Weight of Stone

by Laura Anne Gilman

Then there was a snicking noise of metal clearing a sheath, and his assailant suddenly had six inches of shining blade pressed, edge first, under his bearded chin.

  “Drop hands and back away,” Kaïnam said. His voice was sharper and more frightening than the blade he held, and the stranger did as he was ordered.

  “I am wise to you, my friend,” Kaïnam said in that same frightening voice, his hand not wavering, the blade pressing ever so slightly into the soft flesh of the stranger’s neck. “And so are our companions, who have been shadowing you as you shadowed us. So I would advise you tell your employer that this Vineart is not for the taking.”

  The man, his eyes wide, dared not nod, but the princeling seemed satisfied that his message had been heard, and relaxed the pressure just enough. The man backed up and then disappeared back into the swirling crowd, which seemed deliberately unaware that anything odd had happened.

  Perhaps, Jerzy thought, dazed, it wasn’t odd at all, here.

  Kaïnam sheathed his blade, pushing Jerzy forward with a firm hand on his shoulder. “It will take them time to determine I lied,” he said calmly, only the strength of his grip indicating his anger—and his concern. “We need to be back on the ship before then. The others will have to catch up with us when they are done.”

  Jerzy, shaken and still not quite sure what had almost happened, could find nothing to disagree with in that plan.

  PART 2

  Factor

  Chapter 6

  THE BERENGIA

  The week of hard sailing after they left Tétouan was quiet, each of the four caught in his or her own thoughts and plans, going about the ship’s routine as though they had been sailing together for months, standing watch and sleeping in alternating rounds. There had been no unusual storms, no sudden appearances of sea serpents or firespouts. Even the wind seemed to be cowed, filling their sails and speeding them on their way, day and night, as though it, too, was eager for them to return to The Berengia. Jerzy halfway suspected windspells, but each gust smelled perfectly natural.

  “Maybe it’s all over,” Ao said on the fourth morning, when Jerzy mentioned how calm things had been. “Your master is smart, yes? Maybe he called you back because he knows who is behind all this, and …”

  Jerzy stared at Ao, waiting. “And …?”

  The trader slumped down onto the barrel opposite Jerzy, looking defeated. “I have no idea. I only wish it were so, that we were free of it.”

  Ao hadn’t been the only one with wishes. Jerzy had begun to hope that his master’s summons meant that whatever had been happening was done, that he would be able to return to his normal studies. Perhaps Ao was right, and while he was at sea, Master Malech had uncovered the truth, had convinced the Washers to take the matter on themselves, and … his imagination failed him as well. The Collegium was powerful, but Washers were but men—what could they do against magic that could create monsters out of dead flesh, or close a man’s mind to reason?

  And if Washers were, as he feared, involved in this somehow …

  Ao wanted things to return as they were, the adventure over and order restored. Jerzy was beginning to suspect that would not happen.

  And so the Green Wave sailed into the shallow waters along the coast of The Berengia, and tied up at the shoddy wooden wharf of a small fishing village barely large enough to claim the name. They could have sailed into one of the larger towns, farther down the coast, but that would have involved waiting for a berth and paying the harbormaster, and, as Ao pointed out, they had a ship that could slip into more quiet coves, so why not make use of it?

  The fact that it was closer to home appealed to Jerzy. The fact that it would be less expensive pleased Ao. The fact that it would not take them out of their way convinced Kaïnam, who had the final say.

  Only Jerzy and Mahault were leaving the Wave.

  When Ao had announced his plans the day before, Mahault had been furious. “You’re doing what?”

  “I’m going with Kaï.” Ao looked worried, but defiant.

  “Going where?” Mahault glared at him, her hands knuckled at her waist, her entire body fierce. “Ao, we promised to see this through.”

  “I know. But we aren’t, are we?” Ao looked at Jerzy then, as though asking him to say otherwise. “Your master called you home, and, I’m sorry, Jerzy, but there’s nothing for me there. You don’t need me anymore.”

