The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  She was free to walk the corridors of Ironheart during the day, to venture out into the courtyard when she wanted fresh air, to converse with anyone willing to answer. All in all, not the worst species of captivity imaginable. At times she might almost have resigned herself to wait in patience for her father’s arrival at the head of a rescue party—save for the presence of Onartino.

  The mere sight of him dried her mouth and roiled her stomach. With disgust and contempt, she assured herself. Not fear, never that, for she was Aureste’s daughter and she feared nobody; certainly not some hulking, ham-fisted backwoods bully.

  A killer who likes to hurt women.

  Reeni’s blood drenched her imagination. The familiar dread and hatred stirred. She realized that her teeth were clenched, and deliberately she relaxed her jaw. She was safe from Onartino for the present, safe until such time as the East Reach Traveler arrived to perform a marriage ceremony, and that delay could last for weeks.

  Or days. Maybe only hours.

  Long before the magistrate reached Ironheart, Jianna promised herself, she would be safe at home in her father’s house. But the days were passing and Aureste had not appeared. She never doubted for an instant that he would come for her. But of late the first suspicion had surfaced that he might come too late.

  “She narcoleptic or something?” inquired the Ghost. “No disrespect intended.”

  “I believe she has lost herself in visions of impending wedded bliss, as young women will,” Yvenza explained. Her voice sharpened to penetrate her captive’s unpleasant reverie. “Wake up, girl. Make yourself useful. Take the dirty dishes back to the kitchen. Return the kalkriole to the stillroom. Leave it on the table there. Then you’ll start an inventory of the household linens. You can write, can’t you? Check the linen presses, list the contents, and don’t forget to look in on the laundry. You understand me?” Without awaiting confirmation, she commanded, “Get to it.”

  Jianna permitted herself one brief, defiant glare, then set to work, gathering dishes and spoons with the obedient efficiency of a trained servant. As she moved about, she noted that one of the wounded, awake when she had entered the room, was now deeply asleep. He had swallowed Yvenza’s kalkriole, and the soporific was evidently potent. Stepping to his bedside, she stared down into his sleeping face, then cast a surreptitious glance back over her shoulder. Nobody was watching her. Yvenza and the loquacious Ghost were still mutually engaged, still celebrating Rione, whoever that was … When everyone had given him up for dead, Rione managed to draw the venom out … Physician? Apothecary? No matter. She bent and poked the sleeping man’s midriff sharply. There was no response. He slumbered on serenely. Yes, that kalkriole was powerful indeed. She eyed the stoppered jug with new respect and some speculation.

  Scooping up the last of the empty soup bowls and adding it to her tray, Jianna departed the infirmary. She made her way down the narrow stairs to the second story, moved confidently through a communal dormitory that she remembered, through a connecting closet, into a dark storeroom with doorways punctuating each of its four walls, where her assurance flagged. She thought she recalled walking the length of this rectangular space on her way to the north tower, and therefore did so now, choosing the exit at the far end of the room. She went through into a cubby that she did not recognize and then into a tiny, bare place with a hole in the floor and the unmistakable stench of a latrine.

  She had chosen wrong and lost her way—all too easy in this second-story maze of nested chambers. Inwardly berating the mutton-headed architect who had planned an interior devoid of corridors, she began to retrace her steps. Of course, it might not be the architect’s fault. Probably his design had been butchered by generations of residents partitioning the chambers into smaller and smaller cubicles. She was still pondering the issue when she came to an oaken door whose height and solidity suggested significance.

  Jianna went through into a bedchamber occupied by Onartino and a very young serving girl. The girl stood trapped in a corner. Her skirt was up, her face wet with tears. Onartino’s large bulk pressed her against the wall. His hands were busy.

