Free Flesh and Fire by Laura Anne Gilman Page A

master’s thoughts.
    “Talent alone is not enough. In the end, Guardian, it is desire that creates a master vintner, makes him into a Vineart. A passion, not for power, or strength, but for the grapes themselves. Anything else leads to ruin.”
    The dragon had heard variations on this before, in the years since its carving. It had seen three students come and only one progress beyond that initial stage. If it cared enough, or had a sense of humor, it might have yawned.
    Malech was quite aware that his audience was not captivated. He had long ago accustomed himself to speaking to, in effect, a stone wall. It was still better than speaking to himself.
    Only time, and tests, would show if Jerzy had that passion, and if he could survive the training that would refine his crude awareness into the skills of a Vineart. At this point in his life, after four decades of mastery, Malech knew better than most how chancy expectations could be.
    True, there was a spellwine, made from black-skinned grapes that grew only on the coast of Iaja that opened a small, specific window into the future. Wealthy patrons from every civilized city—and a few uncivilized ones as well—paid fortunes to possess a half bottle. Some Vinearts paid dearly for it as well, using it to predict Harvests and to winnow out their students. Malech preferred to rely on his own ability to judge skill and character and leave spell-use to his customers.
    “And there will be nothing to sell them if I sit here all day,” he said, regretfully standing up, feeling his knees and hips creak as he did so. Jerzy would take a few days to settle in to his new status and all that meant. Meanwhile, there was still Harvest to oversee, both the vines here and his secondary fields north and south. It was always a race to get the grapes in before the rains came, and he could not afford to be distracted. If one block was subpar so obviously, even in the crush, others might be equally poor as well. That would force him to rely upon previous vintages to make up the shortfall in spellwine production. An entire harvest of vin ordinaire, while still quite saleable, would not improve the standing of the House of Malech. He needed to know what had gone wrong, and how far it had spread.
    “I am expected tonight at the northern enclosures,” he said. “Earliest I will return will be tomorrow night, well after dark. Guardian, keep an eye on the boy while I am gone. Detta needs to mind the House, and I don’t think he’s quite ready to mingle with the kitchen children just yet, nor be left alone.”
    The stone dragon curled its tail around its head, a sign of pleasure, and beat its heavy wings once in acceptance. It might not have a sense of humor, but it did like to be useful.
    THE GUARDIAN WAITED while Malech gathered his things for his trip, then, once the Vineart called for Per, the yard-man, to bring his horse around, beat its wings once and flew up along the external wall to the window of the room the student had been given.
    The window was closed, so it tapped the tip of its tail against the glass, careful not to use too much force and risk breaking the expensive pane.
    The face that appeared, with a startled expression and round open mouth, was not the boy’s.
    “Oh, you,” Detta said and swung open the window. “Come in, then.” The dragon barely fit, its wings scraping the edges of the window with a rough noise. The student was sitting on the bed, lacing up a shirt that was considerably cleaner than the tunic he had been wearing. The Guardian could not judge color, seeing things only in shades of gray, but the shirt had actual cuffs and a collar and was a size too large, making the boy’s slender frame seem like a child’s instead of a youth’s. But the look on his face was an almost tentative joy in his new possessions that changed to something much less readable when he looked up and saw the Guardian hovering in the air in front of him.
    “What. . .is that?” The