Flesh and Fire

by Laura Anne Gilman

  The meme-courier placed his hands together in front of him, cupped to indicate that he had received the message, and then pressed his hands together, palm to palm, and bowed. “You have honored me with your custom,” he said, his normal speaking voice higher and lighter than the one he had used to deliver his message.

  Pigeons were faster, for short messages, and a negotiator was for matters public or political, but a meme-courier, if you could afford one, was best for things of a private nature, and any Vineart working within Iaja needed to take care, for their prince was a jealous and controlling sort who meddled in affairs outside his realm. Unlike negotiators, who were often affiliated with the House or prince who retained them, and therefore often suspect and held hostage, the meme-courier guild had immunity to travel near anywhere, to take passage on any boat of any allegiance, pass beyond walls of any House and remain unmolested and unquestioned so long as they remained robed and neutral. Not even Washers could claim such privilege, although the Collegium had the ability to manifest their unhappiness with a seated ruler in ways more than spiritual, when pressed.

  Malech was startled from those grim thoughts by the man’s gentle shifting of weight from one leg to another, a polite reminder that he was still there. “You honor us with your skills,” Malech replied, and with that formality, the courien was over.

  Malech stood as the meme-courier left, then sank back down into his chair and picked up the glass, downing the remains in one hard swallow. He had spoken bravely in front of the other man, but the truth was that he was worried. The root-glow attack had not caught him unprepared; the only surprise was that it had taken so long to arrive.

  His long-held policy of standing aloof from matters outside the Valle had protected him this long. But, perhaps, no longer.

  An attack, directed against all Vinearts? Unlikely. Impossible, he would have said. More likely all this was merely a run of bad luck that life was occasionally heir to. Vinearts were merely men, after all. Skilled men, with the Sin Washer’s blessing on them, but still men.

  And yet, there were nights, too many nights in the past ten-month, that he had woken before dawn, still in his bed with a cold sweat upon him and a sense of foreboding in his mind. That something dark and dire was sweeping down off the hills, threatening all that he knew, all that he had built.

  If others, too, felt that fear. . .

  “Guardian.”

  Malech.

  “Am I overreacting?”

  There was a pause, weighted as stone. Guardian did not decide anything lightly; it was not its nature.

  No.

  No. He had not thought so, either.

  “UP!”

  Jerzy rolled out of bed before the Master’s command registered, reaching for his trousers even as he tried to remember what shirt was clean, and where he had tossed his shoes the night before. An illuminated history of the Lands Vin slid off the edge of his narrow bed and hit the floor before he could catch it, and he swore. Books were rare enough; Master would have his skin if that book were damaged.

  “Up!”

  “I’m up!” he said irritably, pulling his shirt over his head and catching his ear on the lacings. “I’m up, but be still a moment and let me dress myself first.”

  The voice stilled, but there was a sense of impatience in the air that was even more annoying than the words, and the heavy shadow outside his window came closer, as though intending to come through the closed pane.

  “Break that glass and Detta will not be happy with you,” Jerzy warned the Guardian, sitting on the edge of the bed to first scoop the book back to safety, and then to slip on his shoes. After having to dig a splinter of wood from Jerzy’s sole, the Housemistress had warned him against going outside his room without something on his feet. It still felt strange after so many years barefoot in the soil, but while the Master ruled the vintnery, even he did not contradict Detta within the House.

  Fully dressed, he dragged a cloth through the pitcher of water and scrubbed his face with it to get the last sleep out of his eyes, yawned once for good measure, and headed down the stairs. Outside the window, the Guardian made its own silent way back down to its usual perch. In the weeks since the meme-courier had come and gone, predawn summons were more common than not, even after nights when they burned wax well into the darkness. There were times Jerzy swore he’d barely laid down before he was rising again, the lessons of the day before still jangling and disconnected in his head. Something was driving his master, and all he could do was try to take it all in, and keep up as best he could.

  The new kitchen boy, Bret, was in the kitchen, stirring up the fire. Jerzy stuck his head in to sniff the air and see if the bread was ready yet.