  There was nothing Jerzy could say to that; Malech had his own Agreement to sell his spellwines, and he could not think of anything else in the Valle of Ivy that might interest a trader.

  “And you?” Mahault turned on Kaïnam, including him in her ire.

  “If you are not following up on this taint, I will return to my original plan,” Kaïnam said, directing his words not to Mahault, but Jerzy.

  “Caul?”

  “Caul.”

  Unlike Mahault, Jerzy did not take the switch of allegiances personally. Ao’s goal had always been to return to his people with something equal in value to what he had cost them when he helped Jerzy escape. Only that way would he be forgiven. Ao’s people had little knowledge of the Caulic markets, what would sell well there, and what could be acquired. Proof that the lords they bargained with were influenced by external forces, or new markets ripe for trade—they were both of value. And Kaïnam … he would follow his duty, just as Jerzy did. The Vineart understood.

  “We’ll keep ears pricked,” Ao assured Jerzy. “For news or gossip you might use. If we hear anything, we will send a message-bird or if there’s a courien heading your way …”

  Courien were too expensive to hire for anything of the sort, but Jerzy appreciated what Ao was trying to say.

  Ao looked over at the fourth member of their crew. “Mahault, you may—”

  “I will go with Jerzy,” she said, to Jerzy’s surprise.

  “Are you sure?” Ao looked crestfallen; clearly he had hoped she would accompany them. “There are many solitaire in Caul, in hire to the king there … surely one of them would be willing to sponsor you.”

  Her anger deflated, Mahault shook her head. “It’s … it’s not that simple a choice, not now.” Once they left the port she had reverted back to her shipboard attire, and now sat with a distinct lack of modesty on one of the now-empty water casks, the trou showing underneath her skirt. “Without a dowry or family name, no recommendation or true training … I need more, or they will not accept me.”

  Jerzy finished coiling the rope in his hands and stashed it properly, not saying anything now, only listening.

  “And you think a Vineart can help you? No offense intended, Jer.”

  “Master Vineart Malech is well known throughout the Vin Lands,” she said. “If he is willing to lend his name to my petition, that could make them overlook … all else.”

  Jerzy suspected that a pack of spellwines as dowry would make them overlook everything, and determined to convince Master Malech—and Detta—that it should be done. He owed her that, and more.

  “And if not …” Mahault made an elegant gesture indicating an abundance of choices. “Perhaps it was not meant to be. I made my choice and do not regret it.” She looked at Jerzy and smiled, a small, almost shy smile that was more in her eyes than her mouth. “Sometimes, you do not know what you are meant to do, until you are already doing it. Choosing to go with Jerzy, hearing and seeing what I have seen … maybe that was what I was meant for, not the life of the road. Or maybe there is something else waiting for me.” Her smile grew a little more rueful. “Who knows, perhaps I will find life in a Vineart’s House to be to my liking.”

  Ao snorted but, with a sideways look at Jerzy, who met his gaze evenly, said nothing more on the subject.

  That night was awkward, none of them quite sure how to act or react, and it was with a palpable relief that they reached their destination midway through the next day.

  By the time the Wave was anchored within the little cove, they had been noticed, and several adults—accompanied by a few flat-tailed dogs—had
come out of the village to watch them. Interestingly, no children were to be seen, although they should, at that time of day, be helping their elders mend nets and pots, or scraping the hulls of the small boats pulled up on the beach.

  By the time Jerzy and Mahault’s belongings were off-loaded onto the rocky shore, a sober-faced man bearing an old fish spear with a newly sharpened point gleaming at the end came down to meet them. The man’s face and stance lightened only when Jerzy identified himself, and showed him the token with his master’s sigil on it, still tied on a thong around his neck.

  “We’ve been watchful along the coast, young sir,” the man said. “Anything odd, we report right away. But it’s been properly quietful; you tell your master that.”

  “I will.” Jerzy nodded, even though he felt anything but certain. Had things become so much worse, since he left, that his master was organizing patrols? Or was it the other way around—that the villages were reporting to him of their own accord, rather than their land-lord? It was not the proper way of such things, and did not speak well of Ranulf, the prince of their region, whose men were supposed to patrol the shoreline and watch for the occasional raiders and pirates. Did Master Malech fear that Ranulf, too, had been influenced by the taint? But no, how could he; he did not know what Jerzy had learned.

