The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  Aureste strode to the desk and seated himself. Seeing no blank paper, he selected an empty page from the nearest ledger and tore it from the book. There was no dearth of pens and ink. Dipping a quill, he began to write; very quickly and decisively, with never a hesitation or a blotted line. The denunciation of Vinz Corvestri as both a patron and an active member of the Faerlonnish resistance movement almost seemed to write itself. The exercise was pleasurable as well as productive. It was almost with a sense of regret that he concluded with the suggestion that an investigation of Corvestri Mansion—and most particularly of the desk in the master’s study—would almost certainly uncover clear evidence of the Magnifico Corvestri’s guilt. This letter he left unsigned. He sealed it with red wax that bore no identifying imprint, then left Nalio’s bedchamber to search the halls for some servant to bear the message to the Clouds Watch Station, there to slide it through the slot in the door under cover of darkness.

  Selecting a female Sishmindri, he sent her off about his business, and the knowledge that he had taken definite action at last greatly improved his spirits. The Taerleezi guards of the Watch would act swiftly upon such an accusation as he had sent them. Probably they would descend upon Corvestri Mansion within hours, and even the most cursory search would yield rich results, thanks to his own foresight and the corruptibility of Sonnetia Corvestri’s maid.

  * * *

  Evening in the Corvestri family’s private dining room, and life was good; normality once more reigned. Vinz Corvestri surveyed the scene with satisfaction. Candlelight gleaming upon fine china, silver, and crystal. An excellent meal; and the circumstance that gave substance and meaning to it all—his family reunited. Sonnetia was back in her rightful place, facing him across the table. She was gowned in the deepest shade of moss-green velvet, with heirloom emeralds glinting at her throat and wrists.

  During the days of her incarceration, he had almost forgotten how beautiful she still was, particularly in the warm glow of the candles. And if she had been treating him with some coldness since her liberation—yes, marked coldness, no doubt about it—yet her courtesy and propriety remained perfectly intact; she gave him no legitimate cause for complaint, and probably never had. Right now, at this moment, he would never have dreamed of complaining, for she was smiling at Vinzille, laughing at some funny story of his. It was an expression never directed at her husband, but when he glimpsed it his breath caught, even after all these years, and he remembered why he had wanted so desperately to marry her.

  And Vinzille was smiling, too, uncomplicatedly happy to have his mother back where she belonged. Since she had rejoined them, the boy had spoken no more of enlisting in the resistance, to his father’s deep relief. Vinz’s sole experience of true resistance activity had been more than enough for a lifetime, and the mere thought of his son’s involvement sent his innards into uproar.

  No fear of that now, though. And no fear either, it seemed, that his own participation in the attack upon Belandor House would ever come to light. Had the authorities discovered any incriminating evidence, he would have been arrested and charged by this time. Clearly they had nothing. He had pulled it off.

  Catching the eye of a hovering Sishmindri, Vinz shifted his glance to the empty glass on the table before him, and the amphibian refilled it at once. He sipped appreciatively. First-rate wine, full and complex. He felt as if he could drink an entire bottle of it without ever suffering a morning-after headache. Yes, things were right again.

  Thus lulled, Vinz was unprepared for the entrance of the Taerleezi authorities. They marched into the dining room unannounced, no less than eight armed guards squared into a miniature phalanx, led by an officer of familiar aspect. It was a lieutenant—the same Taerleezi lieutenant from the Clouds Watch Station who had delivered the notification of the governor’s General Order Fourteen, a few days earlier. There had been no cause for alarm on that occasion, and there was no cause now or so Vinz assured himself.

  “Magnifico Vinz Corvestri, you are hereby informed that the Vitrisi City Guard, acting on behalf of the Taerleezi Provisional Council, has authorized a search of these premises,” the lieutenant announced professionally. “We are to investigate the entire building and all of its contents, not excluding personal property. There is no area of the house, no chamber, closet, or container to which we do not demand access. If you, or the magnifica, or any member of your household possesses keys, you will hand them over to me at this time. Should we encounter locked doors, drawers, or boxes that we are unable to unlock, they will be broken open forcibly. Do you understand all this, Magnifico?”

