The flames died within seconds. The exterior of the building must have been coated with some fire-resistant substance, else enjoyed arcane protection.
On to the next, and, to their surprise, the Taerleezis found this residence and its occupants as intransigent as the first. The door was barred and strong, the windows shuttered and reinforced. Bits of burning matter pelted down on them from above, along with pots of flaming oil, blazing wooden brands, and nuggets of corrosive crystalline matter. The incendiary material accompanied buckets of ordure enriched with decomposing cats.
This time the invaders elected to remain and crush resistance. Accordingly they concentrated their full strength upon the front door, which began to splinter beneath the assault. When it was about to give way, a gang of citizens appeared at the head of the street.
It was a surprisingly sizable group, largely composed of men, but sprinkled with a few women. Its members carried an amateurish assortment of weapons: old swords, knives, pikes, rusty halberds, shovels, pitchforks, clubs, even lengths of heavy chain. The motley collection of hardware might have inspired mirth—but did not. There was nothing remotely ridiculous about the advancing mob. For the first time in nearly twenty-five years, Taerleezi troops found themselves facing armed insurgency among ordinary Faerlonnish citizens.
On they surged like the incoming tide, the men yelling as if to vent the hatred of decades, the women’s higher voices rising in raptor shrieks. Some sort of desperate fury seemed to possess them. Heedless of danger, they broke into a run, and the advance turned into a pounding charge.
The Taerleezis were taken aback, but hardly alarmed. They were outnumbered, but they were well-armed, well-trained soldiers confronting a civilian rabble—a Faerlonnish rabble, at that. The outcome was certain.
The soldiers fell into orderly formation. The riotous citizens rushed upon them, and for the next few minutes all was a blur of flashing steel, flying missiles, flailing clubs, flowing blood, and falling bodies. The Taerleezis shook beneath the onslaught, but their square held, and soon the advantages of military experience and discipline asserted themselves. The neighborhood defenders fell back, and the utter rout of the Faerlonnish would have followed quickly, had not another yelling gang materialized at the bottom of the street.
This group was larger than the first, and its source was unclear. Perhaps the unremitting clamor of the horns had drawn supporters from nearby streets and adjacent neighborhoods, or perhaps they had materialized out of thin air.
On they came, illegal makeshift weaponry bristling. Heartened by the arrival of reinforcements, the defenders regrouped, and the soldiers found themselves beset by a furious throng. The force and rage of the attack were overwhelming, and the Taerleezi square broke. A roar of Faerlonnish triumph shook Klew’s Court. The soldiers were tightly hemmed in, and the citizens commenced slaughtering them. A few of the Taerleezis escaped, but most died in the street.
When the carnage concluded, the Taerleezi corpses were decapitated, and their heads mounted on poles, in memory of Rookery Grove.
Jianna heard about the incident—for days, people spoke of little else—and barely marked it. The news of an armed Faerlonnish insurrection within the city of Vitrisi, resulting in Taerleezi defeat and death, would at any other time have seized her imagination. Now there was no room for it in her mind. Her thoughts anchored upon a single purpose, to the exclusion of all else.
For it had arrived at last, the day she had anticipated for so long. After weeks of planning, of laborious preparation, of outlandish delays and disasters, the plan was finally going forward. Even now, she and her accomplices were making their way toward the Witch.
Jianna studied them as they walked.
Beside her, Songbird tripped along lightly, seemingly free of care. She was wrapped in a violet cloak of excellent quality, with the hood down to display her shining brown-gold curls. She wore no vizard. Nothing more than a small wrap of virtually transparent silk protected her mouth and nostrils, leaving her pretty little face clearly visible; this by design, the better to charm the prison guards.
To her left, Gyppix marched solidly, her heavy workman’s stride matching her heavy boots. She wore her usual patched skirt, doublet, and kerchief. She seemed partial to this ensemble, but today there was a difference. She had added a vastly unbecoming brown felt hat with a shapeless crown and a broad, drooping brim.
