The Shattered Vine (31 page)

A delegation was formed; the reeve and one elder from each village went to Lord Ranulf, seeking news of what relief they might be afforded in the meantime. It was a lord’s right to close roads and mount guards as he deemed needful, but it was his obligation to care for those affected as well. Or so the elders had said when they set out on their mules, their mood determined but confident.

They returned, shaken and empty-handed. The lord had been too busy to see them, riding the borders with his troops. Well and good; the lord was a busy man and it was well that he knew what was happening on the outskirts. But the man he left in charge had refused to see the delegation, making them wait all day before sending them home.

“It’s a hard time, he said.” The reeve had repeated that phrase half a dozen times since their return, and it made no more sense than it had the first time he’d said it. “Hard time, and we all must wait and be patient. Patient is easy for him to say, in his House with his servants and his spells. What about us?”

Disaster in one town was a problem. In two, trouble. But when it happened in three, it would doubtless be happening in more, and there would be no help from others—and more worryingly, from their sworn lord.

“Vineart Hugues?” one of the men suggested.

“Phagh. He has already packed up his House and gone to cover
within the lord’s House, like a tame dog. His slaves tend his yards; you would suggest we take food from their plates?”

The speaker had been about to suggest just that, but a look at the expressions of the men around him kept him from voicing such a thing. Slaves were lower than any freeman, but to be pitied, not preyed upon.

Not yet, anyway. The seven men in the room knew that, if conditions changed, they would protect their families first.

“Sharpen your scythes and be ready,” the reeve said, finally, his voice thick with regret. “If we will not be given aid, then we have no choice but to take it.”

T
HE
H
OUSE OF
M
ALECH
T
HE
B
ERENGIA

“V
INEART!
”

The shout was loud, well-modulated, and bordering on insolent. Jerzy had encountered Prince Ranulf only once before; he had been sent with spellwine to heal the villagers struck ill by the afterstink of the sea serpent’s flesh. He had been intended as a messenger, his master’s foot, to run errands. Instead, he had helped Ranulf hold off the attack of another serpent, using spellwine to support and modify Ranulf’s decantation.

Jerzy had told no one what he had done, allowing Ranulf to take the credit for the destruction of the serpent, but he had suspected even then that the prince knew that his decantation alone could not have been enough.

From the look in the lord’s eye, now, Jerzy suspected that suspicion had grown into something more pronounced. And more problematic, for Jerzy. He would not antagonize the man, not yet. But neither would
he be conciliatory. Not when the man rode onto his lands, accompanied by armed guards, and shouted for him in that voice.

The winter had been no kinder to Ranulf than the others; his face was still clean-shaven but the skin sagged around the jowls and under his eyes. But he still sat his horse with an easy grace, his shoulders proud and his elbows relaxed. The two solitaires in their distinctive brown leathers, hounds trotting alongside, were the only guard he had brought, and Jerzy inclined his head once in acknowledgment, even as he stepped down the path and under the ever-green archway to greet his visitor.

Kaïnam had given the party a careful once-over before allowing Jerzy to leave the House. In a way, bringing solitaires rather than his own fighters was a sign of Ranulf’s respect—for Malech, if not Jerzy. Bringing warriors could have been construed as a threat, showing his force, or it might have implied that Ranulf did not trust the Vineart, to come alone. Either was an insult to his host. Solitaires were perhaps more deadly, but they were more expensive to hire, and would not be thrown into battle lightly; therefore, they could be seen as merely a courtesy, escorts to a prince who could not be expected to travel alone. Ranulf came to talk, not fight. For now, anyway.

One of those solitaires was Keren. She made no sign, however, that they had met previously.

“Welcome to my House, Lord Ranulf,” Jerzy said. Unlike when the Washer had ridden up, he had not taken the time to change, but rather came out wearing leather trou and an open-neck shirt with sleeves that folded back, suitable for working with
vina.
To appear otherwise would give too much importance to this visit.

That had been Ao’s advice, and Kaïnam had agreed. The two of them waited in the hallway, while Mahault took the side route through the vineyards and waited behind them.