  “Clearly, Lieutenant.”

  “Have you anything to declare at this time?”

  “What should I have to declare, when I’ve no idea what you are looking for?” Vinz inquired earnestly. In truth he knew exactly what they would be looking for in the home of a Faerlonnish noble rumored to possess arcane ability. They would be looking for evidence of illegal arcane practice. The law prohibiting arcanism among the Faerlonnish was loosely enforced; indeed, it could hardly be otherwise. Nevertheless, conviction upon such a charge would impose a heavy fine, together with the confiscation of all demonstrably arcane materials, writings, supplies, and devices, much of it valuable and difficult to replace, and all of it intended for Vinzille.

  Vinz thought quickly. The entrance to the passageway leading to his workroom was well concealed; it was not impossible that the Taers would overlook it. If they found their way to the workroom, however, he could claim that the chamber and its contents had been the property of his late father, who had practiced legally in the ante-prohibition days before the war; all of which was true. He could also maintain that he himself had never made illicit use of the workroom. They would not believe him, of course, but it might be successfully argued that legitimate inheritance of arcane equipment did not in itself constitute proof of illegal use. With any luck, he might even evade the fine. The Taers would carry off the arcane paraphernalia if they found it, and that would be a considerable misfortune, but not a killing blow.

  “I’ll cooperate to the fullest, Lieutenant,” Vinz declared virtuously. “As for the keys, you won’t need them, for nothing here is locked, so far as I know. How should it be otherwise, when we have nothing to hide? Magnifica—” He caught his wife’s eye. “Have you any keys that should be handed over to the officer?”

  “None.” Sonnetia’s tone was neutral, her face perfectly mask-like. Vinz’s regard shifted to his son, whose eyes were practically aflame with indignation.

  Don’t let him say anything, Vinz silently enjoined the forces of the universe. Don’t let him annoy them.

  As if she heard the mute plea, or vibrated in natural sympathy, Sonnetia laid a light hand on her son’s arm. He turned to her, and she gave her head an almost imperceptible shake. Vinzille folded his arms and stared down into his lap.

  “Proceed with your search, Lieutenant,” Vinz urged graciously. “If there’s anything we can do to assist, or if you’ve any questions, do not hesitate to ask.”

  “We won’t hesitate,” the lieutenant replied with a note of barely suppressed sarcasm. Turning to his followers, he commanded, “Split into pairs, take upper, middle, and lower stories. You know what to look for. Sanzi, you’re with me, we’re for the study. Magnifico, you’ll have one of your people lead us to your study.”

  “Certainly,” Vinz conceded, mystified and uneasy.

  “Jio.” The lieutenant addressed the tallest and broadest of his men. “Stay here, see that no one leaves.”

  Jio saluted. His comrades withdrew. The guard—a remarkably husky specimen, built like a warehouse—drew a chair up to the doorway and seated himself. From that vantage point he regarded the family unblinkingly.

  Dinner resumed. The candlelight glowed as warmly as ever, the food and wine were excellent as ever, but Vinz’s appetite had flagged. In this he was not alone. His son’s adolescent voracity remained unimpaired, but Sonnetia sat still and very upright, eyes fixed
on the plate before her. Conversation, so lively minutes earlier, had given way to comfortless silence. Vinz’s mind flew to the workroom and its valuable contents. Lost forever? His father’s extraordinary collection of scrolls, the Balhoriovny Separator, the antique instruments—the heirloom treasures meant for Vinzille—were these Taerleezi vultures about to carry them off? The suspense was acutely unpleasant. No matter, Vinz assured himself. It would end soon enough.

  It did.

  Only minutes later, far sooner than he expected, the lieutenant and Sanzi were back again. Jio rose at once from his chair. The lieutenant’s expression of satisfied expectation was disquieting. In his right hand he bore a packet of papers that Vinz did not recognize.

