The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  Valiantly. That and his look of concern kindled an internal glow that she deliberately extinguished. Concern? He had none for her, not in any way that really mattered. Favoring him with a curt nod, she turned with a switch of damp skirts, marched back to the hearth, and seated herself. For a little while longer she watched him tend his patient; disappointed and resentful though she was, it seemed that she could not refrain from watching him. But soon her eyelids drooped, her eyes closed, and her chin sank. The warmth of the fire softened her bones and her brain. There was no resistance left in her, and she sank without a struggle.

  When she woke she knew at once that she had slept for hours, curled up on the hearth like a scullery maid. The sunlight angling in through the windows was strong and bright. A few kitchen servants drudged at their accustomed tasks. The morning was well advanced. The big rusty bathtub and its occupant had vanished. The puddles were gone, and the floor was dry. Dr. Rione was nowhere in evidence. All of this she absorbed almost unconsciously, for her attention fixed on the trio looming above her. The Magnifica Yvenza stood flanked by two of the larger household servants. Probably the pressure of their regard had awakened her. Serviceably clad in her customary plain gown, the magnifica appeared well rested and untroubled; indeed, her expression was positively benign. Jianna blinked and sat up, absently brushing fine ashes from her face. Nameless dread fluttered her belly. Every instinct screamed a warning.

  “Awake at last, little maidenlady?” Yvenza inquired genially. “I trust you’ve slept well.”

  Jianna nodded and rose to her feet. The long rest had restored her vigor. She was ready and willing to run, but her path to the exit was blocked. Her mind whirred. Yvenza’s air of guileless amiability somehow suggested impending doom, and only one possible cause suggested itself.

  “Trecchio?” she forced herself to inquire. He must have died despite all their care, and now his grief-maddened mother desired vengeance.

  “Idiot Boy is doing well,” Yvenza replied. “Far better than his stupidity deserves. He’ll recover and retain his hand, thanks to my Falaste.”

  Her Falaste.

  “I am glad,” Jianna murmured.

  “Are you indeed? Now there’s a pretty expression of sisterly affection.”

  Sisterly? Jianna could think of nothing to say.

  “My dear child, I believe that I can divine your true feelings. During the term of your residence among us, you’ve come to regard my younger son as a brother, in much the same manner that you have come to view me as a foster mother. Tell me, is it not so?”

  “Who could resist the charm of Ironheart and its inhabitants?” Jianna returned with a burlesque sweetness designed to mask mounting apprehension. Her tormentor was about to say or do something dreadful; she could sense imminent devastation.

  “Ah, spirited as ever, I see. What an addition to our household you are. You know that I’ve regarded you as my daughter in all but name since the very evening of your arrival, do you not?” Without awaiting reply to a query clearly rhetorical, Yvenza continued, “Now at last, following so long and weary a delay, I’m delighted to inform you that the final difficulty has been resolved, and your full membership in our little family is about to become a legal reality.”

  Jianna felt the blood drain from her face. She said nothing.

  “What, no questions? I will assume then that you understand me. Yes, I see by your face that you do. And not so much as a single witticism? Well, at times the heart is too full for speech. My own powers of communication remain unimpaired, and therefore I’ll confirm what you’ve already realized. The East Reach Traveler has finally arrived, within the last half hour. He is ready, willing, and legitimately empowered to perform the marriage ceremony. Indeed, it would have been done already, were Onartino anywhere to be found. It seems that my lusty lad departed at dawn upon one of his hunting expeditions. No fear, however—he’ll be back by sunset if not before, and then we’ll proceed. Therefore rejoice, maidenlady—this is your wedding day.”

  TWELVE

  What would Father do? The perennial question flashed across her mind, but this time there was no answer. No stratagem, no evasion, argument, threat, bribe, or plea would serve her. There was no room left for maneuvering, and Aureste Belandor himself would be powerless to escape the trap.

