“Well, a lot of these bad things wouldn’t happen at all if only some people would settle down and stop making so much trouble. Stop burning buildings and attacking Taerleezi patrols and assassinating tax collectors and so forth. When they break the peace, they should expect consequences, shouldn’t they?”
“Settle down and stop making so much trouble. There’s something to that, I suppose. We Faerlonnish need only accept Taerleezi occupation and domination. Accept the confiscation of our lands and homes, the theft of our belongings. Accept the killing taxes and financial penalties that reduce us to beggary and starvation. Accept the punitive laws that rob us of all rights, safety, and freedom. Accept the insolence and contempt that strip us of dignity and self-respect. Accept all of this without a murmur of protest, and perhaps our appreciative conquerors will refrain from butchery. Have I correctly stated your position, maidenlady?”
He did not speak angrily or accusingly. His face was clear, voice low and soothing as ever, but Jianna felt like a pinned insect. It wasn’t fair, he was surely exaggerating and twisting the facts, but she hardly knew how to refute him. For a moment or two she cast about for a reply and finally settled on a weak one. “I think it’s only common sense to make the best of things that can’t be helped.”
“Oppression is a thing that can’t be helped, then?”
“The Taerleezis won the war. It happened long ago, and there’s nothing much to be done about it now.”
“The Ghosts believe otherwise.”
“The Ghosts stir up trouble, they get themselves killed or worse, and what good does it do? Nothing changes.”
“Ah, this is sad. You’re too young to give way to such despair.”
“Despair?” she echoed, astonished. “What despair? I’ve always been happy. Until I was brought here, of course.”
“Despair is an absence of hope, is it not?”
“I haven’t given up; I hope for all sorts of things. I hope for good health, good fortune, and happiness for myself and the people I care about. But those hopes will never be realized unless I find my way back home and so, above all else, I hope to return to Vitrisi.” She watched his face closely for a sign of sympathetic response.
“Your ambitions are lively but personal. They don’t embrace the welfare of your country or countrymen. You’ve been raised to regard such larger hopes as unrealistic, but there are many among us not sharing your pessimism.”
Jianna stirred uncomfortably. She wanted to argue, to insist that she was not at all pessimistic, that she had been blessed with a cheerful disposition. But she could hardly afford to contradict and possibly alienate him. Moreover, she found herself oddly prey to doubt. Like her father, she had always dismissed Faerlonnish resistance as a foolish lost cause. But what if she—and he—had underestimated the will and persistence of their countrymen? Aureste Belandor rarely miscalculated, but even he was capable of occasional error.
“Do you believe—I mean really believe—that the Ghosts can actually drive the Taerleezis out of Faerlonne?” Jianna inquired, half in challenge, half in genuine curiosity.
“Perhaps that’s too much to expect at present. But I do believe—I mean really believe—that the resistance may chivvy the Taers into repealing the worst of the laws,” he replied with a slight smile.
“Well, that would be something, I suppose.” Frowning, she pondered and eventually grew conscious that he was studying her face. Her sense of not altogether unpleasant confusion expanded, and she felt the color warm her cheeks. Ridiculous. Holding fast to her dignity, she announced, “I’m ready to go back to work now. Is there anything more to be done for Grezziu?”
“Very little.” Rione’s smile disappeared. He lowered his voice. “I try to keep him as comfortable as possible, but there’s no hope for him. He’ll probably be gone within hours.”
Jianna wondered whether her sense of profound relief was inappropriate.
* * *
Another day passed and Grezziu quietly died. His remains were interred without ceremony in the small cemetery at the foot of Ironheart’s outer wall. The next day brought two new feverish patients—a brace of household servants, this time—whose care kept Jianna almost too busy for thought or worry for a while. Then one morning she awoke to a world dusted with frost. The air was cold, the last leaves were falling from the trees, and her sense of time’s passage reawakened to jab like a spur.
