Weight of Stone (14 page)

And now this Vineart was telling him to abandon his plans.

Only a fool asked for help, and then disregarded the advice from that quarter. Kaïnam did not wish to be a fool. Yet he had placed so much on Caul being the source of answers that to abandon it now left him feeling hollow and lost. He waited, hoping that the Wise Lady’s voice would whisper into his ear again, telling him what path to take. But she was still and silent as the gods themselves, and he felt the loss keenly.

“And you know where the answers are,” he challenged Jerzy, to cover his hesitation.

“I think so.” This Vineart might be young, but his voice had a tone of command that made Kaïnam listen, even if he was not yet ready to agree. “My master,” and there was a faint hesitation, as though he were about to say one thing, and then changed his mind, “sent me on a mission to find answers. I am still on that mission.”

Truth, but not the full truth? No way to tell, and certainly the Vineart would not tell him. Vinearts did not meddle in politics, but his companions would surely have advised him well; they, too, were young, but not fools. Kaïnam did not press. “And your thoughts say we should go … where?”

The Vineart’s dark gaze flickered from one companion to the other, then back to Kaïnam. “I don’t know our destination. Only the trail I follow.”

Mahault came forward with one of the maps she had taken from his chart case, and placed it down on the map desk, securing the edges of the map with the ivory clips set into the tablet for that purpose.

“We are here,” she said, her voice cool and soft, but determined.

Her voice reminded Kaïnam of his sister’s voice, and he steeled himself against it, against reacting to the memory rather than the reality. The girl was quick, and brave, but she was not his sister—her goals and means were not bent toward Atakus, but her own purposes.

“Jerzy thinks that the taint is coming from the west.”

“South and west,” Ao corrected her.

She nodded agreement. “West, and south.”

“Into Mur-Magrib?”

Jerzy looked at Ao. “On the northwest coast of Irfan. A few trading ports, not much else inland except mountains and desert.”

“No. I don’t think so.” Jerzy frowned, rubbing the back of one hand against his cheekbone, as though the red blotch on his wrist itched, and stared at the map, his other hand tracking the line they were sailing. “The taint is so faint, it comes from farther away.”

“My
Wave
can’t take us farther,” Kaïnam said firmly. “She isn’t built for the open seas, and with four of us, there’s no way to carry the proper
supplies. Besides, even if we had a full complement and spellwines to speed us along and protect us, I would not take my sail into a storm on a whim.”

He realized, as the words left his mouth, that these three had done exactly that. Still, he stood by his words. Without his sister’s whisper goading him on, he would have put about and waited the storm out, not plunged in. And then these three would have died. Did they not owe him some consideration for their lives?

“What if you had a larger ship?” Ao asked suddenly.

“You think you can barter for a wide-sea vessel?”

Kaïnam noted that Mahault was not incredulous, merely curious.

“I won’t know until I try,” Ao said, looking pleased the way only a trader could when confronted by such a challenge. “This ship is sleek and pretty enough to bring a good price, and if we’re not too fussy about the looks of what we’re bargaining for, it should be seaworthy enough.”

“There is no such thing as seaworthy enough,” Jerzy objected, looking a little green. Kaïnam guessed that he was not a natural-born sailor.

Kaïnam raised both hands as though to block any further discussion. “You’re asking me to sell the
Green Wave
?” The thought was deeply offensive, as though being asked to hand over a child, even as he understood the logic behind it.

“Not at all.” Ao now looked offended. “I’d do the selling. You would come back with a lake skimmer and an ancient goat.”

Kaïnam blinked at that, and then the absurdity of the situation—the entire situation—finally caught up with him. He wanted to laugh but feared that it would be taken the wrong way. Whatever the Wise Lady had led him to, it was up to him to manage it to satisfaction. He was his sister’s brother—but he was also his father’s son, and mad or no, the Principal of Atakus knew how to work things—and people—to his own ends.

