Flesh and Fire

by Laura Anne Gilman

  As that first week ended and Ao did not contact him, or appear anywhere Jerzy looked, he assumed that the trader had been pulled back into his clan’s negotiations and forgotten all about his promise to teach Jerzy more on how to go unnoticed. Thankfully, Giordan seemed to settle down once the excitement of Jerzy’s arrival wore off, and the lessons began to grip more of Jerzy’s attention.

  Giordan was quizzing him on the elements of location and its effect on mustus on an otherwise quiet afternoon, when a slender young woman appeared in the door of the cellar and waited, clearly there for a reason. A second sideways glance confirmed the fact that she was the House-keeper Jerzy had been handed over to on the first day.

  “And in the mountains?” Giordan hadn’t noticed the woman, intent on the lecture.

  Even distracted by the new arrival, Jerzy didn’t have to think about that, the response coming directly to his lips. “Brownstone and gravel. The grapes there are grown on the upper slopes, to catch the most of the sunlight, and allow the river to flow down past the roots rather than pool around them. The conditions create a ripe fruit that can be harvested early, before frost settles in, but because of that, the magic does not have time to come to ripeness, and only a strong Vineart can craft a spellwine from the grapes. The vin ordinaires of that region are in high demand, however, because of their sweetness.”

  “You sound disapproving,” the woman said, breaking into the lesson without shame. She was still dressed in a simple gown, but today the color was brighter, the fabric more fine, and there were jewels on her fingers and in her coiled-back hair, making her skin seem even paler.

  Jerzy blinked in surprise at the interruption, and glanced at Giordan for direction. The Vineart, however, merely made a subdued greeting and then seemed to be particularly fascinated with a nonexistent smudge on the wall, offering no help at all.

  “There is nothing wrong with vin ordinaire, Mistress Mahault. My master himself serves it at his table.” Occasionally, and only the finest quality. No need to say that. “And yet, a Vineart crafts spellwine. The magic is why we exist, our purpose in this world. Vin ordinaire is. . .”

  “Common?”

  Jerzy felt the walls close in around him like a trap. “My lady, I would not say so.”

  “But you would think so?” She stared at him, her eyes cooler than Malech’s even when he was angry, and he shivered. “I am not a fan of the sweet wines, but do not ever presume that one without magic is without power, Vineart. Common, or no.”

  Jerzy realized, suddenly, that he had been wrong in his first assumption. This was no House-keeper, not dressed as she was, and speaking with such assurance and menace.

  “Vineart Giordan. My mother would speak with you at your convenience. She expects a new shipment of spices today, and would welcome your assessment of their quality.”

  “Of course,” Giordan said. “It would be my honor to lend my nose to such an event.”

  She nodded once to Giordan, who sketched a shallow bow in return, and exited the room with a sweep of fabric and the faint scent of autumn flowers. Jerzy shivered although the workroom was comfortably cool.

  “Spices. Bah. I won’t be able to work for an hour, after. But we do what we must. And you, you are a fool and a menace,” Giordan said, shaking his head. “Malech is strong enough to spit in the face of the power, but do not think you are, no matter how talented you may indeed be. That was the lord-maiar’s daughter herself you just crossed words with. She may not be a favored child right now, but her word could toss us both to the street, if she so chose.”

  The chill returned, this time bringing sweat. “But the lord-maiar—”

  “Bah,” Giordan said again. “The maiar is only the ruler outside his home, in the city, and over the people. Here, the lady-wife rules. Save my vines, all here is hers, and her daughter’s after her.”

  Jerzy gaped at him.

  “Close your mouth, you look the idiot you are.” Giordan had the tone of someone about to explain that water was wet and the sun warm. “Ah, Jerzy you are talented, yes, but foolish, and your master’s isolation makes him forget things. We Vinearts, we are exempt from the rest of society, but you must know how to live in it nonetheless, so learn this and learn it well. By law, a home, no matter the grandeur, is the woman’s to hold and to manage. So it is in the prince’s own castle and the meanest farmer’s hut. Here, and in your own land as well. Only a Vineart, by Sin Washer’s grace without a wife, might call his land his own. Thus has it ever been, in custom and in law.”

