“They need to be whitewashed,” he said finally, and that was the end of that. The final few days, while still filled with the endless things that needed to be done, were almost relaxed, as though Malech no longer feared that Jerzy would not impress this Giordan. Jerzy, however, started to have nightmares where he was standing naked in the middle of a great hall, being asked endless questions about grapes he knew nothing about, and every time he answered wrong, a giant hand came out of the curtains and cuffed him on the side of the head, knocking him over. By the time everything was settled and a departure date was decided on, he was almost afraid to go to sleep.
THE MORNING OF his departure was a perfect dawn: pale blue skies and a freshening breeze carrying the smell of damp earth and ripe hillberries. In the vineyard, the flowers had faded and tiny green grapes were forming in their place, barely recognizable as the fruit they would become. There was a pain inside his chest at the thought of leaving, even as he tossed his packs into the waiting wagon, and tightened the girth on the mare he would ride down to the seaport, where he would catch a ship on to Corguruth, and the city seat of Aleppan. He liked riding no more now than he had a year before, but he preferred the mare’s smooth pace far more than walking, or the jouncing of a wagon, the memory of the slaves pinned under the broken wagon still with him.
Cai had been waiting for him, sitting back on his heels, a small cudgel made of hardwood in his hand. When Jerzy had everything settled to his satisfaction, the weapons master approached. “Here. Gods willing, you will never need it. But. . .”
Jerzy accepted the weapon with a formal bow, student to teacher, and the Caulian returned it. “I will miss our lessons, Mil’ar Cai.”
Cai shrugged, the beads on his mustache jangling. “You are a Vineart-to-be, with Vineart’s responsibilities. Soon, there will be no more lessons with Cai at all. So I will go take my meal from Lil and flirt with the pretty girls before they throw me out for being a nuisance.” He looked at Jerzy a moment longer, then nodded once, and went on into the House without a further word.
Jerzy felt the ache inside him ease a little as he held the cudgel, then turned to tie it to the saddle, making sure the leather ties were secure. He heard someone walking behind him and recognized his master’s steps.
“You’re all set, then?” Jerzy turned again, nodding. His master’s narrow face was drawn and shadowed, and Jerzy felt a stronger pang at leaving now—even if for only a month. Now, when there was so much work to be done, work he should be helping with. . .
“Here. Take this with you.”
Jerzy took the disk from his master’s hand. It was small, perhaps twice the size of his thumbnail, with a hole cut in the middle. Letters were etched around the edge on one side, while the other was blank.
“Keep it with you at all times when you are away from here. It identifies you as a member of the House of Malech. Show it at any roadhouse or ale station in The Berengia, and you will be fed and housed without hesitation.”
Jerzy closed his fist around the token, feeling the cool weight against his palm, and nodded, a lump settling in his stomach that was all too familiar. Suddenly he remembered Cai’s words from months ago: Think you will always be within the safety of your Master’s House?
“You’ll be back in plenty of time for selection, much less Harvest,” Malech said, as though hearing his thoughts. “Learn what you can, both of Giordan’s skills, and what goes on in the city, and in the mouths of her citizens. Do not fail me, boy.”
“I won’t, Master,” Jerzy promised.
Malech stared at him, then looked out across the road and into the vineyard, and held up a cloth-wrapped package. “Normally, a Vineart would receive these when he set off to establish his first field. But. . .it seemed the right time, so long as we are already deviating from precedent.”
Jerzy took the package. The rough unbleached cloth unrolled easily to reveal a small bone-handled knife, sheathed in a waxed leather case with a loop on it, to slide onto his belt when he was working. The ivory-white hilt fit easily in Jerzy’s hand, and the narrow blade extended a finger’s length beyond, glinting in the sunlight.
“You should never have to borrow another man’s knife to cut the seal off one of your own bottles,” Malech said matter-of-factly.
