“But. . .so many years. . .?” Shen looked confused, and then something seemed to shift in his memory. “Ah. That is correct. You choose your apprentices from your. . .worker population.” There was a tone of something in Shen’s voice that Jerzy didn’t understand, and he looked to Malech for explanation.
“My slaves, yes.” Malech was as blunt as Shen had been circumspect.
“It is a system that has worked for us for generations. The so-called civilized world may not understand, but it is not for them to interfere.”
Shen looked as though he were going to argue, and Jerzy looked from Malech to Shen in fascination. Something silent and uncomfortable was going on between the two, but he didn’t understand what. Being a slave was a bad thing? How else then could Master Malech have found him?
“I will bow to history in this regard, Lord Malech,” Shen said gracefully, finally, and the meal resumed. Throughout the second course, however, Jerzy felt Shen’s gaze turn to him more and more often, no matter the conversation, until he felt the intense desire to get up and leave the table, to avoid that regard. The Cooper said or did nothing offensive—in fact, he seemed more determined to bring Jerzy into the conversation, asking his thoughts and opinions when they discussed the recent blight of root-glow that had, apparently, hit a number of other coastal vineyards in addition to their own, equally out of season.
“It is my understanding that such a—it is a fungus, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Such a fungus is normally spread by a carrier, not simply carried by the wind, especially if, as you say, the conditions were not usual. But to spread so quickly, it would need a carrier with entry to your yards. A bird, perhaps? Or foxes?”
“Or a man, is that what you are asking?”
Jerzy asked the way he would have asked Malech, seeking correction and instruction. Instead, Shen responded as though it were a viable suggestion from a valued correspondent.
“We at the Cooperage know only the results of root-glow, not the means. Lord Malech and I touched on the topic earlier, but only briefly. Might you think it possible for a man—or many men—to transport this rot somehow, from place to place?”
“Transport it?” Jerzy had the sudden image of a man with a woven basket over his arm, glowing from within, a look of overdone malice on the man’s face, like a Player acting out the role of an ancient prince-mage, riding a horse that looked like a fire-breathing cross between the Cooper’s mare and the heavy, placid wagon horses. The image was ridiculous enough to break through his astonishment at the question. “How? Root-glow cannot be contained, only killed. To handle it. . .you would risk. . .” Belatedly he cast a glance at Malech, and received a subtle nod of the head to continue. But carefully, his master’s expression seemed to indicate. Carefully. “It prefers vine root, but an unprotected hand, one with an open scratch or cut in the skin, might also become infected. Untreated, it can kill.”
Unlikely—Jerzy had never heard of such a thing happening—but vineyard slaves knew of the danger. Someone without that training. . .
“Ah.” Shen seemed satisfied by that, and let the topic go, moving on to talk with Malech about the ironwoods of southern Iaja versus the more flexible but also more porous heartwoods of Caul. But it could not be put aside so easily by Jerzy, and the rest of the meal he worried at the idea. The thought of someone attacking their fields specifically, he could accept—that they did not know who might do such a thing did not mean it was not possible. But to arrange for someone to travel, up and down the coastline, carrying the root-glow in. . .in a basket like turnips?
Not impossible, no, if incredibly foolish. Who would do such a thing? He had asked Malech that at the time, and not gotten an answer that satisfied either of them. Finally, Jerzy put the thought away. It was something for Master Malech to determine, not himself. He should not have involved himself in the discussion at all. He was merely there to listen and, if he could, to learn.
After Bret cleared the table of the dishes and platters, Master Malech brought out a half carafe of gilded vin and poured them each a glass. The liquid shimmered in the lamplight, deep gold as a sunset and red as dawn, thick and sweet as honey. The three men let conversation lapse and merely enjoyed the treat with handfuls of roasted nuts to enhance the flavor.
“That,” Shen finally said with a sigh of satisfaction, “was an excellent meal. My compliments to your cook. Now, if you will excuse me? I fear I am a servant to my pipe; anlikaroot soothes my digestion and allows me to sleep comfortably after such a repast, else I will be up all night pacing.”