  “Magnifico Vinz Corvestri, in the name of the Taerleezi Provisional Council, I place you under arrest,” the lieutenant announced with undisguised gusto. “Magnifico, prepare to accompany us.”

  “What?” For a moment Vinz doubted his own perceptions. The thing made no sense. The invaders shouldn’t have located his workroom so quickly. And if somehow they had made a lucky hit, they hardly needed to arrest him on such a comparatively minor charge. “What for?”

  “You are charged with arson, sabotage, subversion, and mass murder,” the lieutenant incredibly informed him. “We have uncovered evidence of your long-term involvement and participation in the crimes of the Faerlonnish terrorist gangs.”

  Terrorist gangs. The Taerleezi term for the Faerlonnish resistance fighters. The lieutenant was perfectly correct, but how could he be so certain? For so many years, Vinz had been so careful. What evidence could possibly exist?

  “This is madness. I know nothing of terrorist gangs.” Vinz sought refuge in incomprehension. “There’s a misunderstanding here.”

  “The proof is clear. These documents were discovered tacked to the underside of a desk drawer in your study.” The lieutenant flourished his mysterious packet. “I trust you recognize them.”

  “No, I don’t recognize them. What’s that you’ve got there? Let me see it.”

  “No need. You already know what I’m holding. The names, the dates, the selection of targets, the plans, the records of payments and purchases—a complete portrait of your resistance activities.”

  “This is madness,” Vinz declared in all sincerity. Indeed, a dream-like sense of unreality was taking hold of him, as it had upon the night of the Belandor House raid. “I know of no papers. They aren’t mine.”

  “Two or three mention you by name, although the majority employ the code name ‘Nullity.’ Sound familiar, Magnifico?”

  “No, it doesn’t! This is fantastic and absurd. Lieutenant, you went straight to my study and came up with those documents, whatever they are, in a matter of minutes. That was no accident. They’re cheats, they’re fakes! And you know it. You or your men planted them there to incriminate me.”

  “And why should we want to do that, Magnifico? What have we to gain? No, accusing the men of the Watch won’t help you. Don’t worry, though. You’ll have the chance, in fact you’ll be encouraged to tell your story, complete in every detail, to the interrogators at the Witch.”

  The Witch. Not the Clouds Watch Station. They meant to drag him off to a real prison, for serious offenders, who not infrequently progressed from the Witch straight to the gibbet or the block. Vinz’s sense of unreality intensified. But here was Sanzi coming toward him with a set of very real manacles. He felt the touch of the cold iron at his wrists, and the alarm boiled up inside him, impelling him to send the Taerleezi guard staggering with a sudden shove.

  “We’ll put a stop to this nonsense here and now,” Vinz declared with a desperate air of authority. “Lieutenant, I’ll see those documents that you claim to have discovered in my study. I’ll expose them as the forgeries that they are. I demand to see them.” He took a step toward the officer, but Sanzi was back with the manacles and now he was angry. When Vinz again attempted resistance, Sanzi hit him; a short, sharp blow to the midriff that doubled him over. Before he could straighten or even draw breath, the irons closed on his wrists.

  “Leave him alone!”

  He heard Vinzille’s voice, clear and precociously commanding, and his terror expanded. The boy would get himself hurt or killed if he tried to interfere. Vinz managed with difficulty to stand upright. He wanted to warn Vinzille, to silence him for his own sake, but Sanzi’s punch seemed to have shocked his system; he could barely catch his breath, much less speak. But there was nothing wrong with his eyes, and he raised them in time to see Sonnetia’s white-knuckled grip tighten on her son’s shoulder and to see her mouth the words, That’s enough!

