The Ruined City (38 page)

Just about what Celisse herself had said. It would be easy to believe and tempting to exonerate the attractive young physician. Almost a pity that it couldn’t happen.

You don’t know that. You can’t know that!

Under Taerleezi law, the Faerlonnish defendant’s offer of help to the fugitive murderess established him as an accessory
to her crime. His claim of innocent ignorance, even if true, changed nothing. The prosecutor had been quick to point this out, lest it be forgotten.

And now all testimony and oratory were done. It was time for the judges to rule. Deeming their task difficult, Jianna expected lengthy deliberation. She was unprepared for the promptness with which the lackey returned to announce the conviction and condemnation of both defendants. Celisse Rione and her brother Falaste were to die by simple torsion. No additional tortures had been decreed.

A murmur of confirmed expectation arose about her, but Jianna did not hear it. For a time she heard and saw nothing, although she remained upright, open-eyed, and more or less conscious. A curious numbness seemed to have dulled all thought and feeling. She had a vague sense that this natural anesthesia would prove temporary in nature, and should be prolonged to its uttermost limit.

Eventually she became aware that she was standing alone, fists clenched on the iron bars of the fence surrounding the Cityheart. The loiterers had gone, their curiosity satisfied for the moment. The light was failing; evening was drawing on.

Her feet carried her back to The Bellflower, apparently without instructions from her mind. They carried her up the stairs, along the hall, and through the door into her own room; her expensive private room. It was a worthwhile expense. A place to herself, a solitary refuge right now, was worth any amount of money.

There was a bed in front of her. She went to it, kicked off her shoes, crawled in, and drew the covers up over her head. For an indeterminate period of time she lay there, eyes shut, neither asleep nor truly awake.

Pleth Chenno, on duty at Belandor House’s front gate throughout the morning, did not immediately notice the stranger. Time passed, however, and eventually he became
aware that the large figure hulking on the far side of Summit Street seemed disinclined to depart, whereupon he took a closer look.

It was not possible to see much through the smoky mists. The stranger was tall, broad, and ragged. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face and hid his hair. He wore no mask. Somehow he did not give the impression of advanced age, but he leaned for support on a staff.

Chenno did not like the look of him, but so long as the stranger maintained a properly respectful distance, there was no cause for concern.

The stranger, however, appeared blind to the dictates of propriety. Presently he crossed the street. As he approached, Chenno got a better look, and his initial sense of uneasiness sharpened to revulsion. Of all the pedestrians roaming the city, this one above all
should
have made use of a mask. The face visible beneath the hat brim was a ghastly ruin—broken and destroyed, the right eye gone, its empty socket surrounded by swollen, livid flesh. Chenno resisted the impulse to back away.

Closer yet, and Chenno found himself staring into a single eye the color of slush laced with blood. The eye was inanimate, and he could barely bring himself to meet its lifeless regard. Clearly, however, this was no Wanderer.

It would not do to appear timid. His grip tightened on his halberd, and he commanded harshly, “Clear off, you.”

There was no sign that the other understood. The dead eye never blinked. Its owner was a madman or an idiot. A couple of blows should send him limping on his way.

Before the strokes had been dealt, however, the mouth in the ruined face worked hard, and a couple of words fought their way free.

“Belandor House.”

“No beggars allowed here.”

“Belandor House.”

“Looking for a drubbing, you crack-brained gargoyle?”

“Girl.”

“What?”

“Girl. Mine.”

“Yours, eh? She must be a real beauty. But you won’t find her here.”

“Jianna Belandor. Mine.”

The name of a Belandor lady upon the lips of this gutter wreck—it was insupportable. Chenno was outraged on behalf of his employer.

The abrupt disappearance of his niece days earlier had thrown Master Nalio Belandor into fits of quivering wrath. He had harangued the household staff at passionate length, refused nourishment for the space of an entire day, shut himself in his chamber for hours, and finally emerged to stalk the north wing corridors, muttering to himself. The servants privileged to overhear brief snatches of his monologue had caught the words “Magnifico Tribari,” repeated in tones of scandalized grief. At last, Master Nalio had recovered himself so far as to forbid the name of the runaway to be spoken aloud in his presence.

“Jianna Belandor.”

“That’s it. Now you lose the rest of your teeth.” Chenno swung the haft of his halberd at the impertinent maimed mouth. To his astonishment, the weapon was arrested in mid-arc and wrenched almost effortlessly from his grasp. He would never have dreamed that the limping ruin before him possessed such strength. He had scarcely begun to marvel before the halberd swung again, its ax blade sinking deep into his skull.

