The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  He could not raise his hand against a helpless invalid.

  Even as Vinz confronted his own reluctance, the detached and purposeful portion of his mind currently governing his thoughts told him that the apparently vulnerable cripple was in fact the most dangerous adversary of them all. Innesq Belandor was an adept of formidable power, capable of single-handedly defeating any assault upon his home and avenging himself upon the attackers, if given the opportunity.

  That opportunity would not be given.

  Almost before he was fully conscious of his own intentions, Vinz Corvestri narrowed the energy that filled him to a single, concentrated beam capable of altering the nature of the atmosphere immediate to the man in the bed. For one brief moment the air surrounding the target would open, drawing Innesq Belandor’s life-force unto itself, a process that Innesq would probably experience as a paralyzing chill. Immediately thereafter the surfeited and nauseated atmosphere would regurgitate explosively, blasting the victim with his own stolen energy. It was to be hoped that Innesq would lose consciousness prior to immolation, but this could not be predicted with certainty.

  Innesq was looking straight at him, sleepy confusion giving way to alarm, and Vinz could not let himself hesitate. Collecting his force, he held his breath and hurled his arcane bolt. What happened next defied a lifetime of experience.

  In that split second of launching the attack, Vinz met his target’s eyes and saw comprehension there. Innesq Belandor knew that he was doomed; knew, and displayed no terror.

  Arcane energy impinged violently upon the substance of the air and, deep within the recesses of his mind, Vinz sensed the atmospheric transformation. But it seemed not as he expected or remembered; it was foreign. Beyond foreign, profoundly alien. Incomprehensible. Impossible. Impossible.

  There was no time to ponder the implications before the atmosphere voiced its anguish in an arcane shriek so vast that even the uninitiated of the resistance caught the faint echo of it, and cast their masked glances about in search of the origin. To the two men present possessing highly trained arcane abilities, the sound was overwhelming. Innesq Belandor’s face twisted and he pitched backward onto the pillows, struck unconscious or dead. Vinz was unaware that he himself uttered a cry. Pain clamored in his skull. For a moment he could neither hear nor see. He tottered and would have fallen but for the supporting arms of his companions. Seconds passed, and the atmospheric shrieking went on and on. His mind would give way, some part of him realized, if the assault continued. But even in the midst of torture and terror, some kernel of intellect remained free to marvel at this impossible failure of arcane principle that could not fail.

  The air about him seemed to burn with furious, glorious light of a color not to be found in the physical world. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and it was killing him. But then he realized that the ineffable color and the shriek of the atmosphere were fading away and almost he imagined himself willing to endure the pain, if only he might continue to watch. Probably the resistance men were blind, but Innesq Belandor would see it clearly, if he retained life and consciousness. And if he did so, then he must be deprived of both forthwith.

  It would have to be done with mundane weapons, for at that moment Vinz Corvestri could hardly stand upright unaided, much less wield the power of the Source. He would have to tell them to ply their blades quickly, while Innesq still lay dazed and defenseless, and he would tell them, just as soon as he regained his voice. In vain he strove to speak. Before the words could be forced out, a door in the opposite wall burst open and into the bedroom leaped a quartet of large Sishmindris garbed in the livery of House Belandor. All four were armed with stout truncheons—an amazing spectacle. Even more amazing was their ferocity. Their vocal sacs were gigantically distended, almost doubling the size of their heads. The small membranous frills edging their earholes were fully fanned. Their bulging eyes blazed, while their staccato croaks and hoots unmistakably translated to battle cries.

  It was unbelievable, almost as much of an impossibility as the previous moment’s lunatic lapse of arcane reality. Sishmindris were inherently submissive creatures, formed for servitude and never defying much less threatening their human owners. And if by chance there existed amphibians capable of resisting this law of nature, there remained the law of man, which meted out death to any Sishmindri caught bearing arms.

