The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  Down the stairs they stole hand in hand, and at the bottom Rione halted.

  “Stay here,” he commanded, his voice so low that she barely caught the words.

  She could see him fairly well—evidently a lantern or candle burned somewhere along the ground-floor gallery—and therefore knew that her own voiceless nod would be visible to him. He placed his bag on the floor with care, then stripped the pack from his back and set it down. Casually unencumbered, he stepped out into the gallery, and for a few moments Jianna listened to his leisurely confident footsteps heading straight for Ironheart’s big front door. She did not need to look in order to know that a sentry would be standing watch there, and sure enough, the voices soon came echoing to her hiding place.

  “Well, Neequo. Seems you drew the short straw this evening. Stuck here alone at the door, while every other man in the place is busy putting away all the ale he can drink.” Rione’s voice, impossibly easy, untroubled, normal.

  “Falaste, lad.” The guard’s voice, genial and sociable, evidently addressing a friend. “You’re right, I’m the saltcod tonight. What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to do you a good turn. Seems that the magnifica has taken pity on you.”

  “That doesn’t sound like our lady.”

  “Well, I asked her.”

  “Asked her what?”

  “If you couldn’t leave your post for some food, drink, and Gwetto’s fiddling. I’ll stand in for you here.”

  “She said yes to that?”

  “She did. You’re in luck.” Rione’s delivery was a masterpiece of amiable insouciance.

  “Well, I thank you, lad. That was a friendly thought. I’m much obliged.”

  “Better go along while there’s still some of that ale left. Take as much time as you want, it’s all one to me. I’m in no hurry.”

  “Much obliged. You can trust me to return the favor one day.”

  I hope not, Jianna thought. Neequo was already hurrying toward that ale, the swift clump of his footsteps approaching her hiding place, and she held her breath as he drew level with the stairwell entrance, pressing her back hard to the wall, hardly daring to blink. She might have spared herself the worry. As Neequo passed the archway, she glimpsed a big, broad figure, muffled in homespun and thatched with shaggy hair—she had often seen him about Ironheart, but never knew his name until this night—and then he was past, invisible again, footsteps receding. So easy! Presently the sound faded away and seconds later she heard a low whistle, unmistakably a signal from Rione.

  Pausing only long enough to scoop up his belongings, she stepped forth into the gallery and saw him waiting beside the door in a pool of light cast by a small oil lamp. You were brilliant! Only the need for silence and secrecy stifled her voice. You hoodwinked him completely, and you made it seem so easy! She said nothing, but admiring enthusiasm lighted her eyes and her smile as she sped toward him. Then her smile vanished as she drew near enough to read his facial expression, which reflected neither triumph nor satisfaction. Quite the contrary, his demeanor was distinctly—grim, she thought. Down in the mouth. Or maybe troubled in conscience? Troubled enough to turn his back on her? It was not too late for him to march her straight back to the marriage chamber …

  She went cold at the thought and, as she reached him, a wintry draft sweeping in under the door heightened the sensation. She noticed then that Rione was not properly dressed for the outdoors and she asked without thought, “Where’s your cloak?”

  “On you.”

  “Oh. But couldn’t you—” have found someone else’s to take? were the words that popped into her mind, but she held them in, recalling that he eccentrically viewed the servant population of Ironheart as a collection of individuals, even friends, from whom he did not wish to steal. Yes, he would very probably regard it as stealing. “Couldn’t you have found something?” she concluded feebly.

  “No time.”

  She wasn’t sure whether he meant that he’d had no time to secure an overgarment, or that there was no time now to discuss the matter. Pulling the door open, he stuck his head out, reconnoitered briefly, and slid through. Jianna followed, out the door, out of Ironheart, into the night that was cold but not unendurably so, partly thanks to Rione’s woolen cloak, partly due to her own excitement. What next? He was already moving left along the front of the building, and she supposed that he was heading for one of the small side gates in the outer wall, unguarded, if such was to be found.

