The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  “Nissi,” she repeated more insistently, and this time she was heard.

  Nissi’s luminous gaze focused. “He says, ‘Ask them,’ ” she confided in her tiny voice.

  “Ask whom? Ask what? Who says?” The questions were no doubt pointless, but Jianna could not contain them.

  “He does. The nice one.”

  “The nice what?”

  “They are not all nice.”

  “Who or what aren’t?”

  “Sometimes they get angry. Because I go too fast. Or else they just fade away. But he doesn’t. He keeps up and he’s nice.”

  “But who?”

  “He tells me not to be afraid in the woods when the world isn’t real anymore. Are you afraid when that happens?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thank you.” The enormous eyes widened. “Are you all right, too?”

  “Well enough.” As long as you don’t go telling the world that you’ve seen me in here. Jianna eyed the other narrowly. What would this peculiar, inscrutable creature choose to do? A word in the wrong ear could bring punishment ranging from the unpleasant to the unspeakable. How best to silence Nissi? Enlist her sympathies, perhaps? Assuming a woeful expression, she elaborated, “Only—well, I’ve just been so hungry, so sick and faint for lack of food, so desperately famished, that I finally felt I’d surely die if I couldn’t just—if I couldn’t somehow—”

  “Please,” Nissi interrupted almost inaudibly. “Please promise.”

  “—find something, maybe just a handful of dried beans or an old root—”

  “Please promise that you won’t tell.”

  “Tell what?” Jianna inquired, her rush of creativity momentarily diverted.

  “That you saw me here. That I did the Distant Exchange.”

  “Oh. Oh.” So the white girl wasn’t supposed to be in the cold-closet, either. Jianna’s confidence rose and her curiosity bloomed. “The Distant Exchange—I’ve heard of that. It’s something arcane, isn’t it?”

  “They would not like it. Lady Yvenza—Master Onartino …”

  “Why not? Are they worried about the Taerleezi ban?”

  “They … would not like it.”

  “I see. Well, then.” Jianna considered. Her prospects had brightened. “In that case, I give you my word. Your secret is safe.”

  Nissi regarded the floor.

  Jianna studied the huddled figure. At last, she ventured to ask, “You have the talent?”

  The colorless head bobbed.

  “And the Distant Exchange lets you communicate with others like yourself?”

  Another silent nod.

  It was not so surprising. Power ran in the Belandor blood and always had. Nissi might not be the legitimate product of a lawful marriage, but talent made no social distinctions.

  “Well, then—” Jianna swiftly reviewed possibilities. “Perhaps you could send a message from me to my Uncle Innesq in Vitrisi? He has the talent, too, you see.”

  Nissi stared mutely.

  “Just a short message, only to tell him that I’m alive and unhurt,” Jianna urged. “He doesn’t know what’s become of me and he must be sick with worry. All of them would be.” It was her father’s state of mind that most concerned her, but an appeal on Aureste Belandor’s behalf was hardly apt to rouse sympathy within the confines of Ironheart, so she concluded, “Uncle Innesq could let the rest of the family know that I’m alive. It would be a great kindness.”

  The ensuing silence suggested that the request had gone unheard. At length Nissi murmured, “Family …”

  “Yes. They probably think that I’m dead.”

  “They would … grieve?”

  “Very much so.” Some of them, at any rate. “They’ve offended no one, they shouldn’t have to suffer. Will you help me?”

  Silence resumed.

  “I think you want to,” Jianna essayed.

  “They would not like it,” Nissi repeated.

  “They’d never know.”

  Nissi shook her head.

  “They wouldn’t find out, you’ve nothing to fear.” This last was probably untrue, but Jianna did not let herself think about it.

  Nissi rose to her feet and drifted noiselessly toward the exit.

  “Wait, where are you going? Nissi, please wait, won’t you even send the smallest message to my uncle? Just enough to tell him that I’m still—”

  “I am leaving now,” Nissi announced.

  “No, wait, you can’t go yet, not if you don’t want to be seen. There are servants out there in the courtyard.”

