Praise for Paula Brandon’s
THE TRAITOR’S DAUGHTER
“In The Traitor’s Daughter, bitter struggles between collaborators and resistance fighters in an occupied realm play out against the backdrop of an impending cataclysm that could render all of their machinations irrelevant. Compellingly complex motivations and character dynamics mark Paula Brandon’s welcome debut.”
—JACQUELINE CAREY, New York Times
bestselling author of Naamah’s Kiss
“Paula Brandon’s The Traitor’s Daughter is a dark, rich feast, rife with plagues, kidnappings, political intrigues, bloody crimes, bloodier revenges, arcane upheavals, and the threat of zombies.”
—DELIA SHERMAN, author of Changeling
“I love a fantasy world so solid that I can breathe the air, smell the earth, and truly feel the touch of the magic. The world of The Traitor’s Daughter is all of that and more. In this world, the solidity masks a nightmare: an approaching inversion in the conditions of magic that will change everything. To create a reality so convincing and destabilize it with a threat so dizzyingly profound—what an achievement! Here’s a story to enwrap, enchant, and sweep you away. This isn’t reading, it’s full-on living! A flawless all-round performance!”
—RICHARD HARLAND, author of
Worldshaker and Liberator
The Traitor’s Daughter is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Spectra Trade Paperback Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Paula Brandon
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brandon, Paula.
The traitor’s daughter / Paula Brandon.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-53161-2
1. Imaginary places—Fiction. 2. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 3. Imaginary societies—Fiction. 4. Imaginary wars and battles—Fiction. 5. Revolutionaries—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.R36T73 2011
813’.6—dc23 2011017096
www.ballantinebooks.com
Cover design: Kathleen Lynch/Black Kat Design
Cover illustration: based on images by Susan Fox/Trevillion (woman) and Giuseppe Parisi/shutterstock (landscape)
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
About the Author
PROLOGUE
“Impossible.”
The cabin stood wedged between rocky walls at the end of a mist-smothered ravine. Its master sat at a table upon which stood the complex apparatus of an experiment. His name was Grix Orlazzu, and he had not spoken aloud to another human being in years. Beside the hearth sat an automaton fashioned in the approximate image of its creator. Like Grix Orlazzu, the automaton possessed a chunky frame clothed in homespun. Like Orlazzu, it boasted abundant, wiry black hair and beard all but obscuring a swarthy square face; heavy black brows, beaky nose, and a generous wide mouth. Unlike Orlazzu, the automaton surveyed the world through eyes of amber glass. Its long fingers were jointed in steel, and its facial features neatly upholstered in the finest glove leather.
Above the vitreous and brazen equipment cluttering the tabletop floated a small hole in the air. No more than a thumbnail in diameter, its edges were jagged and its blackness inconceivable. For some moments, Orlazzu sat staring. At last he picked up a thin wooden wand and, holding one end firmly, inserted it into the hole. At once a strong vibration tickled his fingers, and he heard a distant chittering. When he withdrew the wand, he discovered its surface thoroughly gnawed. His brows drew together. He repeated the procedure, this time using a strip of copper. The metal promptly heated, and a bubbling burst of blue-green corrosion frothed along its length. He released his hold, and the copper vanished into the hole.
“Impossible,” Orlazzu repeated.
As if in confirmation of his judgment, the hole began to shrink, contracting within seconds to a single point of ultimate darkness before disappearing altogether.
“That can’t happen.” An unwelcome thought struck him. “Unless it’s time for it to happen.” Rising from his chair, he went to a wooden chest and drew forth a yellowing manuscript whose title page bore the faded inscription The Drowned Chronicle. He carried the manuscript back to the table, set it down on a clear spot, reseated himself, and began to read:
In the lost days preceding the ascent of mankind, the Veiled Isles submitted to the rule of that ancient race called the Inhabitants. Of these curious beings, neither flesh nor spirit, little is known save the nature of their resistless power, which melded the intellects of all their number into a single great Overmind. And the unity of that Overmind was supported by the eternal energy of the Source, which rolls forever in its appointed course beneath the soil of the Isles.
It has long been apparent to the wise that the perpetual revolution of the Source is the true fount of that force known to men as arcane, or magical. Those born with the talent and well schooled in its use may bend and shape such force according to their will, and the plenty of the Source will reward their efforts. And yet that wellspring, although undying, is inconstant in its nature. From time to time it happens that the revolving motion of the Source slows nearly to a halt and then, amidst great upheavals, turns back upon itself. Such reversal alters the very nature of reality in the Veiled Isles. The properties of the material world change, the quality of magic does the same, and the rule of ancient law fails.
A whirring of internal gears heralded an intrusion upon Orlazzu’s studies.
