The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  A shocked squeal escaped her. The water was shallow, only a few inches above knee level, but it was shudderingly cold. Thrashing, she struggled to stand up; half rose, slipped again on the rocks of the streambed, and sat down hard; tried again, and this time managed to find her footing. Pain shot through her ankle; beyond question it was twisted or sprained. Or broken. No; if it were broken, she would not be standing on it.

  Gathering up the burden of her drenched skirts, she limped the rest of the way across. By the time she reached the bank, the ache in her ankle was fierce and steady. She paused to inspect the damage. The joint was already starting to swell, despite the frigid bath; soon it would be worse. Impractical to continue walking on it. Impossible not to. She glanced about in search of a good stick or fallen branch to use as a cane, but there was none to be seen. Her eyes stung and, rather than giving way to tears, she spat an expletive, one that she had sometimes caught upon the servants’ lips when they did not know that the magnifico’s daughter overheard them. Setting her chin, she made haltingly for the gap in the underbrush.

  * * *

  The sentry sat on the ground with his back resting against the wall. His lungs were pleasurably filled with tobacco smoke, his mind pleasurably empty. The jolt of a hobnailed boot striking his ribs roused him from his reverie, and he looked up to find Master Onartino standing above him. As usual, Master Onartino’s eyes expressed nothing at all, but his face was flushed and his breath alcoholic. The sentry scrambled to his feet. Removing the pipe from his mouth, he stiffened in anticipation of a reprimand, probably accompanied by a blow. He received neither.

  “Where is she?” demanded Onartino.

  “Sir?” mumbled the sentry, surprised.

  “The girl. The hothouse flower, the rare bird, the princess. Where is that little slut?” Onartino neither raised his voice nor slurred his words, but the red stain suffusing his face darkened as he spoke.

  “Kneeser’s daughter?” The sentry’s surprise deepened, luring him into imprudence. “What d’you want with her, then?”

  He had gone too far. His mistress’ son struck him, and he staggered a little but stayed on his feet.

  But the alcohol must have loosened Master Onartino’s tongue, for—having expressed his disapproval—he deigned to answer the question, after a fashion.

  “Anything I like,” muttered Onartino, almost to himself. “She’s mine.”

  He was a little premature, but the sentry voiced no objection, merely extending an indicative finger toward the kalkrios bushes. “Picking,” he explained.

  “I don’t see her.”

  “Then she must be down on the ground going for the low leaves. She’s coming up a pretty fair picker.”

  “You let her out of your sight, clodpoll?”

  “Grumper’s there, sir. He’ll hold ’er, right enough.”

  “You’d better pray that he does.” So saying, Onartino turned and made for the shrubbery. At the end of the longest row, where the bushes grew high and thick enough to furnish adequate cover, he found the brindled boarhound alone, fast asleep on the ground. An angry exclamation drew no response. Bending low, he shouted the dog’s name, but Grumper slept on. Two or three light kicks availed nothing, and a heavier one proved equally ineffectual. Onartino’s red face went purple. A short cudgel materialized in his hand, and blows rained down on the unconscious dog. Grumper stirred and whimpered, but never woke. Eventually his stirring ceased and he lay very still. Blood spotted his head and muzzle.

  Onartino drew back a step. His face was expressionless as ever, save for the small vertical line that dented his brow. His mother set great store by that dog. For some seconds, he stood staring down at the motionless animal, then appeared to reach a decision.

  “It’s her,” he announced aloud. “No matter. There’s nothing I can’t track.” His proven prowess as a hunter supported this claim. He glanced up at the sky, whose grey uniformity threatened rain. All to the good. Her feet would leave deep prints on moist ground. “Nothing I can’t track,” he repeated, and set off into the woods at a smart pace.

  * * *

  Jianna was soaked and freezing. Her ankle throbbed cruelly. She yearned beyond expression to stop and rest. But they might be close upon her trail, for they were surely hunting her by now. Servants from Ironheart—perhaps even Yvenza herself; Yvenza, who would welcome the opportunity to punish her. She could not afford to linger.

