Flesh and Fire

by Laura Anne Gilman

  The student looked at Detta, the astonishment the dragon hadn’t caused appearing now in his eyes. “Master. . .was a slave?”

  The woman paused in her fussing with items in the dresser. “All you wine-crafters were slaves once, boy. Where did you think you all came from? Sin Washer made sure of that, so you’d have no other ties to bind you.”

  The Guardian hissed. Vinecraft was for the Master, and only the Master. The woman was speaking of things she had no right to speak of, too soon. Detta took the hint, and turned away to close the window. “No matter now. You’re here, as is he, and this dratted beast no doubt has a reason to be here, so I’m assuming the Master sent him, yes? So he’s to be your problem, not mine.”

  She gathered up the old tunic and pants, and made a face. “And these are going into the fire. Try not to ruin what you’ve got on now until we have a chance to sew up something a bit closer to your size.” She paused at the door, looking back over her rounded shoulder. “Anywhere within the House is your home now, too, boy. Explore, learn where everything is. The beast will doubtless warn you if you’re somewhere you ought not be. If you’ve any questions as to how things are run, you come to me. When the chime sounds for dinner, be there or go hungry. Tomorrow will be soon enough for you to start with everything else, I suppose.”

  And with those words, she left.

  The student looked at the dragon, who had settled on the back of the single wooden chair in the room, the frame creaking slightly under its weight. Wings furled at its back, claws dug into the frame, and the long tail curled around the chair to keep it balanced.

  “What do I call you? ‘Beast’ doesn’t seem quite right.”

  The Guardian could speak to the Master, but this slender, dark-eyed student would not hear his voice any more than the kitchen children could, not yet. So it merely hissed again, air forcing through the narrow opening of its mouth, whistling sharply between stone fangs, and launched itself off the chair, heavy wings filling the small room as they spread to catch unnecessary air.

  Jerzy flinched, but the dragon landed with surprising gentleness on his shoulder, those stone claws not digging in at all, the hard weight remaining above his delicate human bones, not resting on it. Its wings stayed spread, over Jerzy’s head.

  The Guardian rose slightly, even though the wings did not move, and the boy’s entire body was tugged along with it. He resisted, and the Guardian tugged harder.

  “I’m supposed to go with you?” The boy shrugged, clearly well used to being ordered around without explanation.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 4

  The next morning Malech walked through the harvest shed of the northern enclosure, listening to that yard’s overseer update him on their progress. This yard was planted with firevines, which ripened more slowly than healvine, but the longer growing season resulted in a powerful vintage that earned his House a nice sum. The Mariners’ Guild bought out most of his stock every year, firespells being far safer to use shipboard than any open flame, and the remainder he shared with the local chandler to craft smokeless candles that princelings gave solid coin for.

  Once all the grapes were picked and crushed into mustus, their potential had to be judged, and Malech alone could make the determination if they would become spellwines, vin magica, or be shunted off into vin ordinaire.

  Inspecting and approving the mustus took most of the day, and it was midafternoon before Malech was able to approve the final batch and set out for home. Exhaustion made his body ache, but once in the saddle, the matter of the odd blood-staunch order from Atakus came back to him. Such things were normally left to Detta, who ran the House accounts, and dealt—quite admirably—with them. So why did the order remain in his thoughts? Perhaps thinking of the Mariners’ Guild early that morning had reminded him, since Atakus was a major port for trading ships coming to and from the southern lands.

  Was it the Guardian’s comment about needing more blood staunch that was bothering him? A demand that could outstrip his stores was rare indeed; blood staunch was not a plague-wine, nor taken for fevers—it was purely to heal wounds. He had never run out before. Large quantities would indicate battles, disasters. . .not things one associated with the island-state of Atakus. And yet, the size of the order indicated just such a disaster. . .perhaps one yet to have happened, or a battle yet to be fought. . .His thoughts chased each other, making him progressively more uneasy with every step his horse took.

