The Shattered Vine (21 page)

Instead, he stopped just outside the front door, finding Mahault already there, sitting on the ground under the low-spreading branches of the trees that shaded the front of the House. She was bundled against the chill in a cloak and had a sheet of paper resting on her lap.

Normally, anyone in search of quiet went to the courtyard. For Mahault to be here . . . she doubtless looked for privacy, thinking no one else would come out this way. Jerzy should have let her be, gone on his way. But something made him cross the white-frosted grass and stand beside her.

“Mahault.”

She looked up, her eyes bright with what might have been tears.

“When did you get back?” He had heard nothing from her while she was on the road, not even a hint of anything from the vines. That might have meant all was well, that there had been no difficulties—or it could have meant that the bond had not taken. He had been too busy to worry overmuch, trusting her to return safely, as she had. Still, she should have reported in the moment she returned.

“Late,” she replied. “You had already gone to bed. I left my report on your desk this morning. I thought . . .”

He indicated the papers. The rider had come the afternoon before, sent from a ship just into port, bearing a leather sack of missives and letters from Ao’s trader folk, the first result after his offering of information on Irfan, and the one missive, sealed with the sigil of Aleppan, for Mahault. Clearly, Detta had passed her the packet this morning.

Questions about her trip were banished by the tears in her eyes. “Is the news bad?”

She shook her head. “No. Or, not truly. My father refuses to speak my name but my mother . . . she hopes that I am getting enough to eat, and that I remember my manners when speaking with strangers.”

Jerzy frowned, not sure what to make of her words. “That is . . . a good message?”

Mahault laughed, and the tears slipped from the corner of her eye, causing her to dash at them with the back of her hand. “For my mother, it’s practically an outpouring of love and affection.” She folded the message and slipped it into her belt, resting her hand over it briefly, as though to ensure that it was there.

“What else was in the packet?” she asked, discussion of her home and family clearly over.

“More of the same,” Jerzy said. In truth, he had left the other two last night busily amending the map, adding and subtracting markers, marking alliances old and new-formed throughout the Lands Vin, as seen by Ao’s folk.

The offering of trade routes into Irfan had been remarkably, although unsurprisingly, effective.

“Jer?” She was looking at him now, the expression on her face one of suspicious alert. “All this information you have Ao and Kaï gathering, the ships and the spies . . . You’re building to something, I can tell, but what?”

Kaïnam had asked him the same thing, the day before.

“I’ll explain everything soon,” he said, as he had said yesterday. “Soon.”

M
AHAULT HAD NOT
been satisfied, although she said nothing more. The question lingered in Jerzy’s mind as he spent the rest of the morning in his study, rereading his master’s notes on firevines and what they were capable of. Mahault’s report on her trip was indeed waiting on the desk, closely written in her neat handwriting. The overseer was worried, clearly, but claimed that the yard was healthy. They had lost two slaves to illness and would need replacements in order to meet Jerzy’s request for a full Harvest.

Jerzy drummed his fingers on the table, staring at the far wall. There had been no other reports of slaves dying, but there was always that risk. He would have to summon the slavers and hope that something in their offerings matched his needs. But that would have to wait—he would bring no new bodies to the vintnery now. Not when so much was at risk. Slavers were single-minded, and it was in their interest for Vinearts to remain safe and wealthy, but even a single chink in a roof could let in rain.

A Vineart protected his vines.

Kaïnam’s comment came back to him. No one was safe, and no one
could be protected. This was a battle—no, a war, the likes of which had not been seen since. . . .

Since before Sin Washer. Since before the breaking of the First Vine. Since the last vine-mages used magic—and people—as markers in their endless, pointless battles.

This was not pointless. This war was for survival. But to those around them, who knew nothing of what was happening, who would likely never know, because how could he explain it to them . . . what would they believe? There was, after all, no proof that Ximen would be any worse a master than an existing lord, any less capable a Vineart that any here . . .

But those people had not seen what Jerzy had seen. Had not felt the fear, the cold, bittersweet touch of the taint.

