“Shocked, sickened, but not injured.”
“And now you believe me?”
“Completely.”
“Then may I tell you what I think it all means?”
“What, you’ve a theory?” Vinz’s paternal pride swelled.
“Well, yes. I couldn’t let something like that go by without trying to figure out what really happened, so I’ve been slogging through the dustiest old chronicles and journals in the workroom, and I believe I’ve found the answer. I think that the Source is about to flip.”
“Flip. Interesting way of putting it. Enlarge upon your theory.”
“I’ve read enough to tell me that the Source reverses its direction of spin sometimes. Not often—only once in eons—but when it happens, everything important in the world changes. All the laws, both natural and arcane, get turned upside down, everything we’ve always thought we could depend on gets smashed to pieces, and the world becomes a place that we don’t know anymore. A place that’s comfortable for our enemies, but not for humans. But it doesn’t all happen in a flash. There are warnings first, things start going really strange. Sort of like a candle guttering for a while before it goes out. And I think that’s what’s happening right now.”
“So do I,” Vinz answered.
“You do? I thought you were going to tell me that my imagination is running wild.”
“I might, if my own weren’t running equally wild. Did you read the explanation? Do you know how the Source reverses rotation?”
“Not really. Some of the information was written in PreQuake Taerli, which I can’t read well yet. And some of it is in Faerlonnish, but too advanced; I just didn’t understand it all. As far as I could tell, the old writings claim that the Source slows down because it gets—well, dirty, or something like that—and when it’s slowed down enough, it just naturally reverses.”
“That’s not at all a bad way of describing something that nobody—neither the greatest natural philosopher nor the wisest arcanist that ever lived—truly understands. Certainly I can’t explain the workings of the Source to you, but I can tell you a little about the ‘dirt’ that slows its spin, and you’ll find that it relates to your accident in the workroom. You know, don’t you, that once the Source spun counter to its present direction?”
“Is that fact, or legend?”
“Fact, but almost lost in distant prehistory. It was a very long time ago, before mankind ever set foot upon the Veiled Isles. And by every indication, our islands at that time were literally another world—a place of alien, unrecognizable physical and arcane law. Men could not thrive in such an environment, but the Isles were not uninhabited. The land was ruled at that time by a race of sentient beings, neither flesh nor spirit, who scarcely existed as individuals. The intelligence and awareness of each was linked to all others of its kind, the collective awareness forming a single great Overmind of enormous power. This Overmind, it is believed, was capable of insinuating itself into unguarded intellects of all types and species, thereby ruling its hosts. In view of this ability, the Overmind’s dominion over the ancient world was absolute.
“And perhaps that dominion would have endured forever,” Vinz continued, “but for the great reversal. No one knows exactly when that occurred—millennia past, probably. At some point, however, the rotation of the Source altered, the character of its emanations changed, and thus all things changed. It must have been an almost unimaginably cataclysmic event, for the traces of it are present to this very day, scattered throughout our islands and clearly visible to those who know how to look. The laws of nature and magic rewrote themselves, and the power of the Overmind was broken. Men came to the Veiled Isles, farmed the land, and built their cities, while the previous overlords were all but forgotten. But the past is never wholly lost, and neither is energy. The Overmind was driven forth into the northern wilderness that we call the Wraithlands, and there it remained, its existence fueled by the archaic energy, the reverse energy, let us call it—the emanations of the ancient, alien world. There it slept and dreamed of the past, and the passion of its dreams permeated the world around it, the land and water and atmosphere, which began to vibrate to the old, forgotten rhythms.
“The Source, for all its power, is by no means immune to the influence of its surroundings. The force of reverse energy, continually applied, creates arcane encumbrances that accrete over the course of the centuries, impeding and eventually slowing rotation. Then, as you described, when it’s slowed down enough, the Source just naturally reverses.”
“Do we have to leave the Isles, then?” Vinzille asked, looking for one split second almost like a child again.
“It may come to that. It isn’t clear yet. Now, you remember the account of the Overmind’s ability to insinuate itself into unguarded intellects?”
Vinzille nodded, almost impatiently. His memory was remarkable. He forgot nothing, and his father knew it.
“Well, human beings are vulnerable, but our minds and bodies are such that we resist intrusion. When the Overmind invades a sentient being—a human, or even a Sishmindri—the natural defenses of the threatened organism are violent, the resulting conflict as devastating as any natural disease, and indeed outwardly indistinguishable from—”
Vinz broke off, astonished, as a trio of strangers marched uninvited into the dining room. Three Taerleezi soldiers, a lieutenant and a couple of subordinates. How dare these louts come barging into his private suite? Unless they had come to arrest him. He could feel his face cool as the blood drained from his cheeks. Not all of the arcane skill at his command permitted him to control that spontaneous reaction. He could, however, arrange his features into an expression of polite inquiry as the invaders advanced and halted before him.
“Magnifico.” The lieutenant spoke brusquely. There was no salute. “We are calling at every dwelling along Summit Street to question the residents and to announce the issuance of Governor Uffrigo’s General Order Fourteen in response to last night’s rioting.”