  Jerzy forced his jaw shut and bent his head, his cheeks flaming with the heat of embarrassment.

  “Ah,” Giordan said again, finally taking pity on him. “Worry not, for now. Women are complicated, and laws twice so. The vines, that is what we are made to focus on; the vines will never confuse us. Come”—he tugged Jerzy by the arm—“come and walk with me. Let the girl cool down and all will be well. It is time you met my children, anyhow.”

  The Vineart stopped long enough only to throw some items into a brown rucksack, then led Jerzy out, bringing him to a door in the garden wall Jerzy had not noticed before.

  “There are times,” Giordan said, that mischievous twinkle back in his eyes that made him look barely older than Jerzy himself, “when I do not wish to face the city dwellers and their noise and. . .bustle.” He made a squinched-up face to indicate his distaste for that. “Thus,” he said, and with a grand gesture, an arched doorway appeared in the wall. “A back door.”

  Walking through the archway, Jerzy discovered that they were now in the enclosure where the ponies that pulled the carry carts through the city were pastured, half a distance from the larger doors of the cellar. It took them time to walk along the wall to the main gate, and down the secondary road that led to Giordan’s vines, but the Vineart refused to hear of taking a cart from the enclosure.

  “Walk the ground, Jerzy! It is the only way you can truly know what you are growing. Sleep in the same soil, get your fingers into it, know its moods as you know the color of your eyes.”

  Jerzy couldn’t disagree with the Vineart, but as he stretched his legs to keep up with the taller man, he could feel blisters forming on his heels and toes. The roads were narrow and rutted here, the result of decades of cart wheels digging into the dirt, and his shoes were too new still, and uncomfortable.

  “Tell me about the maiar’s daughter,” he said, looking for something to take his mind off his discomfort.

  Giordan laughed, a surprised whoof of a noise. “She’s a bit old for you, boy, even if you were likely to do something about it.”

  Jerzy hadn’t meant it that way, but Giordan’s dismissal stung. “I’ve sixteen years,” he said, scowling down at the ground and exaggerating only a little. He actually wasn’t sure how old he was; slaves didn’t celebrate birthdays, as Giordan well knew.

  “And she’s near three more than that, and set for a political alliance soon, no doubt.” The Vineart’s lively expression sobered for a moment. “Are you thinking of her that way, boy? Do your thoughts wander to a companion?”

  Jerzy let a few steps pass before he answered. Detta had teased him that way, about the girl she was fostering, and Lil flirted with him, without harm. Roan was planning to marry a man from the nearest village, a potter, after next Harvest. He had seen them walking, hand in hand, on more than one occasion, Roan’s head leaning against his shoulder. And men and women. . .they went together, the way animals did, only in private, and not only in season. Did he feel like that about Mahault?

  “I don’t think so,” he said finally. “I’m just curious.”

  “Curious is good,” Giordan said, clearly relieved. “Be curious. But be careful. Sin Washer strips the urge from us soon enough, so steer any impulse you might have away from the daughters of men with power, or women with money. Your life will be simpler for it.”

  All other discussion ended when they reached the vineyard. Unlike the fields at home, the vines here were terraced down a straight slo
pe, and planted in straight rows rather than clumps.

  “We had a bad bout of leaf-rot about two decades ago,” Giordan explained, when Jerzy asked about that difference. “In order to save the plants, each vine had to be individually treated, and we discovered that it was much easier if we planted them this way.”

  They walked along the rows slowly, allowing Jerzy enough time to investigate the way the vines were strung along a center post. It was too early for the grapes to have fully ripened yet, but the bunches hanging low on the branches were glossy and healthy looking.

  “They’re. . .beautiful,” Jerzy said in awe.

  “Are they not?” Giordan sounded like a doting parent, or a fond lover, but Jerzy couldn’t begrudge him it, or deny that he had cause. The cluster of grapes resting in Jerzy’s hand were still unripe, small and hard, but the skins shimmered in the sunlight with a pure green color that Jerzy found almost hypnotizing.

