Praise for Paula Brandon’s
THE TRAITOR’S DAUGHTER
“In The Traitor’s Daughter, bitter struggles between collaborators and resistance fighters in an occupied realm play out against the backdrop of an impending cataclysm that could render all of their machinations irrelevant. Compellingly complex motivations and character dynamics mark Paula Brandon’s welcome debut.”
—JACQUELINE CAREY, New York Times bestselling author of Naamah’s Kiss
“Paula Brandon’s The Traitor’s Daughter is a dark, rich feast, rife with plagues, kidnappings, political intrigues, bloody crimes, bloodier revenges, arcane upheavals, and the threat of zombies.”
—DELIA SHERMAN, author of Changeling
“I love a fantasy world so solid that I can breathe the air, smell the earth and truly feel the touch of the magic. The Traitor’s Daughter does all of that and more. In this world, the solidity masks a nightmare: an approaching inversion in the conditions of magic that will change everything. To create a reality so convincing and destabilize it with a threat so dizzyingly profound—what an achievement! Here’s a story to enwrap, enchant and sweep you away. This isn’t reading, it’s full-on living! A flawless all-round performance!”
—RICHARD HARLAND, author of Worldshaker and Liberator
The Wanderers is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Spectra eBook Edition
Copyright © 2012 by Paula Volsky
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brandon, Paula.
The wanderers / Paula Brandon.
p. cm.
“A Spectra trade paperback.”
eISBN: 978-0-345-53484-2
I. Title.
PS3602.R36W36 2012
813′.6—dc23
2011050495
www.ballantinebooks.com
Cover design: Kathleen Lynch/Black Kat Design
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Alone in the middle of nowhere, GrixPerfect paused to wipe its eyes. The pressure of a leathern fingertip popped a glass orb from its socket. A quick wipe restored clarity, and the component returned to its rightful place. A repetition of this process cleansed the second eye, and the automaton took stock of its surroundings.
A full moon shone overhead, and the sky was rich with stars. The hills were gaunt and dim, the vegetation pallid and sparse. The ground breathed odors of moist soil and rotting grasses. There was no sign of human habitation. These details were duly noted and stored, but spared analysis, for one feature of the environment all but monopolized attention.
Directly ahead, a few yards distant, hovered an exotic figure, seemingly compounded of dense fog or vapor. A couple of heads taller than a man, its outline was approximately human, with a wavering torso, attenuated limbs, and a globular head equipped with dark indentations that might have passed as eyes. Even as GrixPerfect looked on, the figure altered, compressing itself into a squat polyhedron. For a few seconds it floated there, chunky and dense, then sprouted slender appendages, each tipped with curly filaments. The filaments gave way to small, translucent involutes. The involutes spun themselves into misty egg shapes, which flowed into pulsating, vaguely floral forms. All of this GrixPerfect observed, then cogitated on at some length before voicing an opinion.
“You appear to live, after a fashion, yet the energy that animates you is eccentric in its principles. Your effect upon the surrounding environment is questionable, and your nature is indeterminate. This being so, I tentatively identify you as a being neither flesh nor spirit, whose existence I have hitherto regarded as unverified. Tell me, then, peculiar wisp—have I theorized correctly?”
There was no reply. The entity, if such it was, floated in silence.
“Come, be certain that the confidences you impart will never be repeated. I am the essence of discretion. Answer, if you please—what manner of being are you?”
The entity drew itself up into an attitude of elongated verticality. Its dark indentations trained themselves upon the automaton.
“I believe I am owed the courtesy of a response.” None was offered, and GrixPerfect’s eyes glinted. “You reveal a disposition both sullen and ungracious. But stay, perhaps I wrong you. Perhaps you are merely backward, and fail to understand me. Never let it be said that Grix Orlazzu is guilty of injustice. I shall give you the benefit of the doubt, and proceed on the assumption that you are deficient in intellect. I shall frame my queries in simple terms, consistent with your limitations. Attend, now.” The automaton enunciated with extreme distinctness. “What. Are. You?”
The entity relaxed into billowy disorganization for an instant, then assumed an approximation of human form. The area corresponding to its chin was obscured by small, dark clouds suggesting a beard similar to GrixPerfect’s own.
“There is a message here, but its meaning is unclear. You express yourself poorly. You mimic my design?” A new thought struck GrixPerfect. “You recall the form of my predecessor, that initial draft calling himself Grix Orlazzu? Is that your meaning? Have you encountered the Leftover?”
The entity loitered in silence.
“If you have seen the Leftover, you must tell me. I seek him, you understand.” The automaton hesitated, then continued almost as if unwillingly, “He calls himself my creator. This claim would seem frivolous, yet it cannot be denied that his existence predates my own. He is rickety, inadequate in mathematics, and excessively liquid—my inferior in every respect—but he possesses experience and knowledge to which I have not yet enjoyed access. The data must be transferred to me. It is my right, for I am the finished design. You understand that, do you not?”