Her sojourn in the infirmary had proved demanding but not intolerable; certainly not as miserable as Yvenza had expected. The infirmary, in fact, had served as a kind of sanctuary, for here Onartino never willingly ventured, and here she was free of him. But the respite was temporary, and each passing day surely brought the East Reach Traveler and catastrophe closer. Each day also advanced upon the hour of Dr. Rione’s departure. Already he had extended his stay beyond his original intent, but he would not tarry much longer. And when he went, Ironheart would be lonely, loathsome, and unbearable as never before. There would be no more conversation, no more kindness, no more companionship—perhaps for the rest of her life.
Jianna contemplated her probable future, and the idea floating wraith-like at the edge of her mind finally coalesced. Since the wet afternoon of their first meeting, she had always hoped to enlist Rione’s assistance, and now she had decided exactly what form that assistance should take: When he departed Ironheart, he would take her with him.
He didn’t know it yet, perhaps he wasn’t even thinking about it. He would hesitate, no doubt. But Aureste Belandor’s daughter would overcome his reluctance. She would find a way.
She took to watching him, searching always for some sign of receptivity, some clue that the moment was ripe, but his face remained closed. He was kind, considerate, courteous—nothing more—and she needed something stronger to draw him to her and to conquer Yvenza’s influence.
It was curious and galling. Falaste Rione was intelligent, strong-willed, and independent, yet he manifested an incomprehensible loyalty to Yvenza. More than loyalty—an esteem, a deep respect, even affection that seemed almost filial. But he was not her son, her foster son, or even her distant blood kin—Jianna had satisfied herself upon this point days earlier. He was not a servant, although the servants in this place seemed to regard him as one of their own. He was not a tenant or a retainer of any description. He seemed to defy ordinary classification.
Whatever he might be, she would reclassify him. Quite apart from necessity, something in her wanted to claim him.
She continued to watch, but the perfect moment never arrived, and at length she resolved to create one. Her ankle was perfectly healed, but now she began to favor it, moving about the infirmary with a subtle, barely perceptible limp.
Rione noticed at once. “Trouble?” he inquired. “Ankle bothering you?”
“Nothing to speak of.” She smiled bravely.
“You’re in pain?”
“Really, it’s nothing.”
“Better let me have a look.”
“You’ve more important things to do.”
“Let me be the judge. When did it start aching?”
“Yesterday evening.”
“Any obvious reason? You didn’t try running or jumping, did you?”
“No, nothing like that. I—I fell down, that’s all.”
“Fell down? How did that happen?”
“Please, I don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice broke. She turned her face away.
“Maidenlady, are you crying?”
“No.” She produced a strangled sob.
“Come with me.” He led her from the room, shutting the door behind them. They stood on the landing at the head of the cramped stairway, and for once they were alone. “Now tell me what happened.”
Wasting no time upon further protest, she launched into her prepared tale. “Yesterday evening I met up with—with Onartino on the stairs. I think he might have been waiting for me. He blocked my way. I tried to get around him, but he put his hands on me. There was a sort of scuffle
and I fell down. Only a couple of steps, it wasn’t much, but my ankle has been sore since then.” She darted a covert glance at the doctor, noting with pleasure the sudden grimness of his expression.
“He pushed you down the stairs?” demanded Rione, jaw hard.
“He pushed or I fell, it isn’t clear. Does it matter? It won’t be the last time, will it? I can look forward to a lifetime of the same.”
“Not necessarily. You are a resourceful young woman. Once married, you’ll learn how to live with your husband.”
“I already know how to live with Onartino. I must surrender without reservation, accept without complaint all torments that he chooses to inflict, and then perhaps he’ll refrain from maiming or killing me. Sound familiar? It should. Not long ago you reproached me for suggesting that Faerlonne should submit without resistance to the dominance of Taerleez. Don’t the principles that you apply to nations hold true for individuals?” Inwardly she congratulated herself on the brilliance of this analogy.
