Weight of Stone (38 page)

While the negotiations were going on, several of the children who had been gathering around, peering curiously at them, finally worked up the courage to approach the strangers.

The local adults, rather than shooing them away, smiled indulgently as they touched Mahl’s still unbound hair and stroked Jerzy’s own dark red locks. Kaïnam’s straight black hair, like Ao’s, seemed to intrigue them less, despite the contrast to their own curls. The color seemed to be what fascinated them.

Ao sat back during a break in the discussions, letting the locals talk amongst themselves. He looked first at Jerzy, then quickly away, directing his attention to somewhere between Kaïnam and Mahault. “They say if we take this route, it will take us four days to reach the place where the vines grow.”

“Can we trust them?” Kaïnam had kept his hand clear of his sword the entire time, but he had been unhappy at the way the children crowded at him, touching his clothing and staring at his low leather
shoes—when Jerzy had taken off his own boots to show that he did indeed have toes underneath, they had shrieked in glee.

“There’s no reason not to trust them. Unless you sense something bad about them, Jer?” The question sounded awkward, almost accusing, and Jerzy frowned.

“No.” They smelled of clean sweat and earth and a spicy, nutty aroma, but he knew that wasn’t what Ao was asking about. “I don’t … there’s nothing to them at all, no more than any of you.”

“Then we’ll go. And the sooner we leave, the better. They’re bound to offer us hospitality, after such a long sit-down, but without knowing their traditions, I don’t think we should wait for them to offer.”

“Why not?” Mahault made a play-face at one of the children, and he giggled and scooted away. “Isn’t that rude?”

Ao rubbed the side of his face, as though suddenly very tired. “Some cultures, you’re offered the finest beds in the village to sleep in.”

“That sounds nice,” Mahl said.

“And the most comely son or daughter of the village to sleep with.”

Mahl flushed red under her tanned skin, and Kaïnam chuckled.

“Or, they might offer you their finest delicacy, which could be a part of the local herdstock you’d rather gnaw off your own leg than consume. Or—”

“We have the idea, Ao, thank you,” Kaïnam said quickly, but from the tick in his cheek Jerzy suspected the princeling was trying very hard not to laugh. Traders, like Negotiators, might be comfortable with such things, and men of power might accept them as necessary to seal Agreements, but neither Jerzy nor Mahault was so inclined.

Ao leaned forward again toward the locals, to indicate that the discussions were open, while Mahault shot Kaïnam a sidelong glare, daring him to say anything more. Jerzy reclaimed his shoes from one of the children and the rawhide laces from another, already thinking ahead to how they were going to carry everything they needed for four days, and what might have to be left behind.

Once Ao finalized the negotiations and they stood to leave; however, they received two surprises.

The first came in the form of three odd animals, somewhat like a donkey, but with an oddly jagged pattern of black and white stripes, and short manes that stood up against their neck almost like a thick row of spines. They were each haltered, woven leads running from the halters, and led by a young boy of perhaps ten.

“Zecora,”
the boy said, indicating the beasts.

“Seh-kor-ah?”

The boy nodded, clearly pleased that he had been able to teach these strangers something, and offered the leads to Ao.
“Zecora.”

Ao looked at the others, then shrugged and accepted the beasts.
“Heyabu,”
he said in thanks, and made a formal, shallow bow, which the boy, more awkwardly, returned.

“Well, that should take some time off our travel,” Ao said, looking at the beasts doubtfully. Unsaddled, with expressions on their faces that did not look particularly docile, they did not look like comfortable riding creatures, especially when one of them bared its great yellow teeth at him and uttered an odd, almost barking sound.

Mahault took a step back in shock, and then, as though in apology, lifted her hand to one black-tipped muzzle. The beast dropped its head and let her pet it, contentedly. Tiny little bits of black-and-white fur rose in a dusty cloud as it leaned into the touch, and the other two crowded her as though looking for affection, as well.