  “Nothing yet,” the boy said, seeing the shock of red hair. “Someone’s to bring it down to you when it’s ready.”

  “Our thanks,” Jerzy said. The usual orders were that you had to be at the table, at least in passing, to get fed. He didn’t know if Bret was taking a risk or if the House-keeper had relented, but either way he was thankful.

  The entire way to Malech’s workroom could be plunged into utter darkness, and Jerzy would still be able to clatter down the stairs, familiar with every bump and curve of the stone, and as he passed under the lintel, his fingers curved around the tip of the Guardian’s stone tail easily, giving it a familiar tug.

  The Guardian, as usual, ignored him.

  “What are the five qualities of firewine?”

  “A deep garnet color. A nose of warm spice. A near-pure clarity. A strong structure on the tongue. A lingering finish of ash.” By now, being hit with a test even as he was walking into the workroom didn’t startle or stop Jerzy, and the information rose to his tongue without conscious recall. He rather suspected that was the point of these attack-questions, to see how he responded without warning. It didn’t make sense to him—everything that he had learned until now, everything he had seen had emphasized the need for time and gentle handling when crafting spellwines. What need had a Vineart for sudden movement or stressful recall?

  But asking that sort of question now, he knew, would result in a cuffing. Master Malech had his reasons. His only responsibility was to answer correctly and quickly.

  “Good. Now go into the storeroom and bring me out a bottle of it.”

  Jerzy nodded, then waited for further instruction. When none came, he looked inquiringly at the Vineart. “Master?”

  Malech scowled down at him, his narrow face creasing into lines of displeasure. “What? Go, fetch, you idiot clod!”

  “Master, I have never worked with firewine before. Where is the bottle? How will I know it?”

  The usual blow to the side of his head didn’t come; instead Malech merely closed his eyes and shook his head in disgust. “If you can’t tell firewine from healwine, get yourself back to the muck of the vineyards; you’re useless to me.”

  Jerzy stared at his master in dismay. How . . . how could Master Malech expect him to. . .

  Clearly, Master Malech did.

  A tremor of fear swept through Jerzy’s body, like a cold finger tracing his bones. A test. A new test, and if he failed. . .would Master Malech truly expect him to go back to the fields? To leave the House, go back to being a slave?

  Yes. Master would. Like being able to sense the mustus, this would prove he had the right, the ability, to stay.

  He could not fail. He would not. He had skills now, knowledge of the wines, of the flesh of the grape. . .Touching the mark on his hand for courage, he took a deep breath, and did as ordered.

  The storage room was as familiar as the Guardian; the thick stones keeping the temperature cool no matter how the weather changed, the spell-lights that lit the walls and cast shadows into the corners and under barrels, the smell of vina and straw in the air, making it intoxicating to breathe deeply. The barrels and half barrels were stacked against the far wall, the wood slats ranging from a pale yellow to a deep, burnished gold, each strapped by brass belts that glinted in the spe
ll-light. But that wasn’t his destination today.

  The finished bottles were stored against the interior wall, in rows up to the ceiling. Each bottle came from distant Avlina, where the Glass-maker’s Guild was situated. Malech would use nothing less than their best for his spellwines. Normal folk used leather, clay, and wood, and even the House used clayware for daily liquids; this much glass in one place still took Jerzy’s breath away.

  Some of the bottles were new and clean, while others had layers of dust coating their surfaces. Each had a parchment tag around its neck, listing the vineyard they came from and the year of crafting, but to read through every single tag would be the work of weeks, if not longer. He had to find the right bottle, now.

  Start with what you know, and build on that. He knew mustus, had near-drowned in it until he learned to work with it, to own it. The same with vina. It was in him, a part of him. He would know it anywhere, in any container, no matter how it was transformed. The magic in the barrels sang to him, distracted him. So. From there, where? He had tasted healwines, had worked with them, walked in the soil, the water, the air the vines breathed. He knew them now, too. If he shut them out, the way that he shut out the call of the magica. . .He touched the mark on his wrist, a reminder.

