Flesh and Fire

by Laura Anne Gilman

  It was as though Malech were standing next to him, the mental slap was so real. Or maybe it was the memory of Guardian’s voice: You are Vineart.

  Only slightly more resolved, he looked around again, but did not see Ao. “Excuse me,” he said to the serving woman as she passed by, her tray now empty. “I am looking for the Eastern Wind traders?”

  The woman gave him a once-over remarkably similar to that of the cat’s, and pointed with her chin to the back of the room.

  “Thank you,” he said, but it was to her backside, as she headed for the kitchen.

  Approaching the indicated group, Jerzy finally saw Ao perched on a bench, for once staying very still and quiet as two older men and a woman argued vehemently about something in a tongue that managed to be both guttural and flowing at the same time, like water over sharp rocks. The woman and the older man both had similar features, with rounded faces and broad noses, and were dressed like Ao in soberly formal attire that made sense if they had meant to meet with the maiar today. The third man, however, had much darker skin, wore a sleeveless leather jerkin trimmed with white fur, and his long black mustache was braided, giving him a wildly exotic look. He was the one doing most of the talking, while the others seemed to be disagreeing with him.

  Uncertain again, Jerzy paused, and at that moment the woman looked up. She was old, with white hair and deep wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but Jerzy got a sense of strength and determination from her. Mahault, he thought suddenly, would get old like this woman.

  The trader woman paused long enough to tap Ao with her elbow, and direct him toward Jerzy’s direction, saying something to him in an undertone. Ao looked up, then looked back to the woman, replying in an equally low tone. The man—the delegation’s leader, Jerzy recalled— said something over the both of them, and the woman shook her head, tapping Ao again, more firmly this time. Ao’s expression did not change, but he was clearly hoping that the woman would prevail.

  Finally, the man made a gesture with his left hand, and Ao shot up out of his seat and came forward to join Jerzy.

  “Out, quickly, before he changes his mind and makes me sit through more useless complaining about things that can’t be changed!”

  Once out in the street, Jerzy looked at his friend suspiciously. The trader was bright-eyed, without any hint of the shadows or puffiness Jerzy had seen on his own face that morning.

  “What?” Ao touched his wide, scarred nose as though expecting to find something stuck to it.

  “You told me you don’t drink,” Jerzy said suddenly. “Your people, you said they had no use for drink. But you had ale with me, and in there. . ..” He wasn’t quite able to accuse his friend of lying to him, but the suspicion came through in his voice.

  “Oh, that was truth, true enough; my people have no truck with your Vineart’s ways. An occasional ale, though, now that is needful to business discussions. It soothes the throat and loosens the tongue and makes the work seem ever so much more social. For the other person, that is.” Ao hooked his arm in Jerzy’s companionably and started walking down the street, still talking. Bemused, Jerzy followed along without protest.

  “The first thing you learn,” Ao said, without apology, “is when to drink. . .and when to let half of your mug find its way elsewhere. The tavern we were in last night, did you notice the floor?”

  Jerzy tried to remember, then shook his head.

  “Softwood. Very popular in places like that; it soaks up liquids, so there’s less cleanup to do when they close. I only drank half my first tankard and dumped most of the rest when you weren’t looking.” Ao chuckled, clearly proud of himself. “I wanted to see what you might say when you were foam-faced.”

  “You. . .I. . .” Jerzy stopped dead in the street, forcing Ao to stop as well. “You—”

  “And you said not a word, not sober or drunk. I say again, I could make a trader out of you.”

  It was so clearly meant as a compliment, Jerzy couldn’t find a comeback this time.

  “But you did not come down here to learn my secrets,” Ao said. “So, what is it?”

  “I did, actually. Or, not to learn your secrets. But to learn my own.” Jerzy stopped, aware how jumbled that sounded. “I need your help.”

  Ao looked at Jerzy, all joking gone, and in that moment the few years’ difference in their ages seemed closer to a decade. “We need to talk. No, not here. Somewhere you are comfortable.”

