You had a good time last night, hrmmm?” Giordan said, looking at Jerzy from across the worktable. A pot of something that smelled delicious waited on the table, but no food, for which Jerzy was thankful. He wasn’t sure he could handle the smell of anything even slightly greasy.
“I guess.” He lifted the lid of the pot and sniffed cautiously. Not tai, nor—thank the silent gods—ale.
“You guess? You do not remember too much?”
“Not much, no,” Jerzy admitted. He did, actually; every painful, off-tune, staggering moment of it, right to the moment he threw up in the courtyard and staggered into his room, to fall facedown onto his bed with barely enough awareness left to take his shoes off before he collapsed. Master Malech had warned him against drunkenness, but he had only considered wine, had not known of the thick, bitter brew that made his head feel like stone. “Ao bought me ale.”
“Quite a lot of ale, one presumes. Ah, to be young and stupid once again.” Giordan chuckled, then clapped Jerzy on the shoulder. “Drink your potion and feel well again. Enough time, and the quiet-magics will make sure you are never so again.”
“It will keep me from getting drunk?” That was the best news Jerzy had heard in weeks.
“No. It will take away your taste for ale. Drink; I need your thoughts clear today. Today, yes. We have only a week or so left, and the most important is yet to come. Today I teach you how to refine!”
Jerzy looked at Giordan blankly. In all the steps he had gone through with Master Malech, from Harvest through to incantation, he had never heard of refining. Fining, yes. . .but refining?
“Weathervines only,” Giordan said, enjoying his student’s confusion. “A thing no others know.”
Considering he had shown a complete and utter lack of ability to handle them, there was no reason for him to learn that process, and yet the thought of learning something new, something that even Master Malech did not know, proved impossible to resist. Despite his aching head and sour stomach, Jerzy poured a cup of the odd-smelling brew and drank it willingly, only gagging a little at the hot, grassy taste. “What is this,” he asked when he could breathe again.
“Potion,” was all Giordan would say. “Very strong potion. Now that you can think, follow me, and pay attention.”
Jerzy obediently got up and followed the Vineart through a heavy wooden door that closed silently behind them. They were now standing in a small room bare of any furnishings but a low slab made of the same whitish-gray stone as the statue the day before. The surface was smooth, save for two narrow ridges that ran parallel down the length, a fingertip deep; Jerzy assumed they were to keep the half cask on top of the slab from rolling off.
Giordan changed, somehow, when they entered that room. He was still the same. . .but there was a stillness in him, a seriousness, that once again reminded Jerzy that this was a Vineart, one who would likely someday earn Master status for his skills.
“This I tell you: from teacher to student it is shared, and no others.”
Part of Jerzy didn’t want to hear more: he was not Giordan’s student, he had been bought by the House of Malech, those were his vines, not these. . .but he could feel the touch of the weathervines brush against his senses, and the desire to know more overwhelmed the warnings in his head.
“Weathervines are old, very old, and were very far away from Sin Washer when he changed the vines. That is why they are so green, even when ripe, not completely red. They do not grow well here, take longer to incant. This you know. Now you learn that they are not to be commanded. They do not like being told what to do.” Giordan patted the quarter cask on the table in front of him the way he might a dog who had done good work. “And now that you know why we must refine them, you will learn how we refine them, so they accept incantation.” He looked at Jerzy, and for a moment there was an uncanny resemblance between Malech and Giordan, although neither man looked anything like the other. “The telling characteristic of weathervines, what is it?”
“Delicacy,” Jerzy responded instantly, sure of his answer.
“No, no. Delicate, yes. Delicate as you know, but what else do you know of them? You who have walked in their soil, handled their leaves, tasted their fruit, in all its stages: what is the telling characteristic? Not what your teachings tell you—what does the vine tell you?”
The answer came, this time, not from his head but that awareness Malech had first identified, the Vineart’s Sense. “Stubborn. Weathervines are stubborn.”
