The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  She bowed her way out of the study, and he forgot her existence before the door closed behind her. For a long time he sat motionless, transfixed by the gloves and the memories they awoke. At last he roused himself from his trance, retrieved the casket from the bottom drawer of the desk, and added the newest keepsake to his collection. He locked the casket away again, and his mind was once more free to roam the Alzira Hills in search of his daughter. Sometimes he thought to glimpse her figure at a distance; she wandered among trees whose leaves were elegantly fashioned of grey kid lined with emerald silk. To the packet of incriminating documents hidden in Vinz Corvestri’s desk, he gave no thought at all.

  TEN

  The maggots were exceptionally large, probably the largest she had ever seen; not that she had made a comparative study. They were mauve in color and startlingly visible within the dark cavity of the wound.

  “Is it my imagination, or are those things glowing?” inquired Jianna.

  “It isn’t your imagination. They do possess a measure of luminosity. I bred them for that, among other things. It makes them much easier to see,” Dr. Rione explained.

  “You bred them? Yourself? Those slimy, repulsive little horrors?”

  “Come, maidenlady. That’s rather harsh. Perhaps they aren’t the loveliest of creatures, but they are highly useful, and utility possesses its own beauty.”

  “None that I can appreciate. To me they’re horrid, disgusting worms that eat corpses.”

  “You do them an injustice. True, they are the gluttons of the graveyard, but they’re also the devoted drudges of the sickroom. You already know that a wound of the most trivial nature becomes deadly when a portion of the injured tissue dies, for the dead matter swiftly poisons the living, and the infection spreads throughout the body.”

  Jianna nodded sagely. In fact, she had known none of this, but did not wish to appear ignorant before the doctor.

  “The only remedy lies in the removal of the necrotic flesh,” Rione continued. “To this end the surgeon labors with his scalpel. But he is only human. His instrument is clumsy, his vision dull. He misses small quantities of dead matter, leaving them in place to renew the infection; else he excises too aggressively, needlessly deepening the wound. But these small creatures commit no such errors. They devour dead tissue down to the last particle but never touch living matter. Thus they cleanse the wound with a precision and thoroughness beyond the ability of any human physician. Now will you regard them with a kindlier eye?”

  “Perhaps. From a safe distance.”

  “Oh, you’ll be safe enough so long as the little fellows don’t mistake you for a corpse, which they’re unlikely to do—you are almost conspicuously vital. Now I want you to stand at my right with that bowl of maggots. The workers on site are sated; I’m sending in reinforcements.”

  “How can you tell that they’re sated?”

  “Their movements alter. And they exude a certain pensive melancholy.”

  “I’ll wager that’s not all they exude. Here.” Jianna extended a moist earthenware bowl. A quick glance down at the squirming contents roused some distaste, but no terror or nausea. Her tolerance for such tasks was proving unexpectedly high. “Can you reach them?”

  “He can’t do anything if he doesn’t stop chattering.” The wounded Ghost on the cot spoke up in a slow voice slurred with kalkriole. He was extremely young, probably no more than fifteen or sixteen, small and thin, very pale beneath a multitude of freckles. The maggot-crawling hole in his lower leg promised inevitable amputation; but Dr. Rione continued to battle infection long beyond the point at which most physicians would have called for the bone saw.

  “Awake are you, young Broso?” Rione observed with a smile.

  “Wide awake,” muttered Broso with patent untruth. His eyelids drooped. “Wide … wide … wide.”

  “Any pain?”

  “Feeling fine. Bring on the worms.”

  “They’re already at work. You go to sleep.”

  “Wide awake.” Broso’s eyes shut. He slept.

  Using blunt-nosed tweezers, Rione transferred a number of maggots from bowl to wound. Jianna watched, admiring the deft economy of his movements. He was right about the change in the aspect of the sated worms. They were slow and placid, while the reinforcements were vigorously wriggly. It was easy to spot the difference.

  “You needn’t watch this,” Rione told her. “I know it’s hard for you.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she assured him.

