The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  The soldiers whistled and cheered. Aureste’s own mood was far from triumphant. Long before the dust had fully settled, he turned his back on the wreckage of Ironheart and rode away.

  FIFTEEN

  The journey back to Vitrisi was uneventful. Traveling once more in his anonymous carriage, Aureste discreetly separated himself from the Taerleezi troops at Strevorri Field. Directing his own household guards to follow him home in unobtrusive pairs and trios, he proceeded at his best speed to the city gates, through which he passed unrecognized and unnoticed. And once again, the absence of public execration was so agreeable that he wondered if he should take to traveling incognito at all times.

  The ordinary little conveyance clattered through the busy city streets, but he scarcely noted the changing scene outside his window, for all his attention focused upon a single incandescent possibility: Jianna might have come home. If she had in truth escaped her abductors, she might well have reached Vitrisi by this time. He might see her again in a matter of minutes.

  It wouldn’t do to let his hopes soar too high. He could hardly expect such good fortune; life was rarely that kind. But he could not control the acceleration of his heartbeat or the quickening of his breath as the carriage neared the top of the White Incline. Then he was hurrying along Summit Street, with its mansions and gardens, and soon he came upon a sight that momentarily eclipsed all other matters, even thoughts of his daughter. To his left arose the lofty marble walls and archways of the landmark dwelling known for generations as the Gaessilico Palace, but now called Nerosi House, in honor of its current Taerleezi masters. And the gilded front portal of Gaessilico Palace, now called Nerosi House, was marked with a great red X, symbol of the quarantine.

  The plague had come to the Clouds. Nor had the wealth and power of the residents, nor the height and splendor of their gleaming walls, succeeded in keeping it out. The Nerosi household members, masters and servants alike, were now prohibited from crossing the boundaries of their own property, until such time as a city inspector proclaimed the house free of contagion. Probably in recognition of the Taerleezi councilman Nerosi’s wealth and status, there was no armed guard stationed before the door to enforce compliance with the quarantine regulations. But the name Nerosi would now be marked and, for any household member discovered walking the streets, the consequences would be grave.

  Here. Even here, in the security and beauty of the Clouds. No safe refuge existed; money couldn’t buy one. And Aureste, wont to regard wealth as the ultimate panacea, experienced a chilly internal qualm. He suppressed the sensation expertly. The rare difficulty in life immune to the influence of money must surely submit to arcane power. The uncommon talents of Innesq Belandor could be depended upon to preserve the health of his family members. If money could not keep them safe, then Innesq’s powers would.

  Thus reassured, he let his daughter return to the forefront of his mind, and her smile lighted his thoughts as the carriage drew up to the gilded iron gates in the wall surrounding Belandor House. Aureste frowned. No sentry, human or even Sishmindri, stood watch at the open gateway. He had been away from home only a matter of days, and already in his absence discipline and care were sliding. He would have a word or two for each of his brothers. He would—

  Then his gaze traveled past the gate as far as the house itself, and his breath stopped, for Belandor House lay burned and disfigured before him, broken and mutilated as any victim of torture. The south wing, he saw at once, had been completely destroyed by fire. The roof had caved in, the few walls left standing were charred black, and every window frame was empty. The brightest, warmest, and airiest rooms in the building were gone. Nearly as dire was the state of the central section, whose grandly proportioned entry now yawned wide in black ruin, and whose tower, once graced with a skylight bearing the image of the sun wrought in two dozen tones of golden glass, had toppled. Only the north wing had escaped with moderate damage. The walls and roof were smoke-darkened but apparently sound. A number of windows were cracked or shattered, but many remained intact. Probably some of the north wing chambers were habitable.

  The resistance. There could be no other explanation. They had struck at him from time to time throughout the years and he had always dodged, but this time the thrust had gone home.

  He would find a way of returning it with interest.

  And if they had harmed Innesq, or Jianna, he would use all the considerable resources at his command to hunt them to the death.

  In vain he shouted for greater speed. The carriage seemed to creep on toward the wounded mansion. The journey took centuries but ended at last, and Aureste sprang from the vehicle before it came to a full stop. Then he was running, as his middle-aged dignity had not permitted him to run in years, hastening for the entry to one of the north wing’s ground-floor galleries, where a sentry stood watch—providentially a human being, capable of human speech, but just now slack-jawed with wonder at the sight of his master’s undisguised agitation.

