The Traitor's Daughter (37 page)

“Or I. Go then, and bring her home safe.”

“I will.” All rancor forgotten, Aureste clasped his brother’s hand, then turned and departed the workroom. His long, buoyant strides bore him through corridors unusually depleted of able-bodied guards and sentries. Presently he crossed the gleaming vestibule and passed through the front door. A humble little unmarked carriage waited at the foot of the marble stairs. He took his place within, signaled the driver, and the vehicle moved off. Seconds later the great gilded gates at the foot of the drive swung wide, permitting exit into Summit Street.

Through the Clouds the carriage clattered, as far as the White Incline whose steep grade descended from the exalted realms of wealth down into the heart of Vitrisi. There, as predicted, the commonplace conveyance attracted little attention, and its unpopular passenger went unnoticed. There were no flying rocks, no insults riding on the breeze, and it came to him that he had all but forgotten how pleasant it could be to travel as a normal citizen, object of nobody’s detestation.

The passage to the northeast gate was exceptionally circuitous, as several of the thoroughfares offering the shortest route were blocked off with tall wooden stockades bearing the red X of the quarantine. A couple of the neighborhoods so confined were surprisingly prosperous, yet their smoky air, redolent of the mass funeral pyres, might have wafted straight from the Spidery slums.

The detours were navigated in time, and the sun was still at its highest, almost directly overhead, as Aureste’s carriage departed Vitrisi along the VitrOrezzi Bond, en route to Strevorri Field and a rendezvous with a squadron of ruinously expensive Taerleezi guards.

* * *

Vinz Corvestri tried hard to concentrate on the words. The epic
Journey of the Zoviriae
, one of the classics of Faerlonnish literature, had always been one of his favorites. As a boy he had gloried in the huge tale of war, adventure, and heroism, identifying himself with the character of Soliastrus, powerful and benevolent arcanist. When fully caught up in the story, he had not infrequently forgotten to feed himself. Today he sought no such profound immersion, but only brief distraction; sought and failed to find it. The rhythm of the verses was as stirring as ever, the deeds of the characters as inspirational, but none of it had the power to tear his thoughts for a single instant from the prospect of the night’s activities. The sneak attack upon Belandor House.
The preemptive strike
, he reminded himself. A project dear to the heart of the Faerlonnish resistance movement. A very necessary act of self-defense on the part of Vinz Corvestri. The plan was complete, he was inescapably committed, and there was no sense in agonizing over it.

Vinz fixed his eyes on the quarto page before him:

Grey Soliastrus raised his staff aloft

And called upon the power of his mind

To catch the lightning bolt midway between

The sky and mountaintop; to hold it fast

Suspended motionless across the vault

Of night. The lucent beacon overhead,

Its flight arrested and its glory chained,

Proclaimed the mage’s triumph to the world.

Halt a lightning bolt in midair and hold it there? An impressive feat indeed, and certainly exceeding Vinz’s own capabilities. Not that he would do it if he could. The poem never seemed to address the issue of the ultimate explosive liberation of all that pent energy. Sooner or later the lightning bolt would find release, complete its interrupted flight, and when it finally hit the ground, the gigantic discharge would probably incinerate all living creatures within a radius of miles. There would be fire everywhere … 
There would be fire at Belandor House tonight
. There would be screams, glinting steel, blood, groans …

Vinz shuddered. He wanted no part of it. For two decades and more he had aided the resistance, giving freely of his time, his money, and his arcane skill. Had his involvement come to light, he would have suffered execution at Taerleezi hands, despite his rank and lineage. Throughout the years, however, he had always managed to hold himself aloof from violence. He was ill-suited by temperament, training, or physique to active physical endeavor; moreover, his talents were too valuable to risk in the field, or so he preferred to believe. Tonight, however, his cherished immunity lapsed. He would not only accompany the resistance attack force, he would actually walk at its forefront; unavoidably so, for he alone possessed the ability to overcome the assorted arcane safeguards doubtless reinforcing the mundane defenses of Belandor House. The commandos would never get in without him; there was no help for it.