  “It isn’t?”

  “Well, of course it’s revolting, but at the same time it’s rather interesting.”

  “You surprise me.” For a moment, his attention shifted from his patient to her face.

  “I surprise myself.” This was true. “I thought all this would be far worse.”

  “For most young women of your upbringing, it would be difficult to endure.”

  “What do you know of my upbringing?”

  “Nothing definite, but I surmise that your life has been easy, pleasant, and all but devoid of ugliness.”

  “Until I came here. But that doesn’t make me squeamish or spineless.”

  “Indeed. They keep reminding me that you are your father’s daughter.”

  “I consider that a compliment.”

  “You might also consider setting that bowl aside and fetching me a fresh roll of bandages. Step lively.”

  The dressing that he had removed from Broso’s wound was almost fresh, marked only with a few wet splotches. Most physicians would not have hesitated to reuse it, but Rione was unlike most physicians. She had already discovered that his habits and theories were distinctly unconventional. For one thing, he did not believe in bleeding his patients. His respect for maggots did not extend to leeches, and he simply dismissed the entire theory of sanguinary superfluities. This attitude in itself would have sufficed to establish his eccentricity, but there was more. He had no use for Troxius medals or protective appurtenances of any description. He did not believe in the application of friction or pressure to break a fever. He rarely if ever made use of emetics. He openly scoffed at the theory of malignant sendings. And strangest of all was his passion for cleanliness. She had never in her life encountered a doctor—or a sane man of any profession—so enamored of washing.

  Rione demanded a mad perfection of purity. Everything in the infirmary had to be spotless, and a hard wipe with an ordinary cleaning rag wasn’t good enough. All surfaces, even the floor, had to be scrubbed down with a harsh lye soap. The cleaning rags themselves had to be laundered, and that was nothing compared with the care expended upon bandages, towels, surgical instruments, anything that might actually come into contact with a patient’s open wound. These items were boiled at length, then cooled and soaked in alcoholic solutions. Even the hands that touched the wounds, the instruments, or the bandages had to be doused in acidic solutions of stinging potency. The first time Jianna had been directed to plunge her hands into the faintly blue chemical bath, she had ventured to ask the reason, and he had replied very simply:

  “Because it works.”

  “Works?”

  “Helps to keep people alive. When bandages, instruments, and hands are kept clean, patient mortality declines.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “I’ve observed the effect at first hand for years.”

  “The soap, the cleaning solutions—they’re of arcane origin, then?”

  He had smiled at that. “No, it’s all ordinary. Even the soap.”

  “Then I don’t understand. Why does it work? What’s washing and scrubbing got to do with keeping people alive?”

  “That is the question. I don’t know the true answer—nobody does. There are various theories, but nothing has been proved. The one thing I can state with assurance is that it does help. So give your hands a good soak, maidenlady. It’s well worthwhile.”

  Yes, a curious character, Dr. Falaste Rione. His frank admission that he could not answer her question had won her in
stant approval, for it reminded her of Uncle Innesq, who—unlike his masterful older brother, Aureste, or his prissy younger brother, Nalio—was capable of confessing ignorance, upon occasion. Since then, the initial approval had only deepened. Nature had blessed Rione with exceptional talent. In Vitrisi and Orezzia, physicians possessing no more than a fraction of his skill tended appreciative Taerleezi patients and amassed considerable wealth. But Rione, evidently disdaining affluence, devoted his talents to the welfare of the Ghosts—a choice difficult to comprehend.

  The Magnifico Aureste had always taught his daughter that Faerlonnish resistance was the hopeless cause of crazed fanatics unable or unwilling to accept reality. But Rione was neither unbalanced nor unintelligent; quite the contrary. He possessed one of the most lucid minds she had ever encountered, and his convictions were not to be lightly dismissed. Not that she understood how he had reached them, for the passing days had done little to erode his reserve. He was friendly enough, but hardly confiding. It was understandable under the circumstances, but the reticence had roused her curiosity, and of late she had developed a certain perverse ambition to win past his guard.

