The Shattered Vine

by Laura Anne Gilman

  One of those solitaires was Keren. She made no sign, however, that they had met previously.

  “Welcome to my House, Lord Ranulf,” Jerzy said. Unlike when the Washer had ridden up, he had not taken the time to change, but rather came out wearing leather trou and an open-neck shirt with sleeves that folded back, suitable for working with vina. To appear otherwise would give too much importance to this visit.

  That had been Ao’s advice, and Kaïnam had agreed. The two of them waited in the hallway, while Mahault took the side route through the vineyards and waited behind them.

  “This is not a social visit, Vineart.” Ranulf might have considered the implications of offending the Vineart, but he was clearly unwilling to give up his ground, remaining on his horse where he had a tactical advantage.

  Jerzy refused to be intimidated: he had spent enough time on horseback to know how easily even a trained mount could be startled, and how simple a matter it would be, if he so chose, to spark the horse’s hooves and set him to flight.

  He would do no such thing, of course, but knowing that he could allowed him to stand in front of the heavyset beast and not flinch, or be intimidated.

  “There is no need to be impolite, however,” Jerzy said calmly. “I know why you are here.”

  “If you did not, you would be an idiot as well as a fool, and I had enough respect for your master that I assume you are neither of those things.” Ranulf glared down at him, then, almost reluctantly, showed a brief, surprisingly open smile, even as he swung down off his horse, the leather creaking under his movements. Jerzy did not invite him into the House, and Ranulf did not react to the implied insult. House Malech and their local prince had always remained on amicable, if properly distant, terms, and while Master Malech had considered Ranulf a harmless pup, neither Jerzy nor Ranulf could afford to underestimate the other.

  “I came of my own, rather than sending a messenger, or inviting you to my home. In these days . . . I was not certain you would feel comfortable leaving the safety of your yards. Indeed, you have not, since you returned home, not even to visit your own secondary yards. Most unusual.”

  He had been watching; had he bothered to note that Mahault had visited in Jerzy’s place? Or did Ranulf believe that Jerzy had abandoned all but his primary vines? If so, then the prince was the fool.

  “I am aware of everything that occurs in my soil,” Jerzy said evenly. “And much that occurs outside it as well.”

  “Then we shall dispense with the verbal fencing, yes?” Ranulf stepped forward. Jerzy stood his ground. “You will have heard of the recent unpleasantness within The Berengia.”

  “Hunger and fear, and villagers near to rebellion against their lords. Yes. I have heard.” Ranulf had not been listed among those refusing aid . . . but he had not been forthcoming with it, either.

  “The world grows cold, Vineart, even as the season warms. Cold and menacing. The Washers are turning their hand to politics, and other lands look at us with hunger.” He seemed uncomfortable making this speech, as though someone had prepared the words for him. “We owe it to our home to protect it—and I owe it to our people to protect you.”

  “You propose to protect me?” Jerzy let just a hint of skepticism show, tilting his head as though the thought had never occurred to him.

  “I would offer the shelter of my name, the arms of my fighters, to defend your yards against any who would mean them harm.”

  “And in return? What would you have of me?”

  “Nothing more than what your master and I had previously shared: The pooling of skills, to protect our people from harm. First offering of your wines . . . for a fair price, of course. Detta would not allow anything else.”

  “Of course.” Jerzy moved the silver ring on his finger again, unable to stop himself. Ranulf’s gaze followed the motion, and from the widening of his eyes, he recognized it.

  “Your master had that commissioned from my silversmith, when he reached Mastery,” he said, his voice brittle. “Do you claim it for yourself?”

  Jerzy narrowed his eyes and studied Ranulf the way he might an unknown insect that settled on one of his vines. “It is none of your affair what I claim or do not claim, Lord Ranulf. The Commandments still hold, though others may seek to stretch them full out of shape.”

  The prince let out a huff of surprise, and Jerzy thought that he heard something else in there as well. Disdain, and perhaps a note of admiration. “You have no intention of allying yourself with anyone, do you, boy?”

