Weight of Stone (17 page)

The flattery seemed over the top, even for a merchant, and Jerzy looked sideways up at Kaïnam to see how he should respond. The princeling seemed amused by it, gesturing with one hand for Jerzy to follow the older man into the cool depths of the shop.

They were seated at the far end of the cloth-draped bar by a scurrying servant, and two goblets were placed in front of them. Jerzy picked his up carefully, turning it around in his hand to better admire it. The
glass was almost clear, if slightly clouded, and there were only a few crackling lines ruining the design. Unlike the goblets in his master’s House, these had no stem, but were rather small, deep bowls, meant to be cupped in the palm of the hand.

He did not think his master would approve, but it doubtless made them easier to craft and transport. The Glassmakers’ Guild was far away, and their work was too fragile to travel easily, making it expensive … were these the work of local craftsmen? If so, the guild should keep an eye on their own worth, or risk losing custom. The realization that he was thinking like a trader made Jerzy blanch slightly. Politics, and now trading … what else was happening to him?

“For you, good sirs, my finest. Yes, just the thing on such a warm day.” The wine seller, without hesitation, reached behind him and pulled out a small clay flask, the wax seal around the edge already cracked open. There was moisture on the surface, indicating that it had been kept chilled somehow, despite the sun’s heat. Jerzy was intrigued. Did they have an icehouse behind the counter? That would be expensive, in this warm land. Or were they using a weatherspell to maintain its cool temperature? If so, small wonder a thunderstorm had not broken out under the tent by now!

The wine seller poured the liquid into the glasses, and Jerzy’s breath caught. The wine—a
vin ordinaire
that did not catch at his mage-sense at all—was a deep golden color, thick and rich-looking. To be certain, he glanced at the seal on the side of the flask. Yes, he was correct. Gilded
vina,
from Master Bartlet. Not a
vina magica
, but just as precious. He had never tasted this
vina
himself, but his master served it for special visitors. It was truly an honor, being offered it.

Jerzy lifted his glass, once it was poured, and raised it to chest level, letting the edge tip toward their host. The Vineart’s toast was “warm days, cool nights,” but he was not sure that was appropriate here. Instead, he used one he had heard from Ao: “Health and wealth.” When Kaïnam echoed him, and the wine seller beamed, he relaxed slightly and lifted the rim of the glass to his mouth.

Smoothly ripe, intensely bright fruit filled his mouth and nearly overwhelmed his senses; only the sure hand of a Master Vineart had kept the
vina
in check, wrapping it around a structure of cool stone and dry earth that tempered it into a refreshing drink, rather than a cloying one. Magnificent.

Kaïnam did not seem to notice anything special in the wine being poured, even as it slipped down his throat, and Jerzy pitied him.

From the gleam in the wine seller’s eye, he knew the impact his offering had made on Jerzy. “So. Gentlesirs. What service may I offer to you? Or are you perhaps looking to offer your services to me?” The wine seller looked so hopeful, Jerzy almost wished he could say yes. He waited for Kaïnam to respond, then realized with a start that the prince had ceded the conversation to him.

“I am here only to taste, and perhaps to acquire,” he said, thankful that Ao wasn’t with them. The trader would doubtless attempt to work some deal for Jerzy’s services, regardless of the fact that he was not, in fact, a Vineart yet, and had no yards of his own to plant, much less harvest.

“Ah. Well, gentlesir, I will do my very best to accommodate you. My
vins ordinaire
are excellent, as you yourself have tasted, and I have a small selection of spellwines you might perhaps wish to sample? Not so many, these days, I am afraid. Our shipments have been … lacking, lately.” He paused, and seemed to be waiting for Jerzy to say something.

Beside him, Kaïnam stirred, as though wanting to join the conversation, but he remained silent.

“You have not been able to come to Agreement? I know this is a difficult land to work, but there is …” Jerzy had to think a moment, thankful that Master Malech had taught him the map of the Vin Lands, annotated with the names and specializations of as many Vinearts as Malech himself knew of. They were still within its boundaries, if barely, and while the coastline was not suited to vines, surely there was a Vineart or two near enough …

“What of Vineart Poul? He surely could supply you with the basics.”
The Vineart was not a master, but he had inherited vineyards farther inland that were known for a rare variant of weathervines that could be incanted to find hidden stores of water, deep underground. He would be considered a master soon enough, Malech had said in passing. All he needed was the confidence to claim the title, and it would be his.