“Maidenlady, you speak of personal matters, Belandor family matters. I am an outsider and must not venture an opinion.”
“Oh, please don’t take refuge behind propriety! You have eyes and ears, you haven’t missed what’s plain before you. You have an opinion. Why be afraid to express it?”
“It is a matter of obligation.”
She studied his still face as if it were a puzzle to be solved. “Have you no concern at all for me, then? I’m not simply Aureste Belandor’s daughter. I’m Jianna, a person whom you’ve come to know. Don’t you care at all what happens to me?”
“I wish nothing but good for you. But come, your situation isn’t that desperate. True, the circumstances are distressing, but you aren’t much different from any other young maidenlady of high birth contemplating an arranged marriage not to her fancy. Once it’s done, you’ll come to terms with your new life.”
“Oh, that’s untrue, and you know it’s untrue!” She took a step toward him and stared straight into his eyes. “You’re not honest with me or with yourself when you say such things, and I thought you were better than that. This isn’t an ordinary marriage. I’m being handed over like a Sishmindri into the power of a brute and a murderer who hates me for my father’s sake. He’ll enjoy breaking and destroying me; it will be his pleasure. He makes no secret of that, and you can’t pretend that you haven’t seen it!”
“I’ve seen that you’re much in his thoughts. Anything for good or ill might come of that.”
“Only ill. He’ll hurt me, he’ll defile me, he’ll use me to fulfill his mother’s ends, and finally, when I’ve served my purpose, he’ll kill me. There’s my future, Falaste. Does it mean nothing at all to you?”
He was silent for so long that she thought he would not answer, but at last he spoke as if the words emerged against his will. “Maidenlady, what do you want of me?”
“Your help,” she returned, ablaze with sudden hope. “Please, please, you must help me, or my life is over. I’ll die in this prison if you don’t help me!”
“To get away, you mean.”
“Yes. You’ll be leaving soon. Take me with you. Save me, Falaste. You’re the only one in the world who can.” Instinct prompted her to place a timid hand upon his arm, to gaze up at him wide-eyed. Instinct told her, too, that he was scarcely impervious to her appeal. Excitement surged through her. He was going to yield, he wanted to yield; she could feel it.
“You must not ask me,” Rione told her.
The reply took her by surprise. She stared at him, momentarily dumbfounded, but rallied quickly to reply, “But I do ask. I implore you. I’ll beg if needs be. Help me!”
“Impossible.” He spoke with visible regret. “I’m sorry.”
“But no, it isn’t impossible, not impossible at all!” Her excitement was rising and she made little effort to control it. Perhaps she might sway him with sheer intensity of emotion. “They mew me up every night, but they don’t bother to post a guard; they know I can’t get out. All you need do is wait until the dead of night, then come up and unbar my door. That will be easy, you’re able to move around this place freely.”
“Yes. The magnifica trusts me insofar as she trusts anyone. And then?”
“In the morning, when they find me gone, the hunt begins. They’ll scour the woods, but probably not before they’ve searched the house from top to bottom. You offer to join in the search. They’ll welcome your assistance. Make certain that you are the only one to search the subcellar, though, because that’s where I’ll be hiding. Then, a few days later, when they’re starting to believe that I’ve gotten clean away and their efforts to find me are falling off, you announce your departure. The night before you leave, come down to the subcellar, help me out into the courtyard and over the wall. I’ll wait in the woods. In the morning, you make your farewells and depart. Then you’ll double back, meet me secretly, and escort me on to Vitrisi, with no one at Ironheart ever to know or even suspect that you helped me—that you saved my life.”
“Quite good.” He nodded. “Remind me to call upon your talents should I ever need to plan an escape. Despite your undeniable cunning, however, you’ve neglected certain details. For example, the magnifica would know at once who unbarred your door.”
“Bah, she could be persuaded that I bribed one of the servants.”