“I am not climbing on the back of that,” Kaïnam declared, offended by their awkward, shabby appearance. “And there are only three. Who is going to—”

“Ride in the cart? Ao asked, seeing the second of the surprises being brought toward them. The wooden contraption was not handsome, and it seemed oddly narrow, but there was a bench across the front where the driver could sit, and room for two or three others and their packs in the back, if they sat close together. Before Kaïnam could be offended at
the idea of riding in a cart, Mahault stepped down hard on his left foot, and Ao shot them all a glare that defied them to open their mouths.

“Heyabu,”
Ao said again, bowing to the adults who brought the cart. “Jer, is there anything we can do for them, in return? I dislike accepting gifts without giving something in return. It’s bad luck, and bad trading.”

Jerzy had already been thinking of that. He stepped back to reclaim his pack, his hands reaching unerringly this time for what he needed. “Mahl? Go through and find any children who look ill, or have injuries.”

“Oh, yes,” Kaïnam murmured, and Ao plainly let some of the stress that had fallen on him with the offering of the beasts fall away.

“They’ll remember you as a magician,” he said. “Will that be a problem?”

Jerzy shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s the best thing I can think of.”

Mahl came back in short order with five children, all of them very young, their parents trailing worriedly behind. They were willing to trust these strangers, but not too far, not with their children.

Jerzy removed the smallest healwine flask and checked the sigil.

“Do they need to do anything?” Ao asked.

“No. Just keep them there, and calm.”

The children, fortunately, were fascinated, and clearly thrilled to be the center of attention. Mahl sat down and let them play with her hair, their thin fingers combing it, then lifting up sections and letting it fall again against her shoulders.

Jerzy licked suddenly dry lips and forced himself to relax. He had healed before, although never under these circumstances. The memory of the slaves caught under the broken cart almost a year ago was still a visitor in his nightmares. He had saved most of them, but not all. One had been caught in living death, and he had been forced to end the slave’s life rather than allow him to linger endlessly. Like the plague ship, there had been no other choice—but he could not forget.

He did not let himself think of the plague ship.

These children were not in immediate fear of death, although he doubted the smallest child, his entire side withered, would survive to
become an adult. In the slavers caravan, these children would already have been tossed to the side of the road and left to starve. But these children had family, people who cared for them. Who would rejoice to see them well, and whole.

He was not Vineart Malech, no true healer, but he could make a difference here. Not enough to replace the memory of the plague ship, no, but it would be a start.

The world will need healing.

He poured a scant mouthful into the silver tasting spoon and motioned the first child, a girl with terrible burn scarring on her face, forward.

“W
HAT
?”

The vine-mage jerked awake, all of his senses straining into the still air. He had returned to his chambers, as was his habit in the late afternoon, when the sun disappeared early, to rest before evening meal; and he had … not fallen asleep, but found himself in a half-dozing stage, thinking of the work he planned to do once the moon rose.

“Master?” The slave who waited attendance on him stepped forward, anxious, thinking that he had missed some signal, forgotten something that was needful. The vine-mage waved the boy away, all of his concentration focused on whatever it was that had woken him.

There had been, as he dozed, the sense of something shadowing him, walking directly in his footsteps, breathing on the back of his neck. It had seemed like a dream—except that he did not dream.

“Someone following me,” he murmured. Ignoring the still-attentive slave, he lay back on his pillows and opened his senses as much as he could, the way he would before testing a new vintage. “What’s out there?”

It was possible, possible, that what he was sensing was the awakening of one of the slaves, that a suitable candidate to become his student had finally appeared. Despite what others thought of him—that he would tolerate no competition, that he slaughtered any slave with true
potential—he rather hoped it were so, that another woke among the roots.

He was not ready to give over control of the vines, no. He did not expect to be ready for many long years yet. But the vines lived longer than even the strongest vine-mage, and there would have to be another after him, eventually, even after his plan came to fruition. He would rather choose one of his own, even from this benighted land, than leave it to chance, or be forced to give his knowledge to an outsider, one born of the old world.

