Weight of Stone (47 page)

“What are we going to do?”

He had heard the others come up behind him, but hadn’t wanted to acknowledge them. They were expecting him to come up with a plan, some way to evade the Washers, to reclaim the
Heart
and figure out their next step.

Part of Jerzy wanted to give in; Neth had authority, Neth would have orders from the Brotherhood. Who was he to challenge them, again and again? Master Malech had … he was not Master Vineart Malech. He was not even a Vineart, in truth.

You are Vineart.

It was not the Guardian’s voice; Jerzy knew now that while vines might grow here, it was not part of the Vin Lands, did not share the common bond in the soil, and the dragon could not reach him. But the memory was sharp as the dragon’s voice, and goaded him into speaking.

“Opinions?” he asked them, not turning around as they settled themselves on the sand around him.

There was silence, only the quiet rumble of the ocean, cut by an occasional night bird calling from up on the cliff, where the village was dark and still.

“This Washer Neth may be an honest man, but I do not trust the Brotherhood.” Kaïnam, his voice as dry as the sand, but far more solid. “They are political, and will do as they see fit, and once we give them control, we will never get it back.”

It was an opinion, no more and no less than what had been asked.

“Mahault?” Jerzy felt like there was grit in his throat, blocking speech.

“You are Vineart,” she said. “I will follow where you lead.”

Solitaires were known for two things: a fierce independence, and an even fiercer loyalty to their employer. Mahault might, temporarily, have abandoned that path, but she had taken both those things to heart, it appeared.

Jerzy waited, then, when there was no third voice, turned his upper body to look at Ao.

The trader was sitting cross-legged on the sand to Jerzy’s left, all traces of the carefree boy Jerzy had met in Aleppan finally gone from his face, even in the moonlight. He gave a subtle shrug. “I’d rather risk myself than let someone make the decision. That way, I know the cargo’s of my own choosing. But I’ve no skill with this sort of route.”

None of them would tell him what to do. Neth would. But Neth was wrong.

The Guardian was silent. Master Malech was gone.

“Ao. You have a map?”

“I have many maps,” he said, a little stung.

“With you?”

“I go nowhere without maps.” He said it as though Jerzy should have known that, should not have doubted him, and despite himself, Jerzy smiled. “Get me one. As wide a range as you have.”

While Ao went back to their campsite and rummaged through his pack, Mahault smoothed a portion of the dry sand in order to create a makeshift map table, and Kaïnam moved closer to Jerzy.

“You have a plan?”

“I have an idea,” Jerzy said, unwilling to say more. Kaï nodded as though that was all he needed to hear.

Ao came back, unrolling the map and placing small, rounded lead weights at each corner to keep the edges from rolling up.

“Light,” Jerzy said, and three small flames appeared over his open palm. He placed them in the air over the map, chasing away the dusk’s shadows and making the legends written on the map legible.

“Where would the name Ximen and the title Praepositus be used,” he asked Ao.

The trader knelt down and considered the markings. “Ximen’s a popular name here, and here. Southern Iaja, and Riopa. I don’t know about the title.”

“It sounds Ettonian,” Mahl said. “But I don’t know what it means.”

“Nor do I,” Kaïnam said. “But if it’s Ettonian, odds are good it’s a military title.”

“Iaja.” A Vin Land. So was Riopa, island-nation, home of strong earthvines. Etton, home of …

Home of the ancient Emperor. Home of Sin Washer, who would have destroyed mankind, had his heart not been touched by the kindness of the common folk, the ones who became the first Washers, the heirs to his Legacy.

Jerzy’s mouth was dry with worry and exhaustion, and he searched in vain for the slightest hint of moisture to draw the quiet-magic forward. The lights had come, but he had used too much, was too dry. There was too much grit in his throat, clogging him.

“Mahl, fetch me a wineskin.”

She stood to obey, then paused midaction. “Which one?”

“It doesn’t matter. The first you find.”

Jerzy wanted to tell her to take one from Esoba’s cellar, but he held back. That was desire, not need, speaking. He would not need that power, not for this. He hoped.

She returned, and he took a scant sip, feeling the leathery smoothness touch his mouth, making the flesh pucker. Whether by chance or fate, she had chosen a Riopan earthwine. Perfect.