The wine seller looked surprised, then assumed a sad expression. “Vineart Poul died months back,” he said. “A terrible, terrible thing.”

“Illness?” Kaïnam asked, in the tone of a man making idle conversation.

“No. Or if so, one that came suddenly, and left no trace—nor infected others around him. He lay down to sleep one night, in the prime of health, and never woke up.”

“And he had no student, past or present, to inherit?” Jerzy felt himself tense, although he was unsure why.

The wine seller shook his head. “And none have come to claim his lands, either. They have lain fallow since then. A few brave souls have harvested what they could, but their
vin ordinaire
was …” He made a face and shook his head. “It needs a Vineart’s touch, those vines do, before they are lost to us.” He looked carefully at Jerzy, who tensed. “You are young yet, gentlesir. Might you be looking …”

Something surged inside Jerzy, but he forced it down harshly. That was not how it worked. A Vineart did not acquire lands that way. This merchant should know that; any who dealt with Vinearts should know that.

Jerzy thought of Mahault, of her cool demeanor no matter the affront, and his voice showed none of his disgust or dismay when he replied. “Alas, my friend, I am bound to another yard, yet. But I will let my master know of your dilemma. Perhaps something may be done.”

Letting a producing yard revert to the wild was a waste. It happened, occasionally, that a Vineart died without a student, and no slaves showed the Sense beyond what first attracted a Vineart to buy them, but it was rare. The slavers were very good at their job, and it was unheard of for a Vineart with Poul’s reputation to have no student at all.

“What happened to his slaves?” Perhaps Jerzy could investigate, or …

“Ah. They ran off, after his death.”

Jerzy looked at him, both his earlier tension and the surge of greed banished by an utter lack of comprehension. “Ran off?”

“Yes. He had, hrmn, twenty, perhaps? Maybe half again that. All gone, by the time someone came to see what had happened to the man.”

Impossible. Even if their master was harsh, they would not abandon the vines. One, or two, perhaps. But not all. Even if they lacked all sense of magic in their bones, they would not abandon the vines.

Vineart Poul’s death might have been from natural causes.
Might.
But Jerzy did not think so. Too many things were off; he could feel the tainted hand of their enemy pressing down on the land, plucking off another piece from the game board. Jerzy kept that fear to himself, for now. That was Vineart business, and none of theirs. Master Malech would know what it all meant.

Kaïnam seemed to sense his distraction and, with gentle maneuverings, turned the discussion to more commonplace matters, of weather and the arrival and departure of trading ships, and what news was heard from Mur-Magrib’s ruling family, and the taxes they demanded. Jerzy understood little of it, and it was a relief when, their glasses empty, the wine seller invited him to look over the stock available for sale. Kaïnam indicated that he would remain there, and so Jerzy followed the wine seller back behind the bar to a cool, stone-built storeroom. The smell—a slightly dusty, cool scent—made his chest clench again with longing, but he hid it, looking over each offering carefully. Finally, he found a half cask of healwine—not his master’s, but acceptable—and two flasks of firewine to replenish the lighting of the ship, and allow their food to be heated, rather than relying on cold meals midday. There was also a flagon of Master Giordan’s weatherwine that tempted him, so much that he found his hand on the clay surface without consciously meaning to.

“And that, gentlesir?”

“No,” he meant to say, but his voice said, “Yes.”

Vineart Giordan had betrayed him, but his vines had been
magnificent, his skills undeniable. Giordan had no slaves as part of his Agreement with Mahault’s father, the maiar of Aleppan; if the Washers had executed him, would that spellwine disappear from this world the way Vineart Poul’s would? A tragedy, if so. There were not so many Vinearts that the death of even one without a successor would not be a loss. Two, in such a short time … and a wine seller who seemed in ignorance—or not to care—about the Commands that ruled what a Vineart might or might not do?

His last reluctance to obey the Guardian’s order faded. Master Malech needed to know of all he, Jerzy, had seen and heard, and it was too hard, at this distance, for the Guardian to give him more than vague instructions, much less convey anything this complicated. No—the sooner he was home, the better.

