“Washer!”
A cry from one of the men milling about in the courtyard: a cartwright, from the guild badge on his shoulder, moving toward them at an urgent pace.
The Washer paused, forcing his escort to pause as well. “I am here,” the Washer said, raising his hands in the universal cup and offering the man his blessing. “Zatim’s solace be upon you.”
The man was too upset to return the ritual greeting, his hands barely raising enough to indicate he knew whom he was speaking to before dropping down again, and then back up to wave in his anxiety. “Washer, you have been on the roads, you must tell us, what do you hear from Ternda-town? I sent three wains that way near a month ago, but no return and no payment has been heard, and messenger-birds will not fly there any more.”
“What?” The solitaire snapped to alertness at that. “Bahn, heel,” she said quietly when the hound would have surged forward, never looking away from the man in front of her. “How so, these birds?”
The man turned to her, responding to the command in her voice, although in normal time a guildsman might not have deigned to notice her, wrapped in his own importance. “It is true, my . . . it is true. The birds, when released, veer north or south, but will go neither east nor west to the ocean, no matter what magics we use. They veer, and then they return.”
Messenger-birds were spelled to follow the flow of magic, were sensitized to the flow of magic, in ways only they—and Vinearts, who crafted the spellwine—could comprehend. If they would not go a certain way . . . something terrible came.
The Washer kept his hands steady, and only the solitaire saw the faint, fast twitch in his cheek. He had not known this.
Neither had she, nor any of her sisters, else word would have reached her, a warning. This was new, uncanny. A solitaire, trained to sword and hound, did not trust that which was uncanny.
At her side, the hound whined once, pressing its head against her knee as though seeing reassurance. Like the Washer, she had none to give.
PART I
Revenant
Chapter 1
THE BERENGIA
Autumn
A box edge hit against the rail, nearly cracking the wooden slats. “Ai! Careful with that!”
The hands holding the box curved in an unmistakably rude gesture, and Ao raised his arms in disgust. “Go ahead then, ruin it. It’s not as though it were expensive, or rare, or . . .”
Mahault glared at him over the top of the crate, her arms straining with the weight. “You want to come here and handle it, then?”
Ao gestured grandly at the stumps of his legs, hidden under the blanket across his lap. “I am somewhat indisposed at the moment. . . .”
Jerzy leaned against the railing a few feet away, feeling the sway of the Vine’s Heart below him, his body almost unconsciously moving to the lull of the waves, and wasn’t sure if he was too tired to laugh.
Probably.
It was good to hear the two of them bickering again. It had been difficult weeks since they fled the coastline of Irfan, and the disaster of their journey. The quiet-magic he had used to keep Ao from bleeding to death immediately after the serpent’s attack had not prevented infection from setting in soon after, and between Ao’s fever and Jerzy’s own exhaustion, the mood had been grim enough without the others’ overanxious guilt and fears bringing them down further. Even now there was cause for worry: Jerzy had stopped the bleeding that would have cost the trader his life, but despite Ao’s determined cheer, the pain was still obvious on his face, and the risk of rot setting in still too high for anyone’s comfort.
After the first week passed and Ao did not die, Jerzy had banned both Mahault and Kaïnam from the main cabin, treating the injured trader by himself. The others, worn down by the need to keep watch and keep the Heart on a steady course, aware that at any moment the Washer’s ship—or another—might swoop down on them from the deeper ocean, were only too happy to leave him to it. Even when Ao recovered enough to sit up on his own, and come out on deck for the fresh air, the fear lingered among his shipmates.
Two months since they had fled the shores of Irfan, two months of steady sailing with only three able-bodied crew, and one of them him; they’d been forced to cast the weigh-anchor at night, when the winds died down, and sail as hard as they could dusk and dawn. Sighting the Berengian shoreline the night before had improved all their spirits.
The sooner they were home, the better.
“Children,” Kaï said now, passing them by with his own packs balanced almost carelessly in his arms. “Play nice, or I’ll throw it all overboard.”
