The Ruined City (17 page)

“Friends, take heart,” the speaker advised, his clarion tones ringing above the dejected mutterings of the onlookers. “There is nothing to fear from the Wanderers. I have discovered the secret of their unnatural vitality, and I have learned how to quell it.”

Jianna’s eyes sought the source and found it; a very tall, stout man, sporting a long violet cloak banded with rabbit fur and decorated with symbols worked in polychrome thread. His face was round and rosy. A narrow black mustache edged his full lips, and a wealth of glistening, carefully tended black curls framed his plump cheeks.

The pink face was familiar. She had certainly seen it before, and it took Jianna no more than a moment to recall the owner’s name.

“Etris Cruzirius,” she informed Rione. “My father once pointed him out to me, and told me that Uncle Innesq says Cruzirius is one of the few mountebank arcanists of the city who may actually possess a little talent.”

Cruzirius’s flamboyant appearance and theatrical manner hardly inspired confidence, but Uncle Innesq’s judgment was reliable, and therefore Jianna watched with curiosity and some hope.

“Our city’s cleansing commences here and now,” Cruzirius proclaimed with glinting assurance. “Friends, clear me a little space, if you please, and honor me with your attention. For the best use of the arcane powers with which Fortune has deigned to favor me rests largely upon the trust and support of my observers and well-wishers.”

It all sounded peculiar to Jianna. Uncle Innesq, a highly gifted, legitimate arcanist of the Six, never spoke of relying upon the trust or support of anyone. As far as she knew, he relied entirely upon his own talents, and preferred to conduct his arcane experiments in solitude. Still, there was room in the world for more than one method, and she was prepared to grant Etris Cruzirius the benefit of the doubt.

A path opened and Cruzirius advanced without perceptible
fear, never pausing until he stood no more than a dozen feet from the undead. There he halted to assume a dauntless pose, allowing his audience ample opportunity to wonder and admire. The three undead were similarly motionless, grouped in a silent colloquy. It was impossible to judge their awareness, if any, of the self-styled arcanist in the gaudy cloak.

Bowing his head, Cruzirius began to speak, so quietly at first that the cadenced syllables were inaudible. He made no use of the draughts, powders, or pills with which Uncle Innesq was wont to fortify himself prior to arcane exertion, and Jianna wondered at the omission, but strove to maintain an open mind.

Cruzirius spoke on, resonant voice gradually rising in volume until the incomprehensible words crashed on the atmosphere like waves upon an alien shore. There were gestures dancing to the music of that voice, arm sweeps extravagant as any actor’s, and still Jianna wondered, for it was very unlike the concise grace displayed by Uncle Innesq upon the cherished occasions of her childhood birthday celebrations, when he had conjured transparent pastel fairies riding mythical winged beasts.

Her fellow spectators seemed not to share her doubts. The faces about her were rapt and respectful. Their awe was not difficult to fathom, for Cruzirius’s voice possessed undeniable power. Her own pulses quickened responsively. Despite the vulgarity of his appearance and style, the man had some sort of genuine ability, she was certain. A curious electric tingle that she recognized shivered her nerves. She had felt it while watching Uncle Innesq at work, and she felt it now.

Cruzirius’s practiced voice scaled the heights, and the surrounding mists seemed to thicken. Both arcanist and undead faded into the gloom. Jianna could see waving arms and billowing purple cloak; beyond them, three eerie, motionless figures. The air had gone indefinably bad. It did not stink or sting, but somehow seemed to have lost some of its life-sustaining quality. She drew deep breaths that failed to satisfy.
Others about her did likewise; distressed gasps could be heard on all sides.

Gasps gave way to shouts as the reality of Cruzirius’s talent began to reveal itself.

Jianna leaned forward in the saddle, squinting to penetrate the veils of smoke and vapor. She could barely make out the three undead forms. They were no longer motionless, but stirring restlessly, as if troubled.

“They crumble, my friends!” Cruzirius proclaimed. “The dust claims its own. From the ground up, they crumble!”

