The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  Ironheart had fallen.

  * * *

  When the stronghouse had been properly searched and its surviving defenders thoroughly subdued, Aureste entered. His immediate demand for news of his daughter drew no satisfactory response from the Taerleezi squadron leader. No female remotely answering the missing maidenlady’s description had been discovered within the confines of the stronghouse; no living girl, no corpse, nothing. And it flashed through Aureste’s mind in the course of a horrible fraction of a second that it had all been a gigantic error. He had misinterpreted, he had placed his reliance upon huge assumptions, he had willfully deceived himself, and all this costly, destructive effort had been in vain. Jianna was not here and never had been.

  Not possible. Unacceptable. They were hiding her somewhere and he would compel them to relinquish her. He would use any and all necessary means.

  He wanted a room in which to conduct an interrogation, and they led him to a chamber of moderate size, almost undamaged, apparently used as a dining hall. A long table still bore the drying remnants of a surprisingly lavish meal. Ordering the remains removed and the lamps lit, he seated himself and was immediately approached by one of his own household guards, the same youngster who had carried his written message into Ironheart hours earlier.

  “Magnifico, a word,” the youngster requested, guarded demeanor and suppressed tone conveying confidential intent.

  Aureste inclined his head.

  “Sir, we’ve sorted through the dead, and there’s one of them you should know about. Middle-aged fellow, looking like he was hit by flying rubble during the bombardment, carrying papers identifying him as an Orezzian East Reach Traveler. That’s somebody. Didn’t know if you’d want these Taerleezi cocks getting wind of it. Orders, sir?”

  “Remove all identification and burn it. Discreetly,” Aureste commanded. “You’ve done well—Drocco, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Expect a reward, Drocco.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The enterprising youngster saluted and withdrew.

  No sooner had he left than another of the Belandor personal guards presented himself, bearing some sort of a bundle.

  “Magnifico, we’ve found something, if you please,” the fellow announced. “Found it in a little sleeping chamber up top.”

  “Show me,” Aureste ordered, barely containing his impatience.

  The guard shook out his bundle, which unfolded into a woman’s cloak of garnet wool trimmed with bands of black fox. The garment was soiled and tattered, its once rich fur matted, but perfectly recognizable. It was the traveling cloak that Jianna had worn the morning she departed Vitrisi. She had been wearing it the last time he had seen her.

  Hope and fear ignited inside him. He concealed both. Frozen-faced, he emptied the room of all save a handful of the most professional of Taerleezis, then ordered the surviving members of the outlaw Belandor clan brought before him. Their number, he knew full well, would not include the proscribed Magnifico Onarto. He could only hope that Onarto’s widow still lived, for she, beyond doubt, had stolen his daughter and attempted his life, and she merited his closest attention.

  Slow minutes passed before his prisoners appeared, only three in number. One of them, a towering and powerfully built young man, square and broad of expressionless face, pale-eyed, and seemingly unhurt. A second, another young man resembling the first in feature and coloring, but evidently wounded, his right hand and arm bound in bandages. A couple of guards bore him in on a makeshift stretcher, which they deposited upon the floor. And the third, the object of real interest, the Widow Yvenza; hair streaked with grey and face bitterly lined, but otherwise much as he remembered her from a quarter century past. Still tall, upright, strong, and vital. Still square and grim of jaw, still hard and compelling of eye.

  She was inspecting him with equal attention, taking in every detail. The set of her lips altered almost imperceptibly, the minute change conveying eloquent contempt. He had forgotten that mute disdain of hers, forgotten how it had always roused his anger together with the uneasy sense that she saw him too clearly and understood him too well. He had all but forgotten, too, how greatly he disliked the woman, as he had never disliked her husband, the harmless, simple Onarto.

  “Cousin Aureste.” Yvenza shook her head as if bemused. “You’ve grown so very old.”

  Disregarding the taunt, Aureste inquired levelly, “These are your sons?” His gesture encompassed her two fellow prisoners.

