“What does he mean, then? If he’s trying to strike up some sort of friendship, you’ll want to steer clear, won’t you? You can’t want anything to do with him, he’s poison.”
“Scarcely that. He’s a man of flawed character, granted, but no monster. As for steering clear of him, that’s not practical. We’re a tiny group of travelers, thrown into the closest contact with one another. There’s no question of exit or separation. The best we can do for now is to treat one another with courtesy, tolerance, and at least the polite appearance of respect.”
“Courtesy, tolerance, respect. All right. But that doesn’t mean friendship, it doesn’t mean—” Vinzille sought and found the right word. “Cordiality.”
“I don’t think that my manner toward the Magnifico Belandor could be described as cordial. When has it seemed otherwise to you?”
“I can’t put my finger on anything. You’re always so perfect. It isn’t in anything that you do, it’s more in what you don’t do. You don’t freeze him off, you don’t slap him down. He walks along beside you, close beside you, and it seems as if you like having him there.”
“What I like is peace, and as little friction as possible among members of this expedition.”
“And that means you have to stick close enough to swap sweat with him?”
“Vinzille, I don’t like your tone or your language.”
“Sorry. Only I’m starting to wonder—are you really being honest? Are you telling the truth, even to yourself?”
“What do you mean by that?” Sonnetia drew herself up.
“I mean, Father’s murderer is hanging around you night and day, and you say that you put up with him to keep the peace, but I’m starting to wonder if that’s really all of it. You don’t like him, do you?”
Sonnetia hesitated. The question touched upon matters better left unexplored, but she could hardly refuse her son an answer. “You should understand, I first knew the Magnifico Belandor when I was only four or five years older than you are now. Connections formed at such an age are deep and strong. Aureste Belandor was a part of my girlhood, someone whose influence and importance can’t be forgotten or denied.”
“Right. He murdered your husband and my father. There’s influence and importance that can’t be forgotten or denied.”
“It’s not clear that the term ‘murder’ applies.”
“Doesn’t it? Father’s still alive, then? I’d missed that.”
“Vinzille, you don’t know everything. Trust me when I tell you that there’s reason to believe that Aureste’s claim to have killed your father in self-defense may very well have been true.”
“What reason? Because he says so?”
“I can’t explain without seeming to speak ill of your father, and you shouldn’t hear that. I’ll only say that Vinz Corvestri wasn’t always quite as mild and peaceable as he seemed. I think he participated in violent action against House Belandor before this journey began. I know for a fact that his hatred of Aureste Belandor intensified steadily throughout these recent days. And I think it quite possible that his hatred finally drove him to action.”
“Why should his hatred have intensified, unless there was reason? What was the reason, Mother? Did it have anything to do with you?”
Sonnetia’s breath caught. When she answered, it was in the tone that her son had described as “freezing off.” She had never before directed it at him. “I don’t think you begin to realize how offensive and inappropriate that question is.”
“I’m sorry.” Vinzille was instantly abashed. “I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
“I’m not angry at you. I suppose it’s natural that you would wonder—how could you not? I shouldn’t have been so taken by surprise. I’ll try to give you an honest answer. Yes, the reason did have something to do with me. During his last days, your father’s mind was filled with much anger and suspicion. There was no just cause. I don’t know where his dark fancies came from, how or why they grew. It was almost as if someone were pouring poison into his ear. Whatever the reason, his hatred and rage festered, and in the end, I think they drove him to seek the Magnifico Belandor’s life.”
“You believe this of my father?”
“I do.”
“But you don’t know for certain.”
“There is no proof, if that’s what you mean.”
“There’s proof of one thing, though. Aureste Belandor brings trouble or worse to everyone around him. Please, Mother—don’t give him the chance to bring trouble to you.”
“We are beset by the Overmind, by comparison with which Aureste Belandor qualifies as downright benevolent.”