“Master, I. . .” His palm closed around the handle so tightly his skin whitened. Master Malech had a similar case hooked to his own double-wrapped belt, hanging next to the silver tasting spoon. Jerzy had never owned anything of his own before, had never been given a true gift. He looked away, then wrapped the knife up again and slid it into the pack on the mare’s saddle next to the cudgel.
The wagon driver, a dark-skinned man who wore a white cloth wrapped around his head rather than the usual green straw hat most carters wore, came out from the vintnery, making sure that the slaves carrying three half casks of spellwine loaded them into the wagon to his satisfaction. The city lord, like all lords, had no authority to say nay to the exchange, but he could make things difficult while Jerzy was there, or cause trouble after, if not appeased. None of the casks were particularly strong vintages, but they would heal minor household ailments and the occasional sword cut, if handled properly. Fair enough exchange for compliance, Malech hoped.
Wagon loaded, the driver climbed up onto the bench and picked up the reins.
Malech nodded once. Nothing left to say, Jerzy mounted, and reached forward to pet the side of the mare’s neck to cover his own uncertainty. The mare snorted and shifted, clearly impatient to be moving.
“Dar-up!” the driver of the cart cried, and flicked his whip at the horse between its braces. The horse started, wheels creaked and turned, and Jerzy rode away from the only home he could remember.
THE FIRST PART of the journey was a blur of trees and roads and fields just starting to turn green with crops, where workers would stop to watch them pass. They did not pass by any vineyards, although Jerzy could see, once or twice as the road rose on a hill, distant slopes marked with the familiar pattern of brown-and-green stems. Once they saw a Washer, his staff and dark red robes marking him clearly, who looked up from his roadside lunch and raised his hands in the cup-of-mercy blessing. Jerzy saluted him back, but they did not speak, and then he was gone, left behind in the road.
He saw a contingent of guardsmen marching ahead in a double row, their colors marking them as belonging to Prince Ranulf. Their captain gave a respectful salute as Jerzy rode by, the proper regard of a foot soldier for any man mounted. The lump in his stomach tightened even as he acknowledged the salute and rode on. He didn’t understand why he felt so uneasy—he had been on the road before, when he was visiting other enclosures. The destination was different, but the travel itself was nothing new.
Except before, he had not been aware of any greater danger than failing a test, or disappointing Malech. Before, he had not known that there were forces and magics that could make even a Master Vineart worry.
Now the ditch alongside the road could hold dangers greater than muddy water or the random winter-hungry wolf, and Jerzy was suddenly aware that other than his cudgel he was unarmed, and the driver, while sturdy, carried no weapons at all. Cai had often lectured him that the first rule to staying out of trouble was not looking like you were looking for trouble, but Jerzy wasn’t sure how that worked when trouble was already looking for you.
He lifted his face to the sunlight and tried to let those worries go. Cai had taught him how to defend himself, and he had a strong horse, and a sturdy companion. Nothing would go wrong.
The cart’s driver was not much for speaking, and so the day passed in silence, broken by the two horses’ hooves, the wagon’s creaking, and birdsong winging overhead in the trees. Three times they passed through villages, mismatched assortments of rough stone buildings set at odd angles to one another, ringed by low-walled enclosures where small black goats and milky-white cattle grazed, but they did not stop until the sun was making a rapid descent in the west. Jerzy thought that his legs
were going to wear through at the hip and his upper body would fall off, leaving only a pair of legs still clamped in the stirrups, pressed against the mare’s side even in death.
Their destination was a squat, square building just off the side of the road. A roadhouse, Jerzy realized, and not a particularly nice one either, from the looks of it. Jerzy was too tired to care, so long as there was a place to sit that wasn’t on horseback. He only dimly realized that they had left The Berengia at the last road marker, and were now passing through Leiur—it all looked much the same to him, no matter who ruled or how they pronounced words. He was not, overall, impressed with traveling.
He followed the driver, at the man’s arm wave, around behind the building and into a small cobbled courtyard. The sound of hooves and wooden wheels rang out against the stones, and the mare came to a halt when Jerzy let the reins fall, dropping her head to her chest with an exhausted sigh, clearly understanding that they were done for the night.
