Laura Anne Gilman - Weight of Stone: Book Two of the Vineart War

The list of people who contributed their knowledge, their wisdom, and their occasionally strained sanity to this project is long. Specific to this book, I need to single out Bill Ricker, Walter Zilonis, Patricia Pooks Burroughs, and the entire madhouse crew of the Word Wars chat room, who kept me company at all sorts of odd hours. And, as always, my folks, Janet and Aaron Gilman, who were with me, draft after draft after draft.

THE WESTERN SEA

Spring

Jerzy of the House of Malech, Vineart-student and currently accused apostate under the mark of death, heaved his guts over the side of the ship and wished, not for the first time, that a wave would simply sweep him over the side and be done with it.

Beautiful day, isnt it?

Ao had come up behind him while Jerzy was losing what was left of his previous evenings dinner, and was standing by the railing, glancing out over the calm blue waters. The trader was barefoot and shirtless, his straight black hair slicked away from his round face, emphasizing the narrow, heavy-lidded eyes that, even when things were going badly, held some inner amusementoften, as this morning, at Jerzys expense.

Above him, the wind snapped the canvas sails and rattled the main. The air was sweet and salty; large white birds sailed overhead, calling out in harsh, high voices as they searched for breakfast in the waters below; and the sun was only just rising, turning the briny blue-green depths into a brighter aquamarine.

Jerzy would have traded it all for a miserably rainy day in the dankest room anywhere on solid land.

I hate you, he said, leaning against the wooden railing and wishing that his limbs would stop shaking already.

Ao laughed, but there was real sympathy in his voice. No, you dont, he said. Here. The trader handed him a towel to wipe his mouth. The cloth was scratchy linen, air-dried and smelling of mildew and sea spray, but Jerzy barely noticed at this point. They had been at sea for ten days now, and he had been sick every single morning.

Jerzy pushed a sweat-damp lock of hair off his forehead and mopped his skin with the towel, then looked up at the dun-colored sail snapping in the breeze above them. The creaking, slapping noise still sounded dangerous to him, but he freely admitted that he knew nothing about boats or sailing, leaving that to Ao and the third member of their party who was currently at the helm, steering them through the waters.

The thought of her made him look over his shoulder to where Mahault stood tall and proud at the wheel, her attention on the far horizon, where water seemed to merge into sky without a single obstacle to mar the view.

Her blond hair was no longer caught up in the formal, complicated knot she had worn as the daughter of the lord-maiar of Aleppan, but was instead braided into a thick plait, hanging halfway down her back. The time under the open skies had bleached it from deep gold to the color of straw, and darkened her smooth skin to a pale brown, almost exactly the color of tai, the bark brew popular back home. Her lady-mother would have been outraged to see her daughter looking so much like a common sailor.

The fact that Mahault seemed happier now, free and browned, than she had been the entire time he had known her in Aleppan, took away some of the regret Jerzy felt at his involvement in her exile.

The thought made him grimace. Mahault would have glared at him if she knew he was taking any responsibility at all for her actionsshe had made the decision to leave on her own; in fact, she had used their rescue of him to make her own escape. An exile, yes, but a chosen one, against worse options.

And at that, she was faring better than henot only was he a poor sailor, but his skin pinked under the sun, burning at the bend of his arms and back of his neck unless he kept them covered. Ao assured him that the skin would darken over time, adapting to the different weather, but Jerzy didnt want to spend enough time here to discover the truth of that. He wanted to go home.

Unfortunately, that was the one place he could not go.

Eleven days ago they had fled the city of Aleppan, barely one step ahead of Washers who named Jerzy apostate, oath-breaker, saying that he had broken Sin Washers Commandment forbidding one Vineart from interfering with the vines of another.

It was a crime punishable by death.

Jerzy was not guilty of that crime, but he was not innocent, either.

Master Vineart Malech, Jerzys master and teacher, had sent him to Aleppan under the guise of studying with Vineart Giordanitself an unheard-of breach in traditionto listen, in that city of trade and gossip, for further news of recent, disturbing events: magic-crafted serpents attacking shoreline villages, strange disappearances of Vinearts, out-of-season vine infestations, and more they had not yet heard about.

Instead, Jerzy had discovered that the strange happenings went deeper than Master Malech could have dreamed, attacking not only Vinearts and villagers, but men of power as well. While trying to investigate, he had been caught up in lines of deceit and magic entangling the lord-maiar, Mahaults father, and turning Aleppan into a deadly trap for both Jerzy and Vineart Giordan.

Ao and Mahault had risked everything to help Jerzy escape, fleeing the city on horseback with only what Mahault had had time to throw into packs, and no idea where they would go or what they could do.

Unable to contact his master, with not only his own survival but his companions to consider as well, Jerzy had decided to go to the one place where he could not be easily tracked: open water. As a member of the Eastern Wind trading clan, however junior, Ao had been able to barter their two horses and Mahaults jewelry for this ship. It was seaworthy but small, and not meant to be taken out of sight of the shoreline.

Given a choice, Jerzy would never have willingly set foot on another boat, after his terrible sickness on the way from his home in The Berengia to Aleppan. The risk of illness was welcome, compared to the options: if they stayed on the shore, they would have been retaken, he would have been killed, and Ao and Mahault he did not know what would happen to them, but it would not have been good.

The three of them had agreed that until they determined how far the search for them had spread, it was safer here on the empty waters, where they could see any pursuit coming. Their supplies were limited, though, and they needed to replenish their fresh water or they would die of thirst, surrounded by seemingly endless blue waves.

Jerzy felt the responsibility for their situation keenly; it was his fault, his failure that had brought them to this. He had promised to give his companions a chance to recoup the losses incurred when they linked their fates to his but he had no idea how to do that. More, he could not allow that promise to become his foremost priority. He was Jerzy of the House Malech; his first and only obligation was to warn his master of what he had learned in Aleppan.

But Jerzy had no way to contact Master Malech; the enspelled mirror he was meant to use had been broken when he was arrested, and he had neither messenger birds for the sending nor knowledge of a decantation that would cast his voice into his masters ear, even if he had access to the proper spellwine.

He had no spellwine at all.

Mahl says we should be able to see the shores of the next island by midday, Ao said. The map shows a village there, large enough for us to find what we need, without standing out so obviously as strangers. We can bargain for supplies there, restock, and listen for news.

Ao barely seemed to notice the suns intensity, the copper highlights of his skin merely darkening to bronze. More annoying to Jerzy, the traders natural enthusiasm, high already, increased dramatically at the thought of new people to bargain with.