AN HOUR’S RIDE later, and Jerzy’s thoughts were still chasing each other like rats, and none of them were making him comfortable. “Off you go, boy,” the man driving the wagon said, hawing the cart horse to a halt. “I’ll be back to pick you up at dusk. Mind you be here!”
Jerzy hopped down off the wagon, remembering at the last minute to grab his carry-sack, and watched as the driver flicked the reins and the wagon moved off down the wide track. That wagon was a new one, built to replace the one that had cracked apart on the road, but it was no more padded than the older ones. As much as his thoughts were uncomfortable, Jerzy’s body ached from the trip south, being jounced about on the hard bench and having to keep one hand on the railing to keep from falling over. The driver was a large man, the bench was small, and Jerzy was thinking on the way home he’d ride in the back with the bales and barrels.
The enclosure looked barren, almost abandoned, in its winter dormancy, and Jerzy had trouble seeing the potential in it, for a moment. In six months, however, it would be a hive of energy and activity. Firevine grapes were left until the last moment for harvesting, slaves often racing against the first frost to get the fruit in and crushed. In addition to checking for frost-damage, Malech wanted him to know every grouping of the slope the way he knew his way around his own bedchamber, so when the time for harvest came, he would be able to direct the action.
“You’re too young for this,” Malech had said again that morning, staring at him over a mug of tai. “Too young and too green yet. Unripe. But there’s no choice, and so you’ll grow to the occasion. Stressed to greatness, that is how Sin Washer made us.”
Jerzy would be more reassured by that oft-repeated phrase if the Vineart had seemed more certain of that, and less trying to convince himself as well as Jerzy.
The morning sun was cool but bright overhead as Jerzy walked along the path that led to the top of the ridge. The vines were grown only along the top half of the slope, to catch the best of the sun and the most of the cooling evening breezes. The lower half of the slope, and the richer, less rock-studded soil, was given over to herbs and vegetables. Most of that produce went to Lil’s kitchen, and the remainder to the sleep-house kitchens. The sleep house here was much smaller: only six slaves and an under-overseer lived here year-round. They were working the herb patch already, their forms bending and rising as they weeded and picked, tossing the clods of weeds to one side and placing the pickings—hardy winter vegetables—more gently into their baskets. The pattern of their movements was rhythmic and soothing, and Jerzy stood for a moment, watching them.
He couldn’t remember what it felt like. Even the not-remembering felt distant, as though he had always been a Vineart, merely waiting to be brought forward, the past falling off him even as dirt fell from the roots of the harvested plants, even as the skin slipped from a grape and the juice ran free.
Stressed to greatness. He bent down and picked up a handful of soil, letting it run through his fingers, small pebbles making it feel different from healwine soil, the dirt clinging to the rough stones’ surfaces, feeling dryer, more grainy against his skin. It was cold, and had a pulse running through the grains similar to his own heart’s beat. He might be imagining that last, but he didn’t think so. The vines here were almost as old as the main yard, and the older the vine, the more powerful the magic.
Jerzy knew that what he did here was important, that it was part of the learning he needed to accomplish, to reach the next step of his education, just as the lessons with Cai and Detta were important. Still, there was the knowledge that he was being pushed along, not because he had earned it, or deserved it, but because his master was otherwise occupied, and he was being shoved forward to fill a hole rather than advance his own skills.
And, he admitted to himself, he wished that Master Malech were here with him, walking the rows and telling him what he needed to know, instead of mewed up in the House with yet another visitor. From serene isolation, the House had suddenly become a hive of activity. There had been another meme-courier last week, and a robed negotiator the day before last, but this morning’s arrival, a man on a strongly muscled white mare, had been different. Clad in fine leathers, he had worn a band of brass around each arm: the mark of a full-ranked member of the Cooperage.
Even slaves knew of the Cooperage. Originally they had merely been the suppliers of casks and barrels to Vinearts, crafting and selling their wares. Over time, Malech had told him, their wealth had increased to the point where they invested in shipbuilding as well, and now were among the wealthiest—and most influential—of the guilds.