  But law seemed the least of concerns to these creatures as they hopped to the attack. Or defense, Vinz realized. The four of them stood ranged between the invaders and the bed, positioned to protect the helpless Innesq Belandor. Another surprise, for it was common knowledge that the Sishmindris were defective in character, ungrateful and incapable of loyalty to their human benefactors. How did it happen that these particular amphibians were willing to risk their own lives in defense of Innesq?

  There was no time to ponder the question as the Sishmindris charged, truncheons flailing. The amphibians displayed little skill but much enthusiasm, and their efforts were surprisingly effective. Only four of the invaders stood within the bedroom itself, and two of them were occupied in supporting a limp Vinz Corvestri. The other members of the party clustered behind them in the doorway.

  Vinz heard a sickening thud as a truncheon slammed a human temple, and one of his companions went down. A wave of dizziness rocked him, and his eyes swam. He was dimly aware of his supporters drawing him backward out of the Sishmindris’ reach and out of the bedroom. There was a chorus of triumphant croaks and then he was standing in the receiving chamber amid his companions. The door of Innesq Belandor’s chamber banged shut in their faces, and he heard the snap of a lock.

  They could break the bedroom door down, but it would take time and serve little purpose. Innesq Belandor was incapacitated or dead, his threat nullified, while the real quarry remained elusive.

  Vinz passed a hand across his brow. His head hurt, and his ears were ringing. But no, there was nothing wrong with his ears, the sound was real. Somewhere nearby an alarm bell was clanging. The air coming in from the corridor was heavy with smoke. Distant cries signaled the awakening of the household. No time left to waste on Innesq.

  “Leave him, he is not important,” Vinz directed, managing to make it sound creditably authoritative despite the throbbing head. “This way.”

  He marched back out into the corridor, strides purposeful, and they followed his lead, which they might have been less willing to do had they any idea how sick and shaky he was, how unsure and confused. The wild inversion of arcane law moments earlier negated all that he had known throughout his life, and the shock still resonated along every nerve. Overwhelmed though he was, he never lost sight of the evening’s true goal—find Aureste.

  Not easily accomplished in an atmosphere so dark and stinging, so increasingly unbreathable. And worse yet when an eager hand touched flame to a set of brocade portieres. Fire jumped and fresh clouds of smoke choked the air. Vinz’s eyes burned and watered behind his mask. He knuckled the tears away and reopened his eyes to behold a trio of household servants bearing down on him. One carried a crowbar, one wielded an ax, and one clumsily brandished a rusty sword. Where was Aureste Belandor’s reputedly well-trained and well-armed bodyguard? Even as he wondered, his masked companions expertly dispatched all three household defenders. Evidently the murders did not go unnoticed. Not far away, some unseen woman began to scream.

  To the left lay the entrance to another private suite, and he led them through just in time to glimpse nightgowned figures fleeing through a back exit. One of them, a mouse-faced female in a ruffled wrapper, was a little too slow, and someone cut her down while someone else hoisted a shovelful of embers from a fireplace and scattered them across the nearest bed, whose silken coverlet began to smolder. A thin tongue of flame licked the bedcurtains and climbed. Still no sign of Aureste. He was probably barricaded in his own bedchamber with his best defenders gathered about him. Surely he would be found there.

  “Hurry,” urged the individual whom Vinz had ident
ified as Lousewort. “They’ll have summoned the Watch by now.”

  He could not defeat the Watch, he realized. He had not nearly enough arcane force left in him to oppose a party of armed Taerleezis. That stunning reversal in Innesq Belandor’s apartment had shaken him to the center, breaking his connection to the Source and robbing him of all but the weakest powers, hardly more than some apprentice might have summoned. But there was no need to let his followers know it.

  “This way. Move,” Vinz snapped, as if omnipotent. And still the assumed confidence of manner ruled them and they trailed him willingly back out into the corridor and on along its smoke-filled length to another entrance, another apartment, one whose formality expressed the self-conscious dignity of high rank.

  The door was unguarded and unlocked. He led them through into a highly polished small foyer, and thence into what he took to be a private audience chamber of some sort. This was the place, beyond doubt: the master suite, Aureste Belandor’s sanctum. And quite deserted, by all appearances. No servants about, no night-light burning, no sign of life. But that meant nothing. Aureste was probably lying in wait with his retainers, poised to counterattack. Or better yet, he was abed and asleep, probably in the very next room.

