The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  Later.

  Lifting his hood, he pulled the edge well forward to shade his face. He stood at the side of the house, with but a few feet of flagstone walkway separating him from one of the several small doors in the wall encircling his home. The doorway opened upon a small service alley that ran between Corvestri Mansion and its nearest stately neighbor. Never in an entire lifetime of residence had he passed through that particular portal. Even as a boy he had decorously come and gone by way of the grand front gateway. It had never entered his mind to explore a lesser path.

  He strode to the door, unbarred it, and went through into the darkness beyond, where he paused, blinking. Seconds later his eyes adjusted and he discerned a faint glow at the mouth of the alley, toward which he groped his way. The glow brightened and presently he stumbled forth into Summit Street, where the big brass-and-glass streetlamps cast their strong light. Instinctively he ducked his head. The illumination here in this best of all neighborhoods was excessive; he might easily be seen and recognized.

  Ridiculous. He was thinking like some sort of a criminal. But he was a criminal, Vinz realized; or very shortly to become one. He cast a quick guilty glance around him. The street appeared deserted. No beggars huddled under archways, no drunks sprawled in the gutters; the Watch did not tolerate such unpleasing presence here in the heart of the Clouds. The Watch! His stomach tightened. Those vigilant guardians of public order patrolled this neighborhood continually. He might meet up with them within seconds, and then what? They would wonder what a respectable resident of the Clouds—a titled magnifico, no less—was doing roaming the street at midnight. They would offer to escort him safely back to his own door, and if he demurred, what then might they think? He quickened his pace, and the sound of his footsteps seemed appallingly loud, likely to rouse his neighbors from their slumbers. Along Summit Street he hurried, past the proudest old palaces of Vitrisi, now largely inhabited by Taerleezi officials, and the insignificant distance that he actually traveled seemed immense.

  At length he reached the end of the street and beheld Belandor House, its arched windows dark, its superb filigree rooflights aglow. The wrought-iron front gates were closed and padlocked, but the armed sentries usually stationed before them were unaccountably absent tonight. Curious, but good. He had dreaded braving the regard of those sentries. To his right gaped the dark entrance of an alley, similar to that serving Corvestri Mansion and all great Summit Street dwellings, allowing tradesmen, mechanicals, and other nameless folk with their wagons and donkey-carts access to the rear of the building. He had passed by such alleys thousands of times, barely noting their grubby utilitarian existence. But now the black gap in the world seemed to offer shelter, which he accepted with gratitude.

  Into the alleyway slunk the Magnifico Corvestri, following its stygian course along the walled perimeter of the Belandor property to the rear of the house, where a small lantern hanging above a low postern cast its light upon a silent gathering. Six of them, he counted quickly, all heavily armed. Strange to see so few. Somehow he had expected an army. They were not voluminously cloaked as he was, but attired in doublets, loose breeches, low boots—practical garments affording freedom of movement. All were masked, their black dominoes lending them an eerie uniformity. His own face should be covered, Vinz recalled, and he had not come unprepared. Now digging into one of his pockets to bring forth a grey fabric scrap, he pushed his hood back and tied the mask in place. They were all watching him as he advanced, and he felt a complete fool, fumbling with the strings beneath that collective faceless regard. Once the mask was in place, however, the resulting sense of anonymity offered distinct comfort.

  As he drew near the quiet group, he caught a whiff of pungency on the damp air, something unknown and unsettling. He walked on and soon descried the source—a still figure stretched prone in a puddle beside the gate. It was a dead Sishmindri sentry lying in its own sharp-scented blood, the first victim of the evening’s enterprise. And although he had expected to encounter something of the sort, a powerful revulsion swept through him. He faltered an instant and only with an effort of will compelled himself to continue his advance.

  Then he was in their midst, the eyes in the invisible faces all fixed intently upon him, and he was a sedentary rotund amateur among these tigers of the resistance, yet it was up to him to lead them in.

