The Traitor's Daughter (55 page)

Orlazzu’s sack yielded bread, cheese, wine, and dried fruit. Seating himself at the table, he ate and drank moderately, then brought forth his copy of
The Drowned Chronicle
and read for hours by the light of the oil lamp. During this time he never sensed the slightest invasive touch of the Other’s presence, nor did the hapless beasts absorbed into a greater consciousness disturb his new sanctum. The barriers were holding.

When his lids began to droop, he set the chronicle aside, banked the fire, extinguished the lamp, and took himself to bed, wrapped in his own blanket, spread out atop the previous owner’s begrimed coverlet. In the morning he would give the hut and its furnishings a good cleaning; for now, he wanted sleep.

He did sleep, soundly and dreamlessly, until the dawn sent baby fingers of weak light poking in through the chinks in the closed shutters, and a tremendous assault upon the door commenced. Orlazzu sat up, wide awake. Someone was pounding loudly and imperiously. Emotion drove those blows. There was nothing uncanny or Otherly about them. There could be but one explanation: The hut’s rightful owner had returned to find himself locked out of his own property. No wonder he was incensed.

Bad luck. Orlazzu muttered a curse. This hut had almost seemed made for him, waiting for him. He should have known that it was too good to be true. Now he would have to leave. And apologize—though it slid along the edge of his mind then that he need do neither. His powers more than equipped him to keep the hut if he wanted it—but he pushed the thought away at once, as he had pushed such thoughts away throughout his lifetime. It was natural and inevitable that an accomplished arcanist would upon occasion be tempted to employ his powers destructively, for the sake of personal gain or personal malice. But Grix Orlazzu had made the decision, many years earlier, to resist all such impulses. He had kept that vow and would continue to keep it. Therefore, with a sad imprecation, he rose and opened the door.

He found himself confronting a familiar chunky figure wrapped in an oilcloth cloak and hood. He saw a wiry black beard, beaky nose, heavy black brows above eyes of amber glass, and a swarthy square face, identical in feature to his own, but neatly upholstered in the finest glove leather.

A whirring of internal gears heralded mechanical utterance.

“Leftover, once known as Grix Orlazzu, I have overtaken you at last. Admit me, if you please,” the automaton directed.

“What are you doing here, Junior?” Orlazzu’s sturdy frame blocked the doorway.

“I have decided to rejoin you. And do not call me Junior.”

“What shall I call you then? Inescapable? Unavoidable? Unmentionable?”

“You already know, Leftover. Do not pretend that you have forgotten. My name is Grix Orlazzu. I am the improved and perfected version of the Grix Orlazzu design. You may address me as GrixPerfect, or, as we are intimate, you may simply call me Grix.”

“Very well. Grix. Why have you followed me? I left you with the cabin and all that it contained, everything that you could need, nearly everything that I had. Wasn’t that enough?”

“Ah, how like an organic to think solely in terms of material possessions! You gave me
things
and thought they would suffice. Did you for one moment consider my feelings, my inner self, my needs, or the destructive effect on my personal development when you went off and abandoned me? Did you think of anyone beside yourself, Leftover? And are you going to let me in?”

“What for? You don’t need a meal or a place to sleep. What do you seek here?”

“What do
you
seek here?”

“Enlightenment. Fulfillment. A place to work, so long as I can; to practice, and to develop my abilities to their fullest potential.”

“That is what I want also.”

“Very good. Seek elsewhere.”

“I will not. My inner yearnings drew me north to these hills in search of a perfect locale. I was drawn to this spot, so humble in aspect yet so rich in promise. It seems that you were similarly drawn, and how should it be otherwise, when your mind is a primitive, incompletely realized first draft of my own? Are you going to let me in?”

“No, I’m not. This place is taken. You must find another for yourself.”

“Impossible. No other will suit me so well. I’ve searched through these foggy hills filled with impertinent wildlife, and this is the one that I want. What right have you to keep me out?”

“I was here first.”

“Immaterial. Listen, Leftover. You built me—or so you claim, although it hardly seems possible—but if it’s true, then you are responsible. You cannot simply turn your back on me and walk away—I will not be treated so. You will do your duty by me, you will minister to my needs. I demand it. Do you understand me, Leftover?”