  There was no human help in sight, but her searching eye fell upon an object of potential value—a big fallen branch, long and sturdy enough to suit her needs, lying beside the trail. She picked it up, took a moment to strip off a few twigs, then tried leaning her weight on the new staff. Yes, it offered good, solid support. And when she attempted a few careful steps, she found herself favoring the bad ankle in a way that distinctly diminished the pain. With the aid of the staff, she could walk for at least a while longer.

  On she hobbled through a dim, wet world. The trail was softening beneath her feet, and she sank into the mud with each step. Her heavy, sopping skirts and cloak weighed her down without excluding the cold in the least; her teeth chattered, and she was shivering. Deliberately she filled her mind with warming images—home, family, defeat and capture of the outlaw Belandors, the magnifico’s vengeance upon the abductors of his daughter … happy thoughts.

  The trail leveled and widened. A thick carpet of fallen leaves covered much of the mud. Here the way was not so difficult, but Jianna’s spirits hardly rose, for every instinct shouted that pursuit was gaining on her. And how should it be otherwise, when ill luck and injury held her best pace to a hobble? She glanced back over her shoulder for the thousandth time. Still nobody there. Yet. Help, she needed human help. Immediately.

  She tried to push herself to greater speed, but her ankle rebelled. Such a fierce pang smote her that she cried out and halted, jaw clenched. When she resumed progress moments later, her pace was slower than ever and she leaned heavily on the staff.

  The trail curved to circle a granite outcropping, and it took her centuries to toil her way around the great rock. An eon expired, and then the path unbent itself to push straight on through an endless soggy wilderness empty of human life.

  But not quite empty. The curtains of pouring rain seemed to part slightly, allowing passage of a large, dark shape of indeterminate species, which presently resolved itself into a human on horseback. A rain hood and an enveloping cloak obscured all details of face and figure, including gender. Jianna cared nothing for details. What mattered was that this rider clearly had not pursued her from Ironheart. Relief and intense gratitude filled her. She called out and the hooded head lifted, but she still could not make out a face. She struggled forward at her fastest limp, and the stranger advanced to meet her. Presently they confronted one another and now she could see that the face beneath the dripping hood was masculine and mature but not elderly. The eyes were light in color and intent in expression.

  “Help me, please help me,” Jianna appealed.

  He dismounted at once. “Lost?” he inquired.

  “Very. And worse. I was abducted, held prisoner.” The words tumbled out. “I managed to escape only a little while ago and I ran away, but slipped while crossing the stream and hurt my ankle, and now I can barely walk, much less run, and they’re sure to be hunting me. They know these woods, they can travel much faster than I can, the dog may have awakened, they may be using him to track me, and they could catch up any second now. If they find me, they’ll drag me back to that place and I know I’ll never get away again, never. I can’t let that happen, they’re vicious demented criminals and they’ve got horrible plans for me. Please, please, help me get home. My father will be so grateful, he’ll reward you well, really well, I promise. But we need to go now, right now before they find me—”

  “Stop. Take a deep breath,” he advised.

  His voice was low-pitched and possessed of a singularly soothing quality. Her breathing eased at the mere sound of it, and she followed hi
s instructions without thought.

  “And another.”

  Again she obeyed.

  “Good. Now calm yourself, there’s nothing more to fear. You’ve been found and you are safe. First we’ll tend to your injured ankle, and then we’ll see about returning you to your friends and family.”

  So compelling and reassuring was his voice, so gentle his manner, that it took her a moment to notice that he had simply disregarded her attempted explanation. And why wouldn’t he? Her own voice echoed in her mind: … abducted, held prisoner … sure to be hunting me … the dog … horrible plans for me … It all sounded absurd, a fever dream or the outcry of a hysteric. If she wanted him to believe her, she had better control herself, moderate her language and her tone.

  “Thank you. I am very eager to return to my family,” she returned quietly. “My father is in Vitrisi. Will you please escort me back to him?”

  “That is hardly practical.”

