“He is thirteen years of age, is he not?” Yvenza inquired, brow studiously knit. “Forgive me—I am neither scholar nor clerk, and my grasp of the law is feeble—and yet I seem to recall reading somewhere or other that a Vitrisian magnifico of tender years customarily submits to the authority of an adult male kinsman until such time as he comes of age. In the absence of a responsible male guardian, however, the young magnifico may assume mastery of his House at the age of thirteen. If I err in this, I pray that the wiser among us will instruct me.”
“The Magnifico Corvestri demands judgment upon the Magnifico Belandor,” Vinzille declared at once.
“Vinzille, enough,” Sonnetia commanded. “You speak out of turn. You’ve wit enough to know that you can’t do this.”
“Mother, I can. I will.” The boy’s tone was courteous and even.
Sonnetia blinked. She regarded her son as if he had suddenly transmuted before her eyes into something or someone unrecognizable.
Aureste likewise studied the lad, and thought again of stilling that annoying, buzzing insect voice with a single well-placed swat. Yet in view of his precious arcane talents, Vinzille Corvestri was indispensable to the success of the expedition. The Magnifico Aureste, on the other hand, was comparatively disposable; which was just what Corvestri’s unspeakable spawn clamored for—his disposal.
It occurred to him then that Vinzille actually enjoyed some chance of victory. If the law supported the juvenile magnifico—if he could win the favor of his arcanist colleagues—then he might succeed in bringing his father’s killer down. And if they all joined forces against him, not even Innesq’s power would suffice to save Aureste Belandor.
The anger boiled along his veins, and he took care to conceal every outward sign of it, conscientiously arranging his features into the expression of soulful regret suitable to the occasion. For a moment he paused in anticipation of some reasonable adult voice interceding to point out the obvious absurdity of little Vinzille’s demand, but nobody spoke; perhaps the absurdity was not quite so obvious after all.
It would not do to hesitate too long.
“Loath though I am to increase a hapless youngster’s burden of grief, it must be observed that his request for judgment and penalty is redundant.” Aureste bowed his head as if willing himself to state a disagreeable truth. “For the only criminal in this night’s business has already paid the ultimate price. Vinz Corvestri attempted my life, and thereby lost his own. The harm he sought to inflict on me has fallen upon his own head. His fall is tragic, yet each of us may seek solace in the knowledge that justice has been done.”
Some part of his mind had half expected this speech to goad Corvestri’s boy into some tellingly juvenile paroxysm of rage, but Vinzille refused the bait.
“You’re stuffed to the bursting with lies.” Addressing himself to Aureste, Vinzille produced a grimly adult smile. “But there are ways of getting to the truth. There are draughts to loosen your tongue and banish falsehood. There are arcane blades of light to dissect your mind and reveal its hidden places.”
“All of which imperil body and intellect alike.” Innesq spoke up before his brother could frame an adequate reply. “They shall not be imposed upon the Magnifico Belandor.”
A little startled, Aureste glanced briefly toward Innesq, who sat upright in his wheeled chair, moonlight bright upon his calm, ivory face.
“Pardon me, Master Innesq, but they must.” Vinzille spoke with courteous resolve, much as he had addressed his mother. “I won’t take this man’s word, even though he is your brother. I respect and honor you, sir, but I’ll have the truth.”
“It’s only right.” Yvenza nodded piously. “Surely we all desire and deserve the truth—the bereaved family most of all. If it takes arcane light to pierce the darkness, then the light must be kindled, and the Magnifico Belandor must endure its rays. If he’s innocent of wrong and has nothing to hide, then he’ll not withhold his consent.”
“Perhaps, but I withhold mine,” Innesq returned equably. “The Magnifico Belandor shall not suffer mental invasion while there are alternative means of ascertaining the truth—less extreme, but no less certain.”
Aureste did not allow the relief to show on his face.
“Oh, it’s no such great matter,” Ojem Pridisso opined. “In capable hands, Lurgudd’s Four Point Excavation has never proved fatal.”
“It has been known to induce madness.”
“Only in one documented case. And the subject was a mite pixilated to begin with.”