  It wasn’t easy, but it was simple, once he saw the process in his head. Like closing a door to keep down the cold outside, something closed in his head, and the pressure decreased.

  The air was still intoxicating, but he could detect different strains in that aroma, sniffout particular elements, and almost, almost identify them.

  “Firewine. Warm spice. Dry heat. Bitter ash. Strong structure.” He almost sang the details to himself, his voice echoing against the stone walls and bouncing back at him. There were other elements competing for his attention, other spellwines stored here for Malech’s own use, but he focused on the identifying marks of firewine, and found himself moving toward one section of wall, his hand reaching for a bottle stored just barely above his head.

  Jerzy didn’t know what to expect when the bottle came off its shelf and into his hand. Some spark of recognition, perhaps; the same flare of magic he’d felt from the mustus. Instead, he merely felt the cool weight of the glass against his palm and fingers, the glass heavier than he’d expected. There could have been water held inside the green surface, but somehow he knew that he had chosen properly, even without looking at the tag.

  He checked, of course. Being sure and being willing to risk that surety against his future were not the same thing. He had to squint to read the tag, faded brown ink scrawled on the strip of curling parchment.

  “Western Fields, The Berengia. 1395AW.”

  The Western Fields were actually south of them, on an eastern slope. That was where the firevines were grown. It wasn’t quite as good as “Yes, you have selected properly,” but it would have to do.

  Carrying the squat bottle in both hands, Jerzy went back out into the fresher, thinner air of the workroom, and placed it down on the pouring table, a battered, scarred wooden bench stained with a hundred years of spills and drips.

  Malech had turned away and was working at his desk, his attention entirely on the section of rootstalk he was dissecting. The carcass of a shiny black beetle the size of Jerzy’s palm lay next to him, pinned belly up to a bed of wax.

  “Master?” He waited.

  “There is a pot of water in the corner. Burn it.”

  Jerzy blinked, then looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, a large clay pot rested on the floor in the corner of the workroom, filled to the brim with water.

  “Burn the pot, Master?” Even as he asked, he felt the ghost of a cuff against his ear. Malech didn’t have to hit him for him to know when he was being an idiot. Burn the water.

  Malech didn’t even bother to respond. This was still part of the test.

  He looked at the bottle again. He had never opened a bottle of spell-wine before. Casks of must, half casks, skins. . .but never a bottle. It shouldn’t feel so different from using a wineskin. Either way, the liquid was the important thing, not the casing. Still. . .it felt different.

  There was a slender knife on the table. Jerzy picked it up and used it to slice away the wax sealing the bottle shut, then dug out the cork the way he had seen Malech do. His nose twitched as the aroma of the spellwine rose from the now-open bottle. Warm and comforting and just slightly acrid, the wine seemed to entice him, luring him into taking just one sip, then another. . ..

  He resisted. Healwine was gentler stuff, even the purging spells were crafted to soothe rather than inflame. It waited for you to choose. This. . .

  He raised the bottle and found that his arm was shaking. There was a small silver tasting spoon set into a niche on the desk, and he poured the wine into that, using both hands to steady himself, then put the bottle down and replaced the stopper. Feeling anxious, even though Malech hadn’t said anything further, nor stopped whatever he was doing at the desk, Jerzy curled his fingers under the short handle and lifted the spoon to his mouth. The cup’s surface was so shallow, he estimated that there was, at most, two mouthfuls of wine poured.

  Two needed to be enough. He wasn’t sure he would get a second chance.

  The first mouthful slid onto his tongue, heavy and smooth, almost fleshy. The scent went straight up into his nose, bringing forward the memory of overblown red flowers, multipetaled, pungent, and spicy. He didn’t know where the memory came from, but it matched almost perfectly. He cupped his tongue to hold the richness in, and for a moment almost forgot, in the sensation, what it was he was meant to do.