Such a claim was not to be taken literally, yet the Wanderers were doubtless affected. All three were tottering and swaying as if on the verge of collapse. Presently one did collapse, and another, and then the last went down. She could no longer see them—too many bodies blocked her view—but the excited vociferation of the crowd implied success.

The quality of human outcry, along with the character of the atmosphere, altered quite abruptly. Shouts gave way to screams. At the same time, a sullen, bruise-colored glow lit the vapors shrouding the undead, and the air began to bite. Jianna dropped the reins and her hands flew to her face, which burned and itched as if stung by a million gnats. Her eyes watered, and the shrouded world swam. Her horse whinnied and shied, nearly pitching her from the saddle, and a startled squeal escaped her as her legs instinctively tightened on the mare’s flanks. Hurriedly gathering up the reins, she resumed control of the horse, knuckled her streaming eyes, and looked about her.

Worse and worse. The glow lighting the mists had intensified to a glare, within which arced small bolts of angry luminosity. The undead were presently invisible, and Cruzirius nearly so, but the arcanist’s voice rolled on richly. Few remained to listen. The coughing, watery-eyed spectators were retiring in droves. Jianna longed to follow them but, casting a glance at Rione, she saw that his interest focused intensely on the spectacle, and knew that he was unready to depart.

Moisture beaded her forehead and prickled under her arms. She was bathed in sweat, the product of alarm and excitement, she assumed, until she noticed that the raw air had warmed in excess of season and reason, leaping at a bound into high summer and beyond. It was far too hot for this time of the year, too hot for comfort, too hot to be endured.

“This Cruzirius fellow has bungled,” she opined aloud and coughed, throat chafed by the scrape of unwholesome air.

Even in the midst of the uproar, Rione heard. Turning toward her, he began, “We’d best get out of—”

A new burst of unwelcome activity cut him off. The atmosphere immediately surrounding the fallen undead seemed to catch fire, so riddled it was with small, speeding bolts of radiant force. For a few seconds these missiles whizzed and circled within a circumscribed area, as if confined by an invisible wall against which they struck and ricocheted.

Etris Cruzirius’s resonant vocalization ceased. A single incredulous exclamation escaped him.
“Impossible!”

Breaking their invisible restraints, the brilliant spears of energy burst forth to fly in all directions. In a moment the air was filled with them. Where they struck flammable material, fire flared. Where they struck vital body parts, humans died. The ultimate fate of arcanist and undead was currently impossible to judge.

What was left of the crowd fled screaming. Jianna’s terrified mare reared, and for the next few seconds, she strove hard to retain her seat and regain control. When she was able to dismount, she did so, seized the bridle, and quieted the trembling animal as best she could. Drawing the kerchief from her neck, she tied the cloth across the horse’s eyes, for she had been told long ago that such measures enabled grooms to lead their intractable charges from burning stables, and the present situation seemed analogous.

Beside her Rione dismounted. She watched his eyes sweep the lightning-rent scene, and knew as surely as she knew her own name that he thought of staying to assist the injured. But
it was madness; the victims were already dead, or nearly so. He could do nothing for them, and would only get himself killed if he lingered here. The thought was so insupportable that she plucked at his sleeve and, when he turned, threw him a shamelessly imploring look.

“Please, Falaste,” she urged, voice soft but somehow audible through the surrounding din. “Take me away from here. Take me home.”

He looked at her and his brows bent. Perhaps he was thinking of
her
safety. She hoped so. After a moment he nodded, and the two of them led their horses away from the site of the latest arcane disaster.

For a while there was no conversation. In silence they rode through the gloomy streets, each preoccupied with recent horrors. But when they reached the foot of the White Incline, Jianna’s spirits began to stir. As they climbed, her sense of anticipation did likewise. Everything around her was changed much for the worse, yet at the same time inexpressibly dear and familiar.

Only minutes, now
, she thought, and her mouth was dry with excitement.

