“Does he really believe that it’s going to come down to a battle of arms?” Jerzy could hear his master’s voice in his own words, but Mahl simply shrugged.
“We’ve been attacked . . . how many times now? You’ve armed us”—and her hand touched the palm-sized wineskin of firespell that hung on her sword belt, although the scabbard next to it was empty in deference to Detta’s refusal, even now, for weapons to be carried within the House—“so he’s making sure you’re equally prepared.”
Jerzy had no answer to that, with the memory of his nightmares still lingering, the sense of time passing, and pressure building beyond the low stone walls of the vintnery reminding him that, for all that it seemed peaceful at the moment, they could not afford to believe it was so. His yards were healthy, but his—or, more likely, the Guardian’s—protection extended only so far. Reports had come in from the secondary yards of damages along the boundary lines as though something were gnawing, trying to get in, and he had not forgotten the feel of the land as they traveled, the feel of something under a slow, draining attack. A blight, undermining the well-being of the land itself and all who dwelled there . . . the people who were his responsibility as much as any land-lord’s.
The Washers would say it was not so, that Sin Washer’s Command left the care of men to lords and bound Vinearts only to their vines. But Malech had saved these people during the plague, had placed his mark on them . . . and Jerzy could do no less. The fact that there was more that he felt obligation to, over a greater area . . .
He had traveled farther than Malech, as well. Had seen more. Touched more.
Been touched by more. People, places, voices . . . the lands itself. His fingers had dug into dirt that grew vines he was not called to, and he had tended to them, listened to them.
The Lands Vin entire hummed within him. He could no more turn away from it than he could his own vines.
You are Vineart, the Guardian kept reminding him. But the shimmer of magics within his blood told Jerzy he was more, too. If he would accept it. If he could accept it. The thought was like a circle of fire under his ribs, burning every time he shifted, never allowing him to relax, or find true calm.
The sun was up in full over the hills now. It would be a clear, cool morning, the kind where you could see a fox move across the road a hundred yards away, or an enemy swordsman riding at you from a full league distant. Or a monstrous beast diving out of the pale, winter-blue sky.
But you could not see, even in such clarity, what was happening beyond this valle. For that, you needed eyes elsewhere.
Jerzy turned his back on the vista and followed Mahault inside.
THE SCENT OF twice-brewed tai steaming on the table still made Jerzy’s lip curl, but he gladly accepted a bowl of the meal-and-milk Lil handed him. The wooden spoon was the same one he had used as a slave, the smoothness of the handle familiar in his hand, and he was able to feed his body without gagging while a mug of warmed vin ordinaire wiped the last of the night’s dreams away. The sense of urgency driving him remained, however, as though the decision to abandon the spoiled mustus had allowed him to move on to what must be done.
Master Malech would not, perhaps, have approved. His master had been a cautious man, even as he bent Commandments and risked censure to uncover the truth. But the time for caution and care might be past, beyond reclaiming. Jerzy himself could not do what needed to be done. But he was not alone.
“So, what do you think?”
The question jolted Jerzy out of his thoughts, until he realized that Ao had not been asking him, but the others, as he lifted one of his grafted legs onto the bench, pulling up his trou to better display it.
“They look better than your original legs,” Kaïnam said.
“Kaï!”
“No, he’s right. I think I’m taller now, too.” Ao tried to stand up, and rocked unsteadily.
“Careful now,” Lil warned him through the open doorway that led into the kitchen, as though Ao were about to knock over something other than himself. “You’re still no more in control of those things than you are that blighted chair.”
“Give me some time, I’ll—”
“You will break your neck,” Detta said firmly. “Sit down and finish your tai.”
Ao sat, half a breath before he fell over. Jerzy shook his head and nursed his vin. He had warned the trader: vines were slow to grow; it might take years, if not decades, before Ao had true feeling in them.