For some time Onartino Belandor stood quite still, regarding the dead man at his feet. Eventually his eye rose from the sentry to the gate, which remained closed and locked. Beyond the gate rose the partially reconstructed house, presently out of reach. The atmosphere about him vibrated with a kind of
squawking yammer, reminiscent of the call of the Scarlet Gluttons, but more annoying. He let his bloodshot gaze travel, and discovered himself surrounded by excited citizens, all observing from a safe distance. Some internal voice must have advised him to depart. Turning his back on Belandor House, he hobbled away along Summit Street, and all in his path hastily drew aside to let him pass. Moments later, the smoky mists swallowed him whole.

Nobody presumed to follow.

Early morning, and the camp was awake and astir, cookfires jumping, pots bubbling, voices babbling. As the Magnifico Aureste emerged from his tent to greet the new day, he discovered a scrap of paper pinned to the canvas flap masking the entrance. How it had come there, placed by what hand, he did not know. His lips tightened. His past experience of anonymous notes was consistently unpleasant. He did not welcome additional unpleasantness now. Nevertheless, he plucked the paper from its place, unfolded it, and beheld handwriting almost familiar as his own, even after all these years.

Meet me at the fallen tree
.

That was all she had written. No signature, no time specified, no clear identification of the fallen tree. She had known that none would be needed.

He did not bother with breakfast, but lost no time in making his way back a few hundred yards along the faint dirt track that was all that remained of the Nor’wilders Way. His step was brisk, his mind aflame with curiosity tinged with uneasiness; for she would not have summoned him lightly.

The fallen tree lay several feet from the roadway, its presence partially obscured by weedy undergrowth. Nevertheless, he had noticed it in passing, the previous day’s late afternoon. Indeed, it would have been hard to overlook, for the long prostrate carcass was charred and blasted, presumably by lightning, while the blackened stump still stood upright, dramatically crowned with sharp spars and fragments.

She was standing beside the stump, her back toward him. She was wrapped in her long, dark green cloak, but the hood
was down and the chestnut glint of her hair offered the one touch of warm color in the muted landscape.

“Magnifica.” He halted at a courteous distance.

She turned to face him. She was beautiful as ever, but pale and—to him—visibly unhappy.

“Magnifico. Thank you for coming.”

“Madam, I am honored to attend you.”
What’s wrong, Sonnetia?

“I’ve requested a meeting at this time because I find that I must ask a favor of you.”

She would hate to ask anything of him. Nothing less than dire need would drive her to it. He produced the correct words. “Madam, it is my privilege to serve you. All my powers and resources, such as they may be, are yours to command.”
Now, what is this?

“You are most generous. Briefly, then—I desire you to speak to your brother Innesq Belandor upon my behalf.”

“I’ll speak willingly, of course. But you must name a topic.”

“The topic is my son Vinzille.”

“A little more specific, please.”

“I would entreat you to ask your brother Innesq to watch over Vinzille. To guard his health and safety. Your brother’s talents are exceptional. I know he could do this.”

“I daresay. But—forgive me, madam—are the talents of the lad’s own father not likewise exceptional? The Magnifico Corvestri appears to have forged a certain bond of friendship with my brother Innesq. Even so, I can hardly suppose that he would relish Belandor interference in the private affairs of House Corvestri.”

“Perhaps he wouldn’t. But my son’s welfare is far more important than the Magnifico Corvestri’s approval.”

She spoke with her habitual composure, but Aureste, still attuned to every inflection of her voice, caught a note of resentment or defiance that piqued his curiosity.

“You’ve reason to fear for your son?” he probed cautiously.

“I’m certain of it. Have you not noticed how ill he’s been lately?”

“I thought the lad looked peaked for a few days. He’s well now, isn’t he?”

“Yes—now. He’s improved remarkably overnight. But how long will he remain well? His malady is arcane in nature. Even the Magnifico Corvestri admits as much. But for reasons of his own, my husband is unwilling to protect our son. He and I are very much at odds on this.”

“I see. A most difficult situation,” Aureste sympathized gravely, careful to conceal every outward sign of satisfaction.
He and I are very much at odds
 … The words were music.

“Your brother will understand the nature of the problem. He has the skill and power to combat it. Beyond that, he’s generous in nature, and seems fond of Vinzille. I believe he will help.”

“All of that is true, but one point puzzles me. Why do you need or want my intercession? Why do you not approach Innesq directly? Permit me to observe that your powers of persuasion are formidable, far exceeding my own. Moreover, the fears of a mother for her child are compelling, and certain to engage the sympathies of listeners far harder of heart than my brother. Speak to him yourself, Magnifica—he’ll not refuse you.”

“I can’t speak to him.”

“Once upon a time, you were less timid.”

“I’m not timid now.”

He studied her. Her eyes were downcast, her face colorless. She appeared agitated, unhappy, and even, he fancied, embarrassed or ashamed.

“Then what is the difficulty?” he asked, as gently as he knew how.

“My husband has forbidden it.”

“Is that all? Surely you don’t trouble yourself over such a trifle?”

“A husband’s legal authority is no trifle. Ask any magistrate.”