The fury, the destruction, the wholesale slaughter … He could see it all, he could almost hear and taste it. Horrible. And all the more horrible, he could not help but consider, should the blood that would flow within hours happen to include any of his own. Not impossible. The guards of Belandor House were trained fighters and well armed. He, the Magnifico Vinz Corvestri, arcanist of the first rank—well, high up in the second rank, at the very least—could be hideously wounded or even killed. Mere hours from now, he might be lying dead in a puddle of precious Corvestri blood.

And that would be that. He would never see his son again. Or his wife.
Would she care? Would she even notice?

Vinz discovered that his mouth was dry and his forehead wet. Drawing a deep breath, he sat up straight and squared his shoulders. His fears were puerile. The simplest of arcane air-shields would easily ward off the primitive blades and missiles of Belandor House’s guardians. Not so much as a drop of his own blood would be lost. The destruction of the household members, the Sishmindris, the mansion itself with its many treasures—all regrettable necessities. And at the end of it all, the prize of all prizes—Aureste Belandor would be gone forever. Aureste would die at the hands of his own countrymen, as he had so richly deserved for so many years, and then at last there would be peace. No more fear, loathing, jealousy, suspicion. Only peace.

Worth one ugly night, wasn’t it?

A light tapping impinged upon his cogitation. The door of his study creaked open, and his wife stepped into the room. Surprised, Vinz stared at her. Attired in a simple, exquisitely cut gown of ash-grey silk, her autumnal hair wound into a heavy knot at the nape of her neck, Sonnetia embodied remote elegance. Often her graceful self-possession disconcerted him, even after half a lifetime of marriage. Not today, however. Today, she was the one with cause for discomfort.

“Magnifico, a moment of your time,” Sonnetia requested in her low, well-modulated voice.

“You have disobeyed me, madam.” Whatever discussion ensued, Vinz meant to command it from the outset, to command
her
. And high time. He had made a good beginning in the presence of Lousewort, three days earlier, and now he was determined to maintain his advantage. “I ordered you to your chamber, and that command has not been revoked. Yet here you are. I am displeased.”

“I regret your dissatisfaction, sir. May our reconciliation restore your good humor.”

“What reconciliation do you propose?”

“I’ve spent the last three days confined to my apartment. Whatever the nature of my offense, I’ve been sufficiently punished. I’ve come to ask for my liberty.”

I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive me?
The craven words trembled on the verge of utterance, but he managed to hold them in. He had played the weakling long enough, and things were changing now.
She’ll hate me forever
. Another feeble fear. She wouldn’t hate or blame him for asserting his rightful authority within his own home. Once she got over her initial shock, she would come to respect him, perhaps even admire him.
For the first time
. But the respect he wanted did not yet exist, as her attitude—despite the punctilious propriety—too clearly demonstrated. Vinz studied his wife. Her beautiful, closed face displayed no trace of uncertainty or trepidation. There was not the smallest doubt in her mind that her husband would yield to her will,
as always
. He was so compliant, so fair and reasonable, so amiable and predictable. So eager to please, so
boring
.

But not always.

“In demanding your liberty, you take far too great a liberty, madam,” he informed her. “You might have sent me a written petition. Instead you’ve chosen to flout my commands and quit your chambers without my leave. Your disobedience is unmannerly and unwomanly. When you’ve learned how to conduct yourself, we’ll discuss the restoration of your privileges. In the meantime, you will return to your chambers and await my pleasure.”

She was staring at him impassively, but he had the distinct sensation that he had gone too far and a qualm of doubt unsteadied him. He came within a breath then of retracting his words, apologizing,
crumbling
, but once again succeeded in controlling the impulse.

“My incarceration serves no purpose,” Sonnetia observed quietly. “Various household matters demand my attention, and it is best that I resume my duties. Pray you, Magnifico, favor me.”

