“Be careful,” he told her.
“Survive to be paid, that’s the solitaire way,” she quipped, then pulled him into a rough hug.
And then she was gone, swinging into the saddle and riding down the road and out of sight.
The House was no quieter with her gone; the normal noises came from the kitchen, where Lil had everyone working on the day’s meals. Jerzy looked to the right, toward his study, and then turned left instead.
The first time he had come into the House, the dirt of the yards still ground into his skin, his sweat smelling like the sleep house, the kitchen had been the single familiar thing he encountered. Shinier, cleaner, more controlled than the sleep house’s kitchen, there was nonetheless a calming sameness to it.
Then, Lil had been one of the kitchen children, learning how to run a House from Detta. Now she was Cook, and the kitchen was her domain.
“And don’t turn too quickly,” she was instructing a small child sitting by the great fireplace. The towheaded youngster nodded, almost comically intent on his chore of turning the spit. Jerzy frowned; had Detta mentioned taking on new servants? She must have, and he must have nodded, but he had no recollection of the event. Still. Detta was House-keeper precisely so that he need not. Just as he now left the physical details with Kaï and Mahault.
Lil saw him come into the kitchen and nodded, a tight gesture that didn’t take her attention away from any of the other things occurring, turning to follow the action. “Roan, halve the dough, we’ll need less bread this week. And get the meat from the icehouse before you begin the grinding. Will someone please stir that pot, before it overboils?”
Jerzy picked a meat roll off a platter as he sidled through, passing it from hand to hand so that it did not burn his skin.
“Vineart, there is break-fast already on the table,” Lil said, knowing even with her back to him that he’d pilfered food. “Go eat.”
Ao was at the table, a stack of papers at one elbow, a mug of ale at the other. He looked up when Jerzy entered the dining hall. “She off?”
“Yes. You didn’t say good-bye?”
The trader looked down at the papers. “No. And I didn’t say it to Kaïnam, either. You say good-bye, people think they’ve closed negotiations.”
“She’s annoyed with me.”
“Of course she is.”
Jerzy sat down, taking a bite out of the roll and wiping his now-greasy hands on his trou’s leg. “Of course?”
“She wants you to do something already, make a move, finally launch your attack. Or at least tell her about what you’re going to do, so she can see it laid out on a map and markers.”
“I did tell her. I told all of you.” The tai smelled good, a sure sign that he needed sleep, although he had managed to doze for a few hours the night before, once all their plans had been set in motion. He poured himself a mug and gulped it down.
Ao laughed, and looked up again from his notes. “Jer, the one thing I’ve learned is that you Vinearts look open and guileless, but you’re as deep as your damn roots, and twice as tangled. And you don’t even realize it. You think you are being obvious, but all you’ve done is talk around them and assume we’d pick up on it. And Mahl? Mahl’s not really a subtle creature.”
Jerzy frowned, feeling as though either he or Mahault, or both, had just been insulted, but not sure how.
“But you understand?”
Ao was not subtle by nature, but he understood an indirect question the way only a trader could. “Yes. They think you’re planning on distracting our esteemed enemy with side feints and potential attacks, weakening his tools, and then bringing it all down with your magic. But you’re not.”
“I’m not.”
“No.” Ao poured himself more ale from the other pitcher, and took a long sip. “You’re going to let him attack you, trap him on your own soil. Everything else, everything we’re doing with ships and soldiers, it’s illusion, a diversion to cover what is truly happening. The only thing that matters is you, and him. The only thing I haven’t figured out is how you can be sure that he will come here and not destroy you first.”
It did not surprise Jerzy that Ao understood. Or that the trader would not ask directly for answers, although he had to be aching with curiosity.
“I have something he wants,” was all the Vineart said.
He sounded confident, but inside Jerzy could feel his nerves stretching thin. Once he had become aware of the Root, had felt its pull, he had to be on guard against it constantly. If Jerzy let it touch him again . . . he did not know what would happen. To him, to the Guardian—to all their plans.
There was, as Kaïnam had said of the Caulic offer, no real choice.
