The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  Meeting the prisoner’s pale eyes, gleaming balefully behind swollen and purpling lids, he asked, “Where is my daughter?”

  “You stupid kneeser shit, what does it take to get it through your head that we don’t know?” Onartino inquired in turn.

  “Perhaps the mother is more reasonable than the son.” Aureste turned to Yvenza, who sat flint-eyed and upright in her chair. “Are you ready to relinquish my daughter?”

  She stared at him. Her lips resumed their contemptuous curve.

  “Do you understand that you’ll see him beaten to death before your eyes? Be assured that the spectacle will last throughout the night.”

  “And your daughter’s fate will exceed it by a hundredfold.”

  “You have her, then? You know where she is.”

  “I will tell you nothing, cousin. I leave you to the joys of speculation.”

  “That is scarcely my sole joy.” Addressing the Taerleezis, Aureste commanded, “The bastinado.”

  At once Onartino was lifted, laid out flat on the table, and held down while a pair of soldiers took turns beating the soles of his feet with cudgels. This particular torment, while leaving few visible marks, was notoriously painful, but the sufferer never uttered a cry, much less a revealing word. Whatever his shortcomings, he was clearly no coward, and for the first time it occurred to Aureste to wonder whether he could possibly have been telling the truth, or even part of the truth.

  But no. The story was wildly improbable to the verge of impossibility. Jianna, kidnapped and held captive in this guarded stronghouse, escaping in the company of some peasant lover scant hours prior to her father’s arrival? And even more implausible—Jianna married to this hulking, loutish son of her father’s enemy? The ceremony was performed by the East Reach Traveler before a roomful of witnesses, so it’s legal and binding as you please … So the oaf had claimed, and one of his own personal bodyguard, the promising Drocco, had reported the discovery of an East Reach Traveler among the dead, a finding that seemed to corroborate the story. But did not prove it, and the thing was just too fantastic for belief … a roomful of witnesses … He could question the surviving Ironheart servants—who would undoubtedly reply according to their masters’ will. No dependable testimony there.

  Frustration heated his anger. He relieved both by setting his men to work on Onartino’s fingernails with pliers; but the extraction of all ten produced no satisfactory information. Likewise futile was the application of radiant red coals to strategic points of naked anatomy, although one such application, resulting in the sizzling destruction of the victim’s right eye, did at last succeed in breaching Onartino’s provoking stoicism. Roars of pain resounded beneath Ironheart’s grim old roof. Aureste drank the outcry, which seemed in part to quench his own inner fires. A measure of relief stole over him, and he signaled his men to desist. His eyes turned to Yvenza, who sat motionless, unblinking eyes fixed on the spectacle before her.

  “Give me back my daughter and all this ends,” he offered once again.

  Her gaze flicked him and turned away, as if from an object unworthy of notice. In that instant he saw that her eyes were astonishingly devoid of tears; devoid of fear, hate, grief, or any other readily identifiable emotion and therefore alien as the eyes of some visitor from beyond the stars.

  Thrusting his misgivings aside, he nodded and the torture resumed, the Taerleezis now hauling their prey upright to endure a merciless rain of cudgel blows to the torso. But Onartino’s response was disappointingly sluggish; his sensations seemed to have dulled. At last a poorly aimed blow glanced off the back of his skull to leave him sagging unconscious in the grip of his captors.

  Annoyed, Aureste was obliged to order another suspension of activity. During the lull he repaired to a chamber more tranquil of atmosphere, there to dine on the best fare the indifferent kitchen of Ironheart could provide. Following his meal, he demanded to be shown to the chamber in which his daughter’s cloak had been discovered. It took but moments to investigate the place, a very plain, chilly little room whose door could be barred from the outside. No furnishings beyond a small bed with a threadbare blanket, pot under the bed, a rickety table, washbasin and pitcher. No ornaments, no clothing or personal items, nothing to recall his daughter’s presence. And then he noticed the crude wooden comb lying in the shadow of the basin and all but invisible on the wooden table. He picked it up and found tangled in its teeth a single long, dark hair. The right length, the right color. Hers. His eyes scalded for a moment. He slipped the comb into his pocket then returned to the interrogation chamber, renewed in energy.