  “My daughter,” Aureste demanded. “Has she returned, has she been seen?”

  “No, Magnifico,” the sentry responded, astonished. “No sign of the maidenlady.”

  “And my brother? Is he safe?”

  “Master Innesq? Or Master Nalio?”

  “Innesq, you fool, Innesq!”

  “Well—well, that’s not so easy to say, Magnifico. Master Innesq is alive, mind you,” the sentry forestalled the question blazing in his master’s eyes, “but, well, something happened during the fire, and it’s not clear what it is. They’re not saying much, and ’twere best you speak to a doctor about it. Or Master Nalio would know more than me, sir.”

  “Nalio is unharmed?”

  “Yes, Magnifico.”

  “Innesq has been injured, but Nalio is unharmed?”

  “Well, it’s not sure that injured is the right word for it, Magnifico.”

  “You dolt, you’re not worth talking to. Is Nalio inside?”

  “Yes, Magnifico.”

  “Out of my way.” The sentry stepped aside and Aureste rushed on into the north wing, where he paused, uncertain. The gallery had escaped catastrophic damage—the ceiling and walls looked sound, and only two of the big windows were broken—but the effects of the fire were very apparent. Every exposed surface was filmed and blackened with soot. The formerly gleaming marble floors were dull and gritty, the rich tones of bronze and carnelian obscured, the mirrors cracked. And worst of all, the splendid paintings in their gilded frames—some of them priceless masterpieces—had been dirtied and dimmed.

  Aureste scarcely noted the damage. His eyes ranged the gallery, whose far reaches vanished into a wilderness of studios and half-forgotten archives. Then his attention shifted to the graceful, smoke-stained stairway curving up to the higher stories, with their assorted workrooms and their guest rooms designed for visitors of less than the premier level, yet deserving of a certain respect. The chambers were numerous and he had no idea which, if any, contained either of his brothers. In the past—and the time predating his Ironheart excursion already seemed far past—the gallery would have been alive with servants, retainers, or even Sishmindris to question. Today there were none, and he—unwilling to search the north wing room by room—lifted his voice in a great echoing shout.

  “NALIO!”

  Ordinarily he might have suffered a sense of indignity to find himself unattended in his own house, bawling at the top of his lungs for his insignificant youngest brother. Today he did not think of it.

  “NALIO!”

  The summons was heard. Within moments Nalio came jittering down the stairs, a familiar meager figure, unbecomingly clad from head to toe in black. In mourning? For Innesq?

  “What happened?” Aureste demanded harshly.

  “Aureste, you’re back. Oh, it was dreadful—dreadful! You can scarcely begin to imagine—”

  “Stop there. Before you go any further, tell me what has happened to Innesq. Is he alive?”

  “Yes, yes, our brother lives. But
he’s—”

  “Hurt? Burned?”

  “There’s not a mark on him, not so much as a bruise; no outward sign to tell us why he is as he is.”

  “As he is? What are you saying? Speak plainly.”

  “He’s unconscious,” Nalio announced. “He’s slept for the better part of four days. No one can wake him.”

  Four days unconscious. It could only mean that Innesq was dying. A deep, cold terror took hold of Aureste. He was going to lose his brother—as well as his daughter. He was going to lose all that mattered, or perhaps he already had. You have lost everything, Aureste. The Magnifica Yvenza’s voice rang in his mind. You simply do not know it yet.

  “Take me to him,” he commanded steadily. “And as we go, you will tell me everything that happened.”

  “Upstairs. This way.” Nalio headed for the stairway and Aureste fell into step beside him. “It was the night of the day you left. All was quiet, orderly, and normal but for the reduced household staff. Still, between the remaining servants and Sishmindris, there were enough to mount what ought to have been an adequate guard. Also, of course, Innesq’s arcane safeguards were properly in place and active. So we retired for the night, suspecting nothing, only to be roused from our slumbers by the attack of an army of masked soldiers.”

  “Soldiers? In uniform?”

