Weight of Stone (33 page)

“There will be no Harvest this year,” Detta said, and the words were like another blow across Jerzy’s shoulders, the taste of ashes in his mouth. “But we can survive that.”

He wanted to protest, but she kept talking.

“I know enough after all these years, the overseers know enough, to maintain the vines for a season, to ensure that they are healthy for you when you return. But you must ensure that there will be a Harvest after that, and again after that, Jerzy. If this continues, the Washers: whatever else is happening, they will blame us for the death of their brothers; they will try to take the lands from us, salt the earth, and break the House of Malech. You must go and put an end to this before they do.”

It is true.

Jerzy shook his head, refusing both her words and the Guardian’s echo.

You must go.
There was a sensation, like the lifting of heavy stone wings over the vineyard.
I remain.

Only then did Jerzy, reluctantly, nod. The moment he agreed, only then did Detta’s tears begin to fall.

*   *   *

B
EFORE THE DAY
had reached evening, word spread, via messenger pigeons and means more exotic, to those who had developed an interest in the doings of one Vineart, far away.

“The Vineart Malech is dead.”

There was a pause while the man addressed tried to recollect who that was and why he was being informed. Ah. The troublemaker in The Berengia. “Good. Has the bounty been paid?”

The aide, a man who had been with the land-lord of Évura since he came to his title, shook his head, looking perplexed. “It has not been claimed, sahr.”

The land-lord raised his attention from the parchments on his desk at that information. “Not claimed.”

“No, sahr. Nor have any of the others reported a request for payment, with or without proof of the deed.”

While some men might be pleased to keep their coin, the thought disturbed Sar Diogo. If the offered reward—a not unsubstantial sum—was not claimed, too often that meant another price would be asked.

Diogo did not like surprises. He leaned back in his chair, and thought. The others—land-lords from across Iaja—had joined him in offering the bounty, worried by the reports they had been hearing from trusted and valued sources. Whispers of a man who did not know his place within the Commands, who sought to take more power than he had been granted, who sought to meddle in things that were not his concern. They had known it was a Vineart who caused them such misery, but they could not determine who—not until they were approached by a Washer worried by the same things as they, who gave them a name.

House Malech.

Diogo had wondered then why the Washer had been so forthcoming—it stunk of maneuverings, for reasons unknown, and reasons unknown were reasons to worry about—but the intelligence was true. Master Vineart Malech had gone beyond tradition, was overstepping his bounded concerns.

It had seemed wrong, somehow; Vineart Malech was respected, valued by his people, and his own land-lord seemed to have no problems with him … but that in and of itself was also worrying. Was there collusion?

A bounty had been set—high enough to attract those who had an actual chance at succeeding, not so high that word might spread beyond the society of such folk who might be useful. He and his fellow lords all knew what they did was against the Command as well, to move against a Vineart … but had a Washer not given them the name? And were they not merely protecting themselves against one mage’s arrogance and greed, not striking a blow for their own aggrandizement? Where one Vineart went bad, could not others—others closer to home?

It was only logical, and just, to act on the small problem before it became a larger one.

“You are certain he is dead?” he asked his aide.

“They are building a funeral bier even as we speak.”

Then it was done. There were no second thoughts to be made. “Excellent. And even more excellent if someone has done our work for us, without requiring payment. Send word that the bounty is no longer open for the taking.”

The aide saluted, and then paused at the door, as though struck by a sudden thought. “What about the student?”

His gaze was intent on his liege-lord, coaxing the proper response from him.

“Oh, yes.” Diogo stroked his beard, as though checking that his man had trimmed it properly that morning. “The entire kennel should be emptied, should it not, else risk the pup growing up to bite us as well. Half the original bounty, then: for proof of the boy’s unfortunate demise. And then step back, show no interest in what happens to their lands. Let the others squabble over it, if they will.”

That should prove, if anyone connected him with the events, that he had acted out of concern for others, not himself. In truth, he had enough to do moderating his own lands, much less more farmland half
a world away. The matter dismissed from his mind, he returned to his work, not even noticing when the aide left the room.

