The Traitor's Daughter (45 page)

“Oh, believe it.” Onartino’s lips twisted. “Think of the bait. The big eyes, that white skin, the dainty finicking ways. You go and throw the two of them together, give her all the time she needs to sink her hooks into him, and then you wonder that your pretty boy peasant betrays you? What else would you expect?”

“Speak to me again like that and you’ll find yourself stripped, tied to a post, and whipped bloody,” Yvenza advised her son. Her attention returned to the servant. “And you. Last chance. The truth, or I’ll feed your carcass to the dogs.”

“Magnifica—”

The unhappy man’s reply was cut short by the appearance of a white-faced Prenzi, who entered on unsteady feet, tottered across the room to confront his mistress, and announced in a carrying voice, “Magnifica, beg leave to report that Falaste Rione has run mad.”

“Explain.” Yvenza’s face was blank.

“I was on duty at the southeast gate, and along comes Rione, offering to stand in for me while I go get myself some ale. It’s like he doesn’t remember that he’s warned me against it, but I remember, so I decline with thanks. And then he goes loony and jumps me from behind. Uses some sort of potion that sends me straight off. The next thing I know, I’m lying on the ground and the gate’s open. I close it and come on in.”

“The girl,” Onartino demanded. “He had the girl with him?”

“I didn’t see anyone with him.” Prenzi shook his head. “My eyes went bad. He used something on me. I’m sick; I’m going to puke.”

“Well? Enough to convince you?” Onartino inquired of his mother. “Or do you need more?”

“I need nothing more. It is true, he has betrayed me.” Yvenza spoke almost to herself. For a moment she stood very still, head a little bowed, expression uncharacteristically sad, even grieving. Then it was gone and she was herself again, her face cast in iron. “Be ready to hunt at the first light.”

“I’m ready to hunt now,” Onartino informed her. “She’ll run for Vitrisi and Daddy. They’ll head straight for the highway.”

“Falaste will know better than that.”

“She’s got that fool bewitched, he’ll do what she wants.”

“Not impossible. I’ll dispatch riders to the VitrOrezzi Bond.”

“I’ll lead them.”

“No you won’t. Right now you’re stupid with drink. In your present state, you’d only hinder the pursuit.”

“Garbage. You’re just afraid of what I’ll do to your beloved little Rione when I catch up with him. You’re right to fear. I’ll break him with my bare hands and take her on his corpse.”

“Are you defying me, my son?” She slapped him hard enough to brand a red palm print on his cheek. “Try to remember your manners.” He glared at her and she smiled. “Come, don’t pout, be merry on your wedding night. We’ll get your bolting bride back soon enough, and then you may do anything you please with her. She deserves no less. She has poisoned my Falaste.”

FOURTEEN

The march from Vitrisi had gone forward without mishap. The Taerleezi soldiers, seasoned veterans all, had maintained good discipline and made good time. The Belandor household servants had proved similarly orderly, while the tavern sweepings, perhaps influenced by the demeanor of their companions, had displayed willingness and obedience. All had proceeded smoothly until Abona, where the force had turned off the VitrOrezzi Bond and taken to the hillside trails, whose narrowness and steep grade obliged Aureste Belandor to abandon his carriage in favor of horseback. The contents of the supply wagons had required redistribution, with transfer of some articles to muleback. This done, the expedition had pushed forward at a fine pace, but the adjustment had cost some time and dawn was imminent by the time Aureste confronted Ironheart.

There it rose, a heavy, stark stone fortress in miniature, its graceless square turrets visible above a girdling wall, darkly silhouetted against a night sky commencing its matinal fade to charcoal. Despite the lateness or earliness of the hour, the place showed surprising signs of wakeful life. Light glowed yellow at several windows. Perhaps Jianna sat sleepless beside one of them; perhaps she somehow sensed her father’s approach. Aureste sent his importunate thoughts winging to the stronghouse, but caught no echo of his daughter’s presence. There was nothing to tell him that she was there or ever had been, not the slightest quiver of the psychic recognition once afforded by his brother’s skill. He had thought to achieve the same result by sheer force of will, but there was nothing at all. Perhaps truly nothing, now or ever again, because they had already killed the kneeser’s daughter?

The thought was insupportable—and untrue. He had touched Jianna’s mind and spirit, not long ago. She lived, awaiting rescue. Inside that stronghouse, just on the other side of that wall.

He issued commands and his soldiers, keeping to the shelter of the woods, made haste to fan out about Ironheart. And once that was done, the need for stealth lapsed and he could permit the men to kindle bonfires lighting their way as they advanced the two highly illicit cannon on carriages into position, aiming both guns low and straight at the big double gate in the wall at the front of the building. The gate was constructed of multiple oaken layers heavily fortified with crisscrossing bands of iron. It was well engineered to withstand the assault of the arrows, pikes, axes, or battering rams employed by wandering gangs of brigands or by the forces of neighboring rustic chieftains. But it had never been designed to withstand artillery fire. Cannon had never thundered across the heights and valleys of the Alzira Hills, but all of that was about to change.

Aureste regarded the quiet scene—the old fortified dwelling, silent and at rest beneath a barely lightening sky; Jianna’s prison—and a tide of rage welled inside him. In his breast pocket reposed a written missive, addressed to the head of the household and offering clemency to all inhabitants in exchange for the immediate return of his daughter, alive and uninjured. He had promised his brother that he would extend such an offer, and he meant to keep his word. At the moment, however, the defenders had no particular incentive to accept. Assuming ample stores of provisions laid in, they might well imagine themselves capable of resisting a lengthy siege. It would serve the best interests of all were he to disabuse them of this notion.

