Weight of Stone

by Laura Anne Gilman

  That should prove, if anyone connected him with the events, that he had acted out of concern for others, not himself. In truth, he had enough to do moderating his own lands, much less more farmland half a world away. The matter dismissed from his mind, he returned to his work, not even noticing when the aide left the room.

  “GUARDIAN.”

  Vineart.

  That cool sense of the word in his mind made it real, suddenly. Never mind that he was half trained, or that he didn’t even know if there would be a House to return to. His master was gone. Ready or not, he was Vineart Jerzy of House Malech. The sole Vineart of House Malech.

  They stood in the courtyard, Mahault and Jerzy, while the Guardian perched on the rooftop, looking down at them. The rest of the House was in the vineyard, sitting vigil over Malech’s body. At sunset it would be given back to the soil, as was proper. Jerzy would not be there to see it. His hand reached down to his belt, where an additional weight now swung. Malech’s tasting spoon, taken from his master’s belt before he was placed on the bier.

  “How …” He let the question trail off. He had asked, already, how the Guardian had carried them from the Vine’s Heart; asked, and gotten the same sense of loss and sorrow, of dry regret that had accompanied the Guardian’s inability to heal Malech, the hint of something complicated that could not be explained, not because it did not wish to, but because it did not know how. The Guardian was magic, not a magic-user, and its creator was dead.

  For the first time in his life, Jerzy was not willing to accept that he could not know something, but he did not know how to insist.

  “Guardian … you will protect them.” Detta, Lil, the House-servants, the slaves, the vines … all encompassed in that one word. Them. His, now. His to protect, to defend. To grow carefully, and harvest wisely.

  There were no words then from the dragon, but a sense of assent, of agreement, of security that went from the bedrock of the vineyards to the roof of the room where Jerzy had slept, stretching beyond the edges of this yard and out across The Berengia to the secondary vineyards, the stone-built sleep houses, and low stone wall. All within the Guardian’s touch.

  It was foreseen, the dragon reminded him. It was why the Guardian existed: to protect the House when its master needed to be elsewhere.

  Somehow, that did not ease the pain at all.

  Are you ready? And then the Guardian’s long stone tail twitched once, and Jerzy took Mahault’s hand in his own, feeling her fingers tremble, and he felt the sensation again of being shifted into stone.

  A breeze rose from within the courtyard, swirling dust into the air; they were gone, and only the Guardian remained.

  PART 3

  Fledge

  Chapter 11

  THE NORTHERN COAST OF IRFAN

  Summer

  The Vine’s Heart did not sail; she danced. As the stars wheeled overhead, changing their formations as the Heart traveled farther south, Jerzy grew accustomed to the delicate sway of the deck under him, the sharp slap of the salt air, and the constant noise of the great white birds circling overhead. He was no longer ill, even when they ran into rough seas, and there was no panic when they were out of sight of land, the way they were right now.

  He looked down at the rope he was coiling, down to his bare toes, as sun-browned as the rest of his exposed skin. He looked like a sailor; he was even starting to feel like one. The fact that he hated it, every minute they were under sail, mattered not at all.

  Jerzy looked up again as one of the gray-and-white seafishers swung overhead, its harsh call falling into the open sky. Why had man not developed wings, rather than sails?

  On the other hand, Ao, currently hanging overhead in the rigging, shouting something down to Mahl at the wheel, was clearly having a wonderful time. Jerzy couldn’t find it in himself to be ill tempered; there was too little joy in the days, now, to begrudge any laughter.

  There were footsteps behind him. “Ao has spotted another one.”

  “Is it doing anything?” he asked, storing the rope and taking a drink from the waterskin Kaï offered him, relishing the taste of the water down his throat. It was warm from the sun, but fresh, not salt.

  Kaï had long ago abandoned his fancier clothing, and dressed like the rest of them in plain trou and a sleeveless vest. His black hair was no longer neatly styled, but tied back with a kerchief that Jerzy thought might have been one of his, once. Shipboard, clothing was washed and left to dry, and taken according to need, not original possession. “No,” Kaï said. “Just swimming along. About quarter-mark, a full length away.”