And yet, of them all, Ao—who would have been perfectly within rights to be angry at the world—had been the one to cheer them all up, to encourage them when things went badly, to be forthright in his belief that, if they could only find the key to their enemy, that they would be able to defeat him. Ao was learning to walk again. Jerzy needed to do the same.
The past ten-day had been necessary, healing and preparing, but events moved on in the world outside, and their enemy was assuredly not resting. It was time. Looking sideways at Detta, he saw her usher Lil and her helpers back into the kitchen proper, leaving the four of them alone, as though she knew what he planned.
Perhaps she did. “It’s time.” He spoke quietly, but the others in the dining hall heard him, and stopped what they were doing as though struck by a lash.
“Finally,” Kaï said, sitting back with quiet, if grim, satisfaction. Mahault, by contrast, leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, her face intent and hungry. Ao pushed aside his plate, and cradled his mug of tai between his palms, his expression as blank as though he were observing a trade session, giving nothing away, taking everything in.
The feeling of being the center of attention, of everyone looking to him for leadership, caused only a flicker of panic this time; although Jerzy could still feel doubt thrumming under his skin, it was not them nor their abilities that he doubted. Although he had been occupied with other matters, he knew that they had not been idle. Now, just as he had gone through the cellar to determine what spellwines he had to-hand, he would discover what their cellars contained—and how it could all be used.
“Kaïnam, you updated the map of where attacks occurred.” It wasn’t a question; the other man had asked for the map soon after their earlier discussion, and Jerzy knew how the prince’s mind worked. Kaï liked proof, detail under his hands, a pattern to observe and predict.
“I have. Both the vineyards that have been touched, and all seats of power where the lord is reported acting out of character, or there has been actual unrest. I have also marked the sea and land routes between all those places, looking for a possible connection. There are . . . possibilities, but nothing that seems useful, yet.”
Jerzy nodded, already moving ahead. “Ao, could you add the trade routes to the map, as you remember them?”
“Remember?” Ao sounded insulted, as though Jerzy had asked if he knew his mother’s name. “I had every route memorized by the time I was—”
“Yes or no, Ao.”
He grinned, his teeth white against his still-tanned skin. “Yes. And I’ve already added them to Kaï’s notes.”
Jerzy let out a small laugh. Of course Ao had. They had been waiting on him, but they had not been waiting. “And?”
“The routes he sorted do not match the routes my people take; we tend to prefer the profitable route over the simplest one. There is some overlap in each instance, but nothing to indicate our enemy might be using a caravan for transport. Some of the other clans might have deviated in recent years but . . .” Ao shook his head. “A trading route, once set, tends to stay set, unless there is massive unrest, or a market disappears entirely.”
“And none of those connects directly with Caul,” Kaï added. The northern island kingdom of Caul was outside the Lands Vin, disdaining the use of spellwines. A sea-going nation, they had sent a fleet against Kaï’s home of Atakus in what had seemed like a purely military move, but when Kaï and Ao went to investigate, they discovered that the Caulic king, too, had whispers in his ear, the influence of their enemy attempting
to undermine the men of power there, including the spymaster. As unlikely as it sounded, magic-hating Caul might be their best ally, now.
Jerzy started to pace. “I want to know every single connection between all the known lands—and any unknown ones, as well. Not only where he has been but where he might go next.” Predicting the pattern. Learning it, so that no new move came as a surprise.
They had been playing catchup since the beginning. That needed to end.
Mahl had unpinned her braid, tugging at the plait as she thought. “Would he be following some line of magic . . . ?”
As though the word summoned it, Jerzy again felt the sense of a vast, impossible presence underneath his feet that he had encountered in the village, ancient as the Lands Vin itself, but he refused to acknowledge it. Now was not the time for theory, or distractions. They needed facts.
“If he were merely attacking Vinearts, then he might be. But he’s been reaching into villages as well, and towns where there are no Vinearts. So there must be something else.”
“The spellwines?” Mahl suggested. “Everyone uses those, especially in seats of power.”