After she had left him, Vinzille Corvestri murmured in tones too low to be overheard by anyone beyond the invisible, ubiquitous Other, “I’ll kill him rather than let him harm you.”
EIGHT
Part of her almost expected to find the room empty. They had moved him elsewhere, and she might search, but he would remain invisible, always just out of sight and reach.
But the cell was not empty. It was unexpectedly large, almost the size of a modest bedchamber, and it contained several pieces of furniture—a narrow wooden cot, a covered bucket, a table, and a straight-backed chair; all of this consistent with the account of the exceptionally humane treatment that Falaste Rione was said to enjoy, but surprising nevertheless. He was seated at the table, which supported a tiny grease lamp and a book or folio of some sort; additional luxuries, rare by prison standards. Evidently his privileges did not include use of a razor; his hair had grown shaggy, and his chin was covered with a dark beard. He was thin and pale, but clearly neither sick nor starving.
He was the most beautiful sight that Jianna had ever set eyes on. She stared at him through a blur of tears, dashed them away, and stared some more.
Rione rose to his feet as the visitors entered. His expression reflected pure astonishment. He took a step toward Jianna and checked, as if in caution or doubt. His eyes traveled, lingered for a moment on Gyppix’s face, and moved on.
He knew Gyppix. Jianna was certain of it. He appeared not to recognize the others.
He must not utter revealing words; there was no telling how much the guard outside the door might overhear. She spoke before he could.
“Cousin Falaste. Oh, it’s good to see you again!” A significant glance underscored the greeting.
“Cousin.” He took her meaning at once. “I’m glad—and very surprised—to see you here.”
His voice. She almost melted at the sound of the low, distinct, soothing voice that she had never expected to hear again. She wanted to drink it in, to drink him in, for hours, days, years.
No time.
She had come prepared for silent communication. Now she dipped into her pocket to bring forth a scrap of paper and a stub of charcoal. Setting the paper down on the table, she printed quickly: can guard hear us?
“He’ll hear the murmur of voices through the door, but the words will be unintelligible,” Rione replied in a quietly normal conversational tone. “We can speak freely enough. How did you and all these ladies manage to get in here?”
“We’re not all of us such ladies,” Dagger objected.
“Eh, Falaste, lad,” Gyppix put in, “you know right well that I’m no lady.”
“I know nothing of the kind—” Rione returned, and cut himself off, evidently chary of pronouncing her name, or whatever name he knew her by.
“Gyppix,” she supplied.
“Gyppix?”
“You got something to say to that?”
“Only that I’m glad to see you. But how, and why? What’s going on here?”
“It was arranged by—Master L,” Jianna told him. “He got us the right papers, and the right people, and other things needed. He was glad to do it, for you. It’s a rescue—we’ve come to take you out of here.”
“Ah.” His smile faded. “Then you’d best turn around and leave at once, before you come to harm. For this is folly. There is no escape from this
place.”
“That’s just what L thought, at first. When I told him what I had in mind, he reconsidered. You probably know L as well as anyone. Do you imagine for one moment that he’d have squandered time and resources upon this project if he didn’t believe that it would succeed?”
“Very well, you managed to convince him. That’s no surprise. No one knows better than I how persuasive you can be when you want something.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Jianna noted the interested attention of her companions.
“But your success with L alters nothing,” Rione continued. “I’ll not allow you or the other brave and generous women here to throw away your lives.”
“I’m a lad, actually,” Dagger interjected. He indicated Smokehead. “So’s he.”
“I’m authentic,” Songbird announced.
“I don’t doubt it. Listen, all of you,” Rione entreated. “I’m grateful beyond words for all that you’ve done, but it must end now. You are safe and free—you must remain so. As for you, my dearest—” He addressed Jianna directly. “We’ll spend this time together, as much as they allow. I’ll watch your lovely face, I’ll drown in the dark of your eyes, my thoughts will dance to the music of your voice. It is a gift, a gift of value—” For some reason, his voice stumbled over the phrase, but he recovered quickly. “And far more than I ever expected.”
