“Because if he is—if he fights for Faerlonne—then I’m very proud of him.”
“I know. Best keep that to yourself, though.”
“I will. I saw that he means to deny everything. He’s claiming that those papers they found are fakes. He even said something about you planting them in his study. That was all to throw the Taers off, wasn’t it?”
“It could have been.” It was the first less-than-truthful answer that she had given him. There was no doubt in her mind that her husband had accused her in earnest.
“And then when he said something about your maid carrying messages between you and that putrid kneeser Aureste Belandor”—Vinzille’s eyes were fixed very intently on his mother’s face—“that was more slop for the Taers, wasn’t it?”
“Perhaps. I can’t explain what was in your father’s mind. But one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty.” Sonnetia was back on the solid familiar ground of undiluted truth. “It was fantasy. There’s been no exchange of messages between Aureste Belandor and me. I’ve not traded a word with him in many years. There’s no communication at all.”
Her son nodded, and she saw that he believed her.
“We’re going to bring him back home, aren’t we?” the boy asked.
Sonnetia was silent.
SIXTEEN
A drop of partially frozen moisture hit Jianna’s cheek, and she brushed it away. Another followed, and another. “Sleet,” she announced.
“I’ve noticed,” Falaste Rione returned.
Her eyes roamed in search of shelter. She saw wet grey tree trunks rising on all sides, thin bare branches crisscrossing overhead, skeletal dead undergrowth, a moist dark trail slicked with soggy dead leaves—nothing that offered the smallest hope of refuge.
Her gaze came to rest on her companion. Falaste’s hair was flecked with ice, his face paler than its wont, the fading bruise on his cheek standing out in yellow-green relief. His lips were all but colorless. Throughout the course of the past three days he had never once complained, but doubtless he felt the cold—because of her. The good oilcloth cloak that she wore, with its deep hood to keep the rain off and its lining of heavy wool—that cloak was his sole warm outer garment. Had he not handed it over to her, he would have been comfortable enough. Of course, he had only done what any gentleman would do, but compunction smote her nevertheless, and she found herself suggesting once again, “We could share the cloak. Why don’t you take it for a while?”
He shook his head without troubling to repeat the usual refusal, and asked in turn, “You all right? Need a rest?”
He did not offer food, she noted. The bread and portable foodstuffs with which he had surreptitiously crammed his pockets before departing the wedding celebration had sustained them for days, but now the provisions must be giving out. She did not wish to burden him further, but could not forbear asking, “We’ve eaten everything?”
“Not quite. There’s still some dried fruit and nuts. Enough to meet our needs.”
The soothing power of his voice momentarily reassured her, but then he ceased speaking and her fears resurfaced at once. This elusive campsite that they sought—he had said that its location changed often. What if he couldn’t find it? What if they wandered through the cold and the wet until their supplies and strength were exhausted, without ever finding the Ghosts or any other source of aid? She slanted a sidelong glance at Falaste, whose demeanor was characteristically composed and purposeful. He had rescued her from Ironheart at the cost of the human ties that he deemed precious, and probably at the risk of his own life. He had guided and protected her, provided for her, suffered privation on her account, without ever uttering a word of reproach. He had proved himself beyond all question worthy of absolute trust—perhaps almost as worthy as Aureste himself—and she would trust him now.
“Why are you smiling?” asked Falaste.
“Oh,” she shrugged, “just happy to be away from Ironheart, thanks to you. And so relieved that nobody has managed to catch up with us.”
“Indeed.” He did not return her smile.
“What’s wrong?”
“You said it yourself. Nobody has managed to catch up with us. It’s too good to be true. Onartino is an accomplished tracker.”
“We’ve crossed rocky ground, waded through streams, obliterated our own footprints, and you even had us double back twice.”
“Yes. But Onartino is an excellent tracker.”
“You sound as if you expect him to find us—as if you don’t really believe we have a chance.”
“Quite the contrary. I expect success, but not without a struggle. Each day I’ve searched for signs of pursuit—a moving figure on the slopes below us, a wisp of rising smoke—anything to mark the presence of hunters on our trail. I’ve spied nothing, and I can hardly account for it.”
