The Shattered Vine (2 page)

Instead, I found myself on the outskirts of a great story, and was forever changed.

A year past, I accepted a commission to travel with a group of Washers, to bear them company, and protect them from the dangers of the road. Such men should not need my protection, not within the boundaries of the Lands Vin, and I wondered at it, but they were a cheerful group, eager to serve and share their learning, and I merely assumed they carried something of great worth in their packs, and wished to be certain.

But by the end of those two weeks, another Washer joined them, and the mood darkened. It was then I first heard the rumor of a violence growing deep underfoot, reaching its tendrils into the hearts and souls of princes and Vinearts alike . . . stirring the discord that had been settled long ago.

It was then that I first heard the name Malech. The first time I heard of the Apostasy. It would not be the last. Suddenly the ground under our feet was no longer steady, the tools in our hands no longer trusted, the world no longer safe.

A storm approached, and the winds whispered one word: magic.

I am a solitaire. I know that the road is dangerous, that my blade is meant to draw blood, even if it never does. Unlike Vinearts, we see who we strike at, know the damage we do with our skills. I did not envy them their lives, tied to one place and bound by such rules . . . but I sorrowed to see that innocence die.

P
rince Diogo was
a cautious man. He took no action without considering the benefits and potential deficits, and thought things through the long-term. But the moment he first heard rumors of a Vineart who challenged tradition, undermining the Commands the Washers had shoved down their throats for centuries, he had known what it meant, and what he needed to do.

The Iajan land-lord was not a particularly superstitious man; he did not keep faith with the Silent Gods, and had no trust in any demigod who was fool enough to die. His sole faith and concern was with the land he had been born to, the title his family had held for seven generations, since the old
duque
had been slain in his sleep like the last emperor of Ettion and for much the same reasons.

Every action Diogo took, he did for Iaja, for its glory and its defense. His portion of it, anyway.

So while most landlords chose to meet their visitors in grand halls, richly appointed and designed so that the supplicant was at a disadvantage, knew his place, and understood that all the power in that room resided with its owner, Diogo did not bother. He wanted those
who came to stand before him focused on his words, not the richness of their surroundings, and he made no pretense otherwise.

For that reason, his meeting hall was a small, almost ordinary space, with three small windows set along the upper half of the wall to let in clear bands of sunlight during the day, and magelights flanking the other three walls for when darkness fell. The afternoon sun was fading now, but it still picked out the rich red hues of the table they sat at, catching at the inlaid mother-of-pearl designs. Richly appointed, yes, but somber, by most traditionally flamboyant Iajan standards. But this day, this meeting, Diogo had invited the first man to sit at the table with him, as though equals.

Vineart Ranji did not let himself believe it. His yards might be sacrosanct, but they were ringed by the land-lord’s villagers, who in turn were caught between the crush and the fox in terms of who they could support, and who they need fear. Diogo had the power here.

But Ranji was seated, unlike the third man standing at the far end of the table, staring at them as though they had lost their wits.

“You cannot mean this.” His voice was that of a well-educated man, controlled, melodious, and filled with shock.

“I do not say things I do not mean.” In keeping with his surroundings, Diogo did not drawl his words, or practice the play-stalk of cats in his speech. Nor did he pretend unconcern or ignorance of what he was doing. This land-lord played the game, no denying it, but he did it with an honesty that Ranji found both disturbing and oddly disarming. You knew what trouble you were in when you dined with him.

Of all the lords in Iaja, when every soul knew that the lords had been in collusion, only Diogo did not deny placing the bounty on Master Vineart Malech’s head to keep him from interfering with things—matters of power—beyond his concern. Only Diogo, after things went to ashes and rot, had not tried to hide behind tradition, but stood straight and said that he would do whatever was needful to protect what was given to him.

Common knowledge, among those who listened, that Diogo was dangerous to those he considered the enemy.

That was why Ranji had accepted his offer of Agreement, although he had refused similar overtures from the other Iajan lords. If you must choose among evils, choose an evil that admits itself. That way, you knew where you stood, and you could stand out of its way.

It was a pity, Ranji thought, that more of the world was not so forthright.

“This is unacceptable,” the third man said, drawing his red robes about him, his left hand falling to rest on the wooden cup hanging from his belt. The closely trimmed beard adorning his swarthy chin seemed to quiver in indignation. “Surely you know that this is not allowed.”

“There is much that is not allowed,” Diogo said. “And much that happens nonetheless. So unless your prayers and invocations can prevent crops from failing overnight, villages from being ravaged by beasts, and men disappearing without a trace, then I suggest you leave the work to those of us willing to act, and go Wash something instead.”

It was said lightly, but it was no joke, and the Washer stiffened again, this time in rage rather than confusion. “The Collegium will hear of this!”

Diogo stood, then, his temper finally frayed, and Ranji flinched, although the anger was not directed at him. “The Collegium
has
heard of this. Over and over again, for a year and more now, we have told them what is happening, warned them, and begged for advice, for some kind of guidance.” He regained control of himself, tempering his anger into sadness and reproach. “We begged you for help when the sickness took our children, when the hives withered and died.” The sadness slipped, revealing anger once again. “And all we received in response was the repeated droppings of Sin Washer’s Commands, that we sit back and be patient, that the balance held, that all would be well, if we only trusted in Sin Washer’s Solace.”

Ranji lowered his gaze to the table, his fingers laced together in his
lap. He would not speak against the Brotherhood, but he could not defend them, either. Diogo had the right of it. Once Malech had pulled that curtain aside, exposed the threat to their very existence, it had become impossible to not-see, to not-hear. Isolation was not protection.

“There is no more Solace in the world, Washer,” Diogo said, more quietly now. “The Heirs are impotent, and now it is time for those with power to use it. Together, if that will accomplish our means.”