  Vinzille’s independence was increasing with each passing day, but his mother had not yet lost all control over him. He looked at her, drew a deeply wrathful breath, and fell silent. Sonnetia’s glance shifted to her husband. Vinz met her eyes and—as always—found himself absolutely unable to guess what was going on behind them. Her thoughts, her sensations, and emotions—apart from her obvious love for her son—remained closed to him. He did not even know whether she truly supported him or not; whether she desired his safety and freedom, or whether she would enjoy ridding herself of him once and for all.

  It seemed to him at that moment that she was no true wife at all and never had been. She was little more than a stranger inhabiting his house. And the frustration and hopeless longing, the disappointment and resentment of decades welled up in a great, hot surge, restoring his voice but not his judgment. The suspicions of recent weeks were burning in his mind, fueled by the terror of the moment, and that heat consumed all normal restraint, freeing the unspeakable to fly from his lips.

  “Have you a hand in this, madam? Did you plant the papers in my study, or was it done by that maidservant of yours who carries the messages between you and Aureste Belandor?”

  Sonnetia’s eyes widened in astonished incredulity, convincingly portrayed. Vinzille’s expression conveyed bewilderment, no doubt genuine, and the sight pricked Vinz’s confused conscience. He shouldn’t have attacked the boy’s mother, it wasn’t right or fair; unless, of course, his accusations were true and he could prove their truth beyond question, right here, right now. And probably he could prove it, if only he could examine those papers that the Taerleezis had so very quickly and easily discovered; those papers surely bearing some revealing mark of origin.

  “Let me see them.” Vinz turned back to the lieutenant. Stretching forth his manacled hands, he advanced. “If they’re evidence against me, I have the right.”

  “You have the right to answer all questions that are put to you,” the lieutenant advised him. “Halt.”

  The command did not register. The packet in the officer’s hand filled Vinz’s vision. Deaf to all warnings, he pushed on toward it until a moderate blow from Jio’s truncheon clipped the side of his head. He did not entirely lose consciousness then, but the world went dim and distant. He thought he heard a faraway babble of voices, he thought he glimpsed tall figures gliding through grey fog, but he could not sort them out. There was something wrong with his sense of balance. He could not have remained upright but for the support of strong hands. They were moving him along at breathtaking speed, and he had no idea where they were taking him, but somehow he knew that he did not want to go. Resistance was out of the question, however.

  Presently the world darkened, the air hardened, he felt the cold breath of winter upon his face, and after that his memory lapsed.

  * * *

  For some moments after they had taken Vinz away, Sonnetia and Vinzille remained seated at the dining room table, motionless as if paralyzed, until Vinzille collected himself so far as to demand, “What are we going to do?”

  Sonnetia looked at him. He was still so very young, yet distinctly no longer a child. Moreover, his intellect and his talents were uncommon. There was no point in trying to put him off with evasions or soothe him with implausibly optimistic lies. He was old enough and strong enough to bear the truth. She would answer his questions
honestly, to the best of her knowledge.

  “There’s nothing we can do, right now,” she told him. “The Taerleezis are still ransacking the house, and the search will probably continue for hours, perhaps all through the night. Until they’re done, they’ll not allow us or any of the servants or Sishmindris to leave the building. As soon as it’s permitted, we’ll contact the authorities, learn the exact nature of the charges against your father, find out if a trial date has been set, and then decide how we may best assist and defend him.”

  “Don’t you think we could best assist him by calling in a doctor? Those Taerleezi scum hit him. He was bleeding.”

  “I know. We’ll try.”

  “They didn’t need to do that.”

  “Of course they didn’t. But they probably wouldn’t have if he hadn’t fought them.”

  “That was brave of him.”

  “I’d call it a mistake,” Sonnetia replied levelly. “He lost his head and so he got hurt.”

  Vinzille appeared taken aback by her coolness. He hesitated a moment and then asked, “Will they let us visit him?”

  “I don’t know yet. That may depend on the charges.”

  “Do you think it’s true?” Vinzille cast a quick look at the open doorway and lowered his voice. “Is he really a member of the resistance?”

  Sonnetia paused the merest fraction of a second before replying, “He hasn’t confided in me, son.”