and sore rode. The ear-markings are those of the outlaying House-steads, but there is no rider, only a message tube strapped to its back.”

  The messenger might have encountered mischance during the day’s journey, or they might have had no one to spare. Either way, it boded ill, and he needed to know what the message said immediately, to prepare his response, be it with words, medical aid, or weaponry.

  Thankfully his head was clear and his temper calm now, so he could hopefully deal with whatever crisis had occurred without misjudgment.

  “Continue without me,” he told Bo. “You deserve a long walk, away from the clamor of children.”

  She shook her head, amused, but started walking again, obedient to his order.

  Bo taught the children how to be strong, how to be brave, readied them to be warriors, no matter what their final place in life, but they were a drain on her position within the House. He should stop bringing them to her, should keep his seed confined so that there were not so many children to bring. But he did love the sound of young laughter in the house, and so many of them still died so young; the thought of being left without suitable heirs sent a chill down his back. Even now that his eldest was of an age to sit with him while he heard petitions, he still feared the sudden chill of illness, or the scream of a keyrack come in from the wilds, looking for food.

  This land was strong and fierce and beautiful, but it was deadly as well, and demanded too much in the way of sacrifice for the rewards it doled out. Bo was right. He would take his people—all those who would follow—and leave it behind without hesitation, when the time came.

  Chapter 5

  Dawn shipboard was one of Kaïnam’s favorite times, when there was nothing but his hand on the wheel, a breeze rising in the sails, and the clear light of the sun just hitting the waters.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “It’s … yes, it is,” Kaïnam replied, resisting the urge to snarl at the interruption. He had not heard Mahault come up alongside him, rapt in his enjoyment of the moment. If she had been an enemy … but she was not. They were all allies on this ship, and he need not tense or guard his back around them.

  She was looking not at the dawn but the coastline drawing into sight. Personally, he thought that the endless line of coast was incredibly boring—he preferred the open sea to this narrowing body of water—but when he looked again, pushed by Mahault’s enthusiasm, he could admit that the rocky, sloping hills on either side of the Strait were a pleasing, if somewhat stark, view—certainly more interesting than the magic-caused blur he had been surrounded by before taking on his three rescuees.

  Two full days of sailing under fair winds had brought them here, just outside the Strait itself. At night, Kaïnam had insisted that Mahl take the bunk in the cabin, while the other three slept their off shift in the practice area toward the bow. They had shared the cabin that first night because he had not the heart to move them in their exhaustion, but his sense of decency would have been offended had she slept among them after that. She seemed to realize that and acquiesced with grace.

  Ao seemed able to sleep anywhere, merely wrapping himself up in a blanket and snoring the moment his eyes closed. The Vineart, however, slept but briefly, often sitting up through his off shift, staring at the sky. Kaïnam wondered what he was thinking, watching the constellations whirl through the early-morning hours, but did not ask. Despite the two Jerzy traveled with, Vinearts were solitary creatures. Of all on the Wave, in fact, only Ao seemed in need of conversation; the others were content—or not upset—to let the sands slip past with a minimum of discussion. They picked up on what the ship needed and performed their duties without fuss. Kaïnam found it oddly restful, having companions, a
nd yet not needing to speak to them.

  And so that second day rolled peacefully into the third, and on the fourth day after their rescue, with Ao at the wheel, Jerzy sleeping, and Mahault practicing fighting moves in the space he had originally cleared for his own sword practice, the Green Wave slid through the narrow pass, the great cliff rising up on one side and blocking the wind so that they slowed to a crawl. Then they were through, the wind catching up their sail again, and the port of Tétouan came into view.

  Ao took it in stride, the pose of experienced voyager well ground into his trader bones, but Mahl and Jerzy crowded to the bow of the ship, jostling each other for a better look. There were a hundred or more small ships like theirs anchored in the blue waters outside the port itself, with tiny narrow boats darting between them, rowers ferrying passengers to and fro. The port itself was a sloping curve surrounded by an ever-rising crest of white buildings spilling over with a profusion of greens and reds visible even from that distance.

  “Can we all go ashore?” Jerzy asked wistfully. It should be safe: the Washers would not think to look for him traveling with a princeling.

  Kaïnam shot him a startled glance, then looked back out over the port, imagining how exotic it must seem to those two, bred in cooler, less colorful climates.

  “You’ll need to clean up, if you’re to travel with me,” he said. “There are fresh clothes in the cabin that should fit you, Vineart. Ao …” The trader looked at him with an amused expression, well aware that he would not fit anything Kaïnam might have in his wardrobe. “We’ll make do.”

  “And me?”

  Kaïnam looked at Mahl carefully. She was wearing a pair of trousers under her plain, ankle-length skirt, and her arms were bare. The port was not known for modesty or a particular sense of fashion, but her exotic paleness might cause trouble among the more opportunistic sorts unless she indicated by her attire that she was above such rough handling. “There will be proper woman’s clothing in the far closet,” he said reluctantly. His sister had sailed with him a few times, when she was not otherwise called away by their father. None of her belongings had been touched since her murder.