Flesh and Fire (15 page)

His hands reached out to touch the slave, cool fingers touching fevered bones, bloody flesh. Would it work? Would the
vina
recognize the words? No time to worry, keep going. Second step. What were the words of the second step? He reached, searched, and found them, drummed by dry rote into his memory.

“Bind and seal, as before. Go!”

He could feel the magic surge from his hands into the slave, the torn and battered body rising off the soil as though struck by lightning. Jerzy’s eyes hazed over with a red mist, as though the
vin
itself coated his sight, his mouth filled with the lingering taste, and his skin tingled from the power. Caught, he lost himself in the sensation.

“Jerzy!”

Detta’s voice, urgent. Jerzy blinked, and the red mist receded. Beneath his hands, the slave lay in the road, a red haze of magic covering his entire body. The haze hovered, then sank into the wounds, healing him from bone on out, as Jerzy had commanded it.

“Good lad,” Detta said. “Well done. He will live. Let them take him now, and you look after the other.”

Lost inside himself, Jerzy let her lead him away, while slaves came to carry the injured man back to the sleep house, where a physic brought up from the nearest village would attend to whatever damage remained.

The second slave had been turned onto his side, a warm puddle of bile evidence that his stomach had emptied at some point. Long brown hair was plastered to his skull, and his features were slack, no obvious wounds bleeding or bones protruding, only an ugly purple shadow on the left side of his face and top of his shoulder. He wasn’t in pain, at least. After the screams and moans of the other slave, Jerzy was relieved, and then felt guilty for that relief. Better the slave was awake and screaming than this motionless, soundless death-in-life.

“Can you do anything for him?”

The urge to say of course he could, to be confident in the face of Detta’s doubt, welled in him and then faded. “I don’t know. If I knew what was wrong, or if he could tell me. . .”

The slave’s chest rose and fell, shallow but steady, and a hand held under his nose felt the faint exhale of air. Jerzy peeled back one closed eyelid, but the eye itself rolled back in the socket, unseeing. Death-in-life. Jerzy had seen it before, years ago, when another boy in the slaver’s caravan had not woken up one morning. The caravan master had let him be for a week, but when there was no change, they had left him on the side of the road. There was no hope for ones like that; even if they recovered, the slavers said, there would be no use to be gotten out of him.

The weight of the flagon in his hand reminded Jerzy that he had an option the slavers lacked, an option and an order to do whatever was needful. He lifted the flagon to his mouth and took a sip. The acrid taste of the
vin magica
was familiar now, and the pattern of sip, hold, and swallow followed without conscious thought. The magic slipped through his skin and bones, filling his veins.

“Find the cause.”

The direction was simple; the decantation less so. How could even a Vineart heal an ill that could not be identified? If the magic could not find the cause, no decantation could work—

Do not hesitate, or the vinespell will slip from your grasp.
Malech’s voice, stern in memory, was like a cuff to the ear. The magic worked only so long as the first flush remained; delay too long, and the second sip would not be so potent. This was not a spellwine, not yet, but the difficulty was the same.

He needed to know the damage done to the slave, but only the slave could tell him. The slave could not tell him. Therefore, the first step. . .

“Wake the mind.”

“Go!”

The magic surged, obeying his will. . .and then faltered, fading even as Jerzy forced it forward again. Any man might cast a vinespell, Malech had taught him, but a Vineart
commanded
it. Only a Vineart could command
vin magica
.

“GO!”

The magic drove itself into the slave, making his limbs twitch, and his eyelids flutter as though he were waking, but then the body flopped back down onto the ground like a broken doll. The wine turned bitter in his throat, and Jerzy gagged on his failure.

A moment of anger and self-disgust consumed him—if he had taken a flagon of the Master’s crafting, the decantation would have worked! It was his fault, his failure.

Jerzy sat back on his heels and lifted his hands from the man’s face. His fingertips tingled from the residue, but the magic drained from the rest of him as swiftly as it had poured into him, and he felt his body quiver with exhaustion even as his mind worked sharp and cold, still riding the thrill of magic through his system. His thoughts were sharp and clear, and could not be escaped.

Failure. He had failed. The body lived, but the flesh alone was useless, and everyone knew that there was no place in this world for a useless slave.

“There is nothing I can do. The body has gone too far to be roused; even if the body healed, the awareness is gone.” The words were for himself; Detta had gone off somewhere while he worked, and none of the slaves still working to clear the road would acknowledge that he was there, much less stop to listen to him, ducking their heads and looking away when they passed. The realization drained the last of the spell-fog from his brain.