“Rioting?” Vinz echoed, genuinely perplexed.
“You claim ignorance of the attack upon Belandor House?”
“I know there was some sort of disturbance, but I’ve been much occupied throughout the day, and never heard the details. It was a—riot, you say?”
“It was an organized assault,” the lieutenant informed him. “Something by way of an insurrection. A sizable squadron of trained commandos broke in, pillaged, raped, murdered, and ended by torching the mansion.”
“Squadron?”
“Numbering some two dozen or more of heavily armed masked men.”
“Rape?”
“One of the Belandor serving women declares that she was interfered with. Repeatedly.”
“Murder?”
“A dozen people dead, some by fire, some by the sword.”
“The Magnifico Aureste?”
“Not there. Out of the city, we’re told.”
“Who died, then? Any—of the Belandor family members?” Vinz forced himself to inquire.
“Yes, one. Unexia Belandor, the youngest Belandor brother’s wife. The other casualties were servants.”
Innesq lived yet, to wreak vengeance.
“The mansion was destroyed?”
“Much of it.”
“And the—commandos, did you call them?—escaped unrecognized?”
“All but one, apparently killed by the household servants. He’s been identified as one Guini Noli, cobbler, known subversive. Are you or any of your household members acquainted with this Noli?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” And Guini Noli, cobbler, known subversive, was not about to contradict him.
“Can you account for your whereabouts last night, Magnifico?”
“Why, I was here at home.” Vinz contrived to appear bemused. “My wife, my son, and a number of servants can vouch for my presence during the early evening. I stayed up late, though, working in my study far into the night while all the rest of the household slept, and I can’t
produce witnesses to verify my location in the dead of night. Am I under arrest, Lieutenant?”
“Any known resistance sympathizers among your servants?” The lieutenant disregarded the Faerlonnishman’s attempted levity.
“I believe not, but I can’t really answer for the household staff.”
“Have you any personal knowledge of last night’s events at Belandor House?”
“None.”
“And you, boy?” The lieutenant rounded abruptly on Vinzille. “Do you know anything about this? Have you heard talk?”
If he thought to rattle or intimidate the younger Corvestri, he had underestimated his adversary. Slouched low in his seat, Vinzille waited several distinctly insolent seconds before replying with a mute shake of the head. His thirteen-year-old lips were faintly curved in a classic teenage sneer.
“If you receive any information, you’re required to report it at the Clouds Watch Station. You’ll have to go there within twenty-four hours in any case to sign in on the ledger acknowledging your receipt of General Order Fourteen.”
“And what is this General Order Fourteen, Lieutenant?”
The lieutenant nodded to one of his followers, who handed Vinz a fresh broadside densely covered with small print and bearing a representation of the governor’s seal. Vinz’s brow creased.
“I’ll save you the trouble of reading all that,” the lieutenant offered. “It’s a set of new regulations designed to ensure public safety. In the first place, it sets a curfew on every Faerlonnishman within the city limits. Any Faerlonnish national found walking the streets after ten o’clock at night will be subject to arrest and fine. Orderly good citizens are abed by that hour anyway, so there should be no complaint.”
“Is there a curfew on Taerleezis, too, or is it just us?” Vinzille demanded, ignoring his father’s quelling glance.
“The curfew applies to Faerlonnish-owned Sishmindris as well,” the lieutenant continued serenely. “Sishmindris caught roaming after hours are subject to confiscation by the authorities. The head of every Faerlonnish household is required to produce a list naming every dweller beneath his roof, including family members, guests, tenants, servants, and Sishmindris. This list will be submitted to the nearest Watch station within the next twenty-four hours.”
“Don’t you want the names of our dogs, cats, and pet birds as well?” Vinzille inquired.
“Every human servant abroad upon the streets at any hour of the day or evening shall be clothed in the livery of his household, or else bear an armband marked with the family crest or the surname of his employer. Every Sishmindri will be tagged, branded, tattooed, or otherwise furnished with an identifying mark. Any Sishmindri lacking such a mark is subject to confiscation by the authorities.”
“All of this is just an excuse to fatten your Taerleezi pockets,” Vinzille accused.
“Hush, son,” his father warned.
“Faerlonnish nationals shall carry their documents of identification with them at all times. Failure to comply with this regulation will result in arrest and fine.
“And finally,” the lieutenant concluded, “Faerlonnish nationals are henceforth forbidden to bear arms of any description.”
This was too much even for Vinz’s practiced composure. “But you would leave us defenseless,” he remonstrated. “What of our right to protect ourselves and our homes?”
“A stout staff or walking stick is not to be regarded as a weapon,” the lieutenant observed.
“Inadequate. The cutthroats and footpads will rule Vitrisi.”
“They already do.” Vinzille cast a meaningful eye upon the Taerleezi intruders.
“If you are truly concerned for your safety,” the lieutenant suggested, “you might always consider hiring a good set of Taerleezi guards, who are, of course, exempt from the arms-bearing restriction. Their rates are a little high, but under the circumstances you may find the investment worthwhile. Magnifico, you have now been properly informed of the new regulations. I trust you understand what is required of you and will comply.” So saying, he turned on his heel and departed, trailed by his broadside-bearing minions.
