“That is impossible!”
“What is he thinking? It has never been done!”
“It is against the Commands!”
“Technically, it is not. Any of those things.”
The final speaker was not older than his fellows, nor wiser, nor distinguishable in any way, particularly. They were all males, all between their fourth and sixth decade, their heads and chins clean shaven, and all wearing the dark red robes of Washers. Only this speaker’s voice, deep and solid, gave him the ability to settle them, even for a moment. His name was Willem, and he did not pound the table, or stand, or even raise his voice further to demand their attention, but they all slewed in their seats to watch him as he continued speaking.
“The Commands never told them to keep their students close at hand, any more than it told them to raise them as slaves until their talents appear; it is merely a custom they follow. So it is neither impossible, nor against Sin Washer’s instructions, merely not traditional. Vinearts are traditionalists above all; it takes much for them to break habit. So, we cannot assume that this has not been done before and simply not been recorded. Vinearts are not ones for sharing their habits, not even with us, and yet we must acknowledge that there are ample examples among other folk. Princes and lords send their daughters to be fostered, their sons are given as hostage-guests—”
“Those are matters of state and negotiation,” one of his fellows—the one who had insisted that it was against the Commands—argued. “A Vineart partakes of none of those.”
“Or should not,” another said darkly. “There are reasons it has never been done, even if it is not specifically prohibited. Who is this Malech, that he flouts tradition in this way?”
The Washer who had been reading the letter originally double-checked the page. “He is a Master Vineart, originally of the desert territories of Iaja, taken and taught in The Berengia, where he inherited his master’s lands.”
“A desert dweller in The Berengia?” The Washer to his left, the oldest at the table, snorted in amusement at the thought. “Clearly, Vinearts do travel.”
“It is the nature of the slave trade, Brother Ae, to move the players around.”
“Disgusting practice, that,” Ae sniffed.
“More disgusting than sending a ten-year-old girl child off to marry a stranger in an Agreement of negotiation, as is the custom of your people?” Willem raised his hand to stop the discussion from going further. “It is all an argument of custom, brother. Custom, not Command. The question we should be asking now is not if he may do this thing, as clearly he has already made the arrangements, but why.”
There were mutters of agreement at that. Collegium training was clear on one point: that magic needed to be controlled and contained, not allowed free rein.
“He claims that the boy is a prodigy, a skilled learner whose talent would be enhanced by learning more than the narrow skills he, Malech, possesses. False modesty, perhaps, but it is a valid if unconventional claim.” Willem sounded amused in that last bit, as though well aware of the impact such an unconventional act would have.
“And other Vinearts agree to this?”
“He needed only one, Brother Michel. Vineart Giordan of Aleppan, working in Agreement with the maiar of that city.”
“And the maiar of Aleppan has agreed to this?”
Another brother, silent until now, snorted at his fellow’s innocence. “Assuming the Vineart even bothered to ask? This is a matter of the Vines, not State. The maiar might fuss, but why? The lord-maiar of Aleppan needs his Vineart, as all maiars do.”
Michel shook his head. “Why are we so upset, then? If the secular authorities have no problem with Vinearts trading students. . .”
“One student, between two Vinearts. Let us not make this into a situation more than it is,” Willem interjected into their dialogue.
“Fine,” Michel accepted the correction. “If two Vinearts agree, and the sole maiar involved does not object or feel threatened, then why are we even discussing it, no matter how our personal opinions might fall?”
“Because it is precedent. What might look innocent on the surface might have deeper layers beneath. As I asked before: who is this Malech, and what might he intend by this action? More, who is this student, so talented to require the breaking of tradition?”
Willem shook his head, as though saddened by his brother’s ignorance. “You are new to the roads, but I would have thought they taught some history before they let you out of the solus. Master Malech specializes in healspells, including one that kept his region from being de-populated during the rose plague, before he had achieved Master status. More, he is the only Vineart in this generation to successfully craft vin melancholia, the mind-heal. We have used a number of Master Malech’s spellwines ourselves, over the years. He has always treated fairly with us, and given no indication that he desires anything more than to continue as he always has.”