  “Maidenlady, the bandages.” His voice broke her reverie.

  “One moment.” She hopped into action.

  “Mind the ankle,” Rione advised.

  “Oh—you know, I’d forgotten about that. I think it’s all better now.” The moment the words popped out of her mouth, Jianna regretted them. Better, far better to persuade her captors that she remained incapacitated and half crippled. If they believed that, then perhaps their vigilance would slacken, and perhaps her chance would come. But now a single unthinking response had alerted Rione to her full recovery. She slanted a quick glance at him. He was smiling, obviously pleased, and his expression was so reassuring and so engaging that her chagrin dissipated and she found herself smiling back at him.

  “I’m glad to hear that, but comfort can be misleading. Recovery is probably not quite complete. I advise you to take care.”

  Should that be taken at face value, or was more intended? She was uncertain. Could he read her thoughts? Probably no better than she could read his, but then again he was uncommonly perceptive; he revealed that quality in every exchange with every patient. No telling what those penetrating grey-blue eyes of his took in.

  Jianna turned away abruptly. Her own eyes, unsure where to turn, ranged the infirmary, moving from cot to cot. Ten patients present today, five of them in serious danger. Three infected wounds, one case of brain fever, and one shockingly mutilated survivor of Taerleezi interrogation. This last she could hardly bear to look at, despite her newly discovered fortitude. Her weakness would scarcely offend the patient, who—having lost both eyes, among other bodily parts—was unlikely to observe it. In any case, he was usually unconscious, so far as she could tell. From time to time, however, an issuance of moaning babble suggested wakefulness. He was moaning now, limbless form jerking, and she wavered, half inclined to run to his side, half inclined to run away. But no decision was required of her; the doctor was waiting for his bandages.

  Jianna hurried to the cabinet beside the door, withdrew a fresh white roll, presented it to Rione, and watched as he wrapped Broso’s wound. This done, he moved to the bedside of the moaning wreck and motioned her to join him. She obeyed with reluctance.

  “Grezziu,” Rione addressed the ruin firmly. “Can you understand me?”

  No response, no evidence of comprehension.

  “I am going to change your dressings,” Rione announced, and his patient whimpered. “No, I won’t hurt you. Calm yourself.”

  The whimpering intensified. The wreck writhed.

  “Grezziu, you are among friends. You’ll swallow a draught,” Rione promised.

  The noise subsided. The wreck lay still.

  Rione poured a small quantity of a dark syrup into an earthenware cup. “Lift him up,” he commanded.

  Jianna stiffened. She did not want to touch the wreck—did not want to see him, hear him, or exist in the same universe with him—but there was no escape. Mastering vast repugnance, she bent, slipped an arm under the bandaged shoulders, and raised him. He was limp, deadweight, but surprisingly easy to move; perhaps his lack of arms accounted for it. His odor was both rank and wrong, suggestive of decay, despite all his physician’s efforts. Jianna’s gorge rose, and she turned a retch into a cough.

  Grezziu began to scream, his cries deafening within the confines of the infirmary. Jianna started and almost dropped him. Her alarmed eyes sought the doctor’s.

  “Try to hold him still,” Rione directed.

  She did try, but the task was nearly impossible. What was left of Grezziu’s body pitched and bucked wildly. His head thrashed from side to side.

  “Hush. It’s all right. Hush, please,” she soothed vainly. The bucking and thrashing continued. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted several patients watching.

  “Sit on him, sweetheart,” one of the spectators advised helpfully.

  “Choke ’im down,” another added.

  She did neither. Grabbing Grezziu’s head with both hands, she held on tightly while Rione tipped the contents of his cup into the open, squalling mouth. Grezziu’s struggles gradually subsided. He breathed a gurgling sigh and lay still.