  “You ought to know them, cousin. You lived with my boys Onartino and Trecchio at Belandor House years ago, when my late husband in his charity took you in and sheltered you after the war. They are your own kin, closer to you than perhaps you realize.”

  The woman’s voice and manner somehow contrived to hint at secret and highly satisfying knowledge. Ridiculous, of course. Vanquished and wholly powerless, she still imagined herself capable of besting him upon some mental level. He had no interest in continuing a battle that he had already won.

  “Cooperate fully and I will spare the lives of your sons,” he informed her. “Resist, and I will slaughter them both before your eyes.”

  “Surely not, cousin. You were never one to dirty your own hands in the presence of witnesses.”

  Her insolence under the circumstances was remarkable. Perhaps it sprang from despair, but she scarcely appeared defeated, much less hopeless, and still she maintained her air of secret knowledge. A pose, an attitude, that he would not deign to acknowledge.

  “I’ll not duel with you, madam,” he told her. “The contest is over and I have won it. Restore my daughter and I’ll allow you to live. But act quickly, my patience is limited.”

  “The duel.” Yvenza nodded. “But can you truly count yourself a victor, cousin, so long as the prize eludes your grasp? This missing daughter of yours—this wayward wonder—shall we speak of her? How long has she been lost to you? Have you received no word from her, no intelligence of her whereabouts, no ransom demand? If not, how cruel the uncertainty! Tell me, do you not dream of her at night? Do you not imagine her helpless in the hands of strangers, imprisoned, tortured, dishonored and degraded, crying aloud for the father who never comes to her rescue?”

  Aureste felt his blood surge. Suppressing all outward sign of rage and terror, he replied mellifluously, “I have come now. You paint ugly pictures of the imagination, madam. How much uglier to see them enacted in reality, before your eyes, upon the bodies of your sons?”

  “You speak recklessly, cousin, without consideration of consequences. Perhaps advancing age has begun to erode your intellect. There is no telling, is there, what sort of situation your daughter presently endures—assuming that she still lives. Your Taerleezi hirelings have searched this house from top to bottom and they’ve discovered nothing. You know now that she is not here—if in fact she ever was.”

  “Her cloak has been found. She was here, and may still be, locked away in some secret closet or cabinet. I will tear the house apart stone by stone, or perhaps I’ll simply tear the flesh piecemeal first from your sons’ bones, and then from your own.”

  “And still you will find nothing, for I’ll satisfy your paternal curiosity so far as to assure you that your girl isn’t here in this house, and that you may believe. Where then could she be? The possibilities are almost limitless. Might she, for example, find herself imprisoned in some hut or cave deep in the woods, guarded by those under orders to strangle her at a certain hour should they fail to receive word from me or mine? Distressing, yes, but at least a hut or cave offers shelter. What if she has none? What if she has been stripped and chained to some tree or rock, left naked to the winter winds and the appetites of beasts, both four-legged and two-legged?

  “On the other hand, what if she is sheltered more closely than she could possibly desire? Have you ever heard the tale of the abduction of Count Moverna’s oldest son? No? It is an education. It seems that the kidnappers—masters that they were of cruelty and cunning—placed the stolen ch
ild in a sizable box, which they buried six feet deep in a wooded wasteland, with only a narrow tube ascending from the box to the surface allowing passage of air. The ransom was paid promptly, the location of the box was disclosed, and the count’s son was recovered, still alive, but so damaged by his ordeal that he was never robust thereafter, but grew up sickly, melancholy, and timorous.

  “The child’s suffering lasted only a matter of hours. What might the result have been had it continued longer? Who can begin to imagine the agony of a youthful prisoner, trapped, buried alive, lying there alone in the cold and the darkness of her grave? Can words convey her sense of horror as the endless hours expire, as the small store of food and water left with her is exhausted, as the air grows foul and nauseous with the stench of her wastes, as her voice grows hoarse with the screaming that goes unheard? Assuming that the air tube isn’t blocked with mud or leaves, she might live thus for many days—each one a torturous eternity. These are such matters as you may wish to consider, cousin, before you go crowing to the world of your great victory.”