  The thought was wholly unnerving, and for a moment Jianna gave way to uncharacteristic panic. Without thought or reason she made a dash for the nearest doorway, the exit out into the courtyard. One of the servants caught her before she had taken two steps. His hand closed on her upper arm, jerking her to a halt. Still driven entirely by instinct, she wheeled and raked his cheek with her fingernails. Her captor yelped but did not let go. Immediately the second servant caught her wrist. She brought her heel down hard on his instep, but the attack went unnoticed, neutralized by a pair of thick work boots.

  “That was rude,” Yvenza observed with a smile. “And silly. I believe it’s the first time I’ve ever seen you display true stupidity. Probably it won’t be the last.”

  “I’ll never marry your filthy swine of a son!” Jianna yelled, too furious and terrified to govern her own tongue. “You can drag me to the magistrate, but I’ll never speak the words, and without the words there’s no marriage!”

  “Quite right.” Yvenza nodded without abandoning her air of tranquil amusement. “But we discussed this issue, as I recall, upon the evening of your arrival. Allow me to refresh your memory, in simple terms that you can’t fail to understand. This night you lodge with Onartino. Whether you go to him as his lawful wife or as his whore—and thereafter, anybody’s whore—is entirely up to you. But go to his bed you will.”

  “I’ll kill myself before I let him touch me.”

  “I think not. Suicide is an expression of despair, and a creature of your temperament never loses hope.”

  “I’ll kill him, then.”

  “Ah, there she is, the true daughter of Aureste Belandor. I thank you for the warning. I believe my son capable of self-defense, but in the interest of safety I’ll relay your threat, which he may address as he sees fit. What a blazing night the two of you will enjoy, to be sure.”

  “We’ll all of us enjoy a blazing night when I burn the roof above your head, you vile hag.”

  “Manners, daughter.” Yvenza advanced a pace and slapped Jianna’s face soundly. “I don’t tolerate disrespect. In order to spare you further embarrassment, I am sending you to your chamber, where you may compose yourself and repair your appearance as best you can. Remove her,” she directed the servants.

  They obeyed at once, the two of them hustling Jianna out of the kitchen, along the corridors to the southwest turret, and up the stairs. She struggled and resisted every step of the way, mindless of the absurd futility. When they reached her room, they pushed her in, slammed the door, barred it from the outside, then hurried away, no doubt glad to be rid of her.

  Still raging in the throes of desperation, Jianna snatched up the nearest breakable—the big earthenware water pitcher on the washstand—and hurled it against the closed door. The vessel shattered, its contents drenching the door and floor. Instantly she was down on her knees, sorting through the wreckage for a suitable shard. She found one quickly, a long triangular fragment with a sharp point. Earthenware was not strong, but how strong would it need to be to penetrate the soft skin of her throat? Just one resolute plunge, a momentary pain, and it would be done. And then she would be safe beyond the reach of Onartino and his rampant brutality; beyond the reach of Yvenza and her malevolence.

  She raised the shard and pressed its point to her throat. Then she paused, terrified. The pain she knew she could endure. But the thought of nonexistence was insupportable, almost unimaginable. The world would go on and she would simply not be in it. She was eighteen years old, she had barely tasted life. It was too soon to go; she hadn’t yet had her fair share.

  And anyway—what if she cut her own throat and then her father, at the head of a rescue party, arrived at Iro
nheart an hour later? Or less than an hour later, but just in time for her to die pathetically and bloodily in his arms?

  A creature of your temperament never loses hope. Yvenza had been right. She could not possibly kill herself, at least not yet. Jianna let fall the earthenware dagger and gave way to bitter tears, crying as she had cried her first night at Ironheart. Now, as then, her thoughts flew to her father. He had not come for her. He had failed her. You shall not be trapped in a marriage that you do not desire, he had assured her. Those had been his very words, he had promised, and what was that promise worth? The tears flowed faster. But even in the midst of her misery, she could not abandon all belief in Aureste Belandor’s omnipotence. It was not too late for a miracle, and who was a master of miracles if not Aureste? He could still arrive in time to save her.