  “They will not … notice me. I am easily overlooked.”

  “But shouldn’t you at least—”

  “I am leaving now.”

  The door opened briefly and Jianna blinked against the stab of daylight. During that blink, Nissi vanished and the cold-closet sank back into comforting shadow.

  If otherworldly little Nissi could wander the courtyard at will, then surely Aureste Belandor’s daughter could do at least as well. Chin up, Jianna departed the cold-closet and made her way back into the house without incident. Once inside, she was obliged to sit rolling bandages for hours, and after that she transcribed the notations on countless crumpled paper scraps into the household ledgers, copying each entry in her neat, fine hand. The afternoon slowly spent itself. In the early evening she endured dinner with the family, and after that she was free to seek the sanctuary of her own room. She heard the scrape of the bolt locking her in for the night, and then she was finally alone.

  The room was cold. Despite the advancing season no fire burned on the grate, for the matriarch of Ironheart deemed such comfort superfluous. A tiny oil lamp furnished the sole illumination and by that feeble light she worked, sprinkling absorbent bits of stale bread with the kalkriole elixir, rolling the bits into tiny balls, enclosing each moist ball within a layer of cheese. Presently she had molded a dozen neat spheres, which she wrapped in her only handkerchief. The small bundle disappeared into the pocket of her gown. This done, she stripped down to her linen, blew out the lamp, and slipped into bed, where she lay taut and wakeful well into the night.

  * * *

  Two more days trudged by without incident before Jianna’s unspoken hope was fulfilled and she was dispatched to the garden.

  Once again she stood amid the thorny shrubs without the wall of Ironheart. Once again she bore a wicker basket that she had been commanded to fill with kalkrios leaves, the last harvest of the year. Once again the woods beckoned and once again Grumper barred her path to freedom. But this time it was going to be different.

  Jianna worked her way along the row of bushes at an unhurried pace, the boarhound close on her heels. Practice had improved her skills and now she easily avoided the thorns. Her fingers flew unbloodied, and the basket filled quickly. When she reached the end of the row, she paused to shoot a glance at the gate in the wall. There slouched the homespun sentry, his attention fixed upon the lighting of his clay pipe. He did not trouble to look her way. The dog could be trusted to control her, and her value as a source of amusement had lapsed days earlier.

  She was unobserved by all save Grumper. Turning to face him, she remarked, “We need to talk.”

  He stared at her.

  “Perhaps we started off on the wrong foot,” Jianna continued earnestly, “but I hope that it’s not too late for the two of us to establish a relationship built on mutual respect and courtesy. Wouldn’t you prefer that, Grumper? I know I would.”

  His ears twitched at the sound of his name.

  “There’s been a certain uneasiness, even antipathy between the two of us in the past,” she conceded sadly. “There was an incident that we should doubtless both prefer to forget. I’m sure that I was at least partially to blame for that, and I want you to know that I regret it.”

  He cocked his head.

  “I want to make amends and start over, Grumper. Would you like that, you handsome boy?”

  A low growl rumbled from the depths
of his throat.

  “Oh, I don’t believe you really mean that. You’d really like to be friends, wouldn’t you, Grumper? Well, so would I, and I can prove it. Just to demonstrate my good intentions, I’ve brought you a gift. Something good, something delicious, especially for you. See, look at this.” She drew the small linen package from her pocket and opened it, exposing the cheese balls.

  Grumper’s nostrils quivered.

  “Yes, you’re interested, aren’t you? And you should be, they’re lovely. And all for you, good doggy, all for you. Here, boy, catch.” She tossed him a tidbit, expecting him to catch it in typically voracious canine style.

  Grumper, however, allowed the offering to hit the ground. He eyed it with interest, even longing, but made no move to touch it.

  “Clever dog,” Jianna acknowledged sourly. “Well trained. But let’s see how untouchable you really are.” She set to work on one of the balls, peeling away the exterior layer of cheese but leaving the doctored bread center intact. When she had stripped off a sizable morsel, she chirruped enticingly, and Grumper dragged his eyes from the food on the ground to her face.

