Flesh and Fire (19 page)

Malech met him in the hallway outside the study, after a subdued morning meal. “What did you speak of last night, to Cooper Shen?”

Jerzy could only shrug helplessly. “I. . .he. . .I told him that you were a good master. And he. . .”

Malech waited, his face giving no indication of his thoughts.

“He put his hand on my shoulder.” It sounded beyond foolish, spoken like that. He had been touched many times in his life, often with violence behind it. Even Malech was still quick with a blow or a cuff when he answered too slowly or with the wrong response. Shen had not been harsh, or rough; he had in fact been gentler than anyone save Detta, in Jerzy’s memory. He had done nothing wrong, committed no offense. . .so why then had his skin crawled when the Copper moved too close?

“For a touch, you offended him?”

Jerzy shrugged again, and almost welcomed the familiar blow that followed. “Idiot boy. But no, idiocy is not always damage, and Shen is no fool, to take offense at one boy’s shivers. And he and his people have given us useful information indeed. Come on, then. There are things I must teach you, swiftly, if you are to be of use in our coming venture. You thought you were working before, boy?” Malech laughed, an unhappy sound. “Pray the silent gods we have time, before—”

Malech shook his head, and stopped, his mouth tightening into a thin-pressed line.

Before what?
Jerzy wondered, but did not dare ask.

Chapter 12

You are not concentrating
.

It was less words and more a feeling of disapproval that came through, but Jerzy scowled up at the Guardian anyway. “Is it even possible to distract you?”

No
.

“Then stop bothering me while I’m working to lecture me about something you can’t understand.”

The fact that he was talking—and getting a response from—an animate stone carving still made Jerzy blink, occasionally. Admittedly, his practical experience with magic was limited to the vines that his master specialized in, healing and fire, but none of his readings anywhere had mentioned a spell that gave motion and thought to stone. If life were less hectic, he would have asked Malech about it—it seemed rude to ask the Guardian, even if he thought it would answer—but in the two weeks since the Cooper Shen’s visit, Malech had spent more and more of his time in his study, sending out messages via carrier pigeon, and entertaining
meme-couriers
at an increasing pace, all of them arriving and departing at all hours of the day until Detta and Lil both threw up their hands and merely left cold meals for them all. He came out of each meeting looking more and more worried, but still refused to tell Jerzy anything specific, instead exhorting him to push forward with his studies.

And so, Jerzy studied: morning to past nightfall. Some of that involved reading old texts, or memorizing charts and traditions, recited under the watchful eye and ear of the Guardian. However, a growing part of his education involved monitoring the vineyards, as Mid-Fallows passed, and the soil began to warm. In the southernmost enclosures, tiny leaflets were already beginning to bud.

By now, Jerzy could identify all four of their varietals at a glance, and determine if the growth was healthy or if steps needed to be taken to protect the vine. He had spent nights watching storms roll in, wishing that Malech believed in using weatherspells to moderate how much rain fell on the vines, and given orders to the various overseers on how much to prune back, where to fortify, and what to let go. Every move he made had an impact on what the yield might be, and there were nights he could not sleep for second-guessing his decisions. He was too young, too green to be responsible for such things. And yet Malech merely nodded when he reported his actions, and told him to continue as he saw fit, distracted in a way no Vineart should be from matters of the vineyard.

Driven by a lack of confidence, he dove with increased urgency into the historical reports of past harvests and pressings; what conditions created what results. Not only Malech’s notes, but
his
master, Josia’s, notes as well were included, going back almost a hundred harvests. Before then, another House had stood on these grounds, but all records were lost when that Vineart had died without successor and Josia had taken over.

Someday, if he didn’t go off and start his own House, his records would be added to these notes. His successes, failures, and discoveries would be added to the weight of the years, the accumulation of knowledge.

The thought terrified him.

You are distracted again.
The Guardian tilted its head to look down at him.
When the time comes, your notes will be written for the time, not the archive. Live now.

The rebuke stung like one of Malech’s head cuffs, but the sting was reassuring as well. Tradition was on their side, even if this urgency was not. Detta had taught him history along with his letters, and Master Malech reinforced it with his lectures. Once, every Vineart had been a student. Once, every student had been a slave. Like the vines, they grew best in stressed soil. That was how Sin Washer decreed it. Tradition kept you safe.

Jerzy stared at the paper in front of him and made a note on his own pad, ink blotting slightly as he scratched down another question to bring to Malech at evening meal.

