The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  “Did he hurt you?” Rione turned to Jianna. “Better let me take a look at your neck.”

  “No need, I’m well enough. What about your face?” She saw that his cheek was already darkening. “You’ll have a fierce bruise.”

  “It will give me character.”

  “You already have too much.”

  “Bane of my existence.” He glanced briefly down into the tub. “He won’t be any trouble for a while. Why don’t you rest? Sit by the fire, dry yourself, have some tea and something to eat.”

  “Bathwater’s low. I’ll just bring the level up a bit, then rest.”

  He nodded, and for the first time since she had met him, she saw unequivocal admiration in his eyes. A disproportionate sense of satisfaction filled her, and her fatigue dropped away. She attacked her work with a will and spent the next twenty minutes pumping, heating kettles, toting, and pouring. At the end of that time the bath had been restored to its former depth and temperature. Rione added another measure of his purple infusion, and the water darkened. Trecchio responded with a restless stirring and a querulous murmuring, but his eyes never opened.

  “Is it working?” Jianna asked.

  “It is. Look at the marks on his arm and shoulder.”

  “Still there. In fact, they look bigger than they were. And deeper, raw, and generally … nastier.”

  “You’re missing the most important change. Run your finger over the shoulder ulcer.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “I understand. Only look, then. You used the term ‘raw.’ You might have said ‘moist.’ ”

  “Oh. Yes, I see. The dry tissue is gone. It’s not spreading out; there are no new scaly patches. He’ll live, then?”

  “For decades, if his luck holds.”

  “Two-fistedly?”

  “That is the question. Too early as yet for a definite answer, but I think his chances are good. Now, maidenlady, you will listen to me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You’ve been working like a slave and you must be exhausted. I want you to rest and eat.”

  “Gladly, if you’ll do the same.”

  “When I can.”

  “You can right now. The purple potion in the bath will need several minutes to do its work, won’t it? You’ve time.”

  “A quarter hour or so.”

  “At the very least. Come on, then. Sit down by the fire, dry off, and fill yourself. There’s food all over the place—bread, fruit, sausage, cheese, cheese of several varieties, I know for a fact that there’s plenty of cheese.”

  “I can’t quite account for your preoccupation with cheese, and perhaps it’s just as well. All right, I’ll take that quarter hour. Did you say something about sausage?”

  “I did. See for yourself.”

  To her surprise he obeyed, abandoning his post, probably not for more than fifteen minutes or so, but still actually turning his back on the bathtub and its occupant to focus, however briefly, upon food, warmth, and respite.

  They found a couple of earthenware plates, filled them with edibles requiring no preparation, and seated themselves side by side on the hearthstone; whereupon Jianna discovered how famished and tired she really was. For the next several minutes, the rapid transference of food from plate to stomach occupied her full attention.

  Eventually the edge of hunger dulled, the pace of chewing slackened, and she settled back with a sigh. Her back ached with fatigue, likewise her shoulders and arms, but the heat of the fire behind her was wonderfully comforting. Her sodden garments were starting to dry and the warmth was working its way through to her bones, but her feet, shod in soaked slippers, were still cold. She slipped the wet shoes off and looked at them. The ridiculously delicate kidskin trifles, once deep red in color and polished to a rich shine, were now stained, dull, and deteriorating. The right vamp was starting to split; the left sole had a worn spot on the verge of turning into a hole. They were the only shoes she had and, when they were gone, she would go barefoot, else wrap her feet in rags like the most miserable of Spidery beggars.

  And once again the sense of time’s flight broke upon her mind, reminding her that she should have been rescued long ago, for each passing day bore her on toward disaster. Her father should never have allowed her to remain in this hideous place long enough for her shoes to disintegrate. It was inexcusable.

  But what if he’s sick? What if he’s dead?

  Nonsense. Aureste Belandor was never ill, and he was too strong to allow death to overtake him before the task of recovering his daughter had been completed.

  Nobody’s that strong.

  “In soul?”

  “What?”