“Well, maybe you’ve overestimated Onartino’s talents, or underestimated your own skill in covering our tracks. Maybe he’s hanging around the VitrOrezzi Bond, looking for us there.”
“Perhaps.” Falaste’s frown deepened.
His strides lengthened, and she scurried to keep up. The sleet was pelting down, driving hard on the wind, whitening Falaste’s hair and frosting his doublet. He had to be miserably uncomfortable. The thought was remarkably disturbing.
“Maybe it’s time to forget about the Ghosts,” she ventured. “They may have abandoned this vicinity altogether. We could head for Orezzia. At least we know where it is.”
“The Ghosts are close at hand, you may be certain. If we don’t find them, they will find us soon enough.”
Not nearly soon enough. She said nothing.
Another sleet-filled hour passed before Rione permitted a pause for refreshment. Brushing the crust of ice from the surface of a fallen tree, they seated themselves side by side. He handed her a fistful of fruit and nuts, took as much for himself, and for a few minutes they ate in silence. Now at rest, Jianna began to feel the cold, despite the wool-lined cloak. Rione had to be in a far worse state. She looked at him—ice-dotted head down, shoulders hunched against the wet wind—and on impulse unfastened the cloak at the neck and draped a portion of it over his shoulders, enclosing them both within the woolen folds.
He glanced at her, startled, and she assured him, “Plenty of room. It’s big as a tent.”
She expected opposition. To her relief, he merely nodded. Within moments the warmth of their bodies began to permeate the enclosed space beneath the cloak. Warmer yet if they huddled together, pressed up close, and wrapped their arms around each other. So eminently practical an instinct almost prompted her to rest her weight against him, but something stopped her—an acute self-conscious qualm. She looked at him again, hoping for unspoken permission or agreement, but he was surveying the terrain, his attention seemingly elsewhere. Her sense of discomfort sharpened and she wondered if he experienced anything of the sort himself, but his pale profile told her nothing. It was a waste of useful body heat, but they never touched.
The sleet was dwindling, but the sky remained dark. It was too early for nightfall, but the day was advancing and the night would come, another night spent lying on the rocky ground under the leafless trees, wakeful ears straining for the sound of pursuit. And tonight Rione would never get a fire started, with nary a dry twig to be found.
“Best move on,” he said, as if reading her mind.
He rose, stepped away from her, and the world was cold again. She followed and they made their way along a narrow little trail, where the sharp stones underfoot finally punched a hole through one of her ailing shoes. Moisture seeped in immediately, and she clamped her jaw to contain all lamentation. Up a steep grade, then the ground leveled out, the trees crowded in, black branches interlacing above, and the dark day darkened further. For the first time, she wondered whether Rione might be wandering wholly at random. But no, that would be unlike him. Trust him, she admonished herself, and discovered with a sense of wondering pleasure that it was easy; she really did trust him.
On through the sodden gloom, last of the sleet lightly pattering, wet foot in the broken shoe going numb with cold, then a tiny atmospheric shiver, and a sound. It was no more than an insignificant thunk, near at hand, and she did not recognize it, but took instant alarm. Then her eyes found the arrow, its head buried in a tree trunk a few feet to her left. The shaft must have passed within inches of her face. Even as she stared, the thunk repeated itself, and a second arrow quivered beside the first.
“Run!” She tugged Rione’s arm.
“Stand still,” he directed serenely, then raised his voice and called out, “Falaste Rione, here for your sick and wounded. Borli Quiotto, is that you lurking back there? Come on out.” There was no reply, and he added, “And bring my sister, if she’s with you.”
“Quiotto’s sick, along with plenty of others,” came a voice from the damp shadows. “And your sister’s stuck in camp helping to look after them.”
A moment later the speaker stepped forth into view—a short, skinny figure, armed with a bow, shrouded in homespun and oilcloth, with carrot hair framing a snub-nosed face. A very boyish face, surely no more than sixteen or seventeen years of age. Once again Jianna was struck by the youth and ordinary appearance so characteristic of the notorious Ghosts.
“Well. Trox Venezzu. Hope those arrows flew wide by design, else I’ll fear you’ve lost your touch.”
