The Traitor's Daughter (34 page)

This last thought held her by reason of its extreme absurdity. She was the good daughter of a great House and her kisses belonged to the future husband selected by her father, assuredly not to some glorified servant owing allegiance to her worst enemies.

A glorified
indifferent
servant, she reminded herself. He was civil enough and kind to her, as he might be to any stranger in need, but nothing more.

But she did not really believe that, she realized. Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps simple vanity, but something inside her insisted that he was less detached and impervious than he chose to appear. If she could bring him to acknowledge it, she might enlist his aid, or at least win a modicum of satisfaction.

But probably not this evening.

The quiet minutes marched. The bathwater lightened. Trecchio honked, flopped, and tried to drag himself from the tub. Jianna held him down while Rione shaved quantities of dead flesh from the injured hand. This time, the patient seemed a little easier to control. Perhaps Jianna was acquiring expertise, or else Trecchio’s strength was waning. Either way, the procedure was completed swiftly, but not neatly. Jianna was drenched, purple-stained from head to hem, and Rione fared no better. Water streamed from their garments to enlarge the violet puddles surrounding the bath. Some of it found its way into Jianna’s fragile shoes, which now squelched audibly with every step.

“Are we done?” she inquired optimistically.

“Not nearly,” he returned.

She nodded, not surprised. “Going well, so far?”

“I believe so. Too soon to say.”

She nodded again, then busied herself replenishing the bath and the kettles. When she was done, there was time to rest for a matter of minutes before the entire damp purple sequence recommenced.

Jianna presently lost count of repetitions and lost track of time. The strenuous activity, continual distraction, and discomfort filled her consciousness. The world reduced itself to flailing limbs, surging purple waves, moaning outcry, much pumping of water, filling of kettles, and feeding of fires; everything else faded to the edge of existence, but did not quite vanish. She was aware that late afternoon had darkened into evening and thence into deep night. She knew that the signs of household activity had ceased; presumably the servants were abed, for Ironheart was silent. She knew that her conscientious tending of the kitchen and stillroom fires throughout the hours had greatly depleted the woodpile; eventually she might be obliged to venture forth in search of fuel—an unwelcome prospect. And she knew that Trecchio’s struggles were diminishing. His strength or else his pain was weakening; or perhaps both. He was responding to his doctor’s treatment or else sinking toward death. Either way, he was unlikely to present much more of serious resistance.

But in this she soon found herself mistaken. Somewhere in the deep of the night between midnight and dawn, Trecchio rallied. A roar blasted from his lungs and he wrenched his right hand free of the doctor’s grasp.

“Easy,” Rione soothed. “We’ve nearly—”

Trecchio threw a left that connected solidly with the doctor’s cheek. Rione pitched sideways to the stone floor and Jianna gasped as if she felt the impact along her own nerves. Even as she started toward him, Trecchio grabbed the edges of the tub and hauled himself to his feet, violet water pouring down his body. Once upright he seemed somewhat at a loss, weight shifting from submerged foot to foot, glazed gaze wandering.

Jianna approached with caution. “Best sit back down,” she suggested gently. “That’s the way to get well. Why don’t you just—”

He swung at her and she ducked but stood her ground. “Stop that,” she directed firmly. “We’re trying to help you. Behave yourself.”

He swung again and she dodged, but this time the blow caught her shoulder. The pain jolted and Jianna staggered.
A watered-down version of his brother
. It would have been easy to retreat beyond his reach, but instead she stepped toward him, jaw set and fist clenched to strike back. He stared at her without recognition or comprehension, muttered incoherently, and once again pity cooled her anger. He was off his head, after all.

“Easy, now,” she essayed, as if quieting a restive horse. His face remained blank; impossible to know whether he heard her. “Easy. We’re almost done, this will soon be over.”

Something between a groan and a growl came out of him, and he hoisted one leg over the edge of the tub. His purple-dripping foot hit the floor and Jianna rushed forward without thinking to grab his arm and hold him still.

Not easily done. He tried to shake her off and she found herself caught in a hurricane, clinging stubbornly as he slung her to and fro. The bellow of a tempest filled her ears; Trecchio’s wordless vociferation. He slammed her hard against the tub and she fell to her knees, maintaining a limpet grip on his arm as she went down. For a moment or two Trecchio strove to wrench himself free, then pivoted and grabbed her throat with his free hand. Her breath stopped, her eyes popped, and she released his arm at once, but he did not let go.