“No, I don’t. What exactly do you want from me?”

“Consideration. Respect. Concern. Companionship.”

“Come again?”

“Also, you will teach me to read.”

“You were to teach yourself, as I recall.”

“In the absence of all moral support—cast adrift, as it were—I lacked incentive. You will teach me; it is your obligation.”

“Sorry, Grix. You must shift for yourself now.” Orlazzu began to close the door.

Instantly the automaton advanced its foot over the threshold, at the same time shoving the door with steel-jointed strength. Orlazzu was thrust backward from the entrance, and his simulacrum stepped into the hut.

“You are inhospitable,” it complained.

“You are not invited and you are not welcome,” Orlazzu scowled. “I am asking you to leave.”

“I refuse.” The automaton folded its arms. “I will not be slighted. I will have all that’s owed me.”

“Owed you? Insufferable junkheap!”

“You will act as a proper creator,” the automaton insisted. “You will give me the attention, education, and affection to which I am entitled. Make no mistake about it, Leftover once known as Grix Orlazzu. I am here to stay.”

* * *

Evening had come and the lamps were aglow when one of the servants came to Aureste Belandor, bearing news that his brother Innesq was awake and asking for him.

“If this intelligence proves false, I will have you flayed,” Aureste promised dispassionately.

The terrified servant hastened to reassure him. There could be no mistake. Master Innesq was conscious and clearheaded.

He scarcely dared to let himself hope. The news was too good; it was either an error or a brilliantly cruel lie. It took only a moment to traverse the few feet of corridor separating the room he had chosen for himself from the chamber in which Innesq lay. A guard stood watch at the door, a huge and broad figure that Aureste recognized readily. It was the youngster Drocco whose courage, discretion, and general good sense had shone during the recent action against Ironheart. The lad had distinguished himself, and for that reason he had been assigned a post of importance—protecting the life of Innesq Belandor. Yet Drocco did not appear to appreciate his own good fortune. Unkempt, uncombed, unshaven, and bleary-eyed, he was actually leaning against the door. As his master drew near, he straightened and attempted a salute, but the wavering gesture was sketchy at best. His manner and slovenly look suggested dissipated nights. At any other time Aureste would have reprimanded the drunkard, or even dismissed him on the spot. Just now he could not be bothered.

Casting a cold eye in passing upon the young offender—a look promising future retribution—Aureste entered his brother’s chamber. And it was true, he saw at a glance. Quite true. Innesq was sitting up in bed, still pale as a tombstone, but wide awake, eyes clear and focused, even spooning some soup proffered by a solicitous Sishmindri. He was himself again; he would recover. Aureste felt a tight constriction in his chest.
Reprieved
.

“Aureste.” Innesq managed a ghostly smile. His voice was faint but audible. “It is very good to see you again. Welcome back.”

“I might say the same to you. For a time we weren’t certain that you’d wake.”

“I am sorry for the concern I’ve caused, but it was necessary. I am sorry, too, for your disappointment regarding Jianna.”

“I came so close, Innesq! She was there, they admitted it freely. Had I arrived but a single day earlier—But wait, how did you know—ah, I see, the Sishmindris have already been filling your ears.”

“No, it was not the Sishmindris.” Innesq turned briefly to the amphibian at the bedside. “That will do, Ini. Thank you. You may go now.” Ini departed, bearing the tray and soup bowl, and Innesq resumed his interrupted train of thought. “It was the young girl who told me. She was confused and frightened, but she managed to communicate.”

“Young girl? One of the servants, you mean?”

“I think not. Her position in the household is ambiguous, I believe, and she speaks very little of herself. In fact, it was not until our last Distant Exchange that I learned she resides at Ironheart. She sees a good deal, however, and she let me know that Jianna had escaped.”