“G
UARDIAN
.”

Vineart.

That cool sense of the word in his mind made it real, suddenly. Never mind that he was half trained, or that he didn’t even know if there would be a House to return to. His master was gone. Ready or not, he was Vineart Jerzy of House Malech. The sole Vineart of House Malech.

They stood in the courtyard, Mahault and Jerzy, while the Guardian perched on the rooftop, looking down at them. The rest of the House was in the vineyard, sitting vigil over Malech’s body. At sunset it would be given back to the soil, as was proper. Jerzy would not be there to see it. His hand reached down to his belt, where an additional weight now swung. Malech’s tasting spoon, taken from his master’s belt before he was placed on the bier.

“How …” He let the question trail off. He had asked, already, how the Guardian had carried them from the
Vine’s Heart
; asked, and gotten the same sense of loss and sorrow, of dry regret that had accompanied the Guardian’s inability to heal Malech, the hint of something complicated that could not be explained, not because it did not wish to, but because it did not know
how
. The Guardian was magic, not a magic-user, and its creator was dead.

For the first time in his life, Jerzy was not willing to accept that he could not know something, but he did not know how to insist.

“Guardian … you will protect them.” Detta, Lil, the House-servants, the slaves, the vines … all encompassed in that one word.
Them.
His, now. His to protect, to defend. To grow carefully, and harvest wisely.

There were no words then from the dragon, but a sense of assent, of agreement, of security that went from the bedrock of the vineyards to the roof of the room where Jerzy had slept, stretching beyond the edges of this yard and out across The Berengia to the secondary vineyards, the
stone-built sleep houses, and low stone wall. All within the Guardian’s touch.

It was foreseen,
the dragon reminded him. It was why the Guardian existed: to protect the House when its master needed to be elsewhere.

Somehow, that did not ease the pain at all.

Are you ready?
And then the Guardian’s long stone tail twitched once, and Jerzy took Mahault’s hand in his own, feeling her fingers tremble, and he felt the sensation again of being shifted into stone.

A breeze rose from within the courtyard, swirling dust into the air; they were gone, and only the Guardian remained.

T
HE
N
ORTHERN
C
OAST OF
I
RFAN

Summer

The Vine’s Heart
did not sail; she danced. As the stars wheeled overhead, changing their formations as the
Heart
traveled farther south, Jerzy grew accustomed to the delicate sway of the deck under him, the sharp slap of the salt air, and the constant noise of the great white birds circling overhead. He was no longer ill, even when they ran into rough seas, and there was no panic when they were out of sight of land, the way they were right now.

He looked down at the rope he was coiling, down to his bare toes, as sun-browned as the rest of his exposed skin. He looked like a sailor; he was even starting to feel like one. The fact that he hated it, every minute they were under sail, mattered not at all.

Jerzy looked up again as one of the gray-and-white seafishers swung overhead, its harsh call falling into the open sky. Why had man not developed wings, rather than sails?

On the other hand, Ao, currently hanging overhead in the rigging, shouting something down to Mahl at the wheel, was clearly having a wonderful time. Jerzy couldn’t find it in himself to be ill tempered; there was too little joy in the days, now, to begrudge any laughter.

There were footsteps behind him. “Ao has spotted another one.”

“Is it doing anything?” he asked, storing the rope and taking a drink from the waterskin Kaï offered him, relishing the taste of the water down his throat. It was warm from the sun, but fresh, not salt.

Kaï had long ago abandoned his fancier clothing, and dressed like the rest of them in plain trou and a sleeveless vest. His black hair was no longer neatly styled, but tied back with a kerchief that Jerzy thought might have been one of his, once. Shipboard, clothing was washed and left to dry, and taken according to need, not original possession. “No,” Kaï said. “Just swimming along. About quarter-mark, a full length away.”

Jerzy handed back the waterskin, looking in the direction Kaï indicated. “Then we’ll leave it be.”