Amazing how much strength remained in that one hand. Her most vigorous struggles failed to break his hold, and it flashed across her mind that he might actually strangle her on the spot. She might die a premature and ridiculously pointless death here and now. Before there was time for terror to blot out thought, the pressure on her windpipe eased as Rione, back on his feet, adroitly toppled his patient backward into the bath.

Trecchio sat down hard, and a purple tidal wave overspilled the tub. Twice he attempted to rise, but his burst of strength was exhausted and now Rione restrained him with ease. Presently all resistance ceased. His eyes closed, and he subsided with a groan.

“Did he hurt you?” Rione turned to Jianna. “Better let me take a look at your neck.”

“No need, I’m well enough. What about your face?” She saw that his cheek was already darkening. “You’ll have a fierce bruise.”

“It will give me character.”

“You already have too much.”

“Bane of my existence.” He glanced briefly down into the tub. “He won’t be any trouble for a while. Why don’t you rest? Sit by the fire, dry yourself, have some tea and something to eat.”

“Bathwater’s low. I’ll just bring the level up a bit, then rest.”

He nodded, and for the first time since she had met him, she saw unequivocal admiration in his eyes. A disproportionate sense of satisfaction filled her, and her fatigue dropped away. She attacked her work with a will and spent the next twenty minutes pumping, heating kettles, toting, and pouring. At the end of that time the bath had been restored to its former depth and temperature. Rione added another measure of his purple infusion, and the water darkened. Trecchio responded with a restless stirring and a querulous murmuring, but his eyes never opened.

“Is it working?” Jianna asked.

“It is. Look at the marks on his arm and shoulder.”

“Still there. In fact, they look bigger than they were. And deeper, raw, and generally … nastier.”

“You’re missing the most important change. Run your finger over the shoulder ulcer.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I understand. Only look, then. You used the term ‘raw.’ You might have said ‘moist.’ ”

“Oh. Yes, I see. The dry tissue is gone. It’s not spreading out; there are no new scaly patches. He’ll live, then?”

“For decades, if his luck holds.”

“Two-fistedly?”

“That is the question. Too early as yet for a definite answer, but I think his chances are good. Now, maidenlady, you will listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’ve been working like a slave and you must be exhausted. I want you to rest and eat.”

“Gladly, if you’ll do the same.”

“When I can.”

“You can right now. The purple potion in the bath will need several minutes to do its work, won’t it? You’ve time.”

“A quarter hour or so.”

“At the very least. Come on, then. Sit down by the fire, dry off, and fill yourself. There’s food all over the place—bread, fruit, sausage, cheese, cheese of several varieties, I know for a fact that there’s plenty of cheese.”

“I can’t quite account for your preoccupation with cheese, and perhaps it’s just as well. All right, I’ll take that quarter hour. Did you say something about sausage?”

“I did. See for yourself.”

To her surprise he obeyed, abandoning his post, probably not for more than fifteen minutes or so, but still actually turning his back on the bathtub and its occupant to focus, however briefly, upon food, warmth, and respite.

They found a couple of earthenware plates, filled them with edibles requiring no preparation, and seated themselves side by side on the hearthstone; whereupon Jianna discovered how famished and tired she really was. For the next several minutes, the rapid transference of food from plate to stomach occupied her full attention.

Eventually the edge of hunger dulled, the pace of chewing slackened, and she settled back with a sigh. Her back ached with fatigue, likewise her shoulders and arms, but the heat of the fire behind her was wonderfully comforting. Her sodden garments were starting to dry and the warmth was working its way through to her bones, but her feet, shod in soaked slippers, were still cold. She slipped the wet shoes off and looked at them. The ridiculously delicate kidskin trifles, once deep red in color and polished to a rich shine, were now stained, dull, and deteriorating. The right vamp was starting to split; the left sole had a worn spot on the verge of turning into a hole. They were the only shoes she had and, when they were gone, she would go barefoot, else wrap her feet in rags like the most miserable of Spidery beggars.

