Flesh and Fire (10 page)

Chapter 6

PRINCIPALITY OF ATAKUS

The Principality of
Atakus was not grand, by most standards; the island was small, and had only one Master Vineart to call its own. But that was Master Vineart Edon, and his delicate, dry wines were renowned for their control of winds. Seafaring lands paid whatever gold required to carry a cask of that spellwine on board every ship in their fleet, and to have their captains trained in their use. Whatever other spellwines Atakus needed, that gold could and did buy.

More significant to the Principality was the fact that those spells, cast over the whitecapped waters surrounding Atakus, had kept them safe from storms—and pirates—for five decades and more. The only visitors who came safely into the royal port of Atakus were those who were welcome. . .or who flew the red flag of parlay and negotiation.

Such visitors were greeted in the roofed courtyard on Mount Parpur, off to the side of the royal residence. The matching building next to it was the main royal residence, which also doubled as the Hall of Governors, where local leaders came to discuss matters of governance with their lord and master. Simply built, two stories high and studded with garden courtyards within and external views that carried for leagues in every direction over endless crystal blue waters, the white marble structures could easily be mistaken for places of worship, not government.

The prince of Atakus was an old man, whose seven grown sons were all put to work in the massive bureaucratic system, and two of his three daughters were solitaires, warriors who gave up all claim to House or family. His oldest and only remaining daughter, Thaïs, stood by his side during the daily workings, and was nicknamed “Wise Lady” for her political acumen by those who heard her speak. As a female she could not inherit his throne, but whichever son took over when he died would be wise to curry her favor, or risk disaster.

Current odds among the betting citizens had the second son as favorite, since the eldest showed more skill for paperwork than leadership, but it was the fourth son who was most often called to court, and was often seen, heads bent together in close discussion, with his sister.

This bright, cool day found the two of them seated beside the flowering hedge garden outside her sleeping chambers, on a white marble bench bathed by the morning sunlight. Thaïs was not a beauty, but had a grave dignity that won her a few serious suitors whom she had, so far, put off. Her long, thick black hair was tied up with a string of pink pearls and her body wrapped in a dark red dress of simple design. Her brother Kaïnam was more slender, his equally black hair tied at his neck with an unadorned cord, and his red trousers were matched by a plain white jacket without collar, fastenings, or lapel. Both were barefoot, their embroidered court shoes abandoned in the grass. A small white-and-black cat prowled at their feet, snatching at insects.

They had spent the morning with their father as he held court, listening to the thoughts and complaints of his governors, as he did every three-month. But this session had been different.

“It might be coincidence.”

“It might. But it isn’t.”

“It might also not affect us at all.”

“You are an idiot.” She said it with affection, but in a matter-of-fact tone that did not allow argument.

A messenger had arrived the week before, from Ekai, a small territory off the main island. Ekai had no true government, no ruler, and was important only for its deep fishing harbor and a sunward-facing hill of ancient vines. That land was held by Jaban, the Vineart trained by Master Edon, who by training and common bonds looked to Atakus for guidance and protection. The messenger had carried a scroll written in Jaban’s own hand, and presented it personally to the prince, who had then brought the subject up for discussion at this day’s Session.

“Three ships destroyed, along with a royal ransom in spellwine,” she reminded him. The Wise Lady had read the report, as her brother had not, and she felt the truth in it. “Driven to disaster by unruly winds, within our territory—waters protected against exactly such a thing. Kaïnam, think it through. How can it not affect us?” She pushed the cat away gently when it pounced on her toe.

“One man’s report is not a fact,” her brother countered, his usual dry, almost mocking tone moderated by the seriousness of the matter. He scooped the cat up in his arms and petted it until it went muscle-slack, purring with pleasure. “The winds are not always controllable, and if they were fools enough to use open flame rather than firewine to fill their lanterns. . .” He shrugged. Fire was a force of nature, and Nature commanded even magic; not even a Master Vineart was proof against that.