Jianna’s throat closed up. She blinked hard to exclude a fresh rush of tears. For a moment she could scarcely bear to look at him, and her eyes wandered, taking in the undisguised curiosity of her companions. Dagger was nudging Smokehead. Songbird’s lifted eyebrows approached her hairline. Even Gyppix was staring. No matter. Taking a deep breath, she fought the tears down and met Rione’s eyes squarely.
“It’s too late,” she informed him. “The plan has been set in motion, and will go forward. I’ve already fed kalkriole to the guard.”
“You drugged Chesubbo? With those?” He eyed the basket on her arm.
She nodded.
“If he’s fallen asleep, that means you’re all locked in here with me until he awakens to let you out. Shouldn’t take long, though. A guard asleep at his post will quickly be noticed and reprimanded.”
“If I’ve gauged the dosage properly, then he won’t lose consciousness. He’ll wax groggy, slow, and stupid, which is just the way I want him.”
“Chesubbo is no fool. Listen, you can still leave, and no harm’s done. I want you out of this place. Visit with me a little while, then go home and be safe.”
“We are going to take you with us. You will live. Don’t argue. Now, to business. We need to give that kalkriole a little time to do its work.” Turning to Smokehead, she inquired, “Ready?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Smokehead’s pocket yielded a volume bound in leather, with a gilt spine. There was no telling how such a boy had obtained so valuable an object. In all probability, theft had been involved. He opened to the first page and began to read aloud in musical, convincingly feminine tones:
I sing of ages past, of ancient days,
of valor, and of legendary deeds.
I sing the golden years that offered men
the hope of winning honor with their swords,
and wresting glory from the grip of Death.
Jianna instantly recognized the opening lines of the Journey of the Zoviriae. In childhood she had been required to memorize entire cantos, leaving her with a permanently jaundiced view of the epic tale. But the choice was undeniably suitable: inspirational poetry to read to the condemned man. And Smokehead did read beautifully, his expressive, supple voice investing the verse with unexpected depth. For a while she allowed him to continue uninterrupted, and during that interval, she let her gaze dwell upon Falaste Rione, who in turn stood devouring her with his eyes. She had expected to find herself flooded with intense emotion: love, longing, terror, and hope. And all those feelings were certainly there, but locked away in some mental box, awaiting release at a suitable moment. When it was all over, when he was free and safe, there would be time for the tears and the joy. For now, her mind was remarkably clear, calm, and sharp, focused to the last degree upon the project at hand.
At a certain point, her internal clock, geared by plentiful nursing experience, told her that the time was right. She caught Songbird’s eye and nodded.
At once Songbird voiced a cry of shrill desperation. Racing to the door, she beat the oaken boards with both small fists, and added a few hard kicks for good measure.
The door groaned open. The guard Chesubbo loomed in the opening. Even in the low light, his sickly pallor was apparent. His lids hung heavy over glazed eyes.
Just right. Jianna did not let herself stare.
“I’m sick!” Songbird launched her fluting plea. “My nerves are in a state! I think I’m going to faint! I can’t stand it, I wish to leave! I need to get out of this dreadful place right now, or I can’t answer for what might happen! Let me out!”
He stared slack-jawed, as if not fully comprehending her meaning.
“My cousin wants a breath of air,” Dagger explained wide-eyed. “She’s very delicate, see. All the ladies of our family are delicate. And easily jangled. I’ll just go along and look after her. Please, sir, can we step out for a moment?”
Chesubbo flexed a sluggish shrug and stepped aside. Songbird exited, breathing in gasps, and leaning on Dagger’s arm. The door closed behind them.
Smokehead read on, without missing a beat.
King Brovius looked long upon his son,
the bright-haired youth, once keeper of his hopes.
Black anger sat upon the royal brow,
While bitter scorn adorned the royal lip.
The eagle eyes were filled with ice and fire,
The kingly hand was clenched in deadly ire.
