Authors: Laura Anne Gilman
Mahault would travel with them.
T
WO DAYS AFTER
Malech broke the news to her, Detta was still unhappy.
“I do not like this,” she muttered as she looked down the wooden table when they were gathered for the morning meal, on the day they were to depart. “I do not like this at all.”
“What’s not to like?” Ao asked flippantly, even as he was taking a bowl and sniffing at the steam rising from the porridge in appreciation. “We shall all die horribly, and have long laments made about our gruesome fates.”
Detta hit Ao on the side of his head with the back of her meaty hand, hard enough to ring his ears but not actually hurt him. He merely grinned and sat down, spooning the porridge into his mouth. Their first meeting, Detta had taken the trader’s measure, and now treated him like one of her own kitchen children—a rough, affectionate abuse he seemed to thrive on.
Kaï shook his head, as though despairing of Ao’s behavior, while Mahault merely drank her tai as though she liked it, and finished braiding her hair back into the coil at the back of her head. They were all dressed for traveling in dark-colored trou and jerkins—even Mahl, although that was another thing Detta clearly did not like. Mahl was not a solitaire yet, that she should mimic their attire.
Unknown to Detta, there was a short but deadly looking sword in a battered scabbard, tucked in among Mahl’s belongings, warning to any who might approach that she was not to be trifled with. From watching her move during her exercises, Jerzy had no doubt that she knew how to use it. Detta might not like it, the solitaire might not formally claim her, but Mahault was not a pampered maiar’s daughter any longer.
She was not the only one of their party bearing weapons. Kaïnam bore a fine-edged sword equal to his birthrank, and Jerzy, the memory of the attempted attack in Tétouan still clear, had a newly cut cudgel, magic-shaped and polished, to make a comforting weight in his hands. Only Ao was unarmed, but Jerzy suspected that the trader could have taught Cai himself a few lessons in quick moves and tumbling escapes, if need be.
They had maps, and supplies, and were well rested and well fed. They were ready, as much as they would ever be. The impossibility of their undertaking, to track the source of the taint and uncover it for all to see, seemed at once perfectly reasonable, and utterly impossible.
Jerzy dealt with it, as he always did, by focusing on the immediate needs. This morning he had come down early, leaving the others snoring—Kaï, as predicted, taking up the single bed—and broke his fast alone. By the time Ao, the last riser, had stumbled downstairs to join them, Jerzy had cleaned his platter and finished his cup of warmed
vina.
The banter at the table made him want to linger, but there was no reason to delay, and many reasons to hurry.
The five of them had spent much of the night before going over maps one last time, with Master Malech and Jerzy updating each as best they could with the names and regions of the Vinearts in the areas they might be traveling through, while Detta and Lil finished preparing everything Jerzy might need to bring with him, and whatever extras they decided the others needed, as well.
After a while, Malech had left the four of them to their discussions, Kaï marking down the political boundaries as best he recalled them, and returned in a bit with a large wooden box floating behind him, a handspan off the ground.
“You will need supplies,” was all he had said. Jerzy, who could feel the soft hum of the magics within the crate, nodded solemnly. Healwines, to be certain, and firewines, so that they need not worry about open flames on the ship. And other things, no doubt, from Master Malech’s storeroom.
Ao had been openly calculating the value of a crate that size, but Kaïnam stepped forward and made a deep bow to both Vinearts. “You honor us.”
“You named your ship the
Vine’s Heart,
” Malech said, his voice softer than Jerzy could ever remember it sounding. “Should that heart not be well strengthened?”
Now, while the others filled their bellies, Jerzy went out to make sure that the crate was securely loaded and fastened, as befitted a Vineart traveling with spellwines. The horses the three others had come in on were saddled and waiting, plus the brown mare Jerzy had ridden, so many months ago, to investigate that first sighting of the sea beast. He went forward and patted her neck, pleased to see her. She had been steady and loyal even when frightened, and if he had to spend an entire day on horseback, she was better than most. He only hoped that he could keep her alive until it was time to board their new vessel. The thought—the memory—of that unexpected attack on the road made him shudder.
You are frightened.
“Terrified.”