“Not as easily accomplished as you seem to imagine, but that’s not the only difficulty. You speak quite casually of concealing yourself in the subcellar for a period of several days. During that time, what would you do for food and water?”
“Store them beforehand.”
“Provided you’ve time and opportunity. Blankets and candles?”
“Do without.”
“Alone in the dark and cold of the subcellar, with the rats and insects to steal your food, and the stench of the cesspit always in your nostrils—you think you could endure it?”
“If I must. But it wouldn’t have to be as bad as that—not if you’d place a blanket and candles down there sometime during the next couple of days. You could do it easily.”
“And why in the world would I do all this and risk so much for you?”
“Perhaps because you don’t want to see me tortured and destroyed. Am I wrong?” She was standing so near him that she could discern the striations of color in his eyes, true blue alternating with slate. His face was unrevealing, but for a moment she felt as if she could read his mind. He wanted to remain detached and impersonal, but his resolve was crumbling and about to crash in ruins. She had him. She knew it. Triumph shot across her mind and flared for a moment in her eyes.
And he caught it. His expression altered.
She knew at once that her face had betrayed her and instantly lowered her eyes.
“Look at me,” Rione commanded.
Unwillingly she obeyed. He was studying her, his penetrating gaze seeming to plumb the depths of her mind, and it was all she could do to sustain the scrutiny without visibly squirming. She tried to think of something to say. Nothing occurred to her.
“Well, maidenlady.” He broke the comfortless silence at last, his voice soothing and unruffled as always. “You’ve ambitious plans, but you can scarcely hope to carry them out if you’re unable to walk properly.”
The abrupt change of subject took her aback, setting off internal alarm bells.
“My ankle’s not so bad,” she assured him quickly. “By this time tomorrow it will probably be all better.”
“I shouldn’t wonder. Better let me have a look, though.”
“Oh.” She cast about for some means of putting him off, but found none. “Thank you.”
He knelt and there was nothing for it but to draw her skirt back a few inches, exposing to view a slim ankle quite free of swelling. He did not trouble to draw the flimsy shoe from her foot, but took her ankle in both his hands and pressed experimentally. His hands were warm, his touch light and sure. Her nerves jumped, and she drew a sharp breath.
“That hurts?” Rione inq
uired.
“No.” She remembered to grimace. “It’s all right.”
“And this?” He squeezed her instep.
She flinched emphatically.
“Maidenlady?”
“That hurt some,” she lied. “But not badly.”
“And this?” He pressed.
“Just a little.” She decided to stiffen. “It’s nothing.”
“I agree,” replied Rione.
“What?” This time her start was spontaneous.
“I said I agree. It’s nothing. There’s no swelling, no loss of flexibility, no apparent inflammation, no appropriate response. Your ankle isn’t bothering you in the least, is it?”
“It’s much better than it was.” She swallowed. Caught. “I’ve been telling you that all along, haven’t I?”
“You’ve been telling me much. The story about last night’s meeting with Onartino, for example. That was a lie, wasn’t it?”
“It’s no lie that he’s waylaid me in this house. It’s certainly no lie that he’s shoved me, hit me, and threatened me.”
“But not last night.”
No room to maneuver. “Not last night.”
“And he’s never pushed you down the stairs, has he? Last night or at any other time?”
“Not yet, but it’s something he’s certainly capable of doing.”
“This weak equivocation only cheapens you. I begin to see why they keep reminding me that you are your father’s daughter. You seem to share his famed penchant for deceit and manipulation.”
His remote expression alarmed her. She had blundered badly in lying to him. Unless she could make it right, he would never assist her. Moreover, he would think ill of her ever after, a prospect she found remarkably disturbing. Perfectly genuine tears filled her eyes and she blurted, “I’m sorry, Falaste! I never meant to deceive or manipulate, I didn’t intend—”
“The artificial limp, the well-crafted lies—they were purely accidental?”
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