Flesh and Fire (18 page)

“Indeed.” The stranger took another puff on his pipe, and smiled at Jerzy, a slight, secretive smile that made the young Vineart want to back away slowly, alert to a sudden, unprovoked attack, as though the visitor were a wild dog. Instead, Jerzy nodded once, imagining the Guardian’s gravity and slow dignity, and turned back toward the door.

Every step he took, he was aware of the stranger watching him, and an itch in the center of his back that had nothing to do with sweat or dirt.

There was a new tunic laid out on his bed when he got to his chamber, and a comb rather pointedly left on top of the rich red fabric. Despite himself, Jerzy grinned. Detta despaired of them both, from the Master’s untidy gray locks to his own dark red tangles, but she never gave up. He picked the comb up and carried it with him to the wash-room. He would try, again. But he doubted this time would end any differently than the last. Vinearts seemed to naturally have unruly hair.

Dressed in the new white shirt and a pair of brown trousers, leather half boots on his feet and his hair slicked down by application of comb and a dab of nut butter, Jerzy made his way down the stairs to Malech’s study, hoping to report his day’s work to his master before the meal.

“Come in, Jerzy,” Malech’s voice sounded before he could even raise his hand to the solid wooden door. His mouth twitched into an unexpected grin, the odd sensation catching him by surprise. No matter how many times his master did that, it still seemed, well, magical. Invited, he used his palm to push open the door, and walked in without hesitation.

Malech was also dressed in a crimson tunic, although his trousers were white and of finer material than Jerzy’s own. He was still growing too quickly, Detta said, to warrant the expense of shatnez weave.

“Ah, good, Detta got to you in time. We will have a guest for dinner.”

Jerzy almost said that he knew, but something made him remain quiet. His reaction to the visitor’s comments lingered, making him feel off-kilter and uneasy, as though he had done something wrong but didn’t know quite what.

Malech didn’t seem to notice. He was pacing, nothing unusual for the Vineart when he was deep in thought, but tonight there seemed to be an extra quality to it, some added tension in the way he moved, and that added to Jerzy’s sense of unease.

Not sure what to do, Jerzy ignored his usual bench and instead stood quietly next to it, his hands resting by his side, letting his thought return not to the encounter with the stranger, but the sight and scent of the grapes in the afternoon sunlight, the hum of slaves’ voices as they worked, the feel of the warmed soil under his toes. He could feel his heartbeat slow down, and the unease faded, slightly.

“An interesting discussion, yes. The Cooperage has never been an ally to us.” Malech spoke as though continuing a conversation he had been having with himself before Jerzy arrived. “But they are not adversaries, either. At least, not when my gold is not upon the table. And they, for once in their mis-spawned existence, seem interested in something other than their sole advantage. That is not a good thing, boy, not a good thing at all. It bodes something ugly stirring. I was right to worry.”

Malech suddenly seemed to realize Jerzy was standing there, and shut his jaw with an almost audible snap.

“Master?”

“Too many years of working alone,” the Vineart said, almost apologizing. “And you, quiet as stone when you choose to be. A good trait, that, but disconcerting to your master. So. We shall have company at the board tonight, as my discussions with Cooper Shen ran long today.”

Jerzy held his breath, hoping that Malech’s next words would tell him what those discussions were. Instead, his master went to the desk and sat down in his high-backed chair, leaning back with his long legs fitting under the desk, which had been cleared of the usual clutter of scrolls and papers. “So. In the time we have before the meal, tell me; how do the southern vineyards look?”

Jerzy stifled a sigh, sat down on his bench with his feet tucked under him, and gave his report.

AT DINNER, THE conversation gave no clue as to what the two men had been closeted over earlier. After so many meals taken in casual disorder, either in the dining hall with the others or in the workroom with Malech, the formality of that meal made Jerzy feel that, despite his fine clothing and clean hair, he had somehow wandered into someone else’s life. Rather than the usual bread-platters, they ate off vinewood plates, the knots and burls sliced thin and polished until they glowed, with utensils of the same wood, tipped in gold, and Roan and Bret served them silently, without the normal back-and-forth chatter that enlivened group meals. Malech sat at one end of the table, with Jerzy at his left hand and the Cooper at his right.

Roan brought out grape leaves wrapped around goat cheeses from a village down the road, to be eaten with their fingers, and then roasted pigeons with a light-colored sauce of something tangy and sweet. Lil was, Jerzy thought contentedly, a much better cook than Detta had ever been. They drank only citron-scented water during the meal, not even a
vin ordinaire
on the table. It was as though Malech were showing how little he had to show off, that he had no need to impress the visitor by offering what were, to a Vineart, common drinks.

That was how Jerzy interpreted it, anyway. His master might have had something else entirely in mind, and neither of them could know how the Cooper saw it.

The Cooper, Journeyman Shen, was taller than Jerzy had thought at first, and had finer features. Compared to Malech’s drawn skin and sharp bones, he seemed larger and more filled with life, however disloyal that thought might be. His conversation ranged over the things he had seen and done, with—to Jerzy’s disappointment—none of it touching on what had brought him here to discuss with Malech.

“And how long have you been with Lord Malech, young master?”

Jerzy looked at the Cooper, flustered by the direct question and not quite sure how to answer. “As many years as I can remember,” he replied finally.

“He has been at studies for slightly less than a ten-month,” Malech said easily, before Shen could say anything. “I find him reassuringly adept, and surprisingly bright.”

“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.