  Hurry, she silently enjoined. Pleasepleaseplease. I need you here today.

  * * *

  “I’m leaving today,” the Magnifico Aureste announced. “The Viper has finally delivered, in his own good time. As of noon I command a squadron of crack Taerleezi guards. That, in addition to the household sentries and the cannon fodder I’ve scraped off the floors of the local taverns, should suffice to settle affairs at the stronghouse.”

  “A single squadron, your household bodyguard, and tavern scrapings against a stronghouse?” Setting his nameless research aside, Innesq Belandor swiveled his wheeled chair to face his brother, who stood framed in the workroom doorway. “Is that enough to maintain a siege?”

  “There will be no siege. The matter will be concluded quickly.”

  “You are counting upon arcane reinforcement, then. Aureste, I’ve tried to tell you—”

  “I don’t need arcane reinforcement. I’ve something less mystifying and more reliable—artillery.”

  “That is astonishing. Your favor with the governor extends so far, then?”

  “No. His Excellency wouldn’t dare place such weaponry in Faerlonnish hands, even mine, at any price. Another source supplied the two cannon.”

  “What other source?”

  “Better for you that you do not know.”

  “I daresay. Hereafter you lose all right to reproach my supposedly dangerous arcane illegalities. Nothing I’ve ever done remotely rivals the magnitude of this offense. Aureste, you could be executed.”

  “In public, I trust. Joy will reign throughout Vitrisi.”

  “It is no laughing matter. If so flagrant a violation of the Faerlonnish heavy-arms restriction is directed to the governor’s attention, he will have no choice but to—”

  “Close his eyes, else lose the most generous of friends,” Aureste concluded. “Don’t concern yourself; Uffrigo doesn’t wish to trouble me in that particular fashion. In any case, it’s a risk I’m willing to undertake.”

  “Speaking of risk, have you considered the danger of launching a direct assault upon a stronghouse containing Jianna? If the cannon fire doesn’t kill her, the defenders might. You would do well to proceed by way of negotiation.”

  “Excellent advice. When I reach the stronghouse, I’ll send word to the inhabitants that their lives stand upon my daughter’s health and safety. If they harm her—if she suffers the slightest injury, even so much as a bruise—then I will execute every man, woman, and child that I find within those walls. How do you like my diplomacy?”

  “An empty threat, I assume. You would not commit such an atrocity.” His brother smiled chillingly and Innesq suggested, “You hazard all, if you drive them to desperation.”

  “They’ve clearly striven to do as much to me. But come, enough of this. You must trust me to manage this affair competently, as I trust you to manage Belandor House in my absence. Keep the accounts up to date, no matter how they bore you. Maintain discipline among the Sishmindris and resist your own inclination to indulge them. Don’t let Nalio do anything too overwhelmingly stupid. Keep your workroom door shut and try not to loose any forces apt to tear the place apart.”

  “I think it unlikely that you will return to find our home in ruins.”

  “Humor my vanity, brother. I choose to regard myself as indispensable.”

  “Am I mistaken, or are you not in a remarkably good humor, all things considered?”

  “You’re not mistaken. I am in a good humor. For longer than I care to recall I’ve waited here, knowing that Jianna needs my help but powerless to assist her. I’ve loitered, I’ve fretted, I’ve scoured taverns, I’ve waited upon that malignity of a Taerleezi governor’s pleasure. Have you the slightest inkling how galling it’s been?”

  “An inkling. Probably not more.”

  “I’ve roasted like a pig on a spit. Now it’s over, the paralysis has broken, and I’m free to move again.”

  “You will join this squadron you have bought somewhere beyond the city walls, I suppose.”

  “Yes, at Strevorri Field. The Viper demands discretion. My tavern scum is already on the move, shepherded along by the best among my bodyguards. The remainder of the household crew, their livery cloaked, ride for the city gates singly or in pairs. I myself travel in a plain little unmarked carriage, fit for a tradesman, accompanied only by the driver and a single armed retainer. I’ll be more than anonymous, I’ll be next to invisible.”