  It was not. As they rounded the angle of the stronghouse, Jianna caught an orange glow of light—fire or lamplight. Rione, a pace ahead of her, turned and halted her with a gesture. Jianna shrank back into the shadows, whence she watched with fatalistic fascination as he continued on toward the source of the light. Before the exit sat a sentry, very comfortably ensconced there, with a brazier of glowing coals beside him and a three-legged stool beneath him. The sentry was engaged in roasting something over the coals, rounded blobs wafting the aroma of onions. He seemed absorbed in his task, and wouldn’t it be feasible to sneak on past without drawing his notice?

  The sentry looked up, spied Rione, and the opportunity was lost.

  “Well, Prenzi. Seems you drew the short straw this evening. Stuck out here in the cold alone at the gate, while every other man in the place is busy putting away all the ale he can drink.” Rione appeared disinclined to tamper with success.

  “Oh, I’m well enough,” Prenzi returned equably. “Not so cold, else you’d be dressed warmer yourself. What are you doing out here, anyway?”

  “I’ve come to do you a good turn. Seems that the magnifica has taken pity on you.”

  “Oho, has she now?”

  “She gives you leave to go inside for some hot food, drink, and Gwetto’s fiddling. And a good fire, I might add. I’ll stand in for you here.”

  “That’s uncommonly decent of you, lad, and I appreciate the offer, but I’ll just say no, with thanks.”

  “No?”

  “With thanks.”

  “Prenzi, you’re a good fellow, you deserve a reward now and again.”

  “But it wouldn’t be no reward for me, see. You think I want to be indoors, shut up in some hot room, with all that noise and chatter? Then there’s all that ale, and you’re the one that told me to stay away from it. Bad for me liver, you said so yourself. Ruin me health, you said. Don’t you remember saying so?”

  “Now that you mention it.”

  “And that party food. Too rich. Gives me wind. You warned me against the greasy stuff yourself, more than once. Don’t you remember?”

  “I do.”

  “So you see, it’s better by far out here, and here’s where I stay.”

  “I see. I must confess, I’d no idea that you take my advice so much to heart.”

  “Like it was the law of the land. When it comes to leechcraft, you’re the prince.”

  Jianna watched in mounting alarm. The health-conscious sentry clearly was not going away. She and Rione would have to circle back to some other exit, one presided over by a more pliable guardian, but to do so meant crossing the front of the building again, where the danger of detection was greatest. Why couldn’t Prenzi just behave like a normal human being?

  “Well, I’ll treasure your esteem for—as long as it lasts.” Rione’s voice almost sounded melancholy for an instant, before the casual tone resumed. “I’ll bid you good night, then. I’m going back in, I don’t mean to waste that big fire the magnifica’s got roaring away in there. Before I go, though—I almost forgot—would you mind taking a look at this? Nobody knows more about these things than you.”

  “What’ve you got, then?”

  “Found it the other day. Can’t identify it.” Rione handed the other something small and dark. From a distance the object resembled a lump of mud.

  “Well, let’s see.” Prenzi leaned toward the brazier to examine the lump by the light of the coals. Rione stepped behind to look on over the sentry’s shoulder.

  “Looks
like the nest of an ordinary stonemudder.”

  “Isn’t, though.”

  Jianna saw Rione withdraw something white from his pocket. Paper or parchment? Scrap of fabric? Handkerchief?

  “No, you’re right. Holes are too big. With straight sides, too. Curious, very curious. What could—oh, I’ve got it. This has got to be the nest of the blueback jonce. Now, that’s rare.”

  “Are you sure?” Rione’s right hand, clasping the white scrap, advanced smoothly.

  “You can depend on it, lad. This little beauty must have been built last summer by a wandering tribe of blue—”

  Rione’s right hand pounced, pressing the white scrap hard over Prenzi’s mouth and nose. His left arm clamped across the sentry’s chest.

  It was a potion or sleeping draught, Jianna realized. Perhaps kalkriole, or else something like it. Rione’s medical bag contained an assortment of such soporifics. Prenzi struggled valiantly, but could not break the other’s grip. Very soon he went limp and his attacker lowered him gently to the ground. Rione looked up and beckoned. Jianna hurried to his side. This time she never considered congratulating him. His face was set and pained. He looked as if he had received a blow. She did not dare speak.