And once again the sense of time’s flight broke upon her mind, reminding her that she should have been rescued long ago, for each passing day bore her on toward disaster. Her father should never have allowed her to remain in this hideous place long enough for her shoes to disintegrate. It was inexcusable.

But what if he’s sick? What if he’s dead?

Nonsense. Aureste Belandor was never ill, and he was too strong to allow death to overtake him before the task of recovering his daughter had been completed.

Nobody’s that strong
.

“In soul?”

“What?”

“Insole,” Rione suggested. “New leather insole with reinforcement where needed. And the split can be stitched up. There’s still a deal of use left in those little shoes of yours.”

“Perhaps, if only I had the leather. And something to pierce it with. An awl, maybe? I have neither of these things, and I don’t think that Yvenza is about to give them to me.”

“You’ll find them if you try. I have every confidence in your ingenuity.”

“You do?” Her fatigue began to recede.

“I do indeed, but you won’t need to use it. A word in Deedro’s ear should do the trick.”

“Whose ear?”

“Deedro. Household steward. Lord of the Supply Closets. Don’t you know Deedro?”

“Sparse grey hair, wattles, sour expression, always sucking on a foul clay pipe?”

“The very man. He’s the one to ask.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve smiled at him a couple of times and he pretended he didn’t see me.”

“No pretense about it. He’s extraordinarily nearsighted.”

“And I did try asking him a question one morning and he sort of—barked at me. I thought he might be rabid, so I shaved off.”

“You should never have approached him in the morning, when his aches are at their worst. He’s no good until noon or thereabouts. Midafternoon would be best. Ask him about his left knee, then look interested while he tells you. That will put him in a good humor.”

“You sound as if you speak from experience.”

“Much experience. Some of my most vivid memories of childhood involve unsuccessful attempts to wheedle favors out of Deedro. It took me years to perfect the technique, but you should find it easy.”

“It doesn’t sound easy. So—you’ve known this Deedro charmer since childhood. You grew up near Ironheart?”

“I grew up within Ironheart. Didn’t I ever mention that?”

Are you in earnest? When do you ever mention anything about yourself?
“Not that I recall,” she returned nonchalantly. “But how did you come to live here? You aren’t kin to Yvenza and her people, are you? Nor a foster son, exactly. Nor are you a—a—”

“A servant?” he prompted.

She nodded.

“Many would regard me as such, but I choose to think otherwise.”

“Explain the riddle.”

“Maidenlady, I won’t weary you with tedious reminiscence.”

“Come, you’ve piqued my interest,” she encouraged with an easy air designed to mask blazing curiosity. “Speak on.”

“Very well. I should tell you then that I am the sole son of that Dr. Strazinz Rione who was personal physician to the Magnifico Onarto Belandor, years ago in Vitrisi. My father was much favored by the magnifico, who lodged our family—my father, my mother, myself—within his own palace. My very earliest recollections, so distant that I can scarcely distinguish them from dreams, are of that vast and glittering place.”

“Belandor House? You once lived at Belandor House?” Jianna exclaimed, astonished and almost inclined to disbelieve.

“So I was told. I remember, just barely, a great vaulted ceiling, unimaginably lofty, with a vast round skylight of colored glass. This skylight bore the image of the sun, his face wreathed in flame, worked in a score or more varying shades of golden glass. Even the greyest daylight, filtering through that glass, took on the tint of the sun, and it seemed as if the lords of that palace possessed the power to rule the elements.”

“You’re describing the skylight above the central stairway. That
is
Belandor House! You really
were
there!”

“Or else someone told me. But I think I remember. In any event, I wasn’t there for very long. The great change occurred, driving the Magnifico Onarto, his family, and a clutch of his retainers out of the city and into the wilderness. I don’t remember much of that. It happened at night in the winter, I think. It was dark and quiet, swift and secret. My mother carried me. I remember cold air on my face. I remember shaking, because the arms that held me were shaking, with cold or fear or both. I remember being inside a carriage with strange sounds and an odd odor; scorching wool, I think. Someone must have heated the bricks for the footwarmers too hot. Then there’s a long gap; I don’t know how long. I next remember being here at Ironheart, much smaller and less grand a place than the magnifico’s palace in the city, but still the same in some respects. My father continued on as personal physician to Onarto Belandor and all his family, and we Riones still resided within the magnifico’s own household.