  Fortunately the beast knew its way home, because he could not remember a moment of it until they were plodding up the track in the gathering dusk and Per was coming to take the reins from him.

  “All is well, Per?”

  The yardman nodded, ducking his head. Per never spoke, and at times seemed half as sly and wild as a marten. He had been a slave once, too, but his touch with the horses brought him out of the yards and into the stable. Perhaps it was another sort of magic, save no spellwine had ever been found to control animals.

  Malech patted him on the shoulder, and went inside, pausing only to knock the dirt off his boots. No alarm or uproar met him, so the Household must also be calm. Good. Dinner, and then to bed. All else could wait until morning.

  MALECH WAS UP before sunrise, as was his habit, and down into the workrooms with a mug of steaming tai in his hands, his dreams having been filled with flashes of fire and a sense of foreboding, no doubt brought on by his thoughts the night before. There was, he finally concluded, nothing he could do about any dire history to come, save ensure they were able to fill the order and replenish their stock.

  For now, he needed to focus on the mustus in front of him, his ruby-red healgrapes. Four of the five vats made his senses tingle, indicating that they might have the potential. The fifth, like the vat that had spilled two days before, had no such tingle.

  “Master?”

  He had heard the inner door open, and sensed the arrival of the newcomers, without having to turn around. “Ah, Jerzy. Good. Thank you, Guardian.”

  The boy came down the three steps, his gaze taking everything in without a further word. The stone dragon, his escort duty done, winged quietly into the wooden rafters, watching the activity below with unblinking eyes.

  “Welcome to the first step of the magic, young one,” Malech said. He was aware he sounded like a pompous bastard, but it had been so long since he had been able to share this moment with anyone, he couldn’t resist. Magic was a thing of wonder, the process from incantation to decantation, and too much of the world saw only the results, not the alchemical transformation.

  Jerzy did not disappoint. He looked around slowly, still drinking every detail in, his dark eyes wide and his jaw slack with amazement. For the first time, in that expression of wonder, Malech saw the attractive boy-child he must have been, before the slavers took him and the sleep house beat him down. Malech felt a moment of pity. It was easier to be an ugly slave than a pretty one.

  And now, what would the House of Malech make of him? What sort of Vineart might this boy become? It was not an easy life but better by far than that of a slave. And if the boy had never been sold? A question for the silent gods to answer, if they cared to. Were those with magic within them sold, or did exposure to magic create it within a slave? Either way, none came to the Vines save via slavers.

  “This is where the pulp goes? After we crush it?” Jerzy’s gaze went from the seven wooden tanks, twice times his height and three times his reach in girth, and then to the great wooden door that led to the outside.

  “After the crush, and the clearing. This is where the mustus is brought.”

  Only the most trusted, most experienced slaves were allowed within the vintnery itself. Here, where the real work was done, even fewer had access, and then only to bring the barrels in and out through the sliding wooden doors.

  “It is brought in here to these tanks, to sit until Harvest is done, and all the lots have been pressed. Then we sort the mustus into levels, and vinificati
on begins.”

  “Vinification.” It was another new word, and the boy said it carefully, enunciating every letter.

  “This is where it all begins,” Malech said again. “Can you feel it? Can you feel what waits?”

  Some never did. He did not think the boy would fail so easily.

  “Like. . .someone sitting on my chest. No. . .” Jerzy’s eyes scrunched closed and he put his hands over his ears as he concentrated, trying to block out all distractions. “Like someone pushing from inside my chest. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels strange.”

  Malech almost smiled in relief. “Yes. I sense it as something stroking my skin, lightly, as though with a feather. It’s different for everyone, we’re told. Learn that feeling inside you, Jerzy. Learn it so well you can recognize it in an instant, can hear it calling you from within the grape as it grows. That is the mustus calling you, the raw, unspecified magic, still seeking its form. So tell me. . .which ones push most strongly at you?”