He knew what needed to be done. But, despite his words, would he know when? How much information was enough, how many possibilities could they adjust for? He knew when the grapes were ready for Harvest: was he waiting for a similar sense here? What if it never came?

“Past noon.”

Kaïnam stood in the doorway, looking expectant. Jerzy, shaken from his unpleasant thoughts and made aware of the day passing, felt the aches in his body: his shoulders were too tense, his lower back cramped, and his left leg was sound asleep. He rotated his shoulders gingerly, wincing when he heard something crack.

Kaïnam heard it, too. “Come on, Vineart. Time for practice.”

“All right.” Jerzy pushed away from the desk, then stopped. “I want to try something new today.”

T
HE WEAPONS PRACTICE
served more than one purpose, Jerzy had discovered: when his body was in use, his mind was, for a short time, quiet, the doubts were put aside.

Doubts about magic, anyway. After the third time Jerzy found himself facedown in the dirt, feeling his soreness from sitting replaced
by soreness from being thrown down like a sack of grain, he had doubts as to other things, including if he had actually learned anything from Mil’ar Cai.

Kaïnam’s style of fighting was decidedly more aggressive.

Jerzy paused, mid-movement and Kaï landed a blow that stung, using the flat of his blade. “Watch yourself,” his opponent said, and they circled again, gazes wary, judging distances and muscle tension, weighing each observation and selecting a counter to each predicted move. As Jerzy turned, he let the quiet-magic rise, imagining it running down the length of his cudgel even as he swung.

The blow landed hard enough to make the prince stagger back with a pleased-sounding “oomph,” but nothing happened.

“Rot.”

Kaï frowned. “Nothing?”

“No.” Today he was using firespells against Kaï as well as his cudgel, trying to pair them into one smooth movement. Ideally, the quiet-magic scorched the practice blade and drove Kaï back with white-hot flames. When he tested it at rest, it worked. During battle, even practice, it failed. Magic, or muscle. The combination of the two seemed beyond him.

“Hrm. Steady on, we have company,” Kaï said, changing his stance and letting the wooden blade rest point down in the dirt.

“I know.” Jerzy paused, then turned over slowly, spitting out the taste of dirt. The two figures ducked lower, but not before he had seen them, the tops of their heads clearly visible over the low stone wall that ran alongside the road between vintnery and House.

When he had been a slave, the thought of going near that wall would never have occurred to him. Had the overseer seen him, it would have been the lash for daring leave his task; even worse to be caught spying upon the Vineart.

Jerzy tried to imagine ever daring to lift his eyes to Master Vineart Malech, even in hiding, and failed utterly. Either the overseer was slacking in his duties, or these two . . . Or these two were drawn by something they could not resist, to risk the fear of discovery.

“Two of them,” Kaïnam noted. “Companionship breeds courage.”

Jerzy merely shook his head, his voice curt with worry. “Slaves don’t think like that.”

“Well, you at least are not lacking for courage.” Kaï was still uncomfortable discussing slaves and was clearly glad to leave off the topic. “But you’re still thinking too much. You need to keep your mind
off
your moves, not worry at them like . . . like Lil over a roast.”

Jerzy, stung, tightened his grip on his cudgel. “Come at me again.”

Kaïnam grinned tightly and lifted his sword, clearly preparing another strike. The day had warmed up slightly; after the cold start the two of them were stripped down to sleeves and trou, and sweating slightly with their effort. Their steps left imprints on the browning grass, until a neat square was beaten down by their workout.

“Full-bore?”

“Full and a last minute turn,” Jerzy said, thankful that he didn’t need to take time out to explain what he had in mind, that the princeling would accept and follow his lead without question. Kaï nodded and, with a harsh shout that didn’t make Jerzy blink anymore, charged at the Vineart, his sword swinging through the air with deadly intent.

The blow landed, despite Jerzy’s best attempts at any sort of defense, and had the sword carried a sharp edge, the world would have been less one Vineart. As it was, the blow drove him onto his stomach, the air leaving him with a painful whoosh.

“Mil’ar Cai would disown me for that,” he said when he could speak again, rolling over and staring up at the sky.