  “I’ve never seen skins this color before. And when they ripen?”

  “Like the sky at sunset, they are. Russet streaks like clouds running before a hard wind.”

  Giordan let his hands drop, grinning widely, as though aware that he was acting more like a poet than a Vineart. Jerzy’s first opinion of him had been confirmed: the Vineart was a madman, but an amazingly talented one, to take these difficult, temperamental grapes to ripeness. Malech had been right: there was a great deal Jerzy could learn from him.

  There were only two workers in the field, moving slowly along the rows and pausing every now and again to check something.

  “You don’t have a sleep house,” Jerzy noted suddenly. He had known that, of course, and yet it had not seemed quite real. “No slaves, no sleep house, no overseer. . .”

  “No, no. The maiar, he. . .does not understand, entirely, our ways. Our agreement, he gives me workers to help with the harvest, he loans them to me for when I need them, and in return I craft him wines he does not need pay for, and we each do well.” Giordan shrugged. “It is not ideal but it serves my purposes. These lands—he grew grain, grazed cattle on them!” Giordan shook his head as though amazed still at such a misuse. “Perfect for my vines, perfect.”

  Suddenly, Jerzy understood why Giordan had agreed to Malech’s plan; he had no slaves, and therefore nowhere to find a student. Did he think that Jerzy. . .? No. He simply had the urge to show someone else, someone who would understand what he did. The Vineart was driven by ego, not a concern for the greater world, or the betterment of the vines themselves. The Command to tend only to his vines to the exclusion of power, the exclusion of wife or glory, became for him power and wife and glory itself.

  Jerzy was starting to think that the world was even more complicated than he could have imagined. That thought made him shrink a little inside with the desire to go home, where things made sense and he knew whom to trust.

  Giordan, meanwhile, was indicating the bunch that Jerzy was still examining. “Go on. Taste.”

  Jerzy hesitated: it was not forbidden, exactly. . .was it? Surely if it were, Giordan would not have told him to. He was acting with Giordan’s permission; that was within the Command. He was not trying to take anything from the Vineart, not imposing his power over another. . .

  He picked one of the grapes off the cluster; it resisted at first, then sprang free into his grasp. Unlike a ripe grape, there was no bleed of juice where it had been attached to the stem. The flesh was still firm, and the skin resisted his teeth slightly as he bit into it.

  Tartness was the first impression, not unexpected with an unripe grape. Then a sensation of bittersweet juice, like a limon, only greener, fresher. “Grass,” he said, barely aware that he was speaking. “Grass and wind, and the air after a storm.”

  The sound of clapping broke him from his taste-trance, and he blinked, seeing Giordan beaming at him. “Yes, you have the proper taste of it; your master was quite right! But now you must feel the result of such taste, as well. Come, come, the day is perfect for it.”

  Jerzy had no idea what he was talking about, until the Vineart pulled his rucksack off his shoulder and withdrew a leather wineskin.

  “This most recent vinification,” he said, uncorking the skin with a flourish. Jerzy wondered if the other man was capable of doing anything without a flourish. “Windspell, yes. A bit rough, but then, that’s only to be expected, is it not? Come, come!”

  They climbed to the top of the ridge, onto the low stone wall that ringed the enclosure. It would not keep anyone out, not even an ambitious goat, but it made for an excellent perch on which to see the entire scope of the vineyard slope, and back up the hill again to the city itself, with its own much higher, more strongly built walls.

  “What do you see?”

  Jerzy took the question as a lesson, meaning there was more to it than the obvious. He let his eyes scan the scene, soaking in everything he could. “The grapes are growing well, no brown or dried-out spots visible, and the leaf-cover looks full enough to protect the grapes from too much sun or rain. The road is dry.” He had enough evidence of that on his shoes and pants leg, but the soil under the roots was damp. “You have an irrigation system?”

  “Drainage, yes. But what do you see?”