“Too faint, too . . . fleeting. Magic doesn’t linger, doesn’t leave a trail.” Jerzy shook his head. “I’m working on it.”
“The question I have,” Kaïnam said, “is why does he choose those specific cities, those towns, those ports? There are other cities with more immediate or obvious power or wealth, others that, if they fell, would open serious gaps in the land’s defenses. And, yes, why is Caul the only Outside Land afflicted by whisperers among their men of power?”
Three nations outside the Lands Vin: Caul, Inistahn, the great plains where Ao’s people hailed from, and the snowbound islands of Ithysa, north of Caul.
“There has to be a connection, some market or route in common, perhaps some alliance,” Ao said. “I sent a message to my clan elders, asking if they will help, but they . . .” His mouth twisted in a reluctant admission of defeat. “They have not acknowledged it, or me.”
“No response at all?” Mahault did not sound surprised. She had been disowned by her father for her part in Jerzy’s escape from her home city of Aleppan, giving her no family left to claim.
Ao shook his head. “We can’t expect more. In their eyes, I’m . . . back in Aleppan, I abandoned my trading party not only without warning, but leaving them trying to explain why the junior member had absconded with an accused criminal.”
“Have I thanked you for that recently?” Jerzy asked, distracted.
“You never thanked me, actually. Don’t worry, you still owe me. But the only way they will acknowledge me now would be if I brought them something of equal value to the trade agreement I’m guessing they lost when we scampered. Until then . . .” Ao shrugged. “I am dead to them, and never mind how bad things may get because they won’t help. We’re nothing if not stubborn when it comes to value owed.”
There was a breath of silence, a sense of disappointment in the air.
“Tell them about Irfan,” Jerzy said.
“What?” The others looked shocked, Kaïnam standing abruptly, but only Ao protested. “Jer, you can’t. I can’t!”
Jerzy felt a warning push from the Guardian, but he ignored it. It was a risk—a terrible risk—but Jerzy was beginning to understand the way this new world worked. Master Malech had been cautious, careful, had kept within the limits, if stretched, of the Commands . . . and what had it earned them? He had to think beyond the vines, think as more than a Vineart. Esoba’s vineyard, the unblooded vines, were dangerous, to be kept out of their enemy’s hands at all cost, but Ao’s people did not trade in spellwines, did not use them for themselves. They knew and cared nothing for vineyards or legacies.
Traders cared about profit. About trade. And, if Ao was representative of his people, about getting in a step ahead of anyone else. Irfan was outside the Lands Vin; the northern ports were known to experienced travelers like Ao’s people, and its western coastline had been charted by the mad explorers of Iaja decades before, but none who had gone deep into its territory, up into the mountains, had returned. Even their foray, following a false trail to the Vineart Esoba, had barely poked into the unknown lands. A safe landing site, a friendly village, would be a tempting prize to a people constantly on the search for new markets, new opportunities.
And if the risk of their discovering Esoba’s vineyard, of spreading the news of unblooded vines, was the price to save the Lands Vin? Jerzy would take that risk.
“Give them Irfan,” he said again. “Tell them of the villagers we encountered who were generous to strangers. Tell them of the land-lord we encountered, with his greed and willingness to deal with outsiders.”
The village was far enough away from the vineyards, unless the traders asked specifically, they would not be told of the vines, and traders would not think to ask. The land-lord who had attacked Esoba’s House was dead and could tell no one of what he had done, of why the vines had been so important to his master. It would be safe . . . safe enough.
The Guardian still disapproved, but Ao was nodding his head thoughtfully. “Yes. New territory, a new market?” He pursed his lips and made an approving noise. “That would prick their ears, at least . . . Hah, I said I’d make a trader of you someday!”
Sending outsiders into the area might distract Ximen, keep his attention focused away from what Jerzy was planning, but it would also put Ao’s people in danger. And there was no way to warn them, without mentioning Esoba, or Ximen himself, which might lessen the value they put on Ao’s information. From the considering look in Kaïnam’s eye, the princeling had thought of that as well. Jerzy heard the echo of the prince’s earlier words: everyone they had would be used, no one could be protected.