Behind them came the two boys, both rigged out in their girlish skirts; Dagger delightful as a blossom in his blond wig, Smokehead a sedate and decorous young maidenlady. And Jianna herself—she was herself, for the first time in many a day. Upon this occasion she had abandoned all disguise, and with good reason. To ensure success of the plan, Falaste Rione must recognize her instantly when they came face-to-face. Thus she had set aside her full-face vizard in favor of a transparent scarf similar to Songbird’s. Her hood was pushed back, revealing the coiled mass of her dark hair, and she had resumed her natural posture and gait. She felt both liberated and vulnerable; comfortably unencumbered, save for the light wicker basket that she carried, but uncomfortably exposed. Anybody might spot her. Her eyes shifted to and fro, but she caught sight of nothing sinister, and soon all distractions fled her mind, for the Witch was rising before her.
She had not been near the prison since the morning of Celisse Rione’s execution. She would far rather never have set eyes on the place again. But there it was, its massive architecture as crushing as she recalled, its rooflights remote and feeble, its myriad recessed windows drinking in the daylight and giving back nothing. Somehow the entire structure put her in mind of the horned and ridged skull of some hugely misshapen creature, dead for countless eons.
But the courtyard was far from dead. The great main gates of the girdling wall were thrown wide, as she remembered, and the space beyond was alive with the usual crowd of guards, visitors, beggars, slackers, and entrepreneurs. Jianna did not see them. Her eyes flew straight to the site of the torsion tower upon which Celisse had died.
The tower was gone. In place of that exotic construction rose an ordinary gibbet, better suited to the termination of commonplace criminals. Hangings were so frequent these days that the gibbet was no longer disassembled between executions, but allowed to stand waiting in perpetual readiness. And it came to Jianna, in a sudden cold rush, that the failure of this day’s venture might bring her and her companions into the closest possible contact with that very same gibbet.
An unbecoming fate to befall a magnifico’s daughter.
She drew a deep breath and pushed the thought away. There would be no failure.
Across the courtyard she led her group, past masked and shrouded figures who yammered for coins, or hawked cheap talismans, masks, and herbal remedies guaranteed to defeat the plague. Up a short flight of stairs, through the gaping double doors into the great, dank, echoing vestibule, likewise open to the public. Farther than this, however, they could not penetrate without ceremony.
At the far end of the vestibule, a barred gate stood closed and blocked by an armed guard. She marched straight up to him and halted.
He looked the quintet over and grinned.
“Well, girls?” he inquired with a wink.
Insolent lout. She kept her face and voice clear of everything save wide-eyed respect. “If you please, sir, we’ve come to visit a prisoner.”
“Oho. Just like that, eh? Maybe you little honeykitties don’t know better, but you can’t just come sashaying in to gossip with prisoners whenever the fancy takes you. Listen, you’ve got to have the right papers in hand, signed by the right people. Big people.”
“Oh, but we do, sir. We have the papers.” Shifting the basket to her left hand, Jianna reached into a pocket beneath her cloak and drew forth a packet. “See, they’ve got our names filled in, and they’ve been signed by the deputy governor Gorza himself.”
“No nonsense, now.” He made no move to accept the proffered documents.
“But it’s true,” Jianna declared earnestly
. “There’s the deputy governor’s name, in his own hand, with the official stamp and seal, and his personal order to admit our whole group. Please, just read it.”
“I’m not much the one for reading.”
Jianna understood. The oaf was illiterate; just what she might expect of a Taerleezi. The anonymous resistance forger’s magnificent craftsmanship—the perfectly chosen paper and ink, the flawlessly replicated handwriting and signature, the beautifully official-looking stamp, and above all the counterfeit intricacy of the waxen seal—all of these exquisite refinements were wasted upon this idiot now blocking her way.
“You girls run along, now.”
For one terrible moment, Jianna confronted the prospect of immediate defeat. She was about to lose the battle before striking a single blow. But Aureste Belandor would never have accepted such summary dismissal, and neither would his daughter.