“Until now,” the doubting Washer said.
“Indeed, until now. It is a simple question, my brothers,” Willem said, “and a simple solution: we must meet this young man, this young Vineart, and see if he, like his master, is an honest soul. . .or something else.”
Chapter 16
After the quiet of his own cabin, the noise and chaos of the dock overwhelmed Jerzy, the shouting of men and rumbling of wagons on the land clashing with the hollow thudding of half a dozen ships of every size, their sides gently knocking against the quays. The moment he stepped off the gangway and onto the weather-beaten wooden planking, he narrowly missed getting knocked in the head by a sack being off-loaded, and when he ducked, he ran into a burly shoreman hauling up ropes tossed from the deck of the Baphios. He backed away, stuttering apologies, and bumped into another sailor, this one of a less rude temperament.
“To meet someone I go?” he managed to get out in badly mangled Corguruth.
The sailor pointed to the right, where people were gathered in a cleared area. “If someone’s to meet ya, they’ll be there.” His Ettonian had a strange accent but was clearly understandable. Jerzy nodded his thanks, adjusted the strap of his carry bag over his shoulder, and ordered his oddly wobbly legs to take him in that direction. Sure enough, as he approached, a stranger stepped forward to greet him, effusive in passable Berengian.
“Ah, and you, you must be Jerzy, yes? You are!”
“I am,” he agreed, moving carefully, trying to adjust his footing against land that seemed to rock underneath him. The stranger, who looked perhaps twice Jerzy’s age, with thick black hair and a broad, tanned face that cracked open in a dazzling white smile, stepped forward as though to hug him. Jerzy held up an instinctive hand, warning the man away. “I. . .I did not have an easy trip,” he admitted, taking a step back and stumbling slightly again. “And now the ground itself seems to dislike me.”
The stranger laughed, the sound as open and welcoming as his smile had been, but Jerzy winced, his nightmare of being a fool in public coming back to him with a sudden flare.
“Sea legs,” the stranger said soothingly in Ettonian, to Jerzy’s relief. The accent was easier to follow in that tongue. “All will be well again once you’ve walked it off. So, you are Jerzy, and I am Giordan, yes?” The smile was back, clearly delighted with the fact of Jerzy being Jerzy, and himself being himself, and having it all sorted out so neatly.
“Yes,” Jerzy agreed, more than a little overwhelmed by this man, so impossibly different from his own master. “You must be.”
The Vineart was clearly a madman. But perhaps he had to be a madman to agree to this scheme. Jerzy’s legs wobbled and his head hurt, and it was too much effort to do anything other than go along.
“Excellent,” the Vineart declared as though Jerzy had spoken his thoughts out loud. “And so we will gather your things from this very fine ship, and take you home with us.”
“Us” turned out to be two muscular slaves who were given the responsibility of handling the half casks, and a very thin man with a hook n
ose and thin lips, who leaned against the wall of a warehouse and watched the slaves work with a look of boredom on his face.
“That? Is Sar Anton.” “Sar,” Cai had taught him, was a title, not a name. It indicated someone of royal favor but no actual birthlines. The title was given for service or fondness or, Cai said, a suitable application of coin. “He does not approve of you. He does not approve of me, either. He approves of no one, save they are exactly like him, and few of them there are, more luck for us. And yet we must take him, and we must be nice to him, for he is much admired by my lord-maiar, who is otherwise a fine man who likes me well as well and therefore has excellent taste in who he chooses, yes?”
Sar Anton nodded acknowledgment of the strange introduction, but otherwise did not look away from the slaves, who were hauling the half casks onto a wagon of far finer construction than Ferd’s, with a wooden bench running along the back and a raised, padded seat up behind the driver’s perch.
Jerzy felt dizzy, and he didn’t think it was merely the ground movement that was to blame. Why had an entitled man come to meet him? But there was no way to ask, even if he’d found the courage to speak.
His trunk was the next to be acquired out of the hold and loaded next to the half casks. When Jerzy nodded to indicate that everything was accounted for, the slaves clambered into the back, making themselves as comfortable as possible on the bench.
