The Shattered Vine (32 page)

“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 his 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.”

N
eth 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.

If one, it supported his orders, and his actions. If the other . . .

If the other, then his vows meant nothing, his life meant nothing, and he was as apostate as any, he and the others of the Collegium who had agreed to cast that name on another. For his own sanity, his ability to function, Neth had to assume that the figurehead had been an illusion, some aetherspell designed to put doubt and fear into their hearts.

When his party had ridden into The Berengia, they had been met by four other riders, including Brother Oren, who had reported that Vineart Jerzy had indeed returned to his master’s House, and looked to be staying there, doing nothing out of the ordinary, nothing untoward. Further, Oren reported that he had spoken with the Vineart, and
received a pledge that he would take no further action that would distress the Collegium.

Brion, at his left, had snorted at that. It was Brion’s opinion that Jerzy could not help but distress anyone with common sense, and his companions even more so.

The desire to speak with Jerzy, to query him as to what had happened in Irfan, how he had set the fire that blazed so fiercely that it turned an entire sandy shoreline into an impassable glassy surface, to discover what drove him there, and then drove him back, warred with the orders, carried by Oren, to return to the Collegium.

Jerzy, it seemed, was no longer the Collegium’s greatest concern.

And that, Neth admitted, striding down the corridor to the chamber where he had been summoned to gather, was perhaps the greatest cause of his discomfort. Something was wrong. Something he was not part of, was not included in. He could feel it in the very air of the Collegium.

“You doubt me?” A man’s voice that caught at the edge of Neth’s awareness, enough to make him turn his head to catch the response.

“He’s a slippery one, even for a Vineart.”

It was Oren’s voice that caused Neth to check his pace, and slip against the wall, barely breathing. The voices had come from one of the rooms off the main way, a classroom, or office.

“He swore it on his master’s ring.” Brother Edmun, Neth identified the first voice. Mid-years, moderate of voice but fierce of temper. What business did he have with Oren?

“Brother Neth spoke truly, there is no malice in Vineart Jerzy’s heart, only sorrow at his master’s death. He has begun gathering allies, continuing the work his master started.” Edmun paused. “I believe that he does in fact have knowledge of the source of our difficulties, and is planning a strike.

“And so, if we leave him be, he will do the difficult task of taking down the one who causes unrest.”

“And if we leave him to it, and follow on his heels”—Oren’s voice practically trembled in excitement, the anticipation of a student seeking
to impress his teacher—“then we will be able to claim the glory of saving the Lands Vin for ourselves. Those within the Collegium who stand against us will have no choice but to silence their objections, and we will be able to guide the Collegium into its better destiny. And then we will deal with these Vinearts, who do not know their place within the greater balance.”

Neth rested the back of his head against the tapestry and considered the pain that had started between his brows as dispassionately as possible, as befitted an Heir of Sin Washer. All the hesitations, the uncertainty, the arguments over apostasy and the direction the Collegium should or indeed might take . . .

Had he been so innocent, to not realize a schism had grown? That one of his own students was on the other side? Perhaps so.

He had hoped for better from Oren, had hoped he would be clear-eyed enough to see the long view. But then, he supposed the boy thought the same of him. And the idea that they should allow the Vineart to sully his hands, cross lines that they, Washers, were meant to maintain, and then come in after the fact and act as though they were somehow still clean-handed, despite having watched and done nothing to prevent it.

Worse, if Neth knew his brothers, and he did, it was unlikely that this was merely observed. The things he had seen, heard, for the past few years unfolded like a leaf in spring, and Neth was rocked by the understanding that so little had been left to chance.

No, his brothers had not caused this; they had not instigated the attacks, nor sent the serpents, not attacked the villages or vineyards. But they had taken full advantage of the confusion.

Jerzy had accused Brother Darian of complicity in the accusation of Vineart Giordan and himself of apostasy. Not directly, no; the boy had been too cautious, the way all slaves were, too careful, the way Vinearts became. No wonder it was so easy to suspect them, the way they protected themselves, protected their beloved yards . . . And was that not Sin Washer’s Command? Were they not merely what they had
been commanded to become? As soon to blame the bird for flying, or the fish for swimming. They were the balance, whatever others might claim. Vineart and Men of Power . . . Washers were merely the fulcrum, essential to the balance, but useless without the counterweights.

And he had been part of it, misdirected by forces within the Collegium. He had suspected they were there, the inevitable currents that moved any gathering of men, but had assumed he worked with the most powerful current. And now, it seemed, that he did not.

The other two continued their discussion, but Neth had heard enough, and moved on, forcing his body to move casually, normally, as he walked past the doorway and did not so much as glance sideways to indicate any interest at all in who else might be in that room.

A hundred thoughts worked their way through his brain, trying to see a way to stop or circumvent the plan he had heard unfolding, but without a better sense of who the players were, or how deep it went—Brother Ranklin? Was it possible? No, he would not, could not believe that—there was only so much Neth could do. He could not simply begin questioning every Brother in the Collegium halls, keeping a checklist of who said what. It would take too long, for one, and his brothers, clearly, were perfectly willing to lie.