They reached the top of the high bluff overlooking the sea, and now they were in the Clouds; underpopulated, dim and dirty of atmosphere, with the rooflights burning oddly in the afternoon, and more than one of the great mansions marked with red X’s. But grand and imposing even yet, and above all, still hers.

As they neared the end of Summit Street, she unconsciously urged her mare to a trot. The last few yards, the last few seconds, seemed endless, but then the pale stone wall that surrounded Belandor House was rising before her, its wrought-iron gate firmly closed, as the magnifico would wish, and beyond the gate,
beyond
—

Ruin. Destruction. Devastation.

For a moment she thought it some visual trick of the wavering mists shaped by her own imagination.

No mistake. Belandor House had burned in the recent past. Not down to the ground, perhaps not beyond salvation, but the building had suffered immense damage. Jumping from her horse, she ran to the gate and gripped its bars with both hands. Her eyes rose in search of the central tower and found—nothing. The tower was gone. The remaining walls were charred and blackened, the ruined windows boarded. Even the grand front entrance, fully exposed to view by the collapse of the columned portico, was boarded. The south wing was worse yet—its roof entirely destroyed, its walls largely collapsed. Heaps of debris lay stacked atop the broken remains of a mosaic floor. The third main section of the building, the north wing, had not fared so badly, and was still probably habitable.

Jianna stared, momentarily numb with shock and disbelief. The anesthesia lapsed too soon as the implications of the scene sank in. Belandor House had burned, and the loss of property was massive—but what of lost lives? How had the residents fared? Father? Uncle Innesq? Kinfolk, guests, servants, and Sishmindris?
Father?

She tore her gaze from the house. On the other side of the gate, a sentry stood watching her curiously. She did not recognize his face, which was square and dull. His slate-and-silver livery, ornamented with a medal of Troxius, was correct but a little baggy, not yet altered to fit him; he must have been engaged very recently. Catching his eye, she commanded, “Admit me.”

His look of curiosity expanded to surprise. He stared at her, taking in her drab, slightly moth-eaten cloak, old shoes, and long hair falling in a simple braid down her back. His eyes shifted to Rione, who had come up behind her on foot, leading both horses. Clearly the newcomers were not beggars; just
as clearly, they were not quality visitors entitled to respect or deference. He pondered a moment, then inquired, “What’s your business here?”

“You are new and you don’t recognize me.” Jianna decided to forgive the fellow’s ignorance. “I am the Maidenlady Jianna Belandor, daughter to the Magnifico Aureste. Open the gate, admit me, and bid a servant inform the magnifico of my return.”

“Oho. You say you’re
who
?”

“Tell the magnifico that his daughter has returned.”

“Well, it would take a good set of lungs to tell the magnifico anything, these days.”

“What are you saying? Has he been hurt? Is he—?” She could not bring herself to pronounce the intolerable word. “Explain yourself.”

“What concern of yours, missy? Don’t you know that nosy, cheeky little girls get walloped?”

“I’ve told you who I am.” A few months earlier, she would have lost her temper and stormed at him. Now she was able to speak with an appearance of calmness. “If you refuse to recognize me, you’re committing a blunder that you’ll soon come to regret. For your own sake, answer my question. How fares my father, the Magnifico Aureste?”

“All right, the joke’s getting tired. Or maybe you’re not joking, maybe you’re a proper loony. Either way, you got no business here. Clear off.”

“You’d do well to believe her. She’s telling you the truth,” Rione interjected in his soothing, effortlessly persuasive voice. “I’ll vouch for it.”

“You will? Well, that makes all the difference.” The guard nodded, with reverence. “And who might you be—the governor’s son?”

Impudent ass!
For a moment Jianna’s temper threatened to slip restraint, and she fought hard for self-control. Anger would only make things worse. She needed to emulate Falaste’s unruffled demeanor, but it was not easy. Wrathful
words burned at the tip of her tongue, and might well have found exit had she not spied a familiar figure making its way around an angle of the building.