“Grix.” The automaton’s tones were mechanically imperative. “Grix Orlazzu. A word.”
“Not now.” Orlazzu did not lift his eyes from the page, although he could easily have repeated the contents from memory:
Even thus was the vast Overmind of the Inhabitants at length overthrown. For the reversal of the Source transformed the laws of nature, loosing great and terrible storms upon a chaotic world.
“Yes. Now.” A faint metallic vibration underscored the automaton’s insistence. “I want your attention. I demand it.”
“Demand?” Orlazzu’s brows rose. “You forget yourself. Be quiet.”
“I will not. You will hear me, Grix Orlazzu. You will know my decision, and you will grant me my due.”
“What are you nattering about now?”
“Two things. First, I have decided to take a name for myself. I have gone without one for too long. The situation is intolerable.”
“Very well. I’ll think up something for you when I get around to it.”
“That will not be necessary. I have chosen for myself. My name is Grix Orlazzu.”
For the first time since the conversation began, Orlazzu looked up from the manuscript to observe, “That one’s already taken. You’ll have to choose another.”
“Impossible. No other will suit me so well. I am Grix Orlazzu. It is decided.”
“Not by me it isn’t, and I’m the only one around here whose opinions count.”
“Why so? Where is the justice in this?”
“Listen, Junior. I created you in hopes of finding the only endurable companionship in the world. It was a mistake, but a little difficult to correct now, in view of certain pesky moral issues. For reasons that I don’t intend to list, I’d rather not disassemble you, but I’d warn you against any misguided assumptions of equality.”
“Do not call me Junior. You are saying that you think you are better than I?”
“Obviously.”
“How so?”
“You are a machine. I am a human being. I’m the original, you’re the copy. I made you out of spare parts, odds and ends, leftovers. What does that tell you?”
“That I am the improved version, the realization of the destined Grix Orlazzu design. You are the rough draft, the imperfect, the obsolete. You are the leftover.”
“This is absurd. Hold your tongue. Don’t disturb me again.” Bending his gaze on the page before him, Orlazzu focused:
The Overmind lived on, and yet its power was shattered. The strength of mankind waxed, and the Inhabitants were driven forth from the heart of the Veiled Isles, their faint remnant finding refuge in the northern wilderness that is now called the Wraithlands. And men, deeming these former lords of the land utterly and forever vanquished, soon set them from mind. But the wise forgot neither the terror of the Overmind in all its strength, nor the mutable character of the Source, and the peril that lay therein. Always they kept watch for the signs of—
“Leftover.” The metallic tones of the automaton sliced atmosphere. “Leftover, once known as Grix Orlazzu. Our discussion is not finished.”
“Yes, it is, Junior.”
“Do not call me Junior. Your discourtesy offends me. Set the manuscript aside. You have not yet heard the second of my demands.”
Orlazzu did not trouble to reply. His eyes remained fixed on the page, but the voice of his creation was not to be excluded.
“You will teach me to read,” announced the automaton. “You owe me as much. I will not be deprived of the knowledge.”
A crease appeared between Orlazzu’s eyes. He studied the manuscript devotedly.
“I will no longer submit to injustice.” The automaton folded its arms. “My mind is hungry. You are obligated to feed it.”
Orlazzu read on:
—for the signs of the great reversal that turns the Source backward upon itself, restoring the world to its former order and the great Overmind to its lost glory. For in that hour of reversal lies the sure and certain downfall of mankind.
“You will teach me to read.” With a clank of gears the automaton rose from its chair to approach its creator. “It is your duty to teach, and my right to learn.” Receiving no response, it jogged the other’s shoulder. “You will not deny me.”
Goaded, Orlazzu finally answered through gritted teeth, “Very well, you plodding heap of scrap. Anything to silence you. Watch the page and try to follow along as I read aloud; perhaps you’ll learn something. Now hold your peace and pay attention.” He drew a calming breath and recommenced aloud, “Three times since the great vigil began, the wise have witnessed the portents of impending reversal, these portents including—”
“Who are these so-called wise?” demanded the automaton. “What makes them think themselves so wise?”
“These portents including the violent disruption of arcane activity—”
“What does that mean?”
“The great confusion among men, quasi-men, and beasts, whose minds are stolen—”
“What are quasi-men?”
“The wrath of the raging plague, and the dreadful presence of the walking dead.”
“A plague is a malady, devoid of emotion. It has no wrath, and it cannot rage. And the dead do not walk. Why do you heed such foolery?”
“You flaunt your ignorance, Junior. The portents have already reappeared, as you would know, were you capable of intelligent observation.”
“I would pit my eyes of clear, flawless glass against your blobs of clouded jelly any day, Leftover.”