  “No—no—I don’t think so—I’m not sure—I can hardly say what they wore. They displayed the discipline, expertise, and ferocity of seasoned soldiers, that is what I meant.”

  “An army, you say?”

  “No—no—perhaps more of a troop. Probably not above two or three dozen men. They seemed like an army, though. We woke from sleep—Unexia and I—and they were there, in our own apartment, and there was fire and smoke everywhere, and—and—and screaming, and madness—and they—they—they were killing—killing humans and Sishmindris alike, killing everybody. It was hideous, a nightmare. In the midst of the panic and confusion, Unexia and I were separated. I escaped the house by way of a north wing exit, but Unexia did not. The—the—the butchers killed her.” Nalio’s narrow face contorted. “They killed my Unexia.”

  “I am sorry.” Aware that some display of fraternal sympathy was mandatory, Aureste strove to conceal all visible signs of impatience. He grudged the waste of a moment’s thought on Nalio’s mouse-faced nonentity of a wife when matters of infinitely greater import clamored for attention, but there was no help for it. “Mark you, your dear lady will be avenged.”

  “Thank you, brother. You liked her, did you not?”

  “Enormously. She will be greatly missed. But, as to your account of the attack—you say that Innesq’s arcane safeguards were in order. You’re certain of that?”

  “Yes, Innesq had inspected them personally, that very evening.”

  “How were they breached? Did the invaders possess arcane resources?”

  “Innesq said they did. He even said who.”

  “What do you mean? You told me he was unconscious. When could Innesq have said anything?”

  “Right after. The killers retreated, I don’t know just when they left, it was confused, with everybody running and screaming, and smoke over all. A couple of Sishmindris carried Innesq from the house and set him down in the garden, where I found him. At that time he seemed shocked and weakened—his face was so white, he seemed more spirit than flesh—but he was awake and perfectly clear in mind.”

  Aureste stopped dead and wheeled to face his youngest brother. “What did he say?”

  “He said that an individual arcane force overcame the arcane safeguards and supported the entire attack, including a stroke aimed specifically at him, although he thought that you were the principal target. He said that every arcanist’s work is unique, the product of a single mind, whose action and interpretation are identifiable as a signature. He said that he confronted the attacking arcanist, whose face was masked, felt the vibration of the other’s mind, and knew him, despite the mask. He said he recognized—he—he—he recognized—” Nalio swallowed hard and forced the words out in a rush, “He recognized Vinz Corvestri.”

  Vinz Corvestri. The name set off ancient flares. Sonnetia’s husband. Hereditary enemy of House Belandor. Lifelong friend of the Faerlonnish resistance. The awkward, studious ninny who had dared to marry Sonnetia Steffa. The undeserving second-rater to whom she had given a son—the son that might have been his. Vinz Corvestri, who had dared to strike directly at Belandor House and its treasures.

  Vinz Corvestri, who would shortly cease to exist.

  “I see. And you’re quite certain that Innesq was awake and clearheaded when he said this?” Aureste probed.

  “He certainly seemed to be. Sick and weak, as I told you, but otherwise quite his calm, thoughtful self. Oh, I—will—will—will miss him!”

  “Stop that. You speak as if he were already dead. I won’t have it!” Aureste snarled, and then, with a conscious effort, moderated his tone. “He survived the attack and the fire. What happened next?”

  “The fire gradually died. All of Belandor House might have fallen had the wind not shifted, driving the flames south and bringing the rain. Before dawn the blaze was extinguished and we survivors took possession of the north wing, which remains livable, more or less. The Sishmindris took charge of Innesq at once. They are quite devoted to him, have you ever noticed? They took him upstairs to a decent room and put him to bed. He thanked them for their care, they reported later, and they left him. Around noon one of them brought him a tray, found him fast asleep, and withdrew. In the early evening they tried again, but found him still asleep, at which point they notified a human. It was discovered then that his sleep could not be broken. He lies peacefully, he is warm and his heartbeat is steady, but he will not wake. So he has remained, without change, for days. Oh, I will—will—will miss—” Encountering his brother’s eyes, Nalio cut himself off.

  “Come then, take me to him,” Aureste ordered calmly enough, and progress resumed.