  “Insole,” Rione suggested. “New leather insole with reinforcement where needed. And the split can be stitched up. There’s still a deal of use left in those little shoes of yours.”

  “Perhaps, if only I had the leather. And something to pierce it with. An awl, maybe? I have neither of these things, and I don’t think that Yvenza is about to give them to me.”

  “You’ll find them if you try. I have every confidence in your ingenuity.”

  “You do?” Her fatigue began to recede.

  “I do indeed, but you won’t need to use it. A word in Deedro’s ear should do the trick.”

  “Whose ear?”

  “Deedro. Household steward. Lord of the Supply Closets. Don’t you know Deedro?”

  “Sparse grey hair, wattles, sour expression, always sucking on a foul clay pipe?”

  “The very man. He’s the one to ask.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve smiled at him a couple of times and he pretended he didn’t see me.”

  “No pretense about it. He’s extraordinarily nearsighted.”

  “And I did try asking him a question one morning and he sort of—barked at me. I thought he might be rabid, so I shaved off.”

  “You should never have approached him in the morning, when his aches are at their worst. He’s no good until noon or thereabouts. Midafternoon would be best. Ask him about his left knee, then look interested while he tells you. That will put him in a good humor.”

  “You sound as if you speak from experience.”

  “Much experience. Some of my most vivid memories of childhood involve unsuccessful attempts to wheedle favors out of Deedro. It took me years to perfect the technique, but you should find it easy.”

  “It doesn’t sound easy. So—you’ve known this Deedro charmer since childhood. You grew up near Ironheart?”

  “I grew up within Ironheart. Didn’t I ever mention that?”

  Are you in earnest? When do you ever mention anything about yourself? “Not that I recall,” she returned nonchalantly. “But how did you come to live here? You aren’t kin to Yvenza and her people, are you? Nor a foster son, exactly. Nor are you a—a—”

  “A servant?” he prompted.

  She nodded.

  “Many would regard me as such, but I choose to think otherwise.”

  “Explain the riddle.”

  “Maidenlady, I won’t weary you with tedious reminiscence.”

  “Come, you’ve piqued my interest,” she encouraged with an easy air designed to mask blazing curiosity. “Speak on.”

  “Very well. I should tell you then that I am the sole son of that Dr. Strazinz Rione who was personal physician to the Magnifico Onarto Belandor, years ago in Vitrisi. My father was much favored by the magnifico, who lodged our family—my father, my mother, myself—within his own palace. My very earliest recollections, so distant that I can scarcely distinguish them from dreams, are of that vast and glittering place.”

  “Belandor House? You once lived at Belandor House?” Jianna exclaimed, astonished and almost inclined to disbelieve.

  “So I was told. I remember, just barely, a great vaulted ceiling, unimaginably lofty, with a vast round skylight of colored glass. This skylight bore the image of the sun, his face wreathed in flame, worked in a score or more varying shades of golden glass. Even the gre
yest daylight, filtering through that glass, took on the tint of the sun, and it seemed as if the lords of that palace possessed the power to rule the elements.”

  “You’re describing the skylight above the central stairway. That is Belandor House! You really were there!”

  “Or else someone told me. But I think I remember. In any event, I wasn’t there for very long. The great change occurred, driving the Magnifico Onarto, his family, and a clutch of his retainers out of the city and into the wilderness. I don’t remember much of that. It happened at night in the winter, I think. It was dark and quiet, swift and secret. My mother carried me. I remember cold air on my face. I remember shaking, because the arms that held me were shaking, with cold or fear or both. I remember being inside a carriage with strange sounds and an odd odor; scorching wool, I think. Someone must have heated the bricks for the footwarmers too hot. Then there’s a long gap; I don’t know how long. I next remember being here at Ironheart, much smaller and less grand a place than the magnifico’s palace in the city, but still the same in some respects. My father continued on as personal physician to Onarto Belandor and all his family, and we Riones still resided within the magnifico’s own household.