“They were seasoned sailors; we have no reason to assume that they used open flame.” That was a fool’s mistake, unthinkable for any ship-master to condone. “But you are correct, we have no evidence, either way. A good point, thank you.”

Their argument was less an argument than a sounding of arguments, in case her counsel was called upon. It was a role they were both accustomed to and normally enjoyed, but the loss of life—more, the possible implications for the much-vaunted benefits offered to ships using the Atakusian harbors—were sobering.

A horn sounded, thin and reedy, and they stood, him returning the cat to its grass hunt, both sliding their feet into cloth slippers quickly retrieved from under the bench. The short break was over; the prince and his advisors had returned, and the Session was resuming. Time to head back.

Inside the Hall of Governors, Erebuh son of Naïos sat on a simple wooden bench, the surface worn by generations of royal backsides that had warmed it. The prince sat up straight and stern, his once-black hair gone pure white, his skin tanned and lined with age and sunlight. Rumor had it that he had once spent a summer working a vineyard, far away. It could not be true, a royal son among slaves in the domain of a Vineart, but the rumor—and the aura of magic—still lingered on him.

The negotiator, Tomas of Eka, stood before the court once again, wearing a formal sash the pale yellow-green of unripe grapes over his travel-stained clothing. His boots were worn through, and he limped, as though there was a stone in the heel of one.

“My lord,” he was saying as the two siblings reentered the court. “You have my master’s petition. I beg of you, hear it and give me leave to return with an answer.”

The ruler of Atakus studied the negotiator, not allowing any thought or emotion to appear on his age-lined face or in his dark eyes. “I have heard the report of this messenger of Vineart Jaban, and conferred with Master Vineart Edon.”

Edon was an old man, older even than the prince, but his spellwines still showed the vigor of a man a third his age. He stood on the other side of the bench, a hardwood staff held securely in one clawed hand. It was forbidden for a Vineart to hold power, but not for one to stand with one who held power. Still, the Washers, while not speaking directly against either man, often preached pointedly about Sin Washer’s Command, and the dire consequences of power mating to power.

Her father merely laughed and called the Washers alarmists and old women.

He was not laughing now. “Vineart Jaban tells us of disaster fallen upon merchant ships carrying spellwines from our ports, under our protections. Ships—seaworthy, tested ships, flaming like bonfires, all hands and their cargo lost.”

There was a restless movement among the twenty or so gathered in the court’s yard, but no one spoke up or indicated anything other than rapt attention to their prince’s words.

“Master Edon has also heard these reports. He also hears from elsewhere within our domain of crops ruined by insects out of season, rot from nowhere, and rains that come down out of a clear sky.”

Thaïs felt her back stiffen as her father spoke. She had not known of these events. A foul wind, even within Master Edon’s range of protection, might be coincidence, as her brother said. A strange rain, a disastrous rot, a plague of pests, each might be bad luck or a poor season. Together, all in one year, all within their borders: that she did not trust.

“I do not trust this news.”

Her liege lord spoke of the same mind. She had, in truth, learned at the knee of wisdom. And, she admitted to herself, paranoia. Atakus was small compared to the other Lands Vin, but their ports were well placed and much in demand—and eyed hungrily, every now and again, by ambitious princes. All that kept them independent was the strength of their Vineart. Edon had trained half a dozen students who, like Jaban, did not travel far from the principality, establishing their enclosures from Jaban’s own cuttings, and owing him—and the prince—their loyalty. They might not be native to the islands, but they were Atakusian, blood and bone, by the time Edon was done with them.

Her father continued, his gaze touching on each person in turn, speaking clearly, so there could be no doubt as to his mind. “This may be a congruence of events. It may not. Our way is not to rush; we will assume nothing without further information. There is to be no panic.”

As he commanded, so the governors would report, and the citizens would react. His decision made, Prince Erebuh turned back to the negotiator. “Vineart Jaban is dear to us, and we appreciate his sharing this information with us. Anything he needs of us in the wake of this tragedy, to make good his losses, we will supply. You may speak to our factor and discuss such matters with him, before returning to your home.”