  The boy walked to the nearest tank but did not touch it, or come close enough to touch it, as though some force kept him just so far away. He circled it, taking his time, then went on to the next.

  “This one; it almost shoves at me. Those two, less so. I don’t feel anything from the other four.”

  Malech nodded, but did not confirm or deny the boy’s findings. As he studied, his senses would grow stronger, and he would learn to make his own estimations and to trust his own judgment, not to wait for the confirmation of anyone else, even his master. Magic was not taught, but grown. There was no need to confuse the boy with philosophies, however.

  “For the next two weeks the mustus will wait in these giant vats, stirred twice daily to ensure a flow from top to bottom, forcing the flesh and juice to mingle. That will be your task, to attune yourself to the feel of each vat, to learn its temperament, and what it would be best suited for.” It was a deceptively simple step for such important results, and a Vineart needed to know every one of them the way he knew his own heartbeat.

  Jerzy’s eyes flicked to the vats again, clearly measuring them against his own height, and just as clearly remembering the fate of the slave killed for overturning the vat. Good. It would keep him alert and careful.

  “You will use those rakes,” and Malech pointed to the four long instruments racked along the wall behind them. “Twice a day. And yes, there will be more vats added as the rest of the yields are brought in. You’ll wish you were back in the field by the time you’re done.”

  The look the boy gave him suggested that he highly doubted that, and Malech almost laughed. He, for one, was thankful to have someone else to pass this chore along to. Not only would it free his time for more advanced work, but his arms would ache considerably less this year. A few weeks of this and Detta’s cooking, and the boy would bulk up to better match his height and stop looking quite so fragile.

  “When it is ready, we will transfer it to smaller barrels, and from there the final transformation.” Some of it would be bottled immediately as vin ordinaire, sold to those with coin who desired the intoxication of near-magic, without the risks—or costs—of spellwine. Only then would the final, most important touches be put on each spellwine, refining and finishing each for specific results. “But that will not be for at least a month, and there is much you must learn in the meantime.”

  “More magic?” Jerzy asked hopefully.

  Malech laughed, if a trifle ruefully. “Nothing so simple, I fear. You, boy, must be civilized.”

  * * *

  CIVILIZED, JERZY LEARNED, involved many things, including regular baths. Once a week one of the kitchen children brought steaming water into the bathing room, and he, like all the others in the Household, was expected to emerge clean all over. After the first dousing, Detta let him wash and dry himself, although there was a brief but embarrassing lesson on how to clean his teeth and ears, and properly trim his fingernails and toes.

  Lil took the shears to his hair after a few days, trimming it in the same style as the Master’s, short at the front so that his eyes and mouth were kept clear, but longer at back, over his ears and neck. Another handspan of growth, she said, poking him in the shoulder in a familiar manner, and he would be able to pull it back and tie it at his neck with a thong the way the master did.

  It would take longer than that to grow even a close-trimmed beard like the master’s, however, she added, and laughed when he blushed.

  Civilized also involved lettering. Every morning after breakfast, once the dishes and platters had been cleared and the kitchen children set off to whatever other duties they had, he was directed to sit at the long, polished wooden table with Detta, and she would show him how to recognize letters and then words, and eventually how to write them as well.

  “It’s a thing of power, same as spellwines,” she said when he protested the time and effort after a particularly frustrating session. Where recognizing mustus came naturally, writing did not. “All part and parcel of what you’re to become, boy.”

  Jerzy did not doubt her. He did not even think to doubt her, any more than he would have doubted the overseer, although he did not fear Detta in the same fashion. If this was what they wanted him to do, he would do it. You did not complain in the sleep house, no matter how bad things got. In the Master’s own House, where he was well fed, and bathed, and had his own room with a bed and a warm blanket, Jerzy would have died rather than balked. But he still did not see the point to it, especially since Master Malech seemed to have near forgotten him those first few days.

  A FEW DAYS later, just as he was beginning to feel comfortable in his new bed, his new clothing, and his new cleanliness, if not quite with the gentle teasing of the kitchen children or Detta’s brusque instruction, another lesson was added to his days.

