The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  Through the Clouds the carriage clattered, as far as the White Incline whose steep grade descended from the exalted realms of wealth down into the heart of Vitrisi. There, as predicted, the commonplace conveyance attracted little attention, and its unpopular passenger went unnoticed. There were no flying rocks, no insults riding on the breeze, and it came to him that he had all but forgotten how pleasant it could be to travel as a normal citizen, object of nobody’s detestation.

  The passage to the northeast gate was exceptionally circuitous, as several of the thoroughfares offering the shortest route were blocked off with tall wooden stockades bearing the red X of the quarantine. A couple of the neighborhoods so confined were surprisingly prosperous, yet their smoky air, redolent of the mass funeral pyres, might have wafted straight from the Spidery slums.

  The detours were navigated in time, and the sun was still at its highest, almost directly overhead, as Aureste’s carriage departed Vitrisi along the VitrOrezzi Bond, en route to Strevorri Field and a rendezvous with a squadron of ruinously expensive Taerleezi guards.

  * * *

  Vinz Corvestri tried hard to concentrate on the words. The epic Journey of the Zoviriae, one of the classics of Faerlonnish literature, had always been one of his favorites. As a boy he had gloried in the huge tale of war, adventure, and heroism, identifying himself with the character of Soliastrus, powerful and benevolent arcanist. When fully caught up in the story, he had not infrequently forgotten to feed himself. Today he sought no such profound immersion, but only brief distraction; sought and failed to find it. The rhythm of the verses was as stirring as ever, the deeds of the characters as inspirational, but none of it had the power to tear his thoughts for a single instant from the prospect of the night’s activities. The sneak attack upon Belandor House. The preemptive strike, he reminded himself. A project dear to the heart of the Faerlonnish resistance movement. A very necessary act of self-defense on the part of Vinz Corvestri. The plan was complete, he was inescapably committed, and there was no sense in agonizing over it.

  Vinz fixed his eyes on the quarto page before him:

  Grey Soliastrus raised his staff aloft

  And called upon the power of his mind

  To catch the lightning bolt midway between

  The sky and mountaintop; to hold it fast

  Suspended motionless across the vault

  Of night. The lucent beacon overhead,

  Its flight arrested and its glory chained,

  Proclaimed the mage’s triumph to the world.

  Halt a lightning bolt in midair and hold it there? An impressive feat indeed, and certainly exceeding Vinz’s own capabilities. Not that he would do it if he could. The poem never seemed to address the issue of the ultimate explosive liberation of all that pent energy. Sooner or later the lightning bolt would find release, complete its interrupted flight, and when it finally hit the ground, the gigantic discharge would probably incinerate all living creatures within a radius of miles. There would be fire everywhere … There would be fire at Belandor House tonight. There would be screams, glinting steel, blood, groans …

  Vinz shuddered. He wanted no part of it. For two decades and more he had aided the resistance, giving freely of his time, his money, and his arcane skill. Had his involvement come to light, he would have suffered execution at Taerleezi hands, despite his rank and lineage. Throughout the years, however, he had always managed to hold himself aloof from violence. He was ill-suited by temperament, training, or physique to active physical endeavor; moreover, his talents were too valuable to risk in the field, or so he preferred to believe. Tonight, however, his cherished immunity lapsed. He would not only accompany the resistance attack force, he would actually walk at its forefront; unavoidably so, for he alone possessed the ability to overcome the assorted arcane safeguards doubtless reinforcing the mundane defenses of Belandor House. The commandos would never get in without him; there was no help for it.

  The fury, the destruction, the wholesale slaughter … He could see it all, he could almost hear and taste it. Horrible. And all the more horrible, he could not help but consider, should the blood that would flow within hours happen to include any of his own. Not impossible. The guards of Belandor House were trained fighters and well armed. He, the Magnifico Vinz Corvestri, arcanist of the first rank—well, high up in the second rank, at the very least—could be hideously wounded or even killed. Mere hours from now, he might be lying dead in a puddle of precious Corvestri blood.