  Jerzy handed back the waterskin, looking in the direction Kaï indicated. “Then we’ll leave it be.”

  They had seen the first sea serpent a tenday after the Guardian returned Jerzy and Mahl to the Vine’s Heart, and they had set sail—Jerzy a quiet spectre at the ship’s bow, the other three moving quietly around him. They had just lost sight of the Iajan coastline behind them, the shadowed coast of Mur-Magrib distant to their left, when something had raised its monstrous head from the waters just off their bow and stared at them with those great, dead eyes. Kaï and Mahl had both lunged for their blades, slung from pegs near the wheel shack, and then stood there, uncertain of what they could do. The beast had simply blinked once, staring at Jerzy as though it knew his role in the death of its sibling, and then sank below the waves once again, neither attacking nor following them.

  Since then they had seen three more, each time rising up to look at them, and then disappearing. There were subtle differences to each; one had a larger head; another a puckered scar across its terrible snout, as though it had tangled with something as deadly as itself. The fact that it was not a single beast, clearly tracking them, was a relief. The fact that there were three distinct beasts, plus the two he had seen dead, Jerzy found not at all comforting, since five seen meant more were likely roaming the waters, as yet unseen.

  “Ignore it? You are certain?” Kaï was clearly unnerved by the serpents, particularly by the realization that his sword would be little defense should one of the beasts choose to attack.

  “If it comes closer, I will warn it away.”

  One of the spellwines Jerzy carried with him at all times now was a firespell that could work through water. It had been crafted and incanted to repel smaller beasts that were occasionally drawn in by fishermen, attracted by their nets of fish into thinking they were an easy meal. If he decanted it at the sea serpent, it probably would not be enough to kill it, but it would remind the beast that they were not easy prey, and it should go elsewhere.

  Probably. Hopefully. It might also simply enrage it. He did not mention that possibility to Kaïnam.

  The truth was, with the spellwines they had to hand, and only Jerzy able to decant them with any skill, if the beast decided to come at them, they were dead. But it didn’t hurt to pretend that they had a chance.

  Ao swung down from the rigging, landing with a solid thud on the deck beside the two men. “Jer. We have company.”

  “I heard,” Jerzy said, still watching the horizon where the beast had been sighted. He could tell from the way Kaï stiffened next to him that Ao was not pleased at having his news carried before him, and was glaring at the prince as the likely culprit.

  Jerzy didn’t sigh, but he wanted to. Another reason to be sick of life shipboard; there was no way to escape the others. Ao’s need to argue was matched only by the pleasure he found in provoking the Atakusian, and despite their friendship, Kaï often reverted back to arrogance, especially when he was trying to make a point. Particularly when Mahl was around.

  It was as though the fact that Mahault was female twisted both Ao and Kaïnam into knots, despite the fact that Mahault was not interested in becoming anyone’s lady, and both Ao and Kaï knew it. It had become almost a game for them, a way to distract themselves from the impossibility of what they were doing. Knowing that did not keep Jerzy from wanting to throw all three of them overboard, save that he could not sail the He
art on his own.

  “Would you rather he didn’t tell me, and risk my not being prepared if it changed course and came for us,” Jerzy asked now, showing only mild annoyance.

  There was a surprised snort from Ao, and he leaned on the railing next to Jerzy. “You are never going to learn subtlety or an indirect jibe, are you?” he asked ruefully. “No matter how many times I teach you, no matter how many times we go over it …”

  “I leave the parries to fighters and traders,” Jerzy said. “Vinearts are not subtle creatures.”

  A lie: spellwines were infinitely more subtle, more indirect than even the wiliest trader. But there was no way Jerzy could explain that, and certainly not to a man who still insisted that he could manage just fine without relying on magic … if he needed to.