  “My master sought alliances. And he died for it.”

  Truth, in a way that Ranulf could understand, if not the entire truth. The prince’s hard gaze rested on Jerzy, assessing him, then he gave another curt nod, and reached up to grasp his saddle, swinging up onto the horse’s back without the aid of his stirrups. If he meant to show off in front of Jerzy, or impress him, it succeeded.

  “The mountain passes and the ports are closed,” he said. “None will enter The Berengia without our knowledge.”

  And none would leave, either. As warnings went, it had the distinct sound of a threat.

  Jerzy smiled, a small, cold smile that refused to be threatened. “Sin Washer keep your road safe, Lord Ranulf.”

  He did not wait to see if the prince and his guards left, but turned and walked back up the path, his pace steady and firm, until he was safely within the open doors. Only then did Jerzy allow himself to exhale, his body shuddering like a winded horse.

  “Detta,” he called, raising his voice enough to be heard in the kitchen. “Have supper brought to my study, please.”

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND. I mean, I understand why you didn’t agree, because we’ve all seen how well that does not turn out, but why didn’t you”—Mahault waved her fingers slightly—“use him, the way you used the Washers? I would think having the most powerful princeling in the area thinking he’s deep in plot with you could be an excellent way to guard your flank.”

  They were gathered in Jerzy’s study. A spellfire blazed in the hearth, giving off silent heat against the spring night’s chill.

  “It’s not that I trust him any more or less than the Washers,” Jerzy said, feeling the stress of the confrontation finally taking hold of his body and making him want to do nothing but lay down and sleep. He dared not, though: every time he dared sleep, he risked his control slipping, being drawn into the Root’s embrace, and never escaping. “It’s that I don’t need him. Rather, I don’t need to manipulate him. He spoke truth; he and my master worked together often as not, and I have some knowledge of how he thinks, and what he will do. More, he is not a bad man and has a care for his lands. He will be an effective barrier, should we need him, without my having to agree to anything.”

  “And then, if you do call on him for help, he will feel as though he’s come out ahead, rather than suspecting he was played.” Ao nodded and then tapped the pages of the dispatch that had arrived while Jerzy was dealing with their not-unexpected visitor. “That time may come sooner than not. There’s more unrest in Iaja, and Corguruth.” Ao’s dark, sharp-cornered eyes, once filled with mischief, had shadows under them now, making his broad cheekbones even more prominent and narrowing his once-round face into something unfamiliar. Even his cheerful personality had sobered, the smile that used to snap with mischief now muted by worry and exhaustion.

  Nobody noticed. Or, rather, they saw, but made no comment. There was no point telling someone they looked tired, or distressed. They all were tired and distressed, and increasingly dispirited.

  “Serious?” Jerzy did not need to ask: he knew already, the same way he knew how many fingers were on his hand. As the days warmed and the blight did not ease, the reports had been coming steadily, a bird every third day or so carrying news of more illness or another outbreak of related violence. He could not heal everyone, nor could he let them come to him. Their own supplies were beginning to thin.

  It was only a matter of time, now.

  “Serious enough. The land-lord
was set upon, and . . .” Ao let his words trail off, not wanting—or needing—to go into detail. They knew, too well now, what happened when the people turned on their lord.

  “And there will be more, soon enough,” Mahault said, her hands still in her lap, clasped so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. Two weeks before, a madman spewing fear and anger had riled the already-nervous populace of Aleppan to the point that they overran the palazzo, breaking down the Council chamber doors and destroying the furnishings within. Men had dragged her father the maiar to the gardens where Mahault, Ao, and Jerzy had once walked, and slaughtered him in the fountain until the waters ran red.

  Mahault had not cried when the news came.

  Jerzy’s own eyes were dry as the winter soil. The cracks in the Lands Vin had been made clear; each of the eleven points were in a city already marked on the map that hung in front of them now. Each of the eleven cities had been targeted by Ximen’s whisperers, their land-lord becoming erratic, or unpredictable, striking out until his own people turned on him. Eleven confirmed reports so far, of people driven to desperation and violence.