  * * *

  THAT “SOMEWHERE” WAS the stone fence enclosing Giordan’s vineyard. The flesh of the fruit was starting to swell with juice, and Jerzy felt a pull inside to be home, watching their own vines. He shivered, and Ao mistook it for cold.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go inside somewhere?”

  “No. Here is better.” The sun had warmed the stones, and the breeze was fresh coming off the hills. Looking at the vines, even if they weren’t his, gave him the courage he needed to speak.

  “You asked me before, what I was here for. I told you the truth, I’m here to learn from Vineart Giordan. My master sent me for that purpose.”

  He paused, looking out into the vines. “That purpose . . . and another.” It was harder to say the words than he had thought, enough to make him wonder if Master Malech had incanted him somehow, to prevent the secret from being shared. But no, there were no spells that could do that against a person’s will.

  Or so Malech claimed. Might he have lied about that?

  Jerzy forced the doubts away. “Over the past year, my master has been hearing rumors, stories. A Vineart disappeared, mysteriously. Protection spells faltered, vattings failed without cause. . .our own vineyard was attacked by an infestation out of season—something that could not happen on its own.”

  Ao looked interested, but not concerned. “All those things, could they just be coincidence, a run of bad luck, or a decantation somehow gone awry?”

  “They could. My master says that most of those he heard from assumed they were, each individual thing happening only to them. But then. . .Ao, in your travels, have you heard of sea serpents?”

  “There is no such thing as sea—” Ao stopped. “Are there?”

  “I’ve seen one.”

  That stopped Ao cold for a second.

  “Sea serpents. Creatures of magic. They are attacking coastal towns, two at least, but there are likely more, unreported.”

  He waited for Ao to make the connection.

  “Merchant ships? The cargos that are delayed. . .You think. . .”

  Jerzy made a helpless gesture. “My master fears that this is all part of a single attack, that someone is using magic to attack.”

  “Against Vinearts? Another Vineart? But why? I mean . . .” Ao frowned, working it out aloud. “Princes go to war for power, or land, or sometimes just because the other insulted them. Vinearts. . .why would a Vineart war on another? For his vines? I thought that they were handed down, that they stayed within your. . .family lines, or whatever you call it?”

  “If a Vineart has secondary yards, he usually deeds them to his student,” Jerzy agreed. “There are only so many places the vines grow, and attempts to move them. . .rarely succeed.” Jerzy stopped, unwilling to say more. Malech had taught him that vin magica required three elements: vines, soil, and weather. If one was missing, there was no mustus, and if there was no mustus, there was no vin magica, and no spellwine. That wasn’t a secret, exactly. But something kept his tongue still. Bad enough, that he had shared as much as he had with an outsider.

  “So if there is some threat—why are you here? Why aren’t you defending your master’s lands like a good student? Except, against what?” Ao answered his own question. “You don’t know who is behind it or why, you have no proof, so anything you do will be seen as an act of aggression, of power gathering. . .exactly what you’re forbidden to do. And if the princes see that. . .they could use it as reason to break the Commands as well. Steal your vines, use violence . . . take magic for their own.”

  Ao le
t out a low whistle and stared out into the vineyard, too. “Sin Washer, there’s a problem and no mistake. And your master sent you here”—he answered his own question again—“because Aleppan is a trade city. There’s no gossip that’s not repeated here, at some point. That’s why you’ve been trying to listen in—and why you came to me. Because my people travel widely, hear more than you ever could.”

  Ao’s voice had gone flat, and for a moment Jerzy was afraid that his friend was angry, or felt used. “I. . .I am sorry. I didn’t know. . .I didn’t mean to—”

  “Blessed Joran’s wheels,” Ao said, and Jerzy realized the trader was laughing. “Jerzy, stop apologizing! I’m honored! Now”—he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone—“what do you need me to do?”

  Chapter 22

  Jerzy woke, feeling strangely ill. He lay still, the high bed and oversized chamber as familiar to him now as his bedroom back in The Berengia, and waited for the feeling to subside. The sun was barely slipping through his window, which meant that e was still plenty of time before he needed to join Giordan for their morning meal.

