The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  Gloomy. Desolate. Drab. Hard to believe that Vitrisi, with all its life and color, lay but a day and a half behind her. Home, along with everything dear and familiar, seemed infinitely distant. Orezzia, with its promise of vast change, was as yet unreal. There she would soon be a wife, unquestionably an adult, with a new name and a new life. She would no longer be Jianna Belandor, daughter of the Magnifico Aureste, but Jianna Tribari, wife of a noble Orezzian family’s oldest son and heir. There would be a great household of which she would one day be mistress. There would be a husband, family, retainers, husband, Sishmindri, visitors, husband, hangers-on, husband, fresh surroundings, strange ways, husband … a prospect at once alarming and alluring. Marriage, of course, was designed to unite great Houses, great fortunes, great political factions. The personal preferences of the participants, particularly the bride, counted for next to nothing. In most cases. But the daughter of Aureste Belandor was special. For her, things would be different.

  Her happiness meant everything to her father. He had chosen carefully for her, and his judgment could be trusted. He had promised her contentment and she expected no less. With any luck, however, there could be more than that. Practical reality notwithstanding, there was such a thing as love in the world; even, occasionally, between husband and wife. Perhaps she would be one of fortune’s rare favorites. Perhaps the betrothed awaiting her in Orezzia would be someone wonderful. She would not make the mistake of spinning romantic dreams; she was not that foolish. And yet wedded happiness was no impossibility, not for her; she was, after all, the daughter of the Magnifico Aureste.

  Jianna strained her vision as if expecting the face of her future to take shape out of the fog, but saw nothing beyond hills, trees, and the dark forms of the six mounted bodyguards surrounding the carriage. It never occurred to her to hail the guards. They never had anything to say beyond Yes, maidenlady; No, maidenlady; According to the magnifico’s commands, maidenlady. Really, they weren’t much better than Sishmindris. After a while the scene palled and she leaned back in her seat.

  She must have daydreamed longer than she knew, for Aunt Flonoria had fallen asleep, her substantial form lax against the cushions. But Reeni was wide awake, busy fingers embroidering a fanciful letter J in gold thread upon one of her mistress’ handkerchiefs.

  “Put that aside,” Jianna commanded in a low tone respectful of her aunt’s slumbers.

  Reeni complied at once. Her look of guarded attentiveness suggested uneasiness, perhaps expectation of a well-deserved rebuke.

  “I want to speak to you.”

  “Yes, maidenlady.”

  “I want to ask you—” Jianna paused uncomfortably.

  “Yes, maidenlady?”

  “Do any of your friends—the girls of your own class and age—do they ever talk about being married?”

  “All the time, maidenlady. Sometimes it seems they don’t talk of aught else.”

  “Well, and what do they say?”

  “Oh, it’s always who am I going to marry, and when am I going to marry, and how many children will I have, and how many of ’em will be sons, and I want to find a palm reader to tell me, and—”

  “That isn’t quite what I had in mind. I meant, do they ever talk about being already married? That is, about being with their husbands, alone at night, you know—”

  “ ’Tisn’t like they’d be much alone at night or any other time, maidenlady. Not sleeping the half dozen to one bed in the garret of some great house, and mind you, those are the lucky ones. The scullery maids and spitboys and so forth just spread out on the kitchen floor, mostly, and the big shots get the places nearest the fire. And then the grooms and such lay down in the haymow above the stable, per usual, and—”

  “Very well, you’ve made your point; they’re not often alone. Some of them do marry, though, and there are certain … marital functions—”

  “Certain what, maidenlady?”

  “Certain duties—activities, if you will …”

  “Like cooking and cleaning?” Reeni’s eyes were a little too wide. All traces of uneasiness had vanished.

  “Don’t tease, minx. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Are you talking about doing it, then?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then why didn’t you just say so, maidenlady?”

  “Why in the world do I put up with you?”

  “I’ve no idea, maidenlady.”

  “Neither do I. But come on. What do they say about—about—doing it? Tell me what you’ve heard.”