  Ao’s people had been invaluable in gathering the information; spreading their fingers across the trade routes, accessing the other trading clans, passing messages along with a speed that even messenger-birds could not match, finding their way in and out of lands where all traffic had halted.

  “Eleven, in two months. It’s as though the entire world has gone mad,” Detta said from where she had been listening at the door. She carried a tray of tai in her hands and came into the study to set it on the desk, clearing a space for it among the maps and messages scattered there. The kitchen boy followed with a basket of meat-stuffed rolls, still warm from the fire.

  “It has,” Kaïnam said. His face, ever lean, had become even more drawn over the past month, his hand never far from where his sword would hang, even when he went unarmed within the House.

  Jerzy stared at the map. Eleven riots since season-turn, eleven landlords brought down by the people he was supposed to protect. In five of those, the Vineart who had allied with him had also been killed. There might have been other Vinearts killed, isolated within their yards; none of Jerzy’s overtures had received responses. Whatever small willingness to share Malech had been able to tap had long run dry from fear.

  A fear that had an all-too-real cause. This should be a season of birthings, not death.

  “Where is it the worst?” Jerzy stared at the dragon, perched across the doorframe as though it were the only thing real in the world. There was a brush of something at the edges of his awareness, a rasping pass like the touch of leaves against skin, or soil underfoot, a lure like spice in the nose and summer’s sunlight on his face, the quiver of magic in the air.

  It was a now-familiar sensation even in Jerzy’s waking moments, like the rustle of a rat in the granary that could not be evicted. The Root, the magic underlying the skin of the world: shattered, scattered, but still potent. All it took was the faintest hint of quiet-magic to escape, asleep or awake, and he was under siege. He was caught, unable to go forward, without being tangled in its grip.

  There was a sense of puzzlement, and then the cool weight of the dragon slid against his skin, although the creature had not moved from its post above the doorsill. Jerzy took a few deep breaths, cautiously, and then relaxed: the barrier held. For now.

  Jerzy did not want to think about what might happen if he let himself be caught. The very least would be that Ximen could use the connection to find him, strike at him from across the ocean. Worse . . .

  “Worst?”

  Jerzy started, hearing his own thoughts echoed out loud, then realized that Ao was responding to his earlier question. “Where are things the worst,” he clarified, his voice tightened with frustration at having to explain what seemed obvious to him: What else would they be looking for? Did he have to do everything? He ran his fingers through his hair, resisting the urge to pull at the roots.

  “We’re not your slaves, Jer,” Mahault said, her voice low but barely calm, even as the dragon cautioned, Patience.

  Jerzy took a deep breath, forcing his fingers to unclench, letting his arms fall to his side. He was Vineart. They were not. But they were his allies. His friends. The word was still unfamiliar, but the comfort of it was not, any longer. Jerzy let his fingers gentle, his jaw loosen, and waited.

  “Iaja,” Ao said, answering his question without having to look down at the dispatches or back at the map. “The first alliance of maiars has shattered, and they hammer at each other as though they would erase any sign of them from the earth.” He paused. “The Vinearts there . . . they’re either under protection”—and Ao’s tone made it clear he understood the word meant nothing more than servitude—“or they’re . . . gone. Disappeared.”

  Iaja had once been the home of some of the most talented Master Vinearts in history, matching The Berengia in the strength of their vines. There would be time to mourn the loss later . . . or, Jerzy acknowledged, not at all.

  “The islands along their coast have withdrawn into themselves, hoping to remain unnoticed,” Kaïnam added, “while ships bearing the black banner sail unmolested, taking captives and loot, and disappearing back into the depths.”

  “Scavengers,” Mahl said, disgust clear in how she spoke the word. “They’re like wolves in midwinter; they feed on chaos. We can’t worry about them; when order is restored, then the coastal lords will be able to hunt them down, as before.”