  “Any Sishmindris in your force?”

  “I’ve no use for the frogs. Those amiable creatures I leave to you.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we proceed along the VitrOrezzi Bond as far as Abona, where we leave the main road and take to the hillside trails. If we maintain a smart pace and our guide is worth his price, we reach the stronghouse late tomorrow night. The residents will wake to cannon fire.”

  “The residents. You’ve not been particularly communicative, but I gather that we are dealing with the former Magnifico Belandor’s people.”

  “How did you discover that?”

  “Better for you that you do not know. Have you the stomach to confront Onarto Belandor in person?”

  “If he is still in this world,” Aureste returned smoothly. “Why should I not?”

  “There was a wife and a couple of children, I remember. You’ll not wage war on the helpless?”

  “If they survived, the sons grew to manhood long ago. As for the wife, I remember her well, and trust me, she was anything but helpless. As far as waging war on them goes, I’ve no such inclination. If my daughter is restored to me uninjured, I’ll spare the lives of all, but there must be punishment.”

  “To what end? So long as Jianna is safe, what else matters?”

  “Justice. Future safety and peace of mind. These outlaws have dared to strike at my family.”

  “These outlaws are your family.”

  “An attack upon myself signifies little, I’m inured to such things. But to aim at my nearest kin—my innocent daughter, my only child—”

  “And your sister. Remember Flonoria.”

  “Always.” The infinitesimal widening of Aureste’s deep eyes suggested belated recollection of Flonoria’s forgotten existence. “It must never happen again. These criminals will learn the consequences of such villainy. They will learn well.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’ll know when I do it.”

  “Perhaps you should consider, when you are busy meting out punishment, that this attack has not been launched without cause.”

  “Indeed. Jealousy and bitterness are sharp spurs.”

  “What hand sharpened them?”

  “My own, you’d say? No doubt these people hate me for accepting the title of magnifico, but what was the alternative? Should House Belandor, one of the Six of the Veiled Isles, have faded and failed for want of a master? Should every Belandor among us have followed the fugitive Onarto into the wilderness? Evidently Jianna’s abductors believe so.”

  “Is that all of it, brother? Have they no other grievance or injury?”

  “What do you suggest?” Aureste stood very still.

  “Aureste, I am not quite the otherworldly drea
mer that you take me for. I am crippled, but neither blind nor deaf, and even I, mewed up here within my workroom, have heard the rumors. It is widely suspected that you engineered the Magnifico Onarto’s downfall. It is even said that you personally denounced him to the Taerleezis.”

  “And you choose to believe this slander?”

  “I have carefully avoided choosing.”

  “There’s a neat thrust. How long have you been nursing dire suspicions, my brother? And who are you to accuse me?” Aureste radiated righteous indignation. “You know nothing of these matters. You were little more than a boy when Onarto fell. You weren’t even in Vitrisi at the time, but off drudging as apprentice to some foreign adept or other.”

  “Quess Orlazzu, of the Six, emigrated from Faerlonne after the war.”

  “Very well. The point is, you weren’t here to see for yourself, yet you don’t hesitate to believe the worst of me.”

  “I hesitate often. Listen, it is neither my place nor my desire to judge you, particularly now. I only ask that you keep the past in mind when you meet our kinsmen, and choose your course accordingly.”

  “The treatment that Jianna has received shapes their fate. There’s nothing more to be said. If we continue, we’ll quarrel, and that’s the last thing I want.”

  “Or I. Go then, and bring her home safe.”

  “I will.” All rancor forgotten, Aureste clasped his brother’s hand, then turned and departed the workroom. His long, buoyant strides bore him through corridors unusually depleted of able-bodied guards and sentries. Presently he crossed the gleaming vestibule and passed through the front door. A humble little unmarked carriage waited at the foot of the marble stairs. He took his place within, signaled the driver, and the vehicle moved off. Seconds later the great gilded gates at the foot of the drive swung wide, permitting exit into Summit Street.