Impossible that he yield the upper hand upon demand. Assuming an attitude of chill disapproval, he inquired, “Will you oblige me to repeat my commands?”

“What—is—the—matter—with—you?”
Her enunciation was achingly precise.

Vinz shifted his weight uneasily. She had not raised her voice in the least and her face remained expressionless, but it came to him, as it did from time to time, that her habitual composure was achieved only by means of constant self-control. Not unlike a lightning bolt caught midway between the sky and mountaintop. And sooner or later, the lightning bolt would find release, and he did not want to be in her vicinity when it did.

Intimidated by his own wife? No wonder she didn’t respect him.

“Leave me, madam,” he commanded.

She did not obey, but remained where she was, motionless and staring at him. Her analytical scrutiny was well nigh unbearable. When he thought he could stand no more, she spoke. “You are not yourself.”

“I am very much myself, perhaps for the first time.” He could not suppress a certain audibly defensive note.

“You’ve been speaking and behaving strangely. It began the evening I walked in on you and that man here in this study.”

“Forget about him. My visitors are no concern of yours.”

“That wasn’t the first time he’s been here.”

“I said, he’s no concern of yours!” He heard the shrillness in his own voice and deliberately lowered the pitch to admonish, “I won’t have you meddling.”

“Your discourtesy and petty tyranny date from that evening.”

“You will not speak to me in that fashion! I forbid it, madam.”

“You were ill-tempered, unpleasant, and unaccountably uneasy,” Sonnetia recalled. “You very much wanted to know what I’d overheard, which amounted to no more than three words. Something about a military strike and the name Belandor. It meant nothing to me at the time, and indeed I’d never have given it a second thought, but for your peculiar behavior. I’m thinking about it now, however, and the implications are terrible. You are not—surely you can’t mean to launch some sort of attack upon Belandor House?”

“How dare you interrogate me, madam? How dare you?” Vinz was doing his best to conceal his dismay. He had never confided in her, she had little if any significant information, and yet somehow she had guessed correctly. Was this the proverbial feminine intuition at work, or something more? Had she been spying on him? Relaying information to Belandor House by way of her maidservant, perhaps? Or was it simply a lucky hit, enabled by his own blunders?
 … indeed I’d never have given it a second thought, but for your peculiar behavior
. Whatever the explanation, he could not let her know that she was right, and he most certainly could not allow her communication with anyone outside Corvestri Mansion. He marshaled his forces and returned fire. “I have ordered you back to your chambers. Obey me, madam. Now!”

“I desire an answer.”

“Are you defying me?”

“I’ll return to my chambers when you’ve assured me that you are not involved in some sort of resistance plot. Only give me your promise that you won’t take part in anything dangerous and destructive, and I’ll gladly go.”

“I’m hardly obliged to
bargain
with my own wife in my own house. I am the master here—a point you seem inclined to overlook.”

“Your choices and their consequences directly affect the welfare and future of our son—a point
you
seem inclined to overlook.”

“You don’t seriously imagine that I’d jeopardize Vinzille in any way?”

“If involvement in resistance activities results in your arrest and execution, then Vinzille stands to lose his noble rank and his entire Corvestri fortune. Have you considered that?”

Her husband’s safety did not concern her in the slightest, Vinz noted without surprise. Her care was for her son. His sense of resentment deepened, along with his determination to assert himself. Swiveling in his chair, he grasped the tapestry bellpull that hung behind his writing desk and yanked it hard. A big liveried Sishmindri answered the summons at once.

“Escort the magnifica back to her apartment,” Vinz directed. “Station yourself at the door and see to it that she does not emerge.”

Sishmindri faces rarely communicated anything, but Vinz fancied that he caught a brief flash of astonishment in the great golden eyes. The amphibian’s head dipped in mute acquiescence.

“I do not deserve this.” Sonnetia was standing stiff-spined, eyes stormy with incredulous anger, but her voice remained low and even. “It is unbelievable. What is wrong with you?”