  For a moment Jianna froze, astonished and almost incredulous. She stood behind Onartino, who did not notice her presence. But the servant girl saw, popped wild eyes, and loosed a desperate squeal. Onartino turned and Jianna gasped. His breeches were undone, his erect member exposed. She had never seen one before, and though she had wondered and sought information often enough, she knew at once that she did not want to see his. Someone else’s possibly, but not his. Despite all alarm and revulsion, she could not look away.

  Recognizing providential opportunity, the servant girl tore herself loose and bolted for the exit. She was through and gone in an instant. Jianna stood staring. When she finally managed to lift her gaze to Onartino’s face, she found that his eyes, as always, expressed nothing at all. He did not trouble to do up his breeches, but remained as he was, mutely surveying her.

  She had no idea what to say or do. Confusion and humiliation paralyzed her tongue, and it wasn’t fair, for he was the one with cause for shame. You’re a disgusting pig and someday you’ll pay, she wanted to shout, but did not dare. Aureste Belandor’s daughter had never feared another human being in all her young life, had never even imagined that she could, but lately that had changed. No need to let Onartino know it, however. With a lift of the chin, she turned to go.

  “Stay where you are,” he directed.

  She meant to ignore the command, but her feet seemed to stop moving of their own accord.

  “You’re the cunning little piece, aren’t you?” he observed. “You play the milk-and-water virgin, but the first chance you get, you come creeping to my room.”

  He deluded or else amused himself. She did not know which.

  “Don’t worry, I have what you want,” he assured her.

  “I came in here by accident. I lost my way.” Jianna found her voice—a small, thin voice, but tolerably steady. “I’m going to the kitchen.”

  “Not just yet. Shut the door,” he ordered.

  Her heart lurched. Something terrible would happen if she defied him, and even more terrible if she obeyed. She did nothing.

  “I won’t be happy if I have to tell you twice,” he informed her. “You should have learned that by now. Since you’re so clever.”

  If she made a run for it, she might elude him in the second-story maze. With any luck she might find her way to the stairs.

  Perhaps her thoughts showed on her face, for he closed the distance between them in three long strides. She would scarcely have imagined a man of his solidity capable of such speed. He had slammed the door shut and placed himself in front of it before she had taken a single step. Now he stood looking down at her, still utterly expressionless, and she was struck once again by his sheer size and bulk. The fear that she was coming to know so well was rising, accelerating her heart and knotting her innards. She could not suppress it, but still she strove to conceal it.

  The face that she turned to him was blank as his own, her voice cold as she reminded him, “I’m on my way to the kitchen, at your mother’s request.”

  “It will wait. Put that tray down.”

  “Why?”

  “You scared off the better game, so I suppose I’ll have to settle for you.”

  “Please stand aside and let me pass.”

  “Back to playing the prim maidenlady?” He cuffed her face, quite lightly, but hard enough to rattle her teeth and the dishes on the tray. “Don’t trifle with me and don’t argue. Arguing is a mistake.”

  The tears scalded her eyes but a rush of hatred burned them away before they fell. For a moment anger conquered fear, stiffening her spine. “You let me out right now or I’ll scream the roof down.”

  “Scream all you like, you stupid sow. Nobody will care. Want something to scream about?” He slapped her again.

  She staggered, and one of the soup bowls slid off the tray to shatter on the floor. The taste of blood filled her
mouth. She must have cut the inside of her cheek on a tooth.

  “Careless. Unthrifty. Destroys household property. What sorry sort of useless wife is that? Well, maybe there’s one thing you’re good for.” He shoved her and she stumbled backward a couple of paces. Another bowl hit the floor. “I don’t hear you screeching. Aren’t you going to make some noise? Or have you gotten it through your thick skull that nobody will give a shit?”

  “Your mother might,” she reminded him.

  “I don’t see her about. And you won’t go blabbing tales.”

  “You think not?”

  “I think you don’t want to find out what will happen if you stir up trouble.”

  “I will stir up trouble, though,” she assured him, astonished by her own tone of cool conviction. “Lots of trouble. I’ll go to your mother and let her know that you disobeyed her direct orders. I don’t think she takes kindly to disobedience. But you probably know that better than I.”

