The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  She advanced with caution.

  “Please be seated.” He sketched a hospitable gesture.

  She perched on the extreme edge of the chair across the desk from him.

  “Some refreshment, perhaps? Cake? Wine?”

  “No. Nothing. Thank you, sir. Honored Magnifico, I mean.”

  “You are quite comfortable, my good Brivvia?”

  “Oh yes, Honored Magnifico. Very comfortable indeed, thank you kindly, sir.” She fidgeted.

  “You are most welcome. And now, having concluded the amiable preliminaries, let us attend to business. None of your Corvestri household is aware of your presence in my home?”

  “Never, sir. Major domo and the others, they all think I’m off about some errand for my lady at the glover’s. Nobody spotted me coming here.”

  “Good. What have you to report, then? Come, tell me what you have found.”

  “Well, sir.” Brivvia darted a quick look at him. “Not too much. I mean, I sniffed around, like you told me. I hunted high and low. No telling what would have happened if Major domo or even one of the cleaning girls had spotted me, but they didn’t. And it all came to nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “That’s the way it went, sir.”

  “I am disappointed,” Aureste observed gently.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Are you really?” He had addressed the same question to his own daughter not half an hour earlier, but this time the effect was different. Allowing the full weight of his black gaze to press upon her, he watched the round olive face trying hard not to crumple.

  “Honored Magnifico, I tried, truly I did. I poked around in places it scared me to meddle with. The master’s desk drawers. In among his clothes and personal things. Under the bedding in his room. I even checked the pockets of his gown when he was in the bath. No good. I didn’t come up with anything like what you want.”

  “I see.” Aureste reflected, then inquired, “And his workroom?”

  Her eyes slid away. She said nothing.

  “Am I to assume you neglected to investigate your master’s workroom? Answer me.”

  “It’s locked.”

  “Hardly an insurmountable obstacle to a woman of your resources.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Her grimace of misery suggested otherwise.

  Aureste did not trouble to reply.

  After another moment’s unendurable silence, she burst out, “Please, sir, don’t make me go into the master’s workroom. I don’t know what he does in there, and I don’t want to know. Just let me stay out of it.”

  “This is idle chatter. Come, you know your duty.”

  “You call it that!”

  “Do you argue with me?”

  “No, Honored Magnifico. Forgive me, sir. Only—” She cast about for an effective objection. “It’s not so easy. The door’s always locked, and the master keeps the only key with him all the time. Also, there’s always servants hanging about that corridor.”

  “You will find a way. I’ve every confidence in your abilities.”

  “And then,” the woman continued, “even if I managed to get in there, ’tisn’t likely that I’ll find the kind of papers you’re wanting, sir. Master probably burnt ’em. Or maybe,” she ventured, “there were never any to begin with.”

  “That is an unhappy possibility,” Aureste conceded pensively. “But hardly a disaster that I confront unprepared. Conscience will not permit me to entrust such a matter to the whims of Fortune, and therefore I have devised a secondary stratagem. One moment.” On the desktop near at hand stood a carved wooden coffer fitted with elaborate gold mounts. The lid’s central boss, once displaying the incised initials of the original owner, had been chiseled away decades earlier. Over the course of the years, the exposed raw wood had darkened almost to black. Lifting the damaged lid, the magnifico withdrew a paper packet, which he placed before his guest. “There. Take it.”

  “What is that?” She did not move.

  “Evidence. Correspondence connecting your master Vinz Corvestri to the Faerlonnish resistance movement. You will take this packet and tack it to the underside of a drawer in your master’s desk. Thereafter you will continue your investigations, which will include a thorough search of Corvestri’s workroom.”

  “Honored Magnifico, if you don’t mind my asking, if you’ve already got these papers you want, then why not just turn ’em in to the Taerleezi authorities and have done?”

  “The case against your master will be stronger if the documents are discovered within the confines of Corvestri Mansion.”

  “Well, then what d’you need any more papers for? Why should I have to go snooping around my master’s workroom when—” Her expression altered as reality dawned. Eyeing the packet with round-eyed disfavor, she accused, “You’ve diddled ’em, haven’t you?”

