Weight of Stone (37 page)

“Jer?”

“Hush a moment,” he said, flicking his hand at Ao. “I’m thinking.”

With a bit of his awareness, Jerzy saw Mahl take Ao by the arm and lead him off a bit down the beach, the two of them talking intently. Kaï remained by his side, less a companion than a vigil-keeper, alert to any movement that might be a threat. Jerzy wanted to scoff, but the memory of those men in Tétouan came back. They still did not know who those men had been, who they had worked for, or why they had wanted Jerzy. It might be foolish, but Jerzy could not say Kaïnam’s caution was foolish. Not with Master Malech dead, and the Washers after them.

“Fire, to repel. Earth, to protect. Water, because the
Heart
is a creature of it….” He found his pack in the pile on the sand and knelt down beside it, undoing the straps and reaching inside the bag to find the flasks he needed.

Kaï spoke softly. “I thought that you said that was dangerous, mixing spells?”

“It is,” Jerzy said. He had told them, one night as they shared histories, the story of the misincanted spell in the workroom.

“Oh.”

Kaïnam did not take a step backward, but he obviously wanted to, and probably would have if he thought it would make a difference.

The first flask was a wavespell, similar to the one Kaïnam had used when he left Atakus, to speed his ship along. Jerzy poured a small dose into the tasting spoon, then placed it carefully on the sand next to him, where it would not be knocked over.

The second flask was barely the size of his palm, and it was covered with a pale green tracing. Growspell. Jerzy could practically feel the life pulsing within the spellwine, waiting for any excuse to go to work.

“Growspells are dangerous and difficult to control,” he said, forgetting in the focused calm of his concentration that Kaïnam was not only not a Vineart, but the heir to a man of power, and should not be told such things. “The grapes are left to ripen until the very last moment, so they are powerful, the magic concentrated and rich. A strict incantation is
needed, to keep it from doing too much once released. And the decantation must be performed perfectly.”

“Is that why the price is so high?”

“That, and because the slightest failure of weather or timing, and an entire harvest is ruined.” He opened the seal carefully and sniffed at the mouth of the flask, just to be sure. A bouquet of warm, rich soil met his nostrils, winding its way inside and making him smile in reflex. It was the most basic, most elemental of the growwines: root-strengthen. He had brought it on impulse; if these were wild vines, then he might be able to bring them back for replanting, to cleanse the taint and reclaim them and the magic they carried.

Inside him, Jerzy could feel something shift and stretch, much the way his body had earlier, only reaching downward, burrowing into the earth itself: the quiet-magic, waking to his call. Not fast or hard, the way it had been on the ship that day, but slow and natural, like the unfolding of a leaf.

“This is going to be tricky,” he said, talking again to himself, his audience of one forgotten. Two spellwines in front of him, to be added to the two he carried within himself already …

His master would be horrified, would remind him that his quiet-magic had led the enemy to him, before, would forbid him from even trying such a thing, reminding him of the disaster he had caused trying to create the hailstorm-protection spell.

Master Vineart Malech had been wise, and beyond doubt talented. He had also been cautious, and careful, and he was dead.

The thought was hard, but it firmed Jerzy’s resolve to do this thing. It was the only way to find his master’s killer. The only way to clear his reputation so that he could return home and take up his work again. The only way for the House to be safe. Any risk, any cost, was worth that.

Pulling moisture from his cheeks and throat, Jerzy collected the spittle in the cup of his tongue, then with his free hand lifted the tasting spoon from the sand and let the liquid flow slowly onto his tongue as
well, trying to keep it all balanced, not spilling or swallowing anything just yet. He had a passing heretical thought that this was forbidden not for the crossing of vinespells, but because the risk of a Vineart choking to death was terribly high.

Perhaps he was apostate after all. Perhaps the Washers were right. If so, they had driven him to it, and he would not apologize.

Placing the spoon down, he lifted the growwine flask to his mouth, and let a scant drop fall onto his lips.

The effect was as immediate as it was unexpected. Jerzy’s entire body stiffened, his arms jolting forward to land palm down on the sand, supporting his body as his back arched and his knees locked and inside his body the magic swirled in dizzying loops, until his skin ached to break free with the power of it all. Through it all he remained still, his tongue cupping the liquid, pressing it slowly into the roof of his mouth, taking in all the magic contained within the wines and making it blend with the quiet-magic, adding the elements of each spellwine to his own abilities. He did not know how he was doing it, each next movement built on the last, following some instinct and the knowledge of what each wine could do.