  That was a danger with the stronger spellwines, Malech had said. They took over, made you stupid. An ordinary person might survive being stupid; a spellwine would not do anything beyond what it was crafted to do for him. But a Vineart could never afford to become secondary to the vin magica, or it would corrupt his own magic and soar out of control. Drunkenness was not allowed to a Vineart, for good reason.

  Now, how to direct. . .Flame to water? No, not to. . .

  “Flame on water.”

  He stared at the pot, and the surface shimmered, just a little, as though something unseen had disturbed it. The wine warmed in his mouth, the spice intensifying, becoming sharper.

  The command was easier; there were only a few variations allowed for firespells.

  “Burn safely.”

  “Go!”

  The surface shimmered again, ripples forming, and then a fireball exploded on the surface of the pot, rising straight up toward the ceiling and sending pottery shards flying everywhere, even as water spilled onto the stone floor, hissing with steam. Jerzy ducked, his arms flying up even as he felt the spellwine slide down his throat and explode likewise in a burst of intensely ripe fruit.

  “Washer’s hands!” Malech’s chair went skittering across the floor and crashed into a wall, even as Jerzy looked up from underneath his crossed arms to see if the fire had gone out.

  No. It still shimmered and danced on the spilled pool of water, flickering over the shards of pottery, apparently quite content to remain where it was, rather than spreading to anything else in the chamber.

  Jerzy looked at the blue-white flames, then looked around the chamber, and finally, reluctantly, looked up at his master.

  “The last command is to be said softly, not shouted,” Malech said, in a terribly mild voice. “A safe fire should be coaxed, led, never . . . hurled.”

  Jerzy swallowed, nodded, and committed that to memory.

  “I’M PUSHING YOU.”

  Jerzy stopped with a jam roll halfway to his mouth. They had cleaned up the fire and water and pottery just in time for Roan to arrive with a tray of food and a carafe of tai. Malech had cleared off his desk—thankfully moving the pinned insect somewhere else—and they had settled down to eat. His hands were still shaking slightly, and to his shame, Malech had noticed.

  “In the normal course of events, you would not have touched fire-spells for another season. You would have had a ch
ance to see them growing, participated in their harvest, learned their nature before they were crafted into a potent form. . . .”

  Malech exhaled, a gusty sigh that seemed at odds with his normally composed façade. “You did well, all things considered. A little abrupt, but the flame stayed where you sent it, and went out when you commanded it to do so. That is really all that a basic firespell needs. Well, a little more delicacy in touch would be appreciated, especially when used indoors. Fortunately I wasn’t overly fond of that water pot.”

  Jerzy put the jam roll in his mouth and chewed carefully, as though the noise of his jaw working might cause Malech to stop talking.

  “I’ll try to be more careful, give you more information to start, but I need you to be able to keep up. The next few months. . .I need you to be ready.” Malech picked apart a jam roll and left the debris uneaten.

  “Ready for what, Master?” A risk to speak, but Jerzy couldn’t help himself.

  Malech looked up, his deep-set eyes seeming darker—or was it that his hair had become grayer? Overnight, it seemed to Jerzy, his master had aged ten years.

  “I don’t know, boy. That’s what’s worrying me. I don’t know.” He seemed to be arguing something with himself, then brushed the crumbs of the roll off his long fingers, the gold ring on his index finger cacthing the light. He tapped it thoughtfully, then turned to pull a large scroll off a shelf, pushing aside the platter of food to make room for it on the table. Jerzy grabbed his mug and another roll before they were out of reach, and leaned in to see what Malech was showing him.

  It was a map, drawn in colored inks. Some of the shapes looked familiar to Jerzy, although he did not recognize the letterings or symbols drawn on them. “That’s us, here in the Ivy.”

  “Yes, very good.” Malech looked pleased. “And this is Iaja, and across this line here, farther north, is Oerta, where they grow the most unusual grapes; pure, dry and delicate, and half a bottle will call up the most amazing storm at sea; not even the finest captain can outrun it. Never annoy old Conna, boy. Even princelings walk carefully around him. Fortunately, all the bluster seems to be in his spellwines, and none in his moods.”