“No, I mean I didn’t think of it as deceiving you, I only thought about somehow persuading you to help me, that’s all I wanted, and still do, because I need your help desperately. I’m doomed without it. There’s no falsehood in that.” Her voice broke and the tears streamed freely down her face.
For a while he stood looking at her, and she had no idea what was going on behind his eyes. When finally he spoke, his tone was kind and impersonal, as if he addressed a distraught serving maid. “Take such time as you need to compose yourself, maidenlady. You may come back to work when you are calm.”
She gazed at him piteously. Ignoring the mute plea, he stepped back into the infirmary and the door shut firmly behind him.
ELEVEN
Early evening, and the lamps glowed warmly in the magnifico’s study at Corvestri Mansion. Two men faced each other across the polished expanse of the desktop. One was nondescript to the verge of invisibility. The other was utterly miserable.
“Your wife’s maidservant has been back to Belandor House,” announced Lousewort. “Around noon today. Did you know that?”
Vinz Corvestri hesitated, uncertain. He had not known that, but a frank avowal of ignorance would underscore his lack of mastery in his own household, a weakness he preferred to conceal from his resistance contact. And it wouldn’t even be true, because he had known, or suspected, in a way; or rather, he was not in the least surprised. Some part of him had been waiting for it.
“This time, did your agents manage to discover what she actually does there?” Vinz liked his own reply, which seemed pleasingly assertive.
“You’re in a better position than anyone else to find out,” Lousewort parried. “But our lads have managed to secure one other bit of information that may be of some interest to you.”
Vinz could not bring himself to voice the expected query. He sensed deeply that he did not want to know.
Lousewort, however, required no encouragement. “It’s about our friend Belandor. For days now, he’s been gadding about town buying up muscle.”
“Buying up what?”
“Muscle. Able-bodied men, wherever he can find them. In short, he’s working hard to raise a force. I don’t know another Faerlonnishman in Vitrisi who’d get away with it. But seeing as it’s the Viper’s pet, the Taers just pocket their bribes and look the other way.”
“A force. Aureste Belandor is raising a force?” Vinz longed to disbelieve, but knew from past experience that Lousewort’s intelligence was reliable. “What for?”
“To maintain public safety, no doubt. What do you think?”
“That your levity is misplaced.”
“I am justly rebuked. You’re right, it’s no laughing matter. Let’s consider, then. Your wife’s maidservant flits back and forth between Corvestri Mansion and Belandor House, while your greatest enemy musters a small army. What does all of this imply?”
“You suggest that Aureste Belandor plans an attack upon my home?”
“He probably means to raze it to the ground. Such a scheme is hardly beyond him. Weeks have passed since you spoke of launching your own preemptive strike. Our people are ready and willing to support this venture, but there’s been no call from you. Have you devised a plan?”
“It is incomplete.” In fact it was nonexistent. His initial enthusiasm had long since ebbed, and with it his resolve. He had let himself drift, buoyed on the hope that all difficulties might quietly resolve themselves without benefit of his direct intervention. Clearly the difficulties had failed to oblige.
“We can help you with that,” Lousewort pushed. “We can supply men, weapons, and strategy. But we can’t proceed without you, Magnifico.”
“I know.” He knew only too well.
“The middle Belandor brother, the crippled one, is known to possess arcane skills of a high order,” Lousewort pressed on. “He’ll have safeguarded the house. We’ll need to call on your abilities to break supranormal barriers and disable arcane devices.”
Vinz said nothing.
“This task lies within your power, does it not?”
Vinz nodded distantly.
“Are you quite certain, Magnifico? You understand, we’ll be relying on—”
“I said yes,” snapped Vinz, goaded. Beneath the apparent impatience lurked trepidation and profound reluctance. Lousewort and the others expected his active participation in an armed assault upon Belandor House. He had supported the Faerlonnish resistance movement for years, giving greatly if surreptitiously of his time, money, influence, and arcane skill. But never in all that time had he been called to violent action. And with good reason: He was not a man of action. He never had been, even in his youth.