Jerzy pushed his hands against the table, feeling the muscles in his back creak and stretch.
Blood had broken the First Vine, once, but now the Exiled mage used it to make his magic stronger. The Root responded—to that, to the strange new magic of the Cauls, to something entirely different . . . possibly even to Jerzy himself, Apostate, the multiple legacies he should not have, seeping into him, changing him.
Perhaps the Root had always been there, waiting only to be noticed.
“All things follow,” he said. “Seed to stem, stem to vine, vine to fruit, fruit to wine. Logic and pattern.”
Ao started to say something, then lifted his tai to his mouth and sipped, instead, merely watching.
Blood made magic stronger. The blood of man. Man makes the magic. Magic makes the man.
Jerzy’s head ached, but he kept hold of the thought, trying to learn its scent and shape. Sin Washer’s blood had been what broke the Vine, soaking into the soil and shattering the magic at its Root. Sin Washer had broken the First Growth, had created the smaller, less powerful legacies and Commanded Vinearts to stay within their own yards . . . to prevent this. To prevent what he, Jerzy was . . . or was becoming. Blood magic. Prince-mage.
In order to do what needed to be done, blood would be the least of it. If he gathered the legacies further into his quiet-magic, if he let the Root twine around him, shatter and change him, how much worse could it become? How much worse would he become?
Trust yourself.
The Guardian, who had been quiet since before he enspelled the mirrors, sounded firmly in his head. Aware of Ao sitting across from him, gaze bright and curious, Jerzy declined to respond verbally, but did send back a strong sense of utter unhelpfulness. How could he trust himself, stretched this far to breaking?
What would he be, when it was all done?
Chapter 17
THE ATAKUAN SEA
There were seven ships in the Caulic fleet assigned to Atakus, all sleek monsters with a full complement of crew and captains who seemed to have both the fear and respect of their men. Kaïnam, even after a ten-day to familiarize himself, was both impressed and envious: his people were, by their very nature, a seafaring folk, but they specialized in sleek little racing ships and fishing fleets, not warships.
Perhaps, if they had . . . No. It would have made no difference. Their enemy came not with cannon and sails, but whispers and a dagger.
“Prince Kaïnam. The Captain requests that you attend him.”
After so long on the mainland, it was almost odd to hear the more formal cadences of his native tongue, although the sailor who stood in front of him had an atrocious accent.
“I shall be along soon,” he responded, not lifting his attention from the papers in front of him. The sailor nodded, gave an odd half salute, and left the cabin.
The Captain would not tell him anything that he did not already know: they had reached Atakus. Kaïnam could read sea maps and star charts; more, he knew in his bones, as they reached his homeland. The sense of tension within him grew, the closer they sailed.
Kaïnam was glad that his brother had been elected to be Heir, he admitted to himself now. Traveling with Jerzy, working with Ao and Mahault, he had discovered that his training, his abilities, were best used in conjunction with others
, not as sole leader.
Had it always been that way, the natural inclination of his talents? Or was it merely the situation, the unforeseen, impossible association with Vineart Jerzy, pushing him into previously unmapped routes?
Kaïnam did not know, and the not-knowing bothered him. He knew that there were things Jerzy omitted, details of his plan left out, and while he knew the Vineart had valid reasons . . . it left him feeling exposed. He, Kaï, was a plan-maker, methodical, precise, and not easy with the improvised leaps or turns his life seemed determined to make.
Aware that others were waiting on him, Kaïnam gathered the maps together and placed a sail weight on top to keep them from sliding off the desk, then stood. A glint caught his eye from across the room, and he paused. The mirror, still wrapped in the cloth he had packed it in. A corner had come unbound, and the silvered surface caught the sunlight that filtered through the single, tiny window of his cabin.
Should he report in? Other than the occasional roaming sea serpent, they had encountered little of interest in their journey so far, and while Jerzy had asked him to note any details of this magic Caul seemed to be using, he could tell the Vineart only that none of the sailors seemed to know anything of it, and the Captain merely shook his head and changed the subject whenever Kaï mentioned magic—perfectly normal behavior for a Caulian.