  Another few paces along a corridor only faintly smoke-sullied, to a bedchamber perfectly clean and fresh—presumably the work of Sishmindri hands—wherein Innesq Belandor reposed. He lay motionless on his back in the middle of a big, carven bed, head propped on a spotless pillow, arms slack at his sides. His eyes were shut, his breathing deep and regular. His face was pale, peaceful, and unutterably empty.

  “He’s been like that for days, now—laid out exactly as the Sishmindris left him.” For some reason Nalio was whispering. “He hasn’t moved so much as a fingertip. It is my theory that he’s suffered an injury to the brain—perhaps an apoplexy—and he is now completely paralyzed. I think—”

  “Leave us,” Aureste commanded absently.

  “If I’m right, then the removal of a sizable portion of his skull, resulting in the relief of intracranial pressure, might—”

  “You may go, Nalio.”

  “Very well. Very well.” Nalio’s face flushed. Spine very erect, he took a step toward the door, then stopped and turned back. “You make it clear that I am not wanted. Before you dismiss me, however, there is one thing you should know. In your absence, and with Innesq asleep these past few days, I have been in charge here. I’ve supervised the staff, reorganized the living arrangements to shift us all over to the north wing, dealt with tradespeople and mechanicals, begun work on the search through the ruins, the discovery and interment of the bodies. I’ve listed property lost, property damaged, property saved—it’s a very thorough list. I’ve accepted estimates from various laborers for removal and cleaning services. I’ve compiled a short list of worthy architects, one of whom might be selected to repair and rebuild the house. In short, I’ve assumed the duties of head of the household. And I’ve performed those duties well, Aureste. Very well indeed; ask anyone. I am not without ability, you know. I think you should be aware of that.”

  “I am.” Aureste frowned, feeling himself distracted as if by the pertinacious buzzing of a fly. “Be assured that I value you according to your merits,
brother. Now pray leave us.”

  Only partially mollified, Nalio nodded and exited, shutting the door behind him with pointed emphasis.

  He was alone with Innesq. Approaching the bedside, Aureste stood looking down at his brother. The face—a sickly and haggard version of his own—had never been so still, so uninhabited. Innesq wasn’t there.

  But perhaps he could be summoned back. If determination and singleness of mind were enough to serve the purpose, he would be recalled to life.

  “Innesq. Wake up. Hear me. Wake.” He did not raise his voice, but invested it with all the quiet force that he could muster. Bending slightly, he clasped his brother’s warm hand—his own was icy—straightened, and spoke again. “Come back. You are needed here. We cannot do without you. Do you hear? You are needed. Wake.”

  Innesq slept on. For the next twenty minutes, Aureste stood holding his brother’s hand. Sometimes he repeated his exhortations; much of the time he was silent. Gradually the warmth of his brother’s limp hand infused his own. But Innesq never woke, never even stirred.

  At length, Aureste laid Innesq’s hand down, turned from the bed, and walked out of the room. Grief and an intolerable sense of helplessness would slice like internal daggers if he gave way to them and he therefore transmuted the unwelcome visitants to anger. And it helped greatly. The surging red energy reinvigorated him, renewed his courage and along with it his resolve to avenge himself upon the authors of this attack on his home. The skulking fanatics of the resistance maintained a craven anonymity, but one of the invaders—the vilest of them, the one who had brought them past the arcane safeguards, Innesq’s attacker—had been identified. Vinz Corvestri.

  Vinz Corvestri would pay dearly. And his connection to Sonnetia—his offense and his protection alike, for the past twenty-five years—would not preserve him now.

  A nearby door stood ajar. Aureste looked in and saw a bedchamber, a lamp burning within, coals glowing on the grate, the bed made up, a smoke-dimmed portrait of Unexia Belandor hanging on the wall. Evidently Nalio had chosen this undamaged room to settle in following the destruction of his own apartment. He was welcome to it. Aureste’s eyes flew to the one object of interest that the room contained: a small writing desk in the corner, its surface laden with perfectly arranged stacks of ledgers, account books, and documents. Here Nalio must sit to compose those lists, those very thorough lists, of which he was so proud. Here, too, would be found all manner of writing materials.