Vinzille waited until they were alone before expressing himself. “Stinking Taerleezi vomit. They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. Father, I’ve made a decision. I want to join the resistance.”
Vinz stared at him, speechless.
* * *
Time was out of joint. She had waited there forever and would continue to wait there forever, somewhere outside of time. But at length a low murmur of masculine voices, just barely audible through the heavy oaken door, told Jianna that the waiting was over. Her husband had arrived.
She heard a bark of muffled laughter, and the voice was unfamiliar, probably the guard’s. Would that guard remain on duty, salacious ear no doubt pressed to the door? If so, he would hear the thud of the blow, perhaps a groan, the sound of a heavy body hitting the floor. He would investigate, raise the alarm, ruin everything … But no. Even Onartino would not relish an audience on his wedding night. Moreover, he would not for one moment doubt his own ability to control his slender slip of a bride without assistance. Surely he would send the guard away. She listened intently, but caught no tap of retreating footsteps. There was a pause, the small scrape of the latch, and the door began to open. She lifted the poker, both hands locked on the shaft, and held her breath.
One chance, now, that’s all you get, now, do it right, now, smashthatbastard’sheadinnownowNOW!
As he stepped into the room, she swung the poker with all her strength, recognized the pale profile and middling slim stature too late to arrest the blow, and did her belated best to divert it. He glanced up to behold the descending iron, jumped aside, and the stroke missed him by a hair.
“Falaste.” She stared at him and wondered if she could be dreaming or mad. She was shaking uncontrollably, and her eyes were flooded with tears. “Falaste. Oh, Falaste.”
“Ah, Jianna. I know you.” He drew the poker gently from her grasp and set it aside. “I should have expected this.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to take you away.”
“Away from him? Away from Ironheart?” He nodded and her heart lurched as if she had been reprieved from execution, even while she wondered yet if she were dreaming. “But you said—”
“Never mind what I said. Come, we haven’t much time. Hurry.”
“Wait, wait, what about the guard?”
“Gone.”
“You didn’t kill him?” she whispered.
“Hardly. I advised him to go downstairs to the party for some ale and food. I told him I’d stand guard in his place until he returned. I told him to take his time.”
“He believed that?”
“Why shouldn’t he? Ennzu’s known me since we were both children, and I’ve never lied to him before.”
She fancied that she caught a note of something like bitterness in his tone, but there was no time to think about it, for he was already exiting the bedroom, motioning her with a jerk of the head to follow, and she obeyed without hesitation.
A little lamplight spilled through the half-open door, faintly illuminating the room beyond. They crossed it and passed through another doorway into blackness. Night had fallen. No light filtered in from the outside; in any case, many of the rooms on this floor were windowless. Jianna clutched her companion’s arm.
“Candle? Lantern?” she whispered.
“No need.” His voice was similarly muted. “I know the way.”
And he did. She’d thought that she had learned to navigate Ironheart’s second-story warren of nested chambers, closets, cabinets, and cubicles, but in the dark she immediately lost her bearings. Not so Falaste Rione. He had grown up in this place and knew every cranny. Moving confidently as if gifted with arcane vision, he led her through the maze, pausing only occasionally to run his fingertips along a wall, a floorboard, a doorjamb whose shape and texture seemed to inform him. Jianna followed, placing
herself in his care as fully and willingly as she had done upon the afternoon of their first meeting. Only once he paused at length, suddenly kneeling in the dark and obliging her to release her hold on his arm. She heard a scuffling, a scrape, and then his voice.
“Here, take this.”
She extended her hands blindly and felt a soft bundle thrust into them. “What is this?”
“Woolen cloak. It’s cold outside.”
Outside. He was taking her out of Ironheart.
“Thank you.” Her voice was unsteady. “You’ve left things waiting here for us? You’ve been planning this?”
“I haven’t been planning anything, before the last hour. At least, I don’t think I’ve been planning anything.”
What happened? Why did you change your mind? What about all that loyalty to Yvenza? The questions boiling in her brain remained unspoken.
In the dark she shook out the woolen folds and wrapped herself in the cloak. He took her hand and led her on until they passed through another doorway, and she felt a current of fresh air on her face, and then she could dimly see again. A deep, unglazed window admitted the night breeze and a suspicion of moonlight. By that faint glow she discerned an arched opening in the wall before her. She knew where she was, now. That window looked out over the courtyard. That archway opened upon a narrow flight of stairs leading down to the ground-floor gallery. She could see Rione well enough to make out the bulge of the pack slung over his back and to see that he now gripped something dark in his right hand—a piece of luggage? His medical bag. Of course. His most precious possession, by far.
She no longer needed guidance, but she did not let go of his hand, whose steady warm pressure was wonderfully reassuring. Her eyes and ears strained for the sight or sound of some wandering servant or sentry, but there was none; presumably they were gathered at that monstrous travesty of a wedding celebration. But not all of them; Yvenza would never have left Ironheart wholly unguarded. Rione could not possibly smuggle her out without encountering somebody, and then what?
The Traitor's Daughter Page 32