  And that would be that. He would never see his son again. Or his wife. Would she care? Would she even notice?

  Vinz discovered that his mouth was dry and his forehead wet. Drawing a deep breath, he sat up straight and squared his shoulders. His fears were puerile. The simplest of arcane air-shields would easily ward off the primitive blades and missiles of Belandor House’s guardians. Not so much as a drop of his own blood would be lost. The destruction of the household members, the Sishmindris, the mansion itself with its many treasures—all regrettable necessities. And at the end of it all, the prize of all prizes—Aureste Belandor would be gone forever. Aureste would die at the hands of his own countrymen, as he had so richly deserved for so many years, and then at last there would be peace. No more fear, loathing, jealousy, suspicion. Only peace.

  Worth one ugly night, wasn’t it?

  A light tapping impinged upon his cogitation. The door of his study creaked open, and his wife stepped into the room. Surprised, Vinz stared at her. Attired in a simple, exquisitely cut gown of ash-grey silk, her autumnal hair wound into a heavy knot at the nape of her neck, Sonnetia embodied remote elegance. Often her graceful self-possession disconcerted him, even after half a lifetime of marriage. Not today, however. Today, she was the one with cause for discomfort.

  “Magnifico, a moment of your time,” Sonnetia requested in her low, well-modulated voice.

  “You have disobeyed me, madam.” Whatever discussion ensued, Vinz meant to command it from the outset, to command her. And high time. He had made a good beginning in the presence of Lousewort, three days earlier, and now he was determined to maintain his advantage. “I ordered you to your chamber, and that command has not been revoked. Yet here you are. I am displeased.”

  “I regret your dissatisfaction, sir. May our reconciliation restore your good humor.”

  “What reconciliation do you propose?”

  “I’ve spent the last three days confined to my apartment. Whatever the nature of my offense, I’ve been sufficiently punished. I’ve come to ask for my liberty.”

  I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive me? The craven words trembled on the verge of utterance, but he managed to hold them in. He had played the weakling long enough, and things were changing now. She’ll hate me forever. Another feeble fear. She wouldn’t hate or blame him for asserting his rightful authority within his own home. Once she got over her initial shock, she would come to respect him, perhaps even admire him. For the first time. But the respect he wanted did not yet exist, as her attitude—despite the punctilious propriety—too clearly demonstrated. Vinz studied his wife. Her beautiful, closed face displayed no trace of uncertainty or trepidation. There was not the smallest doubt in her mind that her husband would yield to her will, as always. He was so compliant, so fair and reasonable, so amiable and predictable. So eager to please, so boring.

  But not always.

  “In demanding your liberty, you take far too great a liberty, madam,” he informed her. “You might have sent me a written petition. Instead you’ve chosen to flout my commands and quit your chambers without my leave. Your disobedience is unmannerly and unwomanly. When you’ve learned how to conduct yourself, we’ll discuss the restoration of your privileges. In the meantime, you will return to your chambers and await my pleasure.”

  She was staring at him impassively, but he had the distinct sensation that he had gone too far and a qualm of doubt unsteadied him. He came within a breath then of retracting his words, apologizing, crumbling, but once again succeeded in
controlling the impulse.

  “My incarceration serves no purpose,” Sonnetia observed quietly. “Various household matters demand my attention, and it is best that I resume my duties. Pray you, Magnifico, favor me.”

  Impossible that he yield the upper hand upon demand. Assuming an attitude of chill disapproval, he inquired, “Will you oblige me to repeat my commands?”

  “What—is—the—matter—with—you?” Her enunciation was achingly precise.

  Vinz shifted his weight uneasily. She had not raised her voice in the least and her face remained expressionless, but it came to him, as it did from time to time, that her habitual composure was achieved only by means of constant self-control. Not unlike a lightning bolt caught midway between the sky and mountaintop. And sooner or later, the lightning bolt would find release, and he did not want to be in her vicinity when it did.

  Intimidated by his own wife? No wonder she didn’t respect him.