“Ahhh. Yes. And how do you coax a stubborn vine to give what you want? How does a Vineart bring a vine into agreement with its purpose, with its noble destiny?”
Jerzy stared at the wooden slats of the cask, trying to imagine that he could look through them, into the wine stored within, tracing its path from flowering to fruit, from juice to mustus to vina. What would bring a stubborn wine to the next step, into vin magica?
There was silence in the little room, just him and Giordan and the cask of wine, all waiting for his answer. Jerzy could feel his heart speed up, his stomach tighten, the skin on his arms prickle as though cold air had touched them, his entire body reacting to. . .
His entire body. That was it. House of Malech was Malech—and so he, Jerzy, was House of Malech, and part of the vineyard itself, connected to the rootstock of every vine that felt his touch. Giordan was no less part of his yard, and the yard was part of him, so. . .He could feel the vineyard, even at a distance, like the faintest brush of leaf against his skin. And, if he opened himself to it, another, fainter brush: the weathervines, closer physically, not his, but not unwelcoming, either.
How did that awareness translate into convincing a stubborn wine? What did his senses tell him? How could he know?
Once he looked, the answer appeared.
“You have to believe it’s necessary,” he said slowly, thinking it through. “You have to incant your own certainty into the wine, so that it has no choice but to accept. Or that it wants to accept. But, Master. . .” The first time he had ever given Giordan that title, and it slipped out without fuss. “Master, vines are not aware. They are not alive. So how can a wine be stubborn, or coaxed, or. . .?”
Giordan shook his head and raised his arms in an enthusiastic shrug. “Nobody knows. It is magic.”
A surprised snort escaped Jerzy at that happy admission of ignorance. He supposed, reluctantly, that it was as useful a response as “because it is traditional.”
“So,” Giordan said. “Thanks to the studies of my master and my master’s master, I know what this wine must do, to release its magic. And so I share that knowing. . .thus.”
The ridges weren’t to keep the cask steady. They were to collect the blood that dripped from the cuts Giordan made in his left arm, slicing with his knife a line from palm toward elbow. Jerzy bit back an exclamation, his attention caught by the slow, steady drip of crimson blood falling onto the white stone, enclosing the cask with two narrow lines of blood. It took forever, it seemed to Jerzy, watching the drops fall and collect, but Giordan never wavered, and his expression of concentration never changed.
“So Sin Washer bled to change the First Growth, so do we bleed to craft our spellwines. There is no magic without sacrifice. There is no growth without change. There is no gain without price.”
Jerzy thought at first that Giordan was explaining it to him, but the words had a rhythmic feel to them that came only from constant repetition, and even as he realized that, he felt the pressure in the room increase, pushing against his chest and filling his mouth and nose. This was a magic unlike any he had learned from Malech; neither greater nor less, merely unlike. The pressure built, and held, until he thought his chest might break and his heart stop, then the spilled blood steamed in the cool air, and then evaporated, leaving the channel dry and unstained.
“Only so much blood, no more,” Giordan said, wrapping a cloth pad over the cut and raising his arm in the air to stop the flow. “Only enough to share your conviction, to renew the bond.”
“The blood. . .it’s in the wine? You have to do that for every cask?” Jerzy tried not to be horrified, but the thought of Giordan’ arms after an entire bottling made him shudder.
The Vineart laughed. “Ai, no, no. Not all my mustus becomes spell-wine—only the very best, the most potent. These wines are rare not because I do not make enough but because there is not so much that can be made. And, as you rightly said earlier, delicate, yes. Very delicate and subtle. And so this medi, this half cask, we will bring to the vats and add a little in, each to each, so the purification is shared among it all. Only a little bit, a little bit and it is done. Subtle and simple, when you are working weathervine and weatherwine. Subtle and simple, or as you learn, a big rain comes down on your head!”