  “Then the Magnifico Onarto died,” Rione continued. “I’ve no picture of his face in my mind, but I still recall the sense of shock and outrage permeating all the household. Even at that age, I understood that some great tragedy had befallen us. Yet my own juvenile existence altered very little. The widowed Magnifica Yvenza assumed leadership of the household, a position to which she was well suited by nature. My father continued on as physician to the family of his dead patron, and we all lived comfortably enough beneath the roof of Ironheart.

  “Some two or three years passed, and my father began to instruct me. I learned the function of his surgical instruments, the names and properties of the various medicinal plants that he used. He even permitted me to observe his exchanges with certain patients, and all of this I relished. It ended early, though. One fine day in spring, Strazinz set forth in search of some essential root or leaf, and committed the error of venturing too near the VitrOrezzi Bond, where he ran afoul of a band of Taerleezi horsemen. No witness has ever reported the details of that encounter, but it seems more than likely that the soldiers mistook my father for a Faerlonnish insurgent. They cut him down where he stood and left his corpse lying at the side of the road.”

  He paused, but Jianna said nothing, afraid of breaking the magical spell cast by camaraderie and firelight that had for once loosened his tongue.

  “My father’s murder occurred toward the end of my mother’s pregnancy with her second child,” Rione resumed. “The shock of the loss perhaps in part accounted for my sister’s premature birth and the resulting complications. My mother lingered for a few days following delivery. Sometimes she knew me, but much of the time she was unconscious or delirious. Many of those hours and days I spent searching through my father’s supplies in search of the right infusion or powder, the perfect remedy that would restore her. As a child I could not find it, and neither could anyone else. By the order of the magnifica, my mother received the best care that Ironheart could offer, but nothing could save her. She died and was buried not far from the Magnifico Onarto—yet another mark of Yvenza’s esteem. It was generally supposed that the baby Celisse would soon follow her mother, but to the surprise of all, my sister thrived.

  “What then was the magnifica to do with us? Two orphaned children, no kin to her, and arguably no responsibility of hers. Onartino—who is just of my age, and was at that time old enough to express an opinion—believed that I should be set to work in the kitchen and that my infant sister should be placed in a wicker basket and left at some cottager’s door. No doubt there were many who agreed with him. Fortunately for us, the Magnifica Yvenza did not. Life at Ironheart is not luxurious, but the magnifica saw to it that Celisse and I received the same care, guidance, education, and privileges accorded her own sons. More than that, she took a personal interest in our progress, lavished time and attention upon us, and in short proved the most benevolent of guardians. Many’s the time that Celisse or I fell prey to some childish malady and she brewed the restorative draughts with her own hands. Often she took pains to see that we received the toys or trifles that we most desired—a penknife or fishing hook for me, and much the same for Celisse, for even as an infant my sister never valued dolls, or sweets, or anything commonly regarded as girlish. And more than once, when Onartino and I quarreled, the magnifica ruled in my favor over her own natural son.”

  “Strange,” Jianna mused. “Not what I’d expect.”

  “Ah, you don’t know her, you’ve only seen the worst of her. She is capable of great generosity. Celisse and I aren’t the only recipients.”

  “Nissi?”

  “Sheltered here since infancy, although the magnifica has every reason to resent her existence.”

  “Why does Yvenza keep her, then?”

  “Perhaps because her husband would have wished it, or perhaps she pities the girl. Or both. The magnifica is rarely disposed to justify her decisions.”

  “I’ve noticed that.”

  “She was more than good to my family throughout the course of my childhood,” Rione continued. “And when I was on the verge of leaving childhood behind me, she bestowed the greatest of gifts. Had she handed me over to serve as an assistant to some cobbler or cartwright, most would have counted me fortunate. But she did much more. She’d noted my natural interest in my father’s profession, she knew what I longed for, and she gave it to me. At her own expense she sent me off to the College of Medicine at the Zerinius in Vitrisi, where I studied for four years. My tuition, room and board, incidental expenses—she paid them all, while repeatedly dismissing or refusing my offers of eventual repayment. I did well enough at the Zerinius to win a position as under-practitioner at the Hospital Avorno, where I continued studying for another two years. During this time I received a small stipend, enough to live on. Upon conclusion of my term at Avorno, I was deemed qualified under Vitrisian law to practice independently, and so I have done ever since.