  Jianna drew back, and Rione set to work on the sleeping patient’s bandages. She held herself rigidly still as the facial dressings came off. There was no particular reason for her to observe the holes that marked the site of Grezziu’s missing nose. Nobody required her assistance at that moment, but somehow it would have seemed an act of cowardice to turn her eyes away. Likewise she willed herself to watch as the stumps of the amputated limbs were uncovered one by one, bathed, and bound with fresh linen strips. When the abbreviated remnants of Grezziu’s genitalia were exposed to view, however, her equanimity broke.

  Abruptly she rose and retreated to the far end of the room, where a partially open window admitted a current of fresh air. There she stood breathing deeply until her qualms subsided and her roiling stomach calmed itself. At length she grew aware that the infirmary window offered a grand view of the surrounding countryside. Probably the place had once served as a watchtower; from its summit she looked out over miles of forested hills. Jianna strained her eyes. Perhaps if she stared hard enough, tried hard enough, she might catch a glimpse of Vitrisi. Ridiculous, of course. The city was too far away; she couldn’t possibly see it from this place. The road, then, or a path through the woods—anything that might point the way home.

  “You are ill, maidenlady?”

  She turned at the sound of his voice to find Rione standing behind her. He would be angry, of course. She should not have walked away without permission. He probably wanted her to collect bloody bandages or chase down fugitive maggots.

  But he did not look angry, only concerned, and perhaps a little tired. He had been working steadily since the break of day, working far harder than she, never pausing until now. Moreover—it dawned upon her for the first time—he had kept her busy, but consistently spared her the worst of labors. He had not, for example, commanded her to bathe Grezziu’s stumps; he had done it himself. All things considered, he had treated her with remarkable consideration.

  “I’m well enough,” she told him. “I just wanted air.”

  “Then step outside for a few minutes.”

  Kind. He was obviously kind, and the idea that she had dismissed days earlier jumped back into her mind: Perhaps he might be prevailed upon to help her. He assisted those in need, and she certainly qualified. She needed to enlist his sympathies, somehow.

  “I’ll stay,” she returned firmly. “Just give me another moment.”

  “Take all the time you please. You deserve it.”

  “The Lady Yvenza wouldn’t agree.”

  “Ah, the magnifica doesn’t know how well you’ve been doing. Astonishingly well, in fact.”

  “Why astonishing?” she asked, absurdly pleased. Praise from a man of Rione’s talents
meant something.

  “You’ve no experience, no training, and some of the sights you’ve witnessed in this place must be hard for you to bear.”

  “Some of them,” she admitted. “I’m not squeamish, but that poor man Grezziu—”

  “Man? He’s no more than a boy. He’s all of fourteen.”

  “That young? How horrible! Oh, if only they’d known that!”

  “They? The Taerleezis, you mean?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you imagine it would have made any difference?”

  “Why—why, yes, of course it would. They’re not savages.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  “They’re perfectly civil folk, most of them, with decent enough manners, if something coarse. Some of them like music, and play very well. I know, because I’ve met them. I’ve even sat at table with them. I …” Her voice trailed off. He was observing her thoughtfully, and all at once she found herself confused and oddly mortified.

  “You’ve dined with Taerleezi guests in your father’s house?” Rione prompted, quite gently.

  She nodded again and her sense of inexplicable shame deepened, which was ridiculous. She had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to apologize for, and neither did her father, no matter what the world had to say about him. Aureste Belandor was capable of accepting and adapting to life’s realities. If the envious resented him for that, so much the worse for them.

  Thus internally fortified, she was able to meet the doctor’s eyes and answer with an appearance of assurance, “The Taerleezis aren’t monsters, they’re just people, not that much different from ourselves.”

  “I don’t dispute that,” Rione conceded drily. “Were our positions and opportunities reversed, we Faerlonnish would no doubt prove as cruel and tyrannical as our present overlords. But that has nothing to do with present reality. You’ve been sheltered, maidenlady, but you’re no child, and you should understand that the Taerleezis you’ve dined with in Vitrisi are perfectly capable of chopping countless boys like Grezziu into hash. Oh, they wouldn’t do it themselves, it’s true. They are too civil and musical for that. But they issue the orders that cause it to be done.”