Jerzy had a flash of comprehension, the touch of the vines and the scent of the blood mingling into something he could grab at: he had not failed to bring the rain because he could not work the vinespell, but rather because it had responded too well. But why? What had he done, to pull so much power out of a basic decantation? The thought faded back into faint smoke, and was gone, even as Giordan sluiced water across the stone, washing away the last traces of blood.
* * *
THEY CAME OUT of the room to find that the cup and pot of potion had been removed, and the sun’s rays now slanted across the single window in Giordan’s workroom, rather than streaming in. More time had passed than Jerzy had realized, in that small room. Giordan sent Jerzy off for the rest of the afternoon, claiming that both he and the half cask needed to rest before they moved on to the next and final step.
Feeling better—and suddenly hungry—Jerzy decided to stop by the main kitchen, and see if a pitiful expression could get him a few slices of meat he could take with him into the city.
The palazzo’s kitchen was three times the size of the kitchen back home, with a great stone fireplace at one end and an iron stove at the other, both in use. Jerzy had become accustomed to the noise and bustle, and avoided both ends of the room—tempers were always inflamed by the heat there—and instead edged toward the huge table in the middle, where three women were busy cutting piles of white vegetables into smaller chunks of vegetable with frightening efficiency.
The first woman looked up without missing a chop of the cleaver. Her eyes were startlingly blue, so like Malech’s that Jerzy had a sudden and unexpected burst of homesickness. “You. What do you want?”
“Something to eat,” he ventured, trying his best to look helpless and hungry.
“Hmmmph.” The second woman looked up as well, her eyes narrowing in a dark brown face as she surveyed Jerzy. “Doesn’t look like a starveling.”
“Magician’s boy,” the third said without even looking up. Her slender hands gathered a handful of chopped vegetables and scraped them off the table into a bowl at her feet, and the bowl was taken away by a kitchen child. “They didn’t take a meal this morning. Young men shouldn’t miss meals. Give him something before he falls over and dies on our floor.”
All three went back to work, dismissing Jerzy entirely. He stood there feeling stupid, when he felt something being pushed into his hand. Looking down, the kitchen child smiled up at him and then scampered off under the table to whatever chore it was supposed to be doing. The “something” turned out to be a large oddly shaped fruit the size of his palm, stuffed with cheese. Deciding that was the best he would get, Jerzy ducked his head in thanks to the three women, and retreated out of the overheated chaos.
Looking for a place to sit and eat his meal, Jerzy headed for the nearest courtyard. There were three within the palazzo itself, two large ones inside each wing, and this smaller one behind the main hall. The shape was the same, however: a square of garden and grasses, surrounded on all sides by covered pathway. On each side there was a small alcove, about shoulder high, with a bench set inside for gossip or—conveniently—eating a quick meal. One of the alcoves was empty, and Jerzy claimed it, sitting with his back against the side wall so that he could look out and see the deep blue sky overhead. The dark-fleshed fruit was surprisingly delicious, sweet and meaty, while the cheese added a sharpness that reminded Jerzy of ale. The thought wasn’t entirely pleasant, but he was hungry, so he ate the entire thing, letting his mind rest on what he had learned that morning, not trying to consider any one aspect, but instead letting it seep into him like water into soil.
As he wiped the crumbs off his hands, he realized that someone— two someones—were walking through the garden, their voices coming closer, on the other side of the alcove.
“An entire land, gone? Hah! I would pay half my worth to be able to disappear thus. Leave it all behind, these voices constantly muttering in my ear. . .”
“My lord-maiar, you must not be fanciful. These are dangerous times, dangerous days, and you must be alert to danger, within and without.”
“Trade-lands, and the actions thereof, are my concern, not yours, Washer.”
“Indeed, my lord-maiar. And yet such an action speaks of magics, and perhaps not well-used or well-disposed ones, and that is very much our concern. It is why I have come here, to warn you, to be alert—”
“Alert, alert. Bah. I am forever alert for these dangers you warn me of. What are they, my lord Washer? Where are these dangers you whisper so sweetly of, this stranger and that trusted friend and ally. . .would you have me advised by none but yourself? I think not.”