  Together they lifted the heavy bar from the gate and set it aside. As Rione took up his pack and bag, Jianna pulled the door open, wide enough to permit passage. They exited and, without a moment’s hesitation, he headed for the woods at a run. Jianna easily kept pace. Her strained ankle had healed long ago. The night was clear and the half-moon overhead lighted the way. She cast one look back over her shoulder at Ironheart, then turned her eyes forward. Moments later they reached the shelter of the trees, where the night darkened, obliging them to slow their pace. The stray beams struggling down through the bare branches overhead offered minimal illumination, but it was enough for Rione, who followed the course of a nearly invisible path with apparent ease. She would have been lost without him—lost beyond hope.

  “Thank you,” said Jianna, inadequately.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he advised, neither pausing nor turning to look at her. Almost he seemed angry at her. “You’re clear of the stronghouse, but well within their reach. They’ll come after us, be certain of that.”

  “How soon?”

  “As soon as Onartino goes to his room and discovers it empty. Or when Ennzu or Neequo returns to his post and finds that I’m not there. Or when Prenzi wakes up. Whichever comes first. An hour or so at the most. Probably less.”

  “That little! How long will it take us to make our way down the hills to the highway?”

  “We’re not going to the highway.”

  “How else shall we reach Vitrisi?”

  “We are not going to Vitrisi.”

  “Not!” She halted and he did likewise. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “I mean that the magnifica’s men will head straight for the VitrOrezzi Bond as soon as your flight is discovered. They’ll expect you to run for Vitrisi, and they’ll be haunting that highway before the break of dawn. Take that route and you’ll find yourself back at Ironheart within hours.”

  He was standing very near her, but his face was a pale blur in the darkness under the trees and she could not begin to read his expression. His voice, however, conveyed absolute conviction, and she believed him completely.

  “Another route, then,” she urged.

  “Impractical. Listen to me. Onartino is a master hunter and tracker. He knows every path and trail through these woods, knows them better than I do. Not even Onartino can track in the dark, though. He’ll pursue you, beyond doubt, but he won’t be able to bring his real skills to bear until daybreak, and by that time we’ll be far away.”

  “Far away where? Orezzia?”

  “In time, perhaps. But I know of another refuge, closer at hand, hidden from view, and offering greater protection. If we reach it, the forces of Ironheart can’t touch you.”

  “What refuge? Where?”

  “The campsite changes according to need. I know where it is now.”

  “Campsite?” The word seemed to leave an unpleasant taste on her tongue. “Whose?”

  “I think you’ve already guessed.”

  “You’re not speaking of the Ghosts!”

  “I am.”

  “They’re criminals!”

  “They’re soldiers and Faerlonnish patriots. More to the point, they’re armed and quite capable of defending you.”

  “Well, and why should they? Why would they risk offending the Ironheart people for a stranger’s sake?”

  “Because you’re with me,” he suggested gently. “They know me, you see. Also, my sister is there, and her opinion won’t be ignored.”

  “Those resistance brigands hate my father. The moment they hear my name, they’ll cut my throat.”

  “They’d better not hear it, then. We’ll devise a new identity for you, but now is not the time. Come, we can’t tarry. I’ll not force you, but you must decide. Will you come with me to the Ghosts?”

  “I will.” The words came out of their own accord.

  “Good. For now, it’s your best chance. And mine,” he added in an undertone.

  “Yours, Falaste?” For the first time, she thought beyond her own fears and considered the consequences of his actions.

  “I have betrayed the Magnifica Yvenza. I have broken every promise of loyalty. She will never forgive or forget. My benefactress is now my enemy.”

  “Then why have you done it?” But for the darkness, she could not have brought herself to ask.

  “Because I looked at Onartino this evening, and couldn’t pretend that I didn’t know he would hurt you.”

  He turned from her and resumed walking. She stood for a moment straining her senses to catch the sound of pursuit, then followed him into the dark.

  * * *

  The candles were burning low and Gwetto’s arm was beginning to slow by the time that Onartino Belandor, eager groom, set his tankard aside and rose from his chair.