No, he had nothing to tell Jerzy, and while he hungered to know how things progressed in The Berengia, if anything had happened, Jerzy would have activated the mirror on his side. Kaïnam checked each morning when he arose, using the mirror to shave with, to avoid suspicion, if anyone were watching, but the telltale shimmer had not appeared.
Reaching for his surcoat—embroidered with his family’s sigil of tree and vine that he had taken to wearing while onboard the Moon of Chance to remind the sailors of his status and position—Kaïnam laced it up quickly, made sure that his hair was neatly pulled back in its queue, and went to see what the Captain wanted.
“So glad of you to join us, Highness.”
Captain Padrig looked like a smooth courtier, his clothing immaculate and his face as smooth-shaved as Kaïnam’s own, but the moment he opened his mouth, salt fell out. Bitter, witty, and foulmouthed, with no respect for any title save his own, he nonetheless had a keen mind, and the two of them had fallen into a wary but amicable respect.
“It seemed the least I could do, your Captainship. I do hope that you have something of interest, to drag me from my slumber?”
Snide courtesies observed, the Captain merely pointed to the portside, where a heavy layer of clouds lay on the horizon. “I believe that is our destination.”
The other six ships had ranged up behind them, allowing the Moon, with the flag of Atakus flying just below that of Caul on its mast, to take the lead. Anyone who might be observing through the veil of magic would see, and know who came to visit.
“How do we play this?” the Captain asked now. “Do we run up the red flag, or no?”
The red flag was for fair-sailing and negotiation. A ship approaching the harbor—any harbor—that did not run either the red-banded flag of Negotiations, or the white banner that indicated assistance needed, might be an enemy intent on battle. Padrig was asking him if they were assuming the Exiles still held Atakus, or not.
The spell-veil still held, although it was clearly weakened by the fact that they could see the mists around Atakus, if not the island herself. Was that because the Exiles did not know how to maintain it? Or was the fact that it was back up at all proof that Master Vineart Edon was alive, and working still to protect Atakus?
There was no way to know.
Kaïnam took a deep breath, and watched the low clouds gather and roll. If you knew what you were looking at, it was obvious that this was no natural cloud formation: it moved differently, felt differently. Weatherspells, wrapped around the island . . . a Master Vineart’s work.
Jerzy believed that the enemy mage came from the Exiles, that this assault on Atakus was merely another prong in their attack. But Jerzy also said the Vineart had no weathervines.
Was Jerzy wrong? Had Master Edon reclaimed control of his spell, thinking to protect Atakus from further invaders? Who would they face, when they sailed into Atakus’s harbor: the Exiles, or Edon, unaware it was rescue reaching for him? Or some yet-unknown Vineart who had taken advantage of the unrest?
The latter seemed unlikely, from what little Kaïnam knew of spellwines. Could Jerzy have created such a thing? Logic said no: no matter the quiet-magic he still did not quite understand, Jerzy was too young, untrained. But Kaïnam remembered the way he had incanted the spell-mirrors, the way he had saved Ao’s life when he would otherwise have bled out from his wounds, and thought perhaps Jerzy could.
No matter who or what waited, when it came to magic, the Cauls had it right: it was best to be wary. The Caulic spy had not reported the Exiles’ ships leaving Atakus’s harbor.
“Strike all the flags,” he said. “Until we know otherwise, assume Atakus remains in enemy hands.”
Padrig nodded to the cabin boy who had been waiting quietly, and the lad jumped up and dashed to the foredeck to let the signalman know what orders to give the other ships.
“We’ll need your knowledge now,” Padrig said. “To get past that barrier, s’not enough to know it’s there; we need to calculate every handspan of the bay, ensure nobody wracks up on th’ barriers.”
Kaïnam had no need to check maps: the main bay, although large enough for the entire seven ships, was ringed by a natural formation of stone, ensuring that the ships would have to enter the bay one at a time.
“I’ve been working on that,” he said now. “Or did you think I spent the days we’ve been at sea filing my nails and braiding my hair?”