  “Leave me, madam,” he commanded.

  She did not obey, but remained where she was, motionless and staring at him. Her analytical scrutiny was well nigh unbearable. When he thought he could stand no more, she spoke. “You are not yourself.”

  “I am very much myself, perhaps for the first time.” He could not suppress a certain audibly defensive note.

  “You’ve been speaking and behaving strangely. It began the evening I walked in on you and that man here in this study.”

  “Forget about him. My visitors are no concern of yours.”

  “That wasn’t the first time he’s been here.”

  “I said, he’s no concern of yours!” He heard the shrillness in his own voice and deliberately lowered the pitch to admonish, “I won’t have you meddling.”

  “Your discourtesy and petty tyranny date from that evening.”

  “You will not speak to me in that fashion! I forbid it, madam.”

  “You were ill-tempered, unpleasant, and unaccountably uneasy,” Sonnetia recalled. “You very much wanted to know what I’d overheard, which amounted to no more than three words. Something about a military strike and the name Belandor. It meant nothing to me at the time, and indeed I’d never have given it a second thought, but for your peculiar behavior. I’m thinking about it now, however, and the implications are terrible. You are not—surely you can’t mean to launch some sort of attack upon Belandor House?”

  “How dare you interrogate me, madam? How dare you?” Vinz was doing his best to conceal his dismay. He had never confided in her, she had little if any significant information, and yet somehow she had guessed correctly. Was this the proverbial feminine intuition at work, or something more? Had she been spying on him? Relaying information to Belandor House by way of her maidservant, perhaps? Or was it simply a lucky hit, enabled by his own blunders? … indeed I’d never have given it a second thought, but for your peculiar behavior. Whatever the explanation, he could not let her know that she was right, and he most certainly could not allow her communication with anyone outside Corvestri Mansion. He marshaled his forces and returned fire. “I have ordered you back to your chambers. Obey me, madam. Now!”

  “I desire an answer.”

  “Are you defying me?”

  “I’ll return to my chambers when you’ve assured me that you are not involved in some sort of resistance plot. Only give me your promise that you won’t take part in anything dangerous and destructive, and I’ll gladly go.”

  “I’m hardly obliged to bargain with my own wife in my own house. I am the master here—a point you seem inclined to overlook.”

  “Your choices and their consequences directly affect the welfare and future of our son—a point you seem inclined to overlook.”

  “You don’t seriously imagine that I’d jeopardize Vinzille in any way?”

  “If involvement in resistance activities results in your arrest and execution, then Vinzille stands to lose his noble rank and his entire Corvestri fortune. Have you considered that?”

  Her husband’s safety did not concern her in the slightest, Vinz noted without surprise. Her care was for her son. His sense of resentment deepened, along with his determination to assert himself. Swiveling in his chair, he grasped the tapestry bellpull that hung behind his writing desk and yanked it hard. A big liveried Sishmindri answered the summons at once.

  “Escort the magnifica back to her apartment,” Vinz directed. “Station yourself at the door and see to it that she does not emerge.”

  Sishmindri faces rarely communicated anything, but Vinz fancied that he caught a brief flash of astonishment in the great golden eyes. The amphibian’s head dipped in mute acquiescence.

  “I do not deserve this.” Sonnetia was standing stiff-spined, eyes stormy with incredulous anger, but her voice remained low and even. “It is unbelievable. What is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. I’ve recalled at last that I am the Magnifico Corvestri.”

  “I don’t understand you. And you don’t understand me if you expect me to accept insult and humiliation. I’ve been a dutiful wife to you for all these years, but there are limits. I’ll not tolerate abuse.”

  “You’ll tolerate the rightful authority of your husband, madam. It is a lesson you should have learned years ago, but I trust it is not too late to teach you.” Vinz snapped his fingers, engaging the regard of the Sishmindri, whose house-name he did not recall and whose real name he had never known. “Remove her.”

  The Sishmindri hesitated, visibly reluctant to lay web-fingered hands upon his mistress.

