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eschewed the use of spellwines. Even though Ao had become comfortable with what Jerzy could do, the thought of it being worked directly within him was only now sinking in. The realization made him clearly uncomfortable.
    When he was a slave, Jerzy had been forbidden by law to so much as taste an unripe grape, or breathe too deeply of the fumes during crush. He had some sense of what was in Ao’s mind.
    “It will do only what you tell it to do. That’s how spellwine works: the incantation frames the magic the . . . the same way you frame an Agreement, so that every detail is considered and every eventuality taken care of.”
    The explanation seemed to soothe the trader. In truth, it was more complicated than that, but Jerzy rather suspected a trader’s Agreement had loopholes, too.
    “So how do I . . .”
    “You’ve seen me do it often enough. Take a sip, just a small one, and hold it on your tongue. Let it sink into the flesh, and the aroma rise up into your mouth . . .”
    He watched, his gaze intent as Ao did as he was instructed. The other’s movement was awkward, too aware of being watched, and he took too much wine with the first sip, choking a little as it ran out of his mouth and down his chin.
    “It’s all right. Everyone does that the first time.” He hadn’t, but he had made a fool of himself in other ways. “Hold it, and then say the decantation, the way I taught you.”
    Ao swallowed again, letting only a little of the liquid run down his throat, and then his lips moved. The words were barely audible, as he tried not to spill more spellwine, but that didn’t matter. Loud or soft, the spellwine was crafted to respond to the shape of the words as much as the sounds.
    “To the legs, flow. The legs, lift. Carry me, go.”
    The look on Ao’s face as the windspell rose to do his bidding, liftinghim upright as though carried on invisible legs, was worth every penny the spellwine had cost them.
    “It won’t last long,” Jerzy cautioned him. “And you’ll ache when it’s done. But for a while, you’ll be able to move by yourself.” Enough to get them through the crowd and, with a carefully placed cloak over Ao’s shoulders, without anyone seeing that the man was a cripple. The arrival of the Washers, and their demands, had changed plans beyond the need for haste: they could afford no indication of weakness, no hint of vulnerability others might try to use—or use against them.
    Ao took a gleeful step forward—and pitched over into Jerzy’s arms.
    “Carefully!” the Vineart said, setting him gently upright. “Carefully. You’re out of practice and these aren’t your legs.”
    Ao nodded, and took another, more cautious step.
    “But it doesn’t last?”
    “You know it doesn’t,” Jerzy said, picking up his own rucksack, keeping his free hand on Ao’s arm to steady him. The words lingered in his mouth, like the feel of a spell, an ominous warning. “So don’t waste it. Let’s go.”

Chapter 2
     
    T
he dockside, like
most fishing villages of any size in The Berengia, was a bustle of people minding their own business, intent on their own problems. Jerzy noted a few older men, able-bodied enough to be out fishing, instead mending nets. They sat not down by the water’s edge but up higher, where they had a clearer view of the horizon. As their small party passed, Jerzy saw fish spears on the ground next to them, and horns or drums at their feet. Sentinels, ready to warn the village should anything come at them from the sea. Serpents . . . or men? Jerzy felt a shudder of anticipation run down his spine.
    Although a few folk stopped to watch them go by, curious, no Washer appeared to stop them. Despite that, all four were tense until they were out of the village itself, far enough along the rise and fall of the road that a man on foot could not catch up with them. Mahl relaxed first, settling deeper into her saddle with a sigh as they crested the first hill, while Kaïnam’s shoulders