  But the very next room was a study or office, and afterward there was an antechamber, and then at last there was the grand bedchamber that he sought, a lofty space graced with an enormous ebony bed, which was empty, its pillows un-dented, its dark damask spread undisturbed. The bed had not been occupied that night. One of the invaders promptly set fire to the bed hangings, then smashed a casement, admitting a current of fresh night air to feed the blaze.

  Not here. Not here. Aureste was not here. And Vinz had no idea where in this great mansion or out of it his quarry might have sought refuge, and no arcane force left to launch an extrasensory search.

  “Can you find him for us?”

  The speaker was Lousewort, whose black mask had regained its opacity.

  “Not by arcane means. The fires that your men lit have excited and confused the atmosphere beyond penetration, for the moment,” Vinz lied, unwilling to confess the disastrous depletion of his powers. “We must conduct a mundane search.”

  “No time. We’ll be taken if we don’t get out now.”

  “We’ve time. Come, we’ve a mission to complete.” Vinz strove hard to conceal his discomposure. “There will never be another such opportunity.”

  “Not worth our lives. We’re done here.”

  “I’m not. I want to finish this once and for all. I will finish it.”

  “Then you are on your own. May your powers preserve you.” Lousewort signaled his henchmen and in silence they made for the exit, evidently confident of their ability to win free of Belandor House without benefit of arcane guidance.

  They were actually willing to abandon him. Vinz gazed after them, incredulous and appalled. After all he had done for them and all that he had risked, they were quite happy to leave him here to face his fate alone. Of course, they weren’t aware of his present defenseless condition; they viewed him as an arcanist of ability. Which he was, but not at the moment. Just now he could hardly fend for himself. He did not know where to look for Aureste, wasn’t capable of overpowering a vicious adversary by ordinary means, hardly knew how to find his way from the mansion without arcane vision to aid him, and certainly could not hope to resist or escape should he encounter the Watch. No, he could not afford to remain in this place on his own. Without further reflection, Vinz Corvestri hastened in the wake of his retreating comrades.

  He caught up with them in the onyx foyer, just as they were exiting the master suite. Out into the corridor again and now it was uninhabitable, an inferno of hot, hammering, nearly unbreathable smoke-filled air, through which jumping flames and scurrying human figures were intermittently visible. Vinz gagged on the atmosphere. His eyes were streaming; he could see little. His headache pounded and his churning stomach threatened rebellion. Instinctively he reached out and grabbed the arm of the nearest masked figure. He had no idea who it was, but it hardly mattered; anyone able to keep him on his feet would do.

  He never knew how they managed to find their way out. There was a blind eternity of heat, screaming lungs, and confusion, through all of which the support of his masked benefactor kept him upright and moving. A dozen times he would have sunk to the floor, there to rest and recuperate for just a little while, but his guide would not allow it, and he felt himself drawn smoothly most of the way, but propelled forcibly as required.

  Then somehow he was outdoors, where the air was cold and clean, and his mind and vision began to clear. He blinked, dashed the cinders from his eyes, and saw that he and the others had miraculously made their way back to the same small garden gate by which they had entered the property—eons ago. His supporter, judging him recovered, released his arm and Vinz mumbled muted thanks, to which there was no reply. Belandor House stood tall and proud as ever, but orange light flickered from many a second-story window and, at the south end of the building, a shattered casement belched flame, the lawless brilliance startling as a scream.

  The gate was still unlocked, the dead Sishmindri still sprawled beside it, his murder as yet undiscovered. The alley was empty and the way out was clear. In silence the band departed the Belandor property, each member pausing briefly at the mouth of the alley to doff his mask before drifting forth to vanish into the misty night.

