The Shattered Vine (19 page)

“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.”

T
HEY 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.

Returning to the vintnery, he had not known what to expect. Each touch, each reconnection, reintroducing himself, had been a risk. What if they did not acknowledge him? What if he had been too badly damaged by his time away?

Not for the first time, Jerzy wished his master had put aside a bottle of the Iajan foreseer wine, to give him a glimpse of what was to come, but Malech had believed in letting things unfold in their own time. “What will, will,” he had said.

Jerzy had thought he understood, at the time, but even a clouded hint would have been welcome, now.

The vines themselves had known him, but vines were deep-rooted, tied to the history of this place, taught to wait for a Vineart’s hand. The spellwines stored in the cellar were crafted, ready; they would respond to anyone who knew how to use them. The mustus had refused him, but that was a flaw in their nature, their handling, not his own. It had spoiled from his not being here, not because of what he was becoming.

And yet, he had been frightened, had hesitated coming into this room, focusing his attention on the things he knew, or suspected, were damaged beyond repair, making sure that Ao would heal, and the yards were clear and healthy, properly prepared for Fallowtime. Excuses, all of it, afraid to face the possibility of even more loss.

The
vina
in these tanks had already given way to a Vineart’s touch, had accepted preparation, begun the transformation from raw magic to useful. Delicate, filled with potential. If they did not accept him, if they rejected him . . .

I’m back, he told the
vina
waiting in those tanks. I’m home.

If they had somehow gone bad, the way the crush had, ruined by the lack of a Vineart’s touch . . . if they did not recognize him as House Malech, as Vineart . . .

His heart paused, mid-beat, until the response came. It wasn’t a voice or a touch or even a smell, but an awareness that filled him, like the feel of the sun on skin, taking you from the cold of night into the warmth of day. The
vina
was not spoiled, responding to his touch and his authority as it should.

Mahault forgotten for the moment, the uncertainty and exhaustion of the days preceding faded, and Jerzy moved closer, placing one hand flat against the weathered wooden staves, the finest work of the carter’s guild. The magic within pushed at him, demanding entrance. Instinctively he breathed out, and then in again, letting the aroma fill his lungs, touching the quiet-magic within him.

Like the living touch of the vineyards, the stone-heavy sense of the Guardian, the
vina
filled spaces within him that had been left dry by the weeks at sea, unsatisfied by the cool awareness of the unblooded grapes, who cared nothing for the humans moving around them. This was home. This was him.

“Jer?”

Reluctantly he moved away, forcing his attention on the needs of the moment, not his own desires. “These are all healwines,” he said to Mahl, indicating the first three tanks. “Probably meant for heal-all and
bloodstaunch.” Those were the most basic of their healwines, the ones most in demand in normal times. In normal times, the largest portion of the crush would be reserved for these, he would have been crafting them even now, while Malech worked the more specific incantations requiring more experience, a stronger hand.

These were not normal times. He moved on to the two last tanks, placing a hand on each one in turn. Their greeting was more subdued; he had not worked these vines, but he knew them, and they knew him.

“These others, they are firewine.” Master Malech’s secondary legacies, these would have gone to make drylights to be used in fine houses, and on shipboard to reduce the risk of fires. But Jerzy had another use in mind for these
vina.

Firewine. Master Malech had been a healer, had focused most of his life on the healvines. The fact that he grew firevines was simply because the land there best suited them, and there was always a need.

There might be even more of a need, now. The idea was yet faint, unformed, but the urgency within him grew, even as he stood with his hand against the vat and felt the magic stir. Yes. Action and pause. Push and pull. Heal and destroy. Calm and roil. Incanted spellwines could defend, protect, or cause harm, but they were not destructive, in and of themselves. A healspell might cure, or it might ease the way into death when hope was lost, but its main purpose, its reason for existing, was to heal. The use of spellwines as weapons, crafted for no reason other than to harm, to kill, had ended with the vine-mages themselves.

He had undone a healspell, used it to defend. What might he be able to do, then, with firewine? What could be done with
vin magica
that had not yet been incanted to a specific task? It was not forbidden simply because it had not been thought of to be forbidden. Only a Vineart could use an unincanted
vina
and no Vineart would have cause to craft a weapon . . .