The mare flicked one long ear at him, as though to ask who he was speaking to, but did not seem at all alarmed when the Guardian flew down from the roof and landed, heavily, on the back of the cart where the crate, and their other supplies, were loaded.
Be careful. Trust those who should be trusted. None other.
Ao and Mahl and Kaïnam, obviously. But the feel of the Guardian’s words implied future, not present. “How will I know who those people are?”
You will know.
If the Guardian meant to be reassuring, it failed, miserably.
There she is.”
Ao’s voice was thick with pride, but Jerzy could not blame him. Unlike the small ship they had traded for in Corguruth, or even Kaïnam’s sleek
Green Wave
, the
Vine’s Heart
was longer and deeper hulled, better suited for the open seas, with two masts bearing angled sails that looked, even to Jerzy’s unskilled eye, like they would fill easily with wind. Her hull was painted a soft, weathered gray, with a figurehead not of a woman’s torso, but cupped hands holding a garland of vines in their wooden palms.
They had returned the horses at a small hire-stable, Jerzy’s House token ensuring that his mare would be well cared for and then returned to her master. Ao and Jerzy had pulled the small cart the rest of the way to the docks themselves, with Mahl and Kaïnam walking alongside to make sure that no enterprising pick-it or thief tried to make off with any of their belongings.
They had paused for Ao to point out their destination amid the half a dozen ships tied up at the wooden pier—unlike the fishing village where they had come ashore months earlier, the port town of Brilan saw a number of vessels coming in and out on a daily basis,
carrying trade shipments, messengers, and travelers. There was even a Brotherhood chapterhouse in town, which they had been careful to skirt around, just in case. Beyond the pier, another handful of larger vessels were anchored in deeper water, riding the soft waves as though impatient to be gone.
“She’s, well, you don’t care about details,” Kaïnam said, “but she has room for all you’re hauling and then some, and still moves like the wind. She would normally carry a crew of seven, but in a pinch can be handled by three.”
“We had some trouble on the way here, with only two,” Ao admitted, then shrugged when Kaïnam glared at him. The two had bickered—amicably but endlessly—the entire journey from the vintnery to the docks, on everything from the type of bird winging overhead to the distance they had traveled. Jerzy had finally decided that Ao simply wasn’t happy unless he was arguing with
someone.
“Well, we did, and that was between Caul and The Berengia. Any farther, and we would have been stretched thin and raw. Three is the minimum.”
“Well, it won’t be a problem now,” Mahault said with definitive practicality, as Kaïnam excused himself to speak with the shipyard guildsmen he had hired to watch the ship while it was in dock. “Four of us—well, three and Jerzy—can handle her.”
“Master Malech gave me something in case the seasickness returns,” Jerzy said, stung by the implication of uselessness. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the
Vine’s Heart,
but that didn’t mean he wasn’t listening.
“There’s a spellwine for that?” Jerzy could almost hear Ao counting the coins in his head.
“There’s a healwine for nausea,” he told the trader, intending to cut those thoughts off before they could set fruit. “But no, he gave me a sugared root to chew that should keep me healthy.” The root was a common trade item for disordered stomachs, not a magical cure, but Master Malech swore to him that it would work.
“Ho, good sirs, good sirs, need you help with the loading?”
Seeing them pause, laden with supplies, wharf-rats swarmed off their perches on the wharf rigging and barrels, calling out to offer their services unloading the cart and loading the boat. None of them were older than Jerzy, and most were in sad shape, underfed and unwashed. Kaïnam took a distinct step back, as though offended, and instinctively tried to shield Mahl from the sight of their bare, scarred limbs. She gave him a glare, and he relented, clearly remembering that she neither needed nor desired his protection.
Jerzy watched Ao, ignoring the wharf-rats, negotiating with some of the older, more well-muscled men who hired themselves out as porters, feeling his jaw clench in frustration. The entire flight from Aleppan, he had been more a burden than an aid, without spellwines, weakened by seasickness.
The time home had strengthened him, working with his own vines, feeling the soil beneath his skin, letting the scent of the vines fill his dreams. He might be leaving the vineyard again, but this time he could feel the quiet-magic in his blood, filling his flesh. It would be years more before he could claim anything close to even Vineart Giordan’s abilities, but Master Malech judged him strong, and ready.
