Free Flesh and Fire by Laura Anne Gilman

Washers had a bag of fables and stories to explain it, but Malech saw it as simple practicality. The grapes of one region crafted a specific sort of spellwine, and another region produced something else, and it was near impossible to learn how to craft more than a handful, and even that required a Master’s skill. It was for that reason more than any demigod’s orders that Vinearts kept themselves busy in the yards, and out of the seemingly never-ending politics of the city rulers and the nobility.
    Too, Vinearts did not feel the same sort of loyalty to a city or region other folk might: the slaver caravans traveled widely, and slaves might be bought anywhere, so it was rare for a Vineart to end up near the place of his birth. Somehow they almost always found themselves in the region where they were best suited, with the vines that fit their skills, when their years of study were done.
    As though by magic, Malech thought, and almost laughed.
    “No matter,” he said out loud to the dragon. “Family squabble, paranoia, or civil unrest, I do not care, so long as they keep it out of our lands and pay on time. If they want blood staunch, then blood staunch they shall have.” It was a simple-enough crafting, of the half-dozen different healwines he was known for; a young and simple red, without any subtleties. Despite his grumbling, he had more than enough in the cellars to supply all of Atakus and still maintain inventory until a new vintage could be made.
    The room they entered was roughly circular, with candle niches in the walls at regular intervals, an oversized wooden chair with a leather seat, and a wooden desk with a surface that was bare and gleaming. Against one wall a mirror old enough to be tarnished around the edges was propped, its edges framed by gold and silver strands shaped into delicate grapevines. It had cost a fortune to make and ship and would require a year’s earnings to replace, were it to break.
    Malech sat down in the chair and leaned back, looking into the mirror. For an instant the surface reflected him from knees to forehead, the tail of the dragon dangling behind him as it took up a new position perched on top of the inner doorframe. He had not brought a student into his home for many years, and the weight of it was heavy on his hands. So much could go wrong, and almost all of it during the first few weeks.
    He did not like to use the mirror—the sleep house left scars, both physical and emotional, no matter how long ago you escaped, and you learned to nurse them in private. Spying on another, without their knowledge. . .And yet, the mirror could give him advance warning, if the boy were to be trouble.
    Malech frowned at the image, adjusting the fall of his tunic, then spat into his hand and placed his palm flat against the mirror. Feeling the spell pre-existing within the glass respond to his touch, he ordered, “Display Jerzy.”
    The boy was still sitting on the bed, staring out the window. His hands were moving slowly, as though he were arguing with himself, and the body language, even through the mirror’s haze, was clearly that of a spooked animal not sure if it should freeze or run. He started, as though in reaction to a sound, and turned. A shadow fell over the floor, and he rose, not the way he might in response to a summons, but the way you did when someone with more power or authority entered a room.
    Detta, then.
    “Enough.”
    The mirror went dark, and then returned to showing the Vineart’s reflection. Detta had been managing his Household for nearly as long as Malech had been resident. She could handle anything short of spell-wine and would come to him if she felt a hesitation or concern.
    “The boy has talent,” Malech said to the dragon. “He was able to sense the mediocrity of the crush without any training or experience, and then again to choose the correct cup.”
    The dragon swished its tail and lowered its head to its stone talons, waiting for the rest of its