  “It isn’t? Why not?” Jianna was nonplussed. Perhaps his voice had misled her, for he spoke with the accent of an educated Vitrisian and she had unconsciously classified him at the first sound of it. She was a lady of Vitrisi in distress; as a gentleman of her city, he should stand ready to assist her by any and all means within his power.

  “Vitrisi is days distant, and I am wanted here.”

  “But what am I to do? I tell you I must go home to my father! He can protect me from those criminals. Do you not understand?” Her voice was rising again, despite her efforts to control it. “I’m in danger, they’re hunting me, they’re depraved lunatics with a grudge against my father, and I need your help!”

  “You shall have that,” he assured her. “Let us see first to your ankle and proceed from there. Come, seat yourself.”

  Once again his low, unhurried voice exerted a curiously calming effect, and without argument she sat down on a rock and waited a moment while he tethered his horse, then extracted a small leather pouch from one of the saddlebags. This done, he knelt before her and paused courteously. “With your permission.”

  He was a stranger and they were alone in the wild, but somehow she did not hesitate a moment to draw her skirts back a few inches, exposing her foot and swollen ankle to view. His brows rose at sight of her delicate, waterlogged shoe. He removed it and set it aside. Then he took her ankle in both of his hands and still, such was the power of his voice and manner, she was not frightened or offended in the least. His touch was warm, light, and sure. Exploratory pressure here and there produced only the mildest of twinges. A brief examination sufficed to satisfy him.

  “You’ve strained your ankle,” he told her. “No doubt it’s painful, but the injury is minor. A few days of rest should effect a cure, although I’d recommend favoring the ankle for another month or so thereafter. In the meantime—” The leather pouch yielded a roll of spotlessly clean bandages. One of these he wound around her ankle and fastened with a small metal clasp, his movements so deft and precise that the operation was painlessly completed within seconds. He slipped the shoe back onto her foot and stood.

  “I’ve never seen anything quite like that before.” Jianna studied her well-wrapped joint in wonder. The bandage was fashioned of some subtly lustrous fabric that seemed to offer support without bulk or binding.

  “That is my own invention. It’s made of silk for lightness and strength, knitted for elasticity.”

  “You can knit silk?”

  “Not personally,” he admitted with a slight smile that transformed his face, lighting up the grey-blue eyes. She saw then that he was considerably younger than she had at first supposed. The gravity of his expression had misled her, but he was probably no more than seven or eight years her senior.

  “Surely you must be a physician?”

  “I am.”

  “But how fortunate for me. Whom shall I thank?”

  “I’m called Falaste.”

  “That’s a Vitrisian name. And you speak with the accent of the city, too. You are a long way from home, Dr. Falaste.”

  “The city isn’t my home. I am of Vitrisian descent, but I don’t live there.”

  “Orezzia, then?”

  “I’m nomadic. My practice carries me throughout the range of the Alzira Hills.”

  “Couldn’t your patients spare you for just a few days while you conduct me back to my father’s house? You’ve done me a great favor, and my father will be eager to reward you.”

  “You’ll not be starting any long journeys before that ankle of yours has had a chance to mend,” he informed her. “A week’s rest and then you should be fit to travel. Fortunately, you’re not far from comfortable shelter. Only a few miles from here stands a stronghouse whose owners can certainly be persuaded to take you in.”

  “You’re not speaking of Ironheart?” she cried.

  “Ah, you know it?”

  “Yes, I know it! That’s the place. Those are the people. That’s where they took me and held me prisoner. In a locked closet in the cellar! And threatened me and set the giant dog on me! There’s a family of monsters living there and if they recapture me, there’s no telling what they’ll do!” Her voice had risen again, but for the moment she could not master it. “I’m not exaggerating. They’re highwaymen and murderers. They killed my aunt, my maid, and the guards. There’s nothing they won’t dare!”

  He pressed his hand lightly to her brow for a moment then withdrew it, remarking, “You do not seem feverish, but perhaps your ordeal has—”

  “I’m not feverish, and there’s nothing wrong with my mind! And I’m not lying to you!”