  “Diddled?”

  “It’s a cheat! They’re fake. Honored Magnifico, you forged ’em.”

  “Not personally. I do not flatter myself with the delusion that I possess the necessary skill.”

  “You’d rather get your hands on the real article if I can find it for you, but if not, then these fakes—”

  “Will serve. Quite right. I knew I could rely upon your understanding.”

  “I understand better than I want, sir. This is low and dirty, this is. I don’t like it.”

  “I appreciate your delicacy, but trust you will not allow it to deter you.”

  “I don’t know. The master isn’t a bad fellow. He doesn’t deserve such a rat job.”

  “Ah, but he richly deserves such a rat job, Brivvia. Your master Vinz Corvestri is in league with the Faerlonnish resistance. That is a statement of fact. He has subsidized numerous illicit endeavors, and is therefore responsible for the destruction of property and the loss of priceless human life. Indeed, it grieves me to think of it.” Aureste shook his head. “He must be stopped. In assisting me, you serve justice and you serve your community. It is a highly moral act. You see that, don’t you?”

  “I see just fine. Just fine.” She took a breath as if intending to say more then looked into his eyes and lowered her own at once.

  “I expected no less.” He smiled warmly and waited. After a moment, she plucked the packet from the desk and stowed it away under her cloak. “Good. That is settled, then. And now, as to the other matter—”

  “Oh, no. No, sir. Don’t ask me. It isn’t right.”

  “My good woman—”

  “Yes, I do still have some goodness left in me, believe it or not, and I don’t want to do it!”

  “Come, this is a trifle. You’ve already consented to worse.”

  “Maybe worse, but not so improper.”

  “Good woman, must I remind you that there are many who would find that brand upon your shoulder improper, should the matter come to light?”

  “That shoulder was burnt near twenty years ago! I was still a child!”

  “A child and a thief.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong in all the years since!”

  “So you insist. But the brand is still as sharp and clear as the day that iron met your flesh. What would your mistress say were she to learn that her maid bears the mark of a convicted felon?”

  “My lady Sonnetia is kind. She’d forgive me!”

  “I daresay she would. But your master, Vinz Corvestri—is he equally forgiving? I suspect not. He would turn you out into the streets, where you would starve. But why belabor the obvious? We understand one another, do we not?”

  Brivvia looked away.

  “Come, what have you brought?” Aureste leaned forward.

  Still not looking at him, she reached into her pocket and brought forth a white scrap of lace-trimmed cambric, which she placed in his outstretched hand.

  “Ah. Her handkerchief.” Aureste studied the Corvestri family crest and initials S.C. embroidered in white silk thread. Lifting the cambric to his face, he inhaled deeply, caught no fragrance, and frowned. The cri
sply flawless fabric engaged his attention, and his frown deepened. At last he set the handkerchief aside, skewered Brivvia with his gaze, and remarked, “This object is untouched.”

  “Yes, Honored Magnifico. Spanking new and perfect it is.”

  “Did I specify spanking new or perfect?” Without awaiting reply, he informed her, “This will not do. It is sterile. You must bring me something that she has used. It should be clean, but not new.”

  “I can’t do that! I don’t know what you want with her things, exactly—”

  “It is not your place to inquire.”

  “But I know it can’t be right. Makes my flesh creep just to think about it.”

  “Such luxuriant fancy doubtless furnishes endless diversion.”

  “Please, sir, I’ve done what you said. That’s got to be enough.”

  “It is not.”

  “I can’t go sticky-fingering every day! It isn’t fair; my lady’s been good to me. And I’d get caught, sure as sunset.”

  “You must be clever and careful, but that should not be difficult. You’ve the experience, after all.” He cogitated briefly, then informed her, “Next time, you will bring me some small trifle that your lady will not miss. A scarf, perhaps. A glove. I leave it to your discretion. You understand me?”

  “Yes, Honored Magnifico.” Her shoulders sagged.