Holding that puddle of magic on his tongue, letting it seep into flesh, calling the residual magic living within him, Jerzy reached down for a handful of sand. The thought came that this was perhaps how prince-mages had worked, not so much decanting as evoking, allowing the power to rise and express itself to fit the need.

The thought, at another time, would worry him. Not now.

His need touched the magic, flowing without conscious direction. Like unto the soil that nourished roots. Soil and root, vine and fruit. He
knew the taint well enough now, winding his awareness of that into his Sense, letting them mingle the way the wave mingled with the shore, the wind wove through trees, touching but separate, one staying still, the other leading … where?

The hand holding the sand opened, slowly turning and tipping the sand onto the map.

“What—” Kaïnam started to ask, then stopped himself even before Ao and Mahl both held up hands to hush him.

“Shhh,” Ao said. “Watch it.”

The grains of sand blew as though a gentle wind picked them up, swirling around the mage-lights, then dropping to the surface of the map, still moving in a circular motion, first one way and then another.

Jerzy’s eyes were closed, his hand steady over the map, his lips moving silently, barely visible as the night grew darker, the mage-lights not enough to illuminate him. Slowly, the sands blew away, whisking off the map and returning to the ground, leaving only a thin trail on the map itself, leading from the shoreline they rested on to …

Jerzy opened his eyes as he felt the magic fade, and looked down.

The sand led not to Iaja or Riopa, but a place off the map, to the western margins beyond Irfan…. To where a sigil for sea monsters and mer-witches was inked in the bright yellow colors of warning and danger.

The Forsaken Sea, where not even Iajan sea charts knew what lurked—or what lay beyond.

“Well,” Ao said into the quiet uncertainty, “the Washers certainly won’t think to look there.”

“We need the ship, first.” Kaïnam stood, stretching his body into a long lean line, and looked out over the now-dark waters to where the Washers’ ship floated at harbor. Lights came from the deck, and the shadowy figures of sailors and guards could be seen moving against the brightness. “They’ll see us if we use the boat, and it’s too far to swim. Jerzy, can you move us, the way you were moved back to your House?”

“No. I … No. That magic … it is tied to the House. It will not work here.”

“Then we’ll do it the hard way,” Kaïnam said, then checked his movement. “With your permission, Vineart.”

There was no mockery in his voice, and Jerzy, feeling oddly lightheaded, inclined his head with equal solemnity. “As you will, land-lord.” Vineart and land-lord, in formal partnership. What was one more Command bent, after all this?

“Ao, Mahl, load our things, be ready to go. Quickly.”

“What—” Ao rethought his protest, rolled up his map, careful to avoid the mage-lights, and followed Mahault back to their campsite.

“I would have you send them fire, Vineart. Fire that burns.”

Jerzy swallowed, feeling the bitter finish of the spellwine in his throat. “I will not burn the ship out from under them,” he said. “The sailors have done us no wrong, and the survivors would blacken our name—the same blackening you seek to erase on your own people’s name.”

“Not to burn them,” Kaïnam said. “Burn us. Our camp. Let it go up in flames, and bring their attention here—while we go there. Can you do that?”

It was less a question than a demand. Jerzy turned to consider the shoreline. It would be easy to set the underbrush aflame, but it was dry, leaf and branch alike, and a spellfire set on it would roar out of control unless he was careful—and if they were paddling for safety, he would not be able to keep that control. And if it escaped, it would threaten the village.

A memory rose: one of the children he had healed, face glowing with vigor where before it had been ashen with illness. A child who lived in that village, where the people had been nothing but curious and kind. He would not endanger them, not even to save himself. Not if there was another option.

“The sand.” Jerzy was speaking to himself now. “It will be slow to catch, but it will burn.” He thought it would, anyway. Master Malech
had claimed that a well-incanted firewine could burn anything, even stone.

“That will get their attention,” Kaïnam said. “How long will it take you to be ready?”

Jerzy turned to face him, calculating what spellwine he had left. “Now.”

T
HEY WORKED
in silence, moving slowly so as not to raise suspicion in the eyes undoubtedly watching them from the Washers’ vessel.

“This had better work,” Mahl said, casting an uncertain glance back at where their bedrolls lay, spread out on the sand, clearly visible, stuffed as though bodies lay within.

“Shh.” Ao hissed.