The two kept walking, passing beyond the alcove. Jerzy, frozen between the desire to hear more, and fear of being caught, hesitated just an instant, then moved off the bench as quietly as he could, planning to keep low, below the half wall, and follow the conversation.
That was until he left the alcove itself, and came nose to nose with an equally surprised Mahault.
The maiar’s daughter stared at him, her brown eyes wide. Before he could make a sound, her hand came up and clamped over his mouth, and she was dragging him back into the alcove.
“What did you hear?” she demanded.
“N-nothing. Nothing, really. The maiar, your father, he was speaking with someone. I did not—”
Her face twisted, the calm expression finally falling away. “You were trying to follow them. Why?”
Jerzy shook his head, not having to play dumb. In the face of her anger and fear, he couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“Something is happening,” she said insistently, leaning in close enough that he could smell a pleasant, woody flavor to her breath. “Something from the outside, threatening the city, threatening us. My father won’t tell me what it is. He tells me not to worry, then he yells at me, calls me foolish, and sends me away. But I’m not foolish, and I won’t sit here while something bad comes! It’s bad, isn’t it? You’re from outside, you know! Tell me!”
“My lady, I—” He faltered at the tears forming in her eyes, and shook his head, falling back on the brutal truth. “I know nothing I can tell you.”
She released him, leaning back in dismay, and he fled, not caring if anyone saw him or wondered at his haste.
ALONE IN HIS room, his hands still shaking, Jerzy unwrapped the mirror and placed it on the table in front of him. The reflective surface showed him nothing but his own face, dark red hair pulled back with a cord, darker eyebrows straight lines over his eyes, nose peeling from too long in the warmer Aleppan sun, and mouth a discontented frown.
All he had to do was spit onto the surface and press his mark to that, and the spell would be cast that connected this mirror to Master Malech’s in his study.
Jerzy hadn’t thought before of what might happen if Malech was not there when he cast the spell. Perhaps Guardian would know and report his message?
“And none of that matters, since you haven’t found out a thing to report to Master Malech yet, have you?”
Had he?
Jerzy stared at the mirror and thought about what he had learned.
Ships had disappeared. Even he knew that was not unusual, when storms came up or pirates attacked, but enough had gone missing that the Carters’ Guild was concerned. Commerce was down, building unease and tension among the citizens, and raising doubts about the maiar’s competence.
The maiar, when he should have been acting strongly, was instead acting strangely: not responding to the complaints of his citizens, ignoring a trader delegation he had requested to see, having members of the council forcibly removed from his presence, leaving the entire Household on edge and his own daughter sensing a threat. At least one guildsman implied that the maiar was being influenced by an outside source—and was warned by his fellows to keep his suspicion to himself.
And now this most recent revelation, a Washer warning the maiar of dangers “inside and outside”—the same Washer who was asking so many questions about Jerzy himself.
Jerzy had hoped that the Vineart might be helpful, but Giordan seemed oblivious to all of these things . . . or was doing his best not to notice. Because he feared for his vineyards—or because he was involved?
Jerzy did not want to follow that thought, but could not dismiss it, entirely. The Washer was following the scent of misused magic, but he had not mentioned the Vineart specifically. They had been speaking of a place that had disappeared. . . . Master Malech had said something. . .no, it had been Ranulf’s messenger, speaking of the island that had disappeared somehow.
Jerzy let out a huff of air, annoyed at himself for not having anything more specific. Discontent and rumor could be placed at the feet of a dozen causes. The maiar might have innocent reasons for his words and actions, or might indeed be mad, but from some innocent cause. Giordan could be exactly as he seemed, a Vineart placing his vines before politics, as was commanded. Mahault could be trying to use him in a family argument, or to further her own plans. There was no way around the fact that he did not have enough information.