“Indeed. You might find the courtyard a pleasant place for such a stroll. Jerzy, if you would care to accompany our guest? I need to discuss a few matters with Detta before the evening ends. Shen, a good night. I will see you both in the morning.”
Jerzy was very much aware that he was being asked to substitute as host for his master. There was no way to refuse, not without disgracing the House. So he swallowed his own hesitations, and rose from his chair as gracefully as he could to lead Shen out into the courtyard, leaving Malech sitting at the table, his glass of vina still in his hand.
Most of the time Jerzy thought of the courtyard simply as a way to get from one wing of the House to the other, or where he could lift a quick bucket of water from the well, rather than going down into the sub-kitchen. At night, it felt different somehow. The fruit tree cast moving shadows on the ground, and the bench looked as though it were carved out of silver rather than stone. The moon glowed overhead, almost dimming the scatter of stars, and the night insects were chirping and buzzing in a drowsy chorus. In the eaves overhead a pigeon let out a sleepy coo, quickly followed by the nearby hunting call of an owl, and then silence.
“Your master thinks quite highly of you,” Shen said, after taking a long draw on his pipe. It was polished briarwood, and the curved tip glowed dark red with ash.
Jerzy blinked. “He hasn’t cuffed me recently,” he said in cautious agreement. “And only threatened to send me back to the fields once this month.” He had deserved it, too, that time.
“Ah.” Once again, the Cooper seemed taken aback. “I suppose . . . every apprenticeship must have its own form, and the work you do is dangerous in its own way. Some sort of barrier must be maintained. A shame, but understandable. I suspect that you would bloom, under more gentle conditions.”
Shen’s hand touched Jerzy’s shoulder. It could have been a chance gesture, or a paternal sign of affection, but it felt. . .different. Familiar. Jerzy shuddered once, as though a breeze had struck between his shoulder blades. Acting purely on instinct he stepped back, moving away from the Cooper too hastily for it to be anything other than a rebuff.
“My apologies,” he started, horrified that he had somehow insulted his master’s guest, but the Cooper shook his head, the offending hand now safely at his side.
“No, boy. The apologies should be mine. I had not—” He laughed, almost ruefully, Jerzy thought. “I have enough of an ego to think that my advances are not displeasing, and I need to be reminded otherwise every now and again.”
The words sounded sincere, but Jerzy’s shoulders remained hunched and his skin twitched in memory, like a horse ridding itself of flies. The Cooper had meant no harm, Jerzy knew that, and yet the peace and comfort of the evening was broken.
After an uncomfortable attempt to pick up the conversation, Jerzy excused himself as politely as possible, retreating to the safety of his bedchamber. When he looked down again, the Cooper was still standing there in the darkness, the tip of his pipe still glowing. Jerzy shucked his finery and crawled into bed. He thought that sleep would elude him, but the vin and the rich food combined to drug him into a heavy, dreamless slumber.
When he came down the next morning, it was to the news from Lil that their guest had ridden out before dawn, while she was heating the ovens for the day, rather than waiting for a more formal farewell.
Malech met him in the hallway outside the study, after a subdued
morning meal. “What did you speak of last night, to Cooper Shen?”
Jerzy could only shrug helplessly. “I. . .he. . .I told him that you were a good master. And he. . .”
Malech waited, his face giving no indication of his thoughts.
“He put his hand on my shoulder.” It sounded beyond foolish, spoken like that. He had been touched many times in his life, often with violence behind it. Even Malech was still quick with a blow or a cuff when he answered too slowly or with the wrong response. Shen had not been harsh, or rough; he had in fact been gentler than anyone save Detta, in Jerzy’s memory. He had done nothing wrong, committed no offense. . .so why then had his skin crawled when the Copper moved too close?
“For a touch, you offended him?”