The Washer turned to Ranji as though to implore sanity from him. “You cannot . . .”

“Cannot?” Diogo did not give Ranji the opportunity to respond, forcing the Washer’s attention back to him. “Will you stop us all, Washer? Keep us from saving the people entrusted to our care? Will you stop the people themselves when, in their panic, they turn on you as well, having already destroyed the Great Houses?”

The Washer shook his head, denying such a possibility. “It is not that bad . . .”

“It is
worse.
”

The conversation, such as it had been, was over. The lord barely turned, but the subtle jerk of his chin was enough for the two figures standing, almost lazily, at the doorway. Firm hands were laid upon the Washer’s arms, and he was led—not ungently—out of the chamber.

“We’re sorry, sahr.” The voice was low, but not soft; the woman might have been apologizing, but she was not going to refuse her orders. A solitaire, one of the hire-women fighters. Not young, with strands of gray in her dark hair, and a strong, pointed chin with a thin white scar across the tip; she had an air of determined patience about her. Her companion-in-arms wore Diogo’s brand on his leather cuirass, rather than her simple star-sigil, and his hand held more tightly, as though worried that he might be judged were the Washer somehow to escape. A slender, brownish hound padded behind them, its dark eyes fixed on the Washer but its attention focused on the solitaire, awaiting her command even as it guarded her back.

The Washer addressed his words to the woman, judging the lad
beyond any common sense, his loyalty too deeply ingrained. “You know what they do . . . it is an abomination against all decency. This entire city will—”

“This entire city is the only safe spot on the coastline,” the solitaire retorted. “Sahr Washer, you are no fool. Diogo spoke only truth. The Collegium had its chance, and they wasted it, and now the people look to another to save them. You, your people, gave him this power; he did not take it.”

They were in the hallway proper now, and she released his arm, shooting a glare at her companion until he followed suit. “Go back inside,” she told the young man in a low voice. “I will see the Washer to the door.”

The Washer had not been offered quarters when he arrived, as was traditional, nor given the chance to break his travel with a meal, or even to rinse his mouth with
vin ordinaire.
At the time, he had been too intent on the message he had been sent to deliver. Now, spent and tossed aside, he felt his exhaustion.

He would ask no favors of this apostate House, however.

They walked in silence through the hallway: two humans and the hound, the gray stone floors echoing their footsteps, the usual flow of foot traffic normal to a Great House absent.

“How bad is it, Daughter of the Road?”

“Bad.” She did not hesitate, or ask him what he meant. “The past ten-month, it seems all has gone wrong or worse, but no one can lay finger on the cause or find any pattern. Lacking specific action or remedy, the people worry, chewing at themselves and any others they can reach. There are rumors in the street, and rumors in the powdered baths, and the rumors are the same. Something rises out of the seas and falls from the skies, crawls from the dirt and covers us while we sleep, invisible and with malign intent. Surely you have heard the same?”

He did not respond to her question. “And your hire-lord?”

The solitaire did hesitate, then. “A good man, as such men go. Strong, and looking to become stronger, always playing his own political games,
but with cause and an eye to the long road. No more or less than any man of power. The Vineart with him”—she shrugged, but without a hitch in her stride or allowing him to pause—“the Vineart does what he must to survive, Brother, as do we all.”

He might have argued the point, but arguing with a solitaire was the act of a fool: they did not care.

The guards at the main entrance watched them go, cautious but incurious, and they passed across the stone courtyard toward the front gate and the city beyond. There were more people gathered here, waiting their turn to see some official or another, or merely lingering to find the morning’s gossip. The conversations were hushed but lively, the scene vibrant, and for a moment both Washer and solitaire could pretend that it was a normal day, that nothing was wrong, that everything, once they passed through the gates, would be well.

“Washer!”

A cry from one of the men milling about in the courtyard: a cartwright, from the guild badge on his shoulder, moving toward them at an urgent pace.

The Washer paused, forcing his escort to pause as well. “I am here,” the Washer said, raising his hands in the universal cup and offering the man his blessing. “Zatim’s solace be upon you.”

The man was too upset to return the ritual greeting, his hands barely raising enough to indicate he knew whom he was speaking to before dropping down again, and then back up to wave in his anxiety. “Washer, you have been on the roads, you must tell us, what do you hear from Ternda-town? I sent three wains that way near a month ago, but no return and no payment has been heard, and messenger-birds will not fly there any more.”

“What?” The solitaire snapped to alertness at that. “Bahn, heel,” she said quietly when the hound would have surged forward, never looking away from the man in front of her. “How so, these birds?”

The man turned to her, responding to the command in her voice, although in normal time a guildsman might not have deigned to notice
her, wrapped in his own importance. “It is true, my . . . it is true. The birds, when released, veer north or south, but will go neither east nor west to the ocean, no matter what magics we use. They veer, and then they return.”

Messenger-birds were spelled to follow the flow of magic, were sensitized to the flow of magic, in ways only they—and Vinearts, who crafted the spellwine—could comprehend. If they would not go a certain way . . . something terrible came.

The Washer kept his hands steady, and only the solitaire saw the faint, fast twitch in his cheek. He had not known this.

Neither had she, nor any of her sisters, else word would have reached her, a warning. This was new, uncanny. A solitaire, trained to sword and hound, did not trust that which was uncanny.

At her side, the hound whined once, pressing its head against her knee as though seeing reassurance. Like the Washer, she had none to give.

T
HE
B
ERENGIA

Autumn

A
box edge hit
against the rail, nearly cracking the wooden slats. “Ai! Careful with that!”

The hands holding the box curved in an unmistakably rude gesture, and Ao raised his arms in disgust. “Go ahead then, ruin it. It’s not as though it were expensive, or rare, or . . .”