  He wanted very much to kill her. He wanted to plunge his sword into her vitals and watch her blood flow. At the same time he was conscious of the most abject desire to plead with her, to offer anything and everything in exchange for Jianna’s safe return. Aureste indulged neither impulse. When he answered, his rich voice was particularly musical. “It would seem that you imagine yourself capable of bargaining with me, of naming demands or even setting terms. You delude yourself. For your own sake, abandon this folly.”

  “Your concern for my welfare is heartwarming. But what demands have I made, cousin? What terms have I sought? What have you to give that I could want, beyond your sorrow and undoing?”

  “Your sons’ lives, perhaps?”

  “Your threats are empty. Touch any one of us and you’ll never see that girl you treasure again. The hills are wide and the forests deep. You might search for a lifetime and never find her. If she is still alive to be found.”

  Despite her wretched position, she still plainly believed that she held the winning card. She would play it to the limit and beyond, play it for days, weeks, years to come—if he permitted it.

  He would not.

  “Madam, you are in error,” Aureste returned gently. He regarded the two young men, her sons. The big one, uninjured, returned the scrutiny impassively. His eyes, pale and cold as slush, were also inexpressive as slush, his countenance as a whole perfectly unrevealing. The other one, wounded and stretched out on the floor, appeared at best but semiconscious. His eyes were closed, and from time to time an incoherent muttering bubbled out of him. Clearly an unpromising source of information. Engaging the eye of the nearest Taerleezi soldier, Aureste flicked an indicative finger and directed, “Dispatch him.”

  At once the soldier drew his sword.

  “Wait.” Yvenza’s tone was so commanding that her listener obeyed. “Have done with these charades. You will not harm us. You cannot, you dare not. We both know this.”

  “One of us is sadly misguided.” Aureste repeated his signal.

  The soldier shrugged and plunged the heavy blade into the throat of the recumbent prisoner. Blood gushed extravagantly. The victim thrashed and floundered a bit, then died in a red pool. Something like a grunt escaped the watching Onartino; the first sound he had hitherto uttered. His fists clenched briefly.

  Aureste’s avid gaze fastened upon Yvenza’s face. She was a mother whose son had just been killed before her eyes; her pain and grief must be unimaginable. And he wanted to see them. Every tear, every shudder, every aspect of her agony—he meant to drink them in. He wanted her to suffer at length; he wanted reparation.

  But the Widow Yvenza offered little satisfaction. Her set face was every bit as expressionless as Onartino’s as she met Aureste’s eyes and announced evenly, “Your daughter is a dead woman. Her death will be slow—over the course of years—and very ugly.”

  “Not nearly so ugly as that of your older son, should you continue to resist me,” he replied with a smile designed to freeze her to the marrow. Her composure and fortitude were extraordinary, but he would surely break her. “Give me back my daughter, alive and well, and I will give you your son, your only remaining son. Refuse, and you lose everything.”

  “You have lost everything, Aureste,” she told him. “You simply do not know it yet. Your daughter is no longer yours.”

  That odd look of secret knowledge was back in her face, and it disturbed him, but he thrust his misgivings aside. The woman was acting, or mad, or both. He had no time to waste on her theatrics.

  “Perhaps grief has unhinged you,” he suggested drily, and in one corner of his mind he realized that he half believed it. The marble immobility of her face suggested lunacy. “I will endeavor to recall you to reality.” Turning to the nearest of his Taerleezis, he commanded, “Take this woman’s son, strip him naked, and beat him with truncheons, brazen knuckles if you have them, belt buckles, fire irons—whatever comes most readily to hand. Strike to cause maximum pain and injury, but do not kill him as yet, and see to it that he does not lose consciousness. You two”—he addressed a pair of soldiers—“place the woman in a chair affording her a good view, and see that she stays there.”