“This is not a social visit, Vineart.” Ranulf might have considered the implications of offending the Vineart, but he was clearly unwilling
to give up his ground, remaining on his horse where he had a tactical advantage.

Jerzy refused to be intimidated: he had spent enough time on horseback to know how easily even a trained mount could be startled, and how simple a matter it would be, if he so chose, to spark the horse’s hooves and set him to flight.

He would do no such thing, of course, but knowing that he could allowed him to stand in front of the heavyset beast and not flinch, or be intimidated.

“There is no need to be impolite, however,” Jerzy said calmly. “I know why you are here.”

“If you did not, you would be an idiot as well as a fool, and I had enough respect for your master that I assume you are neither of those things.” Ranulf glared down at him, then, almost reluctantly, showed a brief, surprisingly open smile, even as he swung down off his horse, the leather creaking under his movements. Jerzy did not invite him into the House, and Ranulf did not react to the implied insult. House Malech and their local prince had always remained on amicable, if properly distant, terms, and while Master Malech had considered Ranulf a harmless pup, neither Jerzy nor Ranulf could afford to underestimate the other.

“I came of my own, rather than sending a messenger, or inviting you to my home. In these days . . . I was not certain you would feel comfortable leaving the safety of your yards. Indeed, you have not, since you returned home, not even to visit your own secondary yards. Most unusual.”

He had been watching; had he bothered to note that Mahault had visited in Jerzy’s place? Or did Ranulf believe that Jerzy had abandoned all but his primary vines? If so, then the prince was the fool.

“I am aware of everything that occurs in my soil,” Jerzy said evenly. “And much that occurs outside it as well.”

“Then we shall dispense with the verbal fencing, yes?” Ranulf stepped forward. Jerzy stood his ground. “You will have heard of the recent unpleasantness within The Berengia.”

“Hunger and fear, and villagers near to rebellion against their lords. Yes. I have heard.” Ranulf had not been listed among those refusing aid . . . but he had not been forthcoming with it, either.

“The world grows cold, Vineart, even as the season warms. Cold and menacing. The Washers are turning their hand to politics, and other lands look at us with hunger.” He seemed uncomfortable making this speech, as though someone had prepared the words for him. “We owe it to our home to protect it—and I owe it to our people to protect you.”

“You propose to protect me?” Jerzy let just a hint of skepticism show, tilting his head as though the thought had never occurred to him.

“I would offer the shelter of my name, the arms of my fighters, to defend your yards against any who would mean them harm.”

“And in return? What would you have of me?”

“Nothing more than what your master and I had previously shared: The pooling of skills, to protect our people from harm. First offering of your wines . . . for a fair price, of course. Detta would not allow anything else.”

“Of course.” Jerzy moved the silver ring on his finger again, unable to stop himself. Ranulf’s gaze followed the motion, and from the widening of his eyes, he recognized it.

“Your master had that commissioned from my silversmith, when he reached Mastery,” he said, his voice brittle. “Do you claim it for yourself?”

Jerzy narrowed his eyes and studied Ranulf the way he might an unknown insect that settled on one of his vines. “It is none of your affair what I claim or do not claim, Lord Ranulf. The Commandments still hold, though others may seek to stretch them full out of shape.”

The prince let out a huff of surprise, and Jerzy thought that he heard something else in there as well. Disdain, and perhaps a note of admiration. “You have no intention of allying yourself with anyone, do you, boy?”

“My master sought alliances. And he died for it.”

Truth, in a way that Ranulf could understand, if not the entire truth. The prince’s hard gaze rested on Jerzy, assessing him, then he gave
another curt nod, and reached up to grasp his saddle, swinging up onto the horse’s back without the aid of his stirrups. If he meant to show off in front of Jerzy, or impress him, it succeeded.

“The mountain passes and the ports are closed,” he said. “None will enter The Berengia without our knowledge.”

And none would leave, either. As warnings went, it had the distinct sound of a threat.