  “Look, Grumper,” she invited. “Look at this beautiful cheese. So rich, so satisfying, so luscious. Can you smell it? I hope you can, because it’s wonderful. I’m telling you, I can’t resist it myself. See, Grumper? I’m eating, I’m just feasting.” She popped the cheese into her mouth and savored it at length. The flavor was unremarkable. Closing her eyes, she loosed a moan of pleasure. “Uuummmmmmmmm. This is so good. I think it’s the best cheese I’ve ever tasted, the best cheese anyone’s ever tasted. This is the high point of my entire life.” For some seconds, she radiated ecstasy, then opened her eyes. Grumper stood transfixed, rapt gaze fixed on her face. A thread of saliva dangled from his lips. Good. “You really ought to taste this, boy. You owe it to yourself. And mind you, I understand that this places you under no obligation whatsoever. I expect no special consideration in return.” Kneeling, she proffered the remainder of the cheese ball on an open palm.

  Grumper sniffed yearningly. A moment longer he hesitated, then his will buckled and he accepted the food from her hand. He wolfed it down in a single gulp, made similarly short work of the ball on the ground, then stood waiting for more.

  “Yes, you love that, don’t you? Of course you do. Here, have another.” She tossed him a cheese ball, and this time he caught it in midair. “Oh, yes, good. Eat up.”

  Grumper complied, and the cheese balls vanished. When he had finished eating, he licked his chops, lay down, sighed deeply, and went to sleep.

  Jianna watched in disbelief. It had been so miraculously quick and easy. Almost she suspected the hitherto invincible Grumper of indulging in some canine version of a practical joke. If she made the wrong move now, he would surely spring to his feet and knock her down, and then the sentry would laugh at her again. But when she spoke his name he did not stir, and when she ventured to touch him, he remained quiescent. She prodded his ribs, as she had not long ago prodded the sleeping Ghost in the infirmary, and like the Ghost, Grumper slept on.

  She had done it. She had outwitted her enemies in a manner befitting the daughter of Aureste Belandor. There remained only the mechanics of actual departure. Jianna, crouched low to the ground beside the unconscious boarhound, cast another hostile glance back at the sentry. Tobacco occupied his full attention. He was not watching her. The moment had actually come. Briefly she considered her situation—poised on the verge of solitary flight into the wilderness, devoid of provisions, money, weapons, friends, or knowledge of her surroundings; devoid of anything likely to ensure her survival. It seemed like a leap off a cliff, but the alternative was worse.

  Almost before she realized that she had made up her mind, she found herself creeping on all fours toward the shelter of the woods. The height of the shrubbery would conceal her flight, for a while. Should the sentry happen to look her way, he would probably assume that she had paused for rest, seating herself out of sight on the ground among the bushes, her actions observed by the watchdog. With any luck, he wouldn’t note her absence for long minutes to come.

  She hardly expected luck. Her ears all but tingled in anticipation of a shout from the guard or a growl from a revived and vengeful boarhound. But nothing interrupted her progress, and moments later she reached the dank shade of the woods. Springing to her feet, she began to run. The woods were completely unknown territory. She had no idea where she was going other than away from Ironheart.

  The ground was deep in fallen leaves. No path or trail was visible. She ran blindly. The low branches and brambles slapped and grabbed at her in passing, but she scarcely felt them. She ran for what seemed a very long time, ran until her breath came hard and her steps faltered, and even then she did not stop, but only unwillingly slowed to a walk. On she pushed at the best pace she could maintain, until at last she grew certain that she had put miles between herself and the stronghouse, losing herself in a trackless wild beyond reach of the outlaw Belandors.

  Jianna paused and looked around her. There was nothing to see but the countless grey trees, their boughs thinly clad in the last clinging leaves of autumn, their tops half lost in the persistent fog of the Veiled Isles. She could hear the rustle of branches, the occasional birdcall, the scratch of a squirrel’s claws on bark, and little more. She sensed no human presence; she had never felt more completely alone. The muted scene breathed tranquillity. Surely she need not fear pursuit; they would never find her here.

