They did not have to wait long. Not five minutes later the assessor and his scribe came flying out of the shadows, propelled by unseen means. They landed facedown in the gutter, where they lay semi-stunned for several seconds. A few titters of suppressed mirth arose among the spectators, who bore the Taerleezi tax men scant affection.
The skinny scribe rose first, then assisted his older and portlier companion to stand. The assessor adjusted his mask and stalked off along Hay Street, radiating affronted dignity. Pausing only long enough to gather up his ledger and scattered supplies, the scribe scrambled in the other’s wake.
Those citizens imagining the matter concluded soon discovered their error. In the afternoon the assessor and scribe were back, this time accompanied by a sextet of armed Taerleezi guards. Thus fortified, they pushed into the alley, and thence the Briar Patch.
This time, there was no prompt reemergence. The Hay Street loiterers hoping for an entertaining reprise of the morning’s ejection were disappointed. Nothing more was seen of the Taerleezi functionaries and guards, and it was generally concluded, with regret, that the assessor must be about his appointed task. Time passed. The spectators gradually lost interest and drifted away.
At some time during the afternoon, it was said, the sounds of shouting or some sort of commotion arose within the Briar Patch, but these claims could not be verified. The day wore on, but the tax assessor and his companions never showed their faces or their masks. Afternoon dwindled into twilight, then evening, and the assessor remained invisible.
Night fell, and Hay Street emptied. The respectable denizens of the New Houses neighborhood betook themselves to supper, then bed, as befit orderly folk. Silence descended, but hardly perfect silence. Sundry light sleepers along the New Houses/Briar Patch border wakened during the night to the sound of vigorous hammering.
In the morning, the sun rose upon an arresting sight. A tall new wall of old planking—presumably ripped from floors and stable walls—separated the Briar Patch from its neighbors. The wall ran from building to building, blocking off avenues and footways in much the same manner that similar fences isolated officially quarantined areas. This particular wall bore no red X, but was otherwise the same. Within the space of a night, the Briar Patch, or Roohaathk, had shut itself off from the rest of Vitrisi. The mechanics of self-sufficiency had not yet been clarified, but these matters seemed secondary. More to the point, human access and exit had ceased.
The tax assessor, his scribe, and his guards were not seen again.
Jianna did not want to go out this day; or any other day, for that matter. Instinct bade her remain inside, safely mewed up behind locked doors and closed curtains. He would never find her if she simply stayed indoors.
Since the day of her unexpected encounter with the horribly resurrected Onartino Belandor, she had known that she was hunted. The awareness of pursuit was with her every waking moment, and sometimes followed her into her dreams. Too often she awoke in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, heart hammering, mind filled with images of her husband, his hands reaching out to grasp and hold her. And then she would recognize her surroundings, remember that she was alone, safe, and free, and the wave of terror would recede, leaving her spent, shaky, and reluctant to resume her slumbers, for fear that the dreams would return. Then she would rise, poke the fire back to life, and sit up thinking, recalling her time with Falaste Rione and contemplating his rescue, until the lightening of the atmosphere on the other side of the closed curtains told her that the night and its miseries were past.
She made herself as inconspicuous as possible. She lived quietly and frugally, avoiding human contact. Most days, she remained indoors. It was lonely and dull, but safe.
Today, however, she had to go out, and for the best of all good reasons.
Jianna prepared herself with some care. First, her mask; these days, a black full-face affair, with mesh eyepieces, long nasal projection, and sliding mouth-flap. With the eyepieces and mouth-flap in place, her face was entirely concealed. Next, her hair. Twisting the dark mass into a tight knot, she pinned it in place and covered it with a kerchief. Then her cloak, another recently acquired item; long, full, dark, neither shabby nor fine. Wrapping herself in the altogether ordinary folds, she pulled the hood well forward, throwing her masked visage deeper into shade. Then the gloves—heavy, a little too large, creating the illusion of larger hands.