  “She won’t hear about it. And if you think I’ll put up with these feeble little threats you’re trying on, then you have a lot to learn. Your training starts here and now.” He came at her.

  Jianna did not allow herself to retreat. If she retreated now, she was lost. In any case, there was nowhere to run. At that moment she found herself almost beyond terror, her blood ablaze with loathing akin to exhilaration. Her father’s face was there in her mind, and she knew what he would counsel.

  “Touch me now and I’ll tell your mother everything. No threat or force in the world will stop me. The only way you’ll silence me is by killing me outright and if you do that, then all your plans fail. You lose everything.” She locked eyes with him. He stood towering above her, so close that she caught the reek of his breath, but she resisted the urge to turn her face away. She took a deep breath and continued, “But you can make things easy for yourself. You can spare yourself all that trouble and bother by just standing aside and letting me walk out.”

  Almost impersonally she wondered if he would now kill her or worse. She might fight, but she would not be able to stop him. And afterward, even if she continued to breathe, her life would be over. She did not let her eyes flicker.

  His face was a void as broad as the polar seas. He stood there looking down at her for centuries. Then he reached out and grasped her arm above the elbow, so hard that the pain squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.

  “You’re right about the bother,” he told her. “You’re worth none. It will be no hardship to wait a few more days for that Traveler fool to make it legal. And when he does, you may find that you’ll regret today’s business. Trust me, girl, we’ll have ourselves a merry dance, you and I.” His grip tightened. “Until then, stay out of my room and out of my way.” Opening the door, he swung her around and thrust her through.

  The big oaken door slammed shut behind her. For a moment she stood as if stunned, then hurried away. She still clutched the tray, but her hands were shaking badly, clattering the dishes. Now that she was alone, the sobs burst forth and the tears streamed. She had no idea where she was or where she was going, but wandered at random through a succession of alien chambers until by chance she came upon a stairway. She descended to the first story and once more had her bearings.

  She paused briefly to compose herself, wiped her face on her sleeve, then made her way to the kitchen, where she rid herself of the tray and what remained of the crockery. And then, into the stillroom.

  She placed the kalkriole on the table as Yvenza had commanded, began to turn away, then turned back to eye the jug. Her pulses still raced and her breathing was ragged—souvenirs of the recent exchange with her betrothed. If she remained in this place, she could look forward to many more of the same. But no, she reminded herself, not the same. Today she had escaped almost unscathed. She was unlikely to enjoy such good fortune a second time. Should the threatened marriage ceremony actually take place, then she would become his property, to do with as he pleased for the rest of her life, which was likely to prove agonizing and short. All of this would happen unless her father arrived in time to rescue her, and he was taking too long about it. She could wait no longer. She would have to rescue herself.

  She needed a plan, and quickly. There was already a germ of an idea.

  Her eyes traveled the surrounding shelves, skimming countless containers. No good, no good, no good. Then she spied a well-corked vial, tiny enough to suit her purposes. It contained a quantity of nameless grey powder, which she poured out onto the floor and blended with the dust in the corners. Kalkriole from the jug replaced the original contents. She jammed the cork in tightly, slipped the vial into her pocket, and felt indefinably comforted, as if she had found a weapon.

  She did not know quite how or when she would use the soporific, but she would surely find a way.

  Soon.

  SEVEN

  She needed cheese. Meat might have been better, but meat was hard to come by and quick to spoil. The cheese would work almost as well, and presented several practical advantages. She had secured the necessary bread the previous day, and if it was growing stale, that was actually all to the good.

  The cold-closet containing perishable foodstuffs adjoined the kitchen, which was never unoccupied. But the closet possessed a second doorway giving onto the courtyard, allowing convenient delivery of the assorted furred or feathered woodland creatures that Onartino and Trecchio managed to kill during the course of their sylvan rambles. The courtyard door was barred at night but remained unlocked during the daylight hours, for the Lady Yvenza hardly feared pilfering. Her confidence was well founded. With the sentry’s tale of the mutilated wretch caught stealing salt pork still fresh in her mind, Jianna would rather have avoided the cold-closet altogether. But there the cheese was stored. And she needed cheese.