  “Come, don’t look so glum. Here.” He flipped her a small silver coin, which she caught neatly. “You are doing fine work, and you will do more before you’re done. Be certain to keep me apprised of your progress. Now be off with you.”

  She exited in haste. Aureste sat motionless for a moment, then jabbed a pair of pressure points on the underside of the desktop to release the hidden catch of a bottom drawer. The drawer yielded a small casket, which he placed on the desk before him and opened. Within the box reposed a collection of small articles: a bundle of yellowing letters, a couple of pressed flowers, a curl of bright chestnut hair tied with a green ribbon, a seashell, and an ancient gold ring, blazoned with the Belandor crest and set with a great star sapphire. Very carefully he handled the assorted items, tracing the curve of the chestnut curl and weighing the ring in his palm. His fingers loitered for a time on the letters as if absorbing their content through the skin, then moved on. Presently he placed the new white handkerchief in among the other mementos, closed the box, and returned it to the drawer, which he relocked with a decisive snap.

  Still he did not rise but remained where he was, allowing his mind to follow his recent visitor back through the neighborhood known as the Clouds, as far as tall Corvestri Mansion, with its triple turrets and its famous spiral rooflights. In his mind’s eye he watched as Brivvia entered the house, then made her unremarkable way up the marble stairs and along the corridor to the empty study, where she lost no time in fastening the forged correspondence to the underside of a drawer in her master’s desk. All of this Aureste Belandor observed through the lens of his imagination, and as he watched, his heart warmed with the satisfaction of the creative artist at work.

  TWO

  The covert action against Vinz Corvestri was absorbing. For days the project ruled Aureste Belandor’s thoughts, and during that happy term he could almost forget the imminent loss of his daughter. At times her departure seemed nearly unreal, a shadowy menace of the distant future. But the days marched by, and all too soon came a morning to which he awakened with a sense of empty gloom.

  He lay on his back in a behemoth of a bed, an elaborately carved ebony extravaganza hung in heavy dark damask, looking up at the arched supports of the tester above. His eyes moved to the center of the vaulted structure, where the initials of the bed’s previous owner, once incised upon a decorative shield, had been chiseled away long ago. He had ordered the initials removed at the behest of his wife, who had otherwise threatened to consign the expensive piece of furniture to the flames. And she, ordinarily the epitome of spineless complaisance, had demonstrated such an uncharacteristic, almost hysterical determination that he had deferred to her wishes upon that one occasion. Even then she had obdurately refused to lie down in it, and the banished Magnifico Onarto Belandor’s best bed had gathered dust for years in a dark storeroom until the Lady Zavilla’s obliging death in childbirth had permitted its reemergence.

  He really ought to commission an artisan to restore the damaged woodwork, Aureste reflected for the hundredth time. Not that the rough-hewn reminder of his predecessor’s fall disturbed his repose in the slightest, but the visible defect compromised the worth of an otherwise valuable piece.

  Something leaden pressed upon his mind. It took a moment to dispel the mists of sleep and identify the cause. Today was the day. It had come at last. Jianna was going away.

  He rose, washed, and dressed himself without summoning assistance, for he could scarcely abide a human or Sishmindri presence at such a time. He wanted nothing to eat, for his normally healthy appetite had failed him; a weakness he did not intend to display at the family table. She would be down there now in the south hall at breakfast with her uncles, an aunt or two, a few resident cousins, a couple of her long-dead mother’s people, and sundry visitors; no Taerleezis among them today. The magnifico’s absence would be noted, but Jianna and Innesq would understand, and theirs were the only opinions that mattered. No need to trade strained pleasantries before an audience of dim-witted kin. He and his daughter had talked at length the previous night, and everything important had been said.

  The tolling of a distant bell alerted him. There could be no further delays; she would be leaving within minutes.

  Exiting the master suite, he made his way along the corridor, and nothing in his calm face or his swift confident stride hinted at inner perturbation. Down the central stairway, through the grand entry hall, out the front door, and there was the carriage, blazoned with the Belandor arms in silver and drawn by four matched greys. At the bottom of the drive waited the six armed riders assigned to protect the vehicle and its passengers throughout the three days of travel between Vitrisi and the neighboring city of Orezzia.