“Fear not.” The boy grinned. “Could’ve punctured you like a blister if I’d wanted.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Rione extended a hand, which the other gripped briefly.
“Good to see you again, it’s been too long,” Trox declared. “I mean really too long; things have gotten bad. A gang of us have come down with the hot heaves. Four of the lads and one girl have died of it, everyone still upright rotates nursing duty, and we’ve been nailed down in this sewer of a glen for weeks now. And where have you been all this time? You’ve never stayed away for so long. What kept you?”
“Business at Ironheart,” Rione replied easily. “Several of your comrades are there, you know. Now, what were you saying about the hot heaves? That’s uncommon. Are you sure you’ve got it right? Describe the symptoms.”
“That might get messy. Maybe not quite fit for the ears of your—ah—your lady here.”
“She is my assistant and, I assure you, faint neither of heart nor of stomach.”
“Your assistant. Oh, right. Should’ve guessed.” Trox smirked.
“My name is Noro Penzia.” Jianna spoke with confidence, having memorized the details of her false history days earlier. “I’ve been working for Dr. Rione for some time now. I’m not afraid of blood, wounds, or sickness. I’m not squeamish; I won’t faint, or vomit, or shriek. You may speak freely, and I urge you to do so.”
“Oh. Do you, now?” Trox appeared taken aback. His eyes shifted to Rione, who nodded confirmation. “All right, then. You’ve asked for it, remember. If you lose your lunch, missy, don’t blame me.”
He led them off into the woods, where there was no trail and they had to thread a path through leafless patches of ice-rimed bramble. As they went, Trox talked, limning the afflictions of his comrades in terms that might once have revolted Jianna, but now merely struck her as informative. She noted Rione’s creased brow, and knew at once that he perceived the outbreak as significant and dangerous.
Twenty minutes of walking brought them to the Ghosts’ camp, which occupied a clearing so secluded that Rione might never have discovered it on his own. Here beneath the sullen skies clustered a drab assortment of tents ranging in size from moderately spacious down to miniature canvas hovel, barely fit to shelter a lone sleeper. Off to the side, a few rough wooden lean-tos rested against the trees; probably a testament to the campsite’s exceptional longevity. One large, open-sided canvas structure appeared to function as a makeshift stable; several horses and mules stood tethered beneath the conical roof. Two or three smoky fires struggled to survive the onslaught of the sleet. Somewhere someone was overcooking cabbage and the assertive odor permeated the atmosphere.
Disappointed, Jianna surveyed the scene. Her experiences in recent weeks should have prepared her, but still some childish part of her had expected glamour and color; ferocious fanatics, dwelling in romantic rusticity, vowing allegiance to antique ideals even while plotting mayhem. Instead she found drab poverty, ordinary shabbiness, everything … dreary.
There were sentries stationed about the perimeter, but nobody challenged Trox Venezzu and his companions. Within seconds Falaste Rione was recognized, and the pale-faced, hungry-looking Ghosts came poking out of their canvas containers to greet him. The scene recalled the doctor’s reception among the servants of Ironheart, weeks earlier. Rione seemed to awaken fellow feeling among the lower orders. Or perhaps there was simply something in him that found a warm welcome wherever he went.
She herself aroused great interest. Jianna felt the pressure of many a speculative eye. They would be more than speculative, she mused, had their owners the slightest inkling of her true identity. She would likely be hacked to pieces on the spot. Bowing her head, she fixed her gaze on the ground and listened to the voices. Animated chatter, greetings, demands for news, a bouquet of medical complaints—aches and pains and warts and boils—and ugly accounts of the hot heaves. Assorted accents—Vitrisian, Orezzian, Frenisi—but the majority rural, ordinary folk of the countryside.
And then Rione’s educated Vitrisian tones again. “First allow me to greet my sister,” he was saying, “then lead me to your sick-house, and I’ll set to work.”
Set to work? Without so much as a quarter hour’s rest, a few minutes’ warmth beside one of the smoky fires, a decent meal or even a cup of soup? How like Falaste Rione. Of course, he would willingly permit her these comforts, but she did not intend to ask.
The distinct tones of a new voice pierced the convivial babble. “Is my brother finally here?”