  Jerzy fell silent again, his attention caught by a change in the wind from eastern to southerly, bringing with it a touch of moisture. There was no magic within the wind, but studying the play of patterns in the air was infinitely preferable to trying to explain himself to non-Vinearts.

  Ao hesitated, then touched him once on the shoulder, his hand hard and callused from the ropes, and went back to work.

  Jerzy shuddered, as though shaking off even that brief touch. He knew Ao meant well, was trying to apologize, but the contact felt like an imposition, instead.

  Behind him, Kaï drew in a breath as though to speak, and Jerzy’s entire body tensed, cursing silently as his hold on the winds was broken. The prince seemed to rethink his words, and released them unspoken with a heavy exhale.

  Jerzy remained uneasy. His companions seemed to expect something from him that he didn’t know how to give. Every mention of magic—every indirect reference to what had happened back in The Berengia, his master’s death—made them feel as though they should offer a comfort he did not want, or need. He knew that he should be mourning. They clearly expected him to. But Jerzy did not know how, could not show the proper emotions that would reassure them, make them feel better.

  Detta had understood; Detta knew Vinearts.

  A Vineart did not show weakness. Jerzy needed to be calm and display only certainty when they questioned him. It was difficult: the press of their existence was always against his skin, the sound of their voices, the incomprehension … like now, it made him tense and irritable in the face of their concern.

  It wasn’t them. He knew that. The Vine’s Heart was larger than their previous craft, so when he needed to be away from the others or risk losing his temper or doing something hurtful, he could find a quiet place where they did not disturb him, but space alone was not enough. There was no soil within reach for him to touch, to dig himself into, to hear the roots and leaves whisper his name.

  Spellwines did not make a Vineart. Quiet-magic did not even make a Vineart. Vines made a Vineart. When Sin Washer had Commanded them to mind their vines to the exclusion of all else, he had set them on a path that did not allow for deviation.

  If Jerzy did not get off this ship and onto growing soil again soon, he thought he might go mad.

  “We are still on track?” Kaï asked, moving on to a topic they both could handle.

  “Yes.” Jerzy was certain of that, if nothing else. It drove him, the whip hanging over his shoulder, ready to flick out at the slightest sign of slacking. He woke in the morning, rising from his bunk already searching for the taint, and the last thing he did before falling asleep at the end of his shift was to taste the air one last time, to ensure nothing had changed. The feel of that magic, dark and potent and wrong, would not hide from him again.

  It was not about avenging Master Malech, or making the Washers back off from their accusations, or even preventing the chaos the Guardian had predicted. Or, it was about all of those things, but a single thought kept Jerzy company when he woke, and when he went to bed, and when he breathed during the day and dreamed at night.

  Master Malech was dead. The Guardian would protect the vineyards; Detta would ensure the House ran smoothly until he returned … but the Master of the House was dead, and the Washers who had come to take Jerzy into custody were either dead or missing.

  If he did not find the source of the taint, their hidden foe, and expose him, Jerzy would have no home to return to. Ever. The Brotherhood of Washers would have their justice: the yards would be burned and salted, and the House of Malech would be no more.

  His soil, his soul, would be destroyed.

  “Vineart. If you let it eat you, there will be nothing left, after a while.”

  Kaï’s voice was hard, as though he were speaking of something that made him angry, and Jerzy flinched, instinctively.

  “You don’t know …” he started to say, and then trailed off. Unlike Ao and Mahault, Kaï did know. His sister was dead, too, if not by the same hand, then directed by the same mind, and he, too, was outcast from the lands he had been chosen to protect and nurture. They were more alike than not; Jerzy was not so lost to self-pity and guilt that he could forget that.

  Part of him wished that he could, that they would just leave him alone, and he felt guilty over that as well.

  “I can’t stop,” he said instead, not looking back to see if Kaï was still there. “I keep wondering if, if I’d been there, if Master Malech would still be alive. If they would have taken me, and left, and …” He shrugged. “You can only harvest the fruit that’s grown, not the fruit you wonder would have grown.” The fact that the saying was true made it no easier to live by.