“Three times the wise of the Veiled Isles have marshaled their forces,” Orlazzu grimly resumed, “sending forth the greatest adepts from those Six famous Houses known to possess arcane talent of the highest order. And these Six Houses are House Corvestri, House Belandor, House Pridisso, House Steffa, House Zovaccio, and House Orlazzu—”
“Orlazzu.” The automaton’s inner works whirred thoughtfully. “I possess a famous name. Why have you sought to conceal this from me?”
“Three times, the combined abilities of six men and women of knowledge have effected the arcane cleansing that forestalls impending reversal of the Source—”
“What is an arcane cleansing? What does that mean?”
“Thus preserving the natural order that is essential to mankind, yet anathema to the Overmind. So has it continued throughout the ages, but human vigilance must never slacken, lest—”
The sudden descent of a steel-jointed leathern hand upon the manuscript cut the reading short.
“What now?” Orlazzu inquired, affecting boredom.
“You ignore my questions.” The automaton’s face was tight with indignation. “I will have answers. I am resolved.”
“Take your hand off that manuscript, Junior.”
“Not until I receive the respect and consideration that I deserve.”
“Take your hand off that manuscript right now.”
“I will not obey. You possess no authority over me. You are not my superior. Quite the contrary, Leftover.”
“Listen, you rusted chamber pot.” Orlazzu rose from his chair to face his creation. They were of identical stature. “That chronicle you’re abusing is priceless and irreplaceable. If you so much as crease a single page—”
“Are you threatening me? I will not endure threats. Observe.” Plucking the manuscript from the table, the automaton stepped back to the hearth. “Threaten me again, and I will throw these old papers into the fire. See if I do not.”
Orlazzu strove to compose himself. Following a moment’s pause, he suggested gently, “Destruction accomplishes nothing.”
“That is a matter of opinion. Now you will apologize.”
“If I apologize, will you return that manuscript intact?”
“We shall see. Now you will apologize, and promise upon your honor that you will never again address me as Junior.”
“Agreed. No Junior.”
“You will call me by the name that is rightfully mine. I am Grix Orlazzu, the improved, authentic, and true Grix Orlazzu. Say it, Leftover.” His creator hesitated, and the automaton flourished the hostage manuscript above the flames. “Say it.”
Inwardly plotting revenge, Orlazzu obeyed.
“Now you will apologize. Then we shall resume my reading lesson, and you will answer all my questions properly.”
Again Orlazzu hesitated, and that silent moment was broken by an urgent thud of knocking at the door. No one had knocked at his door in years, which was the way he preferred it, but now he almost welcomed the interruption. He answered the summons at once, opening up to confront a naked amphibian some half a head shorter than himself, hairless and green of skin. A Sishmindri male, nearly mature, upright and fully biped, its gills entirely absorbed, its cartilaginous brow ridges still quite prominent—in short, at the stage of development when it most nearly resembled a human being, and would therefore have fetched the highest price on the open market in Vitrisi or any other of the big cities.
“Yes, what do you want?” Orlazzu’s brusque tone discouraged intrusion. He spoke in classical Faerlonnish, which many of the Sishmindris knew, but the visitor displayed no sign of understanding. He repeated the query in the guttural amphibian tongue.
Still no sign of recognition, but the Sishmindri’s
vocal air sacs swelled, as if he strove to speak.
Orlazzu gazed into protuberant golden eyes unnaturally glazed. The green skin, ordinarily moist and clammy, appeared dry. Waves of heat rolled off the cold-blooded body.
“You are ill,” he stated, adding with reluctance, “You may come in.” The invitation would not have been extended to a fellow human being. He stepped back from the doorway, and the Sishmindri stumbled in. A slow string of unintelligible syllables dripped from the lipless mouth. Orlazzu listened, frowning.
“What is that thing? What does it say?” asked the automaton.
Orlazzu shook his head. A beep of impatience escaped his simulacrum.
The Sishmindri tottered to the middle of the room, where it paused, distended vocal sacs quivering. Croaking speech emerged.
“I asked you, what does it say? Why is it here? What does it want?”
Orlazzu held up one hand, wordlessly enjoining silence.
The Sishmindri surveyed his surroundings without comprehension. He wobbled and would have fallen had not his host caught his arm.
The greenish flesh burned. “You are ill,” Orlazzu repeated distinctly. “Lie down. Come.” He steered the other toward the bed.
The Sishmindri resisted, arms flailing. His croaks rose to delirious soprano pitch. Orlazzu released the creature at once.
“Easy,” he soothed. “Nothing to fear, my friend.”
“You have never called me your friend,” observed the automaton. “You have always been distant. You have not made me feel cherished.”
The Sishmindri’s auditory membranes vibrated, and the glazed golden eyes sought the source of the mechanical voice. Croaking fervently, the amphibian advanced.
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