The negotiator bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment of those words, his eyes closing briefly as though in relief.

“As to what it all may mean. . .that is a matter for further discussion. At this moment, at this time, we will take no overt action.” His gaze swept every person gathered under the white stone roof once again. “Make no mistake: we are on alert. We are on guard. If this was more than mere misfortune, if it is the attempt of outsiders to weaken our reputation, soften us for invasion or hostile negotiation, they will not succeed. We will not be weakened.” The prince’s voice rose in volume and deepened in tone, filling the air. His aged but still-powerful body, clad in a red tunic and robe of state, seemed to increase in mass, overpowering every other person in the court. “Our Vineart will turn the entire Harvest’s work to spellwines stronger and swifter than any before, and they will ensure that we are protected, even as we use the resources of our island to discover who this enemy may be. So I command.”

Master Edon looked gravely intent; no doubt this had been hammered out between the two of them during the recess. If Sin Washer had broken magical from secular power, he had also made them independent. A Master Vineart was bound to no one save the bindings he chose to accept, and even a monarch had no power to command him save he chose to be commanded.

There might have been other matters the gathered men wanted to discuss, but Prince Erebuh stood up and spread his arms in dismissal, indicating that this audience was over and done.

Afterward, the prince gathered his family and close advisors together in a small, private garden, as was his tradition. Freed from outside observation, the Wise Lady kicked off her slippers again, to her mother’s obvious disapproval. But here, in this private space, she was not the Wise Lady, but simply Thaïs, her father’s fourth and favored child.

Her father paced the outer pattern of the smooth stone patio, clearly not smelling the sweet Harvest blossoms or seeing the brightly colored birds dashing above them among the branches of the fruitwood trees.

“The winds were not caused by a spell.” Master Edon’s staff—never in evidence in public—was as smooth and worn on the handle as her father’s chair, marked from all the years of his hand clenching it. His legs were bowed but his back was straight, and despite his age, any apprentice could vouch for the strength in his upper body—and the weight of that cane.

“It must be a spell,” Erebuh said, clearly annoyed at his Vineart’s insistence. “There is no other explanation.”

“Must, my lord?” Master Edon was hairless, from chin to pate, but the place where an eyebrow might have been gave the appearance of rising in query.

The prince was as wily a creature as the Vineart, and merely glared at him, two sets of dark eyes staring at each other without flinching, as those strong-willed men fought, not with arms or words, but with the intensity of their personalities and the strength of their respective positions. Thaïs felt her heart tighten in anticipation of the storm gathering in front of her. A quick glance at Kaï, off to the side, saw he was equally intent on the scene.

Prince Erebuh was lord and master of these lands, but even he dared not push a Vineart too far. Likewise, a Vineart, no matter how powerful, rested only as secure as his relationship with the lord of the land. Even a Vineart had weaknesses, and even a Vineart must rest, on occasion. Better, much better for all within reach, for them to be in agreement.

“Must,” Erebuh said again, not backing down. “Unless you, or someone else perhaps, can tell me of another force that might break our own spells—your spells—and wreck the sails of ships within our borders? Unless you can tell me of another force that can slip inside another Vineart’s lands, and rot his crop so swiftly he does not notice until it is too late? Unless you can tell me how salt rain might fall from a cloudless sky?”

Edon stood his ground. “I can tell you, my lord, that there was no tinge of spellwine in any of these things. I am old, and have tasted almost every spell in existence, and would know them, even at a distance. This. . .” He paused, and shook his head. “This woke me in the night, stirring the aether in a way I have never encountered, but I could not name its source.”

Erebuh did not blink, and the tension in no way receded, but somehow everyone knew that he had accepted the Master Vineart’s words, at least for the moment.

“Then if we do not at this moment know how, we must go on to the second question: who?”

“The second question should be why, not who.” Thaïs knew she should not interrupt; even as the Wise Lady her place was to advise when asked, not bring herself directly into the discussion. But the words came from her mouth without decision or hesitation.