“You’re doing better than you think,” Kaïnam said, not offering him a hand up this time. “Your weapons master taught you to defend yourself from beasts or brigands. I’m teaching you to attack another fighter. There’s a difference.”

Defense, and attack. Turn and step. What is visible and what was hidden, out of sight . . . or underground. The worries of earlier swept back as though they had never been gone. Kaï accused him of thinking too much, but how could he not, with so much to think on?

His hair had come loose from its band when he fell. Jerzy rolled over and got to his knee, reaching up to pull the long strands back again, making a face as the hair stuck to his sweat-damp skin. As he raised his arms, a slight movement caught his eye. The two slaves, still lurking, in a place they knew they should not be, nowhere near careful enough, frightened enough, for being this close to their master.

They were out of place, acting wrongly; something new and different when too much else was changing, and therefore a concern.

He finished securing his hair and bent over, his left arm reaching out for the cudgel driven into the dirt by the force of Kaïnam’s blow.

“Again,” he said, rising to his feet, his thoughts not on the movements but magic. It wasn’t working. Why?

Winespells were controlled, crafted to do only what they were intended for. All of Malech’s notes on firespells referred to the level of control built into the incantation process, to keep a mis-decanted spell from sparking a wildfire, or burning flesh where it was meant to warm. Even the firespell he had used to burn the plague ship had been limited; when the fuel went out, so, too, would it. Only when he drew on the sense of the feral vines, the unblooded grapes, had he been able to set the sands on fire, and even then . . . despite his fears, they had not leaped beyond his control.

But he had used them against others—he had used a spellwine against the serpent, that first time, to bring it down. He had used a spellwine to kill, in order to end suffering not once but twice. So why would it not work as a deliberate weapon?

Vinearts do not use . . .

I know,
he thought back at the Guardian.
I know.

Vinearts did not use weapons. Vinearts did not engage in battle. Vinearts did not engage in matters beyond their walls. He had broken all those rules already, and the world had not ended. What other choice did he have?

“Again,” he repeated, when Kaïnam looked hesitant, summoning the quiet-magic one more time. “Now.”

Unlike previous exchanges, this time Jerzy did not lift his hand to counter the blow, nor did he attempt to direct his quiet-magic against his attacker, but spun, trusting that Kaï would make that last-minute turnaway, and instead looked toward the stone wall and the two figures trying to remain inconspicuous behind it.

“Go,”
he told the spell, looking toward the wall, and without further order it went, following the tumbling arc of the cudgel, the quiet-magic sparking and shimmering along the length of wood as though lightning were trapped within.

Pulling it so quickly and releasing it without pause left him shaking and weak in the legs, but the crunching sound as wood and spell hit stone was satisfying, as were the terrified yelps from behind the wall, as two terrified slaves took to their heels, racing down the hill back to the shed where they were, clearly, supposed to be working.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Kaïnam said, having finished his pivot unnoticed, and returning to a ready, waiting stance.

“I’ve kept some secrets,” Jerzy said, equally calm, although in truth he had not known he could do that, either. Letting the magic fly like that, undirected, had been an impulse move, and already he was regretting it, regretting that he might have seriously injured the slaves rather than merely frightening them. Because they were easily replaced did not mean he should be careless.

And yet, he had done what he wanted: had used the new firespell offensively, without hesitation or failure. Why now, and not when he crossed blades with Kaï? Was it useful only against someone who would not, could not fight back?

“Not so brave after all.” Kaïnam sounded disappointed, and it took Jerzy a moment to realize he had been talking about the two slaves.

“Braver than you could ever imagine. You might lurk, out of sight, of a schoolmaster or visiting dignitary, secure that none would do more than yell, or perhaps a blow in rebuff.” Jerzy had no idea what sort of discipline Kaïnam had faced as a child; no swordsman or sailor grew up soft, certainly, but he had been a prince, nonetheless.
“A slave has no such security; disobedience could easily mean death.”

Slaves did not fight back. Slaves did not fight, period. Vinearts did not go into battle, but left that to the lords and common folk . . . it wound around the problem like vines on a post. The answer was in there, somewhere. Jerzy simply was not wise enough to decipher it.