“Guardian, I understand that the sun’s warmth on the fruit makes the wine sweeter, but why does that also make healwine more effective, but do the opposite for firewine? Shouldn’t heat be good for firespells?”

There was a not-unexpected silence, and Jerzy snorted in satisfaction. It might be that the Guardian felt no need to teach, but he liked to think the stone dragon wasn’t quite as know-everything as it pretended.

He bent his head back to the text’s comparison of harvesting techniques, and silence reigned in the workroom until the thudding of someone hammering on the door one level above them filtered down through the stones.

“Guardian?”

The stone dragon had already lifted its head.
Someone at the front door
.

Jerzy rolled his eyes. He’d figured that out already.

The man is not hurt, nor does he bear the sigils of a
meme-courier
or a negotiator. But his horse is lathered and near foundering, and the human seems quite agitated. You should greet them, this is not something for the Household to deal with.

Jerzy raced up the stairs, tugging at his plain tunic, to find that Detta had already opened the door. She stepped back with obvious relief when Jerzy appeared in the entranceway. “Young master, this is—”

The man shoved past her rudely, forcing his way into the House. He was a few years older than Jerzy, taller and broader in the shoulder, and his ruddy face was lined with exhaustion and his clothing was covered with dust from the road.

“My name is Jecq. I come on orders of Prince Ranulf, and I must speak to the Master Vineart!”

“It’s all right, Detta,” Jerzy said. To the messenger he said, “Master Malech’s not here right now.” In truth, he had no idea where the Vineart had gone off to that morning, save that he was not to be bothered short of fire or flood. “If you would follow our House-keeper, she can find you something cool to drink, and perhaps a light meal, while I arrange your meeting?”

“I must speak immediately with Master Malech! Prince Ranulf insists! Hundreds of lives are at stake!” Jecq didn’t quite stomp his boot on the flooring, but Jerzy had the feeling that he wanted to.

Nothing short of fire or flood, Malech had said, his face stern. Jerzy ignored the man’s rude tone, and instead looked in the eyes of the messenger and made his decision.

“Guardian. Go find Master Malech. Now.”

From the workroom below their feet, Jerzy felt the dragon’s slow acceptance, and, somehow,
felt
the stone wings rise and then push down as the carving left its perch.

“Go with Detta. When Master Malech returns, you will be informed.”

The messenger looked like he was going to protest again, and Jerzy felt a sick turn in his stomach. If the other man insisted, what could he do? Sending the Guardian had been a wild guess, and while he had authority in this House, it did not include ordering his master around!

Jecq held himself very still and stared at Jerzy. His eyes squinted shut, as though the wind were still blowing grit into them, so that Jerzy could not tell what color his eyes were.

“A drink would be welcome,” he said finally, dropping his gaze and turning away to follow a clearly relieved Detta off to the kitchen.

Jerzy returned to the workroom to tidy up the papers he had left scattered and to blot his own notes dry and store them safely for later. Then he returned upstairs, trying to prepare himself in case Malech did not return from wherever he was in time and the messenger became unruly again. His stomach ached like he had eaten rotted vegetables, and his skin was slick with sweat, despite the fact that the House was its usual comfortable cool temperature.

“Jerzy.”

He yelped and jumped and turned a deep shade of red even he could feel on his skin when he realized it was only Malech’s hand on his shoulder. Since the Cooper’s visit, he had been more and more aware of people touching him. Malech knew that, and yet—

“Master. My apologies, I. . .” He gathered himself and his thoughts, and started again. “A messenger has arrived from Lord-prince Ranulf”—Malech might declaim about princelings, but until one was a Master, one gave respect even out of their hearing—“and demands to see you on a matter of some dire importance.” He had only recently learned the word “dire,” and had not had occasion to use it before.

Malech’s narrow face was set in stern lines, but this time Jerzy was reasonably certain his master was not angry with him. “Indeed. Prince Ranulf is not a man to panic easily, nor is he one to ask for aid. In fact, this may be the first time he has ever come to me for anything other than his annual allotment of healwines. Dire, you say? So it may indeed be. Good that you sent the Guardian for me. If you would, please, collect this messenger and bring him—and yourself—to my study.”

The tension of wondering if he’d made the right choice to recall Malech left Jerzy, only to be replaced by a new one; by the speed of his return, and his words, Malech was clearly concerned, and that did not bode well at all.