“Nevertheless, we will not inflict the procedure upon my brother. There are other ways.” Innesq turned in his chair to face Nissi. “My dear child, I must ask you a question or two. It is a serious matter, and your answers are important. Will you oblige me?”
Nissi nodded.
“Excellent. Now, you have told us that you came through the woods to this place, where you discovered the Magnifico Corvestri already dead, and the Magnifico Belandor at his side. Is that correct?”
Nissi nodded.
“But why did you come through the woods? The hour was late. Did you not slumber?”
“I slept.” Nissi’s brow furrowed. “And then I woke.”
“What woke you?”
“It was—” Her frown deepened. “The music.”
“You heard someone playing or singing?”
“Not … someone. It was the air. It tingled, and it sang in silence. I felt it.”
“Did you recognize the sensation?”
“Yes. It was the soundless voice of the Source.”
“You speak, then, of sensing arcane force at work, near at hand?”
She nodded.
“Your perceptions are most acute, child. The rest of us slept through it.”
She curved the shadow of a smile.
“You did not fear to venture forth alone into the night in search of the music?”
“I … did not think of that. I sought the beauty.”
“Yes. And you followed it to this spot, where you found death. Did the music continue?”
She shook her head.
“For its author, the Magnifico Corvestri, had died. We arcanists slept,” Innesq continued. “All save Nissi and Vinz Corvestri. We are alone in the wild. If the Source’s power was invoked, then it was done by the Magnifico Corvestri, which supports the Magnifico Belandor’s description.”
“My Nissi’s account neither contradicts the Magnifico Belandor’s tale nor verifies it,” Yvenza mused with bent-browed earnestness. “Let us say it is true that the Magnifico Vinz Corvestri applied his intellect to arcanism. Who among us shall presume knowledge of the magnifico’s purpose? Perhaps he sought to divine the future. Perhaps he searched for the best and safest route to carry us all to our destination. Perhaps he hoped, in the depths of his heart, to find the answers to riddles of a more personal nature.”
For the life of him, Aureste could not stop his eyes from jumping to Sonnetia’s face. He had expected to find her constant gaze fixed on her son, but it was not. She was looking straight at him. Their eyes met and held. Her expression was unreadable. After a moment, she turned away.
“There’s nothing here with which to accuse the victim, Vinz Corvestri,” Yvenza reasoned soberly. “And in light of the slurs that have been cast upon our murdered comrade’s name, we should all do well to recall the man we knew—a man of high and noble character, of blameless life and stainless name. Can the same be said of his killer? When evil is spoken, we must weigh its value, and surely we must consider its source. Therefore I cast my vote in favor of the young Magnifico Corvestri’s proposal. The killer’s mind must be plumbed to its bottom. It must undergo the most rigorous dissection.”
Whatever possessed the poisonous crone to imagine that she enjoyed voting privileges? Surely someone of sound judgment would speak up to put her in her place.
But nobody attempted to put her in her place, and a covert survey of faces informed the Magnifico Aureste that she held her audience. Once
again, he regretted his own failure to finish her off once and for all when he’d had the chance, at Ironheart.
If these peculiar freaks of nature, these arcanists, attempted some sort of mental intrusion, he would certainly defend himself. And even now, at age fifty, he was by far the handiest man with a blade present.
In this company, however, conventional weapons were as useless as toys. If they decided to start picking his brain apart layer by layer, he would be powerless to stop them. With any luck, he might succeed in killing one or two before they subdued him, but scarcely more.
The voice of his brother impinged upon his thoughts.