  The urge to be home grew until his body practically shivered with it.

  “Looks as you’ll need transport,” the fisherman said, casting a knowing eye over their belongings. “Happens I can oblige you. S’not grand, but it will carry you safe and sweet.”

  His solution was a small cart, just large enough for two riders and their belongings, and a spavined and ancient, if good-natured, pony to pull it.

  “What do we owe?” Kaïnam started to ask, and the fisherman looked shocked. “Nah, the young sir’s sigil’s good enough for me. His Master will return what’s ours, and make good the claim when we call it due. That’s how it works, hereabouts.”

  “You had that, why didn’t you use it before?” Ao asked as Jerzy replaced the token around his neck, plainly outraged that his companion had kept something of value from him, bargaining-wise. “We could have gotten whatever we needed, and not had to rely on Kaïnam’s goodwill.”

  Jerzy looked at the trader sideways. “Even if any had taken the token, beyond The Berengia, we were trying not to be noticed,” he reminded his friend. “Waving Master Malech’s sigil about? Not exactly subtle.”

  “Hah!” Ao crowed loudly, clapping him on the back, his previous outrage gone and replaced by determined cheer. “You learn! Slowly, it’s true, but you do learn!” When they first met, Jerzy would have likely floundered, using the token too soon, or forgotten to use it when he could. The trader gleefully took credit for his friend’s new sophistication. “Now make sure that you do not forget what I’ve pounded into your skull, and all will be well.”

  Jerzy gave the trader an elbow to the rib, and the two tussled for a moment by the side of the dirt road; Jerzy had the upper hand, for all that he was slighter in build than Ao, and they quickly fell apart, panting and grinning like idiots at each other, while Mahault leaned against the pony’s side, patting its neck gently.

  “Ao,” Kaïnam said, coming up to them from where he had been speaking with the fisherman, looking solemn. “If we’re to catch this tide, we need to leave now.”

  An awkward silence fell, the four of them looking at one another. They had known this moment would come, had lived with it overnight, and yet still none of them were sure how to manage it. Jerzy had never had to say good-bye before, not truly; he didn’t know how it was done.

  “The sea is wide,” Kaïnam said finally. “And yet, the waves return each tide to the shore. May it be so with we four.”

  With that, he took Mahault’s hand, raising it and bowing slightly, even as she dipped her own head in recognition, the courtly movements too formal for the rough countryside. Then he turned and clasped Jerzy’s hands between his own, the features that had once seemed haughty and cool now bright with concern.

  “Be careful, Vineart.”

  “And you, Prince,” Jerzy said, making a slight bow as Cai and Detta had taught him, one peer to another.

  Kaïnam returned it, then turned and left. Ao stared at first one then the other before lunging forward and taking them both into a quick, hard hug.

  “Watch yourselves,” he said, his voice cracking, and was gone, following Kaïnam back down to the sea.

  Jerzy swallowed hard, then shrugged and loaded their few belongings into the cart. He climbed up on the hard bench alongside Mahl, who took up the pony’s reins, and they set off.

  Jerzy looked behind once, but Ao and Kaïnam were already on their way back out to the Wave, and neither of them saw him lift his hand in a final farewell.

  Beside him, Mahault kept her gaze upon the road ahead and did not look back.

  THEY RODE in silence, only the heavy clop of the pony’s hooves and the rattling of the wheels to keep them company, and Jerzy was struck by how similar those sounds were to the slap of waves and creak of ship. The landscape seemed both familiar and utterly foreign as they passed through it, as though he had been away for years rather than months, and he wondered, but did not ask, what Mahault must think of this rolling green countryside, so different from the hills and stone-walled cities of Corguruth.

  “What is your master like?”

  “What?” Jerzy was startled; they had gone half the day without speaking, and Mahl’s voice seemed to come out of nowhere.