After they agreed on a price, the wine seller had his assistant select the wines and bring them to the front, where Kaïnam waited. The Atakusian was not quite as calm as he had been earlier, and refused the wine seller’s offer to have the wines delivered. Jerzy started to protest, then shrugged, tucking the flasks over his shoulder and lifting the cask into an easy cradle carry while Kaïnam paid over the required coins.

For someone who had spent half of his life hauling casks and bushel baskets, the weight was nothing unusual. The pace that Kaïnam set when they left, however, quickly left him breathless.

“What is wrong?”

Kaïnam scanned the crowd, his taller height an advantage. His stance was still tense, but his hands rested loose by his side, his shoulders open, not hunched as though expecting a blow, the way Jerzy might have expected, the way he was acting. The lessons from his own weapons master came back to him: someone had taught this princeling to fight with more than words … and he was expecting to use those skills.

“While you were in the back, one of the customers near us left.”

That could not be what had set his companion off, so Jerzy waited, shifting the cask in his arms to ease the strain on his muscles and ready himself as well. Mil’ar Cai had spent more time teaching the young
student how to escape a fight without injury than how to start one, but, if need be, Jerzy could place a blow well enough.

The thought came that, with the spellwine he carried, he could do significantly more damage, but it would take too long to ready himself, and he dared not use quiet-magic here, where anyone might see and wonder. Kaïnam, suddenly realizing how fast they were wending through the slower-moving crowd, slowed his steps, as much to avoid curious notice as for Jerzy’s comfort.

“He came back, not a moment later,” Kaïnam went on, still looking over Jerzy’s head, his gaze restlessly watching the crowd around them. “And he was not alone. Two men, and neither of them had ever done an honest day’s work in his life, I vow that. They were speaking intently, and looking in my direction too often for comfort. I do not think they were interested in me, however.”

Jerzy hesitated, then shared his thoughts. “The Vineart Poul. His death was not natural.” The switch in topics seemed unrelated, but his companion followed without hesitation.

“Men do die, without seeming cause,” Kaïnam said, but he sounded as though he were arguing counterpoint, not because he believed it, but because he had been trained to do so.

“Men do. But a Vineart’s slaves do not run off in the night. It is not how we are trained.”

“If he was a harsh master …”

Kaïnam didn’t understand. He couldn’t. Jerzy remembered Cooper Shen, who had also misunderstood what it meant to be a vintnery slave. Yes, it was a harsh life. The Master’s word was life or death, his whim the difference between a good day and bad. But … there was nowhere else Jerzy could imagine being, nowhere else he would have wanted to be.

A Vineart chose his slaves for the Sense he saw within them, the touch of mage-magic in their bones. Not all developed into Vinearts, but all responded to the vines. They all were in thrall to the magic that surged in the soil, grew to expression within the fruit.

They would not have left.

And so they must have been taken.

Nothing came at them from the crowd, no attacks manifested while they walked, and Jerzy relaxed. Perhaps Kaïnam had been mistaken.

If Poul had been murdered, that was another crime to lay at the feet of their unknown enemy. But for the slaves to have been taken … no, it made no sense. Who would steal slaves? Another Vineart, only. One who could not afford his own? But how to transport so many, so quietly? Had a slaver’s caravan been through, to sweep them up and resell them?

Kaïnam steered them down a different street, this one less crowded, with fewer stalls. Deep in thought and burdened with the casks, trusting his companion to lead the way, Jerzy didn’t see the other man until they knocked shoulders.

“Ho, sorry there, my friend.” A hand reached out to steady him as Jerzy staggered, but kept hold of the half barrel. He nodded his thanks, but the hand did not release him.

“Kaï—” he began, nervous. He instinctively sucked at his cheeks, trying to dredge moisture to call the quiet-magic to him, but fear made his mouth too dry to cooperate. Kaïnam’s presence at his side disappeared, and for an instant Jerzy had the wild thought that he had been abandoned, that the princeling had somehow betrayed him.

Then there was a snicking noise of metal clearing a sheath, and his assailant suddenly had six inches of shining blade pressed, edge first, under his bearded chin.