Malech had been too long inside his own House, protected by the Command. The world was too complicated for one person to understand. And yet, tell no one had been his master’s command. Tell no one.
Jerzy chewed on his upper lip, torn between the two orders—discover, and keep secret—until the tender flesh cracked and bled into his mouth. Mahault’s words, her expression, haunted him. He needed someone with more sense of what was normal for a city this busy, a court this complicated, someone who knew the outside world as well. He needed someone like, oh, a trader, who had contacts everywhere, could ask anything.
He had no choice but to take Ao up on his offer.
JERZY THOUGHT IT would be simple to find the trader—it seemed as though every time he turned around, Ao was there, lurking nearby. Now that he needed him, though, Ao seemed to have disappeared. Jerzy was annoyed that he had never thought to ask Ao where in the palazzo he was housed; it would not do to go poking around the private quarters, yelling Ao’s name. And yet, how else was he to find him?
He supposed if he waited until the evening meal, he could find Ao then. . .assuming he wasn’t off in town, carousing in another tavern. Grumpy and yet vaguely intrigued by the thought, Jerzy went back to his room to put on sturdier shoes and to throw his few coins into his pouch. Ao had paid the night before, but he couldn’t expect. . .
Jerzy paused, realizing that he had no idea how much a tankard of ale cost. At home, Detta handled all the expenses, and here. . .it had never been an issue, with the maiar’s House servants supplying whatever they needed.
“Giordan is right,” he said to himself in disgust. “We are sheltered.”
That thought in mind, walking off the palazzo’s grounds into the city streets was a different experience. What had been bright and different and exciting days before now had a more ominous overtone, and Jerzy couldn’t quite shake the idea that people were looking at him. Not to mock, as he had first feared, with his unstylish clothing and odd accent, but to scorn—or plot against him and his ignorance. Using the smaller side gate, with the trickle of servants and tradesmen, Jerzy hung back a moment, trying to gather his thoughts and his courage.
“Vineart!”
Jerzy jerked his shoulders, his body’s instinct to respond warring with his brain’s instinct to flee, but managed to change it halfway into a semigraceful greeting.
“Guardsman.” It was the same guard who had hauled him and Ao out of the galley. His face today was not scowling, but Jerzy was cautious.
“You are looking for your trouble-companion? He and his folk were in the antechamber again this morning, but the lord-maiar was called away by one of his aides and did not see them, and their leader, he was not happy. They left this way at the start of my watch, and have not come back as yet.”
Jerzy bit back a sigh. Maybe he would have to go wandering, and just hope that Ao found him again.
“You might try the Cockerel’s Egg,” the guard suggested. “The owner was a tradesman himself, and many trader folk go there for news and such. You know how to get there?”
Jerzy grinned a little sheepishly, aware that his reputation for being able to lose himself in a single room would outlast his actual stay there. “You will draw me a map?”
A few minutes later Jerzy found himself walking down an unfamiliar street in the wake of an off-duty servant the guard had roped into service. The boy, perhaps two or three years younger than Jerzy, moved with complete assurance through the crowds, often looking back to make sure that his charge was still with him. If asked, there was no way Jerzy could have said how they got there, or how to find his way back.
“Here you are,” the boy said, gesturing down the street, which ended with a low, windowless building blocking the way. The red-painted door was open, and a large, scruffly gray cat sat in front, washing itself rudely.
The cat looked up as Jerzy approached, as though judging his worth to enter, then went back to its grooming.
Thus dismissed, Jerzy entered the Cockerel.
Inside, rather than the noisy, low-ceilinged room he had expected, Jerzy was confronted by a space that would have fit in well at home. The walls were whitewashed and the ceilings high enough, despite its being only one level, that the space felt larger than it was. There was no bar, but an open doorway in the back where, even as he watched, a woman came out bearing a tray of covered plates and several mugs. There were tables, but they were lower than expected, and placed at angles to the groupings of chairs and benches where men and the occasional woman were gathered, all talking intently over their mugs and plates.