“Some girl has been in here chatting with you?” Aureste’s fears were resurrecting themselves. His brother seemed rational, but he was surely confused or worse. “Innesq, you’ve been unconscious for a long time. Frankly, we thought you were dying. Now you’re back with us and you are going to make a full recovery. But you must have dreamed while you slept, and right now I think you’re mistaking those dreams for reality. It’s understandable. They may have been very vivid, and—”

“Aureste, stop,” Innesq interrupted. “You do not understand. I am neither delirious nor delusional. Now listen to me closely. I’ve vital information and I want you to hear it all without digression and without interruption. To begin with, understand that my recent slumber was not the result of injury or illness. It was induced by arcane means—performed deliberately and voluntarily by me upon myself—because an astounding experience that befell me during the attack upon our home had convinced me of the need.

“Thus I proceeded, and in this condition that resembled unconsciousness but was not, I was able to contact other arcanists in the Veiled Isles and beyond. I exchanged information and ideas with these colleagues, gathered knowledge, and compared theories. Beyond that, I succeeded in dispatching my awareness to the northern lands, there to study the recent phenomena at their point of origin. All of this has led to a single conclusion, confirming the suspicions that I expressed weeks ago.

“It can no longer be questioned or doubted that the Source stands poised upon the brink of reversal. When its spin alters, the Veiled Isles will become uninhabitable—to mankind, that is. Those humans able to escape across the sea may survive, but most of our kind will perish. Not so with the Inhabitants, however. Those former lords of the land will resume their ancient sway, and presently their huge collective Overmind will occupy and own every living entity to be found throughout the Isles. Already it has begun. I have long feared and now I am certain that the plague raging in Vitrisi expresses the human body’s violent resistance to arcane invasion. So far, the majority of victims have died and fed the fires. But the great reversal is approaching and the Overmind’s power waxes day by day. Very soon, if not already, the invader’s control will extend beyond the point of death, and then the walking corpses of legend will once more roam the world.

“The danger is great, but our human resources are formidable.” The lengthy speech did not appear to exhaust Innesq Belandor. In fact, his voice strengthened as he spoke, and an inner flame illumined his eyes. “We have faced and overcome this threat in the past, more than once. We can do so again. It is a matter of cleansing the Source of its impedimenta, restoring the velocity of its spin and thus preventing reversal. This is a task far beyond the power of any lone arcanist, even the greatest, but requires the combined abilities of several, working as one. For these adepts we must look to the Six Houses—Belandor, Corvestri, Steffa, and Orlazzu in Faerlonne; Pridisso and Zovaccio in Taerleez. Unhappily, the connections among the Six have decayed in the years following the wars, and the Taerleezi ban upon Faerlonnish arcanism has further marred matters. I think House Steffa is dormant right now, and Orlazzu has all but vanished. Nonetheless, there are skilled practitioners to be found. I am not without ability. Vinz Corvestri’s performance is consistent and reliable. The young girl out in the hills—she is surely of Belandor blood, and her natural talent is prodigious. She must be included. We need to begin assembling a group of adepts, and we must set to work immediately. Aureste, I trust I may rely upon your support and assistance?”

“Always.” Aureste studied his brother. Innesq’s face was ashen save for two spots of color burning on his cheekbones. His great dark eyes were too brilliant. Excitement seemed to have reinvigorated him, feverishly. “You know I’ll do all in my power to help you. At the moment, however, you’d best eat, take a little exercise, and build up your strength. And when you’re quite yourself again and ready to resume arcane activity, there are two most urgent matters that you must address. One—I’d like you to shield what’s left of Belandor House against the invasion of the plague. I count upon your abilities to protect all of us. Two—you must locate Jianna, or help me to make my way to her, as you did the last time. She’s out there, Innesq. Alive and in desperate need of your help. Find her! Do it as soon as you can.”

For a long moment, Innesq stared at him, and finally asked, “Have you heard a single word I’ve uttered? Have you listened, has anything reached your understanding? We are facing catastrophe. Our lives, our home, city, and land—everything stands in danger. Do you not understand that, or do you refuse to believe?”

“I don’t doubt your sincerity.” Aureste stirred uncomfortably. “And certainly you may count on my loyalty. But it’s clear that the most immediate and pressing of problems merit immediate attention. Right now, Jianna is our chief concern. Now, before it’s too late, before she’s hurt or killed, we must find her and bring her home. Jianna comes first.”

“No, Aureste. I am afraid she does not. I love my niece and value her safety, but as of now the project comes first. I must begin work. I must send out the call.”