Kaïnam’s attempt to pull a princeling’s superiority did make Jerzy laugh. As they turned toward the welcoming harbor that morning, Kaïnam had asked Jerzy to heat water for shaving, and Mahault had abandoned her trou and tunic for a more reputable dress that covered her arms and legs, while the others had brushed out their clothing as best they could, looking for something not faded into gray by the sun or worn to stiffness by the salted sea air. Despite that, all four still looked like rootless vagabonds, and certainly not a prince of note or the daughter of a lord-maiar.
Jerzy sobered. They were, in fact, vagabonds, as much as any brigand or beggar. If the Washers had taken him, he would never have seen his vineyard again, and the others . . . for their crime of associating with him? Ao would have died, his limbs infected without healspells. Mahl, disowned by her father, without protection beyond Kaïnam’s claim to a distant Principality? Mahault had chafed even at her father’s guardianship. She would have fought her way out—and died—rather than submit to any sort of imprisonment, much less becoming the property of any man who claimed her.
“You there!” Kaïnam abandoned playfulness and strode past Jerzy, vaulting over the railing and onto the wooden plank that had been extended from the shoreline and tied to the Heart’s side for easy access. “Careful with those casks!”
The warning was not necessary: the men unloading the ship were Berengian docksmen who knew full well what a wine cask looked like. They would no sooner drop it than they would a crate of silks from Ao’s people or silver beaten from the mountains. Less, perhaps, for fear of what the Vineart might do to them if his wares were damaged.
Although Jerzy, his skin finally weathered to a pale gold from the sun, his hair past his shoulders in a ragged fall of fox-red, and his clothing an odd mismatch of trou and tunic, low boots jammed over feet re-accustomed to going bare, his belt empty of the signs of his rank, would not strike caution or care into any man’s heart.
Inside him, though, the magic pulsed strongly, almost overriding the calls of the dockworkers, the occasional scream of black-winged seadivers overhead, and the ever-present creak-and-slap noises of the Heart herself. The slave called Foxfur had not known magic, and even as a student the quiet-magic had hidden within him, waiting to be summoned. No longer. Since tasting the unblooded fruit of Esoba’s yard and drawing on them to set fire to the sands so they could escape the Washers; since healing Ao and keeping him alive, using Kaïnam’s supply of spellwines like tonics to maintain his strength and keep the others awake, alert, and healthy as well . . . Jerzy could barely remember what it felt like to not hear the hum and thrum of the quiet-magic in his bones.
But even over that, he heard Ao’s quiet “uh,” a sound not of pain but worry. Jerzy moved to where the other sat, his hand now fisting the fabric of the blanket in agitation, and tilted his head, about to ask what was wrong.
“Washers,” Ao said, indicating the men gathering on the docks, clearly heading for them. The word had the sound of a curse.
Jerzy’s gaze tracked the movement of the red-clad figures through the dockside crowd. Using Ao’s trader-knowledge of port towns, they had chosen the town of Reoudoc, north of the border between The Berengia and Iaja, because it was large enough to hide their arrival but not so large that it would have a chapterhouse, one of the Washers’ meeting places, of its own.
Washers, who had chased them from Aleppan
to the coast of Irfan, and would have caught them were it not for the sea serpent whose attack had created enough confusion for the Vine’s Heart to escape.
The same attack that had so injured Ao that they had no choice but to abandon any plan to chase down their enemy, and return here.
“Bad luck, or were they alerted to us?” Ao asked, his gaze never leaving the approaching men, all amusement gone from his voice now.
“Don’t know,” Jerzy said. “Bad luck would be better.”
Ao laughed, the sound shorter and more tense than it used to be, even as one hand reached down to rub at the stub of his thigh, wincing at the touch. “Bad luck, we’ve got.”
Ao had not meant it to sting, but Jerzy flinched nonetheless.