  “Well.” Reeni considered. “What they say divides up in three groups, like. There’s one group says that it’s the best thing in the world, by far. Nothing else comes close; it even beats honey pastries. They say it’s like they’ve never been alive before, and now they finally know what life’s all about.”

  “Yes.” Jianna felt her heartbeat quicken. “Tell me more.”

  “Then there’s the other gang, says that it’s like a nightmare you can’t get out of. Says it’s disgusting, and it hurts, and a husband is like a rutting boar pig that owns you. One of that crew said she felt all dirty, like she’d been used as a piss pot, and she hated her man so bad that she wanted to take a knife and cut his thing off.”

  “And did she?”

  “Not so far, I don’t think. If she had, I’d’ve heard about it.”

  “Probably.” Jianna nodded. “You said there were three groups?”

  “Oh, aye. Those in the third group say ’tisn’t so much to put up with, and they don’t mind, usually.”

  “Well. Not too enlightening. Which group do you belong to, Reeni?”

  “Me, maidenlady? You know I’m not wed.”

  “I know, but haven’t you ever—I mean, even once—?”

  “Never, maidenlady. And I never will, not until the words are spoke and I’m a proper wife.”

  “Ah, you’ve strong moral convictions.”

  “Moral fiddlesticks. I know what’s what, that’s all. And I’m not about to give the lad I marry, whoever he may be, the joy of knowing he’s not the first with me.”

  “I don’t think I can be hearing you correctly. You believe that it would give your groom some sort of satisfaction to find that he’s not your first?”

  “I don’t believe, maidenlady, I know. Why, then he’d have the advantage of me forever and ever. And whenever there comes a falling-out between the pair of us, he could always sneer down his nose and tell me, ‘You got no say in this, I don’t listen to no little harlot. Ye’re lucky ye’re not out on the streets, like you should be, so don’t push it. And don’t be telling me to cut back on the beer, because I could tell you a thing or two. I could throw you out and nobody’d blame me. And don’t you forget it.’ And so on. Oh, there’d be no end, and that I won’t have. I won’t give any man the pleasure of rubbing my nose in it.”

  “I see. Well, that’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.” Jianna subsided into abstracted silence. Reeni resumed her embroidery, and Flonoria snored on. Time crawled, its progress marked by a couple of rest stops and by the gradual darkening of the dull skies.

  Presently her stomach growled and she found herself thinking of the evening to come, with its meal taken either in the common room of the Glass Eye, next inn along the road to Orezzia, or else in her own private chamber. The common room, with its smoky atmosphere and its assortment of anonymous travelers, offered the stimulating prospect of vaguely disreputable novelty. It was for that very reason, however, that Aunt Flonoria would undoubtedly prefer seclusion; and as official chaperone, she was in a position to insist.

  Not that Flonoria was unkind or tyrannical. She was simply old, that was all—old, staid, and devoid of curiosity. Not her fault, but she did have a way of forestalling fun. Of course, Jianna reflected, she didn’t have to accept restraint tamely. Her father certainly wouldn’t. Her father wouldn’t let anyone, even the best of well-intentioned aunts, stand in his way. He’d find a way to get what he wanted—he was that clever
, that determined, and an inspiration to his daughter. In her place, what would Aureste Belandor do?

  Jianna was still thinking about it when the carriage paused for yet another rest stop. She breathed an impatient sigh. She had had enough of chilly wilderness interludes; she wanted the Glass Eye with its comforts and its interesting common room. Still, a chance to walk about a bit was not unwelcome. She glanced at her aunt, still soundly sleeping, then caught her maidservant’s eye. A slight jerk of her head communicated a command. Both girls alighted from the carriage and strolled a short distance in silence.

  They had come to a stony stretch of road closely flanked by thick woods. The bare patches between the trees were filled with fog and impenetrable shadow. The grey air was dank and heavy, the carpeting of soggy dead leaves underfoot slippery and somewhat treacherous. Nothing interesting to see, hear, or do, and wasn’t travel supposed to be exciting? All the more reason, Jianna reflected, to experience the Glass Eye and its novelty to the fullest. She would dine tonight in that common room, eating all that exotic common food among all those colorfully grubby common people, no matter what Aunt Flonoria had to say about it.