  Most of the time Yvenza kept her busy drudging away at one domestic duty or another. Around noon, however, after she had finished inspecting a massive batch of mending, there came a lull in the rhythm of her labors and she managed to slip out into the courtyard.

  The air was raw and the sky was drab. A wedge of black birds cleft a passage through the clouds overhead. Autumn was sharpening; time was passing. One of the servants, busy recaning the seat of an old chair, seemed wholly absorbed in his work and unaware of her presence. Another, working the tangles out of an enormous length of rope, appeared equally oblivious. They had not noticed her as yet, but she was scarcely invisible. One or the other need only lift his eyes. She hesitated.

  Audacity possesses its own particular utility, her father had often advised her. Assume a confidence of demeanor and you will go unchallenged more often than not.

  So be it, then. Audacity. Drawing a deep breath, she marched straight across the open space at an unhurried pace designed to create an aura of legitimate purpose. If anyone accosted her, she would claim that Yvenza had dispatched her upon an errand.

  That necessity never arose. Neither of the servants glanced up from his work. Her presence went unmarked or else ignored. The cold-closet door, unlocked as expected, yielded without protest, and she slid through.

  The place was windowless and dark. The air was still and thick with edible odors. Jianna waited and let her eyes adjust. Presently she spied a linear luminosity at floor level—light leaking in under the door from the adjoining kitchen. There were voices and clattering on the other side of that door, and she wondered briefly what she would say if someone entered and discovered her here. Assume a confidence of demeanor …

  Something rustled nervously in the dark. Mice.

  Her surroundings lightened into dim view. The cold-closet was sizable, its walls draped in shadow. She spied wooden barrels large and small, baskets of fruits and roots, hanging garlands of sausage, pale cylinders and blocks wrapped in coarse fabric. She went to work on one of the cylinders, and her nose confirmed her success even before the coverings fell away to reveal a substantial round of firm-textured cheese. Exactly what she wanted.

  Her fingers danced, worrying
fragments off the edge of the cylinder. A few crumbs found their way to her mouth. Most went into her pocket. When she judged she had taken enough, she stopped. The big cylinder was visibly pocked, as if nibbled by mice. With luck, anyone seeing it would assume that such was the case. For the cold-closet was surely infested; she could still hear those furtive little rustlings in the gloom. For some reason the hairs along her forearms rose.

  Time to go. She had managed to escape detection so far, but her good luck could not continue indefinitely. She took the time to rewrap the cheese neatly, then turned and made for the exit.

  Her hand was on the latch when she heard another little rustle and then a whispery voice.

  “Yes.”

  Jianna drew a startled gasp, too spontaneous to suppress and sharply audible in that confined space. No point now in trying to hide. The unseen other, whoever it might be, was certainly aware of her presence.

  “That, too.” The small whisper thrilled. The speaker’s age and gender remained obscure. There was a long pause, and then as if in reply to a silent query, “They do not tell me.”

  Her curiosity almost outweighed her alarm. Stepping resolutely to the rear of the cold-closet, she discovered the owner of the voice lodged in the narrow space between the wall and a barrel. There in the shadows crouched a diminutive, skinny form crowned with straggling locks fair to the verge of whiteness. She descried a little peaked face and pale lambent eyes that seemed alien as a Sishmindri’s.

  “Nissi?” There was no response, no sign that the other had heard.

  “I will … try …” The alien eyes were inexpressibly distant. Apparently unaware of Jianna’s presence, she was speaking to herself or else to some unseen listener.

  Automatically Jianna glanced about in search of the invisible audience, then recognized the absurdity. This pallid wraith of a girl was mad or moonstruck.