  Onartino had recovered consciousness. He lay supine and motionless on the floor, his large body crisscrossed with welts and bleeding cuts, splotched with purple-black bruises and red burns, knobbed with discolored lumps suggestive of broken bones. His face presented a shocking spectacle, with its burned-out eye socket surrounded by hugely swollen, livid flesh. He turned to look with his one remaining eye as Aureste reentered, his gaze unblinking and expressionless as a wounded lizard’s. Similarly impassive waited Yvenza, still in the chair where the soldiers had placed her. The soldiers themselves sat at the table, indifferent to the bloodstains marking its surface as they consumed the meal that some servant had evidently been ordered to bring them. They snapped to attention as Aureste came in.

  Advancing to Onartino’s side, Aureste halted, looked down, and observed, “There’s still time to save yourself. Where is my daughter?”

  “Probably servicing sailors, by this time,” Onartino opined, voice hoarse, words slurred but still understandable.

  Aureste came within a nervespan of driving his booted heel straight down on the profane mouth, but controlled the impulse. The loss of all his remaining teeth might render the prisoner incapable of intelligible speech. Therefore turning to Yvenza, he inquired simply, “Well?”

  There was no reply. She did not trouble to glance in his direction.

  The beating resumed, this time with the soldiers focusing their particular attention on the prisoner’s joints—knees, ankles, wrists, elbows, shoulders. Onartino was no longer able to contain his outcry, but the roars had given way to shuddering moans. No information emerged, however; nothing from the victim or from his stone-faced mother. Presently Onartino fainted. A bucketful of cold water only partially revived him, and once again the proceedings had to be halted.

  It was clear that the Taerleezis were losing enthusiasm. The early rush of savage enjoyment had waned, their weakening victim’s initially entertaining responses had fallen off, and their strenuous employment was taking on the aspect of drudgery. Well-disciplined soldiers, however, they dutifully carried on. Aureste’s own satisfaction was similarly ebbing, along with his hopes. The punishment the prisoner had received should have loosened his tongue long ago, if in fact he concealed information of any description. It had become difficult to avoid considering the possibility that he did not. There were no secrets to reveal. He had told the truth from the beginning: Jianna had fled—assisted by some servant, perhaps someone with an eye to a reward, or perhaps simply a person possessing conscience and a sense of decency—and neither Onartino nor his mother had any idea where she was. And if in fact he had told the truth or some toxic version of the truth about her escape—had the rest of his story been true as well? The marriage, performed by the East Reach Traveler, before a roomful of witnesses, legal and binding as you please?

  Ridiculous, impossible. And yet, what in the world could have inspired Onartino Belandor to invent such a lie, guaranteed to rouse the fury of his captor? And what had brought the East Reach Traveler to Ironheart, to die with its defenders?

  The night wore on, the dark hours passed, and the weary torturers were relieved by fresh Taerleezis who plied their clubs, their dagger points, and their heated poker with zest but no success. Onartino—increasingly distanced from recognizable human normality—furnished no information and little by way of diversion. His moans waxed periodic and monotonous. His spasms seemed
reflexive, almost unconscious, and novel techniques—including the amputation of two fingers from his left hand—tapped no fresh wells of anguish. His mother was not much better. Her eyes remained fixed on the scene before her, but the eyes were vacant, the intelligence behind them seemingly elsewhere.

  Time dragged on. The Taerleezis grew tired and bored. Onartino’s moans had ceased, and when they kicked him in the groin, he did not react at all. His one eye was open, but it was not certain that he retained consciousness. It had been hours since he had uttered a word.

  Aureste commanded another cessation. Like his minions, he was weary; and perhaps unlike them, he was filled with disgust. The night was drawing to a close, and an infinity of torture had extracted no information from Onartino Belandor, who once again lay naked on the stone floor. Aureste looked into the single unseeing eye wide open in the distorted ruin of a face, and finally acknowledged to himself that there was nothing to be had; the interrogation had proved futile.