Six months and more past, he had been one of them. Six months past, he too scurried past the Master, head down and eyes averted, trying to remain unnoticed, unpunished. Had he not sensed something amiss with the mustus that day during Harvest, one of the slaves on this wagon today might have been him.

Had it been him, he would not have the weight of a man’s death on his hands.

“Jerzy?” Detta came to stand beside him. “Oh.” Her voice was soft as her steps, and full of regret. “Should we. . .should I have someone. . .?”

“No.” Jerzy shook his head, only now noting that sweat had dampened his scalp and the back of his neck, despite the chill of the day. It was a small inconvenience, not even worth noting, except once he had noted that the rest of the world came roaring back in like a summer’s storm; the sound of the slaves carting debris away, the creak of leather and thud of wood, the murmur of voices and a slight shushing of wind overhead through the bare branches of trees on the far slope. The sun was well over the vineyard now, but it cast little warmth on the scene. On a normal day, he would be at lessons with Cai, in the workroom, or the cellars, or walking the land here or at the Master’s other fields farther south, to check on their progress and learn their cycle. He would rather be any of those places than here, now.

Leaning forward, Jerzy gathered the fading wisps of magic, and pressed his hand down firmly on the slave’s fever-warm forehead. This required no decantation, only a whisper of magic. Healspells were crafted to end suffering, however that end might come, and to a body in this condition, the final ending required no command, but a merest suggestion.

Rising to his feet, Jerzy stared down at the cooling body, and prepared to explain his failure to Malech.

“I TOLD YOU I don’t have time for this, boy.”

It hadn’t taken much to determine where Malech had gone; he hadn’t been in the circular workroom, and his clothing was too fine to be in the cellars, so that left only the study, the room where Jerzy had been tested, that first day. By now the study was as familiar to him as any other room in the House, and the awe he had felt on that first day was replaced by an almost casual acceptance of its wonders. Unlike the cellar workrooms, the study was finely furnished, with a table and chair made of ancient vinewood that gleamed with polish, and where on his first visit there had been the image of bottles—now, he knew, shifted from the storeroom below in a bit of magic the Master had yet to explain— shelves of scrolls and books lining the far wall, away from the window.

Malech was standing with his back to the door, fussing with the silver cups on their tray. Silver cups for
vin ordinare;
metals debased
vin magica,
diluting their taste and leeching away their potency. For
ordinaire,
it did not matter. The expensive glass vessel resting beside them held a liquid of deep golden amber.
Ordinaire,
but not ordinary, that. The color only gave hint about what a wine might do, but that particular shade and depth—and the fact that Master Malech was using glass to serve it—told Jerzy that the wine was from the mountains behind them, where the gilded vines grew. No
magica
came from those grapes, but a minor Vineart named Bartelt picked them at the last moment of harvest and then dried them on beds of straw, making a sweet
vin ordinaire
that brought as much gold as any spellwine from the princelings and their households.

“Master.”

Something in his tone must have alerted Malech, because he turned to look then. “How many died?”

“Three.”

“And how many lived?”

“Two will recover by the morrow, most likely. One man’s leg is broken, but he should be able to do sit-work until it is healed. The overseer sent for the physic to ensure it is set properly.”

“So. Five slaves on the wagon, and three dead.” Malech seemed to consider those facts. “You were unable to prevent the deaths?”

“I. . .two died in the accident. The other was in death-as-life. I could not tell what was wrong, to heal it. I had only
vin magica,
and the slave could not tell me. Master, had I thought to bring a flagon of your crafting, true spellwine. . .”

Malech sighed, his hand pausing as he reached for something on his desk. “I left you to your own devices because your work had been acceptable, Jerzy.”

Acceptable
. The word stung, on top of the burn of failure. He needed to be more than acceptable. A man was dead because he was merely acceptable.

Malech frowned at him, as though sensing his thoughts. “If the slave was unconscious and not to be roused, then there was nothing to be done. Some harms cannot be undone, some bodies even the most potent of healwines cannot cure. Not even Sin Washer could save a body from death, only prepare him for it. Slaves die all the time. They live, they serve, they die.”

Malech’s voice was not harsh, merely matter-of-fact, and Jerzy bowed his head in acceptance.

“The bodies have been taken away?” his master asked.