Done. She was thoroughly shrouded, head-to-toe, every feature and contour concealed. Even so, she had to force herself to open the door and walk out of her room. It was harder yet to push herself along the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door of The Bellflower, but she did it.
Before the door had closed behind her, she hunched her shoulders, thrust her head forward, and immediately appeared to lose half a hand’s width of height. Her walk was the shuffling plod of an older, tired woman. Her own father would not have known her. Falaste Rione himself would not have seen through her mask.
But neither Aureste nor Falaste possessed the hunting skills of Onartino Belandor. Onartino understood the assorted shifts and stratagems of fugitive animals. His one remaining eye was doubtless capable of penetrating the best disguise. There could be no deceiving or escaping him.
But no, that was downright superstition. Onartino possessed no supernatural power. He was only a man, and not a particularly intelligent one, at that. But infinitely determined. Nevertheless—only a broken, one-eyed, crippled man who happened to know how to hunt and track. She was safe behind her mask.
Nevertheless, her nervous gaze darted in all directions as she walked, and she could not stop herself from periodically glancing back over her shoulder. Some part of her mind truly expected to see him there, a pace behind her; expected to feel the grip of his hand on her shoulder.
But her glance encountered nothing more than anonymous citizens, masked and shielded against contagion, much as she was. Not long ago, her elaborate face gear and voluminous wrappings would have appeared bizarre; today, they helped her to blend with the city crowd.
On she went, suppressing her impulse to hurry, consciously maintaining her weary, old-woman gait. The sky overhead, intermittently visible through the shifting pall of smoke, was blue. She fancied that the spring air was soft and mild, but this was pure conjecture, for she felt none of it upon her thoroughly covered skin.
Her progress through the streets of Vitrisi attracted no attention. For all practical purposes, she was invisible; or so she told herself, but could not truly believe it. He would track her down; he’d never give up.
Once or twice she thought to glimpse him out of the corner of her eye—a broad, hulking figure, limping along with the aid of a staff. Then her breath would catch, the sweat would prickle under her arms, and she would turn her hooded head cautiously in his direction, only to discover her error. Each time, the limping form belonged to some stranger, presumably harmless. Each time, she marveled at the mistake—she could have sworn that she had seen Onartino’s mutilated face, his bulk, his hands … It had seemed so clear and real.
On she tramped through the stricken city, absorbed in her thoughts and her fears, all but unconscious of the new red X’s everywhere, the abundance of empty and boarded merchants’ booths, the squalor in the streets, the deterioration and decay of once proud properties.
The approach of a pair of Wanderers, however, arrested her attention, as such sights invariably did. No matter how often she encountered the undead, she never lost her sense of revolted wonder. And these two, lurching along a populous public thoroughfare, were particularly unnerving in their bold proximity. Generally their kind sought quiet, but these seemed brazenly assertive. The couple comprised a male and a female, both in excellent repair. Each was fresh and sound, evidently young, possessing all appendages, with hair and features remarkably intact. Little more than their grey pallor, shadowed eye sockets, and stiff-jointed movement revealed their undead state.
They were shambling along the walkway straight toward he
r, and something told her to look more closely. As they drew near, she caught the gleam of clear eyes behind drooping lids, and realized that she faced a pair of live Perambulationists, out and about upon one of their perverse jaunts. Her uneasy fascination gave way to indignation. How dared they stagger around, hoodwinking and terrifying everyone in sight? Or was their intention rather to mock, and if so, to mock whom? The dead, the living, or both? It was offensive, and there ought to be a law against it. The Taerleezis were certainly quick enough to impose regulation; their assorted rules and prohibitions proliferated by the day. Why didn’t the Taers just outlaw Perambulating?
She refused to alter her course in the slightest, and it was the ersatz undead who gave way, the two of them splitting apart to avoid collision—behavior foreign to true Wanderers.
As she passed between the two of them, a mutter escaped Jianna.
“Idiots.”