All those hours of sitting in Master Malech’s study, repeating the virtues of each spellvine, the aspects of each wine, the forms of incantations and decantations—it might not have been the purpose intended, but the knowledge allowed him to contain the magic, to control and direct it.

It was difficult to form the words, his mouth and throat almost numb with magic, but his lips moved to shape the words carefully, visualizing what he wanted while looking out to where the ship rested patiently, the masthead pointing toward them as though looking at the Vineart.

“
Vine’s Heart
, safely keep. Stem to stern, mast to hull. Go.”

He swallowed the warm liquid, and his body collapsed as the magic left him, flowing to follow his decantation.

“All the silent gods!”

The soft exclamation came from Ao, even as Jerzy moved back onto his haunches and tried to focus on the results of his spell-casting.

“Oh.” Mahault, her voice round with wonder.

“That was … impressive,” Kaïnam said. His voice was dry and distant, but Jerzy had heard that tone often enough from the prince, while sparring with Mahl, to know that it hid a very real appreciation.

His eyes finally cleared enough to see what they were talking about. The
Heart
still rested at anchor, rising and falling on the gentle swells of the cove. At first glance, nothing seemed to have changed. The sails were furled, the deck empty Then his gaze was drawn to the cupped hands of the figurehead set on the bow of the ship, and his breath caught.

The wooden carving was wood no longer. Rather than the weathered, white-painted wood of before, the hands were now a deep olive skin tone, similar to Master Malech’s own hands, and they moved slowly, the fingers lifting and relaxing as though testing their own strength. The vine-wreath that had been clenched between those fingers was now thick green, not with paint but life, each individual leaf trembling in the sea-breeze.

“Sin Washer protect us,” Jerzy breathed, staring at what he had done.

Behind him, Kaïnam let out a noise that might have been a strangled laugh. “I think, Vineart, that he already does.”

“Nothing will dare touch her now,” Mahl said quietly, having come back at some point to rejoin them. Beside her, Ao was silent and slack-jawed, looking from the ship to Jerzy, and then back again. “A pirate would wet himself rather than board her, and if the Washers come upon her …”

“They might board her,” Jerzy said. “But they would not dare damage anything, nor take her for their own. Not with that, and her name clear on the side.”

“Then let’s get moving,” Kaïnam said, shaking off the awe and fear of the moment and making his voice brisk and matter-of-fact. “Jerzy, are you able to walk?”

“I’m fine,” he said, but remained on his haunches a moment longer, still staring at the masthead. He rubbed his own hands thoughtfully, the fingers of one hand unconsciously finding the red mark on the back of the other hand. A slave was marked by his master, on the inside of his wrist. When the vines accepted him as their own, it disappeared and reappeared on the other side of his hand, for all to see.

He wondered, even as he was standing up, not noticing the hand Kaïnam offered in assistance, if the hand on the masthead carried a similar dark splotch.

“Jerzy?”

“Yes. Let’s go.”

T
HE MOMENT THEY
entered the village itself, climbing up a narrow path through the low, ground-hugging vegetation, Jerzy realized how very far from home he was. The first person they encountered was a young child, barely knee high to an adult, wrapped in a dark green waistcloth that made his ebony skin shine. His eyes grew wide at the sight of the strangers, and a bright smile flashed onto his face as he ran toward them, grasping at Mahl’s hand and tugging at her fingers as though expecting them to come off, crying out something in a language Jerzy did not recognize.

“I hope he’s saying ‘pretty!’ and not ‘dinner!’” Jerzy said, and then flinched when Ao hit him, the flat of his palm connecting across the back of Jerzy’s head.

“Never assume, because you don’t understand someone else, that they don’t understand you,” the trader said, his voice and face as angry as Jerzy had ever seen him, even when they had told him about Master Malech’s death.

“Do you understand him?” Mahl asked, bending down so that she was face-to-face with the child, and reaching with her free hand to tug at his other hand in return, linking them together in a sort of cross-handed game the child found irresistible, giggling and tugging even harder.