  An uncharacteristic sense of defeat swept through him. He had overcome all obstacles and found his way to this remote fortified place, he had battered his way in, he had made himself master, and yet he had failed. The prize eluded his grasp, just as Yvenza had observed hours earlier. His eyes shifted to her. She remained upright in her chair, motionless and unfathomable, as she had sat throughout the night. But now, as if she felt the pressure of his gaze, she turned to look at him. Her face was petrified, but he fancied that he caught a cold glint of triumph in the depths of her eyes, and the sight was insupportable. His failure did not establish her victory; he would not allow it.

  “Hours ago, you taxed me with falsehood,” he reminded her in a conversational tone, and there was nothing in her face to assure him that she heard or understood. “You slighted the worth of my word. The moment has come for me to demonstrate that I can be relied upon to keep my promises. I made one to you, if you recall. I promised that you would see your son beaten to death before your eyes. The task is all but complete, but not quite. Let us make an end.” Still no perceptible reaction from Yvenza, not even when he bade the soldiers, “Finish him.”

  Obediently they stooped to their victim, and the thud of their clubs striking his skull was clearly audible. Onartino’s limbs twitched briefly and then he lay still.

  “Magnifico, he’s done,” one of the soldiers reported.

  “Your choices visited this fate upon him, madam,” Aureste informed Yvenza, every demon within him clamoring for vengeance. “Take consolation if you can in the knowledge that the loss belongs to both of us if, as he claimed, he was my son-in-law.”

  No reaction, no response. She sat like a graven image, but he assumed that she could hear him plainly enough.

  “During the course of this night, I’ve come to acknowledge the reality of your ignorance and your incompetence,” he informed her. “You abducted my daughter, but you could not hold her. She was too clever for you. She managed to escape, and now you truly have no idea of her whereabouts. Nothing is to be gained in questioning you further. Thus there remains only the matter of your punishment.”

  Still no sign that she heard.

  “It is within my rights and my power to order your immediate execution,” he continued. “But I’m disinclined to war on broken old women, and even less inclined to grant you the mercy of death. Better by far that you live on—childless, destitute, bereaved, a solitary homeless wanderer in the world, with naught but your memories and your misery to carry you along a beggarly road. Yes, I say homeless. I am turning you out of doors, madam. You may take with you such belongings as you can carry in a sack, and so you’ll go your way. I myself return to Vitrisi and the beauty of Belandor House, but do not imagine, once I am gone, that you will likewise return to this stronghouse. There will be no Ironheart for you, no refuge and fortress, no seat of outlaw power; it is finished. Do you understand me?”

  Now she did turn to stare at him, and he read perfect comprehension in her eyes.

  Without diverting his gaze from her face, he commanded, “Take her away. Let her gather what she will, with the exception of money and jewelry, then put her out.”

  The Taerleezis moved to obey, and Yvenza finally spoke, in tones barely audible. “My sons.”

  “What of them?”

  “Burial.”

  “I’ve no time to waste on ceremony.”

  “Give them to me.”

  “Ah, you stole my daughter, but expect me to give you your sons? I will take pity on you and offer my charity. If you’ve any of your household servants about, still alive and willing to bear the burden, I give you leave to carry the corpses away.” Addressing his soldiers, he commanded, “See to it.”

  Head high, Yvenza departed, closely flanked by her sons’ killers. The door closed behind them. Alone, Aureste expelled his breath in a sigh and let his shoulders sag. Dawn was breaking, and he realized that he was overpoweringly tired. His eyes traveled the room, with its two corpses—Trecchio on the floor in the corner, where the soldiers had placed him, Onartino still lying where he had fallen—and its bloodstains, countless bloodstains. He filled his lungs with atmosphere reeking of blood and sweat, urine, smoke, cooked flesh, and vomit, and his sense of revulsion returned full force, along with his sense of defeat. All that he had wrought—all the destruction, all the bloodshed—all of it was worthless. He had not rescued Jianna. He could not absolutely assert that she still lived, although he refused to let himself believe otherwise. And he had no idea where to look for her.

