The Traitor's Daughter (5 page)

“Well, when you put it that way.” Her smile crept back. Her tears were gone in an instant, as if they had never been. She was still like a child in that way. “I’ll be good, then. You’ve always known what’s best for me. No more arguments.”

“There’s my butterfly. Now don’t you have a dress fitting or some such feminine mystery to engage your attention?”

“Is that your tactful paternal way of telling me to go away?”

“In a word, yes. I’m expecting a visitor shortly.”

“Who?”

“No one you’d know.”

“Sounds mysterious.”

“Someone to present a full account of the latest meeting of the City Council. There is a reordering of the committees in progress.”

“Oh, a
boring
mystery.”

“I fear that you would find it so. Flutter off, then. Go enjoy yourself.”

“I will. Only first—” Rounding the desk, she bent her slim form to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. “Love you, Father.”

He responded in kind, then watched as she exited the study, struck as always by the easy active grace of her movements. Which would shortly vanish from his house and his sight, along with her voice, her laughter, and her impossibly trusting eyes. Her absence would leave an unimaginable void. Life without her would be—

Grey. Old
.

He pushed such thoughts from him, for melancholia of temperament did not number among his failings. Jianna’s departure was all for the best; she would be far safer outside of Vitrisi. Moreover, there were certain compensations to be found, for his daughter’s removal eliminated one of the few major constraints upon his scope of action, and the pleasures of renewed liberty were already beginning to manifest themselves. One of the greatest was imminent.

There came another knock at the study door, and this time the expected visitor appeared; a woman neither old nor young, tall nor short, pretty nor ugly. Her hands were tolerably well tended, but not fine. A long cloak of grey-brown frieze disguised her figure. The hood, pulled well forward, concealed her hair and shadowed her face. The woman hesitated on the threshold in the manner of a servant or petitioner.

“Come in. You are my guest.” Aureste produced the encouraging smile reserved for those he did not wish to intimidate immediately.

She advanced with caution.

“Please be seated.” He sketched a hospitable gesture.

She perched on the extreme edge of the chair across the desk from him.

“Some refreshment, perhaps? Cake? Wine?”

“No. Nothing. Thank you, sir. Honored Magnifico, I mean.”

“You are quite comfortable, my good Brivvia?”

“Oh yes, Honored Magnifico. Very comfortable indeed, thank you kindly, sir.” She fidgeted.

“You are most welcome. And now, having concluded the amiable preliminaries, let us attend to business. None of your Corvestri household is aware of your presence in my home?”

“Never, sir. Major domo and the others, they all think I’m off about some errand for my lady at the glover’s. Nobody spotted me coming here.”

“Good. What have you to report, then? Come, tell me what you have found.”

“Well, sir.” Brivvia darted a quick look at him. “Not too much. I mean, I sniffed around, like you told me. I hunted high and low. No telling what would have happened if Major domo or even one of the cleaning girls had spotted me, but they didn’t. And it all came to nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That’s the way it went, sir.”

“I am disappointed,” Aureste observed gently.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Are you really?” He had addressed the same question to his own daughter not half an hour earlier, but this time the effect was different. Allowing the full weight of his black gaze to press upon her, he watched the round olive face trying hard not to crumple.

“Honored Magnifico, I tried, truly I did. I poked around in places it scared me to meddle with. The master’s desk drawers. In among his clothes and personal things. Under the bedding in his room. I even checked the pockets of his gown when he was in the bath. No good. I didn’t come up with anything like what you want.”

“I see.” Aureste reflected, then inquired, “And his workroom?”

Her eyes slid away. She said nothing.

“Am I to assume you neglected to investigate your master’s workroom? Answer me.”

“It’s locked.”

“Hardly an insurmountable obstacle to a woman of your resources.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Her grimace of misery suggested otherwise.

Aureste did not trouble to reply.

After another moment’s unendurable silence, she burst out, “Please, sir, don’t make me go into the master’s workroom. I don’t know what he does in there, and I don’t want to know. Just let me stay out of it.”

“This is idle chatter. Come, you know your duty.”

“You call it that!”

“Do you argue with me?”

“No, Honored Magnifico. Forgive me, sir. Only—” She cast about for an effective objection. “It’s not so easy. The door’s always locked, and the master keeps the only key with him all the time. Also, there’s always servants hanging about that corridor.”

“You will find a way. I’ve every confidence in your abilities.”

“And then,” the woman continued, “even if I managed to get in there, ’tisn’t likely that I’ll find the kind of papers you’re wanting, sir. Master probably burnt ’em. Or maybe,” she ventured, “there were never any to begin with.”

“That is an unhappy possibility,” Aureste conceded pensively. “But hardly a disaster that I confront unprepared. Conscience will not permit me to entrust such a matter to the whims of Fortune, and therefore I have devised a secondary stratagem. One moment.” On the desktop near at hand stood a carved wooden coffer fitted with elaborate gold mounts. The lid’s central boss, once displaying the incised initials of the original owner, had been chiseled away decades earlier. Over the course of the years, the exposed raw wood had darkened almost to black. Lifting the damaged lid, the magnifico withdrew a paper packet, which he placed before his guest. “There. Take it.”

“What is that?” She did not move.

“Evidence. Correspondence connecting your master Vinz Corvestri to the Faerlonnish resistance movement. You will take this packet and tack it to the underside of a drawer in your master’s desk. Thereafter you will continue your investigations, which will include a thorough search of Corvestri’s workroom.”

“Honored Magnifico, if you don’t mind my asking, if you’ve already got these papers you want, then why not just turn ’em in to the Taerleezi authorities and have done?”