Jerzy shrugged again, and almost welcomed the familiar blow that followed. “Idiot boy. But no, idiocy is not always damage, and Shen is no fool, to take offense at one boy’s shivers. And he and his people have given us useful information indeed. Come on, then. There are things I must teach you, swiftly, if you are to be of use in our coming venture. You thought you were working before, boy?” Malech laughed, an unhappy sound. “Pray the silent gods we have time, before—”
Malech shook his head, and stopped, his mouth tightening into a thin-pressed line.
Before what? Jerzy wondered, but did not dare ask.
Chapter 12
You are not concentrating.
It was less words and more a feeling of disapproval that came through, but Jerzy scowled up at the Guardian anyway. “Is it even possible to distract you?”
No.
“Then stop bothering me while I’m working to lecture me about something you can’t understand.”
The fact that he was talking—and getting a response from—an animate stone carving still made Jerzy blink, occasionally. Admittedly, his practical experience with magic was limited to the vines that his master specialized in, healing and fire, but none of his readings anywhere had mentioned a spell that gave motion and thought to stone. If life were less hectic, he would have asked Malech about it—it seemed rude to ask the Guardian, even if he thought it would answer—but in the two weeks since the Cooper Shen’s visit, Malech had spent more and more of his time in his study, sending out messages via carrier pigeon, and entertaining meme-couriers at an increasing pace, all of them arriving and departing at all hours of the day until Detta and Lil both threw up their hands and merely left cold meals for them all. He came out of each meeting looking more and more worried, but still refused to tell Jerzy anything specific, instead exhorting him to push forward with his studies.
And so, Jerzy studied: morning to past nightfall. Some of that involved reading old texts, or memorizing charts and traditions, recited under the watchful eye and ear of the Guardian. However, a growing part of his education involved monitoring the vineyards, as Mid-Fallows passed, and the soil began to warm. In the southernmost enclosures, tiny leaflets were already beginning to bud.
By now, Jerzy could identify all four of their varietals at a glance, and determine if the growth was healthy or if steps needed to be taken to protect the vine. He had spent nights watching storms roll in, wishing that Malech believed in using weatherspells to moderate how much rain fell on the vines, and given orders to the various overseers on how much to prune back, where to fortify, and what to let go. Every move he made had an impact on what the yield might be, and there were nights he could not sleep for second-guessing his decisions. He was too young, too green to be responsible for such things. And yet Malech merely nodded when he reported his actions, and told him to continue as he saw fit, distracted in a way no Vineart should be from matters of the vineyard.
Driven by a lack of confidence, he dove with increased urgency into the historical reports of past harvests and pressings; what conditions created what results. Not only Malech’s notes, but his master, Josia’s, notes as well were included, going back almost a hundred harvests. Before then, another House had stood on these grounds, but all records were lost when that Vineart had died without successor and Josia had taken over.
Someday, if he didn’t go off and start his own House, his records would be added to these notes. His successes, failures, and discoveries would be added to the weight of the years, the accumulation of knowledge.
The thought terrified him.
You are distracted again. The Guardian tilted its head to look down at him. When the time comes, your notes will be written for the time, not the archive. Live now.
The rebuke stung like one of Malech’s head cuffs, but the sting was reassuring as well. Tradition was on their side, even if this urgency was not. Detta had taught him history along with his letters, and Master Malech reinforced it with his lectures. Once, every Vineart had been a student. Once, every student had been a slave. Like the vines, they grew best in stressed soil. That was how Sin Washer decreed it. Tradition kept you safe.
Jerzy stared at the paper in front of him and made a note on his own pad, ink blotting slightly as he scratched down another question to bring to Malech at evening meal.
“Guardian, I understand that the sun’s warmth on the fruit makes the wine sweeter, but why does that also make healwine more effective, but do the opposite for firewine? Shouldn’t heat be good for firespells?”
There was a not-unexpected silence, and Jerzy snorted in satisfaction. It might be that the Guardian felt no need to teach, but he liked to think the stone dragon wasn’t quite as know-everything as it pretended.