“There’s no way they can hear us,” Mahl said, her tone impatient, but she said it quietly, her left hand resting on her sheathed sword as she climbed over the wale of the boat and found her seat among their packs and supplies. Her muscles were tensed, and she kept glancing over her shoulder to where the ships waited, then whipping her head around to stare stonily at nothing.

“Ready, Vineart?” Kaï asked.

Jerzy nodded. “Push off. I’ll catch up.”

The moment they left the shore, Jerzy forgot about the others. There was only the faintly glimmering sands in front of him, the spellwine in his hand, and his determination to do this.

Despite his easy words to Kaïnam, this was no sure thing. Sand would melt before it took flame. Even a firespell would have difficulty—unless it was decanted just right.

No blending of spells. No borrowing from another Vineart’s work. This was purely House of Malech.

“I am Jerzy, Vineart of House Malech.” He spoken in a whisper, letting the night air catch his words and carry them forward. “I nurtured these vines. I gathered their fruit. I crushed their flesh, and bound them
with their skins, until the magic bound by Zatim Sin Washer answered to my command.”

He could feel, like a whisper of leaves against his skin, the spellwine in his hand, the small amount of his master’s own work becoming aware of him. Recognizing his touch, the sense of his quiet-magic. So far from the first time he had felt the touch of mustus, from the first time he had understood what he was, what he could become … the sensation still humbled him.

Aware there was little time, he lifted the wineskin and poured a dose into the silver cup of his tasting spoon, letting the air touch the surface, and the magic grow. When he sensed that it was ready, he put the spoon to his mouth, taking a shallow sip and letting it rest on the bowl of his tongue.

“Flame to sand. Burn it clean and high. Go.”

Quiet-magic met spellwine, the first pressing against the latter, compressing it into a dense, thick mass, then drove the magic hard against the packed sand at Jerzy’s feet.

There was a hesitation, as though the wind held its breath, and for that breath Jerzy thought he had failed.

Then the sand hissed, water turning to steam, and a bright white sheet of flame threw itself up in front of him.

The sands were burning.

“Jer!” A tug on his arm, breaking him from his fascinated stare. “Jer, come on!”

Ao, fingers curled around his wrist, tugging on his arm, pulling him toward the water, even as the fire spread along the beach, and a low horn sounded across the water—the fire alarum, coming from the Washer’s boat. They had seen the fire; they would be coming to investigate.

“In!”

Jerzy and Ao splashed out into the water and were hauled into the boat by the others, Mahl’s strong arm grabbing Ao, while Kaïnam dragged Jerzy by the scruff of his collar and one leg, dropping him unceremoniously onto the crowded floor.

Ao recovered first, pushing Kaïnam out of the way and grabbing his oar. “I’ll row. You mind your weapons. We’re not out of this yet.”

Mahault and Ao set to work with the paddles, carrying them against the tide. They were aiming not directly toward the
Heart
but sideways to it, hoping to avoid being seen by sailors on the other ship. Jerzy got up on his hands and knees, his gaze drawn not back to the beach where his fire still raged, but out across the water.

The Washers’ ship was a flurry of sounds and movement, longboats being lowered into the water, sailors going down rope ladders and picking up oars. They would be on their way, too soon. If any of them spotted the smaller boat, crossing their path …

The
Heart
turned against the wave, going broadside, hiding them from view.

“Thank you,” someone whispered. Jerzy thought it might have been Kaïnam, from where the sound came from, but it was such a low whisper, he couldn’t be sure.

Shouts reached his ears now, amid the repeated sounding of the fire alarum. The fire on the beach was no threat to either ship; even if it broke the command he placed on it, the fire would not be able to pass over the expanse of ocean….

Jerzy paused. He didn’t think it could, anyway. The decantation was simple enough; creating fire was one of the most basic of incantations, the second one he had learned. It was the intensity that was potentially dangerous. Once it had burned the offered fuel, the flames should die. If not …

“Oars up, heads down,” Kaïnam ordered, his voice pitched to not carry beyond the four of them, and they all bent over, crouching as much as they could to create the smallest silhouette, even as Ao and Mahl let their oars be still, lifting them just out of the water so their momentum was not slowed. It was full dark, but the moon was full directly overhead, shining on the water, and an alert scout might see them, or hear the sound of the oars.