“The case against your master will be stronger if the documents are discovered within the confines of Corvestri Mansion.”

“Well, then what d’you need any more papers for? Why should I have to go snooping around my master’s workroom when—” Her expression altered as reality dawned. Eyeing the packet with round-eyed disfavor, she accused, “You’ve
diddled
’em, haven’t you?”

“Diddled?”

“It’s a cheat! They’re fake. Honored Magnifico, you
forged
’em.”

“Not personally. I do not flatter myself with the delusion that I possess the necessary skill.”

“You’d rather get your hands on the real article if I can find it for you, but if not, then these fakes—”

“Will serve. Quite right. I knew I could rely upon your understanding.”

“I understand better than I want, sir. This is low and dirty, this is. I don’t like it.”

“I appreciate your delicacy, but trust you will not allow it to deter you.”

“I don’t know. The master isn’t a bad fellow. He doesn’t deserve such a rat job.”

“Ah, but he richly deserves such a rat job, Brivvia. Your master Vinz Corvestri is in league with the Faerlonnish resistance. That is a statement of fact. He has subsidized numerous illicit endeavors, and is therefore responsible for the destruction of property and the loss of priceless human life. Indeed, it grieves me to think of it.” Aureste shook his head. “He must be stopped. In assisting me, you serve justice and you serve your community. It is a highly moral act. You see that, don’t you?”

“I see just fine. Just fine.” She took a breath as if intending to say more then looked into his eyes and lowered her own at once.

“I expected no less.” He smiled warmly and waited. After a moment, she plucked the packet from the desk and stowed it away under her cloak. “Good. That is settled, then. And now, as to the other matter—”

“Oh, no. No, sir. Don’t ask me. It isn’t right.”

“My good woman—”

“Yes, I do still have some goodness left in me, believe it or not, and I don’t want to do it!”

“Come, this is a trifle. You’ve already consented to worse.”

“Maybe worse, but not so
improper.
”

“Good woman, must I remind you that there are many who would find that brand upon your shoulder
improper
, should the matter come to light?”

“That shoulder was burnt near twenty years ago! I was still a child!”

“A child and a thief.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong in all the years since!”

“So you insist. But the brand is still as sharp and clear as the day that iron met your flesh. What would your mistress say were she to learn that her maid bears the mark of a convicted felon?”

“My lady Sonnetia is kind. She’d forgive me!”

“I daresay she would. But your master, Vinz Corvestri—is he equally forgiving? I suspect not. He would turn you out into the streets, where you would starve. But why belabor the obvious? We understand one another, do we not?”

Brivvia looked away.

“Come, what have you brought?” Aureste leaned forward.

Still not looking at him, she reached into her pocket and brought forth a white scrap of lace-trimmed cambric, which she placed in his outstretched hand.

“Ah. Her handkerchief.” Aureste studied the Corvestri family crest and initials S.C. embroidered in white silk thread. Lifting the cambric to his face, he inhaled deeply, caught no fragrance, and frowned. The crisply flawless fabric engaged his attention, and his frown deepened. At last he set the handkerchief aside, skewered Brivvia with his gaze, and remarked, “This object is untouched.”

“Yes, Honored Magnifico. Spanking new and perfect it is.”

“Did I specify spanking new or perfect?” Without awaiting reply, he informed her, “This will not do. It is sterile. You must bring me something that she has used. It should be clean, but not new.”

“I can’t do that! I don’t know what you want with her things, exactly—”

“It is not your place to inquire.”

“But I know it can’t be right. Makes my flesh creep just to think about it.”

“Such luxuriant fancy doubtless furnishes endless diversion.”

“Please, sir, I’ve done what you said. That’s got to be enough.”

“It is not.”

“I can’t go sticky-fingering every day! It isn’t fair; my lady’s been good to me. And I’d get caught, sure as sunset.”

“You must be clever and careful, but that should not be difficult. You’ve the experience, after all.” He cogitated briefly, then informed her, “Next time, you will bring me some small trifle that your lady will not miss. A scarf, perhaps. A glove. I leave it to your discretion. You understand me?”

“Yes, Honored Magnifico.” Her shoulders sagged.

“Come, don’t look so glum. Here.” He flipped her a small silver coin, which she caught neatly. “You are doing fine work, and you will do more before you’re done. Be certain to keep me apprised of your progress. Now be off with you.”

She exited in haste. Aureste sat motionless for a moment, then jabbed a pair of pressure points on the underside of the desktop to release the hidden catch of a bottom drawer. The drawer yielded a small casket, which he placed on the desk before him and opened. Within the box reposed a collection of small articles: a bundle of yellowing letters, a couple of pressed flowers, a curl of bright chestnut hair tied with a green ribbon, a seashell, and an ancient gold ring, blazoned with the Belandor crest and set with a great star sapphire. Very carefully he handled the assorted items, tracing the curve of the chestnut curl and weighing the ring in his palm. His fingers loitered for a time on the letters as if absorbing their content through the skin, then moved on. Presently he placed the new white handkerchief in among the other mementos, closed the box, and returned it to the drawer, which he relocked with a decisive snap.

Still he did not rise but remained where he was, allowing his mind to follow his recent visitor back through the neighborhood known as the Clouds, as far as tall Corvestri Mansion, with its triple turrets and its famous spiral rooflights. In his mind’s eye he watched as Brivvia entered the house, then made her unremarkable way up the marble stairs and along the corridor to the empty study, where she lost no time in fastening the forged correspondence to the underside of a drawer in her master’s desk. All of this Aureste Belandor observed through the lens of his imagination, and as he watched, his heart warmed with the satisfaction of the creative artist at work.

TWO