  “I will prepare myself,” he informed his listeners, and his voice came out astonishingly calm and confident, even authoritative, as if he addressed a band of apprentice arcanists. And nobody ventured to ask him why he hadn’t prepared himself well in advance, so there was no need to explain the very short-lived effects of his self-fortifications. Perhaps they already knew, or perhaps his air of assurance impressed them. In any event, nobody uttered a word and the silence stretched as Vinz swallowed the essential draughts, inhaled the requisite powders, and timed his mental exercises to the rhythm of his quietly spoken, practiced syllables.

  The inner light dawned almost at once, accompanied by the familiar but ever-wondrous mental expansion. He touched the Source, and its power filled every emptiness within him.

  I am truly a master, he thought, and the flowering of self-satisfaction might have choked his concentration, had it been given the chance. But a true master knew how to exclude even the most seductive of distractions. He focused his arcane vision as if through a spyglass of the mind, and the hidden reality of his surroundings surrendered itself without further resistance.

  “No arcane safeguards have been placed upon this gate,” he reported, hearing his own voice reverberate across great distance. “Only an ordinary lock and key. I can overcome the lock by specialized means, but the exercise will drain a measure of force.”

  “No need,” one of his companions returned.

  The voice was low, the face was masked, and a cap covered the hair, but Vinz’s heightened perceptions easily identified the individual known to him as Lousewort. How could he ever have thought Lousewort nondescript, nearly invisible? The man’s dedication, high courage, and determination all but blazed.

  Lousewort gestured and one of his companions stepped to the locked door, pick in hand. The lock yielded with astonishing ease. The gate swung open.

  Vinz stood motionless and sent his perceptions questing through into the Belandor property. No exceptional obstacles or pitfalls in the immediate vicinity of the gate, he noted, but some few yards farther on pulsed an atmospheric sensitivity, designed to detect strangers and no doubt alert the Belandor household to the unauthorized presence. The sensitivity was invisible, devoid of physical reality, but in his mind’s eye he saw it as a sort of disembodied mouth, throbbing with red energy, alert to unfamiliar flavors and ready to loose huge, silent yowls.

  A flex of the mind, supported by corresponding hand gestures, fused the lips together, effectively stifling utterance. This done, Vinz advanced with caution, passing through the open postern into his enemy’s domain. Without turning to look he knew that his masked companions were close behind him, and their sheer silence was remarkable. Not a twig or dry leaf crunched underfoot; they glided on like specters. Ghosts of the Resistance. In a back garden was a fishpond with a fanciful arbor, probably designed to please that pampered daughter of Aureste’s.

  Belandor House arose before him, pure and proud and seemingly inviolable. He had never before set foot upon the property, much less penetrated the house itself. Unlike Sonnetia’s maidservant. And Sonnetia herself?

  For a split second his concentration wavered, and in that moment he felt the lips of the muted atmospheric sensitivity begin to work themselves free. At once he pushed the potentially disastrous distractions out of his mind. No room for them now.

  Once again master of his mind, Vinz sent his perceptions pushing toward the nearest doorway in the great house and found the way clear of impediment up to the immediate vicinity of the entrance, which was protected by a heavy atmospheric/receptive shield: a beautifully conceived piece of work capable of feeding and strengthening
itself upon the energy employed to attack it. But the Magnifico Corvestri knew how to deal with such a device. The key lay not in direct assault but rather in a systematic undermining.

  Vinz took a moment to gather his faculties, then performed the mental and vocal contortions that slightly altered the course of the energy flowing through him, directing the Source’s power to another layer of his intellect and allowing him to bleed arcane strength from the shield. The process was not to be completed in an instant. At least four or five minutes passed, and Vinz was peripherally aware of his companions, their regard pressing hard. To these men of action, the minutes of waiting must have seemed endless, but not one of them complained, demanded an explanation, or urged him to hurry. It would seem that they trusted in his abilities. He would prove that their trust was not misplaced.