Why had a Cooper come here? Could the guild know something that could add to the Master’s fears? That seemed unlikely. Yet, if he was offering new barrels, then why had Malech not allowed his apprentice to meet the man, instead of shoving him to a field such a distance away that by the time they returned to the House, the stranger would doubtless be long gone? And why wouldn’t Malech tell him what these messengers were bringing?
Stressed? Ignored, more like, and it all added to his feeling of being left out of the important matters, and now Detta was angry at him as well.
Still, it was difficult to remain out of sorts under the wide-open blue sky, the cold breeze bringing him the scent of the earth, the vines, and hardworking sweat, wrapped together in a familiar slap against his lungs. Jerzy slipped off his soft shoes and let his toes dig into the soil. Detta might frown, and Cai would howl about protecting his balance, but Malech would understand, and approve. Skin to soil told you more than your eyes ever could.
Stepping carefully, he moved into the topmost grouping. The vines were rough and brittle in the cold, and he had to move them aside gently. A quick look at the brown stems showed that they were winding properly around the staves. Like Sin Washer, a vine grew from the soil, supported by others, and spread its bounty like a mother opened her arms.
“Boy,” he called out to a slave who was working nearby, carefully replacing a stave that had been damaged. “Any problems with foxes?”
“None, young master,” the slave replied. He was older than Jerzy, with the same olive-toned skin as Master Malech, and sleek black hair and eyebrows to match. “Some of the usual burrower beasts, but we ate a few and they learned to pass us by.”
Jerzy nodded at the slave’s report and went on with his inspection. Every grouping, Malech had said, and so every grouping he would do.
“SERPENTS.”
The Cooper didn’t bother to nod, looking over Malech’s shoulder at something fascinating on the wall behind him. “Sea serpents, yes. Witnessed and documented. Three ships lost this past season alone.”
Three ships was a considerable blow. But that wasn’t what had brought the Cooperage to the House of Malech. “There hasn’t been a serpent sighting in seven generations, since the Spellstorm of Bradhai.”
“Yes. We know.”
Malech hated Coopers. They meddled in politics as well as craft, arrogant beyond the princelings of old, and claimed a price each year that bordered on criminal, protecting their craft with such violence no man dared break with them. If there were a way to bypass them, he and every Vineart would take it. . .but there was none. Clay and stone, glass and hammered metal had all been tried, but while casks of such material might make a drinkable vin ordinaire, you could not craft a spellwine thus.
There were other places a captain might go to commission a ship, and for better terms—but none were so seaworthy as a Cooperage ship. For them to admit to losing three in such a short period of time. . .he might have suspected the Cooper of creating a story of sea serpents to cover their failure, save that they had no need to tell him. Save that he had begun nosing about for things of just such an odd or unnatural nature, and a sea serpent, hundreds of years after the last one had allegedly died by the hand of Master Vineart Bradhai, was certainly that.
Still, this messenger of the Guild did not appear to be a man who would waste his time merely to discuss legends or rumors.
/> “A serpent,” he said again.
The Cooper was a tall man, broad shouldered and flaxen haired, with the hands of a workman, and a nose that had clearly been broken and reset a number of times. No pretty negotiator, this one, but an active member of the Guild.
“A great gray beast, rising from the deepest waters between Jhain and Atakus, crushing the masts in its maw and slamming the body of the ship to splinters with an unending length of gray-scaled tail. Yes. A serpent.”
It could have been a giant craw, or even a pack of great sharks driven into a frenzy. Time at sea made even the most stable of men chancy, and sailors were odd sorts to start. “And your clients? They have responded to this news. . .how?”
The Cooper deigned to look at Malech then. “The Jhain-hai has ordered all of his ships to patrol his shores, looking for the beast, with orders to kill it. They trust in spears, not spells, and will die as their ship-brothers did. We do not intend to be so foolish.”