  There was silence behind him, and when he did finally look over his shoulder, Kaïnam was gone.

  Jerzy stayed by the railing, the shadow of the sail falling over him and protecting him from the sun’s rays, letting the endless undulations of the waves soothe him even as he watched for another sign of a sleek, monstrous head or, worse, a hint of the neck, suggesting that it was about to rise up and strike.

  “Although it could come at us from underneath, as well,” he said to a large gray-and-white speckled bird that landed on the railing a span away. The bird folded its great wings and looked at him, cocking its head to one side and clacking its curved beak twice, as though in response.

  “Fine help you are,” he told the bird. “I don’t have any bread for you. Go away.” The birds were endless pests, lurking for food and leaving their filthy shit all over the deck. They weren’t even good eating, according to Kaïnam, merely annoying.

  The bird clacked at him again, then launched itself from the railing, in flight a much more graceful and attractive creature.

  Serpents were not the only threat, nor the ever-present risk of a storm driving them off course. Twice they had seen ships with the red flag of the Brotherhood in the distance. Without a word from Jerzy, Kaï had ordered the Heart to change course, avoiding contact. They could not risk being found.

  In the months since setting sail from The Berengia, there had been other ships, deeper out to sea: larger vessels bearing the trader-clan flags delivering their cargo from seller to buyer and back again, or Caulic vessels coming or going from their years’ long ventures, exploring for new lands to claim. The Heart exchanged salutes in passing, but the hint of weapons arrayed along those ships were, according to Kaï, new, and made the princeling frown.

  Heart was better suited for deep sea than the Green Wave, but Jerzy’s sense of the taint was keeping them closer in to the coastline. Kaïnam charted a course that he said would minimize the danger from either coastal waters or unfriendly pursuit, but it was an uneasy compromise, and added to Jerzy’s general feeling of discomfort.

  The sound of metal on wood broke into his bleak thoughts, distracting him. Curious, Jerzy walked along the railing, no longer having to hold on to lines, to the middeck, where space had been cleared of barrels and ropes, to make a square large enough for a person to move freely.

  Mahl, her long hair tied up at the back of her head and a dark green kerchief around her forehead to keep the sweat from blinding her, was doing sword movements. She was wearing a pair of trou and a sleeve
less jerkin similar to Jerzy’s, but there were soft leather boots on her feet and a leather bracer wrapped around her right forearm.

  Even as he watched, she went through a series of poses, moving far more slowly than one would in an actual fight, bringing her blade up into readiness, then down again as though blocking something, and then up again and down in a swift and brutal-looking strike.

  They were not, he reflected, entirely helpless.

  Mahault paused, then retreated a step, and started the series of movements again.

  Master Malech had hired Mil’ar Cai to teach him similar moves, only with a coarser, curved cudgel, learning how to judge what an opponent might be planning. Defensive fighting—to get out of trouble, not to find it, Cai had said over and over again.

  The cudgel he had now, replacing the original that had been lost, did not have the same heft or balance, and Jerzy had not been keeping up with his practice. Cai would be annoyed with him, and yet practice had, before, seemed foolish. Vinearts did not carry weapons; there was no need, for who would attack one?

  The idea of someone doing physical harm to a Vineart … unthinkable, even a year ago. Thinkable, now.

  “Hai, Jer.” Mahl saw him standing there as she turned into the final blow, and lowered her sword, using her free arm to take the headband off and wipe her forehead. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright, and she moved with an easy grace that made her normal smooth walk seem almost clumsy in comparison.

  “You should practice with Kaïnam,” he said. “Otherwise, he will forget all he knows, despite his pretty sword, and start to think he’s only a sailor.”

  That made her laugh, as he’d intended. “No chance of that,” she assured him. “He is out here every morning, working on his own moves when you’re sound asleep.” Jerzy had the last watch of the night, the quietest hours, and fell into bed after that in a dead sleep—or as deep as he could with Ao in the other hammock, snoring loudly.