  He intensified his efforts and felt the incorporeal substance of the shield begin to soften. Another minute’s effort weakened the barrier to the point of ruin, and then he felt it collapse. The way was clear, and he could lead them in. He actually took a step or two forward before the training of a lifetime halted him. Perhaps his prudence was excessive, for the atmospheric/receptive shield had been thoroughly disabled, but proper procedure dictated a follow-up investigation, and accordingly he projected his arcane antennae.

  A moment later his questing vision encountered a flash of hot dazzlement. Pain speared into his mind, sharp and deep enough to rock his concentration. He tottered, and one hand rose to shield his eyes; a useless instinctive reaction, for the radiance was not perceived by means of the physical senses. It took all the experience and technique at his command to retain mental control, and the effort left him gasping. Vinz opened his eyes. His companions, wholly ignorant of the arcane Retaliation seething in their path, were watching him closely—with some misgivings, he fancied, but the dominoes suppressed expression.

  “Danger,” he informed them, a little breathless, but voice still creditably clear and calm. “Wait.”

  Again they obeyed without question, unaware that he had very nearly led them all into a death trap. And how could that have happened, how could he have failed to note the existence of a sizable Retaliation hovering just behind the atmospheric/receptive shield? A corner of his mind was free to speculate, and an answer soon presented itself. His initial surveillance had missed the Retaliation because, at that time, the Retaliation had not yet come into being. The destruction of the atmospheric/receptive shield had triggered the generation of the second, far more lethal barrier. He had to admire the skill and ingenuity of such work, even while preparing to destroy it.

  A few moments’ effort served to project a ShadowSon—an insubstantial replica of a man, complete in every detail, but invisible to the untrained eye. The ShadowSon, gifted with a handsome transparent face and a look of boundless good nature, advanced cheerily upon the booby-trapped doorway. When he reached it, the Retaliation smote so violently that the white-hot play of force defining the outline of the ShadowSon was dimly visible even to the uneducated eyes of the resistance soldiers. There was an audible sharp intake of breath, but no words.

  The ShadowSon, lacking corporeality, sustained the attack unmoved. The fiery atmosphere enfolded him, the small lightning bolts pierced him through, but none of it possessed the power to alter his look of amiable tranquillity. Presently the lethal luminosity bled from the air, the killing bolts faded, and the ShadowSon turned a guileless eye upon his audience.

  Stay, Vinz enjoined in silence.

  His creation obeyed and presently the assault resumed, its renewed fury dimly visible to untrained observers, blindingly brilliant to the eyes of Vinz. The glare crescendoed, the bolts of force arcing so plentifully and murderously that even the ShadowSon took note, gazing about him with an air of puzzled interest.

  The bombardment diminished and slowed to a halt. The Retaliation’s energy was entirely spent. The ShadowSon stood unharmed, eyes blinking in mild bemusement.

  Well done. You are free, Vinz communicated.

  Smiling happily, the ShadowSon dipped his handsome head in acknowledgment and ambled off into the night.

  A final examination discovered no further danger. Vinz made for the entrance, the others close upon his heels. Through it without mishap and he stood inside Belandor House for the first time in his life.

  It was a small mud-closet, plain and bare, clearly intended for the use of menials. No hint of arcane presence. Vinz led the way through the closet into the workshop beyond, and his heightened senses permitted him to see clearly in the absence of illumination—a privilege denied the companions stumbling in his wake. Belandor House was large and its plan was unknown to him, but probably the place shared many features in common with other great Vitrisian dwellings of its age and kind. Thus he would surely find the chambers of state and significance—including the master suite, Aureste’s lair—upon the first story above ground level. No need to use arcane power to guide him; better to conserve his resources.

  Out of the workroom and into a narrow corridor Vinz led the way and now there was a very little light, just enough to define the boundaries of that space, its source not immediately apparent. Around a corner, and the light was far brighter, almost beating upon his dilated pupils. Several yards ahead rose a narrow wooden stairway. Upon the bottom tread sat the first human sentry so far encountered within Belandor House. It was an old man, white head bent over some sort of work in his lap. He seemed to be polishing a collection of metal buckles by the light of a tiny oil lamp. The sentry looked up, presenting an astonished wizened face, and it struck Vinz as odd that a gaffer of such obvious decrepitude should have been assigned guard duty in the dead of night. Were there no younger men better suited to the job?