  The soldiers made haste to obey. Before they could lay hands on him, Onartino spoke up for the first time since he had been brought in.

  “Enough,” he snapped. “Back off. I’ll tell you all there is to tell about your daughter.”

  “Hold your tongue, boy,” Yvenza warned.

  “Your stubbornness and your venom have just gotten Trecchio killed,” Onartino returned. “So happy with your accomplishment that you’re trying to do as much for me, Mother? There’s no great secret here to betray. In fact, I say the stew’s tastier if he knows. I’ve said so all along.”

  “And when he knows, what then?” Yvenza inquired. “When he’s learned all and has no further need of us, exactly what do you think happens next, my wise and judicious son?”

  “Tell me the truth and I will spare your lives,” Aureste reminded her, pleased to witness familial discord. “I have given my word.”

  “Your word?” She curved her lips in imitation of a smile. “The worth of your word is famed far and wide.”

  “Will you save yourself?” Aureste inquired of the son.

  “As you value our lives, boy, hold your peace,” Yvenza warned.

  “Trecchio held his. I don’t mean to follow his path. You can go on with your games and plots; I’ve had enough of them.” Turning to Aureste, Onartino declared, “You already know that your girl has been in this house. Well, she’s not here now. Seems the cunning little harlot managed to seduce one of the servants, and he ran off with her last night. We might have tracked them down by now if it hadn’t been for you and your cannon and your Taers, so you’ve got yourself to thank for their escape. One more detail that you might like to know, though—before our little Jianna scoured off, she married me. The ceremony was performed by the East Reach Traveler before a roomful of witnesses, so it’s legal and binding as you please. The girl’s my wife now, wherever she might hide and however she may whore herself, she’s still mine, subject first to my authority. When she’s found, she’s mine. So there you have it. Finished and done.”

  “You unutterable fool,” Yvenza remarked, very quietly. “You have ruined us.”

  Just as quietly, Aureste inquired, “Where is she?”

  “I just told you.” Incredibly, Onartino appeared impatient. “She’s run off. We don’t know where.”

  “You expect me to believe that ludicrous concoction?” Aureste kept his voice low, but the rage and hatred, briefly lulled by the prospect of success, were reawakening. These backwoods brigand enemies of his had not only abducted Jianna, held her prisoner, and no doubt tormented her so far as they dared, but now they slandered her name, hindered his search, and insulted his intelligence. “You weave an absurd fantasy. Give me the truth, or I will rip it out of you.”

&n
bsp; “You have the truth. If you don’t like it, that’s your affair.”

  His captive’s affectation of surly indifference was a creative touch. Had the tale possessed even minimal plausibility, Aureste would have found himself in danger of believing. As it was—

  “You expect me to accept the idea that the Maidenlady Jianna Belandor consented to grant you her hand?”

  “A woman will consent to anything when it’s put to her in the right way.”

  “And you also claim that my daughter—a sheltered virgin—was capable of seducing some species of household menial?”

  “She knew how on instinct. With some of them, it’s just there in the blood.”

  “You are a liar.” Aureste struck the other’s face and his ring opened a bloody gash.

  Onartino snarled and returned the blow. Before his fist hit flesh, a quartet of Taerleezis flung themselves on him.

  For a moment Aureste contemplated the immobilized prisoner, then commanded his soldiers, “Follow your instructions. Strip him and beat the truth out of him.”

  They obeyed. At first Onartino fought back, struggling mightily to break free, cursing and even kicking. Despite his size and strength, he was no match for the Taerleezis, who swiftly cut the clothes from his body, then commenced beating him with their truncheons, belts, and fists. His cursing increased in volume and his struggles waxed in violence, for a little while. As the blows rained down on his unprotected flesh, however, his vociferation dwindled to grunts and gasps. The thud of a brass-knuckled fist on his nose coincided with a crackle of breaking bone and a spray of blood. A second such blow dislodged both his front teeth. Welts and cuts striped his torso and his resistance was visibly weakening when Aureste raised a negligent forefinger, suspending the assault.