“The Magnifica Yvenza’s point is well taken.” Innesq’s courteous, easy tone would have graced a social gathering. “Additional investigation is indeed indicated—but violent mental pillage is not. I say again that there are other means, no less reliable, but far less hazardous. Consider, my colleagues. If the Magnifico Belandor’s account is truthful, if he is indeed the victim of an arcane attack, then it is quite probable that some evidence of it remains within his body. If, for example, he inhaled a Fume, or encountered the Whirlpool, we should find sign of it in the traces of epiatmosphere lingering in his blood. Similarly, the blood of Vinz Corvestri may retain remnants of recognizable arcane enhancements. I propose that we secure small measures of blood from the Magnificos Belandor and Corvestri tonight. In the morning, we shall examine them. The tests will be performed by the most disinterested among us, possessing no ties of kin, friendship, or animosity to House Belandor or to House Corvestri—that is, by the Taerleezi gentlemen, Masters Pridisso and Zovaccio. They will work in the open, their actions observed by all. If their findings verify my brother’s statement, then the Magnifico Belandor stands absolved of wrongdoing. Otherwise, let him be judged in accordance with the young Magnifico Vinzille Corvestri’s demand. Are we agreed?”
A muted mutter of halfhearted affirmation arose, and Aureste felt the immediate readiness to kill seeping out of his brain and body. Innesq had won him a little time.
They carried Vinz Corvestri back to the edge of the campsite, where they laid him out upon the ground. Ojem Pridisso drew a small quantity of blood from the dead arm, then spread a cloak over the corpse. Aureste suffered Littri Zovaccio to prick one of his fingers and squeeze a few drops of blood into a tiny stoppered vial. All of these operations were conducted in silence that pressed with its own condemnatory weight.
Aureste glanced about, half hoping to catch Sonnetia’s eye again, but she was not looking his way. She stood beside her son on the far side of the banked fire, and his view was partially blocked by the forms of Pridisso, Zovaccio, Yvenza, and Nissi, all of them clustered about the bereaved Corvestris. A low hum of conversation reached him. He could not distinguish the words, but the sound conveyed sympathy, for all the world as if they commiserated with the victims of some crime. He noted with a certain sour amusement that Yvenza’s hand rested affectionately upon Nissi’s shoulder, its weight pinning the young girl in place.
Only Innesq sat apart from the others, steady gaze fixed on his brother’s face. The expression was singular, and it came to Aureste in a dark flash that Innesq did not altogether accept his account of Vinz Corvestri’s death. Throughout his life, Innesq Belandor had chosen to accept Aureste’s version of events whenever remotely possible. Any course less tolerant would eventually have forced him to repudiate his older brother. But he could not set his doubts aside now; and this time, for once, Aureste had been genuinely blameless.
At least, he thought himself blameless. His memories of the event were jumbled, but he clearly recalled the sense of withstanding an arcane attack. But if Innesq Belandor could not quite believe that, then who would?
He anticipated a wakeful night, but underestimated his own depletion. He lay down, fell asleep at once, and slumbered soundly.
In the morning they buried Vinz Corvestri, with a mound of rocks to mark his grave, and a bouquet of doleful sentiments to honor his passing. Throughout these hastily improvised obsequies, Aureste stood apart, silent, and pointedly ignored by all. When the funeral was over, however, and Vinz Corvestri adequately interred, collective attention turned to the blood samples obtained from the dead man and his killer.
In full view of the company, Ojem Pridisso and Littri Zovaccio conducted their tests. Their methods and actions were closely observed from start to finish. At the end of a comfortless hour, their findings were made known. The blood of the Magnifico Vinz Corvestri contained traces of the stimulant Jaschi Kovi, often used to expedite arcane endeavor. The blood of the Magnifico Belandor yielded wafture of distinctively crimped epiatmosphere, by-product of a deteriorated Fume.
Aureste Belandor stood exonerated, or at least corroborated. The evidence supported his description of an arcane assault; hence, the killing as an act of justifiable self-defense. There would be no pompous little quasi trial, no judgment, no such nonsense. The expedition would continue, and its members would put the ugly incident behind them.
Or so he assured himself.
In midafternoon they paused to rest, and during this brief interlude the Magnifica Yvenza sought out Vinzille Corvestri, who stood apart upon the verge of a sluggish brown rill, staring down into the water. He looked up as she approached, and his discouraging expression suggested a preference for solitude. But the magnifica was not easily turned aside. On she came at a steady pace, her face set in a pattern of grave sorrow.
“Magnifico Corvestri.” She halted before him.
“Magnifica,” Vinzille returned politely.