  “Reeni,” she remarked aloud, “I think we’re going to have a small accident in our room at the inn this evening.”

  “An accident, maidenlady?” Reeni inquired, smiling.

  “I’m afraid so. You’ll be responsible, but don’t worry—you won’t get into any trouble, even though it will be very careless of you.”

  “What will be very careless of me, maidenlady?”

  “Your treatment of my belongings.”

  “I treat ’em like precious eggs.”

  “Not tonight you won’t. Tonight you’re going to break a bottle of perfume, a large bottle. The one with all that musk and ambergris, I think. I don’t like that one anyway. It will happen while you’re unpacking my bag.”

  “Please, no, maidenlady.”

  “When you do it, try to make sure that the perfume goes splashing all over the place, particularly onto the bedding.”

  “Please, maidenlady, don’t make me. My lady Flonoria will beat me something fierce for’t.”

  “No she won’t. I’ll tell her … I’ll tell her that you’re subject to sudden spells, where you lose control of your—uh—your voluntary functions,” Jianna decided.

  “My what, maidenlady?”

  “Your—ummm—muscles, follicles, and—and your connective tissue. Your hands. Your feet. That sort of thing.”

  “My lady Flonoria will turn me out, then.”

  “No, she won’t, because it’s not your fault; it’s just something that happens to you sometimes. Nobody can hold it against you, and Auntie’s not cruel. Actually I expect she’ll be fascinated. She’ll think you’ve got something wrong with your womanly parts, and she’ll want to cure you. She’s got an entire bag full of nostrums, you know—”

  “Aye, and I want no part of ’em!”

  “And once you engage her sympathies, you’ll find that she’s really quite solicitous.”

  “I’ve seen her solicitousing all over the place, and I’ll have none of her powders and potions!”

  “Well, you’ll just have to get used to the idea, because you are going to break a bottle of perfume this evening, and the fumes will drive us out until such time as our bed linen has been changed and our room properly aired. We shall surely find ourselves obliged to dine in the common room along with the ordinary travelers, but I fear there’s no help for it.”

  “I hear you, maidenlady. I catch your drift, but you got to promise me that I won’t lose my place over’t.”

  “You goose, do you think I could do without you? Of course I promise. You trust me to look after you, don’t you?”

  “I trust you to mean to, maidenlady.”

  “Good, then we’re agreed. Now, when you break the bottle, I want you to let out a convincing cry of dismay. Think you can do that?”

  “I think that’s slopping on too much gravy, maidenlady.”

  “No, it’s just the right touch. You’ll see. I just want you to—”

  “Begging your pardon, maidenlady, but all this is making me too nervous. I got to go.”

  “Go?”

  “Behind a tree, before my voluntary functions become un-voluntary.”

  “Oh. Off with you, then. And while you’re about it, you might practice your cry of dismay.”

  Reeni retired from view. Jianna cast a look back at the carriage, its once gleaming surface now liberally spattered with mud. The driver was dancing attendance on the horses. A couple of the guards had dismounted to light their clay pipes. Three others orbited the site in vigilant silence. The sixth, presumably answering nature’s call, was nowhere in evidence. Nothing interesting to be seen. Jianna strolled on, skirts lifted a fastidious inch to clear the wet leaves but otherwise blind to her surroundings, mind galloping on along the Orezzia road into the future.

  A feminine shriek from the woods brought her back to the present. It was obviously Reeni practicing her cry of dismay as instructed, and very convincing it was, too. Perhaps a little too convincing, for the sound caught the attention of the guards, who promptly dropped their pipes and drew their short swords. Oh, bother. When they discovered the false alarm, they were bound to be annoyed, and there would be words.

  The cry repeated itself. The girl was overdoing it. But an instant later one of the mounted guards yelled and clutched himself, while another tumbled headlong from his saddle. Jianna stared, astounded. The first man, bloodied and moaning, had his hand locked around the shaft of the crossbow quarrel protruding from his midsection. The other lay facedown in the dead leaves. Even as she stood gaping, a second volley flew from the woods and two more guards fell.