  The dark desolate fancies spun through his mind. He could neither grasp nor control them; and would not, he realized, until he had slept. Exiting the interrogation chamber, he made his will known and was conducted to Ironheart’s best bedroom—plain and simple but decent enough, with solid, mildly battered furniture, a couple of fraying tapestries on the walls, and an old-fashioned cupboard bed made up with freshly laundered sheets. Removing only his boots, he stretched himself fully dressed atop the coverlet, shut his eyes, and let sleep claim him. Just before he drifted off, it came to him as his last coherent thought that the bed he occupied almost certainly belonged to Yvenza. Here she had slept, presumably alone, for years; and further back in time, a quarter of a century past, she had shared this bed with her husband, the late lamented Magnifico Onarto. The thought was distasteful, even a little disturbing, but he did not let it keep him from slumber.

  When Aureste next opened his eyes, the angle of light told him that it was midmorning. He must have slept some three or four hours, and the rest had done him good. He had recovered much of his wonted energy, along with his mental clarity. Apparently his mind had nourished and fortified itself while he slept, for his first waking thought reflected renewed optimism. He had failed to recover his daughter, but her kidnappers insisted that she had escaped on her own. If true, then she would head straight for Vitrisi and home. It was not impossible that he would find her waiting there upon his return. She would run to his arms; he would see her smile again.

  So heartening was this thought that he was able to breakfast with good appetite before summoning the Taerleezi squadron leader and issuing orders for an exhaustive search of the surrounding countryside, to be conducted over the course of the next several days. His newfound sanguinity was at once undermined by the Taerleezi’s firm refusal. The terms of the agreement, he was reminded, included the taking of the stronghouse known as Ironheart; only so much, and nothing more. Mission accomplished, the squadron was under the Governor Uffrigo’s orders to return at once to Vitrisi, where its skill in the art of crowd control was much in demand. Nor could the offer of higher pay and a generous bonus alter matters. The squadron leader was adamant: His men would depart for the city this very day. The Faerlonnish magnifico could accompany them or not, as he chose.

  Thwarted again. He could scarcely remain at Ironheart or even within its environs on his own. Unprotected, he would be murdered within hours if not minutes. There was no choice but to leave with the Taerleezis. And perhaps not the
worst decision, although it ran counter to all paternal instinct. As Yvenza had noted, the hills were wide and the forests deep. He might search for a lifetime and never find her. But there was another whose detective abilities far exceeded his own. Innesq’s arcane guidance had served him well in the past and would surely do so again. He needed Innesq’s special talents now; it was indeed time to go home.

  But he could hardly afford to leave Ironheart deserted. The door would scarcely have closed behind him before Yvenza and her people would be back inside, safe, comfortable, no doubt busy regrouping their forces and plotting revenge.

  No.

  Aureste issued commands that fell well within the designated scope of Taerleezi activity, and the soldiers busied themselves with careful placement of powder barrels—most of them grouped in the cellar, but others positioned along supporting walls at various levels of the building. Preparation for departure was completed. Wagons were loaded, mules hitched, horses saddled. The squadron withdrew to a safe position beyond the wall. A final warning was issued to clear the building of humanity; a trio of fleet-footed Taerleezis lit the fuses and exited at a run. Two or three minutes elapsed before a rumble shook the ground. The rumble rose to a roar and a searing blast shook Ironheart from foundation to roof. For an instant the world changed color as fire leaped for the sky. Rubble flew; clouds of smoke and dust billowed, all but obscuring the scene. For an instant the topmost turrets appeared to quiver; and then, with the thunder of an avalanche, the stronghouse fell. So strategic was the placement of explosives that the final collapse occurred almost vertically. The dust thickened, excluding all daylight, and flying pebbles pelted down like hail. Minutes later, when the atmosphere had partially cleared and the air was almost breathable again, it could be seen that the building lay in tumbled ruin. All that remained upright were a couple of sections of ground-story wall.