“And you bring this news to me. You think that I can craft a spell to kill a serpent?” Malech didn’t laugh, although he found the idea bitterly humorous. Bradhai had been a master of his generation, and it had taken his masterwork—and a fleet of ships—to kill that pack of serpents. Most had died in that final storm, including Bradhai.
“No.”
Malech wasn’t sure if he was relieved by that simple response, or insulted.
“If this is a serpent—and like you, we have our doubts, Lord Malech—if something has brought the serpents back from destruction, it is nothing for one man, however great a Vineart he may be, to undo. That would require a mage, and we have none in this world any longer.”
Malech made a quick heart-pour gesture of thanks, and noted that the Cooper did not follow suit. Interesting. The Cooper might simply not have been a pious man. Or he might wish for a mage to reemerge just as the serpents had. If so, he was more a fool than Malech thought: serpents, unlike mages, could be avoided or placated. Serpents could be taken out by spells. It had required a god to rid the world of mages.
“So what do you want of me?”
The Cooper leaned forward, looking directly at Malech for the first time. “The very thing you seem to need of us. Information.”
JERZY WAS SURPRISED when he jumped down off the overseer’s wagon and walked up the pathway under the arbor arch to see the morning’s visitor standing by the nut trees, thoughtfully puffing on a pipe. A sense of excitement rose in him. The stranger had not left, after all. Perhaps Master Malech had decided to include him in whatever discussions were happening?
Suddenly conscious of his dirt-stained feet and sweaty clothing, Jerzy meant to go on into the house without disturbing the visitor’s repose, hoping to wash and change before the evening meal, but paused as he caught the scent of smoke rising through the dusk air and mingling with the flowers. It wasn’t an unpleasant scent, just unfamiliar, and it made his nose twitch, trying to categorize it.
A voice came out of the shadows. “You must be the boy.”
Jerzy bristled at both the words—Malech might call him boy, but he was near a man’s growth now—and the lazy, almost dismissive tone in which they were said.
“I am Master Malech’s apprentice, Jerzy.”
The stranger stepped forward, looking him over. “Yes. You would have to be, wouldn’t you? A fine young man, and a handsome face.”
Jerzy’s annoyance was replaced by something else at those words, a darker emotion that made him want to lash out, wipe that sneer from the stranger’s hard-edged face. He stifled the desire. This rude stranger was nonetheless his master’s guest and he had a responsibility—and a duty to the House—to mind his tongue. Suddenly the endless speaking lessons with Detta had a practical use.
“This face is attached to a rather dusty body,” he responded politely, taking a step back as gracefully as he could and letting nothing of his feelings show in his voice. “I shall doubtless see you at the evening meal?”
“Indeed.” The stranger took another puff on his pipe, and smiled at Jerzy, a slight, secretive smile that made the young Vineart want to back away slowly, alert to a sudden, unprovoked attack, as though the visitor were a wild dog. Instead, Jerzy nodded once, imagining the Guardian’s gravity and slow dignity, and turned back toward the door.
Every step he took, he was aware of the stranger watching him, and an itch in the center of his back that had nothing to do with sweat or dirt.
There was a new tunic laid out on his bed when he got to his chamber, and a comb rather pointedly left on top of the rich red fabric. Despite himself, Jerzy grinned. Detta despaired of them both, from the Master’s untidy gray locks to his own dark red tangles, but she never gave up. He picked the comb up and carried it with him to the wash-room. He would try, again. But he doubted this time would end any differently than the last. Vinearts seemed to naturally have unruly hair.
Dressed in the new white shirt and a pair of brown trousers, leather half boots on his feet and his hair slicked down by application of comb and a dab of nut butter, Jerzy made his way down the stairs to Malech’s study, hoping to report his day’s work to his master before the meal.
“Come in, Jerzy,” Malech’s voice sounded before he could even raise his hand to the solid wooden door. His mouth twitched into an unexpected grin, the odd sensation catching him by surprise. No matter how many times his master did that, it still seemed, well, magical. Invited, he used his palm to push open the door, and walked in without hesitation.