  “Assuming there are any lords left to hunt,” Ao retorted. His people had been among the worst hit; he expected them to suspend most of their sea voyages soon, if they hadn’t already.

  Jerzy nodded, hearing Ao’s words but already moving on past them. “Detta.”

  She stopped, waiting for his question.

  “How much healwine do we have left?”

  “Not enough,” she said, knowing what he was going to ask, as a good House-keeper must. “If the violence comes here . . .”

  “Refuse any new orders.”

  Detta’s round face showed her unhappiness, but she bowed her head and left the room. It was contrary to everything Master Malech, and Master Josia before him, had decreed, but the reasoning was clear: they needed to keep enough for themselves.

  “So far, Iaja seems to be taking the brunt of this Ximen’s attacks, both physical and magical,” Kaïnam said, “but his net is cast beyond that. It makes sense that either The Berengia or Altenne will be next. And since Jerzy has taken up a stick and poked him with it . . . Jer, maybe you should have negotiated with Ranulf.”

  Jerzy schooled his face to look as though he was considering Kaï’s comment and rubbed the back of his neck, aware of an ache that had not been there on waking. Rejected, Ranulf would do as the other princelings of The Berengia had already done and offer protection to one of the three other Vinearts who held lands within these borders. Soon, a rumor would float of the sole holdout within The Berengia, who considered himself above all alliances.

  The sole holdout, from a House known for its bloodstaunch. From a House under suspicion of apostasy, and yet the Washers held back and did nothing, even as the House no longer shipped that bloodstaunch. . . .

  Jerzy had no intention of relying on weapons or men-at-arms. This was a cold game he was playing; he was not sure the others, if they realized, would forgive him. But if Ximen could be suspected of whispering to the slaves, if the Root could find its way into the House, into his sleep, then not even his companions, not even Detta, could be trusted entirely.

  “We still don’t have the ability to hold off a real attack, much less launch anything,” Mahault said. “The four of us . . . your slaves would be good only to slow troops down, not stop them, and the—”

  “I am not worried about unrest from the locals,” Jerzy said. “For Malech’s sake, at least, we will have that much safety. And Ranulf will handle anything that attacks from outside the border.” The lord was stubborn, willful, and like the rest of h
is kind, blinded by his own desires. But he would spend his last breath to protect The Berengia. Jerzy was counting on that.

  “For now, there is peace, or at least the absence of unrest. But that will not last,” Kaïnam said. “Even The Berengia will fall.”

  “It’s a return to the old days, before Sin Washer.” Ao wrapped his hands around his mug of tai, as though the warmth would take the chill out of his words.

  “We have to stop it,” Mahault said, fierce as a raptor, making the others respond even as they tried to remain calm.

  Jerzy nodded slowly, twisting the ring on his finger. “We will.” He sensed the anticipation the way he sensed the grapes, ripening on the vine. The fruit was ready for crushing. He turned in his chair to stare at the map, although his mind was elsewhere. “Ao, ready messages. Tell your people, and Kaï’s, to stand ready for a command to strike, at targets of my choosing.”

  It was not the blow that landed that was dangerous, but the blow anticipated. Becoming a Master Vineart took skill, knowledge, and patience. If this worked, if he survived, he would have the right to wear Malech’s ring.

  If not, the ring would be the least of his concerns.

  “We’ve put our parts of this in play,” Ao said, leaning forward, his expression matched by the alert look in Mahault’s eyes and the way Kaï stood suddenly straighter. “I think it’s time that you tell us what you’re planning.”

  Jerzy twisted the ring one final time and let out a long breath. He could not blame them—but he could not tell them.

  “Not yet,” he said. “I need you to trust me, a little while longer.”

  Chapter 14

  Neth had not felt comfortable since returning to the Collegium. No, he amended that thought: he had not felt comfortable since he boarded that damned ship and chased after three children to the far beyond of the world. Since he had seen the living masthead on the Vine’s Heart, that might either have been a spellcast mockery of Zatim Sin Washer’s favor . . . or the true embodiment of it.