The voice was melodic, the accent cultivated. The words brought Jianna’s head up. For a moment intervening bodies blocked her view, then the speaker pushed through into sight, and Jianna’s breath caught, for she saw before her a feminine version of Falaste Rione. Medium height, slender form, clothed in a simple grey gown the color of the tree trunks; dark hair plaited into a single thick braid that hung down her back; Falaste’s fine, pale features; Falaste’s grey-blue eyes. His sister unmistakably, the mysterious Celisse. Their connection proclaimed itself to the world.
Jianna stared from one to the other, charmed. It was delightful, really—a young woman, only a few years older than herself, who was a second edition of Falaste. She smiled, fully prepared to love Celisse Rione.
Brother and sister embraced closely, then Celisse disengaged, stepped back, and stared straight into his eyes to demand, “Where have you been? Why have you stayed away for so long?”
“Detained at Ironheart.”
“You were needed here.” It was an accusation.
“The magnifica has taken in a number of the wounded, Celisse. You know that. There was also illness among her own people, including family. Trecchio was stung by a siccatrice.”
“Trecchio is insignificant,” she returned. “These men here in camp are not. They are the soldiers and warriors, they are the true heart of the resistance. Here is where your first duty lies.”
Jianna’s brows rose.
“Does my younger sister believe it her place to instruct me?”
“It would seem that someone should.”
“This is an old discussion,” Rione returned with an unusual touch of impatience. “If we must resume it, let’s do so later, in private.”
“Why in private? There’s nothing in the world I need or wish to hide from my comrades. Can you say the same?”
“I can say that I’d rather be working than standing here squabbling with you.”
“Well, that’s the first sensible remark you’ve made.” Celisse produced a grudging smile. “Pardon me, brother, but sometimes I think you permit yourself
too many distractions, and it provokes me, for your talents are too valuable to waste.” As if in pursuit of the thought, her attention shifted for the first time to Jianna.
The eyes were Falaste Rione’s in shape, size, color, and intelligence; the eyes were Falaste Rione’s, frozen solid. A curious play of light, a hard crystalline glint, distinguished sister from brother. Jianna’s nascent liking was frostbitten at first glance.
Celisse was openly inspecting her, unhurried gaze taking her in from head to foot. At length she turned to her brother and inquired, “Who is this girl, and why is she wearing your cloak?”
Jianna felt her cheeks heat.
“She is my assistant, the Maidenlady Noro Penzia. Noro, allow me to present my sister, Celisse Rione.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you at last, maidenlady.” Jianna willed herself to speak cordially. “I’ve heard much of your devotion to the Faerlonnish cause.”
Celisse’s eyes did not stray from her brother’s face. “Why is she wearing your cloak,” she repeated, “while you feel the cold? Has she none of her own? Is it a beggar you’ve brought here for us to feed?”
“I’ve told you that I bring my assistant,” Rione replied evenly. “And the discourtesy of her reception does you no credit, sister.”
The rebuke summoned a flush of color to Celisse’s face, but her eyes never wavered. “I speak my mind. I tell the truth.” She folded her arms. “I’ll not apologize for that.”
“You know nothing of this maidenlady’s circumstances. In speaking your mind, as you put it, you flaunt your ignorance and ill nature. Now let’s call a cease-fire, before we quarrel in earnest. Show me to the sick-house, if you will.”
For a moment Celisse hesitated, as if loath to abandon the discussion. She glanced once more at Jianna, who sustained the anatomizing scrutiny with outward composure, then nodded and walked off, long dark braid slapping her back with each emphatic step. Rione followed, and Jianna fell in beside him.
The Ghosts were openly staring at her. They had listened to Rione’s sister, registered the objections, and now the eyes were boring in as if seeking her center. Jianna kept her own eyes down. Soon she would be in another infirmary, a familiar environment, helping Rione to heal the sick and the wounded—a task she was truly well qualified to perform. The weeks at Ironheart had not gone to waste. She had learned much, and now, when Falaste Rione introduced her as his assistant, it was no lie. Certainly he could do without her, but he would feel the loss. And the Ghosts would soon see for themselves that she could earn her keep. Her spine straightened and her chin came up.
The Traitor's Daughter Page 39