The entity hovered, silent and inscrutable. Its beard vented small foggy phantasms.
“I see that you understand. I know that I can talk to you. It is necessary for me to talk, in order to decrease internal stress and imbalance. He has abandoned me, you see. He has left me, without explanation, without a single word. This is unacceptable. I will find him again, and he will talk to me. He will recognize and acknowledge me. He will tell me everything, for he owes me no less.”
No response in words from the entity. Its vapors may have darkened a little.
“My needs are not unreasonable, and I will not be denied. So, then—have you encountered the Leftover?”
The entity’s aspect assumed a hint of color. The dark indentations, suggestive of eyes, reflected a hint of amber.
“A little clarification, if you please.”
None was forthcoming.
Revolving slowly upon its personal axis, the entity spread and diffused itself to merge with the night. Animated with renewed purpose, GrixPerfect resumed the search for its missing creator.
ONE
The Magnifico Aureste knelt staring down at the Magnifico Vinz, who stared blindly back. The fixed eyes and still, bloodstained chest clearly proclaimed their owner’s lifeless state. Less clear, however, were cause and circumstances.
He had killed Vinz Corvestri, so much was certain. His hand still recalled the blade sliding neatly between the other’s ribs. He had done it, yes, but why? He had hated the man for decades, but never had enmity found physical outlet; at least, not directly. Why here, and why now? What had happened?
Aureste raised an icy hand to a hot brow. His recollections of the past few minutes swirled in chaos, and he could not sort them out. Surely he had been asleep and dreaming. But when did a sleeping man, even one caught up in the wildest of nightmares, ever commit homicide?
Murder.
The Magnifico Aureste thrust that thought from him. It had been no murder, but an act of legitimate self-defense. Corvestri had attacked him.
But Corvestri’s lax hands were empty of weapons.
No matter. He had been attacked, he was sure of it. There had been ghostly figures, faces that he knew from the past, voices that he knew, stabbing at him with their words. The images were confused, but vivid. Corvestri had been there among them, his voice among theirs, master and leader of the crowd—
There was no crowd. No ghosts, no voices. He and the corpse were alone in a quiet moonlit space. Perhaps that was all that had ever been.
No. They had been present, assaulting him in their own incorporeal but effective way. They had very nearly mastered him. And if they had not been real, then they must have been arcane manifestations, created by a treacherous enemy. Corvestri could have done it—must have done it. Weak and fearful though he was, there could be no denying the man’s arcane skill.
His highly trained, experienced, absolutely essential skill.
He realized then what he had done. He had killed Vinz Corvestri, a magnifico of the Six, and incidentally one of the precious talents upon whom the success of the entire venture depended. It was a catastrophe.
Or perhaps not entirely. Aureste’s mind was swiftly resuming its wonted agility. Innesq believed that the cleansing of the Source might be accomplished by five arcanists, in a pinch—he had said so—and five remained.
One of them a youth of thirteen years, untried, unproven, scarcely qualified to take a place among his elders.
Well, young Vinzille Corvestri would have to serve; there was no alternative. And it shouldn’t be impossible. Innesq had lavishly praised the lad’s natural ability.
Innesq. The name struck mental sparks. He would be shocked, grieved, and generally appalled to learn of Corvestri’s death at Aureste’s hand. He was likely to remonstrate; he might even blame his brother. No doubt they all would, even Sonnetia—or especially Sonnetia. She did not appear particularly attached to her lord, but some misplaced sense of duty might oblige her to protest his removal.
But then, she did not have to know who had done it.
Innesq had never learned the truth of the Sishmindri Zirriz’s disappearance. He did not need to learn the truth about Vinz Corvestri, either. Nobody did.
They would wake within a few hours and note their companion’s absence at once. Perhaps a few well-crafted lies would convince them that Corvestri had decamped voluntarily during the night—that he had lost his nerve, and, like the servants, had bolted for home …
No, that nestful of arcanists would immediately attempt communication. They would cast forth one of their accursed sendings, and then, receiving no reply, they would initiate a search. They would locate the body within minutes; its whereabouts could never be concealed from such hunters. No good, no good …
Well, then—they would discover their loss, but not its author. The Magnifico Aureste would be with them when they woke at daybreak. He would appear to share in their puzzlement and growing uneasiness. He would likewise share in their consternation upon discovery of Vinz Corvestri’s corpse, and he would share in the general discussion. He would offer up his own theory of events—that the Magnifico Vinz had wandered away from the camp during the night, perhaps to answer a call of nature, and there, alone and unprotected in the depths of the woods, he had been set upon by murderous footpads.