  “It’s all right, Teebo,” Sonnetia resolved the amphibian’s dilemma. “I’ll go.” Her voice was controlled as always, but the glance she cast at her husband communicated the deepest outrage. Head high, she marched out of the study, closely followed by her guard, and the door closed behind them.

  Vinz expelled his breath in a sigh. It was over. He had engaged in a contest of wills with his wife and emerged the victor. He had asserted his rightful authority, displayed appropriate firmness and resolve, defended the secrecy of the night’s venture. Save for her single disturbing flash of insight, things had gone quite well, and he had every right to enjoy a few moments of well-deserved self-satisfaction. But he was not enjoying anything. That look she’d given him! In all their years together, he had never seen such anger in her eyes, and that wasn’t the worst of it. There had been something more, something akin to—what? Reproach? Bewilderment? Something that stirred his guilt and remorse.

  Nonsense. He was tormenting himself over nothing. The anger in her eyes—now, that had been real, the reaction of a self-willed, overindulged woman unaccustomed to restraint. He had granted her too much freedom, which she may or may not have misused, but those days were over.

  He did not care to speculate as to the manner in which she may or may not have misused her freedom. Contemplation of the impending mayhem at Belandor House was actually preferable. Another few hours, and it would be over and done with, one way or another.

  Vinz stared out the window and willed the hours to pass.

  * * *

  Time trudged at its own pace and the afternoon yielded to twilight that persisted for decades before giving way to night. Vinz ordered a light meal brought to his study on a tray. When the food arrived fifteen minutes later, he found that he could scarcely touch it. His hands were cold despite the good fire crackling on the grate, and his jaw muscles insisted on clenching.

  Unacceptable. He needed that jaw in good working order to achieve proper enunciation of the syllables designed to focus mental force. And his hands: Much suppleness was required to perform the gestures that somehow—not even the most deeply learned arcanist really knew quite how or why—enhanced the ability of the human mind to draw upon the power of the Source.

  Vinz rubbed his hands together, driving warmth into the fingertips. He forced himself to swallow a few mouthfuls of soup and felt himself warming from the inside. He cracked his knuckles and bent his digits backward as far as they would go. All seemed adequately flexible. He
tried once again to lose himself in the Journey of the Zoviriae, but the face of his wife kept superimposing itself upon the page. Rising from his chair, he paced restlessly about the study, but the face did not go away. Then the thought of Belandor House sprang once more to the front, and again that was all there was.

  The distant tolling of a bell touched his mind. His hands jerked, and his eyes jumped to the window. It was dark outside, but not yet late enough. The hours of waiting stretched out before him and they were infinite, they would never end.

  But they did end at last. Eternity expired and distant chimes sounded the stroke of midnight. Ordinarily he would have been fast asleep at such an hour, but now he was extraordinarily wakeful, almost as if he would never sleep again.

  It was time. Vinz stood up. A warm woolen cloak in an unobtrusive shade of charcoal lay draped across the chair in the corner. Now he put it on, but not before checking his pockets to verify for the hundredth time the presence of the tiny stoppered vials, the miniature leather pouch, the arcanist’s necessities. For the hundredth time, he found all to be in order. Briefly he considered—for the hundredth time—the advisability of taking up a small lantern to light his path, and for the hundredth time rejected the idea. A light would only draw unwelcome attention, and he could find his way without it; he had only a very little way to travel, after all.

  With the hapless sense of abandoning a safe refuge, he departed his study. Through the dim corridors of sleeping Corvestri Mansion he made his quiet way; down a secondary stairway ordinarily used by servants, along a humble back hallway to a side exit. Only once in the course of that journey did he encounter wakeful life: A Sishmindri sentry stationed at the head of the stairs dropped into a respectful crouch as the master passed, and once again Vinz thought to glimpse astonishment in the golden eyes.

  Slipping the bolt, he pulled the door open and made himself step through into the night. The raw cold struck him at once, despite the protection of his cloak. Autumn had undeniably yielded to winter, and all his instincts urged him to shrink back into the shelter of his home.