“Detta is seeing to it.” They had an agreement with the physic—he handled minor ailments among the slaves, and in return he took away the bodies of those who died, no matter the cause, for his own studies. It was gruesome, but useful; they had no time or place to bury the bodies, and the slaves had no family to object.

“Then the matter is done. Consider it your lesson for the day. You have enough to occupy you otherwise?”

“Mil’ar Cai is coming back this evening,” Jerzy said. The Caulian had been away for a week, traveling on his own business. “He said that he was going to bring me my own cudgel.” Jerzy wasn’t sure if he was excited about that or apprehensive. His own weapon in all likelihood simply meant that he would be hit harder, if he did something wrong.

“Ah, good, good.” Jerzy suspected he could have told his master that the stones had started speaking, and the response would have been that same distracted approval. “Then I will see you in the morning. Now, if you will—”

“Lord Malech.”

Detta appeared at the door, a man with her. Jerzy had never seen him before, a short, bald man wearing a long robe like those of the Washers, only a rough brown instead of Washer’s red, and splattered with mud from the thawing roads.

“Lord Malech, as you requested. . .” Detta let her words fade away, and gestured to the man.

“Yes. Thank you. Come in,
meme-courier,
please.” Malech waved the stranger to a chair, and turned back to the
vin,
pouring it into two glasses and handing the stranger one. “Jerzy, that will be all.”

Clearly and obviously shut out, Jerzy bowed his head again in acceptance and left his master and the stranger to their discussion, the door closing firmly behind him.

There was no use in feeling as though he were being punished: if Malech had been disappointed in his actions, the Vineart would not have hesitated to say so. Jerzy would see him in the morning for lessons, as usual. And perhaps Cai would be able to tell him who—or what—a
meme-courier
was, and what his appearance meant.

Chapter 9

To Master Malech
of The Berengia, from Master Seth of Iaja. Greetings, a query, and a warning.”

Malech sat back, the now half-empty glasses of Bart-let’s gilded
vin
on his desk in front of him, and listened to what the
meme-courier
had to repeat.

“Your communication came to my attention this week past, and I admit that your words brought both comfort and dread. You are the first I take into my confidence, and only because I am troubled beyond my ability to handle, and as much as I fear creating worse problems should word of this escape, I fear even more remaining silent. In the past ten-month, there has been a marked increase in the number of pests and infestations discovered in my lands, and I begin to suspect that it is not mere foul chance but a part of something larger, perhaps something we have need to look deeper into. . . .”

When the
meme-courier
finished his message, he stood silently, as still as he had been during his recitation, waiting to see if Malech had a response for him to bring back.

Master Seth was no fool. Infestations in their season were the normal course of a Vineart’s life; for all their magical properties, the vines were still mere plants, and subject to the crisis and calms of all growing things. For all that the wines could heal and force growth, call the winds or encourage rains, there was no true way to control nature’s creatures or make them dance your tune; that was the purview of the gods, and the gods had been silent since giving them Sin Washer and setting them upon this course, millennia before.

Malech preferred life that way. To live in a time when gods spoke and miracles occurred. . .he could only imagine that it would be messy, and complicated, and all-around disruptive to the order of things. Malech approved of order, and routine. A well-run vineyard thrived on routine.

But he, Malech, was no fool, either. That was why, after the root-glow scare, he had sent carefully worded queries out into the world. This was the first reply. He suspected it would not be the last.

“This is my response,” he told the
meme-courier
. “To Master Seth, greetings. Your words are well considered, and well heard. We have had only one such troubling incident”—no need to tell the other Vineart that it had come close to succeeding—“but that one was fierce enough to concern me.”

He paused then, struck by a thought, all the more troubling for not having been considered before. How had the wagon happened to have broken, so suddenly, and without warning? Was it a sad accident, as sometimes happened, without dire import? Or had something—or someone—struck it down? And if so. . .how?

It was, he decided, possible that an outside force had somehow, for some reason, sabotaged the wagon. But unlikely. The wagons were of an age where such things could happen of their own, especially on winter-rutted roads, and his shame for not replacing them sooner.

“You were wise indeed to watch and wait, for we have no need of panic flitting through the villages.” Or indeed, the great houses of the princelings who bought most of the spellwines and expected only perfection in the vintages they used. Rumor of crop failures, even if untrue, might cause his usual customers to go elsewhere. “I shall, as you request, inquire discreetly and determine if this is merely a time of natural trials, or if there is, as you fear, a pattern and intelligence behind these incidents. I will inform you of anything I determine. Until then I remain, Malech, Master of the Valle of Ivy, The Berengia.”