“A day until home,” he said quietly. “Only a day to home.” That had been the other reason to choose this port: a direct road to House Malech, Jerzy’s home and the only place he would feel safe, protected by his own vines and the Guardian’s stony presence. A place where he would have access to the healwines he needed to ensure that Ao recovered—although he would never be able to replace the limbs the serpent’s teeth had torn away.
The guilt Jerzy felt at that was useless: it was a blow, along with Master Vineart Malech’s death and Jerzy’s own exile, to be laid at the feet of their enemy, the mysterious outland Vineart who had created the serpents and set them to the hunt, who had undermined the Vin Lands, sowed suspicion and death to further his own purpose.
Jerzy’s gut burned with the need to make the man pay. They had a name now; Ximen, and a title, Praepositus, courtesy of the man he and Kaïnam had interrogated back in Irfan. With those, if it had not been for Ao’s injury, they could have been out searching for him, putting the bastard on the defensive. . . .
Bad luck. They had that, it was true.
“Ho, the Heart!”
“That’s torn it, then,” Mahault said grimly, coming up alongside Jerzy. The former maiar’s daughter might have put back her skirts and tied her long, sun-golden hair back in the complicated knot Jerzy had first seen her wear nearly half-year prior, but her face was thinner and harder than that girl could ever have imagined, and the way her hand rested at her hip, looking for the sword discreetly packed with her other belongings, was new.
“It might not be . . .” Jerzy stopped as the four men drew close enough to identify. Three were unknown to him, anonymous bodies draped in red. The fourth, and their clear leader . . . that face he knew.
“Washer Oren.”
Any hope Jerzy had that this was purely coincidence or chance died with that name. The Washer had been the most junior of the three Washers sent to question him last spring. Neth, Oren’s master, had been onboard the ship that hounded them on the coast of Irfan, had been the one who confronted them, ordering them to wait until the Collegium sent new orders on Jerzy’s fate.
They had not been inclined to wait.
Jerzy scowled at the Washers, secure in the fact that he was far enough back they could not see him. If Oren was here, and Neth was there, where was the third Washer, Brion? The fact that the older man was not to be seen was slightly comforting, but only slightly. Oren was young, but the others gathered around him clearly looked to him for orders. And that meant Oren was taking orders from someone else.
Someone who knew the name of their ship, and that Jerzy was onboard. Had Neth gotten word to the Collegium already, quickly enough to muster a party to meet them? And how had they known . . . ?
Jerzy checked that thought. The same way the Washers had known to find the Heart along the Irfan coast: clearly they had access to tracking spells. The Collegium could afford to buy the precious aetherwine that housed that particular spell, if the need was great enough, and, clearly, they thought it was. Unable to find them on the ocean, the Washers had set tell-tales along the coast . . . and the Vine’s Heart had sailed right into it.
Jerzy lifted his hand slightly in agitation and found Ao’s fingers brushing against his palm, a brief, comforting touch.
“Ho, the party,” Kaïnam called out in return to the hail. As the actual owner of the vessel, with Ao, it was his right to act as captain, and Jerzy did not envy him it. “What can we do for you, Brothers?”
Oren squinted up at the figure on the plank. “You are Kaïnam, Prince of Atakus?”
“I am.” Despite hardship, Kaï’s long, lean body remained loose-limbed, the sleek black hair shining under the afternoon sunlight and his grave beauty looking as though it would best grace a coin rather than a living being. In no way did he indicate surprise that this man should know his name; rather, he took it for granted that of course his name and title should be known to all.
Ao and Mahault had often found Kaï’s power-born superiority grating, but occasionally it was a useful tool.
Oren did not bend before it, but returned arrogance for arrogance. “We request permission to board,” he said in a manner that implied less a request than a demand.
“Indeed?” Instead, Kaï walked down the plank he had been standing on, meeting them on solid ground, in a move to keep all attention on him and not those still onboard.
“What do we do?” Ao asked, looking up at Jerzy for instruction.
“Do nothing,” Jerzy said. “Play the cripple.” Under the concealing blanket, Ao’s stumps were still raw looking. If they were forced to move, the eye would be drawn to those scars, evoking sympathy and disgust, not suspicion. Anything that might stop an opponent, or even slow him down, could be useful.