* * *

BY THE TIME Jerzy collected the messenger and they presented themselves in the study, Malech looked as though he had been there all morning, awaiting their arrival. More, the wall of bottles that had so overawed Jerzy on his first visit was back, and there was a small table set upon the corner with an open bottle that—Jerzy sneaked a second look—that yes, had faint trails of steam rising up from it. Malech himself had changed into a dark red tunic, and pulled his hair back into a severe braid that emphasized the sharp lines of his face and the hawk-intentness of his gaze.

Despite the situation, Jerzy was amused. His master was as much a stage setter as any Player, when the occasion called for it.

“Please. Be seated.”

Jecq took the chair closest to Malech’s desk as a matter of right, while Malech seated himself behind it. Jerzy, unwilling to take up his usual bench, instead stood off to one side, behind the messenger but still with a clear line of sight of both Jecq and his master.

He looked up, and was reassured to see the Guardian had taken up a space over the lintel, mirroring its usual post in the workroom. It didn’t fit the decor quite so well as it did downstairs, but its presence made him feel better, somehow.

“So, messenger. You have a message for me that could not wait?”

Jecq nodded, straightened his shoulders to board-stiffness, and began to speak.

“From Prince Ranulf of The Berengia: greetings to Lord Vineart Malech of the Valle of Ivy. This messenger comes to you with a request for your immediate assistance. Two days ago a monster rose up out of the sea and destroyed the entire village of Darcen. The entire village, near one hundred souls, gone in the time it took my prince’s men to ride to their aid. Roofs were torn asunder, boats thrashed into kindling, nets ripped, and the people. . .” His voice didn’t change despite the falter: he was still reciting a message, if not as adeptly as a
meme-courier
would have. It was not a question of saving costs, Jerzy thought, not for Ranulf, who had riches to spare. No, this message was urgent enough that the princeling could not wait, and dared not send a messenger-bird.

“The people were gone, Lord Malech. Not a corpse left, not even a babe in the cradle. Only blood, everywhere. And. . .”

“And?”

“And. . .chunks, Lord Malech. Chunks of some strange, fleshy matter, scattered over the remains of the village. As though whatever had come had also. . .left part of itself behind.”

Jerzy, watching the messenger’s face, would have laid coin he did not own that the chunks had been far more disgusting and disturbing than the messenger was saying.

“And your lord-prince would have me do what? I do not craft such spellwines as could be useful to you, if all are dead; I cannot defend your borders, or dispose of this. . .matter.” There was something strange in Malech’s voice, and Jerzy took a moment to puzzle it out. His master was not entirely taken by surprise, somehow, by this news. Malech wanted something, but was waiting to see if it was also what this prince wanted of him, and if not, how their desires might come together with the best advantage—or at least cost—to Malech. The dead could have been cows, or pigeons, for all the dismay his master showed.

The messenger looked disgusted, his mouth twisting as though he tasted something sour. “We had spellwines of Atakus to protect our coasts, and they failed. My prince requested a message sent to Master Vineart Edon, only to discover that Atakus itself. . .has disappeared. No captain can sail there but be cast back into unfamiliar waters, the skies overcast above them. It is as though a hole in the world opened and swallowed them entire.”

Jerzy swallowed hard at that news, thinking it some new and terrible disaster, but Malech looked concerned and yet somehow unsurprised. Jerzy had only a moment to spare to wonder how an entire island might disappear like that, and why, before Malech was speaking again.

“Again, then, I ask: what is it you seek of me? To bury your dead? I do not craft spells of protection from weather nor beasts.”

The messenger spoke, and Jerzy knew, somehow, that these were the man’s own words, not a formal message. “Since the attack. . .none can pass through that village without coming down ill. Not with chills or fever, but a stupor they cannot shake. Already every worker sent to clear the rubble has fallen thus, unable to rouse even for their loved ones or to find cheer in any moment. My prince would ask of you a spell to cleanse the lands of this. . .disaster. A healwine for the spirit. Please, Master Vineart.” He would not beg, not in so many words, but the tone was clear.

Melancholia was one of Malech’s lesser known craftings, made from the fruit of a healvine, but richer and more delicate all at once than most body-healing wines, requiring the skills of a Master Vineart to craft. Jerzy had handled the grapes as they grew, learning their temperament, but it would be years yet before he would be able to craft such a decantation, if he was even capable of it.

“Indeed.” Malech studied the messenger, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. “I cannot think of anything else that might do the trick. However, without knowing the nature of the melancholia it would be difficult to assign the proper bottling. . ..Ah.” Malech leaned forward with the air of a man who has solved a knotty problem. “My student, Jerzy. He will travel with you, bearing a number of flasks, and once there will be able to determine the proper decantation, and thus instruct your prince in the usage thereof.”