  “I don’t suggest that you lie. But you’ve been injured and frightened. Under such circumstances a little confusion is often present, and misinterpretation is possible.”

  “I’m not misinterpreting my dead aunt and maid! I’m not misinterpreting my own abduction, or the threats and blows I’ve received! Above all I’m not misinterpreting the ruin that I face if they lay hands on me again!” She managed to get her voice back down again, concluding on a calmer note, “Dr. Falaste, you must believe that everything I’ve told you is true.”

  For a moment he studied her, his clear eyes seeming to plumb the depths of her mind. At last he suggested, “Let’s consider, then. You are a young woman—scarcely more than a girl, really—very well spoken despite your agitation, bedraggled but elegantly clothed, unmistakably of good background and probably high family. At your stage of life, you can hardly have acquired mortal enemies. And yet you accuse the residents of Ironheart—I know them, by the way—of the worst imaginable crimes. These people can’t quite be considered exemplary, granted, but they’re not lunatics and I assume you’ve committed no unpardonable offense against them. What possible reason could they have, then, to use you with the cruelty you describe?”

  “My father,” she returned at once. “They hate my father bitterly. They imagine that he’s wronged them, they hold him responsible for all their misfortunes, and they mean to strike at him through me.”

  “Indeed. You’ve a dramatic turn of phrase.”

  “I am not making this up!”

  “And who is this father of yours that stirs up such commotion?”

  “My father is the Magnifico Aureste Belandor, of Vitrisi. I am Jianna Belandor.”

  He did not change expression, but it seemed to her that his eyes darkened at the sound of the name.

  “I hope,” he observed slowly, “that this is fantasy or theater. You allow a lively imagination free rein, perhaps?”

  “I do not. And I’m not delirious, either. I am Jianna Belandor, daughter of the Magnifico Aureste. Why are you looking at me like that? I hope you’re not another of those bigots filled with prejudice against my father?”

  “Maidenlady, I fear that you’ll find an entire world populated with just such bigots.”

  “Then ignorance is everywhere, and it’s so unjust. My father is a fine man, a kind and warm and generous man. The world doesn’t know him.”

  “Possibly the wor
ld knows him better than you realize. But I will confess, his daughter’s loyalty speaks well for the magnifico.”

  “You’re beginning to believe what I tell you, then?”

  “I’d prefer not to believe, but you are persuasive, and your story possesses its own logic. If you are truly Aureste Belandor’s daughter, then the treatment you claim to have received at Ironheart becomes understandable. It is possible.”

  “It’s more than possible, it’s fact,” Jianna declared. “You say that you know those people. If so, then you must have a good idea what they’re capable of doing to me. My life is over if you don’t help me to get away from them. Please, please, take me back to Vitrisi!” She gazed up at him with enormous pleading eyes. His face was still, but instinct told her that she was making progress.

  “There are other considerations,” he observed at last.

  His objection, whatever it might be, could surely be overcome. Jianna looked up at him. Her lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears, which she made no effort to suppress. She did not let a sound escape her, but stood bravely and piteously silent, tears coursing down her cheeks. This tactic almost never failed to conquer her father.

  And it seemed that Dr. Falaste was similarly susceptible, for his face softened and he looked young again, if somewhat troubled.

  “Maidenlady—” he attempted.

  She turned aside as if ashamed of her tears, but in reality offering him a good view of her pretty profile. She let her shoulders shake a little with silent suppressed sobs. Aureste could rarely resist silent suppressed sobs. She glimpsed the physician’s face out of the corner of her eye and saw uncertainty there. Good. In her imagination she approached the gates of Belandor House, with Dr. Falaste at her side. She would introduce the doctor to her father. Falaste would instantly perceive the magnifico’s essential goodness. Aureste in turn would immediately recognize the physician’s talent and intelligence. With the magnifico’s assistance, Falaste would remain in Vitrisi to establish a fashionable, highly profitable practice. He would be a frequent guest at Belandor House, and she would see much of him. There was something so agreeable in this mental exercise that her lips almost started to curve into a smile. She compressed them firmly and stole another glance at him.