“We all want the same thing,” he said carefully, making an effort to speak to all three of them, as his earlier assessment was clearly in error. The Vineart led, yes, but only with the approval of the others. Kaïnam
had to win all three in order to gain his way. “To discover the cause of the suspicious events of the past year. The attack on my home, our ships, your villages and … all of it, you say, can be traced back to this … taint.”

The Vineart nodded. Kaïnam studied him carefully. No longer half drowned, his form was solidly muscled, his forearms sinewy, and his shoulders slightly bent but strong. When he stood, he leaned back, as though contemplating something just out of sight, but when he sat down, he leaned forward instinctively, ready to work. Had they met in a social setting, Kaïnam decided, he would have known Jerzy for a Vineart. Take away thirty years and Master Edon’s cane, and Atakus’s Vineart would have looked much the same.

That did not mean he would trust Jerzy. He did not entirely trust Master Vineart Edon, after all, despite the Vineart having proven his dedication to Atakus, over and over again. Vinearts were independent creatures, and they did not often mingle with others—and certainly did not travel away from their vineyards, save in the greatest of emergencies. Jerzy might yet be malleable … but what game was his master playing, to send him thus?

And yet, his sister’s ghost voice had sent him to find these three, to continue his quest. He had followed her, trusted her, all his life … could he stop now? Could she have meant for him to rely on them? Or to use them?

He needed to decide.

“Master Vineart Malech is well known to us,” Kaïnam said finally. “His healwines are noted throughout the Lands Vin, and I have never heard it said that he was anything other than thoughtful and wise, if unsociable.”

The Vineart ducked his head as though to hide a smile at that description of his master, and it was that simple movement that decided Kaïnam. He looked at the map, and then placed a finger over one marker.

“We will make landing at Tétouan, in the Mur-Magrib,” he said. “There, in their marketplace, we will find a buyer for the
Wave.
”

*   *   *

X
IMEN
, P
RAEPOSITUS OF
the Grounding and outlying Households, was furious. His jaw ached from being clenched, and the sides of his head throbbed as he stared at the latest missive from the vine-mage.

Two more of my pets have approached the Iajan Islands, to strike fear into their vessels and villagers.

That was all, the single line on a scrap of paper, as though the detail were an afterthought, barely worthy of notice. Ximen took a deep breath and was pleased to see that his hand did not shake with the rage he felt. Handing the missive back to the messenger, whose fault it was not, he managed a reassuring smile. “There is no response,” he said. “Go down to the kitchens; they will feed you before you return.” The boy, a scanty thing barely ten years young, bobbed his head and fled.

Ximen took another deep breath, then turned on his heel and walked briskly down the hallway to the solar where Bohaide sat, working on the Household accounts.

“Walk with me,” he said, reaching for her hand. Well trained, she did not question but abandoned the ledgers, and placed her own slender hand in his own, allowing him to draw her up and out of her chair.

He had not said anything more as they left the main building, and she knew better than to initiate conversation. Striding through the fields, Bohaide at his side and the sun warm on the back of his neck, he felt the muscles in his jaw—as well as those of his shoulders and back—start to unclench.

Getting out of the House had been a good idea, as had stealing Bo. Walking with her could soothe even his worst moods, and this morning had been the father of all black tempers.

“The vine-mage will be the death of me,” he said finally. “The fool. I warned him against such arrogance.”

“You let yourself worry too much about such things,” Bo said calmly, although she had no idea what the vine-mage had done, nor did she particularly care, save that it upset him. She did not look up at him, as was only proper, but kept her gaze on her feet, watching where she
placed them in the soft dirt. Her feet were high-arched and delicate, but the flesh was firm and strong, and he delighted in watching her wash them before bed each evening, as she told him of the events of the day, the small and large matters that made up a Household.

“It is my responsibility to worry about such things,” he responded, but his tone was softer than his words. She was correct, even without knowing the specifics; the thing had been done, and he could not undo it, not with all the foul temper and scathing words at his command. You did not argue with a vine-mage, not if you wanted—needed—his help. The fact that the rope pulled both ways, the vine-mage knew as well. If Ximen were to send back a scathing reply, asking him if he had finally gone mad …

Ximen let out a deep sigh. If he did, the vine-mage would likely laugh. Damn the man—if he were not irreplaceable … But he was. There was no other vine-mage; the bastard had made sure of that ten years past, and none of his slaves had been chosen to take up the vines should he meet with an unfortunate accident of his own.