  “I’m going up,” he announced, voice perceptibly slurred with drink. “The rest of you can do what you like.”

  A few listeners mumbled ale-soaked encouragement. The population of the room was greatly diminished. The East Reach Traveler had retired early. Nissi had vanished long ago. Many of the servants, required to rise at dawn, had likewise withdrawn. Several others had simply fallen asleep on the floor. But Yvenza Belandor—upright in her chair and wide awake—answered clearly. “Think you can find your way to your bride without assistance? You’ve drunk yourself silly.”

  “Always the sharp side of your tongue. I don’t need to hear it tonight.”

  “You’ve an ear for sweeter music, no doubt. Go your way, boy. Claim your bride, if you’re capable.”

  Favoring his dam with a glare, Onartino took up a candle and departed the hall. The drinking, music, and dancing went on without him, although the pace of all was slackening by the minute. Yvenza Belandor remained seated. A beaker of wine stood on the table before her. Moderate in her personal habits, she rarely touched alcohol in the late evening. But tonight she drank, without apparent pleasure, her brows knit in an abstracted frown. Lost in her thoughts, she seemed scarcely aware of the tired festivities.

  Minutes later, her unpleasant reverie was broken by the reappearance of her eldest son, who burst in violently, suffused face ablaze with unidentifiable emotion. Music and dancing ceased abruptly.

  Yvenza regarded him with arched brows. “Forget something?” she drawled.

  “She’s not there,” he reported. “She’s out.”

  “What, Aureste’s daughter? Nonsense. She’s hiding from you, of course. You’ll find her cowering under the bed or jammed up inside the flue.”

  “Are you stupid? The door’s open and the guard’s gone.”

  So startling was this intelligence that his impertinence went unrebuked.

  “Who relieved Ennzu?” Yvenza inquired calmly.

  “Nobody. Ennzu was ord
ered to guard that little bitch and he’s gone. She’s turned his head and he’s run away with her. When I find him, I’ll kill him.”

  “You won’t have to look far. He’s asleep in the corner.”

  Onartino followed his mother’s pointing finger to the sturdy figure lying curled on the floor, an empty tankard still clasped in one hand. A few ferocious strides carried him across the room and the remaining merrymakers fell back, hurriedly clearing his path. Reaching the unconscious man’s side, he drew back his booted foot and delivered a solid kick. Ennzu grunted and woke. Onartino stooped, seized him by the throat, and pressed. Ennzu thrashed desperately.

  “Where is she? Is there any reason not to wring your neck? Where is she?” With each query, Onartino struck his prey’s head hard against the stone floor.

  Ennzu’s eyes bulged in a purpling face. He tore uselessly at the hands that were strangling him.

  “Did she pay you? What did she pay you with, you filth?”

  Ennzu’s head rapped stone. His mouth gaped and his struggles weakened.

  “Do you want to die?”

  Ennzu could not answer, but another voice spoke in his stead.

  “That will do, boy. Give over.” Rising from her chair, Yvenza advanced unhurriedly. “Let go of him. Now.”

  Onartino obeyed with reluctance. Ennzu sat up slowly, rubbing his throat with one hand, the back of his head with the other.

  “That’s better. Now you can speak. I suggest that you do so,” Yvenza advised the man on the floor. “Explain yourself, and tell the truth.”

  “Explain what, Magnifica?” Ennzu’s voice was hoarse and scared. “What?”

  Onartino’s fist clenched and Ennzu flinched.

  “What happened upstairs?” Yvenza prompted. “Why did you abandon your post?”

  “As for that, I had Your Ladyship’s leave.” Ennzu appeared uncomprehending.

  “My leave? What is this foolery?”

  “Begging your pardon, Magnifica, but you gave me your own leave to come down for some food, drink, and fiddling. I wouldn’t’ve done it otherwise.”

  “Are you mad, or do you imagine that I am?”

  “Neither, Magnifica. Rione came on up and passed the word. Offered to stand in for me for as long as I liked. If it came from Rione, it had to be good, so I thought I was in luck.”