“Young sir, I would not intrude upon your grief. I have already tendered my condolences and my offer of service to you and to your lady mother. Perhaps nothing more is needed or wanted. Yet there are two matters that I would put before you, and I prefer to do so in private, out of hearing of all others. I’ll state them briefly, then leave you to mourn in peace.”
“What matters, Magnifica?” A faint touch of curiosity sparked the boy’s eyes.
“The first, then. It’s my impression—correct me if I’m mistaken—but it’s my impression that the conclusions drawn by Masters Pridisso and Zovaccio this morning fail to satisfy you.”
Vinzille considered a moment before answering. “I don’t say there was anything wrong with their work. I watched it all, and they did everything right. But I don’t think they proved that Belandor was telling the truth. I wouldn’t believe a word that comes out of that kneeser’s mouth.”
“Ah, your reputation is well deserved, I see. It’s clear that you are wise beyond your years.”
“Wise enough to know that there’s not much use complaining. Nobody will listen. Nobody cares about Vinz Corvestri. Everyone’s just so eager to see all this neatly settled and forgotten as soon as may be.”
“Not quite everyone. Perhaps it will interest you to know that I share your doubts. I know nothing of your art, but let us say that Pridisso and Zovaccio have proved that your father visited arcane force upon Aureste Belandor. We may grant that this is so, yet the circumstances remain unexplained. We know that the Magnifico Vinz was unarmed. Had he found himself attacked by Aureste—a notoriously villainous character—then how should he have attempted self-defense, save by means of his power? Alas, he was too humane, too gentle for his own good, and Aureste’s violence prevailed. This, in my opinion, is the more probable explanation.”
“I didn’t believe that anyone else here would see it that way.” A tinge of color washed Vinzille’s pale face. “Even my mother seems ready to accept Belandor’s version.”
“Ah, Magnifico, you are less alone than you imagine. You are not the only one longing to see Vinz Corvestri’s murderer brought to justice, and I don’t think it a prize beyond our reach.” Yvenza hesitated, as if a trifle uncertain. “I trust I don’t presume too greatly in my hope that we might work together, and this brings me to the second of my two matters. It is simply this. During the time we’ve traveled, your father and I came to know and esteem one another
. There was mutual respect, cordiality—in short, a friendship.” She offered a frank but modest smile. “It is my hope, Magnifico, that I may be as much a friend to you as I was to him.”
TWO
The Vitrisian neighborhood traditionally known as the Briar Patch was now shunned by humankind. A group of bellicose Sishmindris had occupied the territory and claimed it as their own. Upon command of the green-skinned leader Aazaargh, human residents had been summarily ejected, and the area renamed “Roohaathk.”
For days, the Sishmindri supremacy had gone unchallenged. The Briar Patch, an intricate warren of narrow passages, was difficult to attack and easy to defend. Moreover, the neighborhood was humble, little better than a slum, and hardly worth the effort of reconquest. In these troubled times, there were better uses for Taerleezi resources.
There was a certain functionary, however, undeterred by obstacles; never to be excluded or denied. In the teeth of all difficulties, the tax assessor of Vitrisi went about his usual business—in this case, the annual valuation of real property. Houses, tenements, workshops, and stables filled the Briar Patch. Their occupants, whether human or amphibian, would be properly taxed.
On a cool and smoky spring morning hitherto undistinguished by calamitous happening, the assessor approached the Briar Patch. He made his way along Hay Street at a steady and stately pace suitable to the dignity of his position. His face concealed itself behind a mask of the highest quality and finest workmanship, furnished with polished glass eyepieces and a massive nasal projection dotted with golden studs. A chain of office lay upon his chest, and the insignia of Taerleeze, worked in gold thread, embellished the crown of his loaf-shaped hat. A pace behind him trailed a starveling scribe, weighted down with a ledger and writing supplies.
As the assessor and his minion neared the mouth of an alleyway opening west off Hay Street, two or three New Houses residents called out warnings. These warnings went unheeded, and the two men marched westward into the Briar Patch. A knot of interested spectators lingered near the mouth of the alley.
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