Ximen was slightly more expendable—he had cousins he had allowed to live, since none of his sons were of age to inherit, yet. A man might be forgiven for caution, but the Praepositus had an obligation to his people not to leave them without a leader. Thankfully, none of those cousins had proven themselves of interest to the vine-mage. That fact kept Ximen healthy—and his own wits kept him in power.

A drop of sweat ran down his cheek, and he brushed at it with the back of his hand, surprised. It had been too long since he walked outside in the light of day, too often busy with matters of the Grounding, and now, this Agreement he had forged with the vine-mage. Bo, wiser, had a scarf draped over her head, and her blouse was loose enough to let the light breeze dry her skin. He had left his surcoat tossed over the back of the chair in his chamber, but the shirt underneath was still too warm. He briefly considered unlacing it and tossing it aside as well. The thought of his people’s reaction to the sight of their lord running
about bare-chested like a weanling made his mood lighten even more. He would never do such a thing, of course. His people expected dignity and control from him at all times. But the thought lightened his spirits nonetheless.

“It is my responsibility,” he said again.

Bohaide shrugged, her sleek body giving the gesture a grace akin to the strike of a great cat taking down an ebru. “You are the praepositus.”

Yes. He was. The burden of that was there when he woke in the morning, and when he lay down each night, and often even as he slept. The only thing he had no say over were the vineyards, and the man who controlled them.

“He understands nothing but his own twisted mind,” Ximen said out loud, here where only Bo and the plants could hear him. “We had an understanding: he was to use the sea beasts as strategic weapons, and keep them contained, otherwise. Allowing the beasts to attack on impulse increases fear, but it also allows our enemies more time to study the attacks and muster a defense. If we are to keep them off-kilter … I do not care what that bastard son of a catamite says, there was no benefit to his actions.”

He knew that Bo had no idea what he was speaking of. She was a good woman, gentle with his children and fierce with the Household workers, but she did not poke her straight nose into matters of governance. She had not been raised to it; women were too few, too valuable to be risked in the games of men.

Decade after decade, his family had watched, waited while others grew complacent, forgot where they had come from, what they had been. And they did forget, a little more with every generation. The people clung to rules to appease the dangers of daily life—the wild dogs and vicious, solitary cats, the poisonous snakes and deadly crawling things—even the shallow waters could be deadly. Ximen wanted more. For himself, for his children … his people.

“We are almost ready, he tells me. Justice will be meted out, the sins
against our fathers washed clean, our honor reclaimed. That is what I must focus on, not his mad games. Leave the vine-mage to his work, and be ready. That is how I will win.”

“And then you will leave us, sire?”

Ximen lifted his face to the sky, drawing in a deep breath of the warm, dusty air. Leave. His grandfather’s great-grandfather had landed on the shore of what would become the Grounding that fateful night, when the sky opened in flame and the waves rose up in turmoil, and the Betrayal was made clear. Four ships’ complement and cargo, and only six score had survived. Had it not been for Bo’s people taking them in, the story would have ended there.

The Praepositus was responsible for them all, from the youngest child in the crèche to the oldster on his final walk. From those who served to those who ruled, the ones who survived, and the ones who went to feed the Harvest’s need.

His family had ruled the settlement for three generations, but their blood and bone were bound deeper to the soil than that, seven generations since they came to this place as unwilling settlers. His forefathers and Bo’s had not been of the same people, but time and hardship had bound them together as vines were bound to stalks, growing together in one single purpose. Survival.

“Sire!”

He turned and saw a servant running toward him. A girl-child, barely at puberty, her long dark legs flashing through the lengths of fabric around her waist, her bare torso gleaming with sweat from her effort under the warm sun.

He held up a hand to keep Bo from going farther and waited for the servant to catch up with them. He identified her as she came closer: Suraya, the daughter of his stableman.