  “Jerzy,” Master Malech said, making a rare appearance at the morning table. “Come with me.”

  Leaving his bowl on the table still half full, he followed the Master out into the courtyard, where a stranger waited. “This is Mil’ar Cai.”

  The newcomer was short and strongly built, with milk-pale skin. He had no hair anywhere on his scalp, and a long brown mustache tied with red and blue beads. His clothing was more colorful than anything Jerzy could remember seeing before: dark red pants that billowed over calf-high leather boots, a bright blue sash, and a brighter red shirt with sleeves that tied at the elbow with green ribbons that fluttered when he moved.

  “Cai is from the Caulic Isles,” Malech said. “Across the narrows, come to teach your body, as Detta instructs your mind.”

  “Ey,” Cai said in a thick but understandable voice. “There’s no magic grows in Caul, and so we use our brains, instead.”

  Master Malech chuckled, as though Cai had said something amusing, and left them to it. Jerzy stared at Cai, half fascinated but slightly uncertain.

  “Master Vineart was right: you stand like a slave, not a man, and certainly not like a magician! We’ll begin at once, and soon your body will have the right of it. Ready yourself, boy!”

  Jerzy had no time to ask what he was to ready himself for before Cai had him in the air and landing hard on the morning-cool flagstones.

  “Up. Again. Be ready this time.”

  The next time, Jerzy saw Cai come at him, and went limp in enough time for the fall to hurt less, although it still knocked the breath out of him.

  “All right. Better. You know that much, at least.” Cai pulled at one end of his mustache and studied Jerzy again. “So, now we know where to start.”

  Every other day, from then on, they met in the courtyard in the late afternoon, after Jerzy had taken his second turn in the vatting rooms, punching down the mustus. The Caulic fighter taught him how to stand, to bow to a greater, inferior, or a worthy opponent, and how to move across a room—“not as a slave but as a magician!” Cai insisted, over and over again, thwacking Jerzy across the backs of his knees with a short, thick cudgel when he moved wrongly or hunched his shoulders instead of standing up straigh
t.

  Once he moved to Cai’s satisfaction, the soldier promised him, there would be more interesting lessons using the cudgel itself, to defend against a mad dog, a hungry beast, or an angry man.

  Jerzy wasn’t sure which he dreaded more, the frustration of Detta’s instruction or the bruising of Cai’s lessons, but each night he tumbled into bed, exhausted and sore, and thinking there was no way he could survive another day.

  Worse, while he was learning letters and movement, the sunup-to-sundown madness of the Harvest went on outside. During lessons with Detta he would look out the window and see the Master striding through the fields, or hear him moving in other rooms, calling for something or muttering to himself. Often he was gone the entire day and night, checking the progress of his other yards.

  It surprised him how very much he missed the feel of the grapes in his hands and the soil under his feet, until he was dreaming of it sleeping and awake. A week after he had left the yards, when Jerzy came down for the first meal, tying up his pants even as he stumbled into the dining hall, he found Master Malech already there, discussing the day’s matters with Detta. Still caught up in his dreams, he blurted a request before he could wake up enough to be afraid.

  “Master? May I go with you into the fields today?”

  Malech stopped with his mug halfway to his lips, and stared at Jerzy with those clear blue eyes.

  “I—I. . .” Jerzy felt himself start to stutter, and slammed his jaw shut, his courage gone as swiftly as it had appeared.

  “You miss it already?” It didn’t feel like a question, and so Jerzy did not answer.

  “Of course you do. It’s Harvest. Time enough during Fallow for you to learn your other lessons. Detta, would you mind terribly if I took this worthless child into the fields and put him back to work?”

  Detta’s round face was equally solemn as she considered Jerzy, who held very still, barely allowing himself to breathe.

  “He has been distracted,” she said slowly. “Much like another male in this household, when forced to look at figures and facts. . .”