Aureste made his will known. The cannon were loaded, the gunners applied lengths of smoldering cord to the touchholes, and a double flash of fire accompanied by a double roar split the nascent dawn. Two substantial projectiles hit the oaken gate at nearly point-blank range. A drift of powder-reeking smoke briefly obscured the scene, then cleared to reveal the gate in ruins, fragments of oak and iron lying scattered far and wide, at sight of which the soldiers raised a cheer.

Not a bad announcement of his arrival. Aureste smiled. Calling one of his Faerlonnish bodyguard to him—a youthful giant, skilled as a fighter, but also well-spoken and possessed of pleasing manners—he handed over the prepared correspondence, ordering the youngster to approach the stronghouse under a blue banner of parley. His emissary departed.

All watched in fascination as their fresh-faced comrade crossed the courtyard under his blue flag, marched straight to the front door, and was promptly admitted. The door closed behind him. Silence ensued.

Some quarter of an hour later, the young fellow emerged unharmed, hurried back the way he had come, and presented himself to his master.

“The message was delivered to the head of the household?” inquired Aureste.

“Aye, Magnifico. She got it and read it,” the guard replied.

“She?”

“Aye.”

“Tall, strapping woman? Of some years by now. Square face, square jaw, very forceful and resolute?”

“Aye, Magnifico. That’s it, sir.”

“Ah.” Unmistakable. So the dead Magnifico Onarto’s widow Yvenza still lived and ruled her wilderness stronghold. He remembered her clearly from a quarter century past. She had been a young woman then, but strong and already formidable. He would never forget the determination and persistence with which she had raised her voice against him in the last weeks preceding her husband’s downfall, nor would he forget her nearly phosphorescent hatred. Had she been a man, he might almost have feared to let her live. But the new Magnifico Belandor could scarcely war on widowed women; to do so would have made him a monster or a laughingstock. Or both.

“Her reply?” Aureste prompted.

“She says that an offer of clemency isn’t good enough. She says she wants what she called ‘specific assurances’ of safety and freedom for herself and all her people. She says she doesn’t much care to treat with underage underlings. She says she’ll meet with Aureste Belandor face-to-face in order to name a fair ransom and set the exact terms of the hostage’s release.”

“Terms? I refrain from slaughtering every man, woman, and child presently occupying this backwoods dunghill. Those are the terms I offer.”

“She says she’ll meet up with you in the front court, halfway between the gate and the house. And if anything happens to her out there, then the Maidenlady Jianna gets her throat slit on the spot.”

“After which, everybody in the house dies by slow torture. Did you see my daughter in there?”

“No, Magnifico.”

“What did you see?”

“The lady—Magnifica, her people call her—and a gaggle of her folk standing around with weapons drawn on me.”

“Very well.” Aureste reflected. Yvenza was fully aware of her captive’s immense value and would negotiate accordingly. Concessions would have to be granted in order to effect Jianna’s release. Once his daughter was safe, he would avenge himself. “I will meet with Onarto’s widow.”

A blue banner of parley was invariably honored, yet ordinary prudence dictated at least minimal precaution. Aureste took time to buckle on a steel breastplate, invisible beneath his heavy winter cloak. He bore both sword and dagger, and with him brought two helmeted Taerleezi guards, each equipped with conventional weapons, but one also carrying a very newfangled hackbut, the other bearing the blue banner. Thus attended, he approached the stronghouse, passing through the gaping hole in the wall and over the blasted ruins of the gate. Ironheart’s front portal opened briefly. A trio of figures emerged and advanced to meet him: a woman flanked by two armed guards or servants.

Aureste eyed her keenly. Tall, as he remembered, but a dark gown and voluminous cloak disguised her outline. Her hood was raised against the wintry chill; no telling whether her hair had gone to grey, as had his own. Her walk was vigorous and elastic as a girl’s. Her face was shadowed and even as they neared one another, he could not discern her features.

He halted and spoke without salutation or ceremony. “Madam, before I will consent to extend the hand of mercy to you and your household, I require proof of my daughter’s safety. I wish to see her and to speak with her. If this demand is not met—”

The threat remained unspoken. She had continued her progress and now, almost eye-to-eye with him, somehow summoned a short, heavy-bladed sword from the recesses of her generous apparel and lunged. He was not altogether unprepared and yet so sudden and swift was the attack that her blade scraped the steel of his breastplate before his own sword found its way to his hand and he struck her weapon aside. Simultaneously her two followers drew blades on the Taerleezi guards.

She was remarkably strong and quick for a middle-aged woman. Her recovery was immediate and her renewed assault so fierce that she actually succeeded in driving him back a few paces. For all of that energy, however, her technique was crude, almost as if she had been carefully schooled by some bumpkin. He himself had perhaps lost something of speed but nothing of cunning, and a fluid feint penetrated her guard, bringing his blade to her chest. Some almost forgotten principle or lesson of extreme youth momentarily checked him, preventing the slaughter of a woman at his hand, and she seized that opportunity to jump back out of reach. The sudden movement displaced her hood, revealing short cropped hair topping a smooth and youthful male countenance.

Not Yvenza Belandor at all, not even a woman. A deception, a treacherous attempt on his life, enacted beneath the flag of parley. Anger flamed and Aureste lunged for the counterfeit Yvenza, who turned tail and ran for the house. One of the Taerleezi guards felled his opponent without effort. The other leveled and fired his hackbut. The shot roared wide, but the target—appalled by the introduction of unfamiliar technology—fled for safety. Both men vanished back into the house, and the door slammed shut behind them.