“It may be that I have something to offer as well,” Kaïnam said, instead of what they were thinking. “My father may not acknowledge me, my people lost behind their magic-shield, but my name still carries some weight among the sailing folk of that region. If our enemy is indeed blind on the sea, it is time we use that to our advantage. There are captains who travel freely even now, crossing the seas at their own whim and fortune. Like Ao’s people, they move around, are used to seeing the larger view, the wider horizon.”
“You mean brigands,” Ao said. “Pirates.”
“Useful men,” Kaïnam said. “They come to port in certain towns, certain merchants supply them. Send messenger-birds to those merchants, asking for assistance. Asking these useful men to stay alert to anything they might see or hear that might be significant. These . . . useful men know that peace is better for them than war, when the pickings are slim. If this Ximen moves ships or men, or disrupts routes or routines, we will know.”
Jerzy nodded, his thoughts racing ahead. Too much depended on the information they could gather, too much resting in the hands of others. But there was no help for it. He had tried going out to gather information himself, but the Lands were too wide, too scattered. He had wasted time, trying to do it alone.
“I am the only one who has been able to add nothing,” Mahault said, her voice heavy with regret. “I have no dowry to offer.”
Jerzy turned to look at her, sitting still and upright in her chair. Without speaking, without moving, she was so clearly the daughter of wealth and power, it seemed impossible that she should be here, with them. And yet the maiar’s daughter had been disowned more dramatically than Ao, with no real hope of return. She had no ties, no connections to call upon, no way to add to their knowledge . . . but she had been the first to do; it was her courage that had saved him in Aleppan, her courage, and her common sense.
And that gave him an idea. “There is something I need you to do for me.”
THEY LEFT THE other two unrolling a new map on the desk, placing markers on it, and he led Mahault to the one part of the House that she had not yet seen.
The House looked imposing when seen from above ground, but the true work of the vintnery was done out of sight, in these cool, stone-
lined rooms below the ground. Part of that space was accessible through a double-hung doorway in the side of the House, to allow for the casks to be brought in and out, but the workrooms were off-limits to everyone save the Vineart.
And now, those who worked with him. Doubtless, another mark against his name.
Jerzy went down the narrow stone steps with easy familiarity, while Mahault moved more cautiously behind him, clear mage-lights coming on as Jerzy raised a hand to them, then flickering off as they passed, leaving the passage behind them in shadows.
They passed through the main workroom, a portion of the wall sliding away as Jerzy touched it, and entered the hidden space. “What’s down here?”
“The vats.”
“Vats?” Mahl stopped as they came into the main room, then followed Jerzy to where the secret door slid open easily when Jerzy touched it, and the larger room beyond was revealed. Five vats waited, each nearly twice times his height and three times his reach in girth.
“Oh,” Mahl said, taking a step forward, her head tilted as she tried to see how deep the room went and how many vats there were within.
For Jerzy, the only thing of importance was what he felt inside each container. After a normal Harvest, these would have been filled with fresh mustus, sorted from the crush and ready to become vina. But Malech had been murdered well before the grapes were ready, and the mustus had failed. The great vats might be empty—or, if Master Malech had not had time to finish his spring preparations, they might contain vina, primed but still waiting to be formed into vin magica. He had put off coming down here, hesitated for fear of knowing the answer.
Jerzy knew the moment he passed through the hidden door, the moment he passed the thick stone walls, that the vats were full.
He waited, breathing in the slightly damp, musty flavor of mustus and dust, old stone and cured wood and the history of the House filling the air, acknowledging that it had been more than hesitation that kept him away. It was in this room that he had passed the second test, the mustus of that season deeming him worthy of his magic, washing the slave-mark off his wrist and replacing it with the stain of a Vineart, visible for all to see.
The Shattered Vine Page 14