“But sir, I’m so worried,” she fretted. “How can we do that, how can we run along, after the deputy governor has been so good to us, and set his name down on this paper? It would almost seem as if we were throwing all his kindness back in his face, and it looks so ungrateful. I’m sure he’d be that grieved, good man!”
This argument appeared to register, and the guard rubbed his chin.
“Well, then. We all want to do the right thing,” he conceded. “I’ll tell you what. You show your papers to the man in there.” His pointing finger identified a small archway, a few feet distant. “Talk to the assistant underappointee. If the AU says yes, then I’ll be listening.”
Further remonstrance appeared useless. Jianna inclined her head sweetly, then turned and marched through the archway, followed by her companions. The small room beyond was all but filled by a substantial desk, its surface piled high with stacked ledgers and notebooks. A man, presumably the assistant underappointee, sat at the desk, quill in hand, head bent over one of the notebooks. He looked up as the quintet entered, and his brows rose.
He was a youngish Taerleezi, well dressed and well favored, with an open, pleasant countenance. At once, Jianna twitched her scarf aside, fully exposing her own face to view. Her accomplices did likewise. The elevation of the assistant underappointee’s brows increased, and he set his quill aside. His appreciative glance traveled from Jianna, to Songbird, to Dagger, sliding blindly over Gyppix and Smokehead.
“Ladies, how may I assist you?” he inquired.
Well. This one had exceptionally good manners, for a Taerleezi.
“Sir, we are all kinswomen of the prisoner Falaste Rione, come to pay him a final visit.” Jianna produced a faint smile of mournful sweetness.
“He is my dear uncle,” Songbird confided.
“The Deputy Governor Gorza has been kind enough to grant our family this mercy. He has given his written consent, and set his seal to it.” Jianna flourished the forged documents. “But the gentleman at the gate dares not let us through without your approval. Surely you won’t withhold it, sir?” she appealed naively.
“May I see your documents, please?” He extended a hand across the desk.
Stepping forward, Jianna placed the packet upon his open palm. In doing so, she allowed her fingers to brush his lightly, but contrived to appear unaware of the contact.
The assistant underappointee unfolded the papers and examined them with care. It would take a sharp eye indeed to detect the forgery, but perhaps he had sharp eyes. The seconds passed, and Jianna felt the sweat prickling under her arms. At last he looked up.
“Everything seems quite in order. Indeed, commendably correct.” He was smiling, but puzzlement furrowed his brow. “It’s unusual, though. Have you ladies any idea how uncommon it is that a group of such size—five of you—should receive permission to call upon a condemned prisoner? I don’t think I’ve ever seen the like.”
“The good Deputy Governor Gorza in his kindness took pity upon our suffering.” Jianna’s explanation had been crafted long ago, and flowed smoothly. “You see, the prisoner Falaste Rione is not only our kinsman, soon to die. He is also the only physician in all Vitrisi possessing skill to relieve my cousin’s affliction.”
“Your cousin’s affliction?”
“The Agony Dance.” Taking his cue, Smokehead spoke up softly but clearly, eyes downcast in maidenly modesty, or even shame. “It comes upon me from time to time. My joints and limbs take on a life of their own, and whirl me about the chamber, up and down, back and forth, in great disorder and pain, to the grief and danger of all who would seek to restrain me. I cannot help myself, but my cousin Falaste can help me. He has but to lay his hands upon my joints, bending the invisible currents of my body back into their proper channels, and all is well, for weeks or months to come. Let him do as much for me today, perhaps for the last time, I beseech you. Please, sir, grant this favor to me and all my family.”
His tone was infinitely affecting, and perfectly real tears were streaming down his face. There could be no question—Smokehead was a true artist.
Songbird sniffled in sympathy.
“The Agony Dance—so nasty!” Dagger squeaked in falsetto tones, hands fluttering.
Jianna shot the youngster a quelling glance, and he subsided. Gyppix regarded the floor stolidly.