They had seen the first sea serpent a tenday after the Guardian returned Jerzy and Mahl to the
Vine’s Heart,
and they had set sail—Jerzy a quiet spectre at the ship’s bow, the other three moving quietly around him. They had just lost sight of the Iajan coastline behind them, the shadowed coast of Mur-Magrib distant to their left, when something had raised its monstrous head from the waters just off their bow and stared at them with those great, dead eyes. Kaï and Mahl had both lunged for their blades, slung from pegs near the wheel shack, and then stood there, uncertain of what they could do. The beast had simply blinked once, staring at Jerzy as though it knew his role in the death of its sibling, and then sank below the waves once again, neither attacking nor following them.

Since then they had seen three more, each time rising up to look at them, and then disappearing. There were subtle differences to each; one
had a larger head; another a puckered scar across its terrible snout, as though it had tangled with something as deadly as itself. The fact that it was not a single beast, clearly tracking them, was a relief. The fact that there were three distinct beasts, plus the two he had seen dead, Jerzy found not at all comforting, since five seen meant more were likely roaming the waters, as yet unseen.

“Ignore it? You are certain?” Kaï was clearly unnerved by the serpents, particularly by the realization that his sword would be little defense should one of the beasts choose to attack.

“If it comes closer, I will warn it away.”

One of the spellwines Jerzy carried with him at all times now was a firespell that could work through water. It had been crafted and incanted to repel smaller beasts that were occasionally drawn in by fishermen, attracted by their nets of fish into thinking they were an easy meal. If he decanted it at the sea serpent, it probably would not be enough to kill it, but it would remind the beast that they were not easy prey, and it should go elsewhere.

Probably. Hopefully. It might also simply enrage it. He did not mention that possibility to Kaïnam.

The truth was, with the spellwines they had to hand, and only Jerzy able to decant them with any skill, if the beast decided to come at them, they were dead. But it didn’t hurt to pretend that they had a chance.

Ao swung down from the rigging, landing with a solid thud on the deck beside the two men. “Jer. We have company.”

“I heard,” Jerzy said, still watching the horizon where the beast had been sighted. He could tell from the way Kaï stiffened next to him that Ao was not pleased at having his news carried before him, and was glaring at the prince as the likely culprit.

Jerzy didn’t sigh, but he wanted to. Another reason to be sick of life shipboard; there was no way to escape the others. Ao’s need to argue was matched only by the pleasure he found in provoking the Atakusian, and despite their friendship, Kaï often reverted back to arrogance, especially when he was trying to make a point. Particularly when Mahl was around.

It was as though the fact that Mahault was female twisted both Ao and Kaïnam into knots, despite the fact that Mahault was not interested in becoming anyone’s lady, and both Ao and Kaï knew it. It had become almost a game for them, a way to distract themselves from the impossibility of what they were doing. Knowing that did not keep Jerzy from wanting to throw all three of them overboard, save that he could not sail the
Heart
on his own.

“Would you rather he didn’t tell me, and risk my not being prepared if it changed course and came for us,” Jerzy asked now, showing only mild annoyance.

There was a surprised snort from Ao, and he leaned on the railing next to Jerzy. “You are never going to learn subtlety or an indirect jibe, are you?” he asked ruefully. “No matter how many times I teach you, no matter how many times we go over it …”

“I leave the parries to fighters and traders,” Jerzy said. “Vinearts are not subtle creatures.”

A lie: spellwines were infinitely more subtle, more indirect than even the wiliest trader. But there was no way Jerzy could explain that, and certainly not to a man who still insisted that he could manage just fine without relying on magic … if he needed to.

Jerzy fell silent again, his attention caught by a change in the wind from eastern to southerly, bringing with it a touch of moisture. There was no magic within the wind, but studying the play of patterns in the air was infinitely preferable to trying to explain himself to non-Vinearts.

Ao hesitated, then touched him once on the shoulder, his hand hard and callused from the ropes, and went back to work.