“If we have to leave the ship before we’re ready, there won’t be time to get him into the handcart,” Mahl said quietly, joining them. “They’ll catch us for certain.”
“I can work around that,” Jerzy said, his attention on the tight group on the ground. Kaï’s shoulders were still relaxed, and he had not gone for the sword that was weighted against his hip. So whatever was being said, it was still only words. “If we need to move quickly, I’ll . . . do something else.”
“Can you make me fly?” Ao had been asking that since he woke from his fever and accepted the fact that he could no longer walk, that all the magic in the world could not regrow bones and flesh from cauterized scabs.
“Fly, yes,” Jerzy said, same as he did every time Ao asked, repetition turning it into an almost comforting exchange. “Landing might be more difficult.”
“Vineart!”
Kaïnam was using what Ao called his “lordling” voice, and it carried over the bustle of the dock without actually silencing anything. Jerzy stepped forward automatically, almost jumping to respond, and then took a half-step beat to compose himself, moving more slowly as befitted a true Vineart, rather than a student pushed forward too soon.
“Look pathetic,” he heard Mahl say to Ao, behind him, as the trader came with a thump down to the deck. “More pathetic than usual, I mean.”
They were definitely feeling better. Despite the seriousness of their situation, it was difficult to keep a solemn expression on his face as he moved onto the gangway—opening the railing first, rather than leaping over it as Kaï had—but the sight again of those robes sobered him quickly enough. The last time he had seen Washer Oren, Master Vineart Malech had been alive, and he had been a mere Vineart-student, not Vineart Jerzy of House Malech. Was the Washer here to arrest him for the deaths and disappearances of the Washers and their hire-swords? Had the old charge of apostate been reinstated? Or was there some new trouble they were unaware of, waiting to come down on their heads?
“This is Washer Oren, here at the behest of the Collegium,” Kaïnam said, stiffly formal as though they’d never adventured together at all. “He wishes to parlay with you, Vineart, and requests the use of the Vine’s Heart as meeting space.”
That, Jerzy had not been expecting. At all.
“YOU WISH . . .” Jerzy sat back in his chair, staring at Oren, wishing desperately that the Washer had not been so adamant that it be only the two of them in this parlay. Although he now understood why.
&nb
sp; “You have been at sea for months,” Oren said. His voice, almost sullen with distaste, indicated that he was no happier than Jerzy about the message he carried. He might lead this group, but he took orders nonetheless. Jerzy’s autonomy seemed to irk him worse than anything the Vineart had been accused of. “Things have . . . changed.”
Changed in ways that Washer Neth clearly had not been aware of when he’d chased them to the shores of Irfan. Jerzy wondered, if they’d waited for Neth’s messenger-birds to return, if this would have been the message carried back. Or was this even more recent? Jerzy was not the observer trader-bred Ao was, or like Kaïnam, trained in the ways of court politics, but he felt something was wrong.
“You wish me to join with you.” And that, to start, was terribly wrong. Just as Vinearts were protected by their isolation, kept from power by their obligations to the vines, Washers wielded power to ensure that isolation, maintain it, as the very basis of their existence. Joining the two was anathema to Sin Washer’s Command.
“The Collegium wishes you to stand with us,” Oren corrected. “So that we may give a clear message to the rest of the Lands Vin, and prevent any further . . . unpleasantness.”
Unpleasantness. Jerzy almost laughed, bitterly. Seven Vinearts, their names listed in a neat hand on the paper Oren had showed him, sealed with the mark of the Collegium, had joined with landlords of their regions, placing their yards, their magic, at those lord’s disposal. Seven that had come forward and publicly announced their decision—how many more acting quietly in tandem, as Kaï’s father and their local Vineart had been? And how many had been forced, as the local lord would have forced poor Esoba, against his will?
And the Collegium called that “unpleasantness”?
The Shattered Vine Page 2