  A fairly sizable group of kinsmen and retainers had gathered at the door to see Jianna off. Nalio and his endlessly dutiful wife were there, no doubt because he imagined that it was expected of them. The youngest Belandor brother looked pasty and puff-eyed in the chill light of early morning. He was attired in a tunic and fashionable parti-colored trunk hose that called unfortunate attention to spindly short shanks. Middle brother Innesq was likewise there, ensconced in his wheeled chair, with a servant to attend him. Innesq never called for Sishmindri assistance with the chair, or with much of anything else, for that matter. His aversion to what he termed “abuse” of the amphibians was idiosyncratic and difficult to fathom.

  There were the other insignificant kinfolk present, too, together with random servants. And there at the center of it all was Jianna herself, in a new traveling gown of deep garnet wool and a matching hooded cloak trimmed with wide bands of black fox. Her dark hair had been drawn back into a simple twist, its elegant severity softened by many a curling tendril. She looked at once adult, yet still the child she had been, and so beautiful that his breath caught and for a ridiculous moment his eyes actually misted.

  His vision cleared in an instant. He strode forward, and the path to her side opened magically. Gathering his daughter into an embrace, he held her for a moment.

  “We’ll have no farewells.” He kissed her brow lightly and released her. “I’ll see you again in just one month. That’s no time at all. We need no farewells for that.”

  She nodded. There were tears in her eyes.

  “Come, won’t you smile?” Aureste urged. “You will soon be a bride. It’s a happy occasion.”

  “Very happy.” She swallowed hard.

  “What will it take to make you truly believe that?” He pondered. “Ah, I have it. Time. And not very much time at that, I suspect.”

  “I’ll try to think so.”

  “How can you doubt? Haven’t you learned in
eighteen years that I am always right?”

  She managed a genuine smile at that, and amended, “Often right.”

  “Shall we compromise and say usually right?”

  “Agreed. But just the same, nothing will be truly right in Orezzia until you come.”

  “It will only be—”

  “And stay for a long, long visit,” Jianna insisted. “Weeks, at the very least. Do you promise? You have to promise.”

  “Promise. The Tribaris will think they’ll never be rid of me.”

  “Good. That’s the only way I’ll be able to stand this.”

  “I thought we just agreed—”

  “We did, we did. I haven’t forgotten. Probably it will all turn out well in the end. I know you’ve chosen wisely for me; you always have. It will be all right.”

  “Yes, it will. But listen to me now, Jianna.” A quick glance assured him that his family and servants had withdrawn a respectful distance. He spoke in a low tone meant for her ears alone. “If it should somehow happen that you are not content—that your new husband or his family members do not treat you with appropriate respect, consideration, or generosity—in short, if you find yourself seriously dissatisfied for any sound reason, either before or after the marriage ceremony, then you need only send a message to me. I will come to you, and if need be I’ll bring you back to Vitrisi. You shall not be trapped in a marriage that you do not desire.”

  “You really mean that?”

  “You will be content, or else you will come home. I give you my word.”

  “Once I’m wed, couldn’t the Tribaris stop you from taking me back?”

  “They could try,” Aureste observed mildly.

  “And they’d fail. You’ve never made a promise to me that you couldn’t keep.”

  “And I never will.”

  “I know. I love you, Father.”

  “Then trust me, and be happy.” He led her to the carriage, which she entered to join the two traveling companions already seated within: her designated chaperone, stately Aunt Flonoria Belandor, and the young maidservant Reeni. He closed the door, stood a moment looking in at her, then stepped back and reluctantly signaled. The coachman cracked his whip and the big vehicle began to move, its wheels crunching on white gravel. Jianna leaned out the window and waved. Family members and servants returned the salute. Aureste scarcely noted the squawking voices or the fluttering hands. He saw nothing but his daughter’s face.