“Good. Then let us set a date.”
“Now?”
“What better time?”
Some other century? Vinz realized then that he did not remotely want to go through with it. The pictures flashed through his mind—fire, explosions, the clash of steel, the shouts and screams, the stink of smoke and blood—and he shuddered discreetly. He wanted no part of such ugliness and horror, but what choice was there? Threatened, he was obliged to defend himself. Moreover Lousewort’s cronies of the resistance were depending on him, and how could he fail such insanely selfless patriots? No question about it, he was committed. Trapped.
“Let me know more of your plans, then,” Vinz temporized. “Will you—that is, we—enter Belandor House by stealth? Or do you intend something more of a straightforward military strike?”
“In view of Belandor’s resources, we—”
A tap at the study door cut Lousewort’s reply short. Both men turned. The door opened, and the Magnifica Sonnetia stood on the threshold.
“Magnifico, a word if you please,” she began and broke off at sight of the visitor. “Ah, forgive me, I did not know that you were occupied.”
Startled, Vinz goggled at his wife. She stood tall and straight in a wine-colored gown whose fluid lines draped a figure still slender and graceful as a girl’s. Her chestnut hair had yet to reveal so much as a thread of grey. And her face—in the forgiving lamplight at least—seemed miraculously untouched by time, as smooth and fine as it had been on the day that he married her, twenty-four years earlier. She was as beautiful as ever, and as remote. He had little idea what went on behind those clear eyes of hers; it might be anything, up to and including treachery.
A wave of wholly uncharacteristic rage swept through Vinz. His face suffused and he heard himself demand harshly, “What d’you mean by bursting in here without permission? This is my personal study and I expect you to respect my privacy, madam.”
Her brows rose and for once her face was not at all difficult to read: It reflected simple astonishment. Following a moment’s pause, she returned evenly, “Magnifico, I beg your pardon. I did not realize that you entertain a visitor.”
“Didn’t you? Have you gone deaf, then? Are you trying to tell me that you heard no voices?”
“Indistinctly. I assumed that you addressed a servant.”
“Well, your assumption was wrong, wasn’t it? Assumptions frequently are. Exactly what did you overhear?”
“Overhear?” Her look of astonishment deepened. “Nothing of importance.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Tell me exactly what you heard, madam. And no evasions, if you please.” It was curious. In all their years together, he had never addressed his wife in such tones or terms, never even dreamed of it. But now it seemed as if his mouth had taken on a reckless life of its own. He hardly knew what would come out of it next.
He could see Sonnetia’s initial amazement giving way to affront. Ordinarily her anger would have reproached him. Today, for some reason, he welcomed it. Some part of him welcomed the opportunity to assert himself, to express himself, to pay her back. Some part of him had wanted it for decades.
“I heard you pronounce the words ‘military strike.’ ” Sonnetia’s spine was very straight, her voice chill. “And then I thought I caught the name ‘Belandor,’ no
t spoken by you.”
“What more?”
“Nothing more.”
“Your conclusions?” There was no immediate reply, and he commanded masterfully, “Answer me.” It felt fine and he added for good measure, “Now.”
“Magnifico, I have offended you and such was not my intent.” Sonnetia spoke with mechanically perfect decorum. “Pray forgive my error and permit me to withdraw.”
“I don’t permit you. I command you.” The word possessed such a delicious flavor that he could not resist repeating it. “I command you to retire. Seek your chamber, madam. Immure yourself and consider your duty. Do not presume to emerge without my leave.”
She was staring at him, patently incredulous and offended. Her jaw tightened and he braced against an angry retort that did not emerge. Her eyes shifted briefly to Lousewort’s attentive face and thence to the floor. Whatever her private sense of outrage, good breeding would scarcely permit her to defy or embarrass her husband under the eyes of a guest.
“According to your will, Magnifico,” Sonnetia returned tonelessly, and withdrew, heels clicking a sharp tattoo on the marble floor.