  Vinz found himself back on Summit Street, alone again, heading for home at a carefully moderate pace. The headache and nausea plagued him still, no doubt aggravated by revulsion, bewilderment, and crushing disappointment. Ugly images seemed to have branded themselves upon his brain. Again and again he relived the violence, bloodshed, and brutality of the past hour. Above all his mind anchored on that indescribable moment in Innesq Belandor’s bedchamber when the arcane laws that he had known throughout a lifetime had shattered, and the universe had gone briefly mad. And yet, he recalled, not long ago his son Vinzille had described the accident in the Corvestri workroom in distinctly similar terms. Wrong, the boy had insisted. Impossible. Natural law broken … His very words, and an apt description of this night’s occurrence. Impossible. Impossible. And trying to make sense of it caused his head to ache all the worse.

  The night was quiet. He caught the faint echo of shouting voices carried on the breeze from the vicinity of Belandor House, but that soon vanished behind him. He made it uneventfully back to Corvestri Mansion, entered the house, and hurried to his own apartment without encountering anybody beyond the occasional Sishmindri sentry.

  Back in his own bedchamber again, home again. A lamp had been left burning, and a fire danced on the grate. His surroundings were familiar, prosaic, and trustworthy. Here, comforting normality reigned. Here it was almost possible to imagine for seconds at a time that it had all been a dream; nothing had actually happened, and nothing had really changed.

  He undressed himself without a servant’s assistance, extinguished the lamp, and climbed into bed, where he lay exhausted but wakeful. The headache still throbbed. The recollections still burned. And above all, one thought claimed effortless supremacy: It had all been entirely in vain. All the care and planning, the difficulty and danger, the destruction and the bloodshed—all quite useless. For the object of the hunt, the Faerlonnish traitor and collaborator, the Kneeser King, the unspeakable Aureste Belandor had once again escaped retribution.

  THIRTEEN

  Jianna had been waiting for hours. This extended span was no trick of skewed perceptions. The changing angle of the pale sunlight slanting in through the window of her tower prison told her that the afternoon was well advanced. Evidently Onartino had not yet returned from his hunting expedition. No fear … he’ll be back by sunset if not before, Yvenza had promised, and the shadows had grown long.

  And then, it seemed mere moments later, the shadows were gone, for the sun had dipped behind the hills and brief winter twilight had fallen. She was standing at the window when she hea
rd a slight scuffling at the door behind her, and she stiffened but did not shift her gaze from the darkening skies. The door creaked open and now she did turn to face a brace of servants—the same two who had dragged her from the kitchen to the tower hours earlier. Both men’s faces were marked with red scratches. And both of them, she noted with miserable amusement, wore the stout canvas gloves that servants donned when dealing with angry cats or cornered rats.

  “He’s back,” one of them announced. “Time to go down.”

  For an instant she considered resisting. But to what end? She could scarcely hope to postpone much less escape the inevitable. Best to preserve such dignity as she still owned. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she advanced with a firm step. Her guards, patently relieved at her complaisance, refrained from touching her. Down the stairs and along the corridor, the guards flanking her closely. Down another stairway, cold drafts of Ironheart chilling her face, and thence to the central hall wherein she had met Yvenza Belandor and the others upon the first evening of her arrival. She swallowed hard and walked in.

  The air in the room was warm; a popping blaze advertised unusually lavish expenditure of fuel. The table was unusually laden and the room was unusually full; never before had she seen such a large group assembled beneath Ironheart’s roof. Yvenza was there, attired in her customary plain, dark gown. Beside her stood Nissi, pallidly drooping. Behind them, Falaste Rione, neatly dressed and looking well rested, one cheek black with bruises. Many servants—guards and sentries, stable people, kitchen people, maids and scrubwomen—almost all of the household staff. Witnesses, no doubt; an entire population prepared to verify the ironclad legitimacy of the marriage. Her eyes flew without volition to the huge figure of Onartino sprawled in a chair at the table, a tankard of ale before him. He was still wearing the stained leathers, homespun, and muddy boots in which he had ranged the woods throughout the day. And one more figure standing beside the fireplace, the only stranger present—a short, wiry individual with a pleasantly weather-beaten face and a grizzled brush of beard. The East Reach Traveler.