The driver swung down from his seat, grimacing and rubbing his backside. “Boy, you have the Master’s token?”
Jerzy touched his belt pouch and felt the reassuring weight of the lead token against his fingers. “I do.”
The driver grunted. “Well, give it to the keeper, so we can get these beasts stabled and some food in our stomachs!”
A man emerged from the back door of the roadhouse. He was older even than Malech, his hair yellow-white and sparse over sun-leathered skin, and bent in the shoulders and hips, but his voice was steady and his hand quick as he asked for their payment.
“Here, Innkeep,” the carter said, and nodded to Jerzy, who showed the token, holding the dark metal coin in his palm.
“Vineart, hey?” the innkeep didn’t sound impressed. “Someone take these horses,” he yelled, a surprising bellow from such a wizened chest, and a short, slender figure darted out from the shadows, slipping the reins of the mare out from Jerzy’s hand without him feeling it.
“I’ll care good for her, Master,” the boy chirped, and the mare leaned forward to chew at his hair.
“And the cursed cart horse, too, fool,” the keep ordered, plucking the token out of Jerzy’s palm. “Come, travelers, come inside. There’s dinner left, if you’re hungry, and we’ll find you a place to sleep for the night.”
Jerzy took his bag and the cudgel off the saddle, noting the driver doing the same with his own belongings, and followed the keeper inside.
“The spellwine be safe on its own?” the driver asked Jerzy quietly, as the keeper signed their token in, and handed it back to Jerzy.
“Anyone who tries to break the seal on the tap will be unpleasantly surprised,” Jerzy assured him, not bothering to keep his voice low. If the keeper was thinking unsavory thoughts, he would either take the lesson, or learn the hard way. Either road, the spellwine would be safe from greedy hands.
They ate their meal of grilled river-white and early spring greens, surprisingly good, and retired to the small room under the eaves they were given. There was barely room for the two pallets and a stool, but the door closed securely and the shutters over the window could be barred from within, so the driver was satisfied. Jerzy placed his bag under the flat pillow and the cudgel within easy reach, took off his shoes, and lay down, his muscles aching but his stomach, at least, full.
That was the pattern for the next five days: on the road with sunrise, a slow steady walk that ate distance without straining the horses, eating a midday meal as they traveled, and then stopping at a roadhouse for the evening meal and a few hours of sleep. Along the way Jerzy finally learned that the wagon driver’s name was Ferd, that he was originally from a small town in southern Iaja, like Malech, and had traveled with the slavers for most of his life before settling down to take up carting through Leiur and The Berengia.
“I was a slave,” Jerzy said. After Cooper Shen’s visit, the thought sometimes came up, surprising him out of nowhere. He had been a slave. Was he still a slave?
“Yes.” Ferd nodded. “You all are at one point, you Vinearts. You an orphan or your parents sell you?”
Jerzy shrugged. “I don’t remember. Does it matter?”
“Not once you’re sold, no,” Ferd agreed. “Not once you’re sold.”
The rest of the day passed without conversation.
“I CAN SMELL it,” Jerzy said on the morning of the sixth day. A shiver pricked his spine, remembering the last time that he had seen the ocean: the screams of the injured, the sweat under his arms and down his back, the cold clutch in his gut and the tang of spellwine, soured by fear in his memory. For a moment, he felt the urge to ride back the way they had come. What was he thinking, to get on a ship, to go out into the very waters that monster had come from? Master Malech thought there was little risk, but he had not seen the monster moving through the wave, its great mouth open and hungry. . ..
He shuddered, and cupped his hands for Sin Washer’s kindness. There had been no reports of further incursions, no sightings along the coastlines. Master Malech was right. Whoever their mysterious enemy might be, he seemed to have moved on to another plan of attack.
Jerzy wasn’t sure if that should be reassuring, or disturbing.