She had forced them to break character, and insulted them into the bargain. Briefly abandoning pretense, the female Perambulationist opened wide, bright young eyes, turned toward Jianna, and flashed an obscene gesture. Having thus expressed herself, she resumed the facial vacancy of a Wanderer.
Jianna marched on, briefly savoring the tiny victory, until the recognition of her own folly dawned. She was supposed to be inconspicuous. She was not to draw attention to herself. She most certainly should not engage in insulting exchanges with strangers, living or undead. What if he had been nearby? Near enough to catch her voice, near enough to recognize a breath, a scent, a step, a twitch? She shivered and cast a quick glance up and down the street. She spied nothing more than ordinarily ominous by the standards of the day, but that meant little. He might be near, lodged in a shadowy doorway or lurking in an alcove. He might be anywhere.
The tempo of her footsteps had unconsciously quickened, and she reined herself in, resuming her elderly plod. It crossed her mind that she was, in her own way, almost as much a counterfeit as the Perambulationists if less of a public nuisance.
The plod continued, and so inured to the sights of the present-day Vitrisi had she become that the creaking passage of the Deadpickers’ cart, laden with the newest cargo, scarcely stirred her emotions. Presently she reached her destination, the Strenvivi Gardens.
Jianna scanned the scene quickly, left and right, ahead and behind, as had lately become her habit. No sign of any massive form, armed with a staff; no ruined face, no clutching hands. The gardens remained neglected and unkempt as they had been upon the occasion of her previous visit, but the passing days had ushered in some changes. Tufts of green reared themselves among the colorless remnants of last year’s grasses. Plump green shoots were poking up everywhere in lawless profusion. It was very unlike the perfectly planned and manicured lawns and gardens of old, yet pleasingly suggestive of renewed vitality. Lacy pastel flowers wreathed tree and bush, while hardy weeds topped with plebeian little blossoms spotted the ground with bumptious bright color. Soot from the pyres darkened the new growth, and smoke clouded the air, but spring managed to make its presence known.
The white gravel paths had disappeared into the mud. The pond was dry, and the swans were gone, but a long bench of smoke-stained stone still stood beside the wide depression once filled with water, lily pads, and regal white birds. The bench was occupied. A solitary figure sat there, cloaked and masked, hood down to reveal a coronet of brown-gold braids.
She looked right at a distance, but closer inspection was required.
Approaching the bench without haste, Jianna seated herself at a courteous distance from the stranger. A quick sidelong glance caught the sprig of fresh green pinned to the other’s cloak.
“Spitweed, there?” Jianna inquired in seemingly idle curiosity.
“Good as a Troxius medal against the plague, they say.” Soft voice, cultivated inflections.
“Is that true? Does it really work?”
“If I’m still alive next week, I’ll tell you.”
Jianna smiled a little behind her mask. This scripted exchange, verifying resistance connection, struck her as risible, despite its simple efficacy. This was the person she had come to meet, and she took a quick survey. Young; slender form, so far as she could see; gloveless hands, very clean, soft, white, well tended; cloak, of good quality; shoes, good quality; speech, good quality. A young lady, like herself—or as she had been. Perhaps someone she had seen or even met in her former life.
“What do I call you?”
“Oh. Well. I’m Songbird,” the other confided. She drew a breath. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Yes, quite all right.” Jianna nodded. The girl calling herself Songbird was obviously a novice, even greener than herself. It was odd to find herself senior to someone. “You can call me Strenviva. That seems to suit. Has—our friend—explained the nature of the project to you?” She hardly dared pronounce the alias “Lousewort” aloud. But such exaggerated caution was redundant, for the present location offered complete privacy by virtue of complete exposure. The area surrounding the bench was open and clear, devoid of trees and shrubbery. Low flower beds had once filled the space, but now they were gone. Concealment was impossible, and eavesdropping impractical.
“He has told me that we aim to rescue a friend of the resistance from the Witch,” Songbird replied. “He’s warned me that it’s a dangerous business, and he said that nobody will think the worse of me if I choose to decline. I shan’t decline, though.”