  “There is someone, no two someones, coming down the road, both on horseback. They are riding at speed. You don’t have any trees in your vineyard—did you cut them down when you replanted?” That wasn’t what Giordan had asked him about, so Jerzy moved on, scanning to see what might possibly be wrong. “The sky is blue, with a few clouds, and the sun is at a late-afternoon angle. We will be late for evening meal if we don’t leave soon.”

  “Patience. A missed meal never hurt anyone, not even me. You say that there are clouds.”

  Jerzy looked at the sky again, just to make sure. “Yes.” He almost started to say master, out of habit, but bit down hard before the word escaped. He would learn from Giordan, willingly, but he was not his master. “Small clouds, in the eastern distance.” He suspected he knew where this conversation was going, now.

  Sure enough, Giordan handed him the wineskin. “The fields are thirsty, Vineart. Call us some rain.”

  Before the root-glow, Jerzy would have frozen at such an instruction, to blithely attempt the most delicate and complicated of all spellwines. Before the serpent, he might have hesitated, doubting his own ability. Malech would not use weatherspells, calling them among the most difficult and dangerous spells to manage. Unlike healwines, which could be directed to a specific ailment and a specific result, calling rain meant meddling with a multitude of forces beyond the immediate result. Rain meant clouds. Clouds meant wind. Wind meant it came from somewhere else, and went on to somewhere else after it left the clouds. . ..

  A windspell was mostly used out on the seas, to fill sails. To call rain, the rare waterspells would be more effective. Malech would frown on such a casual, pointless use.

  Master Malech was not here. Giordan would not offer it to him if it were not all right to do. Jerzy took the wineskin and lifted it to his mouth.

  The first mouthful was pure fruit, clean and fresh. Then the undertone hit his tongue and the roof of his mouth: deeper and greener, with an edge of bitterness. The taste of the unripe grape came back to him, the ability within him comparing the two tastes, sensing the similarities—and the differences. Unlike many of the spellwines Jerzy had helped Malech craft, these grapes did not change in the vinification, they intensified.

  He closed his eyes and tried to recall the specific incantation. Changing the words slightly didn’t change the effect, usually, but with the Vineart in question right there next to him. . .

  “Rain come hither,” he whispered. Almost immediately he could feel the moisture, pressing against his skin as though the very air were drenched in it. “Light onto this yard.” He wasn’t sure if “light” or “gently” was the proper term for what Giordan wanted, but the former seemed more in tone with the language of the invocation.

  “Go,” he whispered, and let the spellwine
slip down his throat. He was more interested in feeling how the taste changed from initial mouth feel to notice the results of the spell, until a gust of wind nearly knocked them both off the wall.

  “Ah,” Giordan said, casting a glance upward. “Oh. That. . .was not good.”

  “What?”

  A second blast of wind made him stagger, and he reached for Giordan to steady himself, but he was already off balance, and the next gust of wind knocked him forward. He landed hard, on his face in the dirt.

  “Jerzy!” The Vineart dropped to his knees and began pulling him upright. “Are you well? Did you harm yourself? If you can walk, we must go, and hurry!”

  “Wha—?”

  Jerzy looked up at the sky as Giordan was getting him to his feet and almost sat down hard in shock. The sky, pale blue just moments ago, was now filled with dark clouds. Dark, wet-looking clouds.

  “You said to call rain?” he asked hopefully.

  “Rain, a gentle, soft rain. Not a storm!”

  Even as Giordan shouted that, a loud crack sounded from the sky, rumbling down into the valley, and both of them started to run. They had barely made it out of the vineyard and back onto the road when the first rain began to fall, hard cold pellets that struck Jerzy’s skin and made him wince. This was not good. Not good at all. The dry road turned to stone-filled mud, making footing twice as treacherous as before. Even as he minded his steps, trying to keep his vision clear enough to see, Jerzy was worrying about the damage this rain might do to the grape clusters, how much of the crop might be lost due to his carelessness. His heart sank, and his brain felt as sodden as his clothing. How could he have mangled things so badly?

  The thought settled into his brain and every slam of rain only drummed it in deeper, the pounding of their feet adding another weight, until it was all he could think, all he could hear: if the harvest is damaged, it will be all my fault.