“Dry your tears, maidenladies,” the assistant underappointee urged. “You have been granted entry by the deputy governor himself, and I’ll not stand in your way.”
Dabbing their eyes, Jianna and Songbird smiled prettily at him.
“Now then.” He scanned the documents, and looked up. “Which of you is Virri Chenezto?”
“Here,” said Jianna.
“May I ask what you are carrying in that basket, maidenlady?”
“Sweet pastries that I’ve made for my cousin.” Jianna lifted the lid to display a collection of freshly baked almond-studded honey-ginger knots.
“May I see it?”
Jianna handed him the basket. He examined the contents briefly, nodded, and gave it back. His attention returned to the forged permit.
“Where is Dalenna Rione?”
“Here,” chirped Songbird.
Three more names of equal falsity followed, and were claimed.
“Very well, then. This way, if you please.”
Rising from his chair, he led them back out into the vestibule, back to the barred gate and the illiterate guard.
“Let them through,” the assistant underappointee commanded. “Have someone escort them to Sixteen East Gallery, and remain there for the duration of their visit. Upon conclusion, permit these ladies free exit.”
“Aye, sir.” The guard saluted.
“Oh, thank you, sir!” Jianna breathed.
“Your thanks best belong to the Deputy Governor Gorza. Allow me to offer my sympathies to you and your family at this most unhappy hour.”
With that, he and his unexpected courtesy were gone. The gate opened, and they passed through. The heavy portal clanged shut behind them, and they advanced a few paces along a gloomy corridor, then paused again. A whistle shrilled. A new guard appeared; this one very big and broad, weighed down with assorted weapons: short blade, truncheon, spiked wristlets, knuckle knobs, wire serpent looped at his belt.
“Ho, Chesubbo.”
A greeting, presumably the new guard’s name. Orders were exchanged, and progress resumed, with Chesubbo leading the way.
Jianna eyed him narrowly as they walked. The guard had a hard, heavy face. He looked forbidding, and the last thing she wanted was conversation. However, the situation demanded a display of amiability.
“Tell me, Master Chesubbo,” she ventured shyly, “are you not uneasy, to spend your hours in such a place as this?”
“Eh? Uneasy? About what?” Chesubbo appeared mildly surprised.
“I mean, surrounded by criminals, traitors, all such desperate and evil men? Is it not terribly dangerous?”
“Not if you know how to handle yourself.”
“But what if some criminal should attack you?”
“Then he finds out
that he’s made a big mistake. And he doesn’t try it again.”
“Has it ever happened?”
“Plenty of times.”
“And you are not afraid?” She assumed an air of child-like admiration. “Oh, Master Chesubbo, I think you must be a very brave fellow.”
“I get by.”
He spoke gruffly, but she fancied that the praise did not displease him. He was welcome to some more.
“Your wife or your sweetheart is a lucky girl. I hope she knows it.”
“No wife. No sweetheart, neither.”
“That,” Jianna returned softly, “is awfully hard to believe.” She caught Dagger rolling his eyes, and flashed her own at him.
They walked on in silence for a time, along a corridor lined with locked doors, up some stairs, then on along a gallery, very narrow and oppressive, meagerly illumined by overhead lamps. Chesubbo halted before a door with the number 16 incised into its ancient wood.
“This is it,” he announced.
Jianna’s heart slammed her ribs. Was he actually there, on the other side of that small barrier? So close? It hardly seemed possible. She wanted to laugh and weep. Instead, she continued to play her role.
“How long may we stay?” She gazed up into his face as if awaiting the judgment of a deity.
“Nobody’s said anything about that.” He shrugged. “All day, for all I know.”
“Thank you, Master Chesubbo. You are very kind. You’ve brought us all safely through this terrible place, and we are grateful. Let me return the favor. Here—” Jianna presented her basket. “Won’t you have a pastry? I baked them myself,” she added artlessly.
The Wanderers Page 12