It would be a simple matter, this close to the ship, to use the quiet-magic and shift their belongings onboard. A manipulation of a windspell, to carry the boxes …
He dared not. Whether that quiet-magic was born of his own vines or his exposure to Vineart Giordan’s weathervines did not matter. Master Malech’s concerns, and the memory of what had happened the last time he was away from the Guardian’s protections, and used quiet-magic, even briefly, came back to him. Then, a horse had died. Here … he risked the lives of his companions, and the safety of their venture. Only in the direst of cases could he use anything other than spellwines, and this was a matter best left to muscle, not magic.
Ao had just sealed his Agreement with the porters, calling to Kaï to open his wallet and pay the men, when Jerzy was sent to his knees by a sudden bolt of pain, an agony that went from the soles of his feet to the
crown of his head, tearing sinew and splitting his head open like a shock of firewood.
He hadn’t used quiet-magic, he thought, agonized. He hadn’t done anything to call the cat’s-paw back to him!
Before Jerzy blacked out, the last thing in his awareness not Mahault’s sudden worried voice calling his name, but the slam of something cold and hard into his brain.
Danger!
W
HEN HE CAME
around, he could tell that they were on the ship, from the way the bunk underneath him seemed to sway back and forth, but the disorientation—not remembering how he got there, or why he was lying down—took a moment to clear.
“Master Malech!” He struggled to sit up, and a wave of dizziness swamped him, making him collapse back against the hard pillow.
“What is it? What happened?” Ao’s voice, strangely pitched and scratchy.
“Ao, back off. Give him room to breathe.” Mahault, speaking with the cool competence that had made him first think that she was a Housekeeper. Her hands were steady as she lifted him to a sitting position, and her voice was worried but not panicked. Jerzy’s eyes focused a little better, and he could see Ao and Kaï standing behind her, looking far more concerned but leaving room for her to work.
“The cargo …” he said, looking at Ao.
“Loaded,” the trader replied, his voice still sounding strange. “Don’t worry about it.”
“What happened, Jerzy? You cried out and went down. Did the Master Vineart summon you again?” Kaïnam leaned forward, his face set in deep lines of worry. It seemed to Jerzy that the princeling had aged since they first met him; his skin had already been lined around the eyes in the manner of seafaring folk, and his eyes had held a deep sadness in them, even when he relaxed, but the shadows under those eyes were new since the conference in Master Malech’s study.
“Something … is wrong.” The awareness filled him as he remembered the feel of the Guardian in his mind, and panic and urgency returned. “I need to go back. I need to be back there now.”
“Jer, Vineart Malech wanted you away—and even so, it’s a full day’s ride, and you cracked your forehead badly when you fell. There’s no way you’re getting back on a horse.” Ao was logical and practical, and completely right—there was no way he could mount, much less ride, the way he felt—but that did not make Jerzy’s sense of urgency any less.
“Can you magic yourself back?” Kaïnam asked, and when the others turned to stare at him in astonishment, he shook his head at their reaction. “No, I’ve never heard it done, either. But I never heard a spell that could hide an entire island from sight and sail, before Master Edon did so. Nor have I heard of any who could create a sea serpent from dead flesh, as Master Malech and Jerzy say was done. I do not wonder at anything that a Vineart might do, in need, now.”
“No,” Jerzy said, feeling completely useless all over again. “There is no spell that will carry me that distance.” Not even with quiet-magic, none that he had heard of, and if Master Malech knew, he had no way to share it…. Or was there?
“Guardian?” He spoke into the air, unheard by the other three as they gathered a few steps away, casting worried glances back at him. The Guardian had called him; maybe it had an idea of what he should do, trapped here on this ship.
He got a sense of blankness in response, as though the Guardian did not understand, then a feeling of … change, like a ripple in stone. It made no sense; the Guardian did not shift or change, but:
Gather them.
“Come here.”
They didn’t hear him, intent on their conversation, so he raised his voice, the sense of hard urgency from the Guardian pressing on him. “Come here!”