  They could not be dead, not just like that. It was too fast and final.

  A hand closed on her arm and she spun to face another guard, the one lost to view the last time she had looked. His face was set so hard that she instinctively recoiled, but already he was moving her, handling her as if she were a piece of baggage, half dragging and half pushing her along. For a moment she pulled back, then realized that he was steering her back to the carriage and abandoned resistance. When they reached the vehicle he shoved her inside to join her aunt, slammed the door shut, and positioned himself before it.

  “Highwaymen?” she yelled at him, and received no reply. “Go get my maid,” she commanded, but he ignored her. Even in the midst of her alarm, the anger rose. She was the magnifico’s daughter, and he was a hireling; he ought to obey her. “Aunt Flonoria,” she appealed, turning to face her kinswoman. “Would you tell him that he has to go get—” She broke off with a gasp at sight of the quarrel transfixing the other’s throat. Flonoria’s expansive bosom was soaked with blood. Her eyes and mouth were wide open. Jianna’s own incredulous expression was not dissimilar. She half expected to see her aunt blink and return to life, but the moments passed and Flonoria remained dead.

  The solid thunk of a quarrel striking the window frame recalled her own danger. Yanking the shade down, Jianna crouched trembling on the carriage floor. The activity outside was violent and lethal, but she could hear surprisingly little. Hurried footsteps, a couple of terse muffled warnings or commands, the snorting and shifting of nervous horses, and the repeated thump of missiles hitting the carriage. Then came a change: The crossbow fire ceased and there was shouting outside, accompanied by the clash of steel. Very cautiously she raised her head and applied her eye to the gap between window shade and frame. Her hands were cold but her fear was under control, for she never doubted her father’s ability to choose bodyguards capable of protecting her. The marauders would be driven off or, better, captured and executed for what they had done to Flonoria Belandor.

  The scene she confronted did not confirm her expectations. The attackers had emerged from the shadows to finish their work. There were four of them—brawny figures roughly garbed in homespun and heavy boots, with kerchiefs hiding their lower faces. They were not the gla
morous midnight-cloaked highwaymen of her imaginings. These men looked like farmers gone wrong. They had set their crossbows aside in favor of plain, heavy blades, which they plied with businesslike efficiency. One of them dispatched the driver within seconds, and then all four engaged the surviving guards. The two Belandor retainers acquitted themselves well, even managing to kill one of their attackers before they themselves were cut down.

  Jianna swallowed a cry as the last of her defenders fell. She must be quiet, very quiet and still, and then perhaps the bandits wouldn’t notice her.

  Idiot. The carriage was the first place they would check for passengers and valuables. Run away. If she sprang from the carriage right now and made a dash for the shelter of the foggy woods, she might still escape. She was young, light, and fleet. Perhaps she could outrun them. Even as she gathered herself to jump, fresh horrors froze her in place.

  A burly fifth marauder emerged from the woods for the first time, and with him he dragged Reeni. The young girl—disheveled, hair streaming—struggled vigorously. Unable to escape, she changed tactics, lunging at her captor to claw his face. In doing so she dislodged his kerchief, uncovering a wide, fleshy nose, ripe lips, and heavy prognathous jaw. He raised his free hand to his cheek, and the fingers came away red with blood. Instantly the same hand balled into a fist that slammed Reeni’s jaw, sending her to the ground.

  This time Jianna could not repress her own sympathetic cry, and did not even try. All five marauders heard her—their heads turned as one—but she hardly cared, for the outrage boiling up inside her momentarily quelled fear. No point in trying to hide, and she certainly did not intend to let these savages find her cowering like some trapped rabbit on the floor of the carriage. She was a Belandor of Vitrisi.

  She stepped forth into the open. They were staring at her—four pairs of eyes above dingy old kerchiefs, and a fifth pair, the pale lifeless grey of aged slush, set in a square scratched face. They might kill her or worse, but for the moment she did not care.