Vinz shut the door after her. His heart was beating fast with a kind of exhilarated anger, beneath which doubt and guilt persisted. He had behaved abominably. She might not forgive him for days; she might never forgive him. But no, he reassured himself. He had merely asserted himself, as a man ought within his own house. He was master here, he was entitled to respect, and his wife should keep that in mind. As for her forgiveness—why, she was the one who should apologize to him. She, after all, was the one whose maidservant went bouncing off to Belandor House upon unspecified errands. She was lucky he didn’t beat her for it.
Beat her? The idea was unsettling. He had never in his life lifted a hand against any woman, much less Sonnetia. But he could. She might stand an inch or so taller than he, but he was undoubtedly the stronger. He could chastise his wife anytime he chose to exert his rightful authority, and maybe he should, maybe that was what the situation called for. Maybe it was what Aureste Belandor would do.
Vinz slanted a covert glance at Lousewort, whose forgettable countenance revealed nothing beyond alertness.
“Well,” he prodded, “what do you think, eh?”
“About the magnifica?”
“How much do you suppose she overheard?”
“Difficult to say.” Lousewort shrugged.
“Think she might be something of a—well, a liability, then?”
“You’d be the best judge of that, or you should be.”
Yes, he should be. And he was, Vinz encouraged himself. He was a magnifico of Vitrisi, as well as an arcanist of the first rank, and he was certainly capable of governing his own wife.
“I’ll confine her to her own chambers for the next few days,” Vinz decreed. Lousewort’s face told him nothing, so he added, “She’ll receive no visitors. She’ll neither send nor accept messages. And I’ll lock that maid of hers up as well. That should keep them both out of mischief.” There, spoken like the magnifico that he was. He should have adopted an authoritative stance long ago.
“Quite likely.” Lousewort appeared less than satisfied.
Vinz knew what was required. “The assault upon Belandor House,” he proclaimed with stunning assurance, “will take place in three days’ time. And there at last is an end to the Kneeser King.”
* * *
“Is the sficchi ready yet?”
“How do I tell when the sficchi’s ready?” Jianna inquired.
“Tell me how it looks,” Rione instructed.
Jianna surveyed the contents of the beaker. “It resembles pond scum that’s been carefully aged for a couple of decades, then reduced to a rotten jellied essence.”
“Perfect. It’s ready.” He smiled.
Finally. Following her attempted cozenage, he had treated her with an impassive courtesy that she found surprisingly difficult to bear. It had only been a matter of some twenty-four hours, but the time had stretched into eons. Now at last he was starting to thaw. Her spirits lifted and her face brightened. Returning his smile, she handed him the beaker and watched as he applied the contents to the blistered flesh of a potboy recently splashed with boiling oil. After that came a session with the maggots, to which she had grown comfortably accustomed, even going so far as to assign some of the creatures pet names. Then there was the cleansing of assorted wounds, the changing of various bandages; dispensing of medication; the odorous draining and chemical cauterization of an abscess, accomplished all but painlessly, thanks to Rione’s skill. Then the inevitable bathing of fevered limbs and bodies, and the emptying of bedpans—to which she would never accustom herself, no matter how often she was obliged to do it.
The busy hours hurried by. There was little to distinguish this day from its recent predecessors, save for her newly sharpened sense of time’s gallop. Then came a change that drove all thought of time from her head, for a while.
It was late afternoon and the daylight was already starting to wane. The infirmary lamps had been lit, and Dr. Rione was toiling away in the yellow glow. But not for much longer, surely. His patients had all been tended; each lay as comfortably as circumstance and medical expertise allowed. A variety of lesser tasks had been performed. All was properly ordered and he might allow himself a rest, in Jianna’s opinion.
“You might allow yourself a rest, in my opinion,” she suggested.
“I might at that,” he agreed and smiled at her expression. “What’s the matter? You look as if I’d sprouted antennae.”
“That would be interesting. But no, I’m only a little surprised. Usually you can’t be pried from your labors.”