“D’ye really want me to answer that?” The Captain had terrible teeth, his gums raw and his breath worse than a month-dead fish, but his smile had surprisingly gentle humor in it.
“You’ll want to stay a few degrees to the left, for now,” Kaïnam told him. “And then—”
There was a shock, as though the ship had—impossible—struck something in the deep water.
“Deep Proeden,” Padrig swore, even as they grabbed at the rail to steady themselves. “What was that?”
Kaïnam knew, even as the shout came up.
“Serpent!”
Unlike the beast that had come up underneath his Green Lady when he originally fled Atakus, this beast was a true monster. Its neck rose from the water, bearing a head the size of a longboat, and by the time its sloped shoulders came into view, the great milky-white eyes were even with the crow’s nest, the view from the deck of a half-open maw lined with black and filled with teeth that, Kaïnam knew, could snap a man’s legs off.
“Aim and fire!” Padrig shouted. Kaïnam had seen the crew drill during the voyage but was still impressed by the way sailors turned into archers at literally the drop of a rope—and even more impressed by how others stepped forward to fill the essential roles so that the ship was at no time unmanned. Iaja might be known as the land of sea travelers, but Caul earned their reputation as sea fighters.
Kaïnam thought, briefly, of returning to his cabin for the spellwines he had stored there: more than the cask of heal-all, there was also a flask of firewine that would put a burn to the serpent’s hide, if he set it to a bowsman’s arrow. No. The archers had their tools, and there might be a need for it, later. There was another way to fight off the beast, if he could only convince these stubborn Cauls. . . .
Padrig strode from the small shelter to where the steersman was manning the wheel, barking orders that were relayed to the men hauling canvas overhead, and Kaïnam followed, hot on his heels. He had fended off a smaller cousin of this beast—or perhaps even this very beast if they grew that fast—with only a fishing spear. It would take considerably more than that to drive off this serpent.
Even as he thought that, the great head darted close, under the riggings of the ship next to them, and snatched a ha
pless sailor off the deck of that ship.
The crunch could be heard, even over the shouting and the creak of the ships as they turned about.
“Warn the other ships to watch for more.” Jerzy had seen two off the coastline of The Berengia, and there had been several during their voyage on the Vine’s Heart. They had no way of knowing how many had been created, or if they could breed.
Kaïnam tried to imagine a sea where serpents this size roamed and bred freely, and felt ill.
“Magic will drive them off,” he said. Jerzy had kept them clear while sailing to Irfan and back. If he could just get the Captain to crack and admit he had access. . . .
“We have no magic,” Padrig said, but it was such a quick response, Kaïnam suspected it was more reflex than truth.
“I know you have magic,” he said, softly in case any of the other sailors were listening, in case it truly were such a secret, hoping if so that the captains were in on it. “Your High King used it to reach us, to invite me here. I will not believe he sent you out without the same.”
High King. Spymaster. In Caul, Kaïnam suspected, they had become the same thing, when it came to orders such as these.
Padrig swallowed, his throat working nervously, even as he kept all of his attention on the archers and their prey. The beast had been pricked a dozen times already, and had learned to be wary of the ships, but it still swam too close, darting its head down now and again, trying to snatch another sailor from the deck.
“It’s not for the likes of us,” Padrig said. “Not for this. It’s aether-magic. Spirits fired with salt and soil, an’ carries messages, clears the vision, finds your way. But only them as are trained can use it, not like spellwines. ’Tis not for the common man.”
Jerzy would doubtless be fascinated. Kaïnam had more immediate concerns. “But someone on this ship can use it?”
Padrig did not hesitate. “On the Rose of Kilaarn. The witches sail there.”
“Silent gods bless you, Captain,” Kaïnam said, and left the man there, looking for one of the ship’s scramblers, the small boys who ran messages up and down the rigging, and occasionally from ship to ship. They were mostly pressed into service in the battle, fetching arrows and refilling bolts, but Kaïnam grabbed the arm of one, a wiry-muscled child who couldn’t have been more than eight, and pulled him gently aside.
The Shattered Vine Page 29