  “Your master. What is he like? Is he like Master Giordan?”

  “Sin Washer, no.” Vineart Giordan was—had been—an ebullient, overfriendly, garrulous man, subject to loud laughter and fits of energy, as well as sudden periods of morose thought. “Master Malech … he is stern. I was terrified of him when I was a slave. Not that he was cruel,” he hastened to add, seeing a look of doubt cross her face. “Only that his word is law on the vintnery, and to fail him, to disobey, is death.”

  The day he had been found and chosen, Malech had ordered a slave killed for tipping over the precious mustus, the unfermented juice of the spellgrapes. It had been a just punishment; the mustus was worth more than any slave, but Jerzy had learned since then that the outside world did not see things in quite the same light. To be proud of having been a slave … it made others uncomfortable, or angry, and so he did not speak of it.

  Jerzy did not understand their reaction. It was tradition, handed down for generations. If not for slaves, how would new Vinearts be found? The world wanted spellvines, and yet, as part of their Agreement, Mahault’s father had forbidden Vineart Giordan from having his own slaves—and therefore prevented him from finding students, as well.

  Giordan had claimed not to care, and yet he had given Jerzy his master’s sketchbook, filled with detailed, beautiful drawings of vines and roots, birds and small animals who lived among the vines, not wanting it to fall into outside hands after his death….

  The sketchbook was still back in Aleppan, in the rooms he had been given. Jerzy hoped that nobody had destroyed the book; that they took care of it, or even overlooked it, thinking it of no value. Maybe someday he would get it back.

  He didn’t think so, though. The Washers had probably burned it when they killed Giordan. Sin Washer demanded that they destroy everything belonging to an apostate Vineart … even the vineyards. Maybe it had been best, after all, that Giordan had no slaves. Jerzy stared at the passing countryside, barely noticing as people working in the fields stopped and stared as they rode past. Strangers were not so rare on this road; why was the sight of their small wagon worth notice? They could hardly be thought a threat.

  “And your Household?” Mahault asked, not knowing where his thoughts ranged. “What is it like?”

  It struck Jerzy, suddenly, that she was nervous. He studied her carefully. Her hands were steady on the reins, and her face was as composed as the first day he had met her, when he mistook her for a junior Housekeeper, but he
knew what else to look for, now. There was a fluttering in her neck that said her heart was beating faster, and her gaze was too determined to stay on the wide-open road ahead of them, refusing to even glance his way. Fearless Mahl was not always fearless. It was an odd feeling, wanting—needing—to ease her concerns.

  “Detta is our House-keeper,” he said. “You will like her.” Mahault reminded him of Detta, in fact, although the two looked nothing alike. “Nothing shakes her, nothing startles her. I believe Master Malech would be lost without her to run things. And then there’s Lil, who runs the kitchen, and Roan and maybe others by now, Detta is forever taking in new ones to train. And old Per—you won’t ever see him, though. He keeps the stable clean and the outsides neat, but Master Malech says he doesn’t much like people.”

  Talking about home made it seem closer, somehow, and also more distant, as though he had dreamed all of these people, once.

  “And … the slaves?”

  There it was again. She hesitated over the word, as though it were impolite. Jerzy shrugged. He didn’t know what she feared and so did not know how to reassure her. “They keep to the sleep house and the yards, mostly. You’ll see them working, but I doubt you’ll run into any of them.”

  “Don’t … don’t you see any of them? Or is that not allowed, once you became Master Malech’s student?”

  “See them?”

  “Yes. Stop by to speak to them, to … I guess not much changes in the life of a slave. But didn’t you have any friends there?”

  “No.”

  The lot of a slave was to be tested: grapes did not flourish in rich soil and easy conditions, and neither did the Sense. Stressed to greatness, Master Malech said. That was how it had been since the Breaking of the First Vine, when the prince-mages were undone, and Vinearts raised up. Once the fruit was ready, the empty skins were discarded.

  “You don’t make friends in the sleep house,” he said, trying to explain. “And once you leave … you can’t really go back.”