The
meme-courier
placed his hands together in front of him, cupped to indicate that he had received the message, and then pressed his hands together, palm to palm, and bowed. “You have honored me with your custom,” he said, his normal speaking voice higher and lighter than the one he had used to deliver his message.

Pigeons were faster, for short messages, and a negotiator was for matters public or political, but a
meme-courier,
if you could afford one, was best for things of a private nature, and any Vineart working within Iaja needed to take care, for their prince was a jealous and controlling sort who meddled in affairs outside his realm. Unlike negotiators, who were often affiliated with the House or prince who retained them, and therefore often suspect and held hostage, the
meme-courier
guild had immunity to travel near anywhere, to take passage on any boat of any allegiance, pass beyond walls of any House and remain unmolested and unquestioned so long as they remained robed and neutral. Not even Washers could claim such privilege, although the Collegium had the ability to manifest their unhappiness with a seated ruler in ways more than spiritual, when pressed.

Malech was startled from those grim thoughts by the man’s gentle shifting of weight from one leg to another, a polite reminder that he was still there. “You honor us with your skills,” Malech replied, and with that formality, the
courien
was over.

Malech stood as the
meme-courier
left, then sank back down into his chair and picked up the glass, downing the remains in one hard swallow. He had spoken bravely in front of the other man, but the truth was that he was worried. The root-glow attack had not caught him unprepared; the only surprise was that it had taken so long to arrive.

His long-held policy of standing aloof from matters outside the Valle had protected him this long. But, perhaps, no longer.

An attack, directed against all Vinearts? Unlikely. Impossible, he would have said. More likely all this was merely a run of bad luck that life was occasionally heir to. Vinearts were merely men, after all. Skilled men, with the Sin Washer’s blessing on them, but still men.

And yet, there were nights, too many nights in the past ten-month, that he had woken before dawn, still in his bed with a cold sweat upon him and a sense of foreboding in his mind. That something dark and dire was sweeping down off the hills, threatening all that he knew, all that he had built.

If others, too, felt that fear. . .

“Guardian.”

Malech
.

“Am I overreacting?”

There was a pause, weighted as stone. Guardian did not decide anything lightly; it was not its nature.

No.

No. He had not thought so, either.

“UP!”

Jerzy rolled out of bed before the Master’s command registered, reaching for his trousers even as he tried to remember what shirt was clean, and where he had tossed his shoes the night before. An illuminated history of the Lands Vin slid off the edge of his narrow bed and hit the floor before he could catch it, and he swore. Books were rare enough; Master would have his skin if that book were damaged.

“Up!”

“I’m up!” he said irritably, pulling his shirt over his head and catching his ear on the lacings. “I’m up, but be still a moment and let me dress myself first.”

The voice stilled, but there was a sense of impatience in the air that was even more annoying than the words, and the heavy shadow outside his window came closer, as though intending to come through the closed pane.

“Break that glass and Detta will not be happy with you,” Jerzy warned the Guardian, sitting on the edge of the bed to first scoop the book back to safety, and then to slip on his shoes. After having to dig a splinter of wood from Jerzy’s sole, the Housemistress had warned him against going outside his room without something on his feet. It still felt strange after so many years barefoot in the soil, but while the Master ruled the vintnery, even he did not contradict Detta within the House.

Fully dressed, he dragged a cloth through the pitcher of water and scrubbed his face with it to get the last sleep out of his eyes, yawned once for good measure, and headed down the stairs. Outside the window, the Guardian made its own silent way back down to its usual perch. In the weeks since the
meme-courier
had come and gone, predawn summons were more common than not, even after nights when they burned wax well into the darkness. There were times Jerzy swore he’d barely laid down before he was rising again, the lessons of the day before still jangling and disconnected in his head. Something was driving his master, and all he could do was try to take it all in, and keep up as best he could.

The new kitchen boy, Bret, was in the kitchen, stirring up the fire. Jerzy stuck his head in to sniff the air and see if the bread was ready yet.

“Nothing yet,” the boy said, seeing the shock of red hair. “Someone’s to bring it down to you when it’s ready.”

“Our thanks,” Jerzy said. The usual orders were that you had to be at the table, at least in passing, to get fed. He didn’t know if Bret was taking a risk or if the House-keeper had relented, but either way he was thankful.

The entire way to Malech’s workroom could be plunged into utter darkness, and Jerzy would still be able to clatter down the stairs, familiar with every bump and curve of the stone, and as he passed under the lintel, his fingers curved around the tip of the Guardian’s stone tail easily, giving it a familiar tug.