“Best wait until you’ve heard the plan, before you decide.”
“Too late. I am resolved. I should like to hear the plan, though. Shall we carry weapons and kill the prison guards?”
“Nothing nearly that violent.”
“Shall we enchant the guards with our feminine grace, and lure them from their posts? Shall we sacrifice our honor? I’m for it.”
“That’s the spirit. However—”
“There’s nothing I won’t do for the cause. No matter how repulsive and vile. I’ll prove it. Go ahead and ask me to do something awful.”
“You’ll find that it isn’t all that awful, although the danger will certainly be real enough. I’ll explain the whole plan to you, but not before everyone’s here. Our friend told me that there should be at least one other joining us today.” And that did not include the additional two that Lousewort had promised for a meeting in the late afternoon. Keeping the various members of the operation separated and ignorant of one another’s existence for as long as possible was best.
“I have made provision for a delay,” Songbird announced with pride. Reaching into her pocket, she drew forth a small bundle wrapped in snowy linen. She opened it to reveal a number of pastries, elaborately decorated, delicate, and fanciful enough to grace the table at Belandor House. “See, we have come to sit in the gardens, nibble dainties, and enjoy the sweet weather. It is quite perfect, or would be, but for—for—” Her discreet gesture encompassed a motionless trio, safely out of earshot, yet close enough to spoil the view. The three were ragged, emaciated, barefoot. Even at a moderate distance, their greyish complexions evoked uneasiness.
Wanderers, or so it appeared. But perhaps not.
“They may be some of those imbecilic Perambulationists,” Jianna suggested. “I saw a couple of them on my way here. They’re all about, playing their charades.”
“Oh, I abominate those creatures!” Songbird exclaimed. “I declare, the true Wanderers are by far the less repulsive!”
Even as Jianna and Songbird looked on, a fourth shambling figure joined the group.
“They’re real,” Jianna decided. “True Wanderers.”
“How can you tell, at this distance?”
“Well, the new one has lost half her hair. I’ve never seen a female Perambulationist so committed to authenticity that she’d sacrifice her hair.”
“It could be a wig.”
“I think she’s missing a few fingers.”
“That could happen to anyone. Let’s go take a closer look.”
; “Let’s not.”
“Pooh, I am not afraid. I’m keen for any venture, and ready to prove it.”
“Hush, now. Someone’s coming.”
“Oh, do you suppose it’s—”
“Hush.”
Songbird obeyed, and they sat in silence observing the approach of another woman. She was tall, strapping, and oddly dressed, with a man’s old doublet over her patched skirt, heavy work boots, no gloves, no head covering, and nothing more than a faded kerchief tied about the lower part of her face to serve as a mask. Her hair was lank and grizzled, her hands very large and very red.
The stranger seated herself. For a little while she contemplated the drained pond. Once or twice she slanted interested looks at the pastries. Finally she addressed Songbird in deep, hoarse tones.
“Spitweed, there?”
Songbird replied, and the obligatory little exchange repeated itself. At its conclusion, the newcomer grunted, “Right, then. Let’s get on with it.”
“What shall we call you?” asked Jianna.
“Gyppix.”
“Gyppix?”
“You got something to say to that?”
“Not at all. I’m Strenviva, and this is Songbird. To begin, I’ll assume that our friend has already told you as much as he’s told Songbird—that is, that we aim to rescue an ally of the resistance from the Witch prison.”
“Aye. Not so easy, I’m thinking.”
“But not impossible. And the prisoner in question is much in need of assistance—he’s already sentenced to death.”
“Then why isn’t he dead yet?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows, not even Master ‘L.’ ”
“What’s this womanish business about? Where’s the good? Why don’t we round up a few stout lads, eh?”
“Because there’s to be a group of us, and the officials at the Witch will be a lot slower to suspect weepy, hand-wringing females than a gang of stout lads. They’ll shrug, let us go our way, and scarcely mark us, because they’ll think we’re weak and stupid.”
The Wanderers Page 4