“You, up there, yes,” Giordan directed him, indicating the padded bench. “For today at least you are my honored guest. Tomorrow, then we put you to work and we see what it is you can learn from me, and what I can learn from you, yes?”
“Yes,” Jerzy agreed, taking up his cudgel and pack and climbing up into the seat. He tried not to notice how Sar Anton climbed in next to him, holding his thin frame stiffly, as though afraid to let his clothing touch Jerzy’s and risk dirtying himself somehow.
Jerzy felt a fleeting, if unworthy, wish that the seasickness had not passed entirely, that he could have thrown up one last time upon Sar Anton’s fine clothing.
Giordan kept up a rapid pace of conversation the entire trip to the maiar’s House, which he called a palazzo. “I came here when my master sent me out. No wealth, no lands, for my master had none to give me. The lord-maiar here had lands, lands he planted with grain and grazed cattle on. Grains and cattle! I could feel it, the moment I trod down, crying out for the vines, and so it was done, although not easily, no. . .”
From his vantage point, still dizzy and overwhelmed by the seemingly endless prattle of his new teacher, Jerzy let the words flow over him and watched the countryside pass by. The road was narrow, not wide enough for two carts to pass each other, and the fields sloped down away from it on one side and rose up into hills on the other.
“Those are the Jurans?” he asked, pointing toward the hills. The tallest of them were still white capped, despite spring’s arrival.
“Yes, they are, yes. You came from the other side of them, yes. Difficult travel. I did it once, when I was younger. Very cold even in the summer. Our ice comes from there.”
“That’s why we took the coastal route,” Jerzy said in agreement. The roads might have been passable now that thaw was done, but they might also have been blocked with mudslides or other disasters, and no way to know until you were already there.
“And did you enjoy your voyage?” Sar Anton asked, his tone indicating whatever answer Jerzy might give, it would be wrong.
“No,” he said simply. He had already admitted that, so there seemed no point in denying it now. “I am afraid that I am not a very good sea traveler.”
Sar Anton looked sideways at him, those sharp dark eyes taking in every inch of Jerzy’s frame. Suddenly the trou and doublet Detta had so lovingly made for him seemed shabby and ill-fitting, and his long arms and legs an affront against all that was decent. Sar Anton wore a formal half coat and leggings, and even Vineart Giordan’s trou and doublet were of a finer cloth than Master Malech wore most days. Jerzy stared at his shoes and took some satisfaction in the fact that they, at least, were the equal of anyone’s footwear, soft leather, with thin wooden soles flexible enough to walk all day without wearing down. Sar Anton’s boots were polished and clean, but they were worn at the heel and ankle, and the laces needed replacing.
“And here we are,” Giordan announced happily. “For you, your first sight of the palazzo of my lord the maiar of Aleppan!”
From the tone of triumph in his voice, Jerzy expected some great shining structure to rise before them, blinding in its wealth, surrounded by vineyards in full bloom. What he saw, instead, was a great stone wall rising out of a hill, with a single stone tower rising from behind it. Then the road rounded the hill, and spread out behind the wall were the familiar terraces of grapevines, sloping down a gentle grade to a ribbon of river half hidden by tall, angular trees. To the left, a grove of darker leafed trees grew, surrounded by small huts.
“What is your yield?” he asked Giordan, to hide his disappointment. The Vineart launched into an explanation of their harvesting process, with sideways swoops into how they alternated the grape harvest with the olives taken from the grove of trees. “The oil, it is very important to this land. We cannot cook without it. We cannot eat without it!”
Jerzy had tried a few of the brined fruits, at Malech’s urgings, and not been impressed, but did not say so. Then they rounded the hill again and were riding under the arched entrance, and suddenly Jerzy understood why Giordan had been so excited and why Sar Anton looked down his long nose at a poor Berengian farmer.