The Guardian, as usual, ignored him.

“What are the five qualities of firewine?”

“A deep garnet color. A nose of warm spice. A near-pure clarity. A strong structure on the tongue. A lingering finish of ash.” By now, being hit with a test even as he was walking into the workroom didn’t startle or stop Jerzy, and the information rose to his tongue without conscious recall. He rather suspected that was the point of these attack-questions, to see how he responded without warning. It didn’t make sense to him—everything that he had learned until now, everything he had seen had emphasized the need for time and gentle handling when crafting spellwines. What need had a Vineart for sudden movement or stressful recall?

But asking that sort of question now, he knew, would result in a cuffing. Master Malech had his reasons. His only responsibility was to answer correctly and quickly.

“Good. Now go into the storeroom and bring me out a bottle of it.”

Jerzy nodded, then waited for further instruction. When none came, he looked inquiringly at the Vineart. “Master?”

Malech scowled down at him, his narrow face creasing into lines of displeasure. “What? Go, fetch, you idiot clod!”

“Master, I have never worked with firewine before. Where is the bottle? How will I know it?”

The usual blow to the side of his head didn’t come; instead Malech merely closed his eyes and shook his head in disgust. “If you can’t tell firewine from healwine, get yourself back to the muck of the vineyards; you’re useless to me.”

Jerzy stared at his master in dismay. How . . . how could Master Malech expect him to. . .

Clearly, Master Malech did.

A tremor of fear swept through Jerzy’s body, like a cold finger tracing his bones. A test. A new test, and if he failed. . .would Master Malech truly expect him to go back to the fields? To leave the House, go back to being a slave?

Yes. Master would. Like being able to sense the mustus, this would prove he had the right, the ability, to stay.

He could not fail. He
would
not. He had skills now, knowledge of the wines, of the flesh of the grape. . .Touching the mark on his hand for courage, he took a deep breath, and did as ordered.

The storage room was as familiar as the Guardian; the thick stones keeping the temperature cool no matter how the weather changed, the spell-lights that lit the walls and cast shadows into the corners and under barrels, the smell of
vina
and straw in the air, making it intoxicating to breathe deeply. The barrels and half barrels were stacked against the far wall, the wood slats ranging from a pale yellow to a deep, burnished gold, each strapped by brass belts that glinted in the spell-light. But that wasn’t his destination today.

The finished bottles were stored against the interior wall, in rows up to the ceiling. Each bottle came from distant Avlina, where the Glass-maker’s Guild was situated. Malech would use nothing less than their best for his spellwines. Normal folk used leather, clay, and wood, and even the House used clayware for daily liquids; this much glass in one place still took Jerzy’s breath away.

Some of the bottles were new and clean, while others had layers of dust coating their surfaces. Each had a parchment tag around its neck, listing the vineyard they came from and the year of crafting, but to read through every single tag would be the work of weeks, if not longer. He had to find the right bottle, now.

Start with what you know, and build on that. He knew mustus, had near-drowned in it until he learned to work with it, to own it. The same with
vina
. It was in him, a part of him. He would know it anywhere, in any container, no matter how it was transformed. The magic in the barrels sang to him, distracted him. So. From there, where? He had tasted healwines, had worked with them, walked in the soil, the water, the air the vines breathed. He knew them now, too. If he shut them out, the way that he shut out the call of the
magica
. . .He touched the mark on his wrist, a reminder.

It wasn’t easy, but it was simple, once he saw the process in his head. Like closing a door to keep down the cold outside, something closed in his head, and the pressure decreased.

The air was still intoxicating, but he could detect different strains in that aroma, sniffout particular elements, and almost, almost identify them.

“Firewine. Warm spice. Dry heat. Bitter ash. Strong structure.” He almost sang the details to himself, his voice echoing against the stone walls and bouncing back at him. There were other elements competing for his attention, other spellwines stored here for Malech’s own use, but he focused on the identifying marks of firewine, and found himself moving toward one section of wall, his hand reaching for a bottle stored just barely above his head.

Jerzy didn’t know what to expect when the bottle came off its shelf and into his hand. Some spark of recognition, perhaps; the same flare of magic he’d felt from the mustus. Instead, he merely felt the cool weight of the glass against his palm and fingers, the glass heavier than he’d expected. There could have been water held inside the green surface, but somehow he
knew
that he had chosen properly, even without looking at the tag.