“Unfaithful son,” the monarch charged the youth,
“Devoid of duty, honor, all respect
a son owes to his father and his king,
Know here and now, I do not tolerate
resistance to my just authority.
You have defied me, and in failing thus,
reveal’d the baseness of your wretched soul.”
To Jianna, it was all a formless buzz. The words meant nothing, but the passage of time meant much. She waited, and while she waited, she let herself look at Rione, whose expression communicated little beyond absorption in her face. Well, perhaps a little more: She thought to detect a kind of dubious curiosity.
The falsely feminine voice read on. Jianna waited, and at last the door opened, admitting Dagger; Songbird was nowhere in evidence. The guard Chesubbo leaned on the jamb, head hanging. He blinked, and his jaws spread in a huge yawn.
At once Smokehead’s voice faltered and cracked. He made a couple of valiant efforts to continue reading, then gave way to racking sobs. His face contorted, and his shoulders shook. As Jianna watched in admiration, the boy produced tears, genuine and copious.
“Ah, it’s too much for you, the grief of seeing our cousin mewed up here.” Jianna laid a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder. “Come, step outside, walk up and down a bit, and compose yourself. You’ll be the better for it.”
Smokehead nodded and gulped.
Jianna turned to Chesubbo. “Pray let her pass,” she urged softly. “Surely, sir, you’ll permit it?”
He ruminated, frowning as if trying to solve a riddle.
“Why not?” he muttered at last, and stood aside.
Smokehead handed the book to Jianna and exited, sniffling. As he walked out, Songbird returned, and the two visitors passed one another amid arpeggios of murmurous plaints and small whimpers that brought a puzzled scowl to the face of the guard.
Jianna commenced reading where Smokehead had left off. She read mechanically, pronouncing the words with little awareness of their meaning. Her eyes were fixed on the page before her, but she stole an occasional glance at her companions and saw that they were intent, awaiting her next signal. A vertical crease dented Rione’s brow. Cle
arly he had not divined her exact design. The minutes passed, the lines of poetry flowed, and purblind old King Brovius petulantly sent his noble son Vazian into exile. The reading seemed to go on forever. Surely, enough time had passed. She caught Gyppix’s eye, and nodded.
Gyppix stepped to the door and rapped it with her fist. There was no response, and she rapped again.
The door opened slowly. Chesubbo leaned on the jamb; without its support, he would probably have fallen. His eyes were barely open.
“I need to relieve myself,” Gyppix announced, in a creditably cultivated accent. Jianna had coached her for hours, and she had got it approximately right. “Where may I go?”
Chesubbo blinked, then mumbled groggily, “Bucket.”
“No. I need—privacy.” She used one of the words with which Jianna had supplied her, and then threw in another. “Sir, for modesty’s sake.”
He gaped at her, clearly at a loss. Without further conversation, Gyppix stepped around him and marched off down the corridor.
Handing the book to Songbird, Jianna approached the door and declared in tones of deep concern, “Oh, Master Chesubbo, my second cousin once removed has been gone for such a long time, and I am growing so uneasy. What if some ill has befallen her in this place? I must go look for her.”
The suggestion took a moment to register. When he grasped her meaning, Chesubbo moved his head from side to side in a gesture of slow negation. “No running ’round.”
“I won’t be long, I promise.” Slipping lithely by him, Jianna exited the cell. Before she had taken half a dozen steps along the corridor, she confronted a brace of guards, and halted, expecting harsh interrogation. There was none. Evidently recognizing her as a legitimate visitor, they simply nodded at her and walked on, making their way toward 16 East Gallery, before which a barely awake Chesubbo leaned against the wall, head sunk on his breast. Her breath almost stopped. If they noticed his condition—if they perceived him as drunk, drugged, sick, or in any way unfit to function—then he would be relieved of duty, replaced by another guard—someone wide awake—and it would all be over. Desert-mouthed, she waited and watched.
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