  A brief blaze of passionate gratitude swept through her, and then the mind of Aureste’s daughter resumed functioning. By this time the sentry back at Ironheart would have noticed her escape and sounded an alarm. They would pursue her; perhaps the chase had already begun. Unlike the fugitive, the Belandors and their creatures knew these woods well and would probably hunt her down with ease. She needed to find help before they caught up with her. A town or village, even an ordinary cottage, someplace with men of decency willing to protect her. Or if she could find her way back to the road, she might meet travelers, a carriage or coach to carry her off to safety and civilization, either in Orezzia or Vitrisi.

  Vitrisi. Home. Father and family. Belandor House. And beyond them, the sights and sounds of the city that she loved. Home. If only she could get back there, she wouldn’t be pushed out again, no matter what her father had to say about it. If only …

  Which direction? She had no idea, but it did not matter. The Alzira Hills were wild but hardly uninhabited. Sooner or later she would encounter humanity.

  She resumed walking, choosing a route that took her downhill. The way was easy, but the ground was stony and she still wore the same fashionable, insubstantial shoes in which she had traveled by coach from Vitrisi. The only pair she owned, now.

  Presently her feet began to hurt. The pretty shoes were chafing her heels, no doubt raising blisters the size of inflated bladders, but there was nothing to be done about it now. On she went, but soon her attention shifted from the pain in her feet to the sharpening pangs in her belly. She had not eaten since daybreak, and now her stomach was making its dissatisfaction known. She should have brought some sort of provisions with her, she realized belatedly. It dawned on her that she really had not planned particularly well.

  She had been resourceful and inventive enough in creating the cheese balls, but her imagination had not carried her beyond the moment of escape from Ironheart. She had never considered her course of action once clear of those stone walls. She had not done so, she now perceived, because on some level she had not truly expected the trick with the drugged tidbits to work. Even now, her success seemed unreal. And it would be unreal indeed if she eluded her hunters only to die of hunger and exposure, alone and lost in the woods. On, then. And never mind the blistered feet.

  People found all sorts of roots and fruits to eat in the wild, did they not? And water? People found edible greens and delicious wild mushrooms. Honey in hives. Nuts and seeds. The woods were absolutely crammed with food,
were they not? And water?

  Nothing recognizably edible presented itself, but the question of water was answered with rainfall; a light sprinkling at first that swelled and settled into a steady downpour. The trees offered little protection, and Jianna’s garments were soon sodden. A grim little breeze punched through to punish her flesh and she shivered miserably. The breeze hit harder, driving cold rain into her face, and her teeth chattered in response.

  But now, at last, an encouraging sign. She had come upon a forest trail—narrow, overgrown, and showing little evidence of use, but undeniably a trail that must lead to something or someone. For another twenty minutes she followed the twisting path down a long, gradual incline, at the foot of which she found her way blocked by a stream. Running to the water’s edge, she dropped to her knees, dipped her cupped hands, brought them forth brimming, and drank deeply. The water was cold, muddy, and more than likely to make her sick, but for the moment she did not care. Repeatedly she dipped and drank until the ferocious thirst born of much exertion coupled with nervous tension began to abate. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, despite the manifest futility. The rain was pouring down, soaking her to the skin and chilling her to the bone.

  The stream, already swollen, ran swift and brown. On its far side a break in the underbrush marked the continuation of the trail. There was no bridge. A succession of big stones bulging above the surface of the water offered the obvious means of crossing. The first of the stones stood no more than a yard or so from the bank. Jianna effortlessly stepped across onto the broad, flat surface. On to the next, with equal ease. Two more, and now she had reached the middle of the stream, where the water ran its deepest and the wet rocks were slimed with dark algae. Pausing briefly to wipe the rain out of her eyes, she took a long hop and landed atop a humpbacked algal plantation. The slick, rounded surface offered no purchase to her smooth-soled shoes. Her foot slipped, her ankle turned, and she fell sprawling into the stream.