“I hate the sea,” Ferd said, making a face. “Ships stink. Fish stink. Seabirds are thieves and sailors worse. You be careful on shipboard, boy. You’re too pretty for the likes of them.”
Jerzy laughed ruefully, even as a small hand clenched in his gut with this new thing to worry about, far more immediate than any monster. Shen had been courteous, but without Malech’s presence to protect him, would others leave him be? All he wanted was to be left alone. . ..
He closed his eyes tightly, and clenched his fingers around the leather reins, feeling the reassuring solidity of the mare under him, the regular pattern of her movement rattling his bones in an oddly comforting motion. He could stop her with a single movement, or make her go faster, or turn her to the direction he wanted. He was not helpless against her greater size. Malech had not punished him for turning down Cooper Shen. He could say no to something he did not want—with his cudgel, if need be, and he would not be punished.
Jerzy forced himself to relax his grip on the reins, before the mare thought something was wrong. Likely he was worrying for naught: after six days on the road his hair was lank against his scalp, his skin tight with grime, and he doubted he smelled of anything other than horse and sweat. Not even the loneliest of men or women would find him attractive right now, and if it would keep hands away, he would go without a bath for another five days, until he arrived at his destination.
AS IT TURNED out, he didn’t need to worry. The carrack Baphios, named for one of the silent gods, was ready to sail, and more than willing to take on a Vineart’s goods, and the boy accompanying them. The bill of lading was exchanged and, after saying farewell to Ferd, the mare tied to the back of the wagon for the return trip, Jerzy boarded the ship, went to his small cabin, and promptly became ill the moment the ship sailed out of the harbor and into the waves. The entire journey passed in a fog of turning his guts into a bucket, until there was nothing left to turn and his stomach felt as though it were folding in on itself from the strength of the dry heaves. He tried once to use a sip of healwine on himself, and couldn’t hold the wine on his tongue long enough to set the spell in motion, instead racing to the pail and vomiting again. The sour, almost burnt taste it left in his throat made him decide to simply ride the worst of it out. The journey was only three days; how long could he be ill?
“Next time, young sir,” the ship’s mate said with a sympathetic smirk when Jerzy staggered out of his bed the third morning, “you might consider taking the mountain road instead. You’ve not the makings of a sailor.”
Jerzy managed a weak grin of acknowledgment, and then threw up again, making the man dodge to miss the worst of it.
AS QUIET AS Malech had tried to keep his communications, the Vineart knew full well that once Jerzy arrived in Corguruth, gossip would spread, and questions w
ould be raised. All they could do was hope that by the time anyone took offense, the boy would be back home and any worries would be appeased. Fate planned otherwise, however, and word spread before Jerzy had set foot on the carrack, whispered into the very ears Malech had hoped to avoid: the Collegium.
Unlike the silent gods, whose priests tended only one congregation, the Washers wandered, and so the Collegium established stay-homes for them; places to gather, and to hear news of their order. Each was a simple house built of the local stone, each with the same simple floor plan: a main gathering space on the first floor, a matching space used as an open sleeping chamber upstairs, and a storage area below ground for the vin ordinaire they carried on their rounds, to bless the people and grant them solace as the Sin Washer himself had once done.
In one such gathering room in a stay-house near the river Mehnne in Upper Altenne, six men were huddled over a simple wooden table, intent on a recently delivered letter. The messenger, a young woman dressed in dark brown leathers with a single star burned into them between her shoulder blades, waited on a stool set just outside the door, a slender dog of the same dark brown patient at her feet. They watched the dusk scenery, ignoring the voices from within, the woman carefully sharpening a wicked blade twice the length of her hand and ignoring the cautious looks others gave her as they passed by.
“Master Vineart Malech is doing what?” A single voice was raised in outrage above the low murmur, ending with a screeching note.
The man who had been reading the message scanned it again, and repeated, “He is sending his student to live with another Vineart.”
That broke the room into a flurry of shouting, each overlapping the other.
Flesh and Fire Page 24