His Sense stretched outward, but there was no whisper of that shadow within the sleep house, nor did it echo within the yards themselves. Letting his awareness stretch farther, secure that the slave would protect his body while he was otherwise distracted, the vine-mage looked further. Not to the south, where there was only wilderness and death. Not to the north, where the mountains held a different sort of death. Not to the west, the greater uncharted wilderness where no civilized man went. East, toward the sea …

He sat upright again, as his search was rewarded with an echo of magic. Distant, so distant, but clear.

Not a decantation. Not of the normal sort, anyway. Someone had done more than pour a spellwine and utter a few words. The magic had been
manipulated.

This was not an awakening slave, no matter how talented.

There was another vine-mage on lands he, himself, had claimed.

I think Tag-ear
is going lame.”

Ao, sitting next to Mahault, who was handling the reins, let out a short laugh, then winced as the wheels hit a particularly deep rut and jounced him into the wooden frame. “On this road? I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“When we stop next, you take a look at his leg.”

“I’d rather let the damned thing go lame.”

“Ao!”

Jerzy, taking his turn in the back of the rickety, uncomfortable cart, shook his head. He did not blame Ao. The beasts were sturdy, strong creatures who smelled of clean sweat and flesh, nothing rank, who pulled the cart over the narrow, rut-ridden dirt road without hesitation, and who required only a limited amount of sleep and were able to graze off the grass under their hooves, but they were foul-tempered animals when released from the traces, and while they enjoyed being petted, any attempt to groom them, or check their hooves, landed the offending person with a purple-and-red bite mark on their flesh to show for it. Tag-ear was the worst, but Blacktail and Barrel were almost as bad.

Not that he could blame the beasts for biting Ao. The trader had
been acting odd ever since they set out—not the same annoyed exasperation he had shown on the ship, or even the unusual distance, but a series of sidelong looks and awkward fidgeting whenever he thought Jerzy wasn’t paying attention.

If the others had noticed anything wrong, however, they were ignoring it, so he dismissed it as his own imagining. They were all stressed, in an unfamiliar land, with unknown enemies in front of them and the Washers hunting behind them. It would be more odd if Ao was not acting oddly, would it not?

That thought made his head ache as badly as his backside.

“We’re almost there, according to the map.” Kaïnam had chosen to walk alongside the cart while they went over a particularly rough patch, claiming it was to allow Jerzy more room to stretch out. His longer legs almost managed to keep pace with the cart, although on a flatter, more easy-traveled path, he would need to trot to stay abreast of them. “We should be there by nightfall.”

The sigh of relief Jerzy let escape was echoed by a heartfelt “Thank the silent gods” from Ao, and Mahault flicked the reins again, urging the beasts—lame or no—to a faster walk. After three days, they were all tired of the road, with its utter lack of villages or wayhouses, no other sign of civilization to be seen, only the rising hills, covered with dry brown scrub and thicket. More, the strange feel of the air, cool and dry when it should have been soft with warming weather, and the strange sounds at night when they camped to rest—the yipping howls and low coughs—and the strange glowing eyes that would appear and disappear from the low growth, watching them, but never daring to come within reach of the firelight—were all wearing on them. This was not a civilized land, for all its beauty, and Jerzy had his doubts about what he would find at their supposed destination. Surely no vines could thrive here, so far beyond Sin Washer’s touch.

He said none of this, however; the others needed him to be confident, to keep moving forward, and what purpose would voicing his fears serve? They had no choice but to keep going.

*   *   *

T
AG-EAR DID
in fact pull up lame, and they were forced to camp overnight one more time, hoping that the beast would recover with a few hours’ rest. Two could pull the cart, but short of abandoning the lame beast there, it would still have to keep up with them.

“We could eat it,” Ao suggested, making a face at the dried meat he had been chewing on, trying to soften it enough to taste. “It probably tastes like horse as much as it looks like one. Or maybe goat.”

“It would be a nice change from dried meats and fruit,” Mahault agreed, holding her piece over her mug of tai, trying to let the steam do the work for her. “But who is going to slaughter and skin it? You?” She looked at the others. “Jerzy? I don’t think our prince has the skills required, either.”