  The journal the Vineart had given him lay on the table by his bed, and Jerzy reached over to touch the pebbled leather cover. He had fallen asleep the night before studying sketches of different vine leaves, comparing the subtle differences in shape and color, and his dreams had been filled with the stink of serpent flesh and the crackling of fire, until the stink had been banished by a hot, dry wind. The combination of fire and wind were terrible omens; merely remembering the dream made his stomach hurt worse.

  He forced himself to think of something more comforting. Ao had agreed to help. Simply having someone to talk with had eased a great deal of Jerzy’s unease. Having a trader scouting for more rumors, more disquiet, could only be useful. And if that trader had no use for magics, scorned their use of spellwines, then none could say he, Jerzy, was manipulating power, could they?

  Malech would not approve.

  “Then I won’t tell him,” Jerzy said. The words, spoken into the cool stillness of the room, were shocking, and he flinched a little but did not take them back.

  You are green, still, Malech had said. Not ready. But I have no choice.

  Neither did Jerzy, not anymore. Not if he was to do what was needed. And the dream lingered in his memory, making his stomach roil again.

  Forcing himself to move, despite the nausea, Jerzy threw back the covers and looked outside to check the height of the sun. Deciding there was time, he went down to the washroom. Even without Detta there to remind him, the weekly bath had become a habit, and more, the deep-seated tub of hot water was a small luxury he would be sorry to give up.

  Later, his hair slicked back and tied at his neck with a leather strap and his skin freshly scrubbed, Jerzy walked the hallway to the ante-chamber where he and Giordan took their morning meal. But before he reached the open archway, he stopped, hearing another voice coming from within.

  The Washer.

  Manners told him to hang back and wait: if this were Malech’s study, he would not even think of entering unbidden. Curiosity pushed him forward. But even as he came to the lintel, the voices stopped, and he heard the sound of a chair being pushed back against the stone floor.

  “Vineart Giordan?” Formality seemed reasonable caution, considering what he had overheard in the courtyard the day before.

  “Ah, Jerzy.” Giordan was standing, his back to the far wall. Washer Darian was still seated, looking comfortable as a cat with a rat well trapped. The door to the workrooms behind Giordan was closed, which was unusual. Jerzy took all this in with a quick glance, and then cast his eyes down like a good, obedient servant.

  “I believe it is time now for Jerzy to resume his studies, Brother Darian. Perhaps we can continue our discussions another time?”

  “Yes.” Jerzy could feel Darian’s gaze on him, but did not look up. Ao said his face was too honest; he could not risk letting the Washer see anything there, not now that he had something to hide.

  “Indeed,” Darian said, and for a terrifying second Jerzy thought the man was responding to his own thoughts. But no, he was talking to Giordan. “It appears as though you two have much to go over. You are only here for a little while longer, no? I am sure that you will have much to report back to your master, when you return.”

  The Washer’s voice was calm, almost jovial, but Jerzy could feel the knife hidden inside. He didn’t look up, and the Washer didn’t force the issue.

  When they were alone, Jerzy raised his gaze to see Giordan had moved to the worktable, fussing with the sheets of tasting notes. “I want you to go down to the yard and check for mite damage.”

  Mites set on the underside of the leaves, chewing them into lacy tatters. They were also a mostly harmless nuisance, not something he should be spending time on, especially not now. Jerzy started to protest, but the words died in his throat. Giordan’s body language was different. The careless, almost lazy way the Vineart held himself normally, which said “come in, be welcome, no harm,” had been replaced by a coiled anger, drawn in every muscle of his body. A casual observer might not see it. A servant might know something was wrong. A slave knew to get out of the way, now.

  A year of freedom was nothing against the instincts of a lifetime in the sleep house. Jerzy left without a word, returning to his room only long enough to change to thicker soled shoes, and, on a whim, add a small skin of water to his belt, hooking it next to the knife Malech had given him, and a pair of thin leather gloves that covered his palm but left his fingers free to work. He looked down at the belt and, despite his concerns, smiled. A Vineart’s kit: all he lacked was the hook-handled tasting spoon.