Jerzy smiled, a small, cold smile that refused to be threatened. “Sin Washer keep your road safe, Lord Ranulf.”

He did not wait to see if the prince and his guards left, but turned and walked back up the path, his pace steady and firm, until he was safely within the open doors. Only then did Jerzy allow himself to exhale, his body shuddering like a winded horse.

“Detta,” he called, raising his voice enough to be heard in the kitchen. “Have supper brought to my study, please.”

“I
DON’T UNDERSTAND
. I mean, I understand why you didn’t agree, because we’ve all seen how well that does not turn out, but why didn’t you”—Mahault waved her fingers slightly—“use him, the way you used the Washers? I would think having the most powerful princeling in the area thinking he’s deep in plot with you could be an excellent way to guard your flank.”

They were gathered in Jerzy’s study. A spellfire blazed in the hearth, giving off silent heat against the spring night’s chill.

“It’s not that I trust him any more or less than the Washers,” Jerzy said, feeling the stress of the confrontation finally taking hold of his body and making him want to do nothing but lay down and sleep. He dared not, though: every time he dared sleep, he risked his control slipping, being drawn into the Root’s embrace, and never escaping. “It’s that I don’t need him. Rather, I don’t need to manipulate him. He spoke truth; he and my master worked together often as not, and I have some knowledge of how he thinks, and what he will do. More, he is not a bad man and has a care for his lands. He will be an effective
barrier, should we need him, without my having to agree to anything.”

“And then, if you do call on him for help, he will feel as though he’s come out ahead, rather than suspecting he was played.” Ao nodded and then tapped the pages of the dispatch that had arrived while Jerzy was dealing with their not-unexpected visitor. “That time may come sooner than not. There’s more unrest in Iaja, and Corguruth.” Ao’s dark, sharp-cornered eyes, once filled with mischief, had shadows under them now, making his broad cheekbones even more prominent and narrowing his once-round face into something unfamiliar. Even his cheerful personality had sobered, the smile that used to snap with mischief now muted by worry and exhaustion.

Nobody noticed. Or, rather, they saw, but made no comment. There was no point telling someone they looked tired, or distressed. They all were tired and distressed, and increasingly dispirited.

“Serious?” Jerzy did not need to ask: he knew already, the same way he knew how many fingers were on his hand. As the days warmed and the blight did not ease, the reports had been coming steadily, a bird every third day or so carrying news of more illness or another outbreak of related violence. He could not heal everyone, nor could he let them come to him. Their own supplies were beginning to thin.

It was only a matter of time, now.

“Serious enough. The land-lord was set upon, and . . .” Ao let his words trail off, not wanting—or needing—to go into detail. They knew, too well now, what happened when the people turned on their lord.

“And there will be more, soon enough,” Mahault said, her hands still in her lap, clasped so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. Two weeks before, a madman spewing fear and anger had riled the already-nervous populace of Aleppan to the point that they overran the palazzo, breaking down the Council chamber doors and destroying the furnishings within. Men had dragged her father the maiar to the gardens where Mahault, Ao, and Jerzy had once walked, and slaughtered him in the fountain until the waters ran red.

Mahault had not cried when the news came.

Jerzy’s own eyes were dry as the winter soil. The cracks in the Lands Vin had been made clear; each of the eleven points were in a city already marked on the map that hung in front of them now. Each of the eleven cities had been targeted by Ximen’s whisperers, their land-lord becoming erratic, or unpredictable, striking out until his own people turned on him. Eleven confirmed reports so far, of people driven to desperation and violence.

Ao’s people had been invaluable in gathering the information; spreading their fingers across the trade routes, accessing the other trading clans, passing messages along with a speed that even messenger-birds could not match, finding their way in and out of lands where all traffic had halted.

“Eleven, in two months. It’s as though the entire world has gone mad,” Detta said from where she had been listening at the door. She carried a tray of tai in her hands and came into the study to set it on the desk, clearing a space for it among the maps and messages scattered there. The kitchen boy followed with a basket of meat-stuffed rolls, still warm from the fire.