“Ah, I know you must think me a dull, dour character.”
“Not dull at all,” she assured him. “Nor even dour, exactly. But serious, always serious. You think of nothing in the world but your work.”
“Untrue, maidenlady. I am capable of levity, upon occasion. When I strain to the uttermost, I have been known to achieve frivolity.”
“Never.”
“Once or twice.”
“Humor, perhaps. Frivolity, no.”
“Get your cloak.”
“Why?”
“We’re going to step outside for a breath of fresh air, and while we walk about the courtyard, I’ll prove my point. I will relate an amusing anecdote, certain to inspire mirth.”
“Do you know any?”
“One or two.”
“Oh, this should be splendid. Or at least instructive.” Jianna found herself suddenly and unaccountably light-hearted. There was no sound reason, for the doctor’s good humor signified little. Or perhaps it did, perhaps he would relent and help her after all. At the moment she hardly cared. He was still smiling, the expression wiping years from his face, and her sense of inappropriate happiness intensified. He was by no means the handsomest man she had ever encountered, with his middling slim stature and his pale scholarly face. Nonetheless, the intelligent grey-blue eyes, firm jaw, and mobile lips pleased her greatly. She never seemed to tire of looking. “I’ll just go get—”
The infirmary door banged open with a vehemence that startled her into silence. Those patients retaining consciousness turned to gape, and Jianna did likewise. One of the household guards stood on the threshold.
“You’re wanted,” he informed Rione. “Kitchen. Make it quick.”
Jianna scowled, affronted by the fellow’s manner, but Rione appeared impervious, merely inquiring, “Why?”
“Trecchio. Stung by a siccatrice.”
“Where?”
“Hand.”
“When?”
“Dunno.”
“Right.” The doctor’s eyes shifted to Jianna’s face, and he commanded briefly, “You come with me.” Pausing only long enough to scoop up his leather bag, he was through the infirmary door and on his way down the stairs, the guard at his side.
Astonished, Jianna scurried in their wake, down the stairs and through the sec
ond-story warren. Down more stairs, and on the ground level she caught up with Rione, managing to claim his attention long enough to ask, “What’s a ziktris?”
“Siccatrice.”
“Some kind of a snake?”
“An arachnid. A kind of woodland scorpion.”
“And he’s been stung. That must smart. Pity.” Her lip curled. “Maybe this will teach him a good lesson. Maybe he’ll learn that the worm or the scorpion can turn.”
“Maybe he will, if he survives.”
“What, you don’t mean that one sting from something that isn’t a snake could actually kill him?”
“It might, if he doesn’t receive prompt treatment. And even then, the outcome isn’t certain.”
Taken aback, Jianna said nothing. Throughout the term of her imprisonment, she had had few dealings with Trecchio. He had not participated in the murderous attack upon the Belandor carriage. He had manhandled her upon the evening of her arrival, earning her permanent enmity, but thereafter he had never again touched her; had never, in fact, taken much notice of her. Presumably regarding her as the rightful property of his older brother, he had kept his hands to himself and—saving the occasional unimaginative incivility at table—had troubled her not at all. Thus he had retreated to the periphery of her awareness, and she had all but dismissed him from her thoughts.
She thought about him now, however; concluding that she didn’t actively wish him dead, but would hardly mourn his loss.
Moments later they reached the kitchen, with its warm atmosphere and its perennial population of household menials. Trecchio was not in evidence, but the arched door to the stillroom stood ajar and the guard’s gesture ushered them through.
Jianna blinked and her nose wrinkled. The stillroom was dimly firelit, its air weighted with an indefinably alarming odor. Trecchio lay stretched out on the table. His eyes were open but unfocused. His doublet was off, one of his linen shirtsleeves rolled up, baring his right arm. Beside him stood his mother, plying a poultice.
Yvenza’s eyes lifted to Rione’s face. “My youngest has played the fool again,” she observed. “Now he’s paying the price.”
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