An hour later they hit a wall of iron vine. A living fence twice the height of a man. The grey stems, thick as mooring cables and bristling with finger-length thorns, were every trailblazer's nightmare.
"End of the road." Jean tapped the stem with the flat of his knife. The blade clanged, like iron on iron. "We'll blunt the axes in half an hour and cut through by tomorrow's lunch if we're lucky."
While he was talking, one of the workers swung his machete full force at the vine. The blade bounced, and a thorn, springing back, sliced his forearm open. Blood spattered the grey bark.
"Stop\!" Jean grabbed the next man's arm mid-swing. "What are you doing?"
"Cutting, monsieur," the man said, bewildered. "Got to get through."
"You'll cut yourselves to ribbons," Sophie said.
Jones nodded to Berit. The familiar turned without a word and was back in a minute with a flask and a strip of clean cloth. Sophie took them, knelt beside the wounded man, and began washing the cut.
"Do you have spare arms?" she said, not looking up.
"But master always says keep at it," the head porter said, with the patience of a man explaining the obvious. "Miss the day and it's the birch. Cuts heal up. Work don't stop."
Jones spat to one side, staring at the crouching worker.
"Flesh cheaper than steel," he said.
Sophie tied off the bandage. The man trembled, but kept his hand in hers. He was staring past her in horror, at the head porter.
"Easy," Sophie said, catching his look. "The steward out here has clearly lost his mind. I'll write a complaint to the capital."
"To whom?" Jones lowered himself comfortably onto a fallen log.
"To whoever issued our mandate."
"Count Mitteran will be livid when he hears. What do you think, Jean?"
"Mitteran?" Jean repeated without turning.
"He was all charm when we had tea in his study on the Royal."
Jean, who had been picking at the iron vine's bark with his knife, went still. The blade slipped, leaving only a scratch.
"I think he will be livid," Jean began.
"You see?" Sophie looked encouraged.
"And he'll have the workers' ears cut off for shaming him," Jean finished.
"Wh... no, no. The count is an old man who feeds his lapdogs by hand." She stood up. "I saw his eyes when he talked about his gardens. He couldn't have ordered people driven like this. It's the local steward..."
"...who's too scared to sneeze without permission." Jones jabbed his stick toward the head porter. The man straightened awaiting a whip.
"Show her," the professor said.
The head porter, hesitating, pulled a folded sheet of parchment from inside his shirt. It was sweat-stained and creased. He unfolded it. At the bottom, a large ornate signature with a heraldic seal. The same one that appeared on Sophie's mandate.
"'Any delay exceeding one day, rations to be cut. Any damage to tools, to be docked from wages,'" Jones read over the porter's shoulder, his finger landing on the line. "Recognize the handwriting, Sophie? Same flourishes as your dinner invitation. He's not some backwoods savage. This is breeding."
The worker shrank again. Sophie froze, staring at the familiar signature on the dirty paper. She raised her eyes to the professor, drew her handkerchief, and began scrubbing her hands, trying to wipe away the imaginary filth and the very real blood.
"Are Jean and I the same breed to you?" she asked, quiet and sharp. "Cannibals in silk?"
Jones caught himself. He looked at her taut face, then at Jean, who was silently cleaning a fingernail with his knife, staying out of it.
"Sophie, you know I didn't mean..."
"I know, Professor. Don't worry about it." She turned to Jean. "Uncle, would you send your people to hack at iron vine?"
"Never," Jean said, examining his fingernail. "Though I've only about a dozen servants. Old Giacoppo alone is probably worth another ten."
"Oh, I'd kill for his maritozzo and coffee right now." Sophie's gaze drifted for a moment, and the wounded peasant went stiff, certain he was about to be sacrificed for a sweet bun and coffee. Sophie noticed and turned to him. "What do you think? Is your life worth a pastry for the lady?"
"My lady..." The poor wretch dropped to his knees, shaking, and pressed his forehead to the ground.
"On your feet, Luis. The lady's joking," Jones said. "Sophie, have mercy on these poor devils. Out here that's not a joke. It's Tuesday. And Jean is hardly the standard. You're still too young."
"Young, Professor? Because I want my people to come to me for protection instead of trembling?"
Jean measured Sophie with a long look.
"Congratulations," Jones sighed. "For the nobility, you're a lost cause."
"Burn it?" Jean suggested after studying the vine wall.
"Too expensive." Jones gauged the thicket. "This stuff has heartwood like iron. To burn a passage wide enough I'd spend five coins at least, probably more. And we haven't even reached the cave."
The head porter shifted from foot to foot and spoke up.
"Begging pardon, monsieur le professeur... best not burn it. We'd all choke, we would. Only way through is heat and steel together, like. If there was a forge handy, heat the blades white-hot, they'd go through like butter. As it is, we just blunt 'em."
Jones smiled into his beard.
"There's an idea."
He drew another coin from his belt pouch and squeezed it. The energy soaked into him and he channelled it into the work crew.
The effect was instant. Stooped backs straightened. Muscles swelled under shirts. The machete blades glowed white-hot, and the air above them shimmered with heat. Sophie stepped back.
"To work\!" the head porter barked, his voice ringing.
The vine gave way before the heated steel like butter. The work went at a frightening pace. Berit stood a little apart, a silent sentry, his back to the group, watching the dark jungle.
Jean watched Sophie cheer the workers on. She loved being part of this. She loved seeing magic at work.
"She'll be strong," Jones said quietly, coming up beside him. "Once she seals a pact, she could shelter an entire regiment. Like your mother once did."
Jean stiffened but said nothing.
"Can you shelter the people you love, Jean?" Jones turned to face him, and there was no mockery in the old man's voice, only tired concern. "You're alone at the top. The Emperor loves useful instruments, but only until they break."
"It wouldn't be the first time I started from nothing," Jean said, not turning from his niece.
"Without a pact you're fragile. You may be the finest Sigil alive, oh yes, the Emperor's very own, and don't we all know it. But out here..." Jones swept his hand at the jungle around them. "You're just a man."
The professor saw Jean open his mouth, only to find no words; he merely pressed his lips tight, swallowing the unsaid.
"That's the point, Henry. I'm a man. And I'll stay one, even if it kills me."
"And if it kills not you, but her?" Jones would not let go.
"I don't fight my own battles, Henry. I hire people who do it better."
"How long can you buy another man's honour?" Jones stepped closer and laid a hand on Jean's shoulder. "And how reliable is it?"
Jean stood still for a moment. Then, gently but firmly, he stepped out from under the professor's hand and walked toward the fresh-cut passage.
"Come on," he said without looking back. "While there's still light."
Jones unfurled his empty fingers and lowered his arm. He breathed out and followed.