“Not a word,” Ao admitted, and Kaïnam shook his head as well. “Perhaps we will have better luck with his parents,” he said, indicating the small group of adults who were emerging from the houses farther down the street, clearly drawn by the child’s call.

“Let me approach them,” Ao said, and shot a pointed look at Jerzy. “You, stay quiet.”

The trader took a deep breath, straightened his tunic, and then handed his pack to Kaïnam—not, Jerzy thought, without a smirk at making the prince act as his servant—and stepped forward to meet the locals.

Jerzy couldn’t hear what Ao was saying, but there was a great deal of body language, exactly the sort the trader was always telling him to observe. So he observed.

Ao had his back to them, but his arms were moving—not the wild swinging he occasionally had when he was caught up in telling a story, but a more studied, almost graceful looping of his hands. Jerzy thought that it might draw the attention of the person he was speaking to, distracting them from his face. So they could not judge his expression? Or so that he could look around without being watched? It could be either, or both, or neither.

Three of the locals had stepped forward to meet Ao: two women and a man. The others, about ten or so, hung back slightly, while down the main street of the village Jerzy could see a few dark-haired heads leaning out of windows and standing in doorways, watching them.

The women wore skirts that wrapped low around their hips, in brightly patterned fabric, and their upper bodies were draped with more cloth, leaving their arms and necks free. The woman who was talking to—at—Ao now wore a cloth wrapped around her head, similar to women Jerzy had seen when they’d stopped in Tétouan, only her head cloth was more brightly colored. She held her body still, only her hands moving as she spoke; her gaze remained on Ao’s face, no matter how his own hands moved.

The other woman’s head was bare, her night-black hair short and
curled, with glints of bright color as she turned her head back and forth. She was listening intently to both speakers, occasionally adding a comment of her own. Her face was unlined, and occasionally she would smile, a full-lipped expression that reminded Jerzy of the child who had greeted them. There was no artifice in her, only fascination.

“Her hair is beaded,” Mahl said delightedly. “The same beads that she has on her clothing, I’d think. How beautiful.”

The man who stood beside them was a solid figure, looking as much like a carved stone statue from the Aleppanese Garden as a living creature. His arms crossed over a bare chest, he watched the dual-tongued discussion with the air of someone who was waiting for a decision to be made, at which point he would take an interest in the result.

“My father spoke of folk like these,” Kaïnam said quietly. “When he was much younger, not yet Principal, and traveled more. A tribe of wild hunters, he called them, fierce and strong, and dark as the night. But that was far from here, on the edge of the Dry Sea.”

“Mahault,” Ao called, turning slightly. “Come here.”

She exchanged quick glances with her companions, then walked forward. Like the others, she had changed her clothing to leave the ship, not certain of who they would encounter. She wore a coarse-woven blouse of linen, with full sleeves tied at the wrists, and a leather vest that would serve as protection against a blade, and her trou had been replaced by a simple brown skirt cut so that she could, in need, move quickly, without being hindered. Compared to the women in front of her, she looked drab, but the color of her hair, sun-kissed to an even paler gold, fascinated them. At Ao’s instruction, she undid the knot at the nape of her neck and let the hair fall its full length, down to her waist.

What followed, Jerzy could only compare to two—or three—cats greeting each other, as the two native women touched Mahault’s hair, stroking it carefully, and Mahl in turn was allowed to touch the beads in the younger woman’s hair, and examine the head wrap the older woman
wore, making sounds of delight that apparently crossed over any language difficulties.

“Trust a trader to find the mutual value,” Kaïnam said, dryly amused.

T
HEY NEVER DID
manage to learn more than the few words for hello, my name is, and good-bye, but Ao still managed to explain, with frequent turns to Jerzy for advice, that they were looking for a place where a certain type of plant grew. After long discussion, seated together under the spreading branches of an ancient tree that had clearly served as a meeting place for centuries, another man—this one much older, his night-dark features marked with scars, and his hair the color of frost—came forward with a square piece of tanned animal hide with a detailed map on one side. It was placed on the ground so that everyone could see it, and with a great deal of hand motions and nodding at each other, Ao and the older woman came to an agreement on what direction the travelers should take.