Through the arch, the first things Jerzy saw were the buildings. Where his master’s house was splendid in its isolation, these buildings were taller and far narrower, pressed up against one another and yet not seeming crowded at all. They were built of the same gray stone as the external walls, with dark red roofs that slanted down at the corners, so rain could drain off them and into gutters carved into the cobbled streets. The windows were small but the shutters were brightly painted in yellows and reds, making the stone seem not cold but welcoming, and almost every ledge boasted an overflow of flowers in the same yellows and reds and leafy green. He tried not to gape, but suspected his jaw was hanging open anyway. The people passing him by in the street were all as finely dressed as Sar Anton, although many of them were carrying their own packages and baskets, something Jerzy suspected the Sar would never deign to do.
“Welcome to Aleppan,” the Vineart said, and Jerzy heard nothing but an understandable pride in his voice. “Indeed, it is a grand city, but our humble home, as well. My yard is outside the gates, and we shall spend much of our time there, but we are given the honor of housing with the maiar at his own palazzo, yes. It is a grand palace, worthy of the ancient founders. . ..” Giordan looked up at Jerzy and grinned. “And with their plumbing, as well!”
Jerzy started to ask what the Vineart meant by that, then the wagon cleared another, smaller stone archway, and came out into a huge courtyard filled with flowering trees and a huge white stone statue of a woman with her hand on the back of a stag, its head proudly upraised. He barely had time to take that in, when they were getting out of the wagon, the slaves taking it, and the half casks, away, and Jerzy had his personal belongings in hand and was being led up white stone steps into the palazzo.
“Gracious Lady,” Giordan was saying to the woman who came out to greet them, making an extravagant bow that Jerzy wasn’t sure he was supposed to imitate, not that he could have managed it without falling on his face. “May I present our honored visitor, the Vineart-apprentice Jerzy of the House of Malech?”
The Gracious Lady was a tall, elegant woman with gray hair swept up on the top of her head and hard, lean features that still managed to look feminine. She was dressed in a flowing green robe, and yet reminded Jerzy, oddly enough, of the overseer, although he could not have said why.
She offered her hand to Jerzy and, helplessly, he took it. The fingers were slender and cool and bore a single ring of gold and red st
ones that reminded Jerzy of his master’s ring, although that had no stones. Acting on the whisper of Cai’s voice in his head, Jerzy bent his head over that hand and raised it to his lips, not quite touching the powder-rough skin.
“My Lady,” he said in what he hoped was passable Corguruth. “The pleasure is mine.”
“Indeed it is,” the woman said, but when he glanced up, her mouth was curved in a smile. “We hope that you are made to feel welcome in our home. Sar Anton”—and this was directed over his head to their erstwhile traveling companion—“attend me in my rooms.” With that, she took no further notice of Jerzy, gliding serenely out of the hallway, Sar Anton in her wake. Giordan clapped his shoulder once, roughly, to reassure him. “She liked you, and of course she did. Go now, settle in, and I will see you soon.” Giordan likewise hurried off to some destination of his own, and Jerzy was left standing, feeling like a witless fool.
A young woman dressed in a simple dark blue dress and a wide leather belt similar to Jerzy’s own, her dark blond hair coiled at the nape of her neck, stepped forward out of the shadows. “We run at breakneck speed here,” she said in Ettonian. “You will learn the pace of it soon enough. My name is Mahault. If you have any questions, you may ask me.” She seemed young to be the House-keeper, especially of a place this grand, but perhaps she was the House-keeper’s assistant. Unlike the Gracious Lady, her gaze was steady and her body language that of calm competence, very much like Detta’s.
With a gesture, she handed him over to a young, soft-spoken servant of his own age, who in turn directed another servant, less grandly dressed, to take Jerzy’s trunk, and gestured for the Vineart to follow him to his quarters. Overwhelmed with the sheer amount of people and stripped of Giordan’s companionship, Jerzy complied.
The hallways were simple stone, covered by finely worked tapestries and lit by torches. Jerzy allowed himself a smidge of smugness—the torches burned with a strong smell and flickered in every breeze, and there were dark spots in the ceiling above, where they had scrubbed away accumulated soot. Malech’s firespell candles were clearly superior in that regard, at least.
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