This, he realized, was less a place of drinking than one of business. What right did he have to be here? He was no trader. . ..
It was as though Malech were standing next to him, the mental slap was so real. Or maybe it was the memory of Guardian’s voice: You are Vineart.
Only slightly more resolved, he looked around again, but did not see Ao. “Excuse me,” he said to the serving woman as she passed by, her tray now empty. “I am looking for the Eastern Wind traders?”
The woman gave him a once-over remarkably similar to that of the cat’s, and pointed with her chin to the back of the room.
“Thank you,” he said, but it was to her backside, as she headed for the kitchen.
Approaching the indicated group, Jerzy finally saw Ao perched on a bench, for once staying very still and quiet as two older men and a woman argued vehemently about something in a tongue that managed to be both guttural and flowing at the same time, like water over sharp rocks. The woman and the older man both had similar features, with rounded faces and broad noses, and were dressed like Ao in soberly formal attire that made sense if they had meant to meet with the maiar today. The third man, however, had much darker skin, wore a sleeveless leather jerkin trimmed with white fur, and his long black mustache was braided, giving him a wildly exotic look. He was the one doing most of the talking, while the others seemed to be disagreeing with him.
Uncertain again, Jerzy paused, and at that moment the woman looked up. She was old, with white hair and deep wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but Jerzy got a sense of strength and determination from her. Mahault, he thought suddenly, would get old like this woman.
The trader woman paused long enough to tap Ao with her elbow, and direct him toward Jerzy’s direction, saying something to him in an undertone. Ao looked up, then looked back to the woman, replying in an equally low tone. The man—the delegation’s leader, Jerzy recalled— said something over the both of them, and the woman shook her head, tapping Ao again, more firmly this time. Ao’s expression did not change, but he was clearly hoping that the woman would prevail.
Finally, the man made a gesture with his left hand, and Ao shot up out of his seat and came forward to join Jerzy.
“Out, quickly, before he changes his mind and makes me sit through more useless complaining about things that can’t be changed!”
Once out in the street, Jerzy looked at his friend suspiciously. The trader was bright-eyed, without any hint of the shadows or puffiness Jerzy had seen on his own face that morning.
“What?” Ao touched his wide, scarred nose as though expecting to find something stuck to it.
“You told me you don’t drink,” Jerzy said suddenly. “Your people, you said they had no use for drink. But you had ale with me, and in there. . ..” He wasn’t quite able to accuse his friend of lying to him, but the suspicion came through in his voice.
“Oh, that was truth, true enough; my people have no truck with your Vineart’s ways. An occasional ale, though, now that is needful to business discussions. It soothes the throat and loosens the tongue and makes the work seem ever so much more social. For the other person, that is.” Ao hooked his arm in Jerzy’s companionably and started walking down the street, still talking. Bemused, Jerzy followed along without protest.
“The first thing you learn,” Ao said, without apology, “is when to drink. . .and when to let half of your mug find its way elsewhere. The tavern we were in last night, did you notice the floor?”
Jerzy tried to remember, then shook his head.
“Softwood. Very popular in places like that; it soaks up liquids, so there’s less cleanup to do when they close. I only drank half my first tankard and dumped most of the rest when you weren’t looking.” Ao chuckled, clearly proud of himself. “I wanted to see what you might say when you were foam-faced.”
“You. . .I. . .” Jerzy stopped dead in the street, forcing Ao to stop as well. “You—”
“And you said not a word, not sober or drunk. I say again, I could make a trader out of you.”
It was so clearly meant as a compliment, Jerzy couldn’t find a comeback this time.
“But you did not come down here to learn my secrets,” Ao said. “So, what is it?”
“I did, actually. Or, not to learn your secrets. But to learn my own.” Jerzy stopped, aware how jumbled that sounded. “I need your help.”