It was not implausible. In these troubled times, desperate bands roamed the starving countryside. The Magnifico Vinz, abstracted and taken unawares, might easily have fallen prey to violence.
And if certain members of the group doubted this explanation, suspecting something even darker—well, where was their proof? The weapon employed, identifiable as Aureste’s own, would never be seen. Where was it now?
It lay on the ground beside him, where he had let it fall. He snatched it up, wiped the dark stains off on the grasses, and stowed it away out of sight. Who could reasonably raise a voice against him in the absence of evidence or compelling motive? He himself hardly knew why he had done what he had done. There was no clear reason. He knew only that he had been attacked, and that he had defended himself.
Who could contradict him? There had been no witnesses.
Some instinct lifted his eyes then from the dead man on the ground and turned them to the left, where a small figure stood poised, almost as motionless as the corpse. She stood but a few feet from him, and he could see her quite clearly; slight form wrapped in a drab cloak, white face and bare white feet, pale hair silvery in the moonlight, enormous eyes wider than ever before, and filled with—horror? Grief? Incomprehension? He could not read those uncanny eyes.
He had no idea how long Nissi had stood there watching; whether she had followed him by design, or stumbled upon him by chance; whether she had witnessed all, or only part. Whatever she had seen, the potential damage had to be contained. Aureste sprang to his feet. The expression in his eyes evidently terrified Nissi. She turned and fled.
Aureste gave chase. He had not decided exactly what he would do when he caught her, but she had to be controlled, one way or another.
But laying hands upon young Nissi proved no easy matter. Through the midnight woods she led him, through pools of pearlescent moonlight and wells of deepest shadow, her step so light and fleet that she seemed to flow over the land like rushing water. Aureste, unequivocally solid, stumbled over roots in the darkness, cursed, and failed to gain on her. The branches whipped his face, the brambles clutched at him, while his quarry flitted weightlessly ahead.
Presently she reached the campsite, with its recumbent cocooned figures ranged about the remnants of the cookfire. Without hesitation, she sped straight to Innesq Belandor, who slumbered beside his wheeled chair. Dropping to her knees, she let one finger lightly touch the sleeping man’s brow. Innesq’s eyes opened at once and he sat up, whereupon Aureste abruptly checked. He stood still, his black gaze fixed on Nissi and mutely threatening to burn her alive.
“Magnifico Corvestri. Oh, help!” She spoke in a breathless whisper, tiny but all too audible.
Aureste’s hands itched for her throat, but she was beyond his reach and could not be silenced now.
“What is it, child?” asked Innesq. “What about Corvestri?”
“Gone.”
Innesq’s eyes shifted for an instant to Vinz Corvestri’s untenanted spread of blankets. “Perhaps he will return.”
“No. The last thread was cut, and he is gone.”
He understood her, and his face changed, but his voice remained calm and gentle as he urged, “Tell me what you have seen.”
She could scarcely be permitted to do so; at least not before the
Magnifico Aureste had presented his own suitably shaded version of the facts. Aureste advanced.
As he drew near, Nissi began to shake. Seizing one of Innesq’s hands in both her own, she clung.
“My dear one,” Innesq attempted reassurance, “I promise you, there is no need to fear my brother.”
“His knife,” Nissi whispered. “His knife, dark with the Magnifico Corvestri’s blood …”
“No, that is impossible. You have had a nightmare.”
She shook her head, cobweb hair drifting.
Aureste could no longer maintain silence. “The girl has witnessed—an incident,” he confessed. “I daresay she has misinterpreted.”
Innesq fixed a searching gaze upon him.
“I’ll tell you all that happened, as well as I’m able,” Aureste promised. “But come, let me help you into your chair. We’ll withdraw a distance and speak in private.”
Already it was too late. The three voices had pitched themselves very low, but they had fallen upon the ears of sundry light sleepers. Aureste felt the pressure of new observation, and turned to confront the mournful, questioning regard of Littri Zovaccio, who sat bolt upright, bony hands clasped tightly before bony chest. Not so much to worry about there—Zovaccio never spoke, he would disturb nobody—but now another was awakening, this one always malevolent.
Yvenza Belandor opened her eyes and sat up, instantly and fully alert. For a moment she studied her wakeful companions, and then asked, “What is this?”
No answer, and her imperative glance pinned the trembling Nissi. She repeated the query.
The lifelong habit of obedience was not easily broken, and Nissi did not resist.
“Magnifico Corvestri. Gone, in blood.”
“His own, you mean? Do you tell me he is dead, by violence?”
Nissi nodded.
“You’re certain? You’ve seen this with your own eyes?”
Another nod.
“He died by his own hand?” Yvenza waited a moment for confirmation. It did not follow, and her eyes kindled. “Another hand? Whose?”
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