Malech was also dressed in a crimson tunic, although his trousers were white and of finer material than Jerzy’s own. He was still growing too quickly, Detta said, to warrant the expense of shatnez weave.
“Ah, good, Detta got to you in time. We will have a guest for dinner.”
Jerzy almost said that he knew, but something made him remain quiet. His reaction to the visitor’s comments lingered, making him feel off-kilter and uneasy, as though he had done something wrong but didn’t know quite what.
Malech didn’t seem to notice. He was pacing, nothing unusual for the Vineart when he was deep in thought, but tonight there seemed to be an extra quality to it, some added tension in the way he moved, and that added to Jerzy’s sense of unease.
Not sure what to do, Jerzy ignored his usual bench and instead stood quietly next to it, his hands resting by his side, letting his thought return not to the encounter with the stranger, but the sight and scent of the grapes in the afternoon sunlight, the hum of slaves’ voices as they worked, the feel of the warmed soil under his toes. He could feel his heartbeat slow down, and the unease faded, slightly.
“An interesting discussion, yes. The Cooperage has never been an ally to us.” Malech spoke as though continuing a conversation he had been having with himself before Jerzy arrived. “But they are not adversaries, either. At least, not when my gold is not upon the table. And they, for once in their mis-spawned existence, seem interested in something other than their sole advantage. That is not a good thing, boy, not a good thing at all. It bodes something ugly stirring. I was right to worry.”
Malech suddenly seemed to realize Jerzy was standing there, and shut his jaw with an almost audible snap.
“Master?”
“Too many years of working alone,” the Vineart said, almost apologizing. “And you, quiet as stone when you choose to be. A good trait, that, but disconcerting to your master. So. We shall have company at the board tonight, as my discussions with Cooper Shen ran long today.”
Jerzy held his breath, hoping that Malech’s next words would tell him what those discussions were. Instead, his master went to the desk and sat down in his high-backed chair, leaning back with his long legs fitting under the desk, which had been cleared of the usual clutter of scrolls and papers. “So. In the time we have before the meal, tell me; how do the southern vineyards look?”
Jerzy stifled a sigh, sat down on his bench with his feet tucked under him, and gave his report.
AT DINNER, THE conversation gave
no clue as to what the two men had been closeted over earlier. After so many meals taken in casual disorder, either in the dining hall with the others or in the workroom with Malech, the formality of that meal made Jerzy feel that, despite his fine clothing and clean hair, he had somehow wandered into someone else’s life. Rather than the usual bread-platters, they ate off vinewood plates, the knots and burls sliced thin and polished until they glowed, with utensils of the same wood, tipped in gold, and Roan and Bret served them silently, without the normal back-and-forth chatter that enlivened group meals. Malech sat at one end of the table, with Jerzy at his left hand and the Cooper at his right.
Roan brought out grape leaves wrapped around goat cheeses from a village down the road, to be eaten with their fingers, and then roasted pigeons with a light-colored sauce of something tangy and sweet. Lil was, Jerzy thought contentedly, a much better cook than Detta had ever been. They drank only citron-scented water during the meal, not even a vin ordinaire on the table. It was as though Malech were showing how little he had to show off, that he had no need to impress the visitor by offering what were, to a Vineart, common drinks.
That was how Jerzy interpreted it, anyway. His master might have had something else entirely in mind, and neither of them could know how the Cooper saw it.
The Cooper, Journeyman Shen, was taller than Jerzy had thought at first, and had finer features. Compared to Malech’s drawn skin and sharp bones, he seemed larger and more filled with life, however disloyal that thought might be. His conversation ranged over the things he had seen and done, with—to Jerzy’s disappointment—none of it touching on what had brought him here to discuss with Malech.
“And how long have you been with Lord Malech, young master?”
Jerzy looked at the Cooper, flustered by the direct question and not quite sure how to answer. “As many years as I can remember,” he replied finally.
“He has been at studies for slightly less than a ten-month,” Malech said easily, before Shen could say anything. “I find him reassuringly adept, and surprisingly bright.”
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