Ao looked at Jerzy, all joking gone, and in that moment the few years’ difference in their ages seemed closer to a decade. “We need to talk. No, not here. Somewhere you are comfortable.”
* * *
THAT “SOMEWHERE” WAS the stone fence enclosing Giordan’s vineyard. The flesh of the fruit was starting to swell with juice, and Jerzy felt a pull inside to be home, watching their own vines. He shivered, and Ao mistook it for cold.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go inside somewhere?”
“No. Here is better.” The sun had warmed the stones, and the breeze was fresh coming off the hills. Looking at the vines, even if they weren’t his, gave him the courage he needed to speak.
“You asked me before, what I was here for. I told you the truth, I’m here to learn from Vineart Giordan. My master sent me for that purpose.”
He paused, looking out into the vines. “That purpose . . . and another.” It was harder to say the words than he had thought, enough to make him wonder if Master Malech had incanted him somehow, to prevent the secret from being shared. But no, there were no spells that could do that against a person’s will.
Or so Malech claimed. Might he have lied about that?
Jerzy forced the doubts away. “Over the past year, my master has been hearing rumors, stories. A Vineart disappeared, mysteriously. Protection spells faltered, vattings failed without cause. . .our own vineyard was attacked by an infestation out of season—something that could not happen on its own.”
Ao looked interested, but not concerned. “All those things, could they just be coincidence, a run of bad luck, or a decantation somehow gone awry?”
“They could. My master says that most of those he heard from assumed they were, each individual thing happening only to them. But then. . .Ao, in your travels, have you heard of sea serpents?”
“There is no such thing as sea—” Ao stopped. “Are there?”
“I’ve seen one.”
That stopped Ao cold for a second.
“Sea serpents. Creatures of magic. They are attacking coastal towns, two at least, but there are likely more, unreported.”
He waited for Ao to make the connection.
“Merchant ships? The cargos that are delayed. . .You think. . .”
Jerzy made a helpless gesture. “My master fears that this is all part of a single attack, that someone is using magic to attack.”
“Against Vinearts? Another Vineart? But why? I mean . . .” Ao frowned, working it out aloud. “Princes go to war for power, or land, or sometimes just because the other insulted them. Vinearts. . .why would a Vineart war on another? For his vines? I thought that they were handed down, that they stayed within your. . .family lines, or whatever you call it?”
“If a Vineart has secondary yards, he usually deeds them to his student,” Jerzy agreed. “There are only so many places the vines grow, and attempts to move them. . .rarely succeed.” Jerzy stopped, unwilling to say more. Malech had taught him that vin magica required three elements: vines, soil, and weather. If one was missing, there was no mustus, and if there was no mustus, there was no vin magica, and no spellwine. That wasn’t a secret, exactly. But something kept his tongue still. Bad enough, that he had shared as much as he had with an outsider.
“So if there is some threat—why are you here? Why aren’t you defending your master’s lands like a good student? Except, against what?” Ao answered his own question. “You don’t know who is behind it or why, you have no proof, so anything you do will be seen as an act of aggression, of power gathering. . .exactly what you’re forbidden to do. And if the princes see that. . .they could use it as reason to break the Commands as well. Steal your vines, use violence . . . take magic for their own.”
Ao let out a low whistle and stared out into the vineyard, too. “Sin Washer, there’s a problem and no mistake. And your master sent you here”—he answered his own question again—“because Aleppan is a trade city. There’s no gossip that’s not repeated here, at some point. That’s why you’ve been trying to listen in—and why you came to me. Because my people travel widely, hear more than you ever could.”
Ao’s voice had gone flat, and for a moment Jerzy was afraid that his friend was angry, or felt used. “I. . .I am sorry. I didn’t know. . .I didn’t mean to—”
“Blessed Joran’s wheels,” Ao said, and Jerzy realized the trader was laughing. “Jerzy, stop apologizing! I’m honored! Now”—he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone—“what do you need me to do?”