  Following that same instinct, he used the side exit through the stable enclosures, rather than going out through one of the public doors. It took slightly longer to walk to the vineyard that way, but fewer people used it and, unlike the doors to the cellar, it was not identified with Vinearts. Right now, that suited him.

  A young mule colt decided to follow him along the length of the fence. Its dam watched calmly, unconcerned even when Jerzy pushed the colt’s head away, when it tried to chomp on the gloves. It was a cute beast, though, and Jerzy paused to scratch behind one of its floppy, furry ears, inhaling the fresh, healthy smell of animal, straw, and sweat. Some of the tension that coiled in his stomach, the remains of the morning’s ill-feeling worsened by seeing the Washer, and by Giordan’s obvious dismissal of him, eased slightly at the animal’s uncomplicated pleasure.

  “It’s not a bad life,” he told the mule. “Stand in the sun, eat your grass, pull the wagon when they hitch it to you, let them worry about what’s in the cart or where it needs to go.”

  The colt reached over the fence and nipped again at the gloves with its large, flat teeth, clearly agreeing with Jerzy’s assessment. He could, he supposed, simply not go, instead walk into the city proper. . . .But the idea of rebellion came and went quickly. Giordan had told him to do something. He would do it.

  Walking with the air of someone with an unpleasant but necessary task ahead of him, Jerzy saw only the occasional traveler on the road, exchanging passing nods as they each went their way. His mind kept replaying the scene in Giordan’s rooms, and the Washer’s overheard words the day before, about dangers within as well as without. By the time he hopped over the low fence and felt his feet touch the dirt, his mood had not improved—but he did have a second, more important reason for checking on the vines.

  A quick survey of a double-handful of random plants turned up only an occasional mite-bitten leaf, certainly not enough to warrant the labor of washing down each row. His obligation taken care of, Jerzy picked a spot deep within the rows of green-leafed vines, and knelt down, letting the leaves of the vines rest on the bare skin of his arms and shoulders. The air was still morning-chill, but that wasn’t why he shivered. Again, there was the touch of the vines against his awareness, faint enough to dismiss as his imagination if he hadn’t been waitin
g for it.

  Something had happened between the Washer and Giordan. Something that made Giordan not want to teach him—perhaps not want to spend time with him, want to get him out of the way with a useless chore. Why? The Washer was chasing after something. . .and if Giordan knew something, or had heard something, or was somehow, some way, involved. . .

  Ao had promised to dig out what he could in the maiar’s court itself, but if Giordan was somehow tied into it now, there was one thing only he, Jerzy, could do.

  The soil pressed against the knees of his trou, his fingers digging down into the soil, feeling the texture between his fingers, the weight and heft of it against his skin. His fingertips encountered the gnarled roots, sliding up along the nearest stem, feeling the rough skin of the vine, the pulsing beat of life within the hard flesh matching his own life-pulse.

  This was not his vineyard. These were not his wines. But Giordan had brought him in, allowed him to take part in the crafting, and the vines recognized the touch of their own within him.

  Lifting one hand, he spat into his palm the way he had seen Malech do. The spittle glistened against his skin, mixing with the dirt to make a muddy smudge. The worm of doubt wriggled in again. He was too young to have enough quiet-magic yet, too green to be able to do what he was doing.

  Green. Untried. Unready. His failure with the weatherwine haunted him. The fear of failure snarling at his back, hot breath on his neck.

  “I did not fail. I will not fail. Master Malech sent me. Master Malech trusted me to do what needed to be done.”

  There was no reason to doubt that. No reason to doubt his master at all.

  Reaching with the muddy hand, he lifted the leaves until he found what he was looking for: a small cluster of early-budding grapes, still small, but filled with juice and starting to show faint red streaks along their skin. Plucking one bulb from the bunch, he let it rest against his skin, then closed his fist around it, squeezing hard until the skin split and the wet pulp mixed with the spittle.