  Before there was time to ponder the question, a couple of his companions loped by him like masked wolves. The lamplight winked on plunging steel. A cry quavered and the old sentry tumbled full length at the foot of the stairs. At once one of the killers snatched up the lamp, then paused, evidently awaiting direction.

  Vinz gasped, shocked and all but sickened. Despite all mental preparation, the speed and ruthlessness of the homicide had taken him by surprise, and now his focus blurred dangerously. His arcane perceptions wavered and for one hideous instant he looked upon his surroundings with the myopic eyes of an ordinary mortal, and saw nothing. A quick inhalation of a certain reddish powder restored equilibrium. Alarm and uncertainty receded. Vinz glanced about him, passing quickly over the dead gaffer. His surroundings seemed to glow with their own inner light, outer surfaces transparent, inner realities revealed. His companions were looking to him and now he could easily see the faces beneath the masks, not in terms of feature and complexion, but rather as aggregates of individual experience.

  Without hesitation he led them up the stairs and out into a broad corridor whose marble floors, high ceilings, tall windows with brocade hangings, crystal, and gilding cosmeticized the magnificent public face of Belandor House. To the right, vast carven doorways opened upon a cavernous space whose far reaches were lost even to his enhanced vision—almost certainly a state ballroom or banqueting hall of some sort. To the left must lie the grandest personal suites, and in that direction he turned his steps. His followers trailed in his wake. Only one of them, the man carrying the oil lamp snatched from the murdered sentry, paused long enough to touch flame to a window hanging. The fabric ignited and fire ascended.

  We won’t be able to come back this way when we leave. The prospect failed to alarm Vinz. His last inhalation had fortified him beyond reach of distracting emotion, or so he believed. He did not relish the thought of the mansion’s destruction, but at that moment it failed to prick his armored conscience. As for their ultimate departure, he did not doubt that his skills would discover or create a way out for them all.

  Before them loomed an archway, its bland curve spattered with bright patches of arcane awareness. He darkened the patches in quick succession and led the men through. Fire bloomed in their wake. Smoke commenc
ed a lazy drift along the corridor.

  Thus far the invasion had proceeded in silence and secrecy. Now a side door opened and a rumpled individual, perhaps roused from slumber by the smell of smoke, stepped forth into the corridor. A servant, Vinz saw at a glance, young and stoutly built—the first remotely qualified human guard he had encountered within Belandor House. The young fellow took in the scene at a glance, and sleep fled his eyes. The intruders cut him down in an instant, but not before he managed to loose a resounding outcry.

  That will bring them. The prospect that would ordinarily have unnerved Vinz Corvestri scarcely daunted him now. Should Belandor reinforcements appear, the strength of the resistance men, backed by the powers of a skilled arcanist, would easily defeat them.

  And sure enough, another figure came stumbling into their midst, a manifestly terrified young woman, and she died before she could utter a scream. Compunction gnawed at the foundations of Vinz’s confidence. Smoke scratched at the back of his throat. Firmly he excluded both distractions.

  Find Aureste.

  On along the corridor, around a corner, to another wakeful archway that had to be sent to sleep; then under it and on until his augmented instincts told that he stood within a few yards of significant prey, an individual of Belandor lineage. The individual?

  The nearest door was unguarded and unlocked. He led them through it into a plainly furnished, almost ascetic receiving chamber, not grand enough for a magnifico, and thence into a simple chamber whose sole occupant, stirring from slumber, sat up in bed.

  Vinz glimpsed a pale angular visage, heavy black brows, great dark eyes still smudged with sleep—Aureste!—then noted the haggard, almost fragile look of the face, the comparatively narrow shoulders and emaciated frame, the unusual length and delicacy of the fingers. His glance jumped to the wheeled chair waiting beside the bed. Not Aureste. This was Aureste’s younger brother Innesq, a reclusive cripple.