  “A home, a childhood free from want, an education, my profession—all these things are the magnifica’s gifts. She has given me more than I can hope to repay in a dozen lifetimes while asking nothing in return beyond my loyalty. That loyalty is hers, along with my gratitude. Do you understand me, Jianna?”

  Jianna’s eyes widened a little. He had never before addressed her by name. His gaze was clear and very steady.

  “I am telling you all of this because you deserve an explanation of some kind. My loyalty is owed to the Magnifica Yvenza,” Rione said distinctly. “I may often disagree with her, but I will never betray her.”

  She heard him too well. His meaning was unmistakable and the finality of it unassailable. There could be no answer and no appeal. A sense of intolerable helplessness froze her mind. Her eyes tingled with incipient tears, and for a moment she came close to hating him. A groan from the tub spared her the necessity of reply. Trecchio was astir again, and the purple waves were sloshing.

  “Ready?” Rione rose to his feet and extended a hand to assist her.

  She nodded. Ignoring the hand, she stood up. In silence she resumed her post beside the tub. The water had faded again. Trecchio was writhing and muttering, but most of his strength was gone and his opposition to Rione’s ministrations seemed all but perfunctory. The doctor toiled on, Jianna assisted, and the fresh energy born of the brief respite gradually faded, but her sense of impotent misery persisted.

  There would be no help from him. He might pity her, even like her, but his first allegiance lay elsewhere and always would. There was no rescue in sight and virtually no hope.

  I’ll find a way out on my own, then. I’m not helpless. I don’t choose to be helpless.

  But choice had little to do with it.

  The repetitive mechanical rhythm of work dulled the edge of desperation. Her back and arms were aching again, and t
he discomfort offered an almost welcome distraction. Her clothes were wet, her shoes were soaked again, and these small things helped to exclude wretched thoughts. Conversation with Rione was minimal; there was nothing left to say. She dimly noted the passing of the hours, and at length looked up from her labors to behold a patch of the courtyard greyly visible through the kitchen window. Dawn was breaking.

  “It’s done,” said Rione.

  Jianna glanced at him unwillingly. She had hardly allowed her eyes to rest on him throughout the preceding hours. He was pale, his eyes shadowed with fatigue, dark hair disheveled. His hands, always so scrupulously clean, were deeply stained with purple. A similarly deep purple, almost black bruise marked his cheek. She winced at the sight and sympathy undermined anger, which wouldn’t do; she did not want to lose the anger.

  “His convalescence will be long and painful, but he’ll keep his hand,” the doctor explained.

  “It’s a triumph of your skill, then. You are truly a brilliant physician.” Jianna felt her face color. The tribute had slipped out of its own volition. She did not wish to flatter and please him; he had made it clear that he was no true friend of hers. She saw the response to her praise in his face and instantly lowered her eyes to the bath, where Trecchio wallowed in deep slumber. The ulcers on his hand, arm, and shoulder yawned wide, but the ashen craters and desiccated flakes of the afternoon had vanished. The wounds were angry, but now essentially ordinary in appearance and presumably treatable by ordinary means. Trecchio’s face was profoundly still, smoothed empty of everything other than possibility.

  Like a baby, Jianna thought, and the simile struck her as strange, for she had never regarded him as anything beyond large, repellent, stupid, and dangerous.

  He was scarcely dangerous now and, for this moment at least, she could wish him a complete recovery.

  “Do we take him out, dry him off, and bandage him up now?” she asked.

  “Not quite yet. I’ll give the infusion a little longer to do its work. In the meantime, I want you to rest. You’ve more than earned it. You’ve been toiling valiantly throughout the night and you must be exhausted.”