He bent his head back to the text’s comparison of harvesting techniques, and silence reigned in the workroom until the thudding of someone hammering on the door one level above them filtered down through the stones.
“Guardian?”
The stone dragon had already lifted its head. Someone at the front door.
Jerzy rolled his eyes. He’d figured that out already.
The man is not hurt, nor does he bear the sigils of a meme-courier or a negotiator. But his horse is lathered and near foundering, and the human seems quite agitated. You should greet them, this is not something for the Household to deal with.
Jerzy raced up the stairs, tugging at his plain tunic, to find that Detta had already opened the door. She stepped back with obvious relief when Jerzy appeared in the entranceway. “Young master, this is—”
The man shoved past her rudely, forcing his way into the House. He was a few years older than Jerzy, taller and broader in the shoulder, and his ruddy face was lined with exhaustion and his clothing was covered with dust from the road.
“My name is Jecq. I come on orders of Prince Ranulf, and I must speak to the Master Vineart!”
“It’s all right, Detta,” Jerzy said. To the messenger he said, “Master Malech’s not here right now.” In truth, he had no idea where the Vineart had gone off to that morning, save that he was not to be bothered short of fire or flood. “If you would follow our House-keeper, she can find you something cool to drink, and perhaps a light meal, while I arrange your meeting?”
“I must speak immediately with Master Malech! Prince Ranulf insists! Hundreds of lives are at stake!” Jecq didn’t quite stomp his boot on the flooring, but Jerzy had the feeling that he wanted to.
Nothing short of fire or flood, Malech had said, his face stern. Jerzy ignored the man’s rude tone, and instead looked in the eyes of the messenger and made his decision.
“Guardian. Go find Master Malech. Now.”
From the workroom below their feet, Jerzy felt the dragon’s slow acceptance, and, somehow, felt the stone wings rise and then push down as the carving left its perch.
“Go with Detta. When Master Malech returns, you will be informed.”
The messenger looked like he was going to protest again, and Jerzy felt a sick turn in his stomach. If the other man insisted, what could he do? Sending the Guardian had been a wild guess, and while he had authority in this House, it did not include ordering his master around!
Jecq held himself very still and stared at
Jerzy. His eyes squinted shut, as though the wind were still blowing grit into them, so that Jerzy could not tell what color his eyes were.
“A drink would be welcome,” he said finally, dropping his gaze and turning away to follow a clearly relieved Detta off to the kitchen.
Jerzy returned to the workroom to tidy up the papers he had left scattered and to blot his own notes dry and store them safely for later. Then he returned upstairs, trying to prepare himself in case Malech did not return from wherever he was in time and the messenger became unruly again. His stomach ached like he had eaten rotted vegetables, and his skin was slick with sweat, despite the fact that the House was its usual comfortable cool temperature.
“Jerzy.”
He yelped and jumped and turned a deep shade of red even he could feel on his skin when he realized it was only Malech’s hand on his shoulder. Since the Cooper’s visit, he had been more and more aware of people touching him. Malech knew that, and yet—
“Master. My apologies, I. . .” He gathered himself and his thoughts, and started again. “A messenger has arrived from Lord-prince Ranulf”—Malech might declaim about princelings, but until one was a Master, one gave respect even out of their hearing—“and demands to see you on a matter of some dire importance.” He had only recently learned the word “dire,” and had not had occasion to use it before.
Malech’s narrow face was set in stern lines, but this time Jerzy was reasonably certain his master was not angry with him. “Indeed. Prince Ranulf is not a man to panic easily, nor is he one to ask for aid. In fact, this may be the first time he has ever come to me for anything other than his annual allotment of healwines. Dire, you say? So it may indeed be. Good that you sent the Guardian for me. If you would, please, collect this messenger and bring him—and yourself—to my study.”
The tension of wondering if he’d made the right choice to recall Malech left Jerzy